None of which made the intrusive speculation and peculiar annoyance go away.
She walked over to the library’s writing desk and peered at the drawers that she definitely should not open.
At least if she knew there was no currentlover, she would not feel so strange here. The notion that an invisible person dined with them had made her peevish in the sitting room. A female person, lovely no doubt, whom Mr. Hampton never saw as ruined for men.
He had lied about that. Or rather he had chosen to hear her words only one way. Perhaps he truly had not thought that she would be incapable of such intimacies again. However, she did not doubt that in his eyes she had indeed been ruined, hopelessly soiled, as far as men were concerned. Of course, every man in the world remained ignorant of those sordid details so it had not mattered much.
Except with Mr. Hampton, who was not ignorant at all. However, since he was just an old friend, it had not really mattered too much with him, either.
She impulsively pulled open a drawer. A stack of papers lay in it. Battling guilt, imagining she heard his step behind her, she lifted the top one and unfolded it.
She read the first two lines and quickly returned it to the drawer and shut it away.
It was a love poem, written in Mr. Hampton’s hand. A draft, full of changes, before the final version was sent.
Well, that was that. There had been lovers. There probably was one in London right now.
She slowly paced through the echoing rooms and forced herself to think about the choice they had discussed today. If she committed adultery and showed no discretion, would the earl divorce her?
Her independence had been contingent upon her never having lovers. Should she ever court scandal, or embarrass Glasbury that way, all support would cease and he would seek her return.
Unsaid, but understood, was that if he had evidence of adultery her own accusations would be compromised and no longer a danger to him.
Now, however, the earl had broken the agreement anyway, so an affair might just force his hand.
She sat at the writing desk and helped herself to a clean sheet of paper. She would make a list of prospects for such a liaison, men who might not mind playing such a role. She wrote the first name.
Colin Burchard.
“He is appealing enough,” she said to herself. Her voice sounded loud in the empty house. “He may think the scandal great fun, since he doesn’t care much about anything society says. He may even enjoy being named in criminal correspondence. He would dine on the notoriety for years.”
Ewan McLean.
The dangerous Scot. Handsome and full of the lure of forbidden fruit. Not at all discreet, either. He had been named already in one divorce, and there was something to be said for experience.
However, there were rumors about the doings in those chambers he had in London.
“He may be too … adventurous.”
She neatly penned a few more names of men who were possibilities. She gazed at the last one.
Archibold Abernathy.
“Yes, Archie would be more than happy to accommodate me. He has been insinuating as much for years.”
Only she did not much care for Archie. She had trouble picturing herself doing adulterous things with any of these men, and least of all with him.
She studied her list of six names, wondering if she had it in her to throw herself at one of them. She would have to explain the plan, of course. He would have to be told it was an affair of convenience.
She tried to picture how she would propose such a thing.
“Sir, would you be interested in engaging in a sophisticated affair, where physical intimacy existed with affection but not love? You would be under no obligations to me at all, and we would part once sufficient evidence of my adultery was established.”
Unfortunately, the woman in her mind as she practiced the overture was much more worldly than the Countess of Glasbury. The adulteress was one of those clever, confident ladies who dangled three men at a time.
Sighing, she dipped her quill again. Its point hovered above the paper, ready to write more names.
Julian Hampton.
She did not actually write it. Her conscience and good sense stopped the impulse. So did a startling surprise at how greedily her instincts grabbed the notion to consider him.
Picturing herself with himwas not difficult at all. The images and sensations poured through her, provoking warmth and excitement. She actually saw him looking down at her and felt his hands on her, caressing …
She abruptly got up and fetched her book. She carried it far from that list, into the dining room where she found some western light. Perched by the window, she tried to continue reading about the Etruscans.
The images of Julian would not leave her. She laughed at herself.
Poor Mr. Hampton, to have to deal with a woman whose fear and loneliness lured her to such foolish and inappropriate speculations.
Late in the afternoon, Julian called at Glasbury’s house in London.
A tall Negro took his card. Julian recognized the servant, despite the years that had passed and the white wig and livery. His name was Caesar, a common slave name on English plantations. He was one of the servants that Glasbury had imported years ago from his estates in the West Indies.
Caesar returned and escorted him to the Earl of Glasbury’s drawing room.
Little had changed in the room since Julian had last come here long ago to blackmail the earl into releasing Pen. It had not been real blackmail, not criminal, but the effect had been the same. Permit her to leave your home and bed, give her an allowance, or face ruin and worse.
The earl’s allowance had not been handsome, but calculated to make sure she felt the privations of her decision. The separation had not been without cost to Penelope in other ways, too. However, Julian knew that even if her fall had been complete, she would have taken it to get away from this man.
Steely gray hair precisely groomed, expensive frock coat and cravat pressed to perfection, the earl sat on a small settee that made him look larger than he was. He bid Julian to a nearby chair.
“I regret that I could not receive you the last time you called,” the earl said. “I am glad that you returned.”
