by Deb Marlowe
“Well, do not cut corners,” Tensford warned. “A great many people will be watching us. We want to give them no idea but that we are thrilled to be enjoying the party—until we are not. And in any case, we should enjoy the party, if we can. We’ve given Miss Munroe little enough in the way of entertainment so far—and on this, her first, real trip to London.”
“Well, to be fair, we must remember that I’ve had a short tour of the British Museum and a drive in Hyde Park during the fashionable hour,” she reminded him. “There are a few other things I should love to explore—the Tower, the theatre, ices at Gunter’s. Our quest must come first, of course. And Hope’s health even before that.”
“I feel fine,” the countess insisted once more. “And don’t you all feel as if we are getting close to solving our mystery? Surely the masquerade will see the thief revealed. And then we shall have time to treat ourselves.”
“I should like that.” Very deliberately, she did not look at Sterne. “This may be my last trip to London for some time, and I would love to make the most of it.”
They all turned to her, seemingly grateful for another topic of conversation.
“Last trip?” Sterne straightened and focused his gaze on her for the first time since they had sat down again. “But I thought you meant to come back for the Season in the spring?”
“I’d hoped to, but my mother is busy plotting again. She’s gradually got over her disappointment in my expectation to have my own life instead of just settling in at home and acting as her unpaid secretary. But if at all possible, she wants to avoid a Season. Spring is the worst time for her to leave her plants, it seems. She hopes to marry me off before she is obligated to do so.”
“Is that why you have so many visitors these last months?” Hope asked, all sympathy. “It did seem unusual.”
“Yes. Potential suitors, all. And I had a letter from her this morning, asking when we plan to return. I suspect she’s got the next prospect lined up.”
“Oh, dear. Your mother is a singular woman, my dear. I can only imagine her idea of a suitable candidate must include a long line of scientific accomplishments, and not much else.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Penelope saw Sterne flinch.
“Let’s just say that our lists of qualifications don’t share many similarities.”
“Oh?” Whiddon entered the conversation on teasing note. “Are you, like so many debutantes before you, after a title and an income to match?” He waggled his brows at her. “I have both, should you care to hear about them.”
She laughed. “If I thought you were serious, sir, I should be quite nervous.”
Hope glanced at Sterne and refilled his cup. “Have your mother’s candidates so far been objectional?”
“I wouldn’t speak so strongly against them,” she demurred. “Though they have so far shared a lamentable tendency toward talking long and thoroughly about their scientific interests, first, and their plans and desires for the future, second. But have they shown any curiosity about my own ideas on any of those subjects? Not one. Not at all.”
“Don’t despair, dear girl,” Tensford told her. “We are not all of us so hopeless. Some of us have actually learned to do better—and no one is so capable of teaching you how to direct us as Hope.” He shot his wife a fond glance. “She certainly did a thorough job with me.”
“Oh, I don’t despair. At least, not completely. I have met a gentleman or two who have indeed shown an interest in getting to know me.”
“A gentleman or two?” the earl lamented. “We must round up a better selection than that.”
“The problem is that those gentlemen seemed inclined to know me, but rather disinclined to court me.” She kept her gaze turned down onto her plate. “So perhaps it is myself I must work on and not them.”
“I refuse to believe such a thing,” Whiddon declared valiantly. “You have clearly not yet met the right gentleman, that is all.”
“Or perhaps the right gentleman has not yet realized that you are the right young lady.” Hope sparkled at her husband. “Some men are notoriously slow about acknowledging such things.”
“You are quiet on the subject, Sterne,” Whiddon challenged. “What is your opinion?”
He met her gaze, then looked away. “I think you should convince your mother to let you have your Season. People laugh when they call it the marriage mart, but it is constructed to make it easier to meet the right gentlemen—the ones who will both recognize your many and obvious charms and also be in the situation to offer you the sort of life you require.”
The sort of life you require.
She sat stunned for a moment, before flames of anger erupted even as the words echoed about inside her head.
The life she required, indeed! After all of their conversations on learning and books and kindness and people and travel—he should know what sort of life she required! What did he think she required? Was he now reducing her to the same sort of debutante who came to Town looking for titles and monies? Estates and fashion? Was he listening to what she actually said out loud? No! Just like everyone else, he assumed he knew what was best for her.
She shot to her feet, sudden fury propelling her like a piston in the steam engine Tensford had installed in his lumber mill. She opened her mouth, ready to roast him with the inexorable heat of her righteous anger.
“Begging your pardon, my lord, my lady. But ye’ve a caller.” A maid spoke timidly from the door. “Lady Pemdale asks if you are at home?”
Hope, blinking, looked to Sterne and then, helplessly, her husband. “Lady Pemdale? Of course. Show her in, please.”
But the lady was already at the parlor door, eyeing them all in distaste.
The men all immediately stood. Penelope sat. But only Sterne spoke.
“Mother?” he said in tones of disbelief. “What are doing here?”
Chapter 12
“Please, do come in, Lady Pemdale, and take a dish of tea.” Hope smoothed over the look of scorn his mother cast him in answer to his shocked question.
