They rode awhile in silence. Penelope looked out again at the viscount. “I am normally a brave person, Cousin, but I am having difficulty being brave in this situation,” she confessed. “Giving myself into Lord Wellingham’s care and keeping is to me like stepping off a cliff.”
Elise squeezed her hand. “I do not know that I blame you. For what it is worth, the duke and I will make very certain that you are always welcome with us. To be quite frank, I have no idea what kind of husband Beau will make.”
Penelope’s color rose as she had another thought. “I do not imagine we will have a satisfactory intimate relationship. He thinks of me as a green girl, which I am.”
Elise pondered this and sighed. “Try not to let that be a concern, darling. Whatever else he is, Beau is a gentleman. He will not force himself upon you, I am quite certain of that.”
Before dying, her mother had tried to tell her the requirements of the marriage bed, but her explanation had been far from frank. Penelope could not bring herself to ask Elise for the details, so she sought for a change of subject. Disengaging her hand from her cousin’s, she produced a pack of cards from her reticule. “Let us talk of something else. Do you play piquet?”
“Yes, but Aunt always told me that you are a cardsharp.”
Grinning, Penelope dealt the cards.
-P-
Cards proved to be a handy diversion. Both nights on the road, the four travelers enjoyed dinner and then a rubber of whist. There was no opportunity to fall into private conversation. This suited Penelope very well. As they played, she was able to forget for a few hours each night what lay ahead of her. Her intended appeared in a jovial light, surprised and more than content with her card-playing capabilities. She relaxed somewhat and enjoyed herself.
“Where did you learn to be such an excellent player?” he asked as he shuffled the cards in between rubbers. “The vicar’s son?”
“In part,” she answered with a laugh. “In our village, the principle source of entertainment is card parties. My mother was very proficient. She taught me everything I know about whist and piquet.”
“‘Was?’ Has she passed on, then?”
Penelope could not believe that he did not know this most important fact about her life.
“Yes. Scarcely a year ago.”
“You have my deepest sympathies,” he said, his face soft. “I am certain you feel the need of her at this time.”
She bit her lip, willing herself not to shed tears. He was right; she missed her mother deeply just now. She never could have imagined how much. It was like a sore place in her breast that never left her. “Shall you deal the cards?” she asked.
-P-
Penelope was relieved to enter the county where she was born. This was her home. Northamptonshire was exceptionally green with many stands of oak and beech. The spring patchwork of fields and their hedgerows filled with birds and their songs calmed her spirits. As they pulled down the drive to Beeches, marked by tall plane trees on either side, she grew anxious to see her father.
She had written to him that she and a party of three friends were to visit. Unless he had read something in the newspapers, he knew nothing else. Penelope was quite apprehensive about explaining the events that had befallen her. He was going to be very concerned about the fix into which she had fallen.
The frail but noble figure of her father met them at the door, his features puckered in concern. As nothing in her letter could account for this, she knew at once that he had heard gossip of some kind.
“Papa, may I present the Duke and Duchess of Ruisdell and Viscount Wellingham? The duchess is Mama’s niece, Elise, as I am certain you recall. Your Graces, my lord, I am pleased to make you acquainted with my papa, Sir Gerald Swinton.”
Her father bowed towards the duke and over Elise’s hand. “Your Graces, it is a pleasure to meet you.” Turning towards Beau, who wore a hunter green riding costume and had just removed a hat that sported a feather, he said, “I wish I could say I was pleased to make your acquaintance, as well.”
Penelope drew in an anguished breath. “Papa! You do not understand! This man saved my life.”
“Then I propose he explain the situation to me on the instant. This way to my library, Lord Wellingham.”
Penelope stood looking after them as they walked away to the back of the house. Turning to the duke and duchess, she said, “I am sorry. My father is never rude; he must have heard something. But I am sure you are famished.” To the butler, she said, “Chase, please have Mrs. Weston come to me in the morning room.” She then gave directions for where the luggage was to be taken.
Pulling off her gloves and bonnet, she gave them and her traveling pelisse to the footman. “Come,” she said to the duke and duchess. “I am sure there is a fire built up in the morning room.”
Her home was a sturdy eighteenth-century mansion, built in the Palladian style. It was certainly nothing to be ashamed of, but she wondered what Lord Wellingham thought of it. She had no clue as to his views on architecture, or even the location of his principal. It actually appalled her how very little she knew about this man she must marry. One of the salient facts, which she would never reveal to her father, of course, was that waltzing with him made her weak at the knees.
The morning room was warm despite the cloudy day, and its mellow yellow walls cheered her somewhat. She loved her home, and the time away had only increased her affection for it. The interior was restful—painted in pale blues, salmon, and silver-green. The cornices and woodwork were all white with Turkish carpets covering the oak floors. The cherry and rosewood furniture was modern, having been newly purchased the year before her mother died.
When Mrs. Weston arrived, she introduced the duke and duchess and inquired about luncheon.
The little housekeeper was clearly nonplussed at the appearance of such exalted guests. She curtsied to both of them. “Your Grace. Your Grace. I thought your party might be arriving today. We have jellied consommé, tongue, spring lamb, new peas and potatoes, and raspberry tart.”
