A Lady without a Lord (The Penningtons Book 3)

by Bliss Bennet

  Cover design by Historical Editorial

  Cover photograph © 2017 by Jessica Boyatt

  Fleuron from Vectorian Premium Pack. Used by permission.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-0-9961937-4-0 (paperback)

  ISBN: 978-0-9961937-5-7 (e-book)

  First edition

  For permissions requests, please contact the author: blissbennet@gmail.com

  Acknowledgments

  A Lady without a Lord took far longer to write than I had hoped, due to some unexpected and quite awful family disruptions. If there is such a thing as an anti-acknowledgement, I’d like to hand one to my putative brother-in-law, who spent fourteen years telling my sister that he’d only been married once before (not three times before, as we discovered), and that he and she were legally married when all along he’d never divorced wife #3. Good riddance to bad rubbish, as the Regency-era folks like to say.

  Now, on to the good part—the thank yous!

  My deepest gratitude to:

  The many, many inspiring teachers who have influenced me over my long educational career: Augusta Thomas, Anne Maerklein, and Kathleen Ryan; Sandra Coyle and Jennifer Bagley; Cathryn Mercier and Susan Bloom; John Plotz, Sue Lanser, Beverly Lyon Clark, and Susan Staves. Special thanks to Laura Baker for teaching me how to weave plot, character, and romance arcs together in a seamless whole.

  My romance writing friends and colleagues, in particular my fellow writers in the New England Chapter of Romance Writers of America and the members of the online RWA Chapter for Regency romance writers, the Beau Monde. Thanks for sharing your knowledge and expertise with generosity and good humor.

  Readers and critique partners who have known when to offer praise, when to raise eyebrows in confusion, and when to give me a swift kick in the pants: Laurie Alice Eakes, Judith Laik, and Jessica Gibbons. Ladies, it has truly been a pleasure to work with and learn from you this past year.

  My publishing support team, including, my editor, KJ Charles, who pushed me to craft a hero who has a disability, rather than one who is the victim of it, and Jenny Q of Historical Editorial, for creating yet another gorgeous cover. You are the best!

  The many, many readers who have commented on, and/or disagreed with, the blog posts my alter ego, Jackie Horne, has written at Romance Novels for Feminists. I love the way you challenge my ideas, and push me to think harder about the hows and whys of feminist romance.

  My toddler dinner neighbors. Have we really been getting together every week since the last century? Thanks to Jessica, Trey, Anita, Norbert, Anne Marie, and Roger for not just listening to all my talk about romance, self-publishing, and sex, but actually being curious enough to ask questions about it. And special thanks to Jessica for the lovely author and cover photos. And to Violet for being such a gracious cover model, and for advising me about the fencing scenes.

  Dan Brenner, who helps me see the patterns in my life, and who is patient enough to remind me of them when I forget.

  Mr. Bennet (my own, not Elizabeth’s), who is so supportive of all my goals, and who, after he finished reading A Man without a Mistress, couldn’t resist going back and rereading his favorite parts. I hope you like Theo and Harry’s story just as much. And my own young Miss Bennet, even though she’d far prefer to read fantasy than romance. I love you both so much.

  And last, but certainly not least, my readers and reviewers. Thank you for taking a chance on my books. There are so many romances being written and published today; it is an honor to know that you’ve chosen to spend your time with mine.

  Something about Bliss

  Despite being born and bred in New England, Bliss Bennet has always been fascinated by the history of that country across the pond, particularly the politically volatile period known as the English Regency. So much so that she spent years writing a dissertation about the history of children’s literature in the period. Now she makes good use of all the research she did for that five-hundred-plus-page project in her historical romance writing.

  Bliss’s mild-mannered alter ego, Jackie Horne, muses about genre and gender on the Romance Novels for Feminists blog.

  Though she’s visited Britain several times, Bliss continues to make her home in New England, along with her husband, daughter, and two monstrously fluffy black cats.

  If you’d like receive word whenever a new Bliss Bennet book is due out (Benedict and Dulcie’s story, A Sinner without a Saint, is next!), please sign up for her newsletter at www.blissbennet.com.

  Turn the page for a taste of the first book in the Penningtons series, A Rebel without a Rogue.

