Petticoat Rebellion

by Joan Smith

  “Not at all. You were speaking of lovers. We are not lovers. When a lady is with a congenital idiot, the seconds are hours. We are old friends by now.”

  “Excellent! Then, I shall call you Abbie.”

  “Oh—that is not what I meant!”

  “What distracted you, I wonder?” he murmured.

  “What would the young ladies think to hear you call me Abbie?”

  “They would think us no better than we should be. One must always keep in mind the youngsters. I shall only call you Abbie on those too rare occasions when we are alone together—with a door open, of course.” He inclined his head toward her and said in a conspiratorial tone, “Don’t you adore secrets?”

  “No, I save worship for church.” Then she peered up and added, “But I like secrets,” lest he take her for a confirmed prig.

  His little chuckle was triumphant. “I knew there was a real woman lurking under that blue straitjacket!”

  “And, one hopes, a real gentleman under that handsome Bath superfine jacket you wear with such élan.”

  He bowed. “My jacket and I thank you for the compliment. Our first, if I am not mistaken. I shall forever cherish this jacket.”

  She just shook her head at his nonsense. “About the key for the cartoons—”

  “I see what you are about, miss. Butter the congenital idiot up, then wind him ‘round your finger to have your way with him.”

  “You did promise.”

  “So I did, and before I earn a reprimand, I had best deliver. Come to my study when you are finished.” He stopped, waiting for an objection to the venue chosen. When she didn’t say anything, he continued, “You won’t want to interrupt your work here. There is no need to haul all your equipment back upstairs. Just leave it where it is. It is nice to see someone actually appreciating the collection.”

  “Thank you, Lord Penfel. You have no idea what it means to me.”

  He gazed at her face, rapt with delight, and said, “I think I do—Abbie.”

  Then he turned and left, smiling, and Abbie finally began to work on her Chardin. It was not until he was gone that she recalled they had not discussed that O’Leary and Brannigan were one and the same man. He had not said a word about that. Nor had she asked him about the journal he said O’Leary had carried, though she was certain he had not. It was difficult to concentrate on her work with these questions gnawing at her. After half an hour, she put it away and went to his study. She did not intend to actually go in, but just ask him for the key and leave.

  The door stood open. A tea tray sat on the corner of the desk, suggesting that he would soon be back. She stood a moment at the door, looking up and down the hall, then stepped into the study to await him. She noticed the teacup was half full. When she touched the pot, it was still hot, so presumably he had just stepped out for a moment.

  She glanced at the desk, admiring the chased silver ink pot and matching tray that held an assortment of pens. He had been writing a letter. It sat on the desk, the page half full. She averted her eyes, and noticed a ring sitting by the letter, partially covered by it. Curious, she looked at it again, without touching it. It was a lady’s ring, gold with a large green stone.

  Her breath suddenly caught in her throat. An emerald ring. The emerald ring stolen from Lady Peevey! Yes, it was certainly the same one. A baguette stone, edged all around with diamonds, as described in the journal. Her hand flew to her lips to stifle the gasp of astonishment. What was it doing here?

  Black thoughts whirled in her mind like bats in a small room. Penfel had been at Peevey’s house. O’Leary had been nearby. They were friends. Penfel had certainly lied about O’Leary showing him that article in the journal, and now Penfel had this stolen ring. He must have lost heavily to O’Leary at cards. If he was in the man’s debt, he could be made to dance to his tune—even to the extent of having his own treasures plundered. He had said himself they were insured.

  It was hard to come to any but the logical conclusion. Penfel was O’Leary’s cohort. He was a thief, and a scoundrel. Had Lady Eleanor or Lord Peevey become suspicious? Was that why he had been turned off? Had he ever even loved Lady Eleanor? He spoke of marrying for love, yet he was remarkably blasé at her refusing his offer. Had Lady Eleanor been only an excuse to spy out the secrets of Peevey Castle?

