by Marlowe, Deb
“We would have kept your secrets, in any case,” Penelope told her. “But we’ll be very happy to have those invitations.”
“I’ll have them fetched down.” Lady Tresham went to the door and beckoned a servant. “And then you had better get the girl home, Sterne. I won’t be here to tell tales, but taking the girl for a drive in the park is one thing. Being seen out alone as it grows later is another thing altogether.”
“You are correct.” Sterne approached the lady and bent over her hand. “We’ll be out of your hair all the quicker if you could spare a servant to fetch my gig from the livery?”
“Done.” She beckoned again and instructions were given. The invitations were brought down and turned over and they made ready to leave.
“Thank you for your help,” Sterne told the other woman. “I wish you all felicitations on your quickly approaching marriage.” His mouth quirked.
“I thank you.” Her eyes were smiling, if her mouth was not. “I bid you both goodbye and ask that you pass along my farewells to Lady Tensford. I shan’t be back to see you all for quite some time.” Now, she could not prevent a curve of her lips. “Do try to behave while I am gone.”
They stepped out into the court and Penelope saw that evening was fast approaching.
“Let’s walk out to the street and meet the gig coming,” Sterne suggested. “It will get you home that much quicker.”
She took his arm and set out and when they approached the lane that led out to the street, she caught a flash of movement in a doorway ahead. Frowning, she tugged at him. “There. Ahead. Do you see that girl? Just leaving that building?”
He peered into the growing gloom. “All I caught was the flash of a skirt.”
But Penelope knew what she had seen. “I think I’ve seen that girl several times today. Do you think she’s following us?”
He shook his head. “It’s highly unlikely, isn’t it? London is huge. It’s not the same as a village in Gloucestershire, where you might see the same people several times a day. Surely it must be different, but similar, girls you are seeing.”
Several girls with hard eyes, a pointy chin and thin blonde hair? She thought not. But she held her tongue. The gig was approaching as they came out onto the Strand and she let him hand her up. He was quiet as they set out for Tensford’s home and, her mind awhirl, Penelope took refuge in the silence. And when she could not fight the urge to touch her lips in silent recollection, she turned away so that he would not notice.
* * *
“I know it was her—the girl we saw on the street yesterday morning.” Penelope and Hope sat in the countess’s rooms once more, taking a late breakfast. She’d shared everything that had happened with Lady Tresham yesterday—and told her about repeatedly spotting the young blonde. “Sterne thought it was unlikely to be the same girl, but I tell you, I could not mistake that hard look on her face.”
“I did notice it as well. I thought at the time that it must be directed at your cousin.”
“As did I. Is he involved with her, do you think? I rather thought she had the look of a servant.” She sighed. “I’m sad to say, though, that I wouldn’t put it past him, messing about with such a girl.”
“Nor would I. Perhaps she was following you, hoping you would lead her to him?”
“It could be. She’d be doomed to disappointment, though. I don’t know where he stays in London. I thought a good deal about it last night, though—”
“I am sorry I wasn’t awake when you returned. I curled up after tea and never woke until this morning.” Hope sounded disgruntled. “I hope such exhaustion is not going to continue.”
“If it does, then you will rest,” Penelope said firmly.
“Yes, of course. But I hope it doesn’t. In any case, I feel fine, now.” She tilted her head. “And did I hear that you had a letter from home?”
“Yes.” She sighed. “Father says they he’s found a tenant’s wife to prepare the barn office for Lammas Day. You know he always likes to have small loaves and good cider to offer the tenants as they bring their tithes in.”
“Penelope, dear, he is not replacing you,” Hope said gently. “Not in his heart.”
“No. I know that. It just feels as if he’s hurrying me away. Or that he’s . . . disconnecting in some way.” She shook her head. “It’s just foolishness, on my part, I know. I don’t want to worry about it. Let’s concentrate on our mystery instead. You know, my first thought was that the girl was following us, but then I considered. We first saw her outside Lady Tresham’s old home, then at the park, then at the lady’s current address. Perhaps she might have been watching for Lady Tresham and not us at all.”
“Either is a possibility. Whomever stole Tensford’s fish might be watching us, to make sure we are not getting too close to the truth. But honestly, it’s just as likely that Lady Tresham owes someone some money—and they wish to collect it before she sets out on her trip.”
“Well, she’ll be gone from Town, soon enough, if she is not already. I suppose we must wait and see if the girl shows up again, in our footsteps.”
“That is entirely too passive for me,” Hope declared. “What if she is watching us and she becomes more adept at hiding? Or has someone else take her place? No. If we are being followed, I want to know—and why.” She raised her chin. “And I know just the person to help us.” Rising, she crossed to a lady’s writing desk situated at the window. “I’ll send a note now, and I’ll wager we have a plan of action by this evening.” She took a moment to scratch out a message, before folding and stamping the page. Finished, she reached out and pulled a cord. “Now, in the meantime—
“Begging your pardon, my lady.” A maid stood in the doorway. “I heard you ring, but I was already on my way up. There is a caller downstairs. She says as she’s an old friend, you won’t mind the early hour.”
