Chapter Twelve
Beau breakfasted late at his club and then went off to Kensington to visit Major Searle. Never having married, the officer shared a large flat with his sister’s family.
Searle had suffered the amputation of an arm and was therefore mobile. That morning, he was reading The Times on the terrace overlooking Kensington Gardens. Beau had decided to handle this interview differently.
The major’s sister, Mrs. Stevens, handed her brother Beau’s card and left them together.
“Major Searle,” Beau said bowing. “I’m from the Foreign Office. Could you spare me a few moments of your time?”
“All I have is time,” the man said. Like everyone who had served on the Peninsula, he was deeply tanned. His hair was bleached to red gold, and he had a large mustache.
“You have made a great sacrifice for this country. Do not think that it goes unnoticed.”
“Did you fight?” the major asked.
“I’m the elder son. Didn’t get the chance.”
The man indicated that he should sit down. Beau had worn sober black that day, knowing that dandy attire would earn only scorn from a military man. Searle put the newspaper down and fidgeted with his tobacco pouch.
Feeling the man’s unease, Beau got right to the point. “We’re anxious to get our hands on a man posing as a French émigré. He is on the short side with an ear that sticks out, eyes a bit close together. Has such a fellow paid you a visit?”
Searle’s tobacco spilled. Cursing, he put the pouch aside. “Matter of fact, the fellow was here yesterday. Wanted to thank me for my service to his ‘mother country.’”
Beau sat down, tamping down his excitement. “Yes. That’s the fellow. What can you tell me about him?”
“Frightful idiot,” Searle said. Beau watched the man tap his empty pipe against his leg. It must be more than annoying not to be able to fill one’s own pipe. He continued, “Obviously looking for information. Was insulted. He a spy?”
“Yes. By the name of St. Croix. Did you play along?”
“Was onto him right away. Threw him out.”
Beau wondered if that was really the case. The man was looking down, so Beau could not see his eyes. Was he keeping something back? “Did you report him?”
“Probably should have, I guess.”
Beau nodded at his card, which sat on the side table. “If he calls on you again or if you hear word of him from any of your mates, you can reach me at White’s.” Standing, he said, “Beautiful morning. Not a cloud in the sky.”
Searle simply nodded his farewell as Beau stood and walked back into the flat through the French doors. Mrs. Stevens was arranging flowers on a table by the door, and he had not the least doubt that she had been listening to their conversation. Raising his hat to her, he made his way out of the flat and crossed the street to the gardens. He might as well take advantage of the weather, stroll the lane through the tulips, and catch a cab on the other side.
He wondered if his inquiries were going to yield anything useful. He hoped he wasn’t stirring up a hornet’s nest by visiting these men. But they needed to find the spy, arrest him, and get him hanged before he could escape to France.
Thinking back on Pen’s faux pas of the night before, he realized he had probably been too hard on her. He knew Bertie well enough to know he would not go spreading tales. But she needed to learn to be discreet now, before they were married. For her own sake, as well as his.
Beau thought of her sitting on the sofa next to her father during the duchess’s recital after he had talked to her aunt. She had looked a bit mutinous.
She was, after all, very young, so unused to secrets and London ways. He really could not think of anyone less suited to be the wife of a member of the Foreign Office. Nevertheless, she was very appealing, and he did not want to repress her spirits. Untouched by vice, she did not seem to possess an ounce of guile. He did not wish to change that about her, but she must be taught to be cautious.
So steeped in thought was he that it took him several minutes to register the footsteps following him through the park. It was only as they hastened that he became aware. Spinning about, he caught a raised arm sporting a cudgel, just about to come down on his head. The owner was small and slight, smelling of garlic, his eyes malevolent and too close together. Beau twisted the arm behind the man’s back.
“I can have you hanged for espionage, St. Croix,” he hissed.
The spy was wily, however. Before Beau could make another move, St. Croix twisted expertly out of Beau’s grip and ran away. He gave chase, but the chap was fast. Beau lost sight of him as he climbed upon a large black gelding and galloped off in the direction of Hampstead Heath.
Had the man followed him this morning? Had he made the connection to Devereaux? Or was he just hanging about Major Searle, hoping to visit the man again? Obviously, Beau’s visit to the wounded soldier had made the spy uneasy. Beau had no doubt St. Croix intended to kill him. But was it because of Devereaux or because Beau had caught onto his game and sought to have him hanged?
Either way, his hunt for the man had just escalated. Beau hailed a hackney. He had no doubt he could handle the man with his Jujutsu, but how to draw him out again?
He needed to sharpen his reflexes. Thinking too hard on Penelope could have cost him his life. Returning to Wellingham House, he wondered what action he should take.
-P-
His butler handed him a note from his fiancée when he reached home. After ridding himself of hat and overcoat, he went to his library to compose a note to Lord Castlereagh about the morning’s incident with St. Croix and what he had learned from Searle. His concern still focused on the attempt on his life, he left Penelope’s letter on his desk, unread.
