by Linda Jones
But Max found he couldn't leave without saying good-bye. He didn't want Penelope to ever again wake in a lonely bed, wondering where he was and when he would be back. That was a mistake he'd made too often.
Fully dressed, he sat on the edge of the bed and placed a hand on her shoulder. Immediately, she was awake. Her eyes took in the dark outfit, and she knew. He could see the unwelcome knowledge in her eyes.
He didn't say a word, but bent to kiss her lips lightly.
She wanted to ask so many questions, he could see, but she said nothing as he lowered his lips to kiss her once more.
He was almost to the door when Penelope found her voice. “Be careful,” she whispered.
It was a caution he would carry with him through the night, a reminder that he had more than just himself to account for now. He had Penelope, and little Horatio and Daisy and Faith and James to think about. He had wondrous days and nights to come. Love. Hope.
He met his glum-faced men in the study with a smile on his face.
After Maximillian left, Penelope found she couldn't go back to sleep. She'd had enough rest to catch up from last night's lack of sleep, and besides—she was worried.
The house was quiet, the other residents being either abed or gone. A number of them, she surmised, were with her husband.
Many of her questions about this odd household were now answered. The staff that was so inadequate and frightening—they were no doubt the infamous League of the Indigo Blade, the men who rode with Maximillian. That explained much: the odd hours they kept, the days her husband slept into the afternoon.
She accepted Maximillian's word that Tyler was safe, so she was able to worry about her little brother less. But what of her husband? Where was he now? Danger might be exciting when someone else was involved, but when it was the man you loved, it was simply frightening.
Penelope left the bed, wrapped herself in Maximillian's banyon, and slipped down the hall to her own bedchamber. There she lit a candle and began to gather garments from her chest and clothes presser. She placed the folded clothing neatly on her bed, gathering together her most frequently used items.
Her days of sleeping in a separate bed from her husband were over. She'd make room in his dresser for her clothes, or perhaps move one of these fine pieces of furniture into his chamber. They had a real marriage now, and she wouldn't spend a moment longer than necessary away from Maximillian.
"Penelope?” Mary's voice was hesitant, lilting as she opened the door.
Penelope smiled brightly at her cousin. She would have told her visitor to come in, but of course Mary had never been one to wait for an invitation. She came in and walked straight to the bed, and Penelope resumed her chore.
"Going somewhere?” Mary asked sharply, observing the folded clothing on the bed.
Penelope spun around, intent on telling her cousin how very happy she was, how wonderful life was, how very much she loved her husband.
But an unexpected sight stopped her. Victor Chadwick stood in the doorway Mary had left open, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes locked on her. She instinctively pulled the banyon tighter around her. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.
Victor placed a finger to his lips. “Let's not wake the others and make a nasty scene. It would be best if you came with me now. Quietly.” He motioned with a raised hand, and two armed soldiers stepped smartly and silently to stand behind him. “We don't want anyone to be hurt."
She didn't even know who remained in the house. Helen, perhaps, who slept in a room off the separate kitchen and was surely too far removed to hear anything. Beck? Lewis? Any of the men who lived on the third floor. Perhaps they were all with Maximillian, and she had no choice but to face Victor alone.
Even if she were to rouse someone, they'd likely be caught unaware and be killed or wounded by Victor's soldiers. She couldn't, wouldn't, be a party to such violence.
"What do you want?” she said calmly.
"I want you to come with me,” he said, lifting an inviting hand.
"No,” she said, realizing that her defiance was only a useless display. Victor had all the power at the moment, the soldiers, the firearms.
"Mary,” he said wearily, “help your troublesome cousin dress, would you?"
"Of course,” Mary said demurely. “Leave us?"
Victor nodded once as he closed the door. “There are soldiers placed beneath your window, Mrs. Broderick. I suggest you be on your best behavior and hurry along."
When the door was closed, Mary took a dress from the pile on the bed and began gathering petticoats and underthings. She said not a word.
