The American Heiress Brides Collection

by Carter, Lisa; Davis, Mary; Dietze, Susanne

  “Lessons with her governess.”

  “And adventures with Amelie, her doll,” Emmett added. “Today they are flying a kite in the park.”

  Father laughed. “Good day for it, with this wind.”

  “Did you say doll?” Alma’s question drew every eye. Then she flushed a becoming shade of rose. “Pardon me, but I didn’t notice a one at the girls’ home this morning.”

  Penny searched her memory. “I’ve not seen one, either.”

  “Perhaps we should remedy that.” Alma glanced at Lionel.

  “A capital idea. I should be happy to fund the endeavor.” Lionel smiled, showing far more enthusiasm than Penny had observed before.

  “Perhaps your daughter should help pick them out,” Alma suggested. “She would know best what other girls like.”

  Lionel nodded. “I’ll speak to her governess.”

  Emmett’s gaze drew Penny’s again, sending flutters through her abdomen. He looked so dapper in his dark blue suit.

  “I had wondered about something for the girls’ home, too,” he said. “Art for the girls.”

  “A course of appreciation?”

  “Application. They’ve had such rough lives, and time with a brush or pastel could offer them a way to express themselves creatively. I’d be happy to donate the supplies. Viola and I could come with you and show your girls how to use them.”

  Art to express themselves. Dolls to love and tend. God was answering her prayer. The girls were under the Lord’s wing, and He would care for them. What a blessing that He’d chosen to provide through Alma, Lionel, and Emmett.

  His hand was at work in her life. Even in this marriage she didn’t want.

  “They would like it very much.” She smiled at Emmett.

  After luncheon the group fractured into smaller conversations in the parlor. Lionel perched near Alma in the chairs by the windows, explaining grouse hunting. Penny wasn’t certain whether to feel slighted or relieved, but Alma, bless her, looked enraptured. Mrs. Shore and Mother shared the settee, and Father and Emmett—

  Weren’t here. Curious.

  But their absence inspired Penny to slip out for a moment, too. She nodded at her mother and quit the parlor.

  At once, the air seemed cooler, easier to inhale. Penny caught sight of the windblown elms outside the tall, wide windows that flanked the grand staircase. Their swaying beckoned her to watch for a moment before she decided to sneak into Father’s study, which offered a more private view of the elms.

  Emmett stood beside Father’s desk, one hand on Father’s pen-and-ink stand.

  “Emmett?” Shivers of unease skittered up her arms. “What are you doing here?”

  Emmett was not doing well as a spy. He’d managed authenticating a suspected forgery of a Rubens for Whitacre at that house party last spring, but this attempt wasn’t going as well. Caught at his first attempt to be alone with the painting? He’d have to improve at skulking and skulduggery if he wanted to continue to serve in this capacity.

  Which he did. Badly.

  Penny waited, lips parted, eyes wide. If only he’d met her before Lionel had—

  God help me. That train of thought wouldn’t do.

  “I wanted paper.” It wasn’t a lie. He didn’t have his sketchbook.

  Her face relaxed. “Take whatever you need—”

  “That’s not all.” Spying might be part of the job, but lying was not in his nature, and he wouldn’t start now with Penny. He had permission to inform her family, but he’d hesitated. Now, however, it was best to make a clean breast of it. He hadn’t known Penny long, but he’d seen her kindness and compassion. He knew in the marrow of his bones he could trust her. “I’m here because of the Gainsboroughs.”

  Her gaze flickered to the paintings behind him, and her eyes softened in concern. “Father bought them from a dealer. If he knew Lionel sold them without your blessing, he might return them. They’re clearly important to you.”

  His head shook. “Not to me. To the Crown.”

  She took a step into the room, disbelief widening her eyes. “Queen Victoria?”

  “The Prince of Wales, actually.” He took a deep breath. “And only the painting of Lady Dunwood. Or rather, the map at her side.”

  Penny drew closer. Her floral perfume wafted around him, filling his brain with thoughts he should not have about his brother’s intended. Focus on the painting.