Arabella and her companion, Miss Lewis, were visiting his sister’s modiste that morning, so he took luncheon alone, still lost in thought. Spying was a dangerous business. There were so many variables at play that he could not get a clear picture of St. Croix’s plans. But whatever the reason for the attack, it was certainly time the spy was put out of business.
After luncheon, he felt the need of a ride. He had so many things on his mind that a bit of exercise might shake them loose and give him some clarity. It was before the fashionable hour, so there was the prospect of decent riding on Rotten Row in Hyde Park. Perhaps he could tempt St. Croix into showing himself again.
It was one of those rare spring days where the temperature was perfect and there was no rain on the horizon. As he galloped along the track in the park, he let everything else settle in the back of his mind—St. Croix, Devereaux, Penelope, their marriage. Feeling the wind on his face and Thor’s well-muscled back beneath him, Beau gave himself over to the moment.
He looked forward to less restricted riding. There were many things he liked about Town, but he missed a good neck-or-nothing ride. He intended to take Penelope to his seat in Somerset after the wedding. Hopefully, she liked to ride. There were so many things he didn’t know about his prospective bride.
It was not until close to teatime that he found himself back in his library and remembered the note from his fiancée. Picking it up, he read it as he sat before the fire, warming up after his ride.
The letter jolted him clear through. She wanted to cry off? He threw the notepaper down on the table, rose, and poured himself a drink. He knew he had overreacted last night, but now he was angry.
How could she cry off? Did she not realize the censure she opened herself to? And she had apparently done it for his sake.
Checking his anger with difficulty, he wondered at it. Was this not what he wanted? To be free again?
He reread the note. He had been too hard on her last night.
Sinking into his chair, Beau tried to sort out his feelings as guilt stole over him. Perhaps she was too young and completely unsuited for him, but he felt surprisingly overset by her desire to break their engagement.
He pictured Pen’s lovely face in his mind, raised to his own as they
had danced. The vision pulled at him. He saw her laughing with Arabella as they talked about the wedding, and that absurd swatch of pink fabric she had given him. Mostly, he remembered her brave intervention to save his life when he was struggling with Devereaux.
Penelope was not only lovely, she was unique. He doubted there was another woman like her.
Can it be that I have grown fond of her? That I have actually been looking forward to this marriage?
With St. Croix on the loose, this was not the best of times to get married. Nevertheless, he found the prospect of life going on as it had an oddly empty one.
He would see her. There had to be a way to talk her around.
Tossing back the rest of his drink, he wondered at his reaction. Was she truly miserable engaged to him? Ought he not to think of her? Maybe, for her own sake, he should let her go. But would she be happier living her life with the burden of scandal? Did she even realize what she was doing?
-P-
When he arrived at Blossom House, he asked Pursley to inform Miss Swinton that he was below, waiting to speak with her.
“I am afraid the young lady has gone, your lordship.”
“Gone?” He looked at the butler in disbelief. He must mean she was out. “When will she return?”
“She has gone back to the country.”
“The deuce she has!” His temper sparked like a flint. “I must speak with Lady Clarice at once!”
“Very good, my lord.”
Waiting in the sitting room for gentleman callers, he paced, trying to contain his ill temper and disappointment. She had left with only that brief note? Did she realize what she was doing, the scandal she was bringing down on her head?
By the time Lady Clarice joined him, his feelings had completely overtaken him.
“Beau,” she said, coming to him with outstretched hands. He could not ignore the entreaty and took her hands in his.
“What is happening? Has Penelope really gone back to Northamptonshire?”
“I am so sorry, Beau. I knew you would be upset, but it is her father. He is quite ill. I had my physician see him this morning, and he ordered him to leave London. I offered to send Richards with him so she could remain, but Penelope would not hear of it. She is dreadfully worried about him. You know it is just a year since she lost her mama.”
He tried to tamp down his alarm. “He is really that ill? Or was she just looking for a reason to leave London? Did you know that she has cried off our engagement?”
“Sir Gerald is very ill, indeed. But she also thought you would be relieved after your set-to last evening. She truly does not think she would be a proper wife for you.”
He began to pace again. “I knew I was too hard on her last night. I intended to apologize today, but I had some important business to take care of first. It never occurred to me that she would leave!”
“She was terribly alarmed over her father’s condition. She considered the engagement business with you at an end. I have been trying to reason with her, but she is convinced that she is the wrong wife for you, that she would always be saying or doing the wrong thing. You know she is a very open person. She is not used to guarding her tongue.”
“She is completely guileless, I know.” He ran both hands through his hair. “What am I to do?”
“I think we must put it about that the wedding has been postponed because of her father’s illness. Perhaps she will come to her senses.”
Beau took a deep breath. Her solution appealed to him, and it had the advantage of being what he hoped would become the truth.
“I will send a notice to The Morning Post,” he said.
“I am so sorry about this, Beau. I am truly fond of Penelope, but she is a bit headstrong. She wants to decide her own future, not have it decided for her, I think.”
“She cannot afford that attitude,” he said. “She truly does not understand that she is ruined, does she?”
“I do not think she truly understands the shibboleths of the ton. Think how little of society she has experienced.”