  She turned and darted up to her bedchamber and closed the door to contemplate what she had just discovered, and more importantly, what she should and could do about it.

  Chapter Eleven

  As Abbie paced to and fro in her chamber, she tried to make sense of this enigma called Lord Penfel. She remembered various conversations with him and about him. He had boasted he had his financial affairs in order, yet Lord John said his brother’s pockets were to let. O’Leary’s offering Penfel a chance to win back the blunt he had lost at cards suggested gambling was his weakness. That and, of course, women. His own mama had accused him of being too fond of women. Lady Susan, on the other hand, had said he was not a lecher, and Lady Susan knew everything, or gave that impression.

  She thought of their recent conversation in the gallery, when he had seemed completely carefree, flirting, happy. And all the while that stolen ring sat in his office, or in his pocket. Did he have no conscience at all, or was it possible she was misreading the evidence, that he was innocent? He might have won the ring from O’Leary in a card game. But O’Leary would not wager such an incriminating thing. Penfel knew the ring was stolen, so that excuse would not do. Excuse? Why was she looking for an excuse for him? He was nothing to her. She scarcely knew the man.

  She only knew her heart beat faster when she was with him, that his smile made her feel special, that when she was in this house, her eyes were always on the door when he was not present, and on him when he was. She knew that, while she had acted grossly offended at his embrace, her heart had thrilled to it. She told herself it was only infatuation, and she was fortunate to have found out his true character before infatuation deepened to love, and tried to believe it.

  Very well then, accept that Penfel was a man of weak character. What should she do? She could report him to Bow Street, but they would be intimidated by a noble criminal and palmed off with some explanation. Nothing would result but embarrassment and ill feelings all around. The kinder and more sensible thing would be to confront Penfel face-to-face, and get a promise from him to return his ill-got gains and sever his connection with O’Leary. And if he refused, then she would resort to Bow Street. At least he would be forced to stop stealing if he knew Bow Street was watching him. And he would hate her forever.

  She steeled herself for the coming confrontation and returned to Penfel’s study. The door was closed. When she knocked, no one answered, and when she tried the handle, the door was locked. She went in search of Sifton, who told her Penfel had decided to ride out and join Lord John and the ladies. He had forgotten all about her. He was supposed to give her the key to the Leonardo cartoons.

  “Did he leave a key for me?” she inquired.

  “No, ma’am. He didn’t. Perhaps I can help?”

  “It was the key for the da Vinci cartoons.”

  “Oh, I am afraid I do not have that key, ma’am. His lordship has it. Shall I remind him when he returns?”

  “Never mind. I shall do it myself, if you would notify me when he comes back.”

  “Certainly, madam.”

  She returned abovestairs and worried for another half hour until the girls came back. Kate told her that Penfel had not joined them, but she had seen him talking to a man on the road half a mile from Penfel Hall.

  “O’Leary?” Abbie asked, her stomach churning.

  “No, Miss Fairchild. We did meet him. I was going to tell you. Susan stopped a moment to talk, but I rode back to hear what she was saying, and it was nothing of any importance.”

  “What was it?”

  “Just something about Lord Sylvester. O’Leary thought he had met him.”

  This sounded fairly harmless. “What abou
t the man Penfel met?”

  “He was just a little ordinary-looking man. Not a gentleman. He looked like a racetrack tout.”

  “I see.”

  That Penfel had lied to Sifton told her he was ashamed to admit who he was really meeting. It sounded like another colleague of O’Leary’s. Perhaps a fence Penfel was selling the emerald ring to, as his pockets were to let.

  “Why are you so curious about Penfel? Did you have a rendezvous with him?” Kate asked, and did not wait for an answer. “He is terribly handsome, quite like John. Don’t you love being in love, Miss Fairchild? How Slats would stare if we came back engaged ladies.”

  “Don’t be so foolish,” Abbie scoffed, and turned away to hide her blush.

