His words made Penelope uncomfortable. She said the first thing that came into her head, “But, Tom, your father would never allow you to marry a woman who is ruined! Is he not still determined to be a bishop?”
“That lies years in the future. By then, we would have been respectably married with a family. And your being the daughter of a baronet helps greatly.”
Conflicting thoughts assailed Penelope as she picked at a seam in the cushion she sat on. Being married to Tom would be comfortable. It would be the answer to all her problems, in fact. But when she compared him to Beau, the appeal of the idea faded.
The realization startled her. Did she really want to return to London, then? To be at the mercy of the ton? To be expected to hostess grand dinners for the prime minister?
On the other hand, did she wish Beau to go out of her life? She had never felt for Tom the strong attraction she had for the viscount.
She threw up her hands. “I am so grateful to you for your offer, Tom. Maybe it will all eventually work out as you say. But at the moment, I am still engaged to Lord Wellingham.”
Tom’s brow furrowed. “Is that what you want?”
“It is a terrible thing to be known as a jilt,” she said. “This is all very confusing. Maybe I should talk to Papa and see what he thinks.”
Tom drew himself up. “I do not want to be seen as some kind of consolation prize.”
Remorse flooded Penelope. “Oh, Tom, you’re not. Your offer is very kind. But it is as though the ton is this huge force. I do not want to sully your name or my own by my actions. And after all his goodness to me, I certainly do not want to make Lord Wellingham out to be a fool.”
“Talk to Sir Gerald, then. Though I am concerned about him, Penny. It is clear he is very ill. If he dies, you will not have a home.”
“My Aunt Clarice in London has offered to take me in. She is a wonderful lady—my mother’s elder sister.”
“I feel as though you are walking along a knife edge, my girl. One wrong step, and you may fall. Just remember that I am here.”
“I could never forget you, Tom,” she assured him, confused by her thoughts. But then, that was nothing new.
“I will ride over every few days to check on you and Sir Gerald.” Putting his hands on her shoulders, he squeezed them. “Things will work out, one way or another. You will see.”
Chapter Fourteen
Two weeks after Penelope had left for the country, Beau received a visit from the Duchess of Ruisdell. When Perkins informed him of the matter, he asked that she be brought into his library where he had been reading The Times and considering a visit to the club. His would-be assailant had not surfaced again.
“Duchess!” he greeted her. “How good of you to call. Have you news of Penelope’s father?”
“Dear Beau.” She offered him her hand. After he had bowed over it, she said, “Yes, I have just today heard from her. Her father is still very ill. I am concerned.”
“That is bad news. I had hoped that once he returned home he would improve.”
“Yes, and poor, dear Penelope is enduring this alone. Her father is her only close family. I feel that I should go to her. She must feel terribly abandoned.”
Without a second thought, he said, “I will go. It is a long journey for you, and you have your little child who needs you. I am feeling no small amount of guilt that Sir Gerald fell ill here in London. I should have listened to him, and we should have held the wedding in Northamptonshire.” When she looked as though she might press the matter, he said, “I can travel on horseback and make it in two days.”
“Are you certain, Beau? I do not know that she will be able to entertain you at all. She will be completely caught up in caring for her father.”
“I do not require entertainment. I am certain she is worn out from keeping vigil. Perhaps I can be of some help.”
He did not know why he was insisting on the matter. What would Lord Castlereagh say if he left London again so soon?
But the pull to Northamptonshire was strong. He had been out of sorts ever since his fiancée had left town. It would seem that he still felt the need to protect and comfort Miss Penelope Swinton.
The duchess gazed at him steadily. “You really are concerned, are you not?”
“You think I am incapable of proper feelings?” he asked with a small laugh.
“Not incapable, just unlikely to show them, that is all.”
“Do you think Miss Swinton will be displeased to see me?” he asked.
“I think it will be a shock. Perhaps you ought to send a letter ahead,” said the duchess.
“You think I ought not to go. Confess it.”
She gave him a small smile. “She is very worried about losing her father just now. Do not go there thinking to press her about this engagement of yours.”
“That is good advice, duchess. I will go only to offer support in her situation.”
“The sickroom is not exactly your milieu,” she cautioned.
He grew impatient with the bent of the conversation. Did the duchess think him heartless? “I am not expecting glittering conversation. I truly just want to help Pen. I do not know what she will do if her father should die and she is all alone.” Indeed, the matter had been troubling him more than a little. How would she cope with the loss, the funeral, the need to leave her home? He added, “And I think I will just appear. If I advise her beforehand, she will think she needs to make all manner of preparations for my visit. I would not wish her to do that.”
The duchess left, he could tell, not completely convinced he was doing the right thing. But he felt he was. He and Pen had parted on bad terms. He needed to prove to himself and to the lady that he could be thoughtful when the circumstances necessitated it.
Having decided to leave early the following morning, he wrote a note to Lord Castlereagh, citing his need to go to his fiancée during a family crisis and relaying her address in case Castlereagh needed to communicate with him. Beau directed his valet, Jackson, to pack the leather pouches that fit on his saddle, as well as a portmanteau that would be sent by carriage with the valet.
He took leave of Arabella.
