“Told you he wasn’t coming,” Rose, Penelope’s mutinous maid, blurted out after Penelope had sauntered into her bedchamber and thrown herself upon the bed.
After three weeks, Danbury had still failed to return to Summer’s Park. In addition to this unfortunate fact, obtaining information was becoming more and more difficult. Penelope had pestered the Duke of Cortland so often as to the wayward viscount’s whereabouts and health, it was quite possible suspicions were already roused.
She’d never been overly interested in Danbury’s whereabouts in the past, so what cause would she have to do so now? What cause indeed?
“Cortland received a missive from him today. Thank heavens he’d misread his mother’s missive and she is quite well, apparently.” But then she frowned. He bypassed Summer’s Park, however, in order to make quicker time up to Manchester. Oh, Rose, what am I going to do?”
Rose had been dabbing some of Penelope’s new perfume upon her wrists but set it aside at Penelope’s moaning. “Men will be men, the whole world over. Surely, you’ve heard ‘why buy the cow if you can get the milk for free?’ You gave the viscount your milk. Poof, he’s gone. Simple as that.”
Penelope glared at her maid and sat forward on the bed. “But that’s the problem. I don’t think he has any memory of taking the milk! Danbury is not only a gentleman but an honorable one! He’s a scoundrel, I’ll give you that, but I refuse to believe he would have abandoned me like this had he remembered our… evening of… physical joining. Good Heavens, Rose, he was too bosky to remember anything. I ought to have taken this into consideration.”
Rose reached for some lip rouge and dabbed some on herself. “Either way, Penelope, you’re in an awful pinch.”
Penelope barely kept from moaning out loud again. She was now officially six days late. And even more worrisome was the biliousness she’d begun feeling in the mornings. She pondered her situation rationally. Nothing was going to be achieved by staying at Summer’s Park with Lilly and Cortland. As adorable as the baby was and as delightful a friend as Lilly was, Penelope would go mad if she didn’t track Danbury down soon. Watching the two lovebirds crooning over their tiny marquess was becoming trying as well. Not that she didn’t love them all, but really! Enough was enough.
And then Rose pulled a small pouch from her waistband. “In case you have need, I had Peters take me three villages over and met with the apothecary there.”
As recognition of what Rose was saying hit her, Penelope swallowed hard. She knew exactly what the small pouch contained. “Pennyroyal?”
Rose nodded. “I figured that in case he refuses you or does not believe you, you need to have a backup plan.”
Penelope was already shaking her head. She did not judge women who turned to such a drastic action when necessary but now, knowing a child grew inside of her, the love for that life was greater than the fear for her situation. “I won’t be needing it, Rose.” But she was not angry with her maid.
Penelope had first educated her maid as to the concept itself. Over the years, Penelope had been slowly, in secret, collecting the tomes of Mary Wollstonecraft. And she’d shared them with Rose. They’d largely influenced Penelope’s own assertions that marriage was a Bastille-like institution, that a woman ought to have the choice as to whether she was willing to sacrifice her body, and possibly her very life, in order to become a mother.
She’d known of more than one perfectly healthy lady who had died in childbirth. It was part of why she’d come to assist Lilly.
But suddenly, none of that mattered. The image of Lilly’s little marquess jumped into Penelope’s mind. She wanted this child. She would find Hugh, and all would be well.
“Put that away,” she said more forcefully. Rose nodded and tucked it back into her skirt. “And take a care with it. It’s poison. Please, Rose, I don’t want it anywhere near my belongings.”
“I’m not going to throw it out, but I’ll put it in a safe place.” Rose tilted her head back proudly. She did not really appreciate being scolded in any way. Ever.
“We’ll have to travel up to Manchester,” Penelope informed Rose.
Rose studied her skeptically. “Are you up to it? I’ve noticed you’ve been a trifle green in the mornings.”
This time, Penelope did moan. She also threw herself face down on the bed. “I’ll have to be, Rose. Good God, do you realize what will happen if anyone discovers what I’ve done? My parents will go into an apoplexy. I could never show my face in London again. Not that that’s such a horrible thing to contemplate, but I do appreciate the shopping and the theatre occasionally. And most of my friends are members of the ton! How many of them would continue to acknowledge me?”
