“Hiding from your brother.”
“Why?”
Amanda turned her back. “The troll approached me at the ball. Help me out of this dress, will you?”
Penelope tugged at the stays, “And?”
With a twist and a swish, Amanda stepped from the sodden gown. “My fist collided with her face.”
“That should put some color in her cheeks. There should be another night rail in the armoire. You can sleep with me until the coast is clear.”
“I’m flattered, but what would Lord Westfield say?”
“Lord Westfield can go to hades.” Penelope flopped onto her back. If this night didn’t kill her, she was going to live longer than Moses.”
Chapter 14
Edward lay on the damp ground behind a boulder watching the smugglers on the beach. They were using the same cave he’d followed Penelope into. Ferris was directing the line of men.
When Edward returned home after escorting his mother back to Northumbria, a message was waiting for him. His contact at Whitehall, his majesty’s foreign intelligence agency, had intercepted a missive regarding a shipment of illegal contraband. He had been instructed to investigate but ordered not to interfere. Whitehall wanted the leader, not the underlings and everything pointed toward the Earl of Stansworth.
But now what? Was Ferris doing Reginald’s bidding, or was this Ferris’s venture? What about the old duke? Was he the lookout and ornithology the cover? The spyglasses could be used to check the horizon for ships coming in. Reginald knew everything that went on in his family. Or did he?
Edward’s gut clenched. Could Penelope have a part in the smuggling too? It was no secret that she and Ferris were close. They might be two years separated, but they were tight as twins.
No, if Penelope knew about the smuggling, she’d be right in the thick of it. The clinching turned into a solid ball of dread. If Penelope knew about the smuggling, she wouldn’t just be in the thick-of-it, she’d be the one in charge. Edward scanned the beach for a slight figure with red hair to be sure she wasn’t among them.
Another man approached Ferris from the far side of the beach, but Edward couldn’t see his face. He appeared taller and thicker around the middle and wore a greatcoat that hid any tell-tale features. Edward wasn’t close enough to verify who the man was, but he was certain it wasn’t the Earl of Stansworth.
The two men appeared to be arguing, then the man swung, and Ferris landed in the sand.
Edward’s insides melted with relief. Ferris was definitely not the ringleader, and whoever the ringleader was, he was not Reggie.
He scooted through the tall grass until he was far enough back from the cliff not to be noticed, then waited for the clouds to merge and slipped through the shadows back to his horse. He’d seen enough. Now he just needed to figure out what he was going to do about it, and he had a long and grueling ride back to London to think. First, he needed to get in touch with the local constable to find out what he knew about the recent highway robberies.
* * *
Penelope waited in the trees with Tom hidden across the lane. They were on the road to Richmond, hoping for a wealthy client to elicit a much-needed donation. The last three sojourns had been miserably short in the quid, and she had procured only one hundred and fifty pounds. She was still two hundred short.
It had taken two days before she could slip out of the house unnoticed. She finally had to pretend a cold and excuse herself from the dinner table.
Fortunately, Reggie was still livid over Amanda’s brawl with the troll. Not that it was an actual brawl—just words tossed, beverages flung, a well-placed knuckle in the eye.
Society had descended like a swarm on the St. James townhouse hoping to see the victor up close—but not too close. Reggie was occupied with damage control. Amanda refused to come out of her room except for meals, and Garrett and Addison stayed out of sight.
Tom was altogether her worst problem. He was so grumpy she was afraid he’d up and quit. She finally had to threaten him into service.
Tom raised his hand. He had a better vantage point of the curve. The withdrawal of his pistol indicated an impending donation was coming around the bend. Pen prompted Hell Spawn forward at the last second, sending the coaches pair into a panic. This coach wasn’t the newest, but the matching set was well fleshed, suggesting the owner had wealth.
She pointed her barrel at the driver. “Don’t panic, kind sir. I just need a moment of your occupant’s time, and then you may be off.”