  Dinnertime was fast approaching, and Spadger was bustling about to assist the young ladies with their evening toilettes. Abbie took care of her own dressing. In a dispirited mood, she wore a navy gown and took no particular care for her coiffure. The pale face and haunted eyes staring back at her from her mirror made her look like a ghost. She pinched her cheeks and bit her lips to give her some color, but when she essayed a smile, it was a sad travesty.

  This visit that had begun so pleasantly was fast turning into a nightmare. From their first meeting, Penfel had seemed to fancy her. Her first idea that he only did it to discourage Lady Susan could not account for all his attentions to herself. Most of them occurred when Susan was nowhere near them. Was he just one of those gentlemen who always flirted with any decent-looking female who crossed his path? At least he did not badger the young girls, say that for him.

  Spadger came dashing into Abbie’s room for one of her private words after she had attended to the young ladies.

  “I believe Lady Susan is up to something, Miss Fairchild.”

  This was no real cause for alarm. Spadger always made a mountain of a molehill. “What is it, Spadger?”

  “I saw her take a billet doux out of her reticule. She looked at it and smiled. You don’t suppose that beast of an O’Leary has got at her?”

  “Are you sure it was a billet doux?”

  “It was a piece of paper. What else could it be but a letter?”

  “She had a letter from her mama this morning.”

  “Ah, well, that could be it, then.”

  Abbie could not believe Susan was carrying on a clandestine correspondence with O’Leary. It was not her style.

  At seven o’clock, the butler had still not notified Abbie of Penfel’s return. When she took the girls belowstairs, he beckoned her aside and said, “His lordship just came in, madam. As he was in a hurry to change for dinner, I did not bother notifying you. I knew you would see him when he came downstairs.”

  “Thank you, Sifton.”

  Penfel had apparently hurried his toilette, for he joined them within minutes. Crook or not, Abbie acknowledged that he looked devastatingly handsome in a close-fitting bottle-green jacket, with a small emerald in his cravat. She had never seen such a dashing smile as he turned on her the moment he entered the room. It lingered on her for a long moment, softening as he gazed into her eyes, and seemed to say a hundred intimate things that could not be said aloud in company. It was almost a caress. When she realized she was gazing back at him in the same moonling sort of way, she lowered her head and fiddled with her fan.

  The younger members of the party made lively conversation during the interval before dinner when a glass of sherry was served. The young ladies were allowed a glass of wine. They had to learn how to handle it before their debut. Abbie watched Susan for signs of discomposure or excitement, but found she behaved as usual. She was explaining to Kate why her mount had stumbled at the fence.

  “You pulled in when you should have given him his head.”

  “I did not! I hate horses that refuse a jump.”

  “Mr. Singleton is going to let me take the reins tomorrow,” Annabelle said.

  “Is he, by God!” Lord John cried. “If Miss Kirby lames my nags, you will pay the price, Singleton.”

  Singleton blushed and made a demurring murmur.

  Abbie was grateful for their high spirits. It helped conceal the silence of her own dismal mood. When Penfel, after a few words with his mama, came and sat beside her, she could think of nothing to say. What they had to discuss could not be said in public.

  “I waited fifteen hours for you to come for the key,” he said. “That is fifteen hours by romance time. I made sure you would not be five minutes after me. Is it possible da Vinci is losing his appeal?” The questioning uncertainty of his look implied it was his own appeal that concerned him. “I even ordered tea. Why didn’t you come to my study? Was it the location that kept you away?”

  “I went later. You weren’t there,” she said distractedly. She wondered if the emerald ring was in his pocket even now, or if it was already on its way to London with the man who looked like a race tout.

  “I received a note and had to go out to meet a friend.”

  That would be the man Kate had seen him talking to. Obviously, no real friend but a business acquaintance. Penfel was not an accomplished liar. He had told Sifton he was going to meet Lord John and the girls.

  “You might have left the key with the butler,” she said.

