A Lady of His Own bc-3

by Stephanie Laurens

  “What?” she asked, and waited for him to tell her.

  Eventually, he drew his gaze from her cheek, met her eyes. “I should have killed him.” Flatly, he added, “I will when next we meet.”

  Penny looked into his eyes, saw the violence surging. Slowly, she rose; he didn’t step back, so she was close, face-to-face, breast to chest.

  Arguing would be pointless. Instead, she held his gaze, and quietly said, “If you must. But remember that this”—briefly she gestured to her cheek—“is hardly going to harm me irreparably. Losing you would.”

  He blinked. The roiling violence behind his eyes subsided; he refocused on her eyes, searched them.

  She held his gaze, let him see that she’d meant exactly what she’d said, then she patted his arm. “Nicholas has been unconscious for some time.”

  He blinked again, then glanced at Nicholas’s slumped form, and sighed. He stepped away from her. “Norris! Get in here.”

  The door flew open; pandemonium flooded in.

  CHAPTER 21

  NICHOLAS STIRRED AS SOON AS THEY LIFTED HIM. NOT SO Jack. By the time he opened his eyes, then groaned, Dr. Kenton had arrived. The dapper little doctor lifted Jack’s lids, moved a candle before his eyes, then gently probed the huge contusion above his right temple.

  “You were lucky—very lucky.” Kenton glanced at the cosh Charles had retrieved from behind the chaise. “If your skull wasn’t so thick, I doubt you’d be with us enough to groan.”

  Jack grimaced; he bore with the doctor’s fussing, but signaled to Charles the instant Kenton’s back was turned.

  If Jack was up to making such faces, he was at least in possession of his wits; Charles eased the doctor from his patient’s side and bore him away.

  Fifteen minutes later, Gervase returned, grim-faced. They gathered again in the library as they had hours earlier; this time, both Jack and Nicholas looked the worse for wear, pale and drawn, both in pain, Jack from his head, Nicholas from the shoulder wound Fothergill’s blow had reopened.

  They took it in turns to relate their story. Penny described how Fothergill had arrived, how he’d seemed so innocent to begin with, and how that had changed—how he’d incapacitated Jack, then used her to force Nicholas to do his bidding. She stopped at the point where Charles had appeared at the bedchamber door. She looked at him, sprawled beside her on the chaise. “How did you know to return?”

  “I shouldn’t have left.” He looked grim. “We were galloping toward Fowey when the penny dropped. Dennis’s cousin couldn’t have had any direct connection with our nemesis; the knife and cloak were stage dressing to ensure I connected the death with the intruder here and raced off to investigate, presumably so something could then happen here. I turned back. Gervase went on to see if there was anything we could learn from Sid Garnut’s death.”

  Gervase shifted restlessly. “Other than being proof beyond doubt that our man—Fothergill as we now know—is cold-bloodedly callous, there wasn’t anything more to be learned.” He paused, then added, “The boy had been dispatched with almost contemptuous efficiency. Fothergill, or whoever he really is, feels nothing for those he kills.”

  Penny quelled a shiver. Charles took up the tale of what had transpired in the master bedchamber. He abbreviated the proceedings, stating only the necessary facts. He’d just reached the point at which Fothergill went out of the window when the crunch of approaching hooves reached them.

  Charles rose and looked out. “One of my grooms. Looks like Dalziel has unearthed something.”

  He strode out, reappearing two minutes later, one of the now familiar plain packets in his hand. He went to the desk and slit it open; unfolding the sheets, he returned to the chaise.

  Swiftly scanning, he grimaced. “Dalziel writes that while they still haven’t cleared Gerond, the Julian Fothergill who’s a connection of Culver’s wife is a twenty-year-old with pale blond hair who, according to his mother, is presently on a walking tour of the Lake District with friends. He is, however, a budding ornithologist.”

  Charles glanced at Gervase, then Jack.

  Who humphed. “Other than the hair color and a few years, he had all the rest right.”

  “Not only that, he used it to best advantage,” Charles said. “No one’s surprised to find an avid bird-watcher marching over their land.”