  Chapter 1

  London, February 1822

  Fianna Cameron—at least that was what she called herself today—slipped a hand inside her pocket and curled her fingers tight around the butt of her father’s pistol. Her long, hurried strides sent it bouncing hard against her thigh, but even that pain wasn’t enough to reassure her that the weapon hadn’t disappeared, that she hadn’t only imagined hiding it there before she’d finally tracked her prey to his lair. Still, she couldn’t shake the fear that when the time came for her to act, she would find herself confronting the man empty-handed, shaking in impotent fury as Major Christopher Pennington offered her a condescending smile and walked on, just as he had so many times in her dreams.

  The memory of Grandfather McCracken’s soft, broken voice reading the Bible verse that had first inspired her—For he is the minister of God, a revenger to execute wrath upon him who doeth evil—brought her back to her sense of purpose. She could not fail, would not fail, not now, not when she’d given nearly everything for this chance to bring her father’s killer to justice and redeem the honor of his name. And to prove herself, bastard though she might be, worthy of her rightful place in the McCracken family.

  The only family she had left—

  Eyes darting between strangers and shop windows, carriages and carts, she searched the unfamiliar street for her destination. She’d feared being followed and had altered her path to throw any pursuer off her trail. But the evasion must have pulled her off course as well. She’d come too far, missing Pennington’s reputed favorite haunt.

  Retracing her steps, she discovered the Crown and Anchor Tavern lay not on the Strand itself, but behind that bustling street’s houses and shops. Stepping into the long, narrow passageway between two shopfronts, she forced herself to slow to a pace painfully at odds with the rapid beating of her heart.

  The sight of the Crown and Anchor’s spacious stone-paved foyer brought her up short. In Dublin, no place this grand would ever be termed a mere tavern. Ornate columns, a sweeping staircase with iron rails and what looked to be handrails of some dark, expensive wood—why, it seemed as elegantly appointed as the Lord Lieutenant’s mansion. And so many people! How would she ever find her quarry amidst such a throng?

  A man in dark livery broke through her dismay. “May I direct you to the Philharmonic Society concert, ma’am? Or Mr. Burdett’s meeting to discuss the wisdom of abstaining from intoxicating spirits? Both may be found on the floor above.”

  Not just a tavern, then, this Crown and Anchor, but a public meeting hall of no small repute. What a lackwit, to call attention to herself by staring at its grandeur like the greenest bumpkin. Lucky, she’d be, not to be judged an impostor and thrown out on her ear.

  Run! her body urged. Hide!

  Instead, forcing her hand from the comfort of the pistol, she pushed back the hood that hid her face.

  The footman took a step back, his eyes widening. How predictable, the catch of breath, the poleaxed, besotted expression. She’d long ago stopped wondering why God had gifted her with a face that no man could seem to pass without falling guilty to the rudeness of staring. Lucky for her, men only seemed to care about the deceptively lovely husk of
her face, never giving a single thought to what ugliness might lie beneath.

  Lowering her voice to a murmur, she forced the footman to step closer. “It is so crowded here.” She widened her eyes. “My footman seems to have gone astray.”

  “Might I send a man in search of him for you, ma’am?” he asked, a blush spreading over already ruddy cheeks.

  “My uncle,” she said, taking care to add a shy, embarrassed frown. “The footman was to take me to my uncle, Major Pennington. Would you know where I might find him, sir?”

  The man took another step closer, as if drawn to her by an invisible wire. “Major Pennington? Ah, let me see. There is to be a meeting of military gentlemen in the Small Dining Room this evening, but I believe they are men of the navy. I do know of a Mr. Pennington, though, a Mr. Kit Pennington. Brother to Lord Saybrook, he is. Might he be the gentleman you seek?”

  “Ah yes, Mr. Pennington. I nearly forgot, he sold out some years past. My mother always called him the Major, you see.”

  “Of course, ma’am. I believe he is up in the news room, reading the papers. I’ll send someone to fetch him immediately.” Reluctance and relief warred over his face as he turned toward the stair.

  “Oh, please don’t,” she cried, placing a palm on the man’s arm. No need to give the Major any warning.

  She felt the footman start, watched him stare at the hand from which she’d deliberately removed a glove. “It was meant to be a surprise, you see, for his birthday,” she added. “I’m sure I can find my way to this news room, if you give me the direction.”

