She blinked and wondered if she had seen it all. “I think we should go inside,” she said.
Mr. Moore went to open the door and her mouth opened to ask him what that look was for but realized it was not the time, and it was certainly not the place. So, with her curiosities and doubts raging half-and-half inside her, she allowed herself to enter the room, gave Mr. Moore a thank you and took Martha’s hand, tugging her up to her rooms.
Safely inside, she shut the door and sat heavily on the nearest chair. Her head was in her hands and she knew the picture she was painting was confusing Martha.
“My Lady?”
“Did you see his face?” she asked.
“I did,” Martha said with disbelief in her voice. “I do not think I have ever seen Lord Hillbrook so happy or delighted before.”
Penelope shook her head, “Not him, Martha. I mean Mr. Moore. Did you see his face after St—ugh, Lord Hillbrook gave me the pendant?”
“So, it’s nearly Stephen now?” Martha teased. “Not Lord Hillbrook anymore?”
She groaned, “He will stay Lord Hillbrook as long as I can manage it, but focus Martha, please.” Getting up from her chair, Penelope began to pace. “I know that he does not like Hillbrook because I told him that I did not but…that look, there is something else there that I cannot fathom. He looked like he wanted to throw Hillbrook into the deepest pit of hell’s fire.”
“Oh…” Now it was Martha’s time to blink. “I cannot say I did, My Lady. He seemed the same to me.”
Of course, he did, he always does.
Huffing out a breath through puffed-out cheeks, “I suppose I will just have to ask him directly.”
“But…” Martha hedged, “Lord Hillbrook. He was certainly different today.”
“Yes, he was,” Penelope added thoughtfully. “It’s almost as if he was a different person than the one I knew.”
“I agree,” Martha said.
Silently, Penelope reached up and fingered the elephant pendant. The ivory was smooth to her touch and the only rough touch she felt was the edge of the faceted gem in the elephant’s eye. The sapphire stone made a dent in her finger as she had pressed it against her thumb. “I wonder what changed.”
“Do you think that maybe he had been waiting for you, My Lady?” Martha asked.
“How could he have been waiting for me?” Penelope asked, a little baffled. “I was always here.”
“I mean waiting for you to get back seeking a spouse,” Martha clarified. “Perhaps he had realized that it was time for him to stop aggravating you and that you might be taken soon.”
Her lady’s maid’s words did not comfort her much. In fact, they sort of perturbed her. Was Stephen doing all this to make sure she did not marry anyone else? Or, was it something else? Could it be that he was seeking a marriage of convenience? Lord Hillbrook had not been business minded on the drive at all. He had shown interest in what she spoke about and was understanding with her worrying about Edward. He did not act like a man who was only out to get a wife.
Then again, she was not exactly experienced in the way men went about courting women. She could have easily been fooled by his looks and kind acts and the pendant. She struggled with that thought and decided to take the better road. Perhaps, Lord Hillbrook did really care for her and was not the irritating person she had known. Perhaps she could be a bit kinder.
Perhaps he is really a good man under it all…he did tell me about his father and that could have been a bit hard.
Thinking of Hillbrook’s confession, she then remembered another admission—that of Mr. Moore. Mr. Moore’s confession had been a lot more soulful and had traces of heartbreak that easily outran Hillbrook’s. If she were to hold a contest, that was.
But then—Mr. Moore’s words—no one can know another’s pain, but it is pain all the same—came back to her and she felt a bit ashamed. Who was she to judge? Sitting there she decided she had to speak with Mr. Moore. She did not speak a word to Martha about it though and only said, “Let’s get prepared for dinner.”
After a warm bath and a change of clothes, Penelope rose from where Martha was finished fixing her hair. “I’m going to visit Bessie. I’ll be back soon.”
She left the room and walked to the stables, hoping that Mr. Moore was there too. There was the sound of footsteps inside and she entered to see the very man she was wanting to meet. Mr. Moore was in Duke’s stall, brushing down the animal’s dark coat. She stood there and did not say a word, knowing that he knew she knew there.
“Good evening, My Lady,” he eventually said. “May I help you?”
“Yes, you can,” she said quietly. “Can you tell me why you want to personally usher Lord Hillbrook into Dante’s Ninth Circle of Hell?”
She had uttered it without thinking and had expected her reference to go over his head. Just as she was about to clarify, he stunned her.
“Why would I think him treacherous?” Mr. Moore replied before he snapped his mouth shut with an audible click.
He knows about The Divine Comedy! God Almighty! He knows it!
“Lord Masseur had an extensive collection of books in his library and gave me permission to read any I wished,” Mr. Moore clarified with a soft ruddy blush against his cheeks.
She stepped closer, “But you still don’t like him.”
His eyes dipped to her chest where the ivory elephant pendant had rested, and seeing the empty place, his eyes darted away and back up. His jaw had gone stiff for a moment then softened. “I…”
“You don’t have to be overly polite, Mr. Moore,” she added.