  “And missed seeing your face when you first beheld the da Vinci’s? Not likely! I have been looking forward to that moment, Miss Fairchild. See how carefully I guard our secret?” He looked, waiting for some bantering reply. When she just looked at him sadly, he said in a voice suddenly serious, “What is the matter?”

  “Could I have a word with you in private after dinner?”

  Her request seemed to please him, to judge by his smile. “Strange you should say that. I was about to suggest the same thing. Our minds are beginning to become attuned. By the by, I spoke to Mama. She would be flattered to death to have her portrait taken. She is not happy with the Reynolds portrait done when she was young. I have not had my own portrait painted yet. Perhaps I have found the artist to do it, if you could lower yourself to paint a phiz with no character.”

  This casual remark, that would have thrilled her to death yesterday, was only another hammer blow to her spirits, to think of losing such a marvelous opportunity. She would never be allowed to do either portrait once he realized she knew he was a thief.

  Lady Penfel’s ears perked up at hearing her name spoken. “What is that you say, Algie? Are you talking about my picture? Reynolds made me look like a nun, all in white with the gown cut up to my chin. I plan to wear a red feather in my hair and a low-cut purple gown to show my new freedom when Miss Fairly paints me. They will never show it at Somerset House, but when I am gone, I want my descendants to know what I was really like. But you must take it easy on my wrinkles and crow’s-feet. Algie says you like wrinkles. What do you think of my idea, Miss Fairmont?”

  “I think you would look charming, with or without wrinkles, ma’am, I only hope I am up to the challenge of portraying your vivacity.”

  “Vivacity! I like that! Ha, she is a cozener, like you, Algie. You are right, I am beginning to like this chit. You are softening up her schoolmistressy ways. We will have her laughing and dancing and wearing red shoes in no time.”

  Abbie felt a flush warm her cheeks to learn that Penfel had been discussing her with his mama. She felt sure he did not discuss all his women so freely. She meant more to him than the dancer at least. But it was the dancer who would be with him at two o’clock in the morning, when they were to have reached the intimacy of a first-name basis.

  The conversation continued lively over a dinner of two courses and two removes. Abbie noticed that the meal was noticeably grander than last night, and wondered at the improvement. She enjoyed it less, however, even though she was seated at Penfel’s left side. She did not mention this new seating arrangement, nor did he, but he gave her a speaking look when he motioned her to his side and drew her chair. He tried to engage her in flirtation a few times over the turbot, once over the fowl and later over the veal collops,
but she was unable to respond.

  It was not until the chantilly and almond paste tarts were served that he leaned toward her and said in a low voice, “Is it the menu that displeases you, when I have harried Cook to do her best, or have you taken a vow of silence, Miss Fairchild? You are as quiet as Singleton this evening.”

  “I was thinking about something,” she said.

  “The red feather and purple gown will be a sad trial to be sure.” He studied her a moment, and when she did not reply, he said, “What is really bothering you, my dear?”

  She felt tears sting her eyes at that tender “my dear” that had slipped out, unnoticed, she thought.

  “We shall talk later,” she said, blinking away the tears.

  “The port will get short shrift this evening. Shall we say, eight-thirty, in my study? I want no misunderstandings this time, as we stumbled into this afternoon. I promise you shall get the key—that will ensure your coming. You see how easy it is when you have put the lord of the manor in good spirits?”

  “What happens when he ceases to smile on me?” she asked, with a mental sigh to think that all this adventure would soon be over.

  “I am gratified that the thought of that day appalls you—to judge by those sad eyes. Let us hope it does not occur any time soon, say for the next eighty or ninety years.”

  “Is that romance time, or Greenwich time?”

  “Oh, good! You’re getting over your little fit of pique.”

  Lady Penfel observed her son’s enchantment and called down the table, “Up to your old flirting ways, Algie? I hope you are not misleading Miss Fairway into taking you too seriously?”

  “I find the young ladies nowadays uncommonly well able to look after themselves, Mama.”