A Lady's Dilemma Or The Dandy and Lady Penelope

by Margaret Bennett

  “I should not have dragged you away from Lady Lowthrope’s,” Claudine said. “I am sure you would want to stay with your fiancé rather than escort a dizzy woman home?”

  Though Claudine’s tone was neutral, Penelope sensed a frosty undercurrent and was puzzled by it. “Please make no mention of it. I have attended dinners and balls and soirees every night for the past two weeks,” Penelope said. “I am glad for the opportunity to turn in early.”

  The carriage pulled up in front of the Arnauds’ townhouse, and Penelope gathered her cloak more closely around her. “I will see you safely inside, madam.”

  “Will you stay for tea?” Claudine asked, sounding surprised by Penelope’s thoughtfulness.

  “Another time,” Penelope said, taking the older woman’s arm and helping her up the few front steps. “I really am fatigued.”

  Claudine opened the front door and, seeing light under the parlor door, opened it wide. “Do come in, my dear,” she said, then came to an abrupt halt.

  Peering past Claudine, Penelope gasped as her heart thudded in her chest. Just inside the door stood Pierre Arnaud holding a gun to Max’s back. “Max, what is going on?”

  “What is she doing here?” Arnaud growled at his wife.

  Squaring her shoulders, Claudine seemed to recover herself. “I came home to warn you that Aldwyn wasn’t at the card party, but I see you are well aware of that.”

  “And you brought her?” Arnaud sneered condescendingly.

  Claudine shrugged her shoulders. “She insisted on seeing me inside. I had no idea you were here.”

  Waving the gun, Arnaud told Penelope, “Get over there by Aldwyn.”

  But Penelope couldn’t move. Never has she been so afraid in her entire life.

