No Place for a Lady

by Jade Lee

  "That is not the point!" Marcus exploded, coming around near the fire to confront his friend directly. "She knocked me flat and left me there to die. Good Lord, if you had seen Norton's face when he opened my front door. He nearly had a fit laughing. My own butler, whooping it up like the veriest hyena!"

  Surprise widened Penworthy's eyes. "Norton laughed at you? Right there?"

  Marcus lifted his drink, trying to hide the blush that heated his cheeks. "Well, not just then. It was afterward in the servants' quarters. I could hear the merriment two floors up!"

  "Ah," said his friend as he turned back to the fire. "Decidedly uncomfortable, I do not doubt."

  "Uncomfortable! I was visited this very morning by my mother and sister. The story has already spread throughout London that I was accosted and beaten by no less than five assailants. Five!"

  "Yet it was my Fantine, a little slip of a girl, knocking you flat with a chair leg." Penworthy had the audacity to actually smile.

  "Damn it, man!" Marcus exclaimed, dropping his fists onto his hips. "You are not listening to me!"

  "Merely because you have said nothing to the point," responded the MP happily. "All I know is that you are furious, slightly bruised about the temple, have lost a pocket watch, and seem happier than I have seen you since your brother's death."

  "Happier! I am furious!" Marcus glared down at his friend, who merely smiled and sipped his drink. Then a totally unexpected emotion came over him.

  Humor. He began to laugh.

  "Sink me," he said, finally collapsing into a chair beside his friend. "I have not been this exercised in years."

  "It is a nice sight to see, you know. You are much too young to wrap yourself up in mothballs."

  Marcus frowned. "Is that what I have been doing?" He did not need Penworthy's nod to realize the answer. Indeed, since the moment he had first received news of his brother's death in Spain, Marcus had felt wrapped in a shroud, his world and thoughts dulled by that protective shield. Now a single annoying woman had ripped the covering away, throwing him into heights of exhilaration, fury, and even lust.

  "Very well," Marcus said finally. "I shall not beat your thoroughly aggravating Miss Fanny."

  "Fantine does have a somewhat unique effect on a person. Would you care to know how I first met her?"

  "More than my good breeding allows," Marcus responded dryly.

  Penworthy's eyes grew distracted as he gazed into the fire, his glass forgotten in his hand. His posture was lax, and the lines of strain eased from his face as he spoke.

  "She came here in the dead of winter. I had just come home from a session at Parliament and 'ill-tempered' is the kindest term that could apply to my mood."

  Marcus leaned forward, his thoughts already leaping ahead in Penworthy's story. "You cannot mean to say she came here to this house? How was she dressed? I cannot think that your staff would allow her entrance."

  Penworthy grinned. "She did not come in by the door." He glanced up, and his eyes were actually twinkling. "She climbed in my bedroom window and waited for me there."

  Marcus felt his mouth grow slack. "In your bedchamber!"

  "I did not notice her at first. You know how she can hide in shadows." He lifted his brandy and took a sip. "I did, however, notice an odor, but I could not locate it."

  "When did she finally show herself?"

  "Just as I sat down before the fire. She introduced herself with her knife applied directly to my throat."

  Marcus swallowed, his own throat constricting at the thought. "She did not hurt you." It was as much a question as a statement.

  "No. She said she wished to speak with me privately, and this was the only way to get my full attention and cooperation." Penworthy grinned as he set his brandy aside. "I assure you, she received that in full measure."

  "I do not doubt it for a second."

  "Understand, I could not see her. I merely felt her knife and had a vague impression of her height... and odor. I thought she was a street boy come to steal what he could." He took a deep breath. "So you see, you are not the only one to experience Fantine's somewhat violent side." Penworthy lapsed into silence, apparently content to end the conversation there.

  Marcus nodded, knowing that good breeding demanded that he not press his friend for more details. But he could not let it rest. "Did she steal anything? How much did you offer her to spare your life?"

  Penworthy started, as if woken from a reverie. "Hmmm? Oh! I offered her fifty pounds, my pocket watch, and a silver tray I had in the room."