“That will be lovely, Mrs. Weston. It has been a long journey.”
“All will be ready in a trice. Perhaps you would care to warm up with some tea beforehand?”
“Yes, thank you. Tea would be lovely.”
When she left the room, Penelope remarked, “I wonder what Papa heard. I have never seen him so stern.”
“It was not a pretty story, no matter how it was served up,” said the duke.
Chapter Six
As he followed Sir Gerald into the library, Beau felt somewhat aggrieved. What rubbish had the man heard? He counseled himself to be patient and forbearing. There was no way the man could have received anything like the honest facts of the matter.
Once in the library, Beau did not wait for Penelope’s father to begin questioning him. “I do not know what you have heard or read, Sir Gerald, but the blame for the position your daughter and I find ourselves in lies at the feet of a French double agent, a Monsieur Devereaux. For obvious reasons, this fact was not known to the press, and I must ask you not to repeat it.”
Penelope’s father arrested his course to the chair behind his desk. He was a thin man with an almost entirely bald head. At present, his bushy eyebrows were raised halfway up his forehead. “A French double agent?”
“Yes, sir. Your daughter came upon him speaking with me in the park very early in the morning and made a sketch of him. Once he realized what she was doing, he destroyed the likeness, but he was overwrought. He was certain that she was employed by one of the London newspapers and would prove his undoing. Not being a particularly sane individual, he determined to end her life.”
“The devil he did!” Sir Gerald went a shade paler.
Beau explained the events of the fateful night.
“So you see, Sir Gerald, though the facts at the disposal of the gossips are all wrong, it is in your daughter’s best interests that we marry. It is not what either of us planned, to be sure, but we shall make the
best of it.” Withdrawing a card from his inside pocket, he handed it to the baronet. “This is my man of business. You may refer to him for financial details. I am well off, if not precisely wealthy. Your daughter should be comfortable enough. My estate lies in Somerset.”
Sir Gerald stared at the card in his hand, but Beau doubted if he even saw it. The man appeared ill, his breathing labored.
“Sir? Are you unwell? Shall I call for someone? Your man perhaps?”
“It is a shock. A shock.” Penelope’s father raised his hand to his forehead and for a few minutes he was mute.
Beau looked around the library for a restorative. Locating a decanter of whiskey on the mantle, he got up and poured two fingers for his host. “Here, Sir Gerald. This might help.”
“If it were not for your swift action, my Penny would be dead.” He tossed the whiskey back in two gulps. “I owe you a debt I can never repay.”
Beau was uncomfortable with the praise. He shifted his stance and went to sit on the other side of the desk.
“Have you any feelings at all for my daughter?” the baronet asked.
“Due to the circumstances, I scarcely know her. She is young, but I do not find her silly. Indeed, except for the incident of her rising at an unearthly hour to go sketching in the park, I have no reason to think she is not sensible.” He smiled at the baronet. “I think we will rub along well enough.”
“You will treat her kindly?” The man’s voice was gathering strength again.
“I am not a bad man, Sir Gerald. I realize that you probably had higher hopes for your daughter than a viscount. And I suspect she was looking for a love match, no matter what she says to the contrary.”
The baronet sighed and looked into the fire. “Her mother and I were very happy. But now I suppose none of us have any real choice in the matter.”
A weight settled on Beau at these words. He said, “I plan to obtain a special license so we may be married next week in London. I am certain she would want you to attend, Sir Gerald.”
“You cannot see your way to marrying here in our village church?”
“I think that would smack of a hole-and-corner affair. It is best to face the gossips in their seat of power. The duchess and Lady Clarice will see that all is seemly and that she has flowers, clothing, and so forth.”
The baronet sighed deeply. “Her mother has scarcely been dead a year. We are only just out of black gloves.”
Mulling over the facts in his mind, Beau felt that something more was required of him. He came to a decision. “I am with the Foreign Office and am needed in London, but you are welcome to come to Town and make your home with us, if you like. Only my younger sister lives with me at present.”
“I appreciate the offer more than you know, but I am afraid the air in London does not agree with my chest. I can but make short visits. I will be there for the wedding, of course.”
Thank heavens he is a practical man. Hopefully his daughter takes after him.
Throwing herself at Devereaux had seemed the height of folly, but as the days passed, he had begun to see Penelope Swinton in a different light. She thought of others more than she thought of herself. Her reluctance to marry him for his sake—not for hers—had demonstrated this most clearly. She was unlike any other society woman that he had known. Instead of being pleased by her position, she had to be talked into it. The lady was headstrong, perhaps, but she also had a spunk that appealed to him.
Chapter Seven
Penelope went into her father’s library after the viscount came out and let her know she was expected.
“Papa!” She ran to him where he stood next to the fire. He enclosed her in his arms.
“Dearest Penny, how are you taking all of this? I cannot fathom how close I came to losing you! It has given me a nasty turn.”
“Lord Wellingham was an excellent bodyguard from the moment he knew me to be in danger. I suffer from nothing but bad dreams. And I am certain they will abate in time.”