  “Aller!” Arnaud yelled, startling Penelope. “Go!” When she didn’t immediately move, Claudine grabbed her arm and gave her a none-too-gentle push. Slowly, Penelope walked on leaded feet toward Max, whose eyes never left Arnaud.

  ~~~~~

  “Get behind me, Pen,” Max whispered.

  Never in all of his experiences while working for the Duke of Wellington had Max felt fear. In fact, he believed he was immune to it. That was until he saw Penelope framed in the parlor’s door. Now, he feared for her life.

  Silently, he vowed he’d do whatever it took to keep her safe.

  Standing beside Arnaud, Coburn’s eyes darted between Max and Penelope. Then, he turned on Arnaud and growled, “I didn’t sign on for this.”

  Arnaud never took his eyes off Max as he angled his head toward Coburn. “You’ll do as told. Besides, you’re in too deep. You cannot back out.”

  As though he could do that very thing, Coburn took a step away from the Frenchman. Max, sensing a chance to cause more animosity between the two men, addressed Coburn, “The Duke of Blackmoor is aware of the part you played in stealing the documents, Coburn. There is no escape for you.”

  “Être tranquille!” Arnaud yelled. “Not another word from you, milord.” Speaking out of the side of his mouth, he said, “Claudine, ma chère, I presume Mademoiselle’s coach is out front?”

  “Oui,” his wife answered.

  “Excellente,” Arnaud said. “Tell the coachman to bring it to the back of the house. It would not do to have anyone see us leave.”

  When Claudine left the room, Max realized time was running out. Once they were all confined in the coach, it would be even more dangerous for Penelope if he were to try anything. In those close quarters, she could easily get shot. He needed a diversion, something to draw Arnaud’s attention, if just for an instant.

  “You can’t escape, Arnaud,” he said in a deadly serious voice. “You, your wife, and you, Coburn, will hang.”

  Arnaud’s face split in an evil smile. “Mais non, milord, for first we must be caught. That will not happen with the Earl of Lenwood’s only daughter with us.”

  “Your strategy won’t work,” Max said. “You may reach France, but Lenwood will move heaven and earth to see that you’re dispatched to hell for kidnapping his daughter.”

  Coburn swung toward Arnaud and stammered nervously, “Y-you can’t be serious!”

  “Oh, you’ve no need to fear Lenwood, Coburn,” Max said. “Arnaud will rid himself of you and me long before he reaches any ship bound for France.”

  Eyeing Arnaud with distrust, Coburn took a step away from him. “Count me out,” he said, backing toward the door.

  But before he’d taken two steps, Arnaud half turned toward Coburn and said, “You’re not going anywhere.”

  Max saw his chance and rushed the Frenchman. The gun went off, a deafening roar, and Max instantly felt searing pain across his left forearm. He heard Penelope’s scream but never slowed as he grappled with Arnaud, taking him down and landing on top of the Frenchman on the floor. Though not a big man, Arnaud, fighting for his life, was surprisingly strong. Still, Max overpowered him and wrestled the gun from him.

  “Max!” Penelope yelled behind him.

  Chapter 12

  Max turned just in time as Coburn, who’d come up beside him, prepared to deliver a kick to Max’s head. Rolling off Arnaud and, in one swift movement, jumping to his feet, Max swung the pistol around and connected with Coburn’s jaw. Caught off balance, Coburn staggered sideways a few steps before he whirled around and ran for the door. He collided with Claudine Arnaud, who was hurrying in from the hall.

  And charging behind her, Thomas Mulvey, who shoved the Frenchwoman aside. “My lord?”

  “After him,” Max shouted as Coburn sprinted for the front door.

  With Mulvey’s footsteps in the background, Max became aware of Arnaud’s arm snaking around his calf and kicked the Frenchman’s shoulder. Ignoring Arnaud’s vile invectives, Max pointed the pistol at his head and stepped away and said, “Entrer, Madame, and take a seat, s’il vous plaît.” He watched Claudine as she slowly walked to an armchair and sat. “Pen, get the cords from the drapes,” he said over his shoulder.

  She didn’t answer him, but he could tell from the movements behind him that she was following his directive. Then, motioning with the pistol, he ordered Arnaud, “Get up and take the seat next to your wife.” The Frenchman glowered at him but didn’t move. Calmly, Max aimed the gun at his knee and said, “Now, before I’m tempted to pull the trigger.”

  Slowly, Arnaud got up and sat in the matching armchair next to his wife. Penelope came up to Max and he took several braided, dark green cords with tassels on the ends, from her shaking hands. Then walking around Arnaud, he instructed, “Put your arms behind you.”

  At first, Arnaud complied but then twisted in the chair when Max tried to loop a cord around his wrists. In no mood for games, Max brought the butt of the pistol down on Arnaud’s skull, knocking him out.

  “That will keep him quiet,” Max said, grinning mischievously at Penelope. He noted how pale she was, staring wide-eyed at him. As he wound the cords around Claudine Arnaud’s writs, he realized Penelope had carried on like a trooper, doing as he asked without question, without histrionics or swooning. By Jupiter, he was proud of her!

  But it was time he got her out of this place. “Go out back and get your coachman to take you home. Then send a message to Lenwood, asking him to send the Bow Street Runners here.”

  She nodded her head, turned on her heel, then stopped. “Max, you are bleeding!” Penelope said, concern written on her pale face.

  His left arm did hurt like the very dickens, Max thought as he considered her words. He finished knotting the cord around Arnaud’s ankles and glanced at his left arm. His hand was covered in blood, his jacket ruined, and he moaned at the thought of the lecture he’d received from Fenton.

  “Max,” Penelope cried, racing over to his side. “Oh, Max, are you all right?”

  No, he wasn’t. He was drowning as he stared into the depths of her crystal blue eyes. She had to care for him, and if she possessed half the feelings he had for her--By Heavens! He would make it work.

  She took his arm
, and he watched as she gently pulled the torn sleeve of his jacket off his shoulder, and then pushed up the bloody sleeve of his shirt, exposing a three inch gash on the inside of his forearm.

  “Does it hurt much?” she asked, meeting his eyes as hers teared up.

  He shook his head. “It’s a graze, nothing more.” He glanced at the Arnauds, Pierre still unconscious and Claudine watching them with a malevolent stare. “Pen, we need to talk,” he said. Taking her hand, he pulled her toward the other side of the room, away from prying ears. “You need to go home, Pen, then send the coach for your father with a message to send for the runners.”

  She shook her head. “I cannot leave you, Max.”

  He gave her hand a squeeze and smiled reassuringly. “You must. Once the runners come, I’ll tend to this,” he said, gesturing to his bloody sleeve.

  Biting her lower lip, she studied his face. “Very well, but promise me you will have the doctor tend to you tonight?”

  “I will,” he vowed.

  “And that you will come to see me tomorrow, that’s if you can, of course?”

  “I will,” he repeated.

  “You will tell me everything, Max?”

  “By Jupiter, Pen, I never noticed how demanding you can be,” he said, drawing his eyebrows together with mock gravity.

  “I do not understand what has happened,” she said contritely. “For that matter, I do not understand you, Max.”

  “I’ll explain everything later. But go now, Pen,” he said, giving her a gentle push toward the door. Then, listening to her soft footsteps recede down the hall toward the back of the house, Max wearily sank down on the settee.

  Minutes later he heard the front door open and Mulvey’s voice, “Go easy, bloke, or you’ll get another blow to yer noggin’.”

  When Coburn entered the parlor with Mulvey behind him carrying a small tree limb, Max chuckled. By the looks of Coburn’s swollen eye and bruised face, the ex-colonel might be slight of build, but he packed a heck of a wallop.

  But while Mulvey and he had succeeded with this night’s work, Max knew he faced an even harder task tomorrow.

  How was he going to tell Penelope that her fiancé was a traitor to his country?