“You should have married that one gent, your second year out. What was his name?”
“You mean Betsy’s brother? Miles Harris?” Penelope was all astonishment.
“Yes. I will remind you that I told you then that you would be the one in control of everything in such a marriage. You would hold the purse strings. You would decide when and how many children would come along. Lord Harris would give you free rein. But did you listen to me?”
“You do remember, on occasion, anyhow, that you are my maid, don’t you?” This argument had begun over a decade ago and would continue far into the future. But Penelope would never give Rose up. They’d been friends as children, and when Rose’s father had threatened to send his only daughter away, Penelope had convinced her parents to hire Rose on as her maid. Both girls had barely reached the ages of ten and six at the time, but the Crones had found the situation tolerable.
And so, Rose had gone from being friend, confidante, and playmate to being Penelope’s lady’s maid overnight.
Rose really didn’t always have the temperament of a maid, but that did not matter to Penelope. Most of the time.
“Miles Harris is a milksop. Was back then and continues to be so today.” Penelope remembered the last time she’d seen him, at Lady Natalie’s wedding breakfast. Miles had lost a great deal of hair and gained a great deal of weight. He was, as of yet, unmarried.
“You might keep him in mind if the viscount continues to be elusive.”
At Rose’s words, Penelope shuddered. But she had a point. “No, we’ve got to track down Danbury. And he’s going to have to marry me right off.” And then a wave of nausea washed over her. Oh, Lord! What had she done?
Hugh’s mother was well, except for a mild cough. And although the impromptu journey had caused him to fall even farther behind in his responsibilities, Hugh was relieved to see his mother’s good health in person. She’d had a touch of fever the previous week, and she corrected Hugh’s interpretation of her chicken scrawls easy enough. She’d meant to have written darned fever.
“It was plain as day,” she’d told him.
Ah, well. With his mind at ease, he’d stayed just a few days and then turned back from where he’d come. Rainy weather and a lame horse had delayed their travels, but at last they were nearing Hugh’s northernmost estate.
As he and Dicky rode the last few miles into Manchester, the strangest thought persisted in nagging at his conscience.
Before leaving Summer’s Park, he’d had that incredibly vivid dream about Penelope Crone. Surely, it had been a dream. He’d drank too much of Cortland’s liquor and passed out in the study. And when he’d awakened, he’d been fully clothed and bundled up in a blanket.
Had a servant covered him? Cortland? Or had Penelope stopped into the study on her way up to bed that night?
Impossible.
She was the last woman in the world he’d ever consider bedding. As a baron’s daughter, she was not to be dallied with. He’d never wanted to dally with her anyway.
She was domineering, opinionated, and too damned independent for his liking.
When Hugh married—for eventually, he would have to—he was going to marry a silly young chit who would not deign to question any of his decisions. He did not want a managing wife. He wanted a manageable one.
Ha! Penelope Crone was the last person any bachelor would credibly wish to marry. Any sane bachelor, anyhow. Good thing she had no desire to find a husband, or else they’d all have to leave the country.
He chuckled ironically to himself. If Penelope Crone ever set out to land a husband, he would be on one of the first packets out of Dover. Because Penelope Crone was unlike most women. She didn’t suffer in silence waiting for her wishes to be granted. No, that minx was not afraid to go after what she wanted, and she then usually got it right away.
He had enough to worry about with his mother’s persistent matchmaking. Once again, during this last visit, she’d announced that she’d located a bride for him. She said that her dearest friend, Mrs. Iris Merriman, was going to sponsor her nineteen-year-old niece this spring for her debut season. And the niece was a dream of a girl. She was sweet yet not overly so. She was biddable yet not empty-headed. His mother had already promised Mrs. Merriman that Hugh would be of the utmost assistance to her. But, of course, Hugh would escort them to the first event of the season. But, of course, Hugh would lead the niece out for her first dance at her come out.