Hope gestured for her to enter and took the card from the salver. “I’ll exchange this, if you’ll please see that this note is delivered to Craven Street, right away. Thank you, Mary.” She glanced at the card. “Old friend,” she snorted.
“Who is it?” Penelope asked.
“Tell her I’ll be down directly,” Hope told the maid. When the girl had gone, she came back to the breakfast table. Handing over the card, she took up a piece of toast.
“Oh.” Penelope handed the card back. “Lady Lowell. We saw her in the park.”
Hope rolled her eyes. “I never met the girl until after my betrothal. Tensford’s mother had been pushing her at him, you know.”
“I know she and the dowager countess were fast friends.” Penelope pulled a face. “That was enough to damn her in my eyes—and most everyone’s around Greystone and in the village.”
“They are two peas in a pod,” Hope sighed. “I swear, they compete to see who can snipe at me the most—in the most polite way, of course.” She took one last sip of tea. “Come. See her with me and we can claim a prior engagement and keep it short.”
They went down to find the lady in the parlor. She stood, examining a painting near the window.
“Good morning,” Hope said, entering. “Goodness, how bright you look this morning, Lady Lowell.”
The woman smiled in pleasure and ran her hand along her orange-almost-red skirts. “Thank you. One of the best things about being married is putting away the boring debutante wardrobe.” She gave Penelope’s light blue gown a disparaging glance. “I vow, I will never wear pastels again.”
“The bold colors suit you.” Hope swept her hand toward the chairs grouped nearby. “Please, sit. I’m afraid you’ve caught us just finishing breakfast and with an appointment to keep soon.”
“Oh, no matter. I will not stay long. I heard you were in Town and I just thought to pop in and see how you are getting on.” She gave Penelope a quick glance and focused again on the countess. “Is Tensford at home?”
“No. He left early this morning. He and his friends are off on some escapade or other.”
“Ah, yes. Th
at group is quite devoted to each other, still.”
“As they always will be, I believe,” Hope countered.
“Well.” The other lady lifted ahead. “We all differ, I suppose, in many ways. I find I prefer my husband’s focus on me. He is quite devoted and very attentive.”
“Fortunately, Tensford’s heart is large and generous. He can hold quite a few of us close.”
Lady Lowell laughed. “Fortunately, my husband’s purse is large and generous, just as I like it.” She looked around and let her gaze linger on Penelope. “Lowell may only be a baronet, but his family is very old and distinguished.”
“Yes, when we met in the park you mentioned the family crossed over with the Normans.”
“And they have been close to the crown ever since.”
“I’m sure that must keep him very busy,” Penelope said.
“It does. But I don’t mind. He believes I fit in with their distinguished lineage very well.”
She turned her attention to the parlor about them. Penelope could see the critical wheels turning as she examined the walls, the art and the curtains.
“I’m surprised you have not redone the townhouse yet, my dear,” she said languidly to the countess. “But I suppose Greystone Park has been more demanding than you bargained for.”
“It has indeed. Far more.”
“I knew you’d regret taking that pile on,” Lady Lowell said, quietly but fiercely triumphant.
“I fear you misunderstand. Greystone has given me so much more than I expected. Tensford and I have enjoyed every day spent there. Every day a new project, a new way to coax the place into thriving. And now the days grow sweeter as we begin to see the rewards of our work, from the house, to the fields and the tenants, even to the friends we’ve made.” She smiled at Penelope.
“How philanthropic you are,” Lady Lowell said dryly. She stood. “Well, I will not keep you. Please pass along my greetings to your husband.” She nodded. “Good day. I’m sure we will all see each other again, soon.”
Stunned, Penelope watched her sweep from the room.
“Now, now,” Hope admonished. “Do not let her color your notion of London Society. Most at-home visits are a comfortable coze of compliments, gossip and tea. It’s just that one who calls only to poke at me. Well, her and my mother-in-law.”
“She behaved the same way when she lived at Greystone for the year. She was quite catty to anyone she considered beneath her. Which was all of us, as far as I could tell.”
Hope sighed. “Sometimes it is extremely difficult not to poke back. She does go on about that family lineage. What I’ve heard is that the revered Lowell ancestor crossed over with William the Conqueror, as his executioner—the man he called upon to do the dirty work a crowned king cannot sully his hands with.” She shook her head. “And from what I’ve seen of her husband, the blood does run true.”
“You cannot lower yourself to her level of behavior,” Penelope declared. “I don’t think you could do it, even if you wished to.”
“Perhaps not, but sometimes it is pleasant to imagine it,” Hope sighed. “But you are right. The best revenge on someone like her is to live well and be happy.”
She nodded, trying to imagine what living well and happy might look like.
Tiny kisses, laughter, new ideas, hot breath, the slow unbuttoning of buttons.
Do it again.
“Come.” Hope stood and beckoned her. “As I was saying before we were interrupted, we have the morning free and I mean to put it to some use.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Run along and fetch a wrap, my dear. We are going to do a bit of sleuthing.”
Chapter 11
“We are to meet Lord Whiddon,” Sterne told the porter who greeted them at White’s. “Has he arrived?”
The porter nodded. “I believe you’ll find him in the breakfast room, sir.”