He dropped the brush and sighed so deeply his whole body sagged, “I don’t like him, but that is mostly my problem.”
“No,” she replied, “it is his too. I remember how he looked at you that night. He might have been lobbing swords and daggers at you if he had them.”
Mr. Moore was then fingering the brush. “My Lady, I do not think it is proper.”
Bravely, Penelope stepped closer and rested her hand over the brush and pressed it away, “Not proper to be angry?”
He looked a bit bemused, “Not proper to speak what is truly on my mind.”
“Why?” She edged closer and closer to see the emerald green of his eyes dim to verdant. “Why?”
A wary look flashed in his eyes, and he stepped away from her. That very move carved a deep pit of emptiness in her stomach that she did not understand. His eyes closed off and his shoulders went stiff.
There was no way she could break through his iron-clad barrier and feeling bereft stepped away. A riot of emotions was raging war in her chest and knowing that she would not get anything more from him, pained her. Where was the connection they had made? She knew they had made one, so where was it?
“I thought…” she hesitated, “I thought we were…” Friends enough to speak our minds…but I suppose I was wrong.
Swallowing she shook her head and laughed. “I was wrong I suppose. Good day, Mr. Moore. I am sorry for bothering you.”
Walking away, she stopped at the door to look toward the paddock and then sighed heavily. Looking over her shoulder she saw Mr. Moore standing there with a death grip on the brush, nostrils flared and deep furrow in his brow, a tightly-knit pained, furrow. Silently, she walked off.
Chapter 17
Jealous.
Heath was frankly…jealous. How was it that Hillbrook only had to give Lady Penelope a trite bauble and he was furious? Jealousy was twisting his stomach into knots, but Hillbrook was only half of the coin. The other half came from Lady Penelope.
When that Hillbrook had bestowed Lady Penelope with the pendant, she looked…halfway in love already. Or so he thought. Perhaps the red haze of his anger had twisted an innocent smile into something more. He hated that the man was so deep in with criminals supporters that if they did marry and he fell, she would be destroyed with him.
At least that was the reason he told himself why he hated the Baron. The real reason, one he did not want to
admit was that he wanted Penelope for himself. He despised the very thought of the lady being around Hillbrook, which had him flinging the horse’s brush halfway across the stable, clanging into a stall and scaring the carriage horse there half to death. He stood there glowering to thin air as the horse’s loud incensed whinnying died down.
Stomping out of the stables into the cool evening, Heath delayed from going back to the house as his foul mood would have soured everyone else. Instead, he skirted the house and crossed the gardens and the carriage houses and the outhouses where coal, fresh cut wood, and gardening tools were stored. Night began to fall, and the dark purples were changing to indigo blues while dark grey was heading up the sky from the horizons.
With gritted teeth, he schooled his face into one of indifference and entered the house, going directly to clean up and then attend to dinner. When he was presentable, he mustered up the courage to go see Lady Penelope but entered the dining room to see it—empty. His quizzical look must have shown on his face when Mr. Gastrell walked in while fiddling with his cuff.
“Oh, Mr. Moore,” he said easily. “Lord Allerton is out, and Lady Penelope took her dinner in her rooms.”
He felt like Lady Penelope had used a proxy to slap him in his face, but then, it was well deserved. He had been untenable not many moments before.
Nodding he said, “I understand. If the Lord needs me when he returns, he just needs to call.”
“Oh, that probably will not be until tomorrow,” the butler said, “He is out with Lord Hillbrook in London. Most likely he will stay at the Baron’s house tonight.”
Another jab went right to his heart. Wasn’t there enough of Lord Hillbrook that he had to stomach that day? Even a mere mention of the man made him want to grind his molars to grit.
Swallowing his anger, he went about the rest of his duties that did not take much time. Soon, he finished closing the shutters, doused the lamps and went to his room.
Laying the darkness, he felt there had to be more to this Hillbrook than Lord Allerton had let on. Despite the connection, he had found between the Baron and the Bonapartist, Heath felt an itch under his skin that he could not shake. What more was there to Hillbrook?
Sitting up, he breathed in deeply and then slithered out of bed. Tugging the shirt into the waistband of his pants, Heath was glad they were dark as the night itself. He quickly then went to his wardrobe, tugged out a drawer and flipped it over.
Slanted diagonally in the corner where the vertical wood section met a horizontal slab, were three select lock-picks, securely fastened by the two slabs of wood. He quickly plucked them out, slipped them into his pockets and left the room.
Down the corridor, he padded quietly until he reached the main sitting room. He did not have to look to the ormolu clock on the fireplace mantel to know it was past midnight. He could feel it. He took the stairs to the Earl’s study and with his back turned to it, he used one hand to silently push the door open. Thank god the hinges were well oiled.
His eyes had already acclimated to the darkness, and closing the door as quietly as he had opened it, went directly to the large desk. There had to be something other than being a good friend and business partner that was taking the Earl over to Hillbrook so frequently.