They sat in the chairs next to the fire. Her father leaned toward her. “It sounds as though you are caught up in a whirlwind. I do not like to think of your marrying in such a manner. And your mother would not like it at all.”
“Please try to resign yourself to it, Papa. I am trying very hard to do so.”
He folded his hands in his lap. “He seems a very responsible man, at least. And you have not had a chance to form another attachment, have you?”
She thought fleetingly of Lord Cumberland. “No, Papa,” she said. “I was only able to attend one ball.”
“Do you like Lord Wellingham, at least?”
“I owe him my life. He was forced to kill a man because of me.”
“But do you like him? Is he kind?”
It broke her heart to see her father’s worried face. “I believe I like him more than he likes me. But I do not think he will mistreat me in any way. He is a gentleman. Please do not worry about me.” Standing, she went to him and kissed him on the cheek. “Elise has promised she will take me in hand socially. I shall not want for friends, though I will miss you terribly.”
Her father caressed her face with his long fingers. “I would have wished that you could have married where your heart dictated. However, the viscount seems sensible. He did mention that he works at the Foreign Office and cannot get away from London often.”
“I know, and that is a bother, but I am certain he will allow me to come to see you. We will not be inseparable , you know.”
“Your mother would have wanted so much more for you,” her papa said with a sigh. “In marrying me, you realize she put love ahead of rank and fortune.”
Penelope felt the now familiar ache in her chest, but she did not want her father to agonize over the situation. Since losing her mother, she had watched his health decline alarmingly.
Raising her chin, she said, “It is all very unexpected, but I think I have done rather well for myself. I believe him to be a good man. We do not know each other well, but I am optimistic that time will remedy that.”
He said nothing but peered into her face, trying to see past her bravado. “You are my only child,” he said. “I do so want you to be happy.”
“I shall be,” she said, forcing a smile.
-P-
Luncheon was an awkward affair, with the duke attempting to bridge the worlds and interests of Beau and Penelope’s father. They talked of horses and Lord Wellesley’s military situation on the Peninsula. Elise spoke to Penelope of modistes and florists. Never did her fiancé speak to her directly, nor she to him, but she felt a tension thrumming between them.
After luncheon, the men played billiards while Elise insisted that she and Penelope use her talents to design a monogram with her married initials. She had the task of embroidering her linens ahead of her. The activity was so concrete that Penelope realized that her days as Miss Penelope Swinton were nearly over. She was to command her own household as the Viscountess Wellingham.
“Shall I be required to entertain the other members of the Foreign Office or even the prime minister?” she asked. “We have always lived quietly. Mama and Papa only entertained the squire and the vicar and sometimes a small handful of other gentry.”
“I will help you. I have had to learn to be a society hostess myself upon marrying the duke. It is paramount that you have a good housekeeper and a good cook. You play cards exceedingly well, and that is important. And we are going to see to your wardrobe.”
“But conversation? I know nothing of the political world.”
“Women are not expected to, though I think it a shame. Aunt Clarice and Miss Sukey can be a help to you there. They are active Whig hostesses . . . though, come to think of it, Beau is a Tory. Hmm. I will ask the duke. He will know what is expected of a Tory hostess.”
Penelope squirmed and tried to think how to phrase her next question. Finally, she just blurted it out. “What about other women, Elise? You told me he was a noted rake.”
Her cousin looked up from the
design they were fashioning and said, “There is someone, of course. With a man like Beau, there would be. But I have never heard that it was anything more than a casual attachment. Not a world-shattering affair, certainly.”
Elise’s words, though anticipated—after all, Lord Wellingham was a man of the world—stabbed her. “What is her name?”
“Are you certain you want to know?”
“Yes. I am trying to be realistic about all of this.”
“Then you are a better woman than I!” said Elise. “She is a young widow. Mrs. Rosamund Calthrop.”
Penelope swallowed. “Do you know for how long they have been . . . attached?”
“I do not know precisely. She has been widowed these two years.”
At that moment, they were joined by the men. Penelope started to her feet with a guilty blush, words rushing out of her. “Oh, Lord Wellingham, you must see what we have done. We have designed our monogram. Come and look.”
Raising his eyebrows, her fiancé crossed over to her and looked at the piece of parchment she held, which was sketched in Gothic script—a large W in the center, a small W to the left of it for his given name and a small P to the right for hers. The whole was embellished with small forget-me-nots.
“How very domesticated, to be sure,” he said drily. She thought she detected suspicion in his gaze. Had he overheard any part of their previous conversation? The door to the hallway had stood open.
“Has Papa gone upstairs for his rest?” she asked.
“He did say he needed to retire for a short time,” the duke said. “After being in the saddle for two and a half days, I should like to take a walk. Elise?”
Before her cousin could answer, Penelope said firmly, “A walk is just the thing. I will show you all my favorite places. Will you come, Lord Wellingham?”
“Upon one condition,” he said. “I am not used to being so formally addressed. Now that we are truly engaged, I must insist that you refer to me as Beau. It is what all of society calls me. Even the women.”
Her Fateful Debut: A Regency Romance (Three Gentlemen of London Book 1) Page 5