  “How was it that Culver didn’t realize?” Gervase asked. “If our man’s been staying there pretending to be one of the family, surely the usual questions about Aunt Ermintrude or whoever would have tripped him up.”

  “Not necessarily.” Charles glanced at Penny. “If the family’s as large as Dalziel suggests, then it’s always possible he truly is a member, just not that member, not of an English branch.”

  “And Culver would never notice,” Penny said. “Aside from all else, the Fothergills are his wife’s connections, and with the best will in the world I doubt his lordship remembers his own connections. If this man hadn’t remembered Aunt Ermintrude, Culver would have thought he himself had got things wrong—he’s awfully disconnected.”

  “He’s a true recluse,” Charles said, “but a terribly correct one.”

  “What’s more,” Penny added, “his reclusiveness is well-known.”

  Looking up at the ceiling, Jack sighed. “I just can’t get over how glibly he took me in. I was on guard when he walked in, but by the time he got behind me, I’d started to relax, to believe he was as harmless as he appeared.” He grimaced. “He was so damned English.”

  Charles regarded him wryly. “Now you understand how I survived so long in France. No matter how alert and on guard one is, the eyes see what they see, and we react accordingly.”

  Penny remembered her earlier thought; Fothergill was indeed a Charles-in-reverse.

  “Regardless,” Charles said, “we can’t afford to sit back and reflect. He had a horse waiting. If he wasn’t worried about being identified, then he was ready to leave this area. If his mission is to punish the Selbornes and retrieve some of the pill- and snuffboxes, having failed here, where will he head next?”

  Already pale, Nicholas turned a ghastly hue. “He’ll go after my father.”

  “Where is he?” Gervase asked.

  “London—Amberly House in Mayfair.” Nicholas struggled to get up.

  Charles waved him back. “If we’re right, he can’t kill your father, not out of hand. He’ll know by now that he has no chance of laying his hands on the pillboxes—we’re not going to leave them here unguarded, and besides, he didn’t get you to show him how to open the panel.”

  “Overconfident.” Gervase nodded. “But it does mean he won’t bother coming back here.”

  “It also means,” Charles said, looking at Nicholas, “that he’ll feel compelled to get to thesnuffboxes. You said they’re at Amberly Grange, in Berkshire, in a priest hole much like the one here. Fothergill might not know of the priest hole, but he’ll now suspect something of the sort—some well-hidden chamber that only your father or you can open.”

  “That’s why he won’t kill your pater outright.” Jack narrowed his eyes consideringly. “If I were he, I’d go to Amberly Grange, to where the snuffboxes are, and wait—use the time until Amberly returns there to learn the lay of the land, even ingratiate my way into the household, or at least into a position of being able to gain access to the house.” He glanced around at them all. “There’s no time limit applying for him, and the only pressure he knows of is that Charles now knows who he is and presumably will be searching for him.”

  “Given his actions to date, I don’t think that’ll deter him,” Charles said.

  “More, he seems young enough, arrogant enough, to see it as a challenge.” Gervase’s gaze was hard. “That should work to our advantage.” He looked at Charles. “So how do you want to play this?”

  Charles rose. Seated beside him, sensing his impatience, Penny had wondered how much longer he’d stay still. He strode to the hearth, then faced them. “I need one of you to stay here—Ja
ck, for obvious reasons. Gervase—you can get the word out along the coast as well as I. We need to shut the stable door so he can’t bolt.”

  Gervase nodded.

  Glancing at her, Charles continued, “I’ll go to London.”

  “As will I.” Nicholas again struggled forward in the chair.

  “No.”

  Nicholas looked up, but the edict was unequivocal.

  “I’m leaving now—tonight,” Charles said. “I’ll travel straight through and be in London by midday, possibly even before Fothergill. I’ll speak with your father, and Dalziel, and determine our best way forward.” He paused, his gaze on Nicholas’s determined but drawn face, then more quietly added, “I understand your wish to aid your father, but you’re in no condition to do so. A long, jolting journey will land you in a sickbed for days if not longer.”

