by Joan Smith
“You are right, of course. Tough as boiled owls, as they need to be in this man’s world.”
Lady Susan apparently heard only a part of the conversation. She looked up and said, “Was that a boiled owl we were eating earlier, ma’am? I made sure it was a goose that had not hung long enough.”
Lady Penfel’s “Gudgeon!” was audible the length of the table. “No, it was an owl,” she replied mischievously.
“Do owls make you wiser, like eating fish?” Annabelle asked. “Because of the saying, ‘wise old owl,’ you know.”
Lady Penfel said, “Yes, they do. Pity Miss Slatkin does not serve you gels more owl.”
“I would hate owl!” Kate said. “Oh, you are funning, milady! Is your mama not funning, Lord John?”
“Of course she is. The fowl was a buzzard.”
The conversation deteriorated into foolishness, and Abbie ate her chantilly without tasting it. Her qualms about conversing with the nobility had been unnecessary. Their conversation was not more elevated than her uncle’s monologues about Mysore, but it was a deal livelier. She would have enjoyed it, were it not for the worries that lay like a dark pall over her heart.
Chapter Twelve
The gentlemen’s taking of port was brief that evening, but it seemed a long time to the anxiously waiting Miss Fairchild, One matter of interest occurred in the interim. While the girls chattered about beaux and balls, Lady Penfel beckoned Abbie to her side.
“I have just had an inspiration, Miss Fairview,” she said. “I want to be painted as Cleopatra.” Abbie blinked in confusion. “That is the sort of creature I should like to have been. I see you goggle at the thought of painting a hag like myself as Cleopatra, but you misunderstand my meaning. In the Manuscript Room we have an etching of Cleopatra done by some French fellow—I cannot recall the name—but she is sitting on a stone bench in front of a tent, with a lion at her feet. It is called After Actium. That is the battle she and Mark Antony lost, you know, when her inevitable end was in sight. A moment of utter desperation one would think, but it does not kill her spirit. She is still noble and proud, even in defeat. Her chin is up, she gazes into the distance with a queenly gaze, uncaring that life has bested her.
“It is that pose, that expression I want on my face, not her strange coiffure and outfit. That straight hair would never suit me. I shall title it After Penfel, referring to Bruce and Penfel Hall, for when Algie marries, I shall leave Penfel Hall. It is how we ladies are treated—kicked out of our homes after giving life service to our husbands, their families, and their estates.”
“I cannot think Lord Penfel would force you out of your home, ma’am!”
“Of course he would not! This is not about Algie. It is about me, about us ladies not having any rights. If Algie and Johnnie were to die, God forbid, my daughters would not inherit Penfel. It would go to some wretched cousin in Cornwall, only because he wears trousers. It is a trick the gentlemen have rigged up to keep things to themselves. They call it primogeniture. I call it common thievery. Come, I’ll show you the etching. I wonder how I came to think of it. I daresay it was that little smirk you all wore when we discussed red feathers and a purple gown.”
“We shall have to get the key from Lord Penfel,” Abbie said. Her mind flew to the da Vinci cartoons. She remembered Penfel saying he wanted to see her face when she first beheld them. Now it seemed Lady Penfel might be the one to see her face, because she knew that if the cartoons were there, she could not await the tardy Penfel’s pleasure to view them.
“We don’t need a key. The Manuscript Room is never locked. We only use it for storing family records and a few rubbishing old pictures not good enough to hang on the walls.”
One could hardly call the da Vinci drawings rubbishing old pictures. Abbie had already decided her hostess was perilously close to the edge of lunacy, and assumed she didn’t know the room was locked. The butler had confirmed that it was, and that Penfel had the only key. Lady Penfel rose, urging “Miss Fairway” to follow her. In her various talks with Penfel, Abbie had never learned exactly where in the vast house the Manuscript Room was located. She was led down a long corridor, around a corner to a chamber across from the library. The oak-paneled door opened with a simple twist of the knob.
“Grab a candelabra,” the dame said, and Abbie took a heavy branched candelabra from a table in the hallway.
They went into a long, narrow, dark chamber, a sort of second, smaller library with a worktable in the center of the room, but with closed cabinets instead of bookshelves lining the walls. While Abbie lit a few lamps, Lady Penfel began rooting through the cabinets.