  How did Penny view the image? He gazed at it afresh, taking in the scene as if for the first time. Bewigged and decked in a pale gown, his great-great-grandmother Lady Dunwood seemed the epitome of a well-bred, educated lady of her time, seated before a desk piled with books and, of course, the map. It hung upside down, hanging off the edge of the desk like a prop.

  “What is so valuable about this map?” Penny turned her head to the side.

  She’d laugh, but it was rather incredible. “It leads to King John’s treasure of crown jewels.”

  She did laugh, a sound of surprise. “The prince wishes to add John’s bounty to the royal coffers, then?”

  If only. “A group of anarchists wishes to overthrow the Crown. So far they’ve made attempts to assassinate members of Parliament and destroy government buildings.”

  Her mouth popped open. “I’d no idea.”

  Little wonder. Mrs. Beale probably limited the sorts of newspapers Penny read to the society pages. “Thus far the group has been foiled, but government intelligence learned this group seeks to take hold of symbolic objects.”

  “Such as the treasure of King John? Whatever for?”

  “The prince fears they would disrespect the crown or scepter somehow, but I suspect if the anarchists found the treasure, they would sell it to fund their violent pursuits.” He peered at the map, praying Gainsborough had been precise with his brush. “In any case, the government hopes to find the treasure before anyone else.”

  “How did they know about the map?”

  “My friend Seymour Whitacre—he was the chap at the museum—works for the prince. He remembered me telling him about the painting and asked for it. I told him our family had parted with it but that Lionel was, er, visiting the family to whom it had been sold, and, well, here I am.”

  “So that is why you accompanied Lionel and Viola to Philadelphia. To copy the map.”

  “I’m glad to be here with Viola. And to meet you. But yes.”

  She turned to him, her face so close he could see the flecks of green in her brown eyes and the tiny mole above her lip—

  “Does Lionel know?”

  Lionel? Oh. Enough looking at her lips. Emmett turned back to the painting. “I have permission to tell him, but I haven’t done so. I’d not want him upset that he sold a painting sought by violent thugs.”

  She stiffened. “Beg pardon, but these thugs know about the painting, too? Are we in danger for owning this thing?” She gripped the gilt frame as if preparing to yank it from the wall.

  “Wait, please.” He covered her clenched fingers with his hand. “If they know, which I doubt, they wouldn’t cross the Atlantic for it when there are other means to find the treasure.”

  “None as easy as a map, I imagine.” Her voice was high and tight.

  “No one will come, but if anyone tried, I’d protect you. I’d die protecting you.”

  The words hung in the air, soft as breath.

  Their hands were still touching. Their gazes held, unblinking, for too long.

  Why didn’t she jerk her hand away? Why must she stare up at him, wide-eyed and trembling, as if she might care for him, too?

  One of them must stop this madness. But he wasn’t certain he had strength enough to look away. It was all he could do not to kiss her.

  He’d hoped that the attraction he’d felt was a trifle, but her friendship and her heart drew him like nothing he’d known before.

  This was more than passing fancy. This was dangerous.

  So, praying for strength, he lowered his hand and dragged his gaze back to the portrait
, where he stared unseeing for the span of several breaths.

  Then she took a deep, ragged breath. “How did poor King John lose his royal crown?”

  Her tone was different. Conversational, but forced, as if she pretended the moment between them hadn’t happened.

  He should follow her lead. “King John was not a popular king, as you may recall from the legend of Robin Hood.”

  He glanced at her. Good, he’d made her smile.

  “It was during the First Barons’ War, 1216 to be precise. During a military campaign, John grew ill and parted from his slower-moving baggage wagons. Unfortunately, the route the wagons took crossed the mouth of the Wellstream.”

  “What is that?”

  “A tidal stream. At low tide it was passable, but the wagons were not fast enough, and they were sucked into quicksand, lost in whirlpools, or washed away with the tide—depending upon which account one reads. Regardless, the crown, silver plate, gold, and an Arthurian relic called the Sword of Tristram were lost.”

  “How does one locate wagons washed away or sunk in quicksand, even with a map?”