“Thank you,” she said stiffly. She sat in the seat Tensford offered. “To answer my son’s impolite greeting, I came here looking for him.” She raised a brow and Sterne stifled a sigh. He was in for it, now.
“Having received no answer to my notes, I decided to seek you out myself. I went to your rooms first, and on to your uncle’s. This was the last place I thought to look.”
“Well, we are glad you did,” Tensford said kindly. “I don’t think we’ve seen you since the wedding. Allow me to introduce you. I’m sure you remember Lord Whiddon, and this is Miss Munroe, a young friend who has accompanied us from Gloucestershire.”
“It’s unexpected to see you in Town at this time of year, is it not?” Hope poured for her. “I was given to understand that you normally keep to the estate in Devonshire when Parliament is not in session?”
“I do. But my husband had to come to London for one of his committees and I decided to join him so that I might speak with my son.”
Sterne started. “Speak with me?”
“Yes.” His mother set her cup down and looked to the countess. “If perhaps my son and I might retire somewhere where we could speak privately?”
“Oh. Yes. Of course. Tensford’s study or the library—”
“No.” Sterne had shed himself of the role of his mother’s private whipping post. If she meant to rend him with her cold and deadly claws, she could do it in front of witnesses. “Say what you wish, right here. These are friends, all.”
She shook her head. “Of course,” she murmured. “Ever contrary.”
He merely clenched his jaw and waited.
The room grew silent.
“Very well.” His mother lifted her chin. “I wish for you to escort me back to Devonshire.”
That was unexpected. “Oh. When?”
“Tomorrow would be best.”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but we are engaged in a project right n
ow and I cannot abandon it. Perhaps in a sennight or . . .”
She shot a look toward Tensford. “Surely he has not dragged you into this scientific nonsense?”
“No, I’m afraid it was my father who did that,” the earl answered cheerfully.
“It is not a scientific project, ma’am.” Sterne matched the steadiness of her tone. “Rather, it is of a personal nature.”
“Personal?” His mother stiffened and let her eyes rest on Penelope before she turned to the countess. “I hope you are not matchmaking, Lady Tensford. It is bad enough that my son has so often held his friends above his family, but to find you meddling in such matters? It would be going beyond the pale.”
“Meddle?” Lady Tensford sounded shocked. “Me? I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Is that what you mean to do, Mother? Surely you are not intent on matchmaking?”
She raised a brow. “The Earl of Trowbridge has let a manor in the neighborhood for the summer. His daughter, Emily, is lovely and eminently suitable for you.”
He stared at her, agog. “Of all people, you should understand the futility of pushing me into a match. Any match.”
“This stalemate has continued on long enough. It must end. What will you do, wait for your father to die, before you marry? Nonsense. Come home, meet the girl, and your father will set things right.”
He laughed. “Meet her? That’s all I must do?”
“You know what I mean,” she said tightly.
“Oh, yes. I do.” He put both hands on the table and leaned toward her. “You mean I must submit. I must marry the girl you have chosen, and then, and only then, my father will consent to provide me with an actual, livable income.”
“You must also agree to run for MP in an open borough, come election time,” she declared.
He sighed. “Why, Mother? Why have you come to engage in the same fight we’ve had so many times before? Why cannot you understand? I’m not interested in becoming a fervent, fighting Tory. That is father’s passion. I am happy enough pursuing my own interests.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Happy enough? Living in tiny rooms and studying insects and animals and the most countrified pursuits in England?” Her face had taken on the frozen expression of distaste that had haunted his childhood. “Do not forget, that stipend you are surviving on comes from the funds of my dowry. I feel quite sure that my father would not have included such an allowance in the marriage settlements, had he realized you would use it to defy your family.”
“My lady,” Tensford interjected gently. “You should not seek to take Sterne from his studies. Not now. He has caught the interest and attention of some very well-placed scholars.”
She scowled. “That is exactly what I have been afraid of.”
“Afraid of?” Penelope spoke up and Sterne tensed. “Lady Pemdale, you should be proud of his efforts. His ideas are original and fascinating and could help us understand so much about ourselves, as Englishmen and as humans.”
“Poppycock.”
Penelope straightened. “No, indeed. Not to anyone with an interest in the natural sciences. Or a modicum of empathy.”
He stilled. Something inside of him shifted, rocked to and fro like the ground heaving in an earthquake.
She’d defended him. In generous and elegant terms. Against his mother.
“Good heavens, it is worse than I thought.” His mother glared at him. He just looked back with an even expression. He couldn’t manage more, if he tried. He was still trying to adjust to this entirely new feeling—this knowing. The knowledge that this slip of a girl, whom he’d kissed and caressed and just presented with a public message pushing her away and into the pool of ton gentlemen, had defied his mother to stand up for him.
“You’ve let yourself burrow into a nest of fools,” his mother continued coldly. “True friends would urge you toward your real life’s work. Marriage. Family. Preparing yourself to become a peer of the realm.”
“Many a peer of the realm exists usefully and purposefully, without ruling over a pocket borough,” quipped Whiddon. “I include myself, of course.”