Two men jumped from the carriage. The first, older, dower, and oh dear god—a constable. If that wasn’t enough when the second emerged, a wave of dizziness assaulted her, and she almost swooned. What the bloody hell was Lord Westfield doing on the road to Richmond? He was supposed to be up north. Yet here he was, staring up at the wrong end of the barrel of her pistol. “Gentlemen.” She lowered her voice an octave.
“How dare you stop my carriage, you dastardly highwayman. I will have you hung from the gallows at Newgate.”
Penelope let the older man have his rant. Far be it for her to interrupt a good tirade. When he winded himself, she addressed his companion. “Have you anything to say that your friend has left unsaid?”
Aside from Edward’s sharp cheeks and rigid jaw, he remained his stoic ducal self. Immune to the indignity of an outward show of emotion. Did nothing fluster the man?
“Nothing that comes to mind worth repeating—in public.”
His eyes bored into hers, and for a moment she could have sworn he recognized her. She forced the tremor of panic into its box to be let out later—after she was back home ensconced under a downy cocoon. The St. James superior nonchalance settled around her shoulders like a mantle of cold steel, and she stared him down. Edward might be a duke, but she was the daughter of a duke.
Hell Spawn stepped forward, forcing the two men against the carriage. His great bulk threatening enough without her pistol at the ready. If she wasn’t mistaken, Hell Spawn enjoyed intimidating his lessors. Lessors, meaning anyone that walked on two feet.
“Shall we commence with the proper tithing?” She tossed a small bag at Edward’s feet. “Just your quid. No jewelry. I have several pistols in the woods, all crack shots, so just pleasantries if you please then we can be on our way.”
* * *
Edward was a hair’s breadth from allowing his temper full reign. No one forced him to pick up a bag. No one. He swept the bag up, deposited their purses, and took a step toward his wayward intended.
She cocked her pistol and took aim at his chest. “No need to come any closer, just toss me the bag nice and easy and your coat won’t need mending in the morning.”
Their eyes met, and with her sharp intake of breath, his mouth slid into a wicked smile of retribution yet to be dispatched. He was sure she knew that he knew whose face was behind the black silk scarf.
Hell Spawn guffawed as if he was privy to the details of what Edward intended to do with his defiant mistress.
Penelope pulled on her reins, and Hell Spawn took several steps back. “I thank you, gentleman, for your generous donation to a most worthy and desperate cause.”
With a sharp yank, she turned and headed down the road as if hell’s hounds were on a fox hunt. Run, sweet Penelope, run. You can’t hide, and you know it.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the glint of metal and lunged at the constable.
The constable fired.
Penelope lurched to the side but managed to hang on, and Hell Spawn carried his mistress around the bend. Edward’s heart slid toward his stomach. Good Lord, she’d been hit.
A shot from the woods sent him scrambling for cover.
The constable screamed and dropped to his knees, holding his arm.
The horses bolted, tumbling the driver out of his seat and onto his butt in the dust and the carriage disappeared into the night.
Edward scanned the woods and heard the receding clip of a rider. Tom had better catch up to his mistress and ge
t her home safe, or Edward was going to strip his misguided, dedicated hide.
“What in the bloody hell did you do that for?” The constable picked himself up with a groan. “I had a clean shot.”
Edward yanked him off his feet and threw him into the gorse. “If you ever put me or anyone else in danger over a few paltry pounds again, I will personally haul you onto the next frigate to the penal colonies.”
“A few paltry pounds?” Bright red splotches mottled the constable’s face in the moonlight, and he sputtered and choked. “I was just robbed of an entire year’s wages and then some.”
Edward stared at the portly example of overindulgence sprawled in the weeds. “Then you sir, are an imbecile for carrying that much quid in one pocket.”