  “An excellent question. Nevertheless, Lady Dunwood’s ancestor, who was with the baggage train, drew one anyway. He either chose not to search for the treasure or never found it, despite his map, because it was buried or swept away. Either way, Lady Dunwood wanted the map captured in this painting. The original map was never seen again, and this is the only clue that remains.”

  “And what a tantalizing clue it is.” Penny’s lips turned up in a gentle smile. “You should tell Father. He’ll grant you access.”

  “Access to what?”

  Emmett twisted at Mr. Beale’s baritone, which held more than a little curiosity in its tone.

  “The paintings, Father.” Penny swept away from Emmett, leaving a whirl of her floral scent in her wake. “Emmett has a tale to tell about them.”

  She offered an encouraging smile before exiting, but the room grew colder without her in it.

  “How so?” Mr. Beale took Penny’s place beside him, so Emmett shared the story. His thoughts diverged between his government task and Penny, however.

  He was fulfilling his duty to the Crown. He should feel relieved, happy, but longing panged his abdomen like hunger pains.

  Emmett had always believed he didn’t need to seek out a wife; if God wanted him wed, He’d see fit to provide. So far, Emmett’s head hadn’t been turned by anyone, and he’d trusted that was part of God’s provision, too.

  Until now. Much as he did not wish to admit it, he was falling in love with Penny.

  And nothing but heartache would come of it.

  Chapter 4

  The next afternoon, Penny’s thoughts still swirled from her conversation with Emmett. Treasure, villains, maps—the stuff of novels.

  But as she wandered a toy store with Alma and Viola, her thoughts had less to do with King John than with Emmett.

  She’d been drawn to him the moment she first saw him, although she felt guilty having such feelings because of Lionel. Then she’d learned who Emmett was, and she’d determined to squash her attraction like a bug under her boot heel.

  But when they started to become friends, the feelings only increased. How could they not, when he was such a likable fellow? His devotion to Viola, his humor, their shared faith, all made him even more appealing.

  She’d hoped—prayed—that her traitorous emotions would subside so she could appreciate Lionel as a fiancé and Emmett as a brother-in-law.

  Then in Father’s office, Emmett’s touch on her hand sent a flame up her arm. And she wasn’t so certain she could ever view Emmett as a brother.

  Her steps paused. Should she follow through with marrying Lionel when she didn’t love him? They weren’t engaged yet. He hadn’t asked. And when he did, what if she said no—

  A porcelain head the size of a small apple was thrust before Penny’s eyes, almost smacking her in the nose.

  “Look at this one.” Viola waved the doll, shaking its blond curls so Penny’s vision swam yellow. “She looks like Amelie’s sister.”

  Viola’s high-pitched English accent made Penny smile. So did Viola’s side-by-side comparison of the new doll in one hand with Amelie in the other. Aside from their clothing and the evidence of Amelie having been well loved, the dolls might indeed be twins. “I agree.”

  “So do I.” Alma cupped Viola’s shoulders in a brief hug. “The girls at the home will love the dolls you’ve chosen, Viola.”

  It had been Alma’s idea for the three of them to go doll shopping, trailed by Miss Partridge, with Clark to handle the packages. Penny hoped it would be a memorable outing for Lionel’s little girl. The toy store held all manner of delights, but Viola hurried straight to the section shelved with dolls. It hadn’t taken long to select fourteen for the girls at the home, with a few extras should new residents come along.

  Penny fingered the doll’s plaid frock. “Do you think the dolls require changes of clothing, Viola?”

  Viola tapped her chin in thought before nodding. “Miss Partridge says a coat and spare frock are always wise to pack, so the dolls should have such, too.”

  At the mention of her name, Miss Partridge stepped forward. Penny smiled at the governess, who then nodded understanding that she wasn’t being summoned. Penny warmed at the careful note the governess paid to her young charge. Her obvious care for Viola reminded Penny of her own governess, Frosty.

  Frosty was the woman who had truly raised Penny and taught her about God. Much of the year, Mother and Father left Penny in Philadelphia while they spent time in New York, Newport, or abroad—until this year, that is. It seemed as if Viola experienced a similar childhood to Penny’s, with a servant as the most constant figure in her life.