He forcibly pushed all thoughts of matrimony from his mind as he turned up the drive to the estate he’d not visited in over twelve years, since before his father’s death. Fencing was falling down, gates hung at odd angles, and there seemed to be no order to the landscape whatsoever. As he neared the house, he realized that the manor was not in much better condition.
Cortland had told him that the steward was most likely swindling him. For Hugh knew rents were high. There ought to have been enough funds to keep Augusta Heights in near perfect condition.
No groom greeted him as he rode toward the stable, and no butler gaped out the door to see who was arriving. Hugh had intentionally not given word of his impending arrival. He’d wanted to catch the estate on a normal day. Well. Not a very auspicious beginning.
When he rounded the corner of the stable, he could see right into the interior of the building. For some reason, the doors had been removed. Likely, they’d fallen off their hinges and not been repaired. He could see that the floors needed sweeping, but at least hay was available and apparently being used to provide for the cattle inside.
A young lad leaned lazily on one of the bales of hay with a piece of it sticking out of his mouth. “That’s a fancy horse you got there, mister,” he managed to speak without removing the straw from his mouth. “But you must be in the wrong place. We ain’t had no visitors here never.” The boy barely moved a muscle, so very relaxed he was in his reclined position.
“Where’s your stable master, lad?” There was a man being paid to perform such duties. Hugh knew this by reading reports sent over by the steward, a Mr. Periwinkle. Or perhaps an even better question was, “Where’s Mr. Periwinkle?”
The lad leaned back and closed his eyes, in no hurry to be of assistance. “Mr. Periwinkle lives up at the big house. We ain’t got no stable master—no master at all, come to think about it.”
Hugh easily dismounted his horse and strolled over to this servant of his. Reaching forward, he snatched the piece of hay from the boy’s mouth and glared straight into his suddenly alert eyes. “You’ve a master now, lad. And I suggest that if you wish to keep your position in this house, you give my horse a good rub down. Then there are floors that need swept and stalls to be cleaned. You do wish to continue eating, don’t you?” Hugh was disgusted. Not with the boy so much as with himself for leaving this property mismanaged for so long.
But the boy wasn’t ready to give in yet. “Who are you to be telling me what to do?”
Hugh studied the dirty bare feet of this little mongrel and then the long greasy hair and stained clothing. “You do know something of horses, don’t you?”
The boy nodded, belligerently. “What matter is it to you?” He practically spat the words out.
Turning on his heel, Hugh responded without looking as he marched away, “I am Danbury, that’s what matter it is. Now get to work!”
No butler greeted him as he entered the house. No evidence of a housekeeper, either, if the layers of dust could be counted on to make such an assumption. He wondered if there was even a cook to be found in this dilapidated, rundown, and dusty old mansion. Hugh guessed where the liquor might be. In the study.
Which was exactly where he would find Mr. Periwinkle, no doubt.
Before Hugh even entered the room, he was assaulted by the odor of stale cigars.
His steward looked quite comfortable, lounging in an elaborate chair with his feet resting most comfortably on a large antique desk. Behind him, tall windows ran the entire width of the room.
Cortland had urged him to be hard-hearted with the man, which was something Hugh had struggled with in the past.
“Periwinkle, I presume?” Hugh broke the silence in a hushed tone, leaning nonchalantly against the very solid doorframe.
The overweight man jerked forward, then backward, and then disappeared altogether as he toppled backward completely. Grunts and curses emitting from beneath the desk assured Hugh that the man was not seriously injured. Pushing himself away from the door, Hugh strolled across the room to peer at the man lying on the floor. “Can I take that for an affirmative answer then?”
Blood must have been rushing to the man’s head, as his face and scalp turned a blotchy red color. “I am Mr. Periwinkle,” the man blustered. There was not much dignity to have, however, when a man’s feet were propped above his head and the rest of his person was caught in a most demeaning horizontal position.
Hugh reached out to assist the man up but found the supine gentleman’s fists already occupied. One with a half-burnt cigar and the other with an amazingly intact tumbler of scotch. Admittedly, Hugh had some respect for a man who protected liquor so assiduously. If only Periwinkle had protected the rest of his possessions with half as much diligence.