  “He’s my father—”

  “Indeed, but I was sent here to deal with this matter.” Charles paused, then added, “You may safely leave it to me. Fothergill won’t succeed—and he will pay.”

  “And you needn’t worry about your father, Nicholas, for I’m going to London, too.”

  Her voice, so much lighter than theirs, rang like a bell. They all looked at her, but it was Charles’s gaze she met. She held it for a pregnant instant, then softly said, “Either with you, or independently—and, of course, I’ll be calling on Amberly.” She glanced at Nicholas. “Whatever else, he’ll have family beside him through this.”

  Nicholas blinked; his dilemma showed plainly in his face—he was too tired to hide it. Should he be grateful to Penny and support her, or side with Charles as instinct prompted and keep her safely at home?

  Gervase shifted; Jack frowned. Both were aware of the undercurrents; neither was in a position to say anything, a fact they were forced to accept. They had no authority here.

  When, unable to make up his mind, Nicholas said nothing, Penny looked back at Charles. And raised a brow. With him, or by herself…

  No real choice for him, either.

  His jaw set; the planes of his face hardened, but, stiffly, he inclined his head. “Very well.”

  He was too far away for her to read his eyes, but in this, she didn’t need to. She was perfectly aware of the various trains of thought—the swift and decisive plans—running through his head. Those she would deal with later; one step at a time.

  She rose, waving the others back as they started to their feet. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’ll go and pack.” She glanced at Charles. “My carriage or yours?”

  He considered, then replied, “Yours will do.”

  She nodded and turned for the door. “I’ll give orders to have it prepared. Half an hour, shall we say?”

  Glancing back from the door, she saw his lips thin; he nodded curtly. Suppressing a grimly satisfied smile, she opened the door and went on her willful way.

  She next saw Charles when she decended the front steps, attired in a comfortable carriage dress and prepared for a long, uncomfortable drive. He was standing with the coachman and groom, confirming his orders. When her boots crunched on the gravel, he turned, flicked a comprehensive glance over her, noting the warm shawl draped over her shoulders, then looked back to the coachman and groom, and gave the word. They scurried to climb up to their perches as he joined her.

  He took the door the footman had opened, held it and held out his hand. She put her fingers in his, felt him grip. Hard.

  “I am not happy about this.” The words were a growl as he helped her up the carriage steps.

  She glanced at him, met his eyes. “I know. But we can’t always have what we want.”

  Moving into the carriage, she sat. He looked up at the coachman, nodded, then leapt into the coach, slammed the door, and flung himself on the seat beside her.

  Head back against the squabs, he looked up at the coach’s ceiling. “As it happens, I usually do manage to get what I want from women. With you, however…”

  She took a moment to subdue her smile, then, lifting a hand, she gently patted one of his where it rested half-clenched on his thigh. “Never mind.”

  His response was a growl of elemental male frustration.

  But he opened his hand and closed it about hers.

  The drive was as grueling as she’d expected; the coachman had his orders—he drove like one possessed. The crest on the carriage door gave them a certain license. The carriage was relatively new and well sprung, and Charles and his commanding presence ensured that the teams they were provided with at every halt were the very best to be had.

  They made excellent time, racing on into the night. Other than easing the pace a fraction to allow for the fading light, the coachman made no other concession. As night closed in, they met fewer and fewer carriages; when full darkness fell, it seemed as if they were the only occupants of the road, streaking ever onward, the carriage lights faintly bobbing, throwing faint gleams that the darkness swallowed as they rocketed along.

  The regular thud of the horses’ heavy hooves, the repetitive rattle of the wheels became a soporific lullaby. Drawing her shawl about her, she leaned against Charles; he raised his arm and gathered her in. She smiled, turned to him, lifted her lips for a kiss…which was truncated by the next jolt.

  His arm tightened, holding her against him. She patted his chest, then settled her cheek on the warm, resilient muscle, and closed her eyes.

  She awoke at their next stop, when he left her to see to the horses. When he returned, and their rattling trip resumed, he drew her back to him and rested his cheek against the top of her head.