  The similarity between Penny and Viola, attended by servants rather than parents, pricked at Penny’s skin like ant bites. The wounds were small but sharp. Not that Penny or Viola suffered like the girls at the home; on the contrary, they had Miss Partridge and Frosty.

  But what would it have been like if Mother had been the one to guide Penny, instead of Frosty? Or if Lionel went against the conventions of his class and took a larger role in raising his daughter?

  A moment ago, Penny had entertained the scandalous thought that she could decline Lionel’s proposal. Then Viola had thrust the doll in her face, reminding her that a marriage between Penny and Lionel was about more than just the two of them.

  Show me what is best for Viola, Lord.

  Alma’s eyes brightened. “Viola, may I sew a few ensembles for Amelie? I used to sew things for my dolls when I was younger.”

  “Oh, yes, please.” Viola dashed off to Miss Partridge. “Did you hear? Miss Shore will sew clothes for Amelie.”

  Alma, her gaze fixed on Viola, clutched Penny’s arm. Were those tears in Alma’s eyes? Penny dug a handkerchief out of her bag. “What troubles you, dear?”

  Alma dabbed her eyes with the lacy edges of Penny’s hankie. “I would trade places with you in an instant, marrying such a fine man and mothering that little girl.”

  Lionel was a fine man, Penny supposed. And Viola was a darling, but surely it was the circumstance, not Lionel and Viola themselves, that Alma envied. Although envy implied bitterness, and Alma was surely motivated by loneliness. Penny patted Alma’s hand. “Is your mother still hesitant to allow you to be courted?”

  Alma blanched. “She is amenable now that it is too late—oh, never mind. In the meantime I have the perfect tiny buttons in my basket at home for a ball gown for Amelie.”

  “What is too late?” Had Alma met a gentleman she wished to marry? But Alma slipped from Penny’s touch and rushed to Viola, babbling about the petite buttons.

  It was all Penny could do not to drag Alma aside when they returned to Penny’s house, but the moment was never right to question her, especially with Viola in their company. The girl accompanied them to the parlor, where Penny released Miss Partridge for her afternoon tea and then asked Clark to
bring the newly purchased dolls into the parlor.

  “We must line them up and show them off.” Penny tugged off her gloves. Alma was already helping Viola do the same.

  Within minutes, they’d removed the lids from the dolls’ boxes and propped them against the sofa and hearth. Viola scooted on her knees, introducing Amelie to each one, while Alma studied their clothes. Penny rang the bell for tea just as Lionel poked his head in the door.

  “I thought I heard noise. We gentlemen were in the study. My, what a sight,” he exclaimed. “Is this the parlor or the nursery?”

  “Do you like our purchases?” Penny moved beside him.

  “I chose them all, Papa. Aren’t they pretty?” Viola made Amelie shake hands with a black-haired doll.

  “I should say so.” He turned to Penny—at last. It seemed he hadn’t initiated a single conversation with her since his arrival in Philadelphia. “Thank you.”

  Maybe she expected too much, but the date of the ball was approaching—the ball when her parents planned to announce their betrothal, although he hadn’t proposed yet. Or talked to her beyond commenting on the weather or food.

  Spending time with Lionel strained her breathing, but she must get to know him better. She forced a smile.

  “Perhaps we can speak later about Hawton Park.” Or anything. Anything at all.

  “Mmm.”

  That was as good as a yes from him, she supposed, because he stepped away to peer at the dolls where Alma and Viola curled on the floor.

  Penny stood alone, feeling a stranger in her own parlor. Perhaps Lionel thought there was no need to get to know her because it wouldn’t change anything. Perhaps he didn’t want to be friends and planned to go on with his life apart from her once she’d birthed an heir.

  Abandon her, like her parents had done.

  Viola checked a doll’s ears for aches, and Lionel and Alma made sympathetic noises for the poor sick dolly. Penny, unsure whether to join in or run away, caught the sounds of the tea tray being brought in. Relief. “I shall see if Father or Emmett wishes tea.”