“You are always going here and there,” she complained. “Can I not come with you this time?”
“I think you would be heartily bored, my love. Pen is completely taken up in caring for her father just now. A sick house, possibly a house where there will shortly be a death, is very grim.”
“Very well. But you must send your fiancée my kindest regards and wishes that her Papa will be well very soon.”
He kissed her on the forehead. “I shall.”
-P-
The ride to Northamptonshire was without incident. He made excellent time, and Thor enjoyed the freedom of having full rein. Beau arrived the evening of the second day and put up at an inn in Penelope’s village, not wanting to disturb her at such a late hour.
Anxious for news of Sir Gerald, he said to the innkeeper, “I am Viscount Wellingham, just arrived from London. Have you heard any news of the baronet at the manor house?”
“He’s poorly, I hear. His man, Wilson, was in here for a pint a while ago. Thinks as how his master won’t pull through this time.”
The news was expected, but unwelcome all the same. As he ate his lamb chops and potatoes, he thought of Penelope. She was a brave lady, he knew, but how was she dealing with the very real possibility of losing her father and her home? Was she afraid? Was she regretting her attempt to cry off their engagement?
Not normally an empathetic individual, he nevertheless thought he could imagine a portion of her anxiety and pain. He was very glad he had not been born female to have his life always in the hands of others. Though he had never thought much on the matter before, now the whole idea pricked his sense of injustice.
After his meal, it was still early for bed, though too late for a call at the manor. He sought diversion from his gloomy thoughts. Fortunately, there was another traveler in the parlor who enjoyed a ga
me of piquet. While an adequate player, the man’s skills did not hold a candle to those of Beau’s fiancée.
-P-
The morning was gloomy, with rain threatening. Beau rode up to the manor house, and for the first time since setting out from London, he doubted his welcome.
Indeed, the butler, whom he seemed to recall being named Evans, seemed astonished at his appearance.
“I know your master is ill, but it is Miss Swinton I have ridden from London to see. You will remember that I am her fiancé, Lord Wellingham.”
The servant’s lip twitched. “If you will follow me, your lordship.”
He led Beau to the yellow morning room he remembered and lit the wood fire laid there. The butler then left him and went upstairs to find his mistress.
Beau did not sit but went to the window. The threatened rain had begun to fall, accompanied by the distant roll of thunder. He was very glad he was not still riding north on horseback. Fidgeting, he walked around the room, studying the artwork. There was a portrait above the mantle. It appeared contemporary, so he guessed it was Lady Swinton. She had been a beauty, indeed, just as the duchess had told him. The resemblance to Penelope was striking. In addition to their beauty, both of them possessed faces of strong character—high cheekbones, delicately squared jaws, and level looks from their violet eyes.
“Oh! It is you! Beau, what are you doing here?”
Turning to face her, he was dismayed to see Penelope looking changed. Her face was flushed, but her lovely eyes had a hollow look. Her hair was drawn severely back into a knot, and she wore the same drab muslin she had been wearing when he proposed to her.
“The duchess told me how ill your father is. I did not like to think of you going through this trying time alone. I came to offer my support, if you will allow it.”
She appeared to be speechless.
He felt somewhat foolish at her astonishment. “How is he doing this morning?” he asked.
“You came all the way from London?” she asked, her eyes round.
“It was only two days on horseback,” he said. “And I do not expect you to put me up. I am staying at the local inn.”
“But what about the Foreign Office?”
He shrugged. “They know where to find me if they need me. I made the decision to come, Pen. Now I am here. Tell me how Sir Gerald does.”
His fiancée sank into a chair and put the heel of her hand to her forehead.
“Papa is not doing well. He is not recovering. It is inflammation of the lungs. Mr. Jenkins, our physician, is doing all he can, and I am striving to follow his instructions, but the fever has worn Papa down. His breathing is more labored with every hour.”
Beau took a deep breath. It was as he had feared. “I am glad I came,” he said. “I do not know how you are bearing this alone.”
She looked up at him, her eyes full of tears. “I never should have expected him to journey to London. It was exceedingly selfish of me.”
Beau wanted to take her in his arms, to lift the burden from those slender shoulders. “No. If it was anyone’s fault, it was mine. I was the one who would not settle for a local wedding.” Walking across the room to her side, he rested a hand on her shoulder. “Will he see me, do you think? It might help him to know there is someone here with you.”
Her face brightened a little. “Yes. You are right. Come, follow me upstairs.” She rose, then stopped before leaving the room. “Forgive me. You have caught me unawares, but it was wonderfully kind of you to come.”
“It is the least I can do in the circumstances, Pen.”
He followed her until they reached the second-floor bedroom. The drapes were drawn, and the room felt warm and stuffy. As they walked in, the figure on the bed stirred. “Penny? Who has come calling?”
“It is Lord Wellingham, Papa. He has ridden all the way from London to see you.”
Beau was shocked to see the change in the baronet, how shrunken he appeared, and how gray his skin. He placed a hand on his shoulder. “I heard from Pen’s cousin, the duchess, that you were not recovered from your visit to London and that Pen was seeing after you here alone. I determined to see if I could help in some way.”
