As he drew closer to London, he could not help but speculate on Castlereagh’s summons. Together with the knowledge the duchess had brought regarding St. Croix, it was not hard to guess that his business was with the spy.
Arabella greeted him with enthusiasm. “Beau, I have been so lonely! How is Miss Swinton? Is she to marry you after all? How is her papa?”
He pinched her cheek. “I am sorry you have been lonely, chick. Yes, I do believe Miss Swinton will marry me, but she is very sad at the moment because her father has just died. She is with her aunt and cousin now. After she packs up her things, she will come back to London. She particularly requested that you write to her.”
“Oh! I shall, just as soon as you tell me everything. How did you convince her to marry you?”
“That, my dear sister, is privileged information. Will you ask Cook to put together a scratch supper for me? I must go wash off my travel dirt.”
He spent the evening answering her questions about Penelope’s father, who would inherit the estate, and how long it would be before his fiancée would arrive in London.
When she asked him again how he had persuaded such a beauty to marry him, he answered, “There are things a gentleman does not discuss, and that, my dear sister, is one of them.”
-P-
The morning after his return, Beau took a hackney to the Foreign Office, where he met with Lord Castlereagh in the dark paneled room. Castlereagh’s desk was piled high with books, papers, and maps. The man himself seemed in a fractious mood.
“Wellingham,” the tall, thin man addressed him. “We need your help. We suspect St. Croix of killing a Lieutenant Morrison when he pretended to turn French informant, but then tried to double-cross him. The spy obviously saw a hanging in his future. Unfortunately, he carries a knife. Immediately after doing the deed, he made himself scarce.”
“Yes. The Duchess of Ruisdell informed me when I saw her in Northamptonshire that the duke was searching for him. He never found him?”
“No. And now the blighter has sent word that he wants to see you about turning to our side. You are the expert at turning agents, so I need you not only to find the man, but to bring him in. He will be hanged for the lieutenant’s death. The man is dreaming if he thinks we would ever trust him.”
“Did he communicate with you in writing?”
“Yes.” Castlereagh passed a creased piece of foolscap into his hand. There, written with an ill-trimmed quill, was the message in French. In essence, it demanded a meeting with the Viscount Wellingham himself to discuss terms of St. Croix’s change of allegiance.
Beau held it to his nose. An odor of fish still clung to the missive. Covent Garden Market? A possibility. Or it could be that he was just eating fish in a smelly pub somewhere as he wrote.
“Odd that if he is so anxious to change his stripes that he didn’t provide a meeting place and time,” he said.
“He may have known you were not in London. Perhaps you will get a message at Wellingham House now that you are back.”
“I will do my best to run the scoundrel to earth,” Beau said.
“Report to me anytime, night or day.”
“Very good, my lord.” Beau inclined his head. “I will begin immediately.”
After returning to his house to change his costume into something more anonymous—a worn suit of black clothing, together with shabby boots and a bowler hat—he made off for Covent Garden Market. That den of pickpockets and thieves was his first choice of places to look. If St. Croix wasn’t there, someone still might have information—for a price.
Among the smells of the large produce market, the odor of fish was the most predominant. The row of fishmongers with their product strung up above the stalls was his first stop.
“Seen a French bloke, ’ave ya?” he inquired in his best Cockney dialect.
No one obliged him, and he passed on to the pork and beef stalls. Even if he received no information, word would eventually get to his quarry that he was looking for him.
It was a relief to finally pass to the flower stalls. The blooms reminded him of Pen with her face pressed into the bouquet of roses he had picked and dethorned for her to fashion into her father’s funeral wreath—a bittersweet memory. He bought some violets for Arabella and then made his way to the Spotted Pig for his supper and further inquiries.
Sitting in a booth in the back of the hostelry fragrant with stew and brew, he ordered bangers and mash, together with a pint of ale. The pub teemed with food purveyors taking their pints at the end of a long day. Beau let their unlovely smells and speech play over his senses, listening closely for any reference to the Frenchman.
He heard nothing relevant. After he had eaten his repast and drained his pint, he left the pub and walked out of the East End, where he caught a hackney for Wellingham House.
