“You know my favorite autumn flowers.”
“I do listen,” Lord Hillbrook smiled, “Well, until Dawson insists on blabbering gibberish, then I tune him out.”
She snorted, “And here I thought I was the only one. He does prattle on at times.”
“See,” he smiled pleasantly, “we already have a kindred spirit.”
“On that,” she replied, “but not on other matters. I am sorry that I found you an irritant for so many years. You must understand, I thought it strange for you to show me any notice at all. You are my brother’s dear friend after all.”
He exhaled deeply and a placid look settled on his face, “I thought it strange myself that you drew my attention more than the debutantes in London. I find you much more humble and sensible than the ladies born under the notion that a husband is the only way to progress, or that have the closet of Marie Antoinette is the key to a wonderful future. Your individually is a breath of fresh air, to be honest.”
She flushed harder under his keen gaze, “Thank you….” she laughed. “Do you remember that day when I thought you and my brother had gone out, but you had stayed in, and I went riding? When I came back, my hair was madder than Medusa’s, and I had mud all over because Bessie had kicked up mud in her sprints. I looked dreadful.”
“You did,” Lord Hillbrook agreed.
Penelope eyed him with shock, “Aren’t you supposed to say that I was not that bad or something of the like?”
“I am not one to lie, My Lady,” Lord Hillbrook’s eyes were lit with mischief. “You’re look was inexcusable, but it was a charming inexcusable.”
She narrowed her eyes, “Your charms, sir, leave a lot to be considered.”
“I am a caitiff wretch,” he replied with a smirk.
“An unrepentant one,” she added.
“Undeniably,” he replied with the same unapologetic smirk on his face.
The ice was broken—somewhat—and they began speaking on safe topics like the current play in London and Lord Hillbrook’s and her brother’s business ventures. She asked about New York and was told a tale of a charming city on the water’s edge with a civilization that was just a few decades behind England’s economic progress and culture but enchanting, all the same.
“I would like to see America, one day,” Penelope mused.
“And I would love to take you there,” Lord Hillbrook said. He then wiped his palms on his trousers, “I think my time had passed, Lady Penelope.”
He stood and took her hand. She rose and stood near him and met his earnest blue eyes, “I am delighted that we could speak and get over our misconceptions. I do have one request to make, My Lady…”
Penelope had a suspicion what he was going to ask but prodded him anyway, “And that is?”
“Call me Stephen,” he asked.
Drat.
“It may take me a while to rewrite your name in my mind, and I will not promise the change will be done soon,” she spoke.
“That’s all I ask,” Lord Hillbrook nodded before he bowed and kissed the back of her hand once more. His thumb ran over her kissed the skin, “Good day, Lady Penelope.”
She saw him out and watched as he got into the carriage. Martha came to stand beside her. They stood in silence watching the dust from the departed carriage settle back on the ground.
Her hand rose and she twisted to look on her wrist—like the time before it—to see if there was any decipherable mark where Lord Hillbrook—Stephen—had kissed her. Nothing was there, but she still felt his lingering touch. She felt conflicted. Was this her only chance of getting married? Had it all come down to Hillbrook?
“Do you think he’s truly…” she trailed off, “who he says he is now.”
“No one can tell, My Lady,” Martha said. “I suppose only time can reveal that mystery.”
She could only agree; then dropped her hand. “You’re right.”
Walking back in, she went back to the library where she scooped up the bouquet of wildflowers and took them downstairs to find a vase. She found an old crockery one with faded blue flowers painted on the pale ceramic background, and with Martha’s help, filled it in with water and arranged the flowers beautifully. While doing so she wondered if she had truly misjudged Lord Hillbrook.
Perhaps on that front, but she was sure that there were other points to him that still puzzled her, like why he was so irritated at Mr. Moore. The manservant had done nothing to the Lord, but nevertheless, he had been angry. Why?
“My Lady?” Martha asked.
“Hm?”
“Your brow is furrowing again,” Martha chided.
Huffing out through puffed cheeks Penelope shook her head, “I am not sure what to do with Lord Hillbrook…a part of me will still see him as my brother’s friend, even if he does become my—”
“Husband?” Martha asked.
Penelope grimaced slightly, “Let not get ahead of ourselves now. I still find him a little irritating.” She turned away and went to find a seat and folded her hands on her lap. “I would like to believe that there are more suitors I might have but…I won’t fool myself. If he is…then he is.”
Mr. Moore then walked into the room with a bucket piled high with coal, and he stopped short. “Forgive me, My Lady and Miss Bell, I did not know you were here.”
A soft comfort ran through Penelope. There was a sense of security and kinship she found with Mr. Moore that she had not found with any other. “It’s not a problem, Mr. Moore.”
She watched as he went to top off the grate and asked casually, “Have you attended to Bessie today?”