“I am very glad you came,” the baronet said in a slow voice, accompanied by a cough. “I have been worried about Penny.”
“Papa! Of course I want to be with you, to take care of you,” she said.
“But it is a burden, nevertheless. Sit down, Lord Wellingham, and tell me the news of the world.”
“I shall,” Beau said, seating himself next to the bed. “Pen, perhaps you could rest awhile?”
His fiancée looked at him with gratitude. “I confess I am tired. I will leave you two together. I have a cot in the dressing room through the door there, so I shall be close by if . . . if Papa needs anything.”
Beau rose as Penelope left the room. When he was seated again, he said, “Well, the war news is the same. The Prussians and the Russians are keeping Napoleon occupied in the east. He hasn’t had the troop resources to do much fighting on the Peninsula.”
“And America? Penny reads newspapers to me, but we haven’t heard anything about that lately.”
It alarmed Beau how labored Sir Gerald’s speech had become.
“We continue to engage them in the Chesapeake, but as you probably know, the bay is vast and there are many inlets which do duty for sheltering ships. The war continues to be a draw.”
“Think it will end soon?”
Beau considered. “I think there will eventually be a negotiated peace without a clear military victory. It is a frustrating war for both parties.”
Sir Gerald nodded, his eyelids drooping.
“Would you like to sleep?” Beau asked.
“Sleep too much. Something I’ve been wanting to know.”
“What can I help you with?” He expected a question about the status of his engagement and did not know how he would answer.
“Why do you dress like a deuced dandy?” Sir Gerald had a coughing spasm. When he could breathe again, he said, “Don’t act like one. Regular out-and-outer. A Corinthian.”
Beau smiled and emitted a chuckle. “I suppose it’s because I enjoy confounding people. I don’t like prejudices. As you know, the ton has very narrow strictures. I enjoy being underestimated. It gives me an advantage sometimes.”
“Hmm.”
Despite efforts to stay awake, Sir Gerald’s eyes rolled back, and his lids closed. Beau watched him sleep. He could not imagine that Pen’s father would ever gather the strength to recover. Did she realize that? What would it be like to be a dependent daughter with no other close family? To know that your father was dying and that you would lose your home when he was gone?
Getting to his feet, Beau crept to the door of the dressing room and saw that Penelope slept soundly on the cot. Had she been sitting in this room day and night, afraid to leave her father? Instead of going downstairs, he decided he had better stay by the man’s bedside.
The hours passed slowly. Taking up the book beside the bed, he saw that it was by an author he didn’t know and titled The Affair at Staley-in-the-Wold. It proved to be a diverting satire about an English village. The viscount was entertained, despite the grim sickroom task.
A man came to the room eventually. “Pardon me, your lordship. I am Wilson, Sir Gerald’s valet,” he whispered. “The curate of Downing, a Mr. Collingsworth, has called. Is Miss Swinton sleeping?”
“Yes. I do not like to wake her. She seems very tired. Why would the curate of Downing call here? That is miles away, surely.”
“He is her childhood friend, son to our vicar here in the village.”
Ah! The vicar’s son! Beau very much wanted to meet the man who had taught his fiancée to fight.
“Would you sit with Sir Gerald? I will go down and see the man.”
“Very good, sir. It is my watch in a few minutes, anyway.”
Pen’s caller was tall and rail-thin. He wore a worn coat and breeches. He either gav
e no thought to dress or the village of Downing was not a thriving parish.
“I am Beau Saunders, Viscount Wellingham,” Beau said, extending his hand.
“The fiancé! I am Tom Collingsworth, a friend to Sir Gerald and Miss Swinton.”
“She is quite worn down and is resting, as is Sir Gerald. Is there any way I can be of assistance?”
“I wished only to inquire after the health of Sir Gerald. When I was last here, he was doing quite poorly. Has there been any change?”
“I just arrived myself, but the man is very weak, it appears to me.”
The two men sat.
“I am so sorry to hear that. Poor Miss Swinton just lost her mother.”
“Yes. It is very hard.”
Collingsworth’s hands went to his simply tied neckcloth. “I hope you do not mind, but she told me what transpired in London at the ball. She cautioned me to keep it to myself, which I will, of course.”
“I understand I have you to thank for the fact that I am still alive,” Beau said with a small smile.
“My lord?”
“Pen defended me valiantly by diving for the villain’s knees and bringing him down. She told me you taught her the trick.”
The curate colored. “A very long time ago. We were children together.”
“Yes. I understand.”
At that moment, Penelope herself joined the two men. They rose.
“Tom! Wilson said you were here!”
The rest appeared to have refreshed her. With her face lit up like a sunny day, Beau’s fiancé approached the other man, hands outstretched. The viscount felt a stab of jealousy. What was the situation between these two? Wordsworth certainly seemed familiar with the fellow. He was lying at Collingsworth’s feet, his head resting on one of his shoes.
“Penny. I came to see how your father is and was surprised to meet your fiancé.”
Beau watched her blush and send a look his way. “I did not know he was coming. He surprised me.”
Her Fateful Debut: A Regency Romance (Three Gentlemen of London Book 1) Page 11