Kiss Me Lady One More Time

by Marlowe, Deb

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Caradec. May I ask, are you related to the artist of the same name, by chance?”

  The other woman lit up. “Indeed, I am! He is my husband. He will be gratified that you know of him.” She made a face. “That is, he will be, if I can remember to tell him, when he finally comes out of his latest artistic frenzy.” She took the seat the countess indicated. “His latest obsession is painting scandalous women through the ages.”

  Hope bit back a laugh.

  “Oh, yes. Cassandra, Joan of Arc, Nell Gwynn, Wollstonecraft. And you can guess who he means to be the crowning portrait of the collection.”

  “And how does Hestia feel about such a singular honor?”

  “I think she is equal parts thrilled and horrified.”

  “Well, I cannot wait to see what he accomplishes.” Hope started to rise. “Shall I ring for tea?”

  “No.” Mrs. Caradec grew serious. “Not yet. Let’s discuss your . . . situation, first.”

  “There is a situation, then.” Hope glanced over at Penelope. “We thought so.”

  “Yes. And it is more complicated than you suspected.”

  Penelope exchanged looks with Hope again.

  “You are indeed being followed,” Mrs. Caradec declared. “By two separate individuals.”

  “What?” Hope gasped.

  “Not just by the young, blonde girl?” Penelope asked, blinking.

  “The girl is definitely tailing you. She’s not very good at it. My urchins mocked her shamelessly.” She raised her brow. “But someone else is following you, as well. An older man. Nondescript—and he knows what he’s doing. As far as my network could tell, the girl was unaware of his presence.”

  “Good heavens,” Hope breathed.

  “Two of them,” Penelope repeated. “Are Tensford and Sterne being followed as well, then?”

  “I’d say the odds are high. We should find out.” Mrs. Caradec nodded. “I’ll set my people on it.”

  “They won’t be in danger? The children?” Penelope asked. The sight of the poor street children in London had been a difficult enough thing to witness. No one in their village would have been left to eke out such a miserable existence. How much worse would it be if they were harmed in pursuit of their cause?

  “No. They are smart. Well trained, if I do say so myself,” Mrs. Caradec assured her. “They keep watch on each other, as well, and they have multiple avenues and ways to seek help, should they need it.”

  The other woman drew in a deep breath. “I don’t like this, though. You two are more vulnerable than my urchins. I’ll keep them watching from a distance, but I’m also going to add someone else.” She looked at Hope. “A man trained by Isaac. Utterly trustworthy. He won’t be spotted, and he’ll be nearby. In case you need assistance. We can’t be too careful.” She looked pointedly at Hope. “Especially now.”

  Hope straightened and slid a hand over her belly. “How . . . how did you know?”

  Mrs. Caradec gave her a kindly look. “My lady, you should know by now that Hestia knows everything.”

  Relaxing a little, the countess nodded. “Still, I’m astonished.”

  “And I’m worried, I don’t mind admitting. We must be careful, but we need to find out who is watching you. Both parties. And to that end . . .” She pulled out a slip of paper. “The blonde girl. She left you this morning while you were at the dressmakers. She went straight to this house. To the back entrance. It’s not that far from here.” She handed over the paper. “Do you know the address?”

  Hope looked it over. She shook her head and passed it to Penelope.

  She took it, glanced at the address—and froze.

  “Penelope? Do you know it?”

  “Is this correct?” she asked Mrs. Caradec. “You’re sure?”

  “Utterly.”

  “Send word to Tensford,” she said to Hope. “Please. I want to go, right away.”

  Alarm on her face, Hope stood. “What is it? I’ll—Oh!” The color drained from her face and she swayed on her feet.

  Penelope leaped forward, even as Mrs. Caradec did. They each took an arm and settled her back onto her chair.

  “I’m fine! I’m fine!” Her color was returning. “Just a moment of dizziness.”