"Mary?” Penelope took a step closer to her cousin.
"Do as Victor says and hurry along,” Mary said curtly.
"I don't understand."
Mary tossed a petticoat across the bed. “You don't understand!” she said angrily. “Don't play the innocent with me. I know what's going on in this house, Penelope, and so does Victor."
"You told, didn't you?” Penelope said accusingly, unable to believe that her own cousin would betray her and Maximillian this way. “Somehow you found out, and you went straight to Victor to share the news."
"Yes. Now get dressed."
"Why?"
Mary shook her head. “Why? You dare to ask me why? You're the one who's done wrong, sweet, pure Penelope. I should be asking you why you'd commit adultery with a seditious rogue."
Penelope bit back the automatic response that came to her lips. Adultery?
"I want to be the one to tell your husband,” Mary continued, “that you shunned him for a rebel, that you forsook your wedding vows to take the notorious Indigo Blade to your bed. What do you think poor Maximillian will say to that?"
Penelope closed her eyes, thankful that Mary didn't, as she believed, know everything. Maximillian was safe, for the moment. It was up to her to keep the illusion alive, to keep him safe.
"You know as well as I that my husband ignored me from the day we were married. Tell him if you'd like. He'll no doubt be glad to be rid of me,” Penelope said with an unwavering voice.
"Is that why you were running away with him?” Mary asked, pushing a small pile of clothing off the bed.
"Yes,” Penelope answered.
"You don't deserve him,” Mary hissed.
With great effort, Penelope kept her voice and her demeanor calm. “Are you speaking of Maximillian or the Indigo Blade?"
Mary threw the selected clothing at Penelope. “Get dressed."
"I don't like it,” Max muttered as he stalked into his study, tossing his gloves to the floor in anger.
"It was just a mistake,” John muttered. “Nothing diabolical about that."
It was too easy to call the night's disaster a mistake, but Max didn't quite believe it. Not only was Terrence not imprisoned where they'd been informed, he hadn't been arrested at all. They'd awakened him from a sound sleep in his own bed, after searching for hours and wondering if they were indeed too late to save the old man.
"The information came from Chadwick himself,” Max reminded the men who filed into his study. “In the past, he hasn't made mistakes like saying he's arrested a man when he has not."
"Maybe he meant to arrest him, and we just got there first,” Lewis said with a shrug. “The old man is safely out of Charles Town now, so if Chadwick goes to arrest him later this morning, he'll get a nice surprise."
They liked that idea, but again, Max wasn't convinced.
There would be time for stewing later. Right now he wanted to climb the spiral staircase to his chamber, throw off these clothes, and crawl into bed with Penelope. He wanted to love her, to be a part of her body and soul and allow her to chase away the darkness and the uncertainty of his life.
She chased away the shadows.
The room was dark, but he found his way to the rumpled bed with no problem. “I'm home,” he announced, and then he waited for her to rise from the darkness and beckon to him.
But there was n
othing. No response, no movement. He lit a candle and saw that the disheveled bed was empty.
He'd expected her to wait for him here, envisioned her in this bed as he'd headed for home....
Max carried the candle with him as he stalked to Penelope's bedchamber. She'd gone to retrieve a book, he thought, or her sketch pad, and had decided to stay in the familiar chamber while he was away. Without knocking, he threw open her door, and the sight that awaited him took his breath away.
Clothing was scattered across the neatly made bed and the floor: dresses and petticoats, shoes and busks, discarded without care.
"Penelope?” he whispered, expecting no response. All was silent, still, dead. “Penelope.” His voice faded away as he walked into the room and surveyed the disorder.
Something had happened to her, something terrible—something that was entirely his fault.
He heard footsteps on the stairs, heard Dalton's gruff voice calling his name, but he didn't answer. At the moment he was incapable of speaking.
Soon Dalton was in the open doorway, a sheet of paper clasped in his hand. “Something's wrong,” he said softly.
"I know,” Max whispered.