* * *
Penelope’s heart pounded in tandem with Hell Spawn’s hooves. Her side was on fire, but she needed to put as much distance between her and Edward as possible. Did the man actually shoot her? The cad. And she was his intended. As far as she was concerned, the impending nuptials were off.
Tom pulled alongside but remained silent, and she chanced a sidelong gaze. His jaw was set, eyes blazed, and his hands gripped the reins as if he imagined his fingers wrapped around her neck.
She swallowed. If the purses didn’t hold a decent tithing, the night would be a total disaster.
They slowed the horses and Penelope followed Tom off the road into a thicket. Now was to be her comeuppance.
“Can you get down?” Tom stared up at her, his face warring between anger and worry.
“I think so.” She finished on a hitch and swung her leg over the saddle. The big step jolted her side, and she bit back the groan.
Tom shoved her coat aside and yanked her shirt out of her pants before she could protest. “I’ll not be a party to this any longer, Mistress Penelope. My old heart can’t take another scare.”
“Nonsense, Tom. You are barely older than Reginald.”
“Twelve years his senior and the sooner you’re not my problem anymore, a happily retired man I’ll be. Now hold still so I can see the damage.”
Penelope held onto her saddle with both hands while Tom inspected her ribs in the moonlight. She bit the reins to stifle a cry when he pressed his neckcloth against her wound.
“It’s not bad. Just a graze.” He murmured more to himself than to her, but she heard the relief in the gruffness of his voice. Relief followed swiftly by a choked back, “Thank the Good Lord.”
“Careful Tom, I might think you were worried about my eternal soul.”
“It’s not your eternal soul I’m worried about. It’s mine and the verbal thrashing I’ll be receiving if Maggie gets wind of your escapades.”
“Why, Tom, are you sweet on my maid?”
He yanked her shirt down and pushed it back into her britches. “Nay. We just have the same objective.”
“What objective?”
“Ta see ye wedded and someone else’s daily dilemma.”
“Well, it’s a good thing you aren’t sweet on Maggie. She’s as sour as an unripe apple and about as tart as they come.”
“Only because her mistress is intent on riding the devil to the gates o’hell.”
“You are sweet on her.”
“Aye, and if you tell her, I’ll confess all to your brother.”
“Better Reggie than the priest. The priest will just wag his tongue, and the entire parish will know by the end of a fortnight.”
“Shush.” Tom pressed his hand against her mouth.
The clop of horses and carriage riding by at a steady clip broke the silence.
They were far enough off the road not to be seen but held a clear vantage from the break in the thicket to observe. It was a different carriage. This one more ornate with carvings and two grooms at the back. Money.
Penelope looked up at Tom pleading.
He shook his head as if she were insane and mouthed, “No.”
Her vigorous nod behind his hand was no use. His jaw was set, and the sounds of the carriage receded into the night. Penelope shoved his hand away. “Why not?”
Tom grabbed the reins of his horse and swung into his saddle. “You had better hope to God, Lord Westfield didn’t recognize you.”
Penelope grit her teeth on the mount. “Why?”
“Because he’ll kill us both.”
Chapter 15
Edward sat in the wing chair in Penelope’s room and watched the fire in the hearth play itself down to embers. The clock chimed three, and she had yet to return. Where the bloody hell was she?
His heart pressed like a loadstone on his chest. When the gun went off, and Penelope lurched to the side and damn near fell from her horse he thought his temples would explode. But where had she been shot? Was it serious? Was she lying somewhere in a ditch in agony? Bleeding to death? Was she already dead?
If she wasn’t, he was going to wring her beautiful little neck. But first, he was going to bed her, and wed her, and spend the rest of his life loving her.
He gripped the arm of the chair. Spend the rest of his life loving her? When had he fallen in love with Penelope St. James? She was beautiful and intriguing and had the carriage and pedigree and elitist arrogance required to become the Duchess of Berwick. But there was something more. Something about her that called to him. Called him in such a way that no other woman ever had—like the wind to a falcon or the ocean to the shore—like a duke to his duchess.