  “You only stood too quickly,” Mrs. Caradec said kindly. “The same thing happened to Brynne with her first. Every time she stood up without thinking and going slowly, she swooned a little. It went away in a matter of a few weeks.” She made a face. “Just be glad you are not casting up your accounts, as Cassie did.”

  An odd look passed over the countess’s face and she groaned.

  “Just put your head down and breathe,” Penelope told her. “It might pass.”

  “What does it mean if I’ve both symptoms?” Hope asked, her voice muffled as she put her head toward her knees.

  “It likely means you have a fine, strong son or daughter, making their presence known,” Mrs. Caradec told her reassuringly. “But we can send for the doctor, if you’d like the reassurance.”

  “No!” Hope straightened a little. “I don’t want to upset Tensford.”

  “Too late. What’s going on?” The earl strode into the parlor.

  Penelope stood back to make room for him. She was concerned about Hope, of course, but she was also on fire to get out of the house and follow up on Mrs. Caradec’s findings.

  Sterne followed his friend into the room and she quickly crossed to him. She would forget her pique with him, if only he would come to her aid. “I need your help,” she said, low. “We need to go, now.”

  “Where?”

  She handed him the address Mrs. Caradec had brought. It filled her with guilt and grim determination. “To my father’s townhouse.”

  Chapter 13

  The countess was as white as a sheet, Tensford had tangled himself into a mass of nerves and Penelope was desperate to leave and investigate, now.

  Sterne watched her erratic movements and felt her impatience growing. She was clearly torn between her concern for her friend and her need to . . . do something.

  All he wanted to do was soothe and indulge her. He wanted to slide his hands over her, listen to her troubles, slay whatever dragon had sent her into this agitated state.

  He wanted to get her alone, to tease her again and kiss her senseless. Do it again. She’d whispered it to him, and it had driven them both a little mad. He wanted that madness. He wanted to spend his life touching her. Easing her way. Creating his own happiness by ensuring hers.

  But she’d met his mother. Heard enough to understand his circumstances. Surely, she understood now, why he did his best to stay away?

  Groaning, he turned to restoring order and getting the whole story. Mrs. Caradec helped. She saw to it that the countess took some tea and toast, and as Lady Tensford’s color returned, the earl calmed, and the new findings were shared. In the end, Mrs. Caradec agreed to stay for a coze with the countess, while Sterne, Tensford and Penelope went to the house in Wells Street.

  In the carriage, he watched Penelope shift and jiggle in her seat. Real anguish showed in her face. “It has to be him,” she said, her voice strained. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Who?” Sterne asked. “Who do you expect to find at your father’s house?”

  “My cousin, Mr. James Lycett. Don’t you see? He might be the one who stole the fossil!” She dropped her face into her hands. “I am so sorry!”

  “Miss Munroe, calm yourself,” the earl said soothingly. “Even if you are correct, it’s no fault of yours.”

  “Tell us why you think he’s involved?” Sterne urged her.

  She drew a deep breath. “The girl who has been following us, I first saw her with him. They looked to be arguing. We saw them together when we arrived at Lady Tresham’s old address. I saw her twice more the same day. Today, she followed us to the dressmaker’s, then left and went to my father’s townhouse and went in the back door.”

  “Could she be part of a small staff
your father leaves at the house?”

  “No. We scarcely use the house. Mother despises London. Father comes up when business requires it, or to meet with his group of agricultural-improvement-minded friends. He keeps it closed when he’s not here, though he hired an agency to look in on the place every month. The same agency prepares the house when he sends word that he’s coming up, and staffs it for his visits. It should be empty now.”

  She frowned. “The girl was wearing a maid’s uniform, though. Perhaps she works for Lady Tresham? Or more likely, she might have worked for her when she was still staying in Cheapside. We know James and Lady Tresham have some sort of relationship. They visited Stillwater together back in Gloucestershire—some of the only visitors he’s allowed for years.”

  “Lady Tresham admitted to stealing fossils from Stillwater,” Sterne mused.

