by Linda Jones
What would become of her now?
"Miss Seton?"
She turned her head to one side to see a pair of sturdy black-clad legs and scuffed black boots. She wanted to order whoever it was to go away and leave her in peace, but she found she couldn't speak at all. If she opened her mouth, she would blubber like a baby.
Strong hands found her elbow and her waist, and the intruder lifted her to her feet.
She looked up into the meddler's face, ready to blast him for intruding on her privacy, and found herself staring into the narrowed eyes of Penelope's strange butler, Dalton.
"I'm ... I'm...” The word “fine” refused to leave her lips. “I fell."
"I can see that.” His voice was soft, a whisper that wouldn't disturb the night. “What are you doing out here this time of night?"
It was on her lips to tell him that it was none of his business when he slipped an arm easily around her waist to lead her toward the house.
"I couldn't sleep, and I thought a walk in the garden would help me relax."
"Ahh,” he replied, and somehow she knew he didn't believe her.
Rather than taking her into the house, he led her directly to the separate building that was the kitchen, where he placed her in a hard-backed chair at a long, rough-hewn table. She sat there and watched him as he filled a bowl with water from a large ewer and collected a clean towel from the pantry.
He looked less like a butler than before, and he'd never filled that mold comfortably. Tonight he was again dressed all in black, but this was not the elegant black-and-white livery of the Broderick household. He wore tight, well-worn black breeches, tall boots, and a loose black shirt that fell open at the neck. His dark blond hair was untied and touching his shoulders, and when he knelt before her with the dampened towel in his hands, he fixed intense blue eyes on her face.
"You've never struck me as a woman who cries easily,” he said as he lifted the towel to wipe her cheeks gently.
"I'm not. I never cry."
"Then why do you cry now?"
Again, “it's none of your business” was on her tongue, but never made it past her lips. “Have you never been truly disappointed? I don't mean your normal, everyday frustration. I'm talking about a moment when you realize that nothing is as it should be. Has that ever happened to you?"
"Many times.” His large hands were gentle against her face as he wiped away her tears.
"I'm sure you never cry,” she said, trying for a haughty tone and failing.
"Perhaps on occasion,” he admitted softly.
Once her face was wiped clean he turned his attention to her hands, holding each wrist while he bathed away the dirt gently and easily.
She wondered what would make a stoic man like Dalton cry. Had a woman broken his heart? When he turned those blue eyes to her again, she could see the pain there, and all of a sudden her troubles seemed small. Her heart was broken, she'd made a fool of herself, and she'd never have the one man she'd always wanted, no matter what sacrifices she was prepared to make.
But the pain she saw in Dalton's eyes seemed much deeper than any she'd ever known. She saw and even felt the agony, as if he spoke aloud. Death, rage, darkness. He'd known them all.
"Would you like to tell me,” he asked as he finished with her hands and released her, “about the disappointment that brings tears to the eyes of a woman who does not cry?"
She could tell no one, not ever. Victor had proved himself right. She was a slut, a jade, an easy woman who would never have the things she wanted. Simple things, like love and a family of her own. She shook her head slowly, and Dalton stood.
"Then get to bed,” he said gruffly as he cleared the bowl and towel from the table.
She stood quickly, and turned away from him with every intention of taking his advice.
"Mary,” he said softly.
She stopped, not even thinking to correct him for his improper use of her given name.
"Yes?"
"It would be best if you refrained from late-night walks in the garden. Next time I might not be around to assist you."
"There won't be any more night-time excursions,” she said, meaning it.
"Good."
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Chapter Fifteen
"Lud, m'dear, whatever are you doing?"
The wonder Max conveyed with his voice was real. The stress of the past several weeks must have been too much for his wife, because before him was the evidence that she'd lost her mind.
"Painting,” she murmured without so much as glancing over her shoulder to where he stood in the doorway. She was so intent on her project that he was surprised she responded at all.
