Rogues Like It Hot

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Rogues Like It Hot Page 17

by Tamara Gill


  Penelope had not the time to alert her grandfather, but she was certain that he would be delighted by the company she which was bringing with her, as she was also certain that both young ladies would be enchanted with both he and his estate. As the carriage moved along, the travel went quickly with the three young ladies chatting about one thing or another, even though Penelope often found herself distracted in her anticipation of seeing her grandfather and reading the Duke’s words.

  It was nearly dark when Lord Thomas’ carriage finally arrived at Lord Asbury’s estate. Penelope was the first to step down, and almost immediately found herself laughing as Lord Asbury rushed out of the front door toward her.

  “Young lady, you were expressly told to write to let me know when to expect you.”

  Penelope laughed, “I just could not wait. I hope that you can forgive me.”

  Augusta and Violet both stepped down out of the carriage and Lord Asbury nodded at them and moved to greet them formally.

  “These enchanting young ladies must be Lord Thomas’ daughters?”

  Penelope nodded. “Yes, I’d like to introduce you to Miss Violet Weatherly and her sister, Miss Augusta Weatherly. I invited them to stay with us. I hope that you do not mind.”

  Lord Asbury tried to look cross, but he could not. Instead, he laughed and waved the young ladies into the house.

  “I will have to have the staff prepare rooms, but I am delighted. This calls for a celebration. Penelope, my dear, what do you say to helping plan a dinner to welcome our guests?”

  Penelope glanced at her friends who nodded at her, Augusta with clear excitement, Violet with her normal reserve.

  “That sounds delightful!” she responded to Lord Asbury.

  Nearly an hour later, after leaving Augusta and Violet in their rooms to rest before dinner that night, Penelope finally closed the door to her room with nervous excitement. She sighed deeply and looked around the room. She found what she was looking for, a yellowed sealed letter propped up on a table next to the window. She moved to the table and sat on the small chair. Her fingers shaking, she gingerly picked up the letter with her name scrawled on it in elegant handwriting.

  Penelope Jameson, Baroness Shelton.

  As she stared at the way he had written her name, a part of her could almost hear him saying it, and her breathing quickened. She wished that she could hear his voice again.

  She carefully broke the seal and unfolded the letter. Outwardly it was a simple letter. He was polite and genteel, asking her how her relationship with her grandfather had progressed and if she was satisfied with the realisation of her history. He stated very simply that he was, at that point, nearing his first meeting with Wellesley, and that the atmosphere was explosive all around him. Beyond that, he wished her well and hoped that she would return correspondence so that he would know she was safe and happy. He signed it, ‘affectionately, Derhamshire’.

  She stared at the signature. The use of the word affectionately caused her heart to stutter, but then the formal signature instead of his first name contradicted any thought she’d had that he implied true affection for her. There was nothing else in the letter that leaned one way or another. It was simply a polite letter from someone who had been her employer for a short time.

  She leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes. What had she truly thought the letter would say? Had she really thought that he would express any depth of feeling for her? He was a Duke with a rich heritage and a mind on matters of war, life, and death. A girl with a checkered past, whom he had taken pity on, was no doubt farthest from his mind. That fact that he had written to her at all was simply a testament to the character of the man she so admired.

  In her disappointment about allowing herself to hope for something impossible, a single tear slid down her cheek. She wiped it away furiously. She had no right to pity herself. She was far above where she had ever imagined that she would be. She was an Earl’s granddaughter, and a Baroness in her own right. She had a roof over her head and a life of relative ease ahead of her. She had new friends who cared about her. And she had a life to be lived. She stood up and moved to the window. Looking out, she took in the rolling countryside and she smiled. She had much to be thankful for, no matter how much her imagination let her down.

  Chapter Ten

  The wind whipped the flaps of the tent wildly and blew in, causing maps and documents to fly off the rough crates he used as a table. Grabbing the letter that he was reading firmly in one hand, while he gathered the other papers and placed them under a heavy metal plate, he grimaced over the contents of the letter.

  It was a letter from his solicitor, Lord Thomas Weatherly, and it contained the most shocking of revelations. He had to read over it three times, initially unable to believe its contents, because the shock was nearly too much. His own sister! He could not fathom how his sweet sister could have sunk to such depravity that she would allow her husband to gamble in his name. He tried to think back over the time since their father had passed away. When had Abigail turned from a sweet, unassuming girl into this deceitful and selfish woman?

  He was astonished at the monetary amount Lord Thomas stated that Lord James had accrued in debt, all in the Duke’s own name. Per Lord Thomas, all of the Duke’s accounts with suppliers were at risk of being held in suspense, even though Jenkins was doing his best to pay for each bill out of the weekly household budget, even while juggling the high expenses for the elaborate parties that James and Abigail were hosting in the Duke’s house.

  He was furious over the financial debacle which he was going to be returning to, but he was even more furious over the news that Abigail had besmirched Penelope’s name and kicked her out of his house. Lord Thomas had included a letter from Jenkins, and Jenkins had been most enlightening about the way that Penelope had been treated and even about Lord James’ advances toward Penelope. Penelope was unaware that Lord James’ actions had been witnessed by both Dolly and Jenkins himself. Nat clenched his fist in anger so hard that he felt his nails cut into his palm.

