by Cheryl Holt
"I did," he said, nodding toward a chair. "Sit." She complied, looking bored and put out.
Taking an overly long time adjusting her skirts, she finally asked, "Well?"
He continued silently to assess her, and he couldn't get over the feeling that he shouldn't take his eyes off her, that she was about to do something outrageous, dangerous even, and he squinted, trying to bring her into clearer focus. She stared back with a steely gaze so much like his own that he was startled. He'd always despaired over the fact that she'd never gotten
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any of his resoluteness, that she hadn't grown up clever and strong-willed like her brother.
But, as he carefully regarded her, sensing all sorts of changes he couldn't begin to specify, he realized she'd gotten more of his dominant nature than he'd imagined. The idea frightened him. If she was no longer the Penelope he'd so carefully fashioned, who was she? And what might she do? How was he to deal effectively with such a complete unknown?
"Well?" she asked again, annoyed and impertinent.
"Your mother informs me"—for some ridiculous reason he decided that he should proceed very cautiously—"that you have canceled your evening engagement with Edward."
"That's correct."
"May I ask why?"
"No, you may not."
Her response was so out of character and so unexpected, he was confounded into silence. He gave her the irate glare that never failed to instill fear in the recipient. Yet, she was thoroughly unmoved. In the tone he'd always used with her—the one that said argument was useless because he couldn't be swayed—he ordered,' 'You will attend the evening soiree with him."
"I won't," she retorted. "As a matter of fact, I doubt that Edward will ever again have the pleasure of my company." Rising, she said, "Now, if that is all you wished to discuss, I have better things to do.''
He was so shocked by her insolence that he rose as well. "You will not depart until I give you leave."
"My apologies, Your Grace," she said, emphasizing his title in a rude fashion, her voice mocking and disrespectful, "but I find that I have no stomach for listening to another of your diatribes, and I would ask that you not summon me further. I don't believe I shall obey." With a dismissive nod of her head she turned toward the door. "Good day."
Stunned by her blatant disregard for his position—as her father, as her duke, as her lord and master—he could barely
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think of a reply. His cheeks flushed red, his pulse raced. For the first time in her twenty years she'd defied him, and he was at a complete loss as to how to progress.
Sneering, he asked, "What should I tell your betrothed?"
She stopped and glanced over her shoulder. "You may tell him," she said, frightening in her calm, "that I had my maid purchase a small knife. I shall carry it with me wherever I go. If he ever comes near me, I intend to use it."
In a swirl of skirts she exited the room, magnificent in her fury, royal in her bearing, absolutely her father's daughter, and he was terrified at witnessing the change. Who was this person? And what about the threat directed at her fiancé? Did she mean to stab him at their next encounter? What kind of insanity had overtaken her? Did she think to call off the wedding too?
Obviously Edward had exceeded his bounds, but with the wedding so close, Harold felt it didn't matter. At age twenty Penny was certainly ready to have some idea of what animals men could become when aroused. Harold had been remiss in that respect, telling himself it was best to keep her virtuous and unsuspecting, but if she'd had a taste of male desire and found it distressing, he hardly considered her distaste to be a reason for female hysterics or for her refusing to go through with her duty.
The wedding would go forward whether she wanted it to or not, and if she thought she had any say in the decision, she was in for a surprise. Harold would see her turned out in the streets before he'd let her embarrass the family in such an immature fashion.
Seething, he barely had time to take a breath before his next visitor arrived. He would be forced to deal with her later, and deal he would.
Purdy, his private man, stepped through the door just as Penelope departed, so Harold struggled for composure. The underling must never suspect that Harold had just engaged in a major battle with his daughter, or that he was suffering from the strong impression that his daughter had made.
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"What did you learn?" Harold asked, reining in his temper.
Purdy, a short, thin, balding man, had been one of Wellington's most trusted aides before injury brought him home. He was discreet, reliable, persistent, and the person Harold counted on whenever he dare not trust another. Purdy competently carried out investigations, obtained sensitive information, and paid bribes. Whatever Harold needed to have accomplished, Purdy was more than willing to do, and he always did it well. While he certainly wasn't the brightest star in the sky, he was as tenacious as hell, a trait Harold counted on and paid well to enjoy.
The man opened a notebook and began to read. "Lucas Pendleton is an American—"
"I know that, you idiot," Harold growled. "I'm the one who told you as much."
"Well, yes ..." Purdy grumbled, distracted by the outburst "He's from Virginia." Harold started to interrupt a second time—this was also information he'd provided—but Purdy forged ahead without pausing. “He owns a shipping company that services mostly the East Coast of the United States and the Caribbean, with occasional trips to Europe. Four or five vessels running at the current time."
"A family enterprise?"
"No, apparently he's built it up himself from scratch."
"Ah," Harold mused, "a self-made man." Exactly the kind he loathed. There was nothing more exasperating than a fellow who had earned his wealth. “So, he must have come to England on one of his own ships."
If they could find the ship, they could find the American, and Harold wanted him seized immediately. Pendleton was going to suffer extensively for the effrontery he'd shown by invading Harold's domain.
"That's what I'm thinking," Purdy responded, "nevertheless, we haven't yet been able to locate it."