"I can see that.” He stepped into the parlor and found that Dalton had been correct in his reports. Each of the four walls was in some stage of destruction or renewal. Scenes were sketched in roughly, and here and there Penelope had begun to fill in the spaces with carefully applied paint.
He took a seat in a wing chair in the middle of the room from which he could watch the process. Penelope paid him no mind at all.
She was truly talented. He'd known that to be true from the moment he'd seen her quickly sketch a simple flower, but he'd never seen her so intent upon her work. So dedicated. Oblivious to her surroundings, she stood perched on her footstool and dabbed with a bit of green paint, leaning close to inspect the area in progress. From this vantage point he could see that the scenes flowed with an effortless elegance across the room.
Her plain blue dress, a simple style with a high waist and a flowing skirt, was marked here and there with specks of paint, her sleeves were sloppily rolled up so as not to impede her work, her hair was falling in disarray from what had no doubt once been a neat bun—and she was breathtakingly beautiful, as always.
He took his eyes from her, wondering why he felt compelled to sit here and watch her. Curiosity? Perhaps. Love? God help him.
His wandering eyes fell upon a stack of papers that were haphazardly piled on the table to his left. Preliminary sketches for the mural that had claimed her attention for the past several days, he was sure. He took the sketches, placed them in his lap, and began to leaf through them. Yes, his wife was definitely gifted.
It was the last of the drawings that surprised him, three unfinished studies of the face he saw in the mirror every morning. She saw more than he knew, his wife. Each illustration showed a different face, one of the many faces he presented to the world.
He stood with the sketches in his hand. “You're quite talented, m'dear,” he said as he came up behind her.
Startled, Penelope glanced over her shoulder. Her eyes were wide, and she teetered for a moment on the unsteady stool before tumbling backward. Max dropped the drawings and caught her.
The sketches fluttered to the floor as he stood there with his wife in his arms. Paint from her dress touched his cream silk jacket, and the small paintbrush in her hand stroked his cheek—just once. Beneath her simple dress she wore no busk, no stays, so that the body pressed against his was soft and yielding.
His body's immediate reaction proved to him that avoiding Penelope had been a useless exercise. Keeping his distance hadn't dulled his obsession, but fed it.
"Oh, I'm so sorry,” she said, staring at his cheek and then his ruined jacket. A smile bloomed on her face, a very wicked and unrepentant smile. “I didn't realize you were still in the room, and when you spoke..."
"I startled you,” Max said. “This unfortunate incident is entirely my fault."
He really should put her down, make a fuss over his paint-speckled silk, and tell her how very cumbersome she was.
But she felt just right, not cumbersome at all but warm and soft and secure. He wasn't ready to let her go.
Her smile died slowly. Poor Penelope, she was surely as confused as he was. In spite of his best efforts, she saw his many faces. Did she wonder which of her husbands held her now?
With her thumb, she tentatively brushed at the paint on his
cheek. “I am sorry, Maximillian,” she said softly.
"It's quite all right, m'dear.” Still he didn't release her.
"It's just that I so rarely see you anymore, and when we are in the same room you never stay for very long."
"I'm an impatient man,” he whispered.
"Are you?"
He wanted nothing more at that moment than to carry his wife up the stairs and to her bedchamber, to make love to her by the light of day, to lose himself in her body and forget the differences that came between them.
Max lowered his lips to hers to kiss her tentatively. She tasted so good, smelled so wonderful, the kiss was an assault on his senses, an assault he was unprepared to fight against. Her mouth was receptive, inviting, and he almost forgot that on their last meeting he had all but told Penelope that he didn't love her.
She kissed him back, parting her lips slightly and moving her mouth in a tender exploration over his own. Maybe she didn't care that he didn't love her. Then again, maybe she was smarter than he knew and didn't believe his protests.
How was he supposed to live with Penelope and not love her?
Her eyes had drifted closed, but he needed to see them, needed to look into those depths as he asked her what he'd never had the nerve to ask before.