"I found this on the desk in my chamber.” Dalton offered the paper and waited for Max to come get it. “I'm sorry, Max, truly I am."
He didn't want to see what Dalton offered, but walked numbly to the doorway and took the note. The others gathered in the passageway, behind and beside Dalton, silently waiting as Max read.
Chadwick had Penelope. Max had known it somehow, as he'd seen the shambles in her room, as he'd stood there and whispered her name as if it were a prayer.
The note was addressed not to him, but to the Indigo Blade, and the instructions were simple. At a time and a place to be named by Chadwick at a later date, there would be an exchange made. The Indigo Blade for Penelope Broderick. Failure to comply with any instruction would bring about Mrs. Broderick's immediate demise.
All he could do was wait for further word from Chadwick.
In a lowered voice, Dalton told the others what was in the note, while Max stared at the words, reading them again and again. Nothing in the damning letter changed, no matter how desperately he wished it.
"Why was it left in your chamber?” Max asked, lifting his head at last.
"I don't know. Perhaps the place was picked at random."
"Chadwick doesn't do anything at random,” Max said darkly.
At the far end of the passageway, a door opened noisily. “What's going on?” Mary asked, yawning as she stepped away from her chamber door. “I heard all these voices...” She stopped speaking when she saw the crowd.
Dalton swept past Lewis and Beck. “I have bad news,” he said tenderly.
Someone had made terrible coffee, but Mary sipped at it without comment. A few candles burned as the sun came up and they sat—every member of the household—around the dining room table.
Dalton was beside her, constantly assuring and comforting her. Telling her everything would be fine, that Penelope would come back to them unharmed. He asked her time and again if she was all right, if she needed anything, and he was the one who had forced this awful coffee on her, insisting that it would do her good.
He was concerned about Penelope, but not frantic as she had expected he would be. Perhaps he didn't love Penelope any more than he loved her.
It was Maximillian who was so distraught it was painful to watch. At the moment he had his head in his hands, face down, loosened hair falling over his cheeks and to his shoulders.
She was glad for the curtain of that disheveled hair. When last she'd looked into Maximillian's eyes, she'd seen such pain there it hurt her. Would the agony go away when she told him that his beloved wife had been cavorting with the butler?
"Why has this happened?” she asked, looking from one sad face to another. Helen, the only other woman in the room, sniffled constantly, but had not yet given in to tears. Even the jovial Lewis was downhearted. Did they wonder why she didn't cry for her cousin? Best to get it all out in the open. “Why did Victor take Penelope?"
What excuse would Dalton come up with? How would he explain why the note was found in his chamber? She'd thought of that as she'd placed it there, after telling Victor that she'd place the message where the Indigo Blade would be certain to find it.
Perhaps Dalton would play ignorant, shrug his shoulders, and declare that Victor Chadwick must have gone mad, as there was no reason to take Penelope and leave that note in his quarters.
But as she waited for an answer, everyone at the table exchanged thoughtful glances—Dalton and Fletcher, Beck and Lewis, the mumbling John. Did they all know the truth about Dalton?
"Tell her,” Maximillian muttered from beneath his fall of hair.
"Are you sure...” Fletcher began.
Maximillian lifted his head and they were all presented with an agonized expression that spoke volumes about his pain. Here was a man on the verge of breaking down, of falling apart. Mary wished that he would weep, that he would allow the grief to escape somehow instead of holding it in this way.
Those around her were obviously as affected by his anguish as she was. Helen allowed a small sob. Garrick lowered his eyes, unable to stand any more. No one could see such heartache and be unaffected, and eventually they all averted their eyes. All but Mary. She felt a rising anger mingling with her sympathy. Penelope didn't deserve to be loved this way.
Dalton took Mary's hand, and she gratefully took her eyes from Penelope's tormented husband. “Things here are not as they seem,” he said kindly, taking his time breaking the news to her. “You have heard of the Indigo Blade?"
"Of course,” she answered.