  ~~~~~

  By the time the carriage arrived at Grosvenor Square, the streets were wet from a light drizzle. And Penelope’s hands had stopped shaking. She waited for John Coachman to let down the coach’s steps and, giving instructions to wait for her return, rushed up to the door, which was opened immediately by a footman.

  “Is the Earl here?” Penelope asked the sleepy-eyed footman.

  “He’s in his study, milady,” he answered smartly, apparently catching the urgency in her voice.

  Penelope quickly made her way down the hall to the study. She didn’t bother knocking but rushed in. When her father, seated at his desk, looked up from a pile of papers, he came to his feet. “Penelope, whatever is the matter?” Looking behind her, he asked, “Where’s your mother?”

  “I left her at Lady Lowthrope’s,” she answered as she stopped before his desk. “I left early to take Mrs. Arnaud home because she said she was feeling unwell.”

  The Earl gave her a stern look. “That was unwise, Penelope.”

  “Yes, I know,” she said before taking a deep breath. “Papa, when we arrived at the Arnauds, Monsieur Arnaud was holding a gun at Max and--”

  “Penelope!” Lenwood exclaimed, coming around his desk and grabbing her by the shoulders. “Dear God, child, are you all right?”

  Nodding her head, she quickly went on. “Yes, but there was another man there and, and anyway, when he and Arnaud began to argue, Max managed to . . . jump Arnaud.” Penelope couldn’t keep the tears from welling up and clutched her father’s arms. “Max was shot, Papa, but he still managed to get the gun and tie up Arnaud and his wife. He sent me home to get you and to inform the Bow Street Runners about what has happened.”

  “Penelope, you could have been killed,” Lenwood said, hugging her to his chest.

  “Max told me to get behind him,” she said into her father’s wrinkled cravat.

  Lenwood heaved a sigh. “Yes, he would do whatever it took to protect you.”

  Penelope raised her head, staring into her father’s eyes. “What is going on?”

  Lenwood suddenly released her. “There isn’t time to explain.” He walked back around the desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out a pistol. “I’ve got to get over there.”

  As he pulled on his coat, tucking the pistol in a pocket, Penelope said, “I asked John Coachman to stay out front.” She followed him out into the hall, headed for the front door, where he stopped to give orders for the footman to go immediately to the Duke of Blackmoor’s residence and then to Bow Street for the runners. Turning to her, Lenwood ordered, “Stay here, Penelope.”

  Although his tone brooked no argument, she begged, “Papa, please let me go with you?” She had to know how Max was faring.

  Lenwood shook his head. “This will likely take most of the night, and there is nothing more you can do.”

  “What about Max?” she asked. Her concern was evident in the tremor in her voice.

  “I’ll see that he’s attended by a physician.” He reached out and gave her arm a gentle squeeze. “Order a carriage to pick up your mother and tell her not to wait up. I promise both of you a full report in the morning.”

  Penelope hurried to the back of the house, where she found the butler stoking the kitchen fire. He turned when she entered and said, “I heard his lordship leaving. Is there anything you need, milady?”

  She instructed him to send a carriage to Lady Lowthrope’s townhouse for her mother, then accepting a lighted taper from him, slowly headed for her room. Opening her bedroom door, she found Lucy asleep on the lounge chair, waiting for her. The little maid quickly sat up and wiped the sleep from her eyes. “You be early, milady.”