“Where are the da Vinci cartoons kept?” Abbie asked.
“I am trying to remember. The French etchings are in one of these cupboards.” She slammed a door and opened another, “Here we are! These are the French pictures,” she cried, and drew out a dusty leather folio. Abbie was appalled that the priceless cartoons were kept in such a careless manner, vulnerable to dust, damp, and mice.
“It is right here on top,” Lady Penfel said, lifting up an aging parchment and placing it on the table. “I have not seen it in years, but it is just as I remember. I was fond of this picture. I daresay I identified with Cleopatra’s indomitable spirit even in those days, though I didn’t realize what ailed me. Too distracted with having babies—all those girls, and they are not the consolation one hears they are, either. At least mine aren’t. They married and moved far away. I seldom see them since I have quit doing the Season.”
The etching was as she had described it. Cleopatra’s expression was grave, but not defeated. In the background, the ruins of her army stood in disarray. Bodies lay on the ground, spears and helmets abandoned in the dust.
“I shall sit on that stone bench in the garden, with Penfel Hall in the background,” Lady Penfel said. “Pity I do not have a lion, but I daresay a large dog will do as well, eh? Cuddles will rest at my feet.”
“Yes. Will you still wear the red feather and purple gown?”
“No, I think for this sort of picture, I want to look pathetic. I shall wear a very simple chemise, perhaps ragged ‘round the hem, and bare feet. Cook will have something suitable.” She set the etching aside. “We shall take this along with us.”
“Are the da Vinci cartoons there?” Abbie asked, as Lady Penfel closed the folio and took it back to the cupboard.
“They are somewhere amid this rubble,” the dame said. “You can come back later and have a root about for them, if you like. I daresay we should return to the saloon now. Otherwise, Lady Susan will read me a lecture. You don’t think Algie will offer for her?” She took the Cleopatra etching, Abbie blew out the candles, and they left.
“I shouldn’t think so, ma’am. I have not noticed any closeness between them.”
“No, I shouldn’t think he could stomach her, even if she has twenty-five thousand. I daresay that is why her mama wanted me to ask her here. Nettie cannot have heard about Lady Eleanor. As soon as ever I clamped an eye on Susan, I knew it was hopeless. She has not improved one iota from her last visit five years ago. Miss Fenshaw is more like it. She has no conversation worth the name, but she is a lively little thing. It seems she has a sweet tooth for our Johnnie, though. What is her dot?”
“Twenty thousand, I believe.”
“Not bad for a younger son.”
When they returned to the saloon, Lord John and Singleton had joined the ladies, Abbie was surprised Penfel was not there, as he had told her he would curtail the taking of port. Singleton noticed her surprise and girded himself to choke out a few words. “Penfel—tell you—study.”
“Thank you,” Abbie said, filling in the gaps and assuming Penfel had asked Singleton to relay the message.
She headed to the study. As she went along the corridor, she wrestled with the coming visit. There was no point beating about the bush, and giving him time to invent some story, or divert her with love-making. She would just come right out with it. His door was closed when she got there. She
gave a sharp rap and stepped in, knowing he was awaiting her. He sat at his desk, facing her. He rose and smiled as she entered—-a rather nervous, edgy smile, not the usual warm greeting.
“Lord Penfel, I know all about your relationship with O’Leary,” she said.
His face stiffened to ice. “I have never concealed that O’Leary and I are friends.”
“And business colleagues, I think?”
He stepped out from behind the desk, looking as if he meant to eject her. She stepped back. “This has nothing to do with you!” he said in a cold voice she had never heard before. “I am busy at the moment, Miss Fairchild. Perhaps you could come back later.”
“Busy planning more thefts? I know you and he are robbing houses. I saw the emerald ring on your desk this afternoon, the one that was stolen from Lady Peevey recently, when you were at Lewes, so pray do not try to fob me off with some Banbury tale.”
She could hardly be unaware of Penfel’s fury. His eyes blazed like hot coals. As she rushed on with her charges, she noticed something else as well. Penfel’s glares at her were alternated with sharp glances over her shoulder. She looked, and saw O’Leary, regarding her through narrowed eyes. He was partially concealed by the open door. He must have been on his way out when she barged in, and got caught behind the door. If she had not been so upset, she would have seen him.