  “But they were stolen from her!” Penelope suddenly sounded certain. “James could have been the one to take them—with the help of this young maid. If he did, and if he also stole your fossil, Lord Tensford, he would want to keep track of us, to see if we were looking into the matter, and perhaps getting close. Having used her once as an accomplice, he might have used her again.”

  “But . . . why?” Tensford asked. “Why would he take it?”

  “I don’t know.” Her shoulders drooped. “Perhaps he needed funds?”

  “There was a great deal of rumor flying about the house party and in the village—that you would get a nice sum for the thing,” Sterne told his friend.

  Penelope straightened. “James asked me if I meant to open the townhouse. It was one of the first things he said to me. Could he be staying there? If he’s low on funds and the place is meant to be shut up . . .” She looked between them. “Perhaps he’s keeping the fossil there, until he can sell it!”

  Sterne began to feel the effect of her words, stirring up hope. They might solve this mystery at last. He held his excitement in check, though. “It’s all conjecture until we get there and see what’s what.”

  He had to make a conscious effort, though, to keep his knee from bouncing in sympathetic impatience with hers.

  “We need to plan this carefully,” Tensford insisted. “I won’t have anyone harmed trying to get that damned fish back.”

  “We should leave the carriage away from the house and walk the rest of the way,” Sterne mused. If he’s there, we should surprise him, if we can.”

  “We can.” Penelope held up a ring of keys. “I have the keys to the house.”

  “How?” Tensford asked. “Why?”

  “My father sent them with me. He thought it entirely possible that my mother would decide she needed something from her studio here and would bid me to fetch it home.” Her tone turned wry. “He’s learned to be very good at predicting my mother’s fits and starts—and preparing for them.”

  “A trick I’ll have to remember,” Tensford muttered.

  “Hope has nothing on my mother,” she laughed.

  “You have keys for both front and back?” Sterne asked. They were drawing close.

  They debated their approach. In the end, they reasoned that Lycett might be more attuned to someone entering from the back. Penelope and Sterne would go in the front, while Tensford waited at the back door to make sure no one slipped out.

  They paused to let Tensford out, first. He slipped into the lane that ran behind the row of houses and the mews. Sterne and Penelope climbed out just before the carriage turned onto Wells Street.

  They walked in silence. They were both tense with anticipation—and awkwardness. Turning toward the house from the pavement, it all looked quiet. She turned the key in the lock, and they eased inside, closing the door silently behind them.

  All lay quiet. Rooms full of furniture draped with dust covers. The sight of them made his heart twist a little, but he didn’t meet her gaze. They walked from room to room as stealthily as possible, finding nothing out of the ordinary. Nodding toward the stairs, he mouthed, stay here, and started up.

  She didn’t listen. He should have known. Everything up here was undisturbed as well—until they reached the master’s bedroom suite.

  It was empty—but it was a mess. The bed was unmade and gave off a stench of sweat and sex. Clothes were tossed about. They were mostly gentleman’s linens and breeches and trousers. Dirty plates and empty liquor bottles lay everywhere.

  Penelope was furious. He could see it in the set of her mouth and the stiffness of her shoulders. They eased out, and she grabbed up a blue coat and brought it with her.

  Still silent, they moved back downstairs, went through the green baize door and down to the servants’ domain. It was all empty, too. Sterne went through the kitchen and opened the door. Tensford stood, stiffly ready, outside.

  “Come on in, there’s no one here.”

  The earl came in. “But there’s been someone here, and recently.” He gestured toward the long table, where half a loaf of bread, still good, sat near a bowl of plums, as well as an open bottle of wine.

  “He’s been living here,” Penelope said in disgust. She threw the coat over a kitchen chair. “And it is definitely my cousin. This coat is missing the third button. I mentioned it to him the other day.” Taking it up again and rolling it into a ball, she tossed it in the hearth, thick with ashes left uncleaned. “He made himself at home in my parents’ bedroom.” She shook her head. “Disgraceful.”