“Danbury, at your service, Viscount, that is.” Hugh relieved the man of both the cigar and the tumbler and set them on the desk before turning back to assist his steward to a more dignified position. “There now, won’t you come and sit over here? That desk, I presume, is reserved for me?” With these words, he lifted one eyebrow lazily. Hugh was an easy-going fellow most of the time, but he found these circumstances quite unacceptable.
As Periwinkle lumbered around to find another seat, Hugh propped his hip against the desk, crossed one ankle over the other, and folded his arms across his chest. “Tell me about the progress that has been made since the last report you sent to London. Tell me of the thriving fields and diligent staff you’ve added to the payroll. For I’ll have to hear of it from you, most assuredly, as I’ve yet to see any of it with my own eyes.”
The cornered steward’s gaze flashed toward the papers on the desk, lending credence to Hugh’s suspicions. Leaning backward, Hugh snatched the account book and glanced down at the open pages. “Ahh… a second set of books.” Licking his index finger, Hugh turned a few pages and casually perused them. “Fascinating, Peri, old man. Much more compelling than your fictitious works.”
And suddenly, Hugh found himself not such an easygoing fellow after all. This man, no, this blackguard was stealing from him! Where had the funds that had been allocated for a butler gone? For a stable master? For a housekeeper, for God’s sake! The estate was meant to support numerous servants and tenants. No wonder tenants were migrating overseas.
Periwinkle was not a small man, but this did not keep Hugh from grasping him by the collar and lifting him at least a few inches off the ground. “You will gather your belongings, and by that I mean yours and not mine, and be gone from this estate within the hour. If you are caught lifting so much as a spoon, you’ll find yourself swinging from the end of a noose in the blink of an eye. Do I make myself clear, Mister Periwinkle?”
But the man could not speak as he was, instead choking from the manner in which Hugh held him, so Hugh was forced to loosen his grip.
Once released, Periwinkle rubbed his neck and
blathered, “I was just doing my job to the best of my ability, my lord. No reason to be accusing a person of anything dishonest. Besides, where would I go?” The man was pitiful.
Hugh studied his hands. They shook from his anger. This was not like him. He normally abhorred violence. Glancing back at Mr. Periwinkle, Hugh wondered if perhaps he wasn’t being hasty. The steward was the only person in residence who knew what was going on here. Periwinkle was a liar and a crook, but until Hugh figured this mess out and found a replacement, perhaps he ought to keep the old man around a little longer.
Contemplating his options, Hugh walked over to one of the shelves behind the large desk and ran his index finger along the surface. When he withdrew, his fingertip was covered with a gray grimy material. The manor was filthy.
He then picked up a small model of a ship, and with one quick breath, blew a cloud of dust off the helm. “You think I ought to allow you to remain, Mr. Periwinkle?”
Before Hugh finished his question, the man’s head was bobbing up and down. “I do, m’lord,” he answered eagerly. The man was still rubbing his neck. “Caught us on a bad day, is all. You should have given me notice you were coming. I would have spruced the place up for you.” Hesitating a moment, he added, “M’lord.”
Hugh let out a heavy sigh and placed the small ship back upon the shelf. This situation was quickly becoming more and more overwhelming. He hadn’t put much effort into anything of substance for years, and he was beginning to feel more than a little guilty about it. When he’d first inherited, Hugh hadn’t yet reached his majority. That had been justification enough for him to allow the running of his estates to be done by solicitors and stewards. But that excuse no longer applied. He was in his thirties, by God!
Not sure where to begin, Hugh ran his hand through his hair. “Very well,” he relented reluctantly, “you shall remain here on probation. For now, you are to return to the steward’s quarters. We’ll go over these books tomorrow.”
Periwinkle went to casually collect the black leather tome from the top of the desk, but Hugh pressed his own palm down upon the offending item first. “Tomorrow, Mr. Periwinkle.”
Lady at last Page 3