“You are acquainted with Mr. O’Leary, I think?”
Penfel said.
Her first reaction was a dreadful embarrassment, to see O’Leary there, listening to her accusations. She had to remind herself what she had said was true, that he and Penfel were the ones who should be embarrassed. She lifted her chin and turned to stare at Penfel.
“Scheming to commit more robberies, milord?” she asked.
“You misunderstand the matter,” Penfel said in a glacial voice. “You had best run along. As you can see, my friend and I are busy. I shall speak to you about this misunderstanding later.”
O’Leary stepped forward, wearing an ingratiating smile. “About that ring, my dear, I won it in a card game in Lewes. If the fellow I won it from stole it, that is not my fault.” He hesitated a moment, then added, “Lord Penfel won it from me the next night.”
“Everyone knows you are Brannigan, Mr. O’Leary,” she said. “You ought to have given your wagon two coats of paint. The former name shows through the yellow.” She turned to Penfel. “Surely, Lord John told you!”
Penfel and O’Leary exchanged a brief but meaningful glance. Conspiratorial was the word that occurred to Abbie. Even menacing.
“I bought the wagon off Brannigan!” O’Leary said at once. “He had to sell up when things got too hot for him. You believe me, Penfel?”
“Of course,” Penfel said.
Then he came forward and took Abbie by the elbow to lead her to the door, opened it, and shoved her out. “Later!” he growled, under his breath.
She went, trembling, back to the saloon to await him. The room was empty, the lamps turned low. Light glinted from the gilt picture frames, and some brass bibelots. She sat, thinking about that wretched confrontation. It had not gone as she hoped. O’Leary’s presence made everything more difficult. She had hoped to try to convince Penfel to change his errant ways. But he had obviously no intention of changing. He had chosen O’Leary over her, over common decency, over doing the right thing.
Sifton came in, peering through the shadows, and began to turn up the lamps.
“Her ladyship and the gentlemen have taken the ladies to the circus, Miss Fairchild,” he said. “I could ask a footman to take you along to join them, if you wish. Her ladyship thought you wished to study some etchings in the Manuscript Room this evening.”
“You told me the Manuscript Room was kept locked, Sifton, that you did not have the key,” she said.
He looked offended. “There must have been some misunderstanding, ma’am. I thought it was the da Vinci cartoons you wished to see. His lordship keeps them under lock and key. The Manuscript Room is always open.”
“It is the da Vincis I wish to see.”
She was still talking to the butler when hurrying footsteps sounded in the hallway. The butler went out to investigate. From the open doorway, Abbie saw O’Leary heading toward the front door. The butler handed him his hat, cane, and gloves, and he left. Before the door had closed, another patter of footfalls sounded, and Penfel appeared. He peered into the saloon. When he saw Abbie, he stopped and strode in, stiff-legged. His eyes were still blazing with anger, his face a mask of fury.
“May I speak to you for a moment in my study, Miss Fairchild?” he said in a voice that made refusal pointless.
She answered his fury with a fiery eye and a sneering, “I have been looking forward to it, milord.”
Penfel said something in a quiet aside to the butler, who nodded his acquiescence. Then Penfel led Abbie down the corridor to his study. When they reached the doorway, she halted, suddenly frightened. What had he said to Sifton? Was it an order to turn a deaf ear to any appeals for help? If Penfel was a thief, to what lengths would he go to conceal it? Was her very life in danger? Her fear began to rise to panic. Should she call for help, should she bolt?
As she stood, undecided, he reached out, clamped a strong hand around her wrist, and dragged her into his study. Then he slammed the door and turned on her in wrathful fury.
Chapter Thirteen
“What in hell’s name do you think you’re doing?” Penfel demanded. His angry voice rolled like thunder in the closed room. The obsidian glint in his dark eyes was a flash of lightning. When she noticed his hands were bunched into fists, Abbie suddenly felt her knees turn to water. She swallowed the lump of fear in her throat and took a step backward. Yet she knew that flight wasn’t the solution.