His Duchess. The only woman he could picture himself spending hours with and never grow bored. She was smart, funny, bold, spirited—and a felon.
Sweet Jesus, Penelope St. James, the woman he loved, the woman he wanted to wake up next to for the rest of his life, was a highwayman—the Gentleman Bandit.
He rubbed his temple. The same gentleman bandit that had been terrorizing the highways and byways of the southern routes from the Cornish coast to the Great Western Road. The same gentleman bandit that stole a kiss from Miss Annabelle Hogsbottom. The same gentleman bandit that had half of the ton’s young misses hoping for the chance to become his next victim.
A soft scrape against the window caught his attention, and his quarry stole into the room. He squelched the relief that flooded his senses and threatened to drown his ire. “Just what the hell do you think you’ve been up to?”
She jumped like a cat caught napping by a pack of hounds and tried to dash back out the window.
He lunged and pulled her into the room then slammed the sash. “Answer me.”
She stood before him as if nothing was out of the ordinary, as if she climbed through her window with regularity as if she was used to having a man in her bedroom at three in the morning.
As if she hadn’t been shot.
“Nothing.”
Edward ripped off the hat hiding her fiery crown and stepped back to get a better look at her attire. A gentleman bandit. From the exemplary bow around her starched collar to the tight buckskin britches to her polished black boots. His inspection stopped at her crotch and the unwomanly protuberance. He acted before she could pull away and grabbed the bulge. Two hard balls clinked together. “What are these?”
She winged a brow, and he wasn’t sure if it was in amusement or disdain. “Those are my bullocks.”
Her candor took him by surprise. “What did you use?”
“Billiards.”
Billiards. Not balls of yarn or rounded pebbles. “Don’t you think billiard balls are a bit above average?”
“I am not average. I am a St. James.”
“You are not a man.”
“But if I were, I would have above-average bullocks.”
“If you were, I would not be clutching your bullocks.”
“I would hope not.”
The slight upward lift of her lips belied the tell-tale white lines of pain around her mouth, and he released her.
When she moved away, he noticed the stiffness of her carriage. “Where were you shot?”
She hesitated. “It’s just a scratch.”
“Take off your clothes.”
The turn, slow, poised, perfected to entice, ignited a fire Edward was determined to bank.
“I beg your pardon, my Lord?”
“Oh, you’ll beg, Boots. But right now, I want to inspect your wound. You can either remove your clothes, or I will do it for you.”
“I could always scream.”
“But you won’t.”
She inhaled, and he was at her side, cupping her mouth with his hand. “Don’t, or I will paddle you all the way to Gretna Green.”
He released her when he heard the stuttered hiss of her exhale. “Dammit woman, how bad is it?”
Penelope eased herself onto the bench in front of her dressing table and unbuttoned her waistcoat. “Don’t worry, Tom has assured me that when it’s time for me to depart this world, the devil himself will escort me to hell.”
Edward knelt and yanked off her boots then pulled the sleeves of her waistcoat down her arms with a gentle tug. The bloody linen pressed against her side was soaked through with dried blood. Shit. “It’s more than a scratch, and you know it.” He released the falls of her britches and started on the buttons of her shirt.
Penelope shoved his hands away. “I can manage quite well on my own.”
He leaned in until his face almost brushed hers and with a wicked grimace, he untied her cravat and slid it from around her neck. “Boots, if you don’t let me inspect and clean your wound, I will call Reginald in here and tell him about your extra-curricular midnight adventures. Who do you think will swing first? You or your groom?”
Penelope traced the line of his chin with her finger, the feathery touch, brazen in its sensuality. “If you call for Reginald, you won’t be around long enough to find out.”
“And if I don’t?”
“I’ll let you play with my bullocks.”
* * *
Penelope watched the play of emotions cross Edward’s face. Surprise slipped to comprehension and settled on desire.
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