  However, as he read both letters again, he was at least put at ease that Lord Thomas was acting in relation to the financial fraud being made in his name, and looked forward to the Duke’s confirmation of his intentions. He was assured, also, by Lord Thomas, that Penelope was safely residing in his home where he, his wife, and his daughters were pleased to entertain her.

  In the distance, Nat heard the sounds of cannon fire. He tucked the letters under the metal plate with his other papers, and he quickly composed three letters - one to Lord Thomas to support his actions to begin legal proceedings against Lord James and Lady Abigail - one to Jenkins to encourage him to keep up the good work - and one to Penelope.

  As he started the letter to Penelope, he paused. He had not received a response to any of his other letters. He imagined that, now she had a better station in life, she would not long be without suitors. He wondered if any had caught her eye, or, he grimaced to himself, her heart. As he tried to work out what to say, he struggled. He did not yet understand his own feelings. He longed to see her again and was sorely disappointed that she would neither be in Derhamshire or at his London home. At that moment, he realised that his last sight of her, in the carriage on her way to reunite with her grandfather, was like to be truly the last. He closed his eyes in sudden sadness and regret. Then he opened his eyes and determined to write to her one last time.

  Dearest Penelope… the letter began.

  Once the letter was finished, he did not reread it. He also did not include it with the letters to Lord Thomas and Jenkins. Instead, he carefully folded it and tucked it into the shirt of his uniform. He took the other letters, put them in an addressed packet and, after sealing it, he rose to his feet. He noted that the wind had died down a bit, and had changed direction. Now the wind carried the scent of battle. He smelled the smoke and tasted the coppery scent of blood on the air. He frowned, but put on his uniform jacket, and buckled on his rapier. With his letters in hand, h
e moved out of his tent and to the courier’s tent. After leaving the letters with the courier, he zigzagged through the camp in search of Wellesley. He had grim business to attend to as the army faced Napoleon’s forces, and as he tried to clear his mind, he could not seem to erase the image of Penelope’s smile.

  ***

  The bullet whizzed past his head, but he did not wince. He continued to rush headlong toward the raging battle, eager to set a good example for his men. He had not expected to be in the forefront of battle when he had left England, but when he had been asked to lead, he had not hesitated – too many good men had been lost already.

  He called out to those behind him, “Come along, men! Let's show these French what the British are made of.”

  As he ran, he glanced over his shoulder. He noted two of his men had fallen and were not moving. His heart skipped a beat as he realised that he knew both of those men. He knew their families. He knew their wives. He even knew their children, many of whose christenings he had been invited to. His heart sank as he contemplated the news that he would have to give to their families. He shook his head and refocused. He could not let his grief and anger stop him from reaching the front line.

  He neared the crest of the hill and he laid low to the ground. The rest of his men gathered around him. They all fell to their stomachs and peered over to look at what lay beyond. The air in the valley was thick with smoke from cannon and muskets. He knew that the French were directly across from where he lay, but he could not make them out through the haze. The only thing that gave away their position was the occasional flash as they fired another cannon. He shouted out commands to his men and watched them as they moved along the hill and into position. He raised his right arm and counted to himself. When he got to three, he waved his arm over his head as he also stood up and rushed over the top of the hill. He yelled wildly as he ran down toward the valley floor.

  Pops and bangs and sharp retorts sounded all around him. Cries for help. Pleas to God. Shouts of anger. The sounds were all around him but were all shrouded in the thick smoke that threatened to choke him. He glanced to the right and to the left and saw his men moving quickly in a line with him. They knew the plan. He was confident that they would see their orders fulfilled. He raised his hand and started to shout another command when he was flung backward onto the ground. His head crashed into the boot of another fallen soldier as jagged pain flooded through his shoulder. As he faded into oblivion, he saw a break in the smoke, an opening to a beautiful sunny day.

  By the end of the day, he learned that he and two others were the only survivors from his unit. He had been shot in the shoulder and knocked his head badly when he’d hit the ground. His lieutenant had been shot in the leg, but the wound was superficial and the young man was already up and walking around. The courier, however, had been hit by flying debris after a cannonball slammed through a supply wagon. He was covered in cuts and scrapes, but the most damage was done to his legs. Both were injured, but one was mangled severely - he was likely to lose that leg. The three of them were in the medical tent surrounded by blood and death.

  The cries of pain and anguish were enough to rip Nat’s heart out. He lay back on his pallet and closed his eyes. He had lost the battle. The fact sank in heavily, even though he had known from the beginning that it only been a diversion, just part of a massively elaborate plan laid out by Wellesley. They would know soon enough if the diversion had worked.