Could it be that Allerton is leaning to Hillbrook’s association with Swanville? Could he be leaving his royalist ideals behind?
Crouching beside the desk, Heath tried the drawers, seeking any that might be locked as nothing of suspect would be held in drawers that were left open. Five of the six drawers were open but the last one, at the bottom was locked—one Heath had prepared for.
He took the picks out and worked the tumblers in the desk and when the drawer gave way, he reached inside and felt cool leather—a book.
A personal diary perhaps?
Lifting the book out he flipped the first page over and traced the indented strokes in the paper. The Earl certainly had a heavy hand, one he was grateful for as it was too dark to read it traditionally, he did it the other way.
Knowing how to read like this, backward and by touch was a skill he had forced himself to learn over hundreds of hours while fighting fatigue and frustration. Reading the diary was going to take a lot of time, but he had to know if the Earl was putting his sister in danger.
Sitting, he read the leaves one by one. There were many references to Baron Hillbrook and his ideas on how the government was running. Heath got increasingly concerned with the mentions of Hillbrook throwing his hat into the Whig party’s—a liberal party that was known to embrace radical ideas—ring kept recurring.
Russell has invited me to a gentleman's debate on the political issues of the day, saying sensibly and to my regret, I must add, how the Crown has lost all insight on how our dear land is headed.
His fingers paused as he actively dreaded what he might read next until he forced his hand to go further, ‘…and I must agree with him. There is no true governance at Westminster, both parties take more time in haggling and nitpicking over minor issues than the ones we should be more invested about. I can see why Napoleon saw fit to perform a coup d’état on the other two members of the consulate and crown himself Emperor. France’s economy, education, and governance have grown under his leadership and it is about time forward thinkers like him must come forward and take control of this bumbling excuse of a monarchy…”
Every drop of blood in Heath’s body went cold as ice. Was this Allerton’s way of saying he was losing his traditionalist views to bend to revolutionism?
Forcing himself to read further his body lost some of the tension as he read, ‘…it is wishful thinking mayhap, but until the Crown forgoes this foolishness in the capital, something must be done…’
It was cold comfort that the Earl was still not swayed to anarchism, but alarm bells were still ringing in his head. Putting the book back, he relocked the drawer and left the room. The hallways were as empty as he left them, and he went back to his room under a grim cloud of suspicion for the Earl.
He dreaded the approaching dawn for two reasons, seeing Lady Penelope while knowing she was disappointed with him and looking the Earl in the eye whilst the suspicion of him being a traitor was still lodged in his head.
The rough heel of his right hand pressed deeply into his eyes while regret and frustration made a miasma of emotions in his chest. Lady Penelope had given him all the chances to free himself from the jealousy that was gnawing him alive. It made no sense, no sense whatsoever to be this possessive over a lady who…who only saw him as a footman.
I do know that she does not deserve this, to be thrown into a lion’s den when she is such an innocent lamb.
Morning came and he could not dismiss the heaviness in his chest from the previous evening. He got ready in his livery and went about his tasks. He could not shirk his duties for personal problems. After getting the shutters open and the lamps doused, he went to the dining room and to set the sideboard for breakfast.
With equal measure, he anticipated and feared that Lady Penelope would request her breakfast in her rooms again. He hated the strain between them and had vowed to apologize for his ill-mannered behavior in the stables. Almost silent footsteps—familiar footsteps—had him swallow tightly before turning to see Lady Penelope.
She had a small smile—a little brittle at the edges if you looked closely—and a placid expression.
“Good morning, My Lady,” he said, pointedly not looking over the dark circles under her eyes. “What may I get you this morning?”
“Tea, please,” she breathed out quietly. “Thank you.”
Nodding, he poured out the tea and placed it before her with a small jug of milk and sugar for her to add. Her smile of thanks was soft and without her asking, he took up one of the freshly-made pastries, bejeweled with dollops of blackberry jam and drizzled with honey and rested it before her. Her eyes darted up in surprise and he deliberately held her eyes as long as he could, trying to apologize for his boorish behavior with his gaze.
Lady Penelope’s hand was halfway to the treat, but her eyes were on his with confusion darkening her light golden eyes to a mystified tawny hue. In the next heartbeat—which felt tightly stretched—she then nodded and smiled, but his time it was not forced. She had forgiven him, without saying a word.
The tight double-knots in his chest unraveled a little as her hand reached the last few inches to take the saucer. With a nod of relief, he stepped away and went to stand by the sideboard. Lord Allerton then came in with a tired face but somehow animated eyes. He had probably just come home.
“Good morning, My Lord,” Heath bowed. “Would you like anything?”
“Ten hours of sleep would do the trick,” the Earl sighed while rolling his neck and grimacing at the snap of his bones. “Good morning, Penelope. Mr. Moore, please request a bowl of pheasant soup to be ready for me when I manage to drag myself out of sleep later today.”
The Rise of a Forsaken Lady: A Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 14