“That seems a simple enough matter,'' Harold cut in, irritated by the delay, even though it hadn't been forty-eight hours since
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the event. However, Pendleton had given him three days in which to meet his demands regarding young Harry's patefnity, and two of them were already gone.
With Pendleton's threat to the duke's family, who could guess what unscrupulous exploit he might commit if Harold didn't do as he'd asked? They needed to move quickly; Pendleton had to be located before any more time had elapsed. Of course, Harold hadn't shared any of Pendleton's true purpose with Purdy, so Purdy didn't understand the necessity for haste. He had simply been told that Pendleton was dangerous, unstable, and needed to be found. After seeing the hole in the dike's wall, Purdy hadn't had to hear any other particulars before setting out on his mission.
"Not actually, Your Grace." Purdy cut into his reverie. "He might have docked in a distant town and come to London by carriage or horse. He might have arranged to anchor the ship in the Thames farther out and used another boat to bring him ashore."
"I see," Harold said. "So, he's not stupid enough to pull up to the public docks, where all of London can find him?"
"Absolutely not, Your Grace. From what we've learned, he's definitely not stupid."
Just foolish, and very, very brave. "Keep looking."
"We are," Purdy insisted. "We'll find the ship. And him."
"Good," Harold accepted, knowing the man would be true to his word. "Now, tell me about the scoundrel. Everything you know."
"There's not much so far," Purdy said, "but we're asking about. He's thirty years old. His parents are deceased. He's been the guardian for a younger brother and sister since they were all quite young. I believe the sister may be deceased as well. We're still trying to confirm."
Harold pondere
d the disclosure for a few moments, knowing that Caroline was dead but deciding not to reveal as much to Purdy. If Harold started providing intimate history, he'd give
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Purdy unnecessary ideas about Harold and his relationship with Caroline, ideas that weren't any of Purdy's business.
Harold thought about how lovely Caroline had been, how gently reared, fresh and unspoiled, generous and kind, and he was forced to admit that Pendleton had done a good job with her. He had obviously cared for her deeply too, enough so that he would sail across an ocean, years after the occurrence, in order to demand satisfaction on her behalf.
Methodically he began mentally to catalogue the characteristics that described Pendleton, knowing he had to understand every detail about his adversary in order to bring him down. He appeared to have many admirable qualities. On the one hand, he was bold, courageous, loyal, smart, hardworking. On the other, he was conniving, imprudent, impetuous, and a risk taker who would dash into any situation without regard to the consequences.
After all, what if Harold had been armed when Pendleton had accosted him? What if Pendleton had been seen in the house and the alarm raised before he could make his getaway? What if Harold hadn't been alone but accompanied by one of his guards? What then?
Pendleton's lack of fear over the outcome was disturbing. He was willing to advance despite the obvious peril, so Harold adjudged him to be an unstable individual, one who had little consideration for his own safety or that of others, and one who had no qualms about carrying out any action, despite the odds.
He was rash, emotionally charged, embarking on what he felt was a moral mission, and certain he was in the right. All combined, he was a lethal antagonist who could and would do anything.
“I want him found,'' Harold said. “By tomorrow morning."
"You can count on me," Purdy declared, bowing himself out of the room.
* * *
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Lucas stood, watching the crowd on the busy street. His eyes appeared to be on the wealthy customers entering and leaving the elegant shops, but he wasn't really seeing them. He was focused on the quiet interplay behind the scenes. Small hands and small bodies wound their way through the throng, and that was where his attention remained.
As a child, during the years he'd been conscripted at sea, he'd spent a great deal of time working the busy docks, slipping in and out between the adults as he'd stealthily searched for unexpected gain. He'd gotten quite proficient at thievery, but he was still caught now and again. Once, he'd nearly lost a hand as punishment for his pickpocketing, but fortunately he'd managed to escape the backwoods jail before any justice had been meted out.
Hunger and poverty were conditions he understood well, although anyone looking at him now would never suspect his humble, desperate beginnings. Yet, he'd committed extreme acts in order to survive, so he made no judgments about the boys and girls he saw canvassing the area. Besides, those who were about to lose their money to the little brigands could afford to part with a few coins.
He wasn't exactly clear on what type of boy he was seeking to assist in his scheme against Harold and Penelope Westmoreland, but he assumed he'd know when the appropriate one caught his eye. Neither too young so as to be easily frightened nor too old so as to be easily noticed or remembered. Not too timid, not too brash. But smart. He needed a child with brains and an ability to think on his feet. How he was supposed to ascertain these glowing traits merely by looking was a mystery, but he was certain his problem would be solved soon and with a minimum of fuss. For a change, events were going his way, and he was feeling extremely lucky.
The pair struck swiftly. One boy ran down the street in a trained move, jostling an older woman who had just exited a carriage. Before she could quite get her bearings, another stepped out of the swarm to help. With one hand he took
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her elbow and steadied her. With the other he smoothly and efficiently reached into her bag and removed a valuable which was hastily stuffed inside his trousers.
