The Rise of a Forsaken Lady: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Linfield, Emma

  “And about the…what was it…insect?”

  Long fingers curled around the glass. “That certain insect has been moved away. He was getting annoying and I needed him gone. A few pounds in a man’s pocket did the trick.”

  “Just make sure you deliver,” was the last warning. “Otherwise, you are just as expendable as you might not believe.”

  Chapter 27

  Studiously ignoring the Bow Street Officers annexing him like bookmarks, Heath’s mind went back to the night before. Someone had set that fire, just like someone had injured the knight and had killed the Viscount. Whoever had done all three, by person or by proxy, was certainly aiming to frame the Earl.

  Heath mulled over the information he had gained over the past months and knew the Earl of Allerton, though easily influenced by the opinions of his friends, was no traitor to the Crown. Which was why he, a spy from the Crown, had been placed into the home in the first place.

  Months ago, the intelligence officers at Westminster had been clued into a racket of lords that were doing everything from avoiding taxes to importing illegal goods from France and drugs from the East. Lord Allerton had been targeted as he was associated with many of them who, like Swanville, were no sympathizers to the monarchy.

  London was his true home, not Staffordshire, where admittedly, he had been born. His countryside accent was just as carefully crafted as were all of his skills. He had no fear of going with the constables as just one call to his handler and he would be free in mere hours. He wanted to go back and tell Penelope the truth about who he was and what he had been doing in her home.

  I just pray she will not think that falling in love with her was a part of the assignment.

  The silence was heavy in the carriage, but Heath did not feel anxious at all. He was never uncomfortable with silence, in fact, silence let him think clearly. Who was behind the attacks on the Earl? He was still sure that Swanville was behind them but then the burning of the stable did not fit. What would an international criminal supporter gain from rendering a stable to ashes?

  No, this felt personal. It was aimed at hurting someone, but who? What was so precious in the stables that it would devastate someone? The carriage jolted over a bump just as the answer smacked him harder than a jilted mistress would have. Penelope! She was the only one who had something precious in the stables—Bessie.

  But then…Penelope had said that a stable hand had told the Earl that he had seen him, Heath, go into the stables. Had the attack been meant for him then? If that was true, there was only one person who would want him dead.

  ‘Do you think I am blind, servant? I see how you look at her. Who do you think you are? Penelope will never look upon you with favor. You are the help. She’ll only be with me.’

  Hillbrook. It had to be Hillbrook, hell, Penelope had even said it too. He had gone to the lengths of nearly killing Penelope’s horse to get rid of him. The man was more manipulative and malicious than he had thought.

  The putrid smell of London hit him first before he could see the buildings rising from the slum’s outer lands. There was a delay over the Westminster Bridge and Heath only breathed when his lungs burned, so foul was the river beneath them. Eventually, they got to Bow Street Headquarters, and as he stepped into the main building, he turned to them.

  “I request to speak with the Magistrate,” he said, expecting them to refuse him and they did with derogatory scoffs. Smiling, he then said. “Then I suppose the Prime Minister will suffice then as I am an Agent for the Crown. I am Heath Murray, the surviving son of Erasmus Murray, Recorder of London and the last High Steward of Staffordshire.”

  He had counted on seeing dropped jaws, but the stunned widening of their eyes was enough. Heath had casually left out the additional title of Crown Agent for his father as it was not necessary. He would get the attention he needed without it.

  “If you need confirmation about my identity, he will give it to you,” Heath finished.

  “This way, My Lord,” one said while sweat began beading on his face.

  He was led to a room more situated as a study or a library than a holding cell. Taking a seat, Heath looked down on his bandaged hands and smiled softly. Penelope Dawson, the firecracker who had stolen his well-guarded heart. He owed the truth to her and as soon as this issue was solved, he would give it to her.

  ‘I know…er…you wouldn’t happen to have a far-removed cousin with your looks and charm who just so happens to have a title, do you?’

  He had not allowed himself to laugh at Penelope’s question then, but he did now. Thinking back to that night, he wondered what her reaction would have been if he had told her that his real title was Viscount, with a vast estate in the countryside of Staffordshire that was manned by a skeleton staff while he acted out his duties to the Crown.

  As a man of six-and-twenty, Heath had been groomed to follow his father’s footsteps from as soon as he could read. He had entered the Service at nine-and-ten and had fulfilled seven long years in it. He knew nine languages, had extensive knowledge of weapons and ammunition and could fight with the best of them. He had seen, done and suffered much more than many would have in three lifetimes and there were days he felt…old. Was it time for him to end it?

  If I want to settle down with Penelope…I might have to. That is, if they will let me…

  ‘They’ referred to a set of men who held power behind the one man he did know, Lord Wethington. They, had sent him to the Allerton’s home after this covert operation in Ireland, were men in the echelons of the government, men he did not know and felt it was in his best interest to not know.