"Penelope.” He whispered the name against her welcoming lips, and her eyes opened slowly.
"Yes?"
Her betrayal remained between them, the secrets, the lies. Until the truth was spoken they could not have anything more than this shallow and painful sham of a marriage. She looked, at this moment, as if she wanted more—just as he did. “I have to know..."
"Madam, you have a visitor.” Dalton's curt voice interrupted from close behind, too close behind. Maximillian cursed the man as he set Penelope on her feet.
He calmed himself, dismissed the rash act he'd been about to perpetrate for the sake of love, and turned with a much-too-wide smile on his face to greet Penelope's visitor.
Victor Chadwick.
He'd called here last week, according to Dalton. Dalton, who seemed to be suddenly taken with the woman he'd been so keen to do away with a few weeks ago. Dalton, who'd defended Penelope when Max had railed against the news that she'd received Chadwick privately.
Dalton was going soft.
"What a pleasure,” Max said brightly as he approached an unsmiling Chadwick. The last time he'd seen Chadwick had been at a horse race at the edge of town, and before that he'd joined him at Huntland's house for a game of cards. The man had been unusually close-mouthed lately. It was most frustrating. “Dalton, tea all around."
"There's no tea, sir,” Dalton said coldly.
Max sighed loudly. “Coffee, then.” He turned to see Penelope's reaction. She was pale and fidgety and uncomfortable. Caught again.
"No coffee for me,” Chadwick said solemnly. “And Maximillian, if you would indulge me, I need a private word with your charming wife."
Max forced the bright smile to stay in place. “Of course.” He glanced at Penelope briefly. “You won't mind if I excuse myself. I really must change out of this paint-stained ensemble. My best imported silk, you know, and it's completely ruined."
"Go on, then,” she said softly.
"I'll leave you to your intrigue and whispered secrets,” he said lightly as he made his way to the door. In the doorway, he turned and grasped the handle firmly. He stared at Penelope, who had gone from warm and vulnerable to cold and unreadable. Ah, she had as many faces as he did, surely.
"Behave yourself, m'dear,” he said softly as he closed the door.
Penelope stared at the closed door and cursed her husband to hell. If ever she needed him beside her it was now. Why didn't she have a husband who cared enough to stand up to Victor and tell him no, he could not have his wife alone for even a second? Didn't Maximillian know that she needed him here?
Of course not; he was much too concerned with his ruined clothing.
"What do you want, Victor?"
Victor cast a suspicious eye over the walls of her parlor. “I wanted to give you one last chance to reconsider your decision."
"Is this about that ridiculous spy business again? I've given you my answer, more than once."
Victor smiled, and she didn't like it at all. “The game has changed."
"I have no intention—"
"I have Tyler."
"What?"
Penelope frowned, sure she'd heard incorrectly. She hadn't been paying attention, that was it. She was still thinking about Maximillian and his most recent desertion. What did Victor mean he had Tyler? Here he stood, smiling smugly, asking her to do something she could never agree to, and what on earth did that have to do with Tyler?
"He was arrested with a band of miscreants who saw fit to raid my arsenal. Stealing is a serious offense. Stealing from me is extremely unwise."
She realized with a sinking heart that she hadn't misunderstood at all. “What do you want?"
"Since talking to you last, I have even more reason to believe that the Indigo Blade is working out of this very house. He lives here, perhaps disguised as a meek servant or a stable boy. Perhaps he's the husband of one of the cooks or housemaids, a man who might be found here at any time of the day."
She gathered all her courage to face the man who would stoop to such a deceitful level. “I think you're wrong."
Victor was much too calm. “The problem is that I don't know who he is, or what he looks like, as he so often employs those ridiculous disguises. Nor do I know for a fact how many men this rebel has in his employ.” He began to pace in obvious excitement. “I hear four, and then I hear twenty. I hear he works alone, and then I hear he has an army waiting to take me on. I know he's here, but if I strike too soon, if I show my hand before I know exactly who this miscreant is, I might lose him completely.” He stopped pacing and faced Penelope, looking her square in the eyes with frightening confidence. He knew she would do anything for her brother. “I want you to find out who he is."