By accident Lucas made eye contact with the boy, and Lucas realized instantly that he'd found the child for whom he'd been searching. He was small, which made him seem to be only seven or eight, but in reality he was closer to twelve. He had dark hair and eyes, appearing very much as Lucas himself had looked at that age and time in his life.
They were standing so close to each other that he had to appreciate that Lucas had seen his furtive maneuver, but he didn't give himself away by so much as the blink of an eye. As though he had all the time in the world to dally, he calmly helped the elderly woman to the door of the shop she'd been intending to enter, all the while acting the part of a virtuous choirboy. With his mark safely sent on her way, he turned to vanish into the mob of people, never making a hurried move, never glancing back, never engaging in any out of the ordinary conduct that might be observed by casual passersby.
Unfortunately for him, there wasn't anything casual about Lucas's assessment, so when he finally turned to dash down an alley, Lucas was already there waiting, having previously scoped the various getaways the children were using after committing their petty crimes. He easily blocked the boy's route, surprising him so that Lucas was able to grab him before he could disappear.
"Let go of me, or I'll scream me bloody lungs out," he insisted as he struggled against Lucas's restraint. He was wiry, agile, and tough as nails, just as Lucas had hoped and foreseen he'd be.
Lucas stepped farther into the shadows.
“Go ahead and scream,'' he declared. “If anyone dares come to your aid, I'll tell them about the little purse you stole and have crammed in your trousers.'' The boy's struggles increased. “That bit of knowledge should be worth a trip to Newgate.
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Maybe deportation. Would you like that? Starving to death on a rat-inf 1ested boat bound for Australia?''
"What do you want?" the boy asked, relaxing slightly, but Lucas wasn't foolish enough to loosen his grip, as the boy was obviously expecting that.
"I have a proposition for you," Lucas said calmly, but the instant he spoke he could discern that considering their location and circumstance, his overture had come out sounding dreadfully unnatural. But it also told him he'd picked the appropriate child. The lad was furious but not so frightened that he'd fail to find the means to escape as soon as he was able.
"You've got the wrong boy," he gibed. "Best keep looking till you find someone more your style."
"That's not what I meant," Lucas contended. He was handling himself badly, which was foolish, for better than anyone he understood this kind of child and knew what it was like to exist on the streets. All kinds of horrible atrocities had probably been committed against him in his short life.
Lucas retrieved a gold coin from his pocket and waved it in front of the boy's nose. "I'm willing to pay you...."
"I won't do it for money either, ya bloody pervert," the boy spit out.
Lucas rolled his eyes, feeling like an idiot. "I don't want anything like that," he said. "I'm involved in a secret enterprise, and I want to hire you to carry out a task for me" "Right!" the boy scoffed.
"I am looking for someone who is brave and smart," he said, allowing the compliments to sink in. "Yet, he must be tough and loyal too. I was watching you go about your business, and I knew right away that you were exactly the man I needed.'' Shrugging, he lightened his grasp. "But if you're not interested, well ..." Letting go completely, he waved toward the dark end of the alley, encouraging the youngster to depart as if Lucas didn't care one way or another about the lad's decision.
The boy took a step back, then one more, until there was room to flee, but he kept his gaze on the coin Lucas dangled.
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"How much money are we talking about?" he finally asked, and Lucas knew he was hooked. The lure of easy cash was too hard to resist.
“Quite a bit, actually," Lucas said, increasing the bait.' 'And the work would
be simple."
"What would I have to do?" he asked, continuing to eye the coin.
"I need you to convey a letter to a gentleman's house. A wealthy gentleman,'' he added with emphasis, “and you' d have to run off after you delivered it. You couldn't allow yourself to be caught."
"Why?"
"Because he'd probably want to know where I am. And he might be rather nasty in the methods he'd use in getting you to divulge my whereabouts."
"I'd never tell. He couldn't make me," the boy proclaimed with a razor-sharp determination that was frightening to witness in one so young.
"I realize that," Lucas agreed. "That's why I picked you." The boy straightened with pride at being singled out for perhaps the only time in his life.
He queried, "How much are you willing to pay?"
"Twenty pounds," Lucas offered. The amount was a fortune for someone in the lad's condition. "There might be two or three deliveries. Maybe even more. I'm not certain." With a flick of his wrist he tossed the coin,0 and the boy moved so quickly to catch it that his body movements were hardly visible.
"How do I know this is real and not some trick?"
"You don't," Lucas responded. "Do you know the Boar's Head tavern?"
"Down by the docks?"
"Yes," Lucas said, nodding. "Go there and ask the barmaid named Peg about me. If I sound all right, meet me back here at noon. I'll tell you then what I'll need you to do."
"For how long?"
"A few days," he said. He and his brother had argued often
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and hard, trying to figure the length of time it would take Harold Westmoreland to capitulate. "A week at the most."
"If I don't come back at noon?"
"Then I'll find another boy. One who wants my money more than you do." He shifted, putting more space between them. "What's your name?"
"Paulie."
"Your real name."
"Paulie," he said defensively. "What's yours?"
"Lucas. Lucas Pendleton." He nodded toward the boy's escape route, urging him on. "Go ask Peg about me," he ordered. Turning, he stepped out to the thoroughfare, not looking back until he was certain the boy had disappeared.