When Beau left, he decided to go home and drink a few more whiskeys. He had realized during his conversation with Lady Clarice that he was going to miss Penelope. Her artless charm had appealed to him in a way that no one else ever had. A future envisioned without her seemed lifeless and dull.
Sitting at his large English walnut desk, he wrote her a letter.
Wellingham House
London
17 April 1813
Dear Penelope,
I am sorry to hear that your father is so ill. I hope that you were able to reach Northamptonshire without his suffering further, though I imagine the journey was difficult for him. I pray that his condition may improve soon.
I was also sadly disturbed to receive your note saying you wished to cry off our engagement. I am sorry that I was a brute last night at the duchess’s engagement party. I know you are new to London and its society, and even the most accomplished socialite would have difficulty handling the position in which you now find yourself.
I could certainly have been more helpful and less judgmental in the situation. The fact is, for my part, I do not wish to end our engagement. If I promise to help you navigate the ton’s shoals, will you . . .
Beau balled the sheet of stationery in his hand and threw it aside. What was he doing? Begging a debutante to take him? That was not the line he ought to take at all.
He started again.
Wellingham House
London
17 April 1813
My dear Penelope,
I was shocked and saddened to learn of your departure for Northamptonshire. I hope your father is on his way to recovery and that the journey was not too difficult for him.
As you might imagine, I was especially disturbed that your decision to leave came upon the heels of your note crying off our engagement. I cannot think that you have acted in your own best interests. London society may be distasteful to you, but it is far easier for a married woman, under the protection of her husband, than it is for a single woman of ruined reputation. Because you must ultimately reside here in one capacity or another, I think you must resign yourself to it.
I have sent a notice to The Morning Post saying that our wedding has been delayed because of your father’s illness. No doubt you think that high-handed of me, but I wish you to rethink the matter, particularly in light of your father’s serious condition.
Yours truly,
W.
Satisfied with this effort, Beau sent the letter along with the notice to the Post.
Chapter Thirteen
Penelope found the trip back to Northamptonshire frustratingly slow. Her father was seriously ill, indeed. And it was all her fault.
If she had refused Lord Wellingham in the first place, there would have been no reason for her father to travel to London. Or if she had convinced Beau to be married in the chapel on their Northamptonshire estate, her father would have been able to remain comfortably at home.
Every time he had a coughing spasm, guilt racked her.
“Papa, maybe we should stop at an inn for a few days until you are feeling more the thing.”
“No, Penelope, I want to be home in my own bed as soon as possible. Of course, we will stop for the night, but I should like to be back on the road at first light.”
Another bout of coughing overtook him. Penelope had never heard him sound this ill. Fear clutched at her.
Is he going to die? Oh, Lord, please no. Do not take Papa so soon after taking Mama!
She readjusted the blanket that encased him.
“Are your bricks still hot?” she asked.
“I am well enough, Penny. Do stop fussing.”
At four o’clock, she decided that they needed to find an inn. They could not go any farther today. Papa needed a hot meal and a long sleep. The draft the physician had prescribed did not seem to help him at all.
When she saw a sign for The Green Man, she thumped on the roof of Aunt Claric
e’s carriage for the driver to stop. He drew into the inn’s courtyard and halted, coming around to let down the steps and help her father alight.
She had made a good choice. The Green Man appeared warm and comfortable. A large fire burned in a huge fireplace, the surroundings were clean, and she could smell a delicious beef stew. The landlord greeted them.
“My father needs a warm room where he can rest,” she told him. “He is not well.”
A maid was dispatched to light a fire in the best room, while Penelope settled them in the private parlor for their evening meal. Soon, heaping bowls of beef stew and a loaf of fresh bread appeared.
As the stew warmed her, Penelope began to relax. It might take four days instead of three to get home, but she was not going to rush things. She had done enough harm by causing Papa to come to London in the first place.
When her father was at last settled, she took Wordsworth out for his evening walk. Hurrying him along, she was very aware that she should not be alone at night in a strange place. She would be very glad when this journey was at an end.
With her dog sufficiently aired, she checked on her father again to find him sleeping. Going into the small room next to his, she watched as Wordsworth turned around three times and settled himself on the hearthrug.
Unfortunately, her thoughts remained behind her in London. Surely Lord Wellingham had been relieved to receive her note. She supposed the ton’s demon tongues were already passing on the gossip.
Hopefully, Papa would be blessed with better health and a long life so she would not have to go back to the city for many years. How long were society’s memories?
She had to confess to feeling sad. When she thought of the rest of her life stretching out before her, she no longer had anything like the warm anticipation she had felt when she was growing up. Though she did not miss the ton, she did miss Beau. At least, she missed the Beau she had danced with. That had been heaven.
For a moment, she reveled in the warmth the memory brought—his eyes on hers, her hand in his, and his arm around her as they moved in perfect time to the lilting music. She did not even remember what they had spoken about. All she could recall was that delicious feeling.
Her Fateful Debut: A Regency Romance (Three Gentlemen of London Book 1) Page 9