  He had told Penelope not to worry because he would be cleared in hours by the men above him after he gave in his report. It might take time for them to get word to the Prime Minister’s Office, and he needed to get his report in order.

  Standing, he went to ask for some paper and a pen from the guard there who nodded and went for them. Pacing to a window, Heath looked down at the bustling city below. Men hurrying about their business and hawkers plying their trade.

  Women had children by their side and pairs rode in carriages. The ordinary man worried about taxes, clothes, household duties and putting food on their tables. They were so ignorant of what it took to give them that sense of idyllic peace, and with him standing on the other side of the coin and knowing the sacrifices and pain and sleepless nights of nameless soldiers, he would rather it be kept that way.

  “Pardon me, My Lord,” the constable said nervously while handing the papers, pen, and an ink well to him. “Here you are.”

  “Thank you.”

  The salve his father had given him had worked miracles. Instead of being unusable, his hands were only tender. Taking a seat, Heath began to jot down what he had discovered from the day he had been placed in the Earl’s house. He wrote how the Lord was easily impressionable by his friends but not a traitor, and how there were no untoward and illegal activities in the house. He wrote down his suspicions of Swanville for the killing of the Viscount Shirlling, and Hillbrook when it came to the fire at the stables.

  Another constable came in and asked him if he needed anything to eat and while working, he said, “Only coffee, if you have it.”

  Moments later a cup was placed before him, “The Magistrate is on his way, My Lord.”

  “Thank you.”

  Sitting back, Heath read over his notes and frowned in contemplation. Had he left out anything? Sipping the coffee, his mind went back to Penelope. She must be worried. He knew when she was, a tiny adorable crease would be in her forehead and her nose would be wrinkled so slightly. He wished he was there to soothe her worries and kiss her fears away.

  Glancing down at his talking points, he wondered how long it was before the Magistrate, Sir Nathaniel Conant, would arrive but knew the man had to be discreet. It was not every day an Agent of the Crown would summon him. Staring into the murky brown remains in the cup, he pondered how to tell Penelope the truth.

  “Mr.
Murray,” a deep voice said while the door opened, and Heath stood.

  Sir Nathaniel Conant, the Magistrate of the Bow Street, a Knight of the Realm was standing before him but with him was another man, tall and dark-haired, Lord Wethington, the man who had sent him to the Allerton’s house. Heath was surprised to see him as the man was partly invisible in his dealings.

  “Your Worship, My Lord—” he began but Lord Wethington stopped him.

  “We will not have this conversation here,” Lord Wethington interrupted him. “The Magistrate has formally cleared you off all accusations, and I am here to take you back to where you can speak freely.”

  Facing the Magistrate, Heath bowed, “Thank you, Your Worship.”

  “My pleasure, Mr. Murray,” the Magistrate said. “Now, please, go with Mr. Wethington.”

  Taking up the papers, Heath nodded, “Very well.”

  Leaving the office, they approached two different carriages, the Magistrate was helped into one by a liveried footman and he and Lord Worthington entered the other. Taking a seat facing the Lord he said, “Do we need to go to Westminster to speak or can we do it here?”

  “I would rather we go to a secure place, but I see no issues speaking here.”

  “Lord Allerton is no traitor,” Heath said plainly. “He is surrounded by those who are leaning to the dissention, but the Earl is not one. We have had our eyes on Swanville for years and I think he is the main perpetrator here. However, there is a second party that is starting trouble, and that is Lord Hillbrook. He might have started the fire to harm me or destroy Lady Penelope’s property to gain a stronger hold on her…somehow.”

  “A stronger hold?” Lord Wethington said as the carriage turned on a street toward the Old Bailey. “Is he the Lady’s suitor?”

  “He is,” Heath said while swallowing over the acid churning in his stomach. “But Lady Penelope is only humoring him for the sake of her brother.”

  The Lord’s eyes narrowed with investigators’ sharpness, despite never being in the field himself. “And you know this how?”

  “She told me herself,” Heath replied knowing that a sharp censure was coming, and he was proven right.

  Lord Wethington strictly admonished him for crossing the professional line of his servant station. However, when Heath explained that Lord Allerton had made him a personal guard to Lady Penelope, his censure was lightened. They had arrived at the Newgate Prison and were taken up to the Bailey where the Lord had his private office.

  Sitting, Heath began from the beginning, how the Viscount, another Agent for the Crown had gotten killed, and how he suspected the shot had come from the house itself which meant one of the guests there was the killer.

  “Lord Swanville was there,” Heath repeated. “And he is a known supporter of Bonaparte.”

  Then, he went on to describe the shooting in the hunt and how he suspected it to be from an air rifle but could not check the Earl’s gun cabinet because Hillbrook had contested him.

  “Lady Penelope was the one who, well, for lack of a better word, bailed me out,” Heath said. “She told the Lord I had been with her all day, assisting her on her secret rides.”