  A fitful rest at best, yet despite the rigors, the journey was restful in other ways. They spoke little; there was no point in arguing yet.

  When dawn broke and Charles took a turn on the box, spelling the coachman who’d driven through the night, her gaze fixed unseeing on the landscape flashing past, Penny grasped the chance to consider the landscape forming between them.

  Within it, she felt comfortable; the farther they traveled together along their road, the more the position at his side felt right, increasingly hers. Increasingly meant to be hers. His confidence in that, that that’s what would be, remained unwavering, feeding her confidence that this time…

  Once they’d dealt with Fothergill, they would see.

  Charles rejoined her in the carriage at Hammersmith, leaving the coachman to tool the coach through the outskirts and into Mayfair. They came to a rocking halt before Lostwithiel House in Bedford Square.

  A mansion of gray stone, it was old enough to have developed its own charm. Penny had visited there frequently in years gone by; when Charles’s butler, Crewther, opened the door, she smiled and greeted him by name.

  Crewther’s face lit; he was about to bow, then his gaze went past her to Charles, giving her coachman directions to the mews. Crewther’s eyes widened. As Charles turned and strode up the steps, Crewther stepped back and bowed them in. “My lord, Lady Penelope. Welcome back.”

  Charles nodded. “Thank you, Crewther. Lady Penelope and I will most likely be here for a few days.” He fixed Crewther with a direct look. “Are my mother and sisters in?”

  “I believe the countess, your sisters, Mrs. Frederick and Mrs. James, are attending a luncheon at Osterley Park, my lord.”

  Charles’s relief showed. “In that case…” He looked at Penny. “Lady Penelope and I have business to attend to—our movements are uncertain.”

  “Indeed, my lord.”

  Knowing Charles would leave it at that, she turned to Crewther. “Please inform the countess that she shouldn’t delay dinner or her evening’s entertainment on our account—we’ll speak with her when we return.”

  Lips thinning, Charles nodded. “We should call on Amberly without delay.”

  She glanced down at her crushed gown. “Just give me time to wash and change into something more appropriate.”

  Crewther stepped in, sending a footman for the housekeeper, directing the two who’d fetched their bags to take t
hem upstairs.

  Charles gave orders for his town carriage to be brought around, then took her arm; they started up the main stairs in the footmen’s wake. The housekeeper, Mrs. Millikens, came bustling up to meet them at the stair head. She greeted Charles, then bore Penny off to a bedchamber.

  “Twenty minutes in the front hall,” Charles called after her.

  Mrs. Millikens looked scandalized. “Twenty minutes?” She huffed. “He’s not in the army now—what is he thinking? Twenty minutes? I’ve sent Flora to unpack your things—” Millikens paused and opened a door. “Ah, yes, here she is.” She ushered Penny in. “Now, let’s see…”

  With Millikens, who’d known her from childhood, and Flora assisting, Penny was ready, gowned in a walking dress of blue silk twill, in just over twenty minutes. Descending the stairs, she saw Charles pacing in the front hall below. Hearing her footsteps, he glanced up; the set of his features, the frown that lurked, told her he’d been debating ways and means of detaching her from their pursuit of Fothergill—and he didn’t care that she knew.

  He walked to meet her, taking her hand, tucking it in his arm as they turned to the front door. “I sent a message to Elaine that you were here—it wouldn’t do for someone to see you about town and mention it. She’s staying with Constance, isn’t she?”

  “Yes.” Penny shot him a glance as they went down the steps. “What did you tell her?”

  He met her eyes briefly, then handed her into the carriage. “That you and I both had business to deal with, so I’d brought you up to town, that you’d be staying here, that our movements were uncertain, but that you’d explain when next you saw her.”

  He followed her in and shut the door, then sat beside her. She studied his face. “Nothing else?”

  Turning his head, he met her gaze. “Having you involved in this is bad enough—I’m hardly likely to say anything to bring both our chattering families down on my head…” He looked forward. “No matter the aggravation you cause me.”

  She smiled and looked ahead. “Better the devil you know…?”

  After a moment, he murmured, “Actually, I’m not that well acquainted with this particular devil.”