"You don't need me for this,” she insisted. “And ... and I can't do it."
Victor smiled. “I couldn't bring myself to hang little Tyler. Why, he was almost a brother to me."
Penelope closed her eyes in relief.
"But I have my duty, Penelope. He'll be jailed in a dark dungeon, whipped in a public display to discourage others of like mind, broken so that when he is one day released, you won't know him.” His voice was a whisper as he delivered the last of this dire threat.
There was nothing she wouldn't do to spare Tyler the fate Victor had so carefully planned. Tyler, who was hotheaded but innocent and young ... as Heath Lowry had been innocent and young.
"How can I find out what you and your entire army cannot?"
"I expect you'll find a way."
Penelope closed her eyes against the room that suddenly swam and tilted. She couldn't do this ... she didn't want to have anything to do with Victor and his ambitious plans....
"And by the way,” Victor said casually, “is Mary still living here or has she returned to William's plantation?"
"What?” Her eyes snapped open. “How can you come in here and threaten me and then turn around and ask so casually after my cousin? How dare you?"
"Is she still here?” he asked, unmoved by her anger.
"Yes,” she whispered.
He appeared to be a bit concerned, puzzled perhaps, as he turned and left her alone. “I'll call on you in three days, Penelope,” he said as he reached the door. “I expect you'll have made some progress by then."
Victor closed the door behind him, and Penelope sank into the nearest chair—her energy drained, her newly reclaimed life in shambles.
What choice did she have but to do as he asked? A spy. She, who only wanted to be left out of this conflict, who only wanted to be left alone. No matter how hard she tried, how diligently she undertook this task, there was no guarantee she'd make any discoveries.
What would Victor do to Tyler if she did her best and was
unsuccessful?
Her knees shook, and no matter how hard she tried she couldn't make them stop. Where was Maximillian? If ever she'd needed him, this was the time. She wanted to cry on his shoulder, tell him everything that had happened, and somehow have him make it all go away. The lies, the danger to Tyler—she just wanted it to go away.
She heard someone at the door, a soft step and a small movement of the handle.
"Maximillian,” she whispered as the door opened slowly.
But it was Dalton who stepped into the room. “Madam, is everything all right?"
She could almost believe that the butler cared more for her welfare than her own husband. At least, Dalton appeared to be concerned.
"Yes.” She studied this man who was, she was certain, no butler. He was defiant, impatient, brawny. His face had been browned and leathered by the sun, and he sported that unfashionable bit of facial hair. His hands were large and rough, the hands of a man who was no stranger to hard labor. Still it was flimsy evidence.
Was Dalton the Indigo Blade? And if she discovered that he was, did she dare give that information to Victor? Heaven above, she had no choice.
Outside the warm and secure house, a storm raged. Rain beat against the roof and windows, and lightning split the sky. Tonight there would be no excursions for the Indigo Blade, no delivery of weapons or secret meetings.
Penelope was distant over the evening meal, barely paying attention as Mary chattered on about a new bolt of fabric and the latest bit of gossip. Max had decided, grudgingly, that he might not have been present at all, for all the attention his wife paid him.
He'd been ignoring her for weeks, forcing the distance between them to grow, so why was he irritated that his plan had worked so well? It was the afternoon's kiss, he supposed, an innocent enough kiss for man and wife to share, but also more than enough to make him question his resolve.
Dalton came into the room with a tray of sliced Queen's cake for dessert, and Mary's rambling suddenly ended. She looked at the supposed butler with a slight shifting of her eyes, and no more, as if she were trying to observe him without being noticed. Her back straightened, and she lifted her hand to smooth a wayward curl. Dalton looked sharply at everyone in the room but Mary. He didn't turn his eyes her way once, not even as he set a plate before her.