  “But women don’t typically frequent the news room, ma’am, and—”

  Lifting her chin, she turned the full force of her green eyes upon the hapless servant. “You wouldn’t spoil my uncle’s surprise, would you?” she pleaded, adding the softest exhale of a sigh to draw his attention to her wide, full lips.

  The quiver of his arm under her fingers told her all she needed to know.

  Her mouth grew dry as they ascended the prodigious stone staircase and made their way across the second-floor lobby, passing a large assembly room. The strains of a tuning violin, its strings wound tight as her nerves, assaulted her ears. “Haydn’s Requiem,” the placard outside the room read. How fitting, that the Philharmonic Society should be playing a mass for the dead.

  His death, not mine, she offered in silent prayer, even as a shiver slid down her frame.

  “The news room, ma’am,” the footman said, stopping beside one of the many doors lining the passageway and reaching toward its handle.

  She raised a silencing finger to her lips before he could step inside.

  “A surprise, do you not recall?” she whispered. He mimicked her action with his own finger, pleased to be privy to the secrets of such a creature as she. At her nod, he reached for the door and opened it just a crack. Then, with a flustered bow, he retreated down the passageway.

  She stood for a moment, then another, until she was certain he had gone. Pulling the concealing folds of her hood back over her head, she forced her icy hand to push the door wide.

  The floor’s thick carpets and the door’s well-oiled hinges allowed her to slip in unremarked. In her eagerness to finish the business, she’d stupidly assumed he’d be alone in the room. But she’d been mistaken; several groups of gentlemen were scattered about the large room. Damn, how her wits had gone astray since she’d arrived in London.

  It would have been far wiser to leave before she attracted notice. But somehow, she could not pull her eyes away. Which of the room’s occupants was the man responsible for her father’s death? One of the knot of men debating earnestly around a table? The single man in a rumpled suit by the window, scribbling notes with a stubby pencil? Surely not one of the pair of gentlemen barely old enough to sprout whiskers, frantically pulling books off the shelves, nor their companion, dazed, even cup-shot, in a chair beside them.

  She frowned. None had the stiff, upright bearing of the British military man, as had the soldiers she’d seen in Dublin and Belfast. Were they more relaxed, these English fighters, when in the safety of their own country? Her hand slipped back into her cloak pocket, feeling again for the reassurance of the pistol.

  “Mr. Pennington?” she asked, taking a few steps into the room. Her eyes cut between the lone man by the window and the group on the left. “Is Mr. Pennington present?”

  She could barely hear her own words over the pounding of blood in her ears. But her voice must have been louder than it seemed, for each man raised his eyes. Most seemed shocked to see an unescorted woman in their midst, although several looked as if they wished they could answer in the affirmative.

  But none did.

  Had the footman been mistaken, then? Her eyes narrowed, her teeth biting down hard against her lower lip.

  Before she could draw blood, a supercilious English drawl caught her ear.

  “Kit, how amusing. For once, a lady appears to want you, not me.”

  The voice had come not from the group on her left, but from the one on the right, the one now slightly behind her. She froze, waiting for the response.

  “Pennington, pay attention. There’s a lady, here, in this very room, asking for you,” a second voice added. One voice to her left; the other to her right.

  “A lady? Looking for me?” A third speaker. She heard one of the three take a step in her direction.

  She cursed her shaking hand, clutching the butt of the pistol, her feet frozen to the floor. What, could she be losing her will now? Simply because this last act of retribution, unlike the others, demanded that she not simply humiliate or shame, but threaten real violence?

  No. She steeled herself to charm Pennington into leaving the room. Once they were alone, she could beguile, or, if necessary, threaten, until the cursed man signed the recantation that would restore her father’s honor.

  Taking a deep breath, she turned to face him. In her pocket, the hand holding the hidden pistol gripped tight, angling the weapon away from her body. Upward, to ward off any potential threat.

  But her finger, slippery with sweat, slid against the trigger—

  The unexpected force of the shot sent her reeling back toward the door.

  Time hung suspended as, through the dissipating smoke, she struggled to make out her target.

  Golden curls. Blue eyes, wide with shock. Blood, drip, drip, dripping from an arm to the carpet below.

  A face even younger than her own.

  A Mháthair Dé!

  Mother of God. Not only had she fired too soon.

  She’d fired upon the wrong man.

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