She took a deep breath and said in a tremulous voice that was trying to sound brave, “I should warn you, milord, I have already notified Bow Street what is going forth here. If anything should happen to me, they will know where to lay the blame.”
“Are you mad!” he cried. “Two months’ work gone down the drain.”
“It will be your whole life if you get caught! Why in God’s name can you not just marry an heiress like all the other bankrupt lords if you have ruined yourself with gambling?”
“Ruined? Did I not tell you this very day I have brought Penfel around?”
“Then, why have you hooked up with that wretch of an O’Leary to rob your friends? Who is next? Do you plan to rob Penfel Hall?”
“Rob myself? Your wits are gone begging, woman.”
He turned and began to pace back and forth, raking his hands through his hair.
Abbie remained near the safety of the door, though her first fear had lessened. “You mentioned insurance, I believe,” she said.
“So that is your opinion of me! That I am a common ken smasher.”
“No, sir, a very uncommon one. I cannot recall any other noble gentleman sunk so low. And don’t try to con me you won that emerald ring from O’Leary, for he would not dare to use it as a pawn if you were not in league with him. You knew very well it was stolen from Peevey.”
“Of course I knew! I didn’t win it from O’Leary.”
“You have your henchmen well trained to defend you. No need to ask where you did get it.”
“I got it from Sadie Hutchins, one of O’Leary’s dancing girls. He’s in love with her. He gave it to her for her birthday, but warned her not to wear it yet. She asked me if it were a real emerald. I managed to talk the ring out of her—without O’Leary’s knowledge.”
“This goes from bad to worse. Preying on helpless women!”
“Will you please wait until I have finished, before leaping to the wrong conclusions. Sadie asked me to take it to a jeweler to discover if the ring was genuine.”
“After you convinced her it was not.”
“Precisely. And, incidentally, like the rest of her species, she is about as helpless as a tiger shark.”
“The last I heard, men an
d women were from the same species, milord. Homo sapiens. And what has this to do with you and O’Leary robbing houses?”
“Schoolmistress!” he grumbled. “Why do you think I let the scoundrel come here? Sit down,” he said, still angry, but trying to gain control of his pounding heart.
Abbie sat, peering hopefully to discover how Penfel might be redeemed.
He dropped into the chair behind the desk, wiped his fingers over his chin and began. “The first I heard of O’Leary was six months ago, when he robbed Halford Hall, near Birmingham. He was calling himself Brannigan then. His circus had passed through town a few weeks before. He scouts out vulnerable homes while his circus is in the area, and comes back later to rob them. When the same thing happened to the Scotts’ a month later, the Scotts noticed the connection to Brannigan. The third robbery pretty well confirmed it. But when Bow Street went after Brannigan, he had vanished.
“He laid low for a few months, then O’Leary’s Circus suddenly appeared on the scene, working the border territory between Kent and Sussex, well removed from his first crimes, and the story began to repeat itself. When O’Leary moved on to Lewes, Ollie Wincham—that is Peevey’s son, a friend of mine—asked me to help trap O’Leary. I visited Peevey on the pretext of dangling after Lady Eleanor.” Abbie perked up her ears at this news. Penfel gazed directly into her eyes and said, “There was never anything between us. In fact, she is half engaged to Rawlins. My job was to pretend I was out at pocket, and strike up a friendship with O’Leary, but he revealed nothing. We were pretty sure it was Peevey’s place that would be smashed, as indeed it was.”
“How does it come you didn’t catch O’Leary, if you
knew his plans?”
Penfel scowled. “Because the man is a weasel. We lay in wait for him after the circus had left. Every night we were on guard, pistols cocked. He didn’t come. What he did was slip in at the library door in broad daylight one afternoon during Peevey’s public day and lift what he found lying about downstairs. Fortunately, he didn’t get upstairs to the safe. That is when I took the decision to let him use my meadow. O’Leary’s next stop was to be Burgess Hill, not far from here. He had arranged to use the commons for his show. I had a word with the local authorities, and they told O’Leary there was opposition to the circus, the residents didn’t want it. Then I ‘accidentally’ met O’Leary in a tavern one night. That is when I offered him the use of my land, pretending I needed the hundred pounds he paid me.”