They did. Whiddon was already seated at a table and ordering coffee. “For the whole table, if you please,” he said as Sterne and Tensford took their seats. “And please ask John Bast to attend us for a moment?”
The servant nodded and departed.
“Why must we breakfast here, Whiddon? It’s altogether more comfortable and private at home,” Tensford complained.
Sterne didn’t complain. Taking the morning meal at the club meant there was no chance of meeting Penelope Munroe, and he felt in need of some distance.
“We must, because while we were dining in comfort at your table yesterday morn and while we were quizzing Goodson about Stillwater, the dastard was having his own breakfast, right here!”
“What?” Sterne stopped mooning about Penelope for the first time since he’d left her at Tensford’s last evening. “Stillwater? Here?”
“Surely he’s not a member?” Tensford frowned. “The man scarcely ever comes to London. Why would he take on the expense? Who would have sponsored him?”
“He was here as a guest. The porters know I’ve been asking about him. One of them sent word.”
“Perhaps he’ll show up again, today.” Sterne began to examine faces at the surrounding tables.
“He might, but at the very least we can find out who brought him along.”
“Yes. That will work. We can track him down that way,” Sterne agreed.
“Your coffee, sirs.” The porter began to pour and serve.
“Thank you. And Mr. Bast?” Whiddon asked.
“He should be along directly, sir. He had to obtain permission to leave his post.”
“We’ll have breakfast while we wait.” Tensford told him. “Thank you.”
But Sterne couldn’t muster any enthusiasm for food. His knee jigged while he watched every face that entered, both member and staff.
This could be it—the clue they needed to find Stillwater and the fossil. He longed to have it found, to have the search be over and the burden lifted from him. And yet, he hated the idea, suddenly, as well. It would mean the end of his close association with Penelope.
Part of him felt wary around her, still. She was so lovely, so perfect. He kept waiting for it—for the inevitable cooling, the retreat, or sudden hostility—the price one paid for intimacy. But she remained so evenly and constantly kind and funny and interested. It was damnably alluring, and nerve wracking at the same time. He’d revealed so much more of himself than was likely safe, but she’d met him measure for measure and the thought of more was intoxicating.
It was why he’d spent hours last night, tossing and turning and plotting, trying to find a way to make it work. Perhaps if he finished his latest article quickly and submitted . . . getting it published would help him to gain some traction.
But after a few minutes of glorious imaginings, he’d forced himself to face the truth. His other papers had been rejected from a number of journals. It was an uphill battle just to convince other scientists that the study of humans and their connections was a valid and worthwhile field. He had forged some valuable relationships this year, though, and together with two university scholars, he hoped to start their own journal to advance their interests and theories. The thought was exhilarating. They could be at the forefront of creating an entire new branch of the natural sciences. But he knew he was putting himself in the position of a massive amount of work and that it would be quite some time before he reached anything that counted as success.
He couldn’t ask her to wait so long for him. Neither could he expect her to move into poky bachelor’s rooms and gamble on his not-guaranteed accomplishments or his father’s far-off demise to provide better.
He must put aside his dreams of her—which meant he must avoid being alone with her. She was too damned tempting—and funny and quick and interesting and perfect for him in every way.
But knowing all of that hadn’t prevented him from leaving her a journal article he’d thought she’d enjoy, when he stopped to pick up Tensford this morning.
“Damn it all to hell and back,” he muttered into his eggs.
“
Patience, Sterne,” chided Whiddon.
“This must be the fellow,” murmured Tensford.
“Mr. Bast?” Whiddon stood. “Were you the one who summoned me?”
The man nodded. His fingers wrung the edge of his apron, covered in oil and powder stains. “It was me, sir. Sorry to take so long, but I’d been set to polishing the silver.”
“No matter. You heard I was looking for Mr. Stillwater?”
“I did. And I think I saw him here, just yesterday.”
“Older, balding, a little querulous?” Tensford asked.
The servant nodded, but kept his expression bland. “Sounds like the same fellow, sir.”
“Who was he with?” Sterne said harshly. “Who brought him in as a guest?”
“’Twas Lord Sheffield, sir. The pair of them seemed quite well acquainted.” He shuffled a step. “But please don’t tell milord that you heard it from me.”
“We won’t. On our honor.” Whiddon tossed him a coin.
Sterne was already on his feet. “To hell with breakfast.” He could see the end of this, at last. “Let’s go.”
* * *
“We are just two ladies, enjoying a nice morning in the garden square,” Hope insisted. She looked around. “Or do we call this the garden round?” she quipped. “In any case, who could object?”
“No one,” answered Penelope. “All I must do is walk around the shrubbery and I am able to see your doorstep.”
“Exactly,” Hope said with satisfaction. “And if we happen to find ourselves with the ability to keep an eye on Lord Sheffield’s door, and perhaps note who comes and goes, then so much the better.”
“Even better if we could find an excuse to call.”
“That might be more than we can manage. I’ve met Lord Sheffield in passing, but I don’t believe I’ve ever encountered his wife.”
Penelope sighed. “Oh, well. We shall keep our eyes peeled, in any case.”