  “We should look for the fossil,” Sterne reminded them.

  “I’m going up to my mother’s studio. He might have thrown a tarp over it and stacked it amongst her canvases.”

  They all went with her and searched the studio thoroughly, without success. They split up then and looked into each closet, underneath each bed and mattress, into each corner of every room, from the servants’ rooms in the attics to the wine cellar below the kitchen.

  “He’s helped himself here, too, hasn’t he?” Penelope said, looking at the mess. “My father will be furious.”

  “It’s not here,” Sterne finally admitted.

  They all trooped back to the kitchen. Penelope set the oil lamp they’d taken downstairs on the table and everyone settled onto the benches. Tensford took up a plum like he meant to eat it, but he looked at it and carefully set it back into the bowl. “What do you want to do?” he asked Penelope.

  “I want to stay here until he comes back. I want to confront his lying face,” she snapped.

  “No.” Sterne said it at the same time as the earl. “I’m sorry,” he continued, trying to soothe her. “He’s desperate, clearly. And he’ll be shocked, humiliated and angry to be caught out. That’s a dangerous combination.”

  “Then I want the locks changed,” she said stubbornly. “Now. Tonight.” She folded her arms. “I’ll pay what it takes. I’m not leaving until it’s done, and I know he won’t be able to get back in.”

  “That’s not unreasonable.” Tensford sighed and stood. “I’ll go and arrange it. I’ll stop and check on Hope, as well, and then I’ll be back.”

  “Would you mind sending a footman over?” Penelope asked. “I mean to write a note to the agency that is supposed to be watching the house. I want them to keep at least two men here until James is dealt with.” She snorted. “I wouldn’t put it past him to break a window, if he finds himself locked out—and it’s the least they can do.”

  “Good idea.” Tensford paused. He drew a dueling pistol from his coat and held it out.

  Sterne took it, holding it carefully.

  “Just in case,” the earl said.

  He nodded.

  “The light will be fading soon. You should probably turn that lamp down low. And Sterne . . .”

  “Yes. I know. I will keep her safe.”

  His friend kept his gaze locked upon him.

  “Yes. Completely safe.” From himself, as well. They both knew what he meant.

  Tensford nodded and slipped out of the kitchen door. Sterne locked the door behind him and when he turned, Penelope was moving awa
y, toward the front of the house. He dutifully turned down the lamp and followed her.

  She was pacing from one front room to the next. He tucked the gun into his coat pocket, went to perch on a window seat and let her pace, while he watched the street outside through the heavy curtains.

  She stomped on. Once, she stopped and looked at him, but then turned and paced away again. He said nothing, just waited.

  “It’s not even that I feel a deep attachment to this house,” she told him, stopping at last, staring at him with arms akimbo. “It’s the deceit. If James had asked, my father would have given him use of the place. But no. He’s here, thieving, and thinking he’s getting one over on my family.”

  “He must have got himself into some sort of trouble,” Sterne theorized. “I cannot imagine—”

  “I don’t care,” she said ruthlessly. “I don’t care what he’s done.” Even in the dim light he saw the shine of tears in her eyes. “It’s my fault! He stole it. I know he did. It may not be here, but he’s responsible. I feel it in my soul. And Hope and Tensford have been nothing but kind to me! James wouldn’t even have been at that party at Greystone, had not they not invited him, out of kindness to me! And this is how they are repaid?” He could hear the agony of regret and guilt in her words. “I could kill him! With my bare hands!”

  He took a step toward her and she held out a hand to stop him. “No! Do not come near me. I’m nearly as angry with you!”

  He drew a breath to defend himself, but to his horror, she burst into tears, sobbing as if her heart would break.

  * * *

  Oh, heaven help her. She was horrified. But she could not stop crying. She didn’t do it daintily, either. No pretty, shining tracks of tears for her. No. She sobbed and shook and blew her nose and cried buckets. She held far too many emotions to contain, and out they came, in great, sniveling sobs.