“I have,” he replied while standing and brushing his hands off. “She’s happy as far as I can see but had a bit of snappish. It took me a while to get her to eat but she did.” His deep eyes looked up at her, “I think she misses you.”
“I’ve not been there for only a day,” she laughed. “She can be very childish at times.”
“The afternoon is not too warm, My Lady,” Mr. Moore said. “If you want, I can accompany you to see her.”
Her eyes lit up at the mention of Bessie, and there was no question in her mind to not go see her and so agreed. She had another reason to go with Mr. Moore too, as the impromptu confession he had given her about his mother had rested on her mind for a while. She felt ashamed that she had not replied in kind to his divulgement and had promised herself to do it one day. In the privacy of the stables, where he bared his soul, felt right for her to do the same.
She had barely stepped into the stable when Bessie’s loud whinny came out, and the horses head reared up from her stall. “She did miss me then.”
“I reckon so,” Mr. Moore said as he pulled the door open and she went in.
Bessie was tossing her head, and her eyes lit up with energy. She tapped Bessie’s nose and then ran her hand to her side and there she felt her horse’s trapped energy. “She needs to run, Mr. Moore.”
“Then we will let her run,” he said simply, “Duke too.”
They unlocked the stalls to both horses and took them into the nearest field. Penelope then saw the differences between both horses, Bessie was golden-brown with a soft-honey coat while Duke was tall, stately and darker than the midnight sky. They were opposite in everything; form, color, and manner. Bessie tended to be friendly while Duke was still standoffish. Then again, he was living up to his name of Duke.
Mr. Moore was leading both horses toward the long grassy field and as there was no riding to be done, there was no need to be saddled. Mr. Moore patted both horses and step away from Duke while she stood at the sidelines. He allowed both animals to sniff the grass and pace before he slapped Bessie on her hindquarters to get her to gallop around the field. Duke snorted, paced the ground and took off after the mare without a word.
She sighed in happiness when her horse ran free as Mr. Moore joined her at the gates. The sun was benign and warm and so was the footman’s smile. She swallowed over her words. “My mother died a year after my first season. I
did not want to go back for the second, but Edward and my father pressed me into it. I was…lonely. I had Martha and all, but there was no pleasure in staying in London without my mother. When my father told her, he was going to teach me how to ride astride, she, unlike any other mother, gave him her blessing.”
Penelope made sure to keep her eyes trained on the horses who were cantering side by side. Duke stopped and nudged Bessie with his nose and the mare began stomp impatiently.
“When Mother died, a part of me died with her. My father was hit the worse and so was Eddie, but you would have to pull his teeth out one by one for him to admit it,” she divulged. “She had gotten me Bessie a year before that, but she was still a colt then and hard to train. I declined a third season and stayed home to be with Bessie who was more a reminder of Mother than anyone was.”
She grimaced, “I know it is not as poignant as your story, and I may not know the level of pain you went through, but I know how it hurts to lose a Mother.”
He was closer than she had realized while she had sunk into her mind. His arms were braced on the post near to her, and her eyes briefly looked at him. His eyes were on the horses. “You have nothing to apologize for. No one can know another’s pain, but it is pain, all the same.”
The wind picked up and fluttered Mr. Moore’s hair into a pell-mell of disorder and she laughed when he scowled. “The wind has no manners, Mr. Moore, you should know that by now.”
Bessie and Duke were romping on the field, then Bessie was romping while Duke stood like a monolith in the sun. His dark coat shone under the golden rays, and his head twisted as Bessie danced around him. He then shook his head, tossing his mane and began walking back toward his owner.
Mr. Moore stepped away and grabbed the horse’s chin. He then leaned in, “No, Duke, you are not coming back this quickly. You will go back to the field and stay with the lady, understand me. Have I not raised you better than that?”
She slapped a hand over her mouth, trying to stifle her giggle that grew into a gurgling laugh. Mr. Moore looked over to her, “He knows how to be a better gentleman than this.”
That made her laugh even more. “I believe you.”
With a slap to the horse’s hind, Duke was sent back to the field. Mr. Moore came back shaking his head as the majestic animal went back to Bessie. He nosed the mare, and she began dancing around him.
“Duke knows better, I apologize.”
“Bessie does too,” she added. “But she has not had any other horse to play with, so she can be a bit of an irritant.”
Looking toward him, she could see the unsaid question in his eyes, and she knew—just knew—that he was wondering about her and Lord Hillbrook. The words irritant was one she had used to speak of the Baron and uttering it again must have prodded him to think about him. She carefully considered her words, “Lord Hillbrook was surprisingly amiable today. Not much of the irritant he had been or who I had thought him to be.
He was quiet for a moment, “All is well between you two, then?”
Mr. Moore’s voice was hesitant as it was coming close to crossing the line between employer and servant decorum. But that was not the only thing she heard in his hesitant voice, there was a hint of his dislike of the man there too. Penelope could not fault him for it. Lord Hillbrook had been discourteous to him without a reason.