He smiled. Charlotte had called him a toad in Laclere’s study, and there was something to his lax mouth that reminded one of a frog.
“Your performance at Laclere’s house required that I call. Your expectation that the countess should return to your home surprised me.”
“Did it? I would have expected her to confide in you that I have changed my mind. After all, she has told you everything else.”
“What surprises me is that you think that changing your mind has any significance. I doubt that her feelings have softened, so the situation remains as it was when she left you.”
“In my view, the situation has changed considerably. Enough that this estrangement is no longer tolerable. I want you to communicate that to her in the event her brother will not.”
“You can write to her and communicate it yourself.”
“Since I do not know where she is, I cannot. Do not tell me she is in Naples, since I am sure she has returned to England. You know where she is, too. After all, you are her special confidant. Her servant. Her blackmail-monger. The lady bids and you perform, much like a well-trained dog. She may not have contacted her brothers, but she most certainly contacted you.”
Glasbury rose and stiffly paced to the fireplace as if remaining in proximity to his caller was distasteful.
“She was having affairs in Naples. A whole string of them. That negates our agreement, as you well know.”
“You have evidence of this?”
“I received enough letters describing her lovers to fill a ship’s hold.”
“A woman in the company of a man at a public function is not evidence.”
“I know that she was playing the whore, damn you. I won’t have it. It is intolerable. She is my wife. She belongs to me.”
There it was. Glasbury’s view of marriage. Of Pen. Property.
The law’s view, too, unfortunately.
“Whatever you may think you know, do not forget what she knows,” Julian said.
Glasbury pivoted and glared at him. A dangerous gleam entered his eyes. “And what youknow, too. Only you do not have the stomach to use it, even though you threatened that you did. You backed down once before after I spelled out the cost to you.”
Julian greeted this allusion with silence. He knew that years ago someone had tried to blackmail Glasbury for money over these secrets. Glasbury had accused Julian of being that person, and returned his own threats. When the blackmail abruptly ceased, it looked as if Glasbury’s interpretation had been validated.
Only it had not been Julian at all.
“The countess doeshave the will to use it, even if you think I do not,” he finally said. “I repeat what I said when I first entered: Nothing has changed.”
Glasbury strolled back with a confident gait. He eased back down on the settee. “I think much has changed. Time does that. She has a story, but who will believe her now? Who will believe the fantastic accusations of a woman so conceited and spoiled that she broke her marriage vows and refused her husband, a peer no less, his progeny? A woman who flaunts herself all over Europe as if she has no duties here in England? A woman who waits over a decade to reveal the source of her great unhappiness? See it with the world’s eyes, Hampton. The years have made her tale of woe very stale. Her behavior has made its veracity very suspicious.”
Something despoiling poured off Glasbury as he explained his invulnerability. That aura just got darker and darker, until Julian felt he was seeing the naked soul of this man. It was not a pleasant sight.
An old, recurrent vision intruded into the mutinous corner of Julian’s mind. He faced Glasbury on a meadow in Hampstead, as the sun inched above the tops of the surrounding trees and the beauty of the grass and breeze became so intense it could drench a man’s soul.
Another man joined them and opened a box, revealing two pistols. Silence reigned until a voice cracked it with the call to stations. He paced away and turned to aim—
“She has played you for a fool from the first, Hampton. There is much you do not know.”
“I know enough to be disgusted with you.”
“Ah, yes. I can see her now, pouring out her unhappiness and your believing every word. No doubt she neglected to mention that she was a willing partner in my games. She enjoyed them.”
—the earl’s body folded in on itself as his legs gave way and he sank to the ground—
“I will have her back.” Glasbury speared Julian with a very confident glare. “And I will finallyhave the son she denied me. I would not get in my way if I were you. Bringing down Laclere would require some effort, but destroying you will be easy.”
“I have been threatened by better than you, Glasbury, so do not expect me to sweat. If your goal is a son, remember that the countess is no longer a girl. She is well past thirty years, and a first child may endanger her at this age.”
“So long as the child is born alive, what do I care?” The flat, callous reply chilled Julian. “And if that child is not a boy?”
“Then I will sire more, as other men do.” And if she does not get with child at all?Julian did not ask the question, but he could not ignore the obvious answers. One of them, the worst one, seemed very possible from the man on the settee.
Julian rose to leave. “As I said, you should write to her with an explanation of your plans. Perhaps she will view your position more kindly than I do. However, do not assume that her story will be disbelieved should she tell it. It is a compellingly sordid one, and time has changed many things, including the tolerance of society for men such as you.”
Mist rolled in during the afternoon. The coast became veiled by the kind of weather that heralds rain. The sky hung so low that it appeared to melt right into the sea. Only the whitecaps on the waves seemed to break the bland expanse.
Pen sat at the desk and tried to work on her pamphlet. Her gaze kept drifting to the list of potential adulterers that she had made.
Finally, to distract herself, in late afternoon she fetched her blue cloak and went out to the stone terrace. She gazed out at the eternal expanse, with no horizon marking the edge of sea or sky. The surf sounded muffled, and the snapping wind seemed to pull one right into the soft wash of atmosphere.