  Again, he was pinned with a shrewd gaze. “And she did that freely?”

  “Yes,” Heath nodded. “I could not give any other excuse better than that one.”

  Wethington leaned back while his fingers drummed on the table between them, “You seem to have forged a…connection with this Lady, Mr. Murray. It goes against all protocol—which I am sure you know.”

  Oh, he knew it, but if forging a friendship with Penelope was breaking protocol, he did not dare explain the love he had found with her.

  “She has very few people who understand her, Wethington,” Heath said. “I think we found middle ground, and she trusts me.”

  Wethington hummed and then tugged out a piece of paper from his jacket pocket. He then handed it over to him. Opening it, Heath read a statement of pardon from the Magistrate. “You are free to go back to the Allerton’s home but not today. The constables are still making their investigation, and it would look suspicious to release you so quickly. I estimate a day or two before you can go back. You will be staying at an Inn while I direct a search of Swanville’s premises.”

  “And the ridge where I found the pellet from the air bullet,” Heath said. “Send some men to search there. They might find more evidence.”

  “Good work, Agent,” Wethington nodded. “My carriage will take you to your Inn.”

  It bothered Heath that he had to sit on his hands for three days where smarmy Hillbrook would move in to pester Lady Penelope, but he could not argue. This was solid strategy the Crown was applying, and he knew the benefits of sound tactics.

  The Inn was a non-descript, wide, two-story building with white trimming around the front entrance and a flowery hedge at the perimeter. He was received and shown to a modest room overlooking the backyard.

  By practice, his eyes spotted the emergency exits and points of entry and pushed the bed far against the wall. He felt better sleeping with his back to a wall.

  Never leave your back to the enemy, his father Erasmus, or Lord Masseur, had told him at five-years-old. His father, for the most part, had been exactly how he had described him to Penelope. He had not been paternal in the strict sense of the word, but he had been protective and proactive. Having been in the Army from eight-and-ten to four-and-twenty, and then from five-and-twenty to three-and-thirty as an Agent for the Crown, his father had taught him how to survive.

  Heath could count on one hand the times his father had hugged him; the day of his mother’s funeral,; when he had graduated from Eton and Oxford; and when he had been accepted into the Service. He had passed the year before.

  Bracing his hands on the sill, Heath smiled softly. “I hope I followed your legacy, Father, but it is time for me to live for myself now. But…I don’t know if I can win her after everything falls out…”

  Chapter 28

  Heath. That was all Penelope could think about. It was only a day now since the constables had taken him away, and she was getting progressively worried.

  How was he managing with those burnt hands of his? Was he well? Were the constables harassing him, pressing him to confess to a crime he had not committed? Or, were they listening with the ear of reason and were letting him go? Did she need to go tell the constables that he was innocent, even if she had to tell her secret of sneaking out to ride that night and seeing him in the stables?

  His words from that night, when she knew that he knew she was behind him but still spoke to Duke. It was as if he was giving her the freedom to turn and walk away with no confrontations between them.

  “I have a problem, my friend…I am…in love. It’s either that or I am hosting a brain parasite or…well, possessed. I am in love with Penelope…and I should not be,” Heath had spoken.

  His words had felt so heartwarming that the emotions she had tried to deny for days came barging to the forefront—she loved him too.

  “My Lady,” Martha’s voice was exasperated. “You need to eat something.”

  The constables had been crawling over the compounds lands like scavenger dogs looking for a buried bone. They were everywhere, intertwining with the men from the village whom Edward had hired to rebuild the stables.

  “Lady Penelope!”

  Martha’s snap jerked her out of her musing as effectively as a slap to the face would have done. “Er…what?”

  Rolling her eyes, Martha huffed. “You have not eaten anything of value in the last ten hours, My Lady. You must eat.”

  “My stomach is not…” she cringed as the audible growl from her middle contested her near lie, “er…some tea and a cold-cut sandwich, thank you.”

  Moving away from Martha, Penelope went to her bookcase and plucked out a novel. El Ingenioso Hidalgo Don Quijote de La Mancha, or provincially, Don Quixote. She had asked for the original Spanish volume as she thought that translation took away something from the ori
ginal. It was the same with Dante Alighieri's Divine Comedy.

  Skimming over the words faintly, Penelope did not internalize even a word as her mind was still on Heath. The house could probably be burning around her and she would not notice on account of her worry.

  Dropping the book, Penelope huffed and could not take the silence anymore and left the room. She should not be doing so, but she went to Heath’s room, looking around to make sure she was not caught. She entered his empty room and looked around in soft dismay.

  This was such a bland space for someone so multifaceted. Heath had so many layers to him that she did not understand why he had not put any personal effects around. She ran her hands over the plain dresser and wondered if he had any books laying inside. Tugging the first drawer open it was empty and did so with all six.