  He lay there grieving the loss of his men for several minutes, but then he thought of Penelope. He imagined her youthful, bright, and innocent face. He recalled with a smile the way that she had seemed to transform before his very eyes that day when he had put her on the coach to Asbury. No longer a servant girl, no longer his housekeeper, but the granddaughter of the Earl, a Baroness, and dressed as such, she had become nearly ethereal. She had been cautiously regal in her demeanour. She had been excited and terrified; he could see it in her eyes and could hear it in the tremor of her voice. He recalled with a quickened beat to his heart the look on her face when he had kissed her gently on the cheek. The excitement in her eyes had given her away, but then he had known all along of her feelings for him; there was no way that he could have ignored it.

  What did come as a surprise to him was how deeply he found himself feeling about her. He rather suspected that he had come to love her. She had never been an ordinary girl to him, even when he’d known her as a young girl, a mere servant to the cruel Lady Dankerson. He had never been able to treat her as a serving girl. He had never been able to look down on her. For some reason which he could never explain or justify, she had always been a cut above.

  He reached into his shirt and pulled out the letter he had written to her. Now it was bloodstained from his wound, and he knew that he would never send it. He also knew that he could not go back to England without searching her out and telling her how he felt. A frown creased his face as he considered the tangle that he was returning to. He knew that he could make no promises until he had sorted out the mess made by James and Abigail, but still, he knew deep down that the clock was ticking and inaction could lose him her heart.

  The thought of losing her unsettled him. Given his wound, he was sure that he would be allowed to return to England now – he could still carry dispatches with him when he went.

  Suddenly, he was eager to be seen by the surgeon, so that he could be patched up and sent home where he belonged. He opened his eyes and eagerly scanned about the tent searching for the surgeon. He noted a nearby nurse and waved her over to him.

  “Nurse, I need to be seen by the surgeon right away. I also need to send a message to General Wellesley. I have urgent business that needs to be attended to at once. Please have the surgeon come to me right away.”

  The nurse shook her head.

  “The surgeon has been killed, sir. While we wait for a new one, it is only we nurses to manage all these wounded and dying. You, sir, are not critical. If you need to be about your business, I can bandage you, and you can be on your way. You will risk an infection, but… If your business is so pressing, maybe you can get back to England and be completely treated there.”

  Nat frowned. “You mean to tell me there was only a single surgeon working this field?”

  The nurse shook her head. “Not at first. As you know, war does not discriminate.”

  Nat sat up in the bed and nodded solemnly. “I see.” He looked up at the nurse, who was clearly eager to assist other patients. “Would you be so kind as to clean me up as best you can, so I may be on my way?”

  She nodded grimly and moved to his side. Using tools that she carried in her apron, she cut the roughly wrapped bandage that had been applied in a hurry on the field. She carefully pulled it away from Nat’s shoulder to keep it from bleeding too badly. She looked at it and sighed.

  “I cannot just rewrap it. I need to get the bullet out. I can see it, but I need you to lie back down.”

  Nat complied. He looked around for something to bite before she began, but he found nothing. Without warning, the nurse stuck her finger down into the wound and moved her finger under the bullet drawing it to the surface. As the excruciating pain shot through him, Nat tried to hold in the scream that welled up inside him, but as the nurse lost the bullet for a moment and had to dig in deep again, he could not. His voice rang out in the tent and in his mind just before he returned to unconsciousness.

  Chapter Eleven

  Penelope sat bolt upright in bed. Shaken and sweaty, she stared into the darkness around her. She heard him scream. Tears fell down her cheeks and she put her hands to her face and wept. Her dream had been so vivid. The Duke had been standing in front of her. He had said that he was coming to her, but then the dream had turned black and he had been snatched into the darkness, his scream of pain ripping through her soul. She could not get the sound out of her head and she immediately began to get dressed.

  Fifteen minutes later, Penelope was dashing through the early morning mist to the Rectory. She
ran up the steps to the chapel and flung the doors open to run inside, her rapid steps echoing off the stone floor and walls. She flew down the center aisle and knelt at the altar. She didn’t even know what to pray, her thoughts were rational and real and clashed with the emotion and unreal dream, but in her core, she knew that something was amiss. In her mind, the only words that she could muster coherently were: please, be with Nat. Over and over, she prayed the words silently as tears flowed freely down her face.

  Two hours later, Parson Jennings found her in a crumpled heap still in front of the altar. She was shivering from cold and barely cognizant of his presence.

  “Baroness! Good gracious! What on earth...?” He stooped down and gathered her into his arms. She was light enough, but he was an old man and he stumbled under the burden of her small body. Still, he carried her out of the chapel and into the small home that sat just behind it. James, who had been helping their cook prepare breakfast for the two of them, came out of the kitchen.

  “That was fast, father… Oh no! What happened?” He rushed to relieve his father of Penelope’s weight. He held her and saw that she was merely in a deep sleep but that her face was tear streaked and her eyes were swollen.

  Parson Jennings sat and tried to catch his breath. “She was in the chapel. I found her on the floor by the altar. She was not responsive to me. Lay her on the couch and then rush to Lord Asbury. He will want to call for the physician.”

  Young James carried Penelope to the couch near the fire. He laid her down gently, noting how angelic she was in repose, even with the tear streaks and puffy eyes. He pulled a heavy blanket over her cold body and laid a hand to her cheek.

 

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