She spied stone stairs going down the cliff to the beach. A small boat swayed on the eddies twenty yards from the bottom step.
She walked down the narrow steps and strolled south on the damp, packed sand, taking some air and exercise. When a big wave sent water nibbling at her feet, she slipped off her shoes and continued in her bare feet.
The sand beneath her toes reminded her of Naples. She had walked thus on the coast with young Paolo. The youngest son of a count, Paolo devoted his life to composing mediocre operas and charming foreign ladies. Feel the sand and its heat, cara. Feel the cool water lapping against your skin and how glorious the contrast is.
The memory of Paolo made her smile. He spoke frivolous flatteries, and easy words of love that had no truth. They were fun to hear all the same. Naples had been full of men like Paolo. She had been carefree and young in the light and happiness that Naples offered.
A theatrical light. A superficial happiness. She had been playing a role there, much like the ones she took as a girl when she and her brothers acted out Julian’s medieval epics on the grounds of Laclere Park.
No. Those childhood games had been more honest ….
A wave’s edge chilled her feet, and she had to scurry close to the cliff to avoid it. She looked around and realized that she had walked farther than she thought.
Her isolation rang into her awareness like a bell. Not another soul could be seen. The cottage was not even visible.
Another wave heralded the incoming tide. Already there were strips of beach threatening to be submerged.
Turning on her heel, she quickly headed back toward the cottage.
She almost did not see the man. The day was so gray, and he was just a smudge of a figure against the overcast sky. He stood on the cliff path above, his back to her, not moving, as if he watched something.
The cottage was the only thing visible up the coast. It was the only thing for that man to be looking at.
Fear scurried up her back. She told herself that she was being too suspicious. Soon, surely, he would walk on and appear very normal and not the least bit furtive.
Finally, he did move. He simply disappeared.
The fear shivered all through her. Someone just walking from one place to another along that path would not disappear. He would continue on.
She looked up and down the beach. Far to the south she could see the cottages of a fishing village. Perhaps he had come from there, but she did not think so. Smudge though he had been, it seemed to her he had worn a frock coat, not a fisherman’s garments.
She moved close to the rocks dotting the inner edge of the beach, away from the surf, so anyone looking down from the cliff path or house might not see her.
She slid along the cliff face toward the cottage. A hundred yards from the cottage it jutted out in a little point. Hiding behind that shallow barrier, she peered around and looked up at her sanctuary.
A movement caught her eyes. A darkness, like a shadow, moved along the edge of the terrace.
Someone was at the cottage.
Her heart pounded so hard she felt it in her ears. Panicked thoughts poured into her head in a jumble.
She and Julian must have been followed this morning. That man was from the earl. He was looking for her, she felt certain of it. Maybe he had entered the house and seen her trunks. Maybe now he was going to use the boat to search the beach.
Cold water sloshed against her ankles. The shock of the sensation restored some of her senses. Hitching up her skirt and petticoats, she turned and ran back down the coast, f
rantically looking for a place to hide.
She stayed close to the rock face, praying she could not be seen from the terrace.
The wind whipped around her, carrying the evening’s cold. It permeated right to her bones, aided by the chill of terror.
Swallowing a bile that threatened to make her sick, she darted her gaze along the rocks as she ran. Two large boulders beckoned.
She squeezed between them. She wrapped her cloak tightly around her and sat on a little bed of sand behind them.
Teeth clenched and heart beating with the dreadful hysteria of a hunted animal, she waited for discovery even as she prayed for salvation.
“You do not favor her, I think.”
The soft, feminine voice barely penetrated Julian’s thoughts. His body might be at this gathering but his mind was in a cottage on the coast, sitting by the fire with Penelope.
The revelation of her parting words continued repeating in his head.
She had thought she was ruined by Glasbury. For years she had believed it.
But that had changed. Eventually a man had resurrected what the earl had killed. A man who knew nothing of why she left the earl, and who did not have scruples about adultery, and who thought nothing of risking her independence, which was contingent upon no scandal surrounding her.
How did she remember that affair now? Were her memories kind to her lover, despite what had happened?
She probably still loved the man. If she had been reborn in that affair, she could probably forgive Witherby anything.
“Mrs. Morrison. You do not favor her, do you?” Diane St. John repeated.
He turned to his hostess. She had abundant chestnut hair and warm, soulful eyes, and possessed the kind of delicate beauty that grows more interesting with the years. Her natural grace would conquer time no matter how her face fared in the battle, however.
Normally he would have welcomed attending one of the St. Johns’ gatherings. This one, however, had become a burden. It would have raised questions if he had begged off so late, however, since there was to be a brief business meeting in the library soon.
“She is very lovely and charming,” Julian said. Mrs. Morrison stood nearby. Her mouth kept moving. “Was she your choice, or do I have Lady Laclere to thank for the introduction?”
The Romantic Page 6