  "I wonder that she did not demand you summon tea so that she could take the service," Marcus commented dryly.

  "Well." Penworthy chuckled. "Money has never been Fantine's primary motivation." Then he lapsed once again into his memories while Marcus tried not to give in to his frustration.

  "Penworthy!" he cried. "What happened? What did she want?" Then he stopped. Bedroom. Night. Could Fantine have been looking for a rich protector? The very thought made his gut tighten painfully. It could not be possible. She had been too young to become Penworthy's mistress.

  "You should see your face, old boy. I swear I have never seen you so anxious for information. Especially as it is about a woman you have vowed to hate until your dying day."

  Marcus frowned, then shifted grumpily in his seat. "All right, I confess. I am acting particularly vulgar today. Now tell me what she wanted of you!"

  "Why, certainly my dear boy," chortled Penworthy, apparently enjoying Marcus's discomfort. "It was quite odd really, or so I thought at the time. She wanted to know about me. Who were my parents, what did I do during my days, who graced my bed chambers—"

  "No." It was more of a groan than a statement.

  "Oh, yes," countered Penworthy. "She was barely twelve, but quite aware of the lascivious details of a gentleman's life. It took quite some time before she accepted that I did not spend my nights in debauchery. To this day, I thank God in heaven that I had no mistress."

  Marcus stood and paced to the fire, using the time and motion to think. "But why would she be interested in all that?" he pressed. "In you in particular?"

  "Because she is my daughter."

  Not by a single flinch or flicker of an eye did Marcus betray the shock that reverberated through his system. He stood absolutely still, and when his muscles began to protest, he slowly, gingerly lifted his drink to his lips, but did not sip.

  "Oh, good show, old boy," cheered Penworthy. "You would think we were discussing the weather."

  Marcus drained his glass.

  Penworthy merely laughed with good humor, then let his gaze wander back toward the fire as if patiently waiting for Marcus to take the lead.

  Unfortunately, Marcus felt completely inadequate to the task. Fantine was Penworthy's daughter? A thousand questions crowded into Marcus's mind. Why was she living in the rookery? How could a man as decent and caring as Penworthy allow his own flesh and blood, and a woman no less, to exist in such a state? And to actually give her assignments that might endanger her life... It boggled his mind.

  "Sit down, my boy," Penworthy urged. "That is fine French brandy, and I have no wish for you to waste it if you faint."

  "I do not faint!" he cried, insulted to the core.

  "Of course not," the older gentlemen reassured him as Marcus found his seat. "Fantine and I managed to come to an unusual bargain. We began trading information. She wanted to know about me, and I about her. So we traded questions and answers. Though it took a month's worth of visits—and at least half my food stock—I finally pieced the sordid truth together."

  For the first time in the entire bizarre conversation, Penworthy sighed, betraying a regret that seemed to come from deep within.

  "I had been very young, and Fantine's mother was a beautiful actress. Gabrielle Delarive. A petite woman with the most amazing agility. She was under my protection a very short time." Penworthy glanced up. "She was too expensive, you understand."

  Marcus nodded. Penworthy's taste h
ad always been exquisite. Any woman who caught his fancy would no doubt cost well beyond the means of a young man-about-town.

  "I never even knew she was pregnant. Or at least, not until much later. I suppose I consoled myself with the thought that it could have been any number of gentlemen who had done the deed."

  "Are you sure it was not?"

  Penworthy shrugged. "Fantine says her mother named me as her father. That is enough." Then he glanced up, a self-conscious twist to his lips. "Besides, she has my eyes, I think. And my arrogance."

  Mentally, Marcus constructed Fantine's face, analyzing it feature by feature to compare with his friend. Perhaps there was a family resemblance. Her bronze eyes were certainly as brilliant and lively as Penworthy's.

  "I wished to care for her immediately. I cannot tell you how much I have longed for a child. I could never tolerate the thought of a wife, but I have missed the children. She was like the answer to my prayers."

  "But where was her mother?" Marcus asked.

  "Dead. Of the pox. Fantine was ten when her mother's death pushed her out onto the street."