  “Yes, I--I am tired.” Penelope realized she’d most likely alarm Lucy if she explained her evening and thought better of it. She let Lucy help her out of her gown before sending her to bed. Then, sitting on the edge of the chaise lounge, Penelope stared at the glowing coals of the banked fire and relived that terrifying moment when she saw Max held at gun point.

  Of course, she obeyed his whispered order to get behind him. She’d been so paralyzed with the fear that Arnaud would shoot Max and was amazed her legs had responded. Once behind him, she’d rested her trembling hand on his back to steady herself and derived strength from the feel of his hard, corded muscles under his jacket. She couldn’t explain it, but she was suddenly confident in his ability to rescue them both from the impossible situation. But when Max had rushed Arnaud and the deafening gun shot rang out, Penelope experienced a new fear.

  What if she’d lost Max? If he were killed, how could she go on?

  Brushing away the tears streaming down her cheeks, she knew that she could never marry Victor--or anyone else. Her heart belonged to Max. Fun-loving, flamboyant, strong, and courageous Max.

  Oh, how her heart ached! Knowing that he was incapable of returning her love, she couldn’t stop the tears her sore heart wrung from her.

  ~~~~~

  With the pistol resting on his thigh, Max sat on the settee across from the Arnauds while watching Mulvey tie up the disgruntled Coburn. It would be a while before Lenwood and the Bow Street runners arrived, so he had plenty of time to consider Bynes’s part in the whole sordid affair and, once it became known, how the ensuing scandal would impact Penelope’s reputation.

  He knew that she cared for Bynes. After all, they’d been engaged for close to four years. But he suspected that her heart wasn’t involved, at least not to any real degree. Remembering her response to his kisses, Max prayed that she’d accept his suit, not because it would possibly salvage her reputation, but because she loved him.

  Bynes, on the other hand, deserved whatever he got. And while Max could gladly put a period to the turncoat’s existence himself, for Penelope’s sake, he w
as prepared to protect Bynes from the public humiliation of a trial and then, most likely, a public hanging. Instead, he decided, Bynes must allow Penelope to call off the engagement before being exiled to his estate. Max hoped he could convince his father who, in turn, would convince the Prince Regent to sentence Bynes to Australia.

  He heard a commotion at the front door, then Lenwood calling his name. Directing the Earl into the parlor, Max made short work of describing the evening’s events. When the Duke turned up moments later, Max related his story for a second time, and then a third for the Bow Street Runners. Lenwood had informed Max that he’d sent for his personal physician, but Max felt restless and didn’t want to wait for the quack. Instead, he begged a handkerchief from his father, wrapped up his wound, and with Mulvey standing behind him bid both men adieu.

  “Where are you off to?” Blackmoor asked, frowning with concern. “That arm needs tending.”

  Max hesitated. While he was convinced of Bynes’s duplicity, he wanted infallible proof before telling Lenwood that his future son-in-law was a traitor to his country.

  But as the Earl and his father prepared to leave after the runners removed the groggy but conscious Arnaud, his wife, and Coburn, Max stopped them, saying, “There’s more.” He took a deep breath and lowered his voice. “Arnaud has another person in his pocket. Victor Bynes is to hand over the list of agents’ names to a French agent at the George Inn.”

  “Bynes?” Lenwood asked incredulously.

  Max nodded his head. “There isn’t much time to stop him.”

  “I’m coming with you,” Lenwood said.

  And before Max could protest, Blackmoor added, “Count me in. We’ll make our plans while on the way over to the posting inn.”

  As both men strode toward the door, Max instructed Mulvey to take their mounts back to Upper Brook Street before he hastened after the older men.

  Chapter 13

  The night’s drizzle became an earnest cold rain drumming on the top of the Duke of Blackmoor’s coach, rumbling along on Piccadilly. Max explained to his father and Lenwood Arnaud’s scheme that ensnared Bynes and Coburn with large gambling debts, giving the Frenchman leverage to coerce Coburn to steal documents from the War Office and then have Bynes deliver them to a drop-off. “Coburn brought the documents to Arnaud, who copied them before giving them back to Coburn to replace, thinking no one would be the wiser. Arnaud would then give the copies to Bynes, or once even me, to leave at a specified place for a French agent to retrieve.”