"He lives among us. He is here at this table."
She gripped his hand tightly. “I suspected as much. Why didn't you tell me?"
"I couldn't,” he shook his head. “There were times I wanted to tell you everything, but I was not at liberty to divulge—"
"Not at liberty?” she asked incredulously. “I would imagine the Indigo Blade does as he pleases. Really Dalton, I never thought you were really a servant."
He looked confused, and then comprehension dawned on his face. “It's not me,” he said. “I am dedicated to what we do, but I don't have the head for planning that our leader has. I have a tendency to rush headlong into situations without thinking things through."
"You're not—” She hadn't heard much past his nonchalant It's not me. “You're not the Indigo Blade?"
Dalton shook his head, and Mary looked around the table, studying the sad faces that surrounded her. Not Dalton, thank heaven. Not Dalton! But one of these men was Penelope's lover, the real Indigo Blade. She scrutinized each face, wondering how she'd gone so wrong, wondering which of these men Penelope loved so dearly.
And then her eyes lit on Maximillian again. He was truly tortured, agonized ... heartbroken. Where was the lazy dandy she was accustomed to? Where were the lace and frills and fine manners?
"Maximillian,” she whispered.
"Yes,” Dalton answered. “Max is the one with a head for scheming and a flair for acting."
Mary stared at Dalton until he was all she saw. He tried to comfort her with a gentle hand to her face, with an attempted smile, but there was no comfort to be had. Mary knew, in that instant, that she would never know true peace again.
She forgot about the others in the room. She had to, if she was to get through this. “Dalton, I thought it was you,” she proclaimed.
"Disappointed?"
She shook her head quickly. “No, never. It was the letters,” she said, trying to explain. “I found them and I was so angry ... I've never been so angry."
"What letters?” he asked, and Mary reached into her bodice to retrieve the blue-banded keepsakes.
"I thought you loved her,” she cried out, “and I couldn't bear it."
Dalton took the letters and perused them quickly. “I don't understand."
All was silent. Mary looke
d bravely at the faces around her, faces that waited for her to explain. But she could only explain to Dalton.
She faced him, forcing the others from her conscious mind. “I know where she is,” she confessed. “I know where Victor's taken her."
As she watched, the warmth vanished from Dalton's blue eyes, leaving her staring into the coldest ice. The comfort and caring fled, and she was confronted with a man who was as cold and unfeeling as Victor ever was. A dangerous man she did not know.
She couldn't remedy this mistake. Not ever.
"How would you know such a thing?” Dalton growled.
Mary wanted to drop her eyes, but that would be the coward's way. She gathered every bit of courage she possessed and looked squarely at Dalton as she answered.
"Because I helped him kidnap her."
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Chapter Twenty-five
She'd expected prison, a damp and windowless room, but Victor and his soldiers had led Penelope to an inn at the edge of town, where she was given an armed escort to a small but comfortable chamber above stairs. There she'd passed what remained of the night of her capture and this very long day that followed.
Night had fallen again, she saw by the complete darkness outside her small window. A fire blazed in the stone hearth, her untouched supper cooled on a serviceable table, and a narrow bed piled high with blankets awaited.
Two armed soldiers stood guard at her door, making this comfortable room a prison as surely as any dungeon would be.
Penelope stood near the fire, her hands clasped before her as she dug deep within herself for the strength she needed to get through this. It would be so easy to break down now, to weep and wail and perhaps to faint away until all was said and done. Mary had betrayed her, and Victor held her captive, but Maximillian ... Maximillian would certainly save her.
That knowledge gave Penelope strength and peace. There was no tangible reason for her certainty, no wisdom that others did not possess, but she was confident, still. Her husband was smarter than Victor, stronger, and he had right on his side. All she had to do was wait.
The door opened without a knock, and Penelope spun away from the fire to face a smug Victor Chadwick. He held a bottle of wine in one hand, two crystal tumblers in the other, and as he stepped inside her room one of the soldiers closed the door behind him.