  "At ten years of age?" Marcus could hardly comprehend it, and yet he knew it happened every day.

  "Even then she was smart. She knew there was no future in whoring." The older gentlemen glanced up. "Her words, not mine. So she dressed as a boy and picked pockets to survive, but even that was difficult. She could not ally herself with any one leader for fear that her sex would be discovered. So she remained independent, playing one leader off against the other."

  Marcus nodded. "I saw her technique last night. She would mention Hurdy just to throw Ballast off balance."

  "Those two have been fighting over the dockside territory for years. Their rivalry is easy to exploit."

  Marcus twisted in his seat, not wishing to be distracted into discussing the previous night's events. "Did you let Fantine live here?"

  Penworthy looked up, and for a moment Marcus thought his eyes were haunted. "I could not take her in here. You understand what it would look like, what it would do to my position."

  Marcus frowned, thinking back. So many years ago, Penworthy was rapidly growing in political influence, rising up toward true power. To take in a child and sponsor her as his own would have been disastrous. Everyone would have known she was his bastard. The scandal could have destroyed his career.

  Penworthy sighed again, the sound coming from deep within. "I sent her to a school under a fictional name and family. I knew the headmistress there would turn a lenient eye on Fantine's less polished attributes."

  "And?"

  Penworthy looked dolefully down into his empty glass. "She hated it. Think on it. She had lived on her own for two years. Probably making life-and-death choices every day. To expect her to quietly settle into the life of a pampered miss was too much."

  "She ran away?"

  "And right back to the rookeries."

  Marcus shook his head. He understood the transition would have been difficult. But if she could have managed it, she could have had a decent marriage, a safe home, children, everything a woman wanted. Instead, she chose a dangerous existence, rife with poverty and crime.

  "Do not judge her too harshly," said Penworthy softly. "Even you who were born to your position chafe at the constant restrictions. You cannot expect her to leap into a life more claustrophobic than your own."

  Marcus sighed, acknowledging the truth. Still... "You must offer it again."

  "I did. I have. Every way I can think of. But no lock holds her. No school could keep her. Always she returned to the world she knew and nothing I did swayed her." He paused, and again Penworthy seemed to carry the world upon his shoulders. "I give her what money she will take. I pay her generously for information. I do whatever she asks. I have even offered to acknowledge her as my own, but she is very proud. Like her mother. And, she distrusts the peerage. Even me."

  Marcus did not doubt it. "Anyone raised in a greenroom would see the worst the aristocracy has to offer." Vice and debauchery ran rampant in the backstage world of an actress. "Still—" he began, only to be interrupted by his mentor.

  "That is why I forced you to work with her. You must help me. There is no one else I trust more than you."

  Marcus looked up to see Penworthy's brilliant eyes pinned on him, begging him for assistance. "Anything," he answered without thought.

  "I cannot die with her on my conscience."

  Penworthy's words echoed in the still library, chilling Marcus's bones even as his thoughts whirled. He wanted to deny his friend's illness, but they both knew the truth. Penworthy might not see another Christmas. But how did one help someone who did not seem to want or need help? Especially a woman as recalcitrant, spirited, and beautiful as Fantine?

  In the end, he was saved from commenting. Before he could begin to frame his thoughts, the door burst open and once again candle wax splattered across the papers on Penworthy's desk.

  "I knew I would find you gentlemen in here, steeped in brandy no doubt," called Fantine in her cultured voice.

  Marcus turned, mentally steeling himself to see her in some new outrageous attire. He was not disappointed.

  She wore a demure gray gown, so high in the collar it nearly covered her mouth. It was almost colorless, and its very blandness made the sparkle in her bronze eyes, the dark bow of her lips, and the rosy flush to her cheeks all the more vivid. Why, even the shapeless gown seemed to take on her curves at the most tantalizing moments, making her the visual fulfillment of any schoolboy's most lurid fantasies.

  But that was not the worst. No, the absolute most horrible shock was that she entered the room on the arm of one of the most powerful gentlemen in the world: William Wilberforce.