“Not fully,” she mumbled to the ground before huffing quietly, “I cannot tell you what it truly is but…” she hazarded a glance at him, noting his expressionless face and hated how she was not able to get a good read on the man. His face was perfect for a gambling hell. Cross at herself for not knowing how to approach him she huffed a little more but quietly continued. “I don’t know what to think just yet. Eddie would be thrilled, I know but…” her words ran out of steam—again. “I am still on the fences.”
Cringing at her blurted words, Penelope did not dare look at Mr. Moore. Why? His very presence had begun to steal the air from her lungs, and her heart was palpitating too quickly for her comfort. Her eyes shifted between Bessie, Duke and the ground. His silence was even more discomfiting than her ramble, and she felt the silence like a beast nipping at her heels as she waited for him to speak. Why his opinion mattered to her so much, she had not the faintest idea.
“My Lady,” he said, “I am honored that you would tell me your insecurities, but you do not have to justify anything to me.”
Justify? What was she justifying? Then she remembered—she had been the one who had assumed his question about Lord Hillbrook and had ranted off without a by-your-leave. She had been justifying. “Oh.”
He then tilted his head to her, and his smile was comforting, and she sighed out her trapped breath. He made her feel a bit unsteady when he got mysterious, and more stable when he was open. Well, as open as he could get considering that he was a stoic person.
The sun was dipping, and both horses were munching on tall blades of grass, side by side. “I think it’s time to get them back in.”
Instead of letting him go alone for the horses, Penelope went with him to get Bessie. Both horses looked up when they approached; Duke went to Mr. Moore while Bessie stayed eating. She rested her hand on the mare’s side and the horse looked up. She scratched Bessie’s ears while looking over and smiling at Mr. Moore with Duke’s head in his hands and was staring at Duke’s eyes.
That is a connection I wish the man I chose will have with me and my horse.
Over Bessie’s head, she admired Mr. Moore, with his thick brows, square jaw and the dark hair that seemed to trap the sunlight. He looked unaffected, but the more she looked at him she wondered, what can I do to make him smile. I want him to smile…I would love to see him smile.
Then the word love nailed her feet to the ground.
Chapter 15
Dinner time had passed, and Heath was still struggling with how to tell Lord Allerton his suspicion of how the Viscount had died. How could he possibly tell the Earl that a person, probably someone on his guest list had shot the Viscount, without being looked at as though he had lost his mind?
News like that coming from a peer could be taken in stride, but coming from a servant, that could be seen as an impertinence. He imagined the questions that would instantly be on the tongue of any peer. How could a servant even suggest such a vile act, and what knowledge or expertise did he have to make such a judgment?
He had just finished up clearing the sideboard and sending the uneaten food back to the kitchens when he went to the Earl’s study. He knocked and was given permission to enter. The Earl had a pile of papers before him, and by the looks of it, was working by the gaslighted chandelier. However, he was leaning back in his chair in his shirtsleeves and sipping a glass of scotch.
“Mr. Moore,” he greeted with a steady voice, a welcomed sound as he did not want to deliver such distressing news to a man who might be half-drunk. “Please, come in. How can I help you?”
Standing three feet away from the table he clasped his hands behind him. “My Lord, I must tell you something that I know will sound brazen, but I went back and looked around the spot where Viscount Shirlling was killed, and it is my view that he was not killed from far, My Lord.”
The Earl sat forward and set the glass on the table. His fingers drummed on his desk—long fingers like his sisters—and his gaze was grave. “How so?”
He took in a deep breath, “My Lord, I went with Lord Masseur when he went hunting, and I know the effects of gunshots in long- and short-range. If the man had been shot shorter, his breast bone would have been shattered more than it had.”
Lord Allerton nodded in an ‘of course, of course’ way and then he continued. “I then realized, it had to come from a long shot, and by the angle of Lord Shirlling’s body and the closest trajectory…My Lord, I believe it might have come from a third-story window.”
Shock painted the Earl’s face and his color went pale. Heath was beginning to rue even speaking to the man when the Earl chocked out in a tight voice, “You mean to
tell me I had…may have had….an assassin in my house?”
Thankful that the Earl had not called him out for impertinence, and grateful that he was truly considering his words, Heath went on. “It is a possibility, My Lord, not a certainty.”
Nevertheless, the lord sank back into his chair rubbing his face with his palms. He kept silent as the Earl sank deeper and deeper in thought. Eventually, the man sat forward and steepled his fingers before his face. “Mr. Moore…”
He tensed in preparation for a set-down, but none came.
“Thank you for telling me. Your words jostled something in my memory, and I think I believe that the gunshot might have come from exactly where you said,” he breathed out deeply. “But it’s all away and done with now. The best I can do is to go over my invitees and try ferret out who might have done such a horrible deed.”
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