“Insolent,” she hissed, low and venomous. She sent her glare around the room, wielding it like a weapon. “You are all naught but—”
“That’s enough, Mother.” Sterne stood, finally coming back to himself. He’d learned to stop allowing her to heap her abuse on him. He’d be damned if he permitted her to do it to those he cared about. “I’ll walk you out.”
She pulled in a breath, composed herself and stood. “That won’t be necessary.” Without another word, she swept from the room.
He sent a look of apology around, then followed her out.
* * *
* * *
* * *
“If you will take note of this sketch, Miss?” The modiste spread out an image of a fashionable gown. “See the layers? The skirts that are pulled back and draped behind? The puffed sleeves—to which we could attach gossamer wings?” The woman’s eyes were alight with excitement. “Now, step up to the dais, if you please?”
Penelope did as the modiste asked and smiled as she began to drape her with gorgeous fabrics in purples, blues and greens.
“Can you not imagine it, Miss? You will be stunning.”
“Peacock feathers on your mask and in your hair,” Hope said from a nearby chair, where she sat, perusing dress designs. “Oh, it will be beautiful.”
“But the gorgeous peacocks are male,” Penelope reminded her. “The peahens are rather more drab, are they not?”
“Who would dare remark upon it, once they have seen you?” Hope asked. “Drab? I do not think so. And in any case, can you see any of the gentlemen dressing as a peacock? No. We shall not allow such a wonderful idea to go to waste.”
“The sleeves covered in gold-beaded netting and gilding on the feathers fixed to the wings.” The modiste sighed. “I am inspired, Miss. I can see it all so clearly in my mind.”
“Well, then, we must not interfere with your muse,” Penelope relented. She began to twist and turn a bit, making the fabrics flare. As she spun toward the front of the shop, she nearly stopped in shock, but caught herself in time.
“Hope,” she said, low and urgent, even as she continued to preen. “At the shop window. Look. Quick.”
She caught a flurry of movement out of the corner of her eye.
“I saw her, but she saw me notice her,” Hope said. She went to the window. “Long gone, now. But you are right. It is definitely the same girl.”
Penelope stilled. She remained in place, staring at her reflection, but she was doing exactly what her mother had warned her of, once again. She was off in her mind, far away. Thinking. Projecting. Planning.
“Penelope?” Hope and the modiste were both watching her.
“Yes? Yes. Sorry. I was thinking.”
“Well, don’t worry.” Hope returned to her seat. “We’ll know more, soon enough.”
“I’m not worried.” Penelope slowly began to peel the fabrics away. “But I do have an idea.” She looked to the modiste. “It is an unusual request. May we continue at the back of your shop?”
“Of course.”
The woman bundled up the bolts of fabric and showed them the workspace behind the counter and beyond a richly draped entrance.
“Now,” Penelope said. “Here’s what I was thinking.”
* * *
* * *
* * *
Hope waxed rhapsodic over the costume ideas for most of the ride back to her home.
“Madame is a genius! Using those small hoop rings will perfectly imitate the segments of an ammonite. The dress itself is not as important, although I do admire her idea of sand and sea, it is the headpiece that will make the real statement. I can’t wait to see Tensford’s face!” She chortled in glee. “Let’s keep our costumes a secret until the night of the masquerade.”
Penelope nodded. “Yes. Let’s keep it all a secret.”
Hope’s smile faded.
“I kno
w I am asking a lot, and I’m not saying that we never tell them of our preparations, but perhaps we can wait.”
“Until . . .?”
“Until we have to.” She sighed.
Frowning, Hope reluctantly agreed. “But if things change, if it all becomes more serious, or in any way dangerous . . .”
“Then we tell it all. Yes. Absolutely.”
Hope nodded and they both watched the wide, west London streets slide by for a moment. Penelope’s thoughts kept drifting back to where they would land, try as she might to fight it.
“Hope?” she whispered.
Her friend looked over at once.
“That portrait in Sterne’s rooms. That mother and child . . . it was not his mother, was it?”
Hope shook her head. “No.”
She waited. And kept her seeking gaze locked on the countess.
“You must ask Sterne,” Hope said at last. “I couldn’t tell you, even if I knew.”
“What do you know?”
“Not much. The men know more, I think. You know how they are, Tensford, Keswick, Sterne, Whiddon and Chester. A close friendship and tight lips. They keep each other’s secrets.”
“Hope,” she said, pleading.
The countess sighed. “I know almost nothing more than what his mother revealed, herself. His parents are . . . well, you saw. Heard.”
Penelope shuddered.
“They are controlling.” Hope’s mouth turned down. “Can you imagine growing up in such cold, dismissive atmosphere? I know he spent as much time as possible at his uncle’s house, where he was met with warmth and caring. But there was tension about the relationship. I get the impression that he had to be careful, to balance it all.” She sighed again. “I feel for him.”
“I was so angry at him yesterday,” Penelope bit out. “He practically told me to look elsewhere for a husband, right there in front of you all. And then she arrived, and I was just . . . sad for him.” She rubbed a hand over her eyes. “And now I’m just . . . confused.”