  Marcus was hard pressed to restrain his groan.

  "Good afternoon, William," said Penworthy as he gained his feet. "Do come in."

  Marcus was quick to follow, vacating his chair for the lame Wilberforce. The man nodded congenially, his dusky white hair whisper thin as he pushed his crippled form forward. Fantine remained by his side, no doubt ready to assist if the elderly man should stumble. He did not. Neither did he sit, choosing instead to wait politely for Fantine to seek a chair. She did so with alacrity, settling prettily into the seat Penworthy had occupied moments before.

  Meanwhile, Penworthy settled down behind his desk. "I trust you two have introduced yourselves?"

  "Why, yes," returned Fantine pleasantly. "It seemed the most appropriate thing to do when we met upon your doorstep." Then she turned to the aged man. "Shall I order tea or would you prefer something stronger?"

  Marcus flinched at Fantine's mistake. He and Penworthy had already put aside their own drinks out of respect for the man's religious convictions. "Mr. Wilberforce does not drink, Fantine," he said smoothly. "He considers it sinful."

  He saw Fantine's eyes widen at such a fanatical view. "I do beg your pardon—"

  "Nonsense, nonsense," cut in Wilberforce. "You could not have known. Besides," he said with a wink, "you offered it so prettily I was tempted to accept."

  Any other society miss would have dimpled up at such a nicely offered compliment, and to Fantine's credit, she managed a smile, but Marcus could tell the action was at odds with her true personality. Wilberforce had already relegated her to the role of an empty-headed miss. But if the MP maintained a condescending tone, Marcus feared Fantine's reaction.

  How long could she restrain her fiery temperament? And how would Wilberforce react? Unfortunately, Fantine showed no inclination to leave, and given that she had been hired to protect Wilberforce's life, perhaps she had the right of it. So Marcus leaned against the bar, his muscles tense as he waited for whatever explosion might come.

  "Are you here for the Season then, Miss Delarive?" the MP asked. "I am positive the gentlemen will be tripping over themselves to catch a glimpse of your face."

  Fantine's smile appeared somewhat strained, and Marcus scrambled for something to say, but he never had the chance.
r />   "In truth, sir," she said smoothly, "I am much too old for my coming-out. I am quite content to live in London and be of service to Lord Penworthy as needed. It is perhaps an unusual life, but one I value greatly."

  Wilberforce raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Certainly, one must learn to be content with one's lot, my dear, but the Lord requires that we grasp the opportunities He presents to us. Do not be overly timid."

  Marcus nearly choked. Timid? Fantine? Penworthy, apparently, had a similar reaction as he pushed almost rudely into the conversation.

  "Fantine is the most untimid soul I know, William. She is, in fact, half of the team I have hired to keep your soul safely with us, still trapped in its mortal coil."

  Wilberforce turned his keen gaze to Penworthy and his brow furrowed in concern. "Thomas, surely that cannot be wise. She is a woman."

  "A quite competent one, I assure you." That comment came from Marcus's own mouth, and he was as startled by it as Fantine appeared to be. But once spoken, he realized the absolute truth of the statement. "You may safely entrust your life to her."

  "I trust in the Lord God."

  Marcus smiled. "Of course. Still, one must seize whatever opportunities the Lord presents," he said, echoing the older gentleman's earlier words. "No matter how strange it may appear," he added softly, his comment more for himself than anyone else as he shifted his gaze to Fantine.

  "William," cut in Penworthy, "have you had any additional thoughts on who might be threatening your life?"

  Wilberforce turned back to his friend with a stifled sound of disgust. "I have given no thought to it whatsoever. Truly, Thomas, you make too much of it. Threats to my life are commonplace."

  "Yes, but not attempts on it."

  The older man shrugged. His attention sharpened as he focused first on Penworthy and then on Marcus. He completely ignored Fantine. "What I have given a great deal of thought to is whether I can count on your support next month."

  Now it was Penworthy's turn to be impatient as he casually dismissed Wilberforce's life goal—the abolishment of slavery. "Yes, yes, you know I support the antislavery bill. What I am more concerned with—"