There was the possibility that St. Croix would seek him out. But before adjourning to his club, a bath was a necessity. Afterwards, he dressed in a mushroom-colored ensemble with a brown satin waistcoat, endured having Jackson restyle his hair, and then made for White’s.
Bertie greeted him as soon as he stepped through the door.
“Beau! Back from the wilds of Northamptonshire! How did you leave that delightful fiancée of yours, man?”
“Grieving, unfortunately,” he said after ordering a brandy. “Her father just passed away. How have you been keeping?”
“Middling. My best mare threw a shoe and injured a foot. Her recovery isn’t going well. Off to the races at Leicester next week?”
“Afraid not,” Beau answered. “Bit of a job to do. And Miss Swinton will be coming up to London—wedding and all that.”
“You are not putting it off now that she is in mourning?” his friend asked with a raised eyebrow.
“It will be a small family affair. We’ll probably hold it at Wellingham House, then I’m taking her off to Somerset.”
“Pretty cut up, is she?”
“Quite. But Lady Clarice and the duchess are with her. That line is the last of her family.”
“I’ll send her some blooms when she gets to town. Poor lady. What flowers does she like?”
“She’s partial to roses.” He clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Thank you. Sorry to hear about your mare.”
He turned to Viscount Strangeways upon his friend’s approach. “What’s the latest at the boxing saloon? Taken anyone down lately, Tony?”
“No one worth the trouble with you out of town.”
Beau updated his friend on his personal situation and then said to his two friends, “I hope you’ll both be able to make it to the wedding, if you’re in town. It would mean a lot to me. It will just be a small affair. I’ll let you know.”
The three shared a bottle of brandy, Beau leaving most of it for his friends. When the hour struck one in the morning, he said good night and donned his evening cape. All his senses were alert as he stepped out into St. James’s Street.
Though he expected St. Croix, no one came out of the shadows. After walking a block, he hailed a hackney and went home. Anticipating the spy might be lingering in his shrubbery, he readied his body to repulse an attack, but again, no one was there. With a mixture of relief and disappointment, he let himself into the house.
Restless, he went into his library and poured another brandy. He drank it while looking into the fire. Instead of St. Croix’s visage, his mind conjured that of his fiancée.
He remembered her white face and the traces of her tears and how it transformed when he kissed her. She was a passionate little thing! He missed her far more than he anticipated. Grinning to himself, he gazed into the future—picturing her drawing Miss Sukey’s Henry Five, exclaiming over the lions in the Tower, and moving gracefully through the flowerbeds at Kensington Gardens. When he began to imagine taking her in his arms, he made his way to the desk to write her a letter. Absently, he loosened his cravat and opened the French doors behind him to let in a bit of cool air. It felt as though it were going to storm.<
br />
Dearest Pen,
It is very late, and I am missing you. I am thinking of all the things we will do together once you come to London. I think it is important for you to know that my life is not consumed by the ton.
Have you ever heard of the Elgin Marbles? They are in the British Museum now, having been brought from Greece. They were wrought in the Classical Age and are truly magnificent. I know you will enjoy seeing them and other Greek and Roman artifacts.
I want to tell you a little about Somerset Vale, my estate. I think you will be very fond of it. Somerset is a lovely corner of England. The skies are vast, and I believe it takes its name from the magnificent sunsets displayed there. My estate is outside the village of Milverton, a market town with a medieval church you will enjoy exploring.
There are several brooks on the property, teeming with natural history! You will have plenty of subjects for your sketching. The house itself is a restored abbey. It is massive and could do with your artistic touch. It is a project that seems to go on for generations.
There are also many prehistoric sites in the area. All in all, I think you may, sometime in the future, come to be as at home at Somerset Vale as you are now at Beeches.
Arabella is looking forward with great excitement to seeing you again and acquiring a sister. I think the two of you will be great friends. She has promised to write to you, if she has not already done so.
Take care, my dearest Pen. I look forward to seeing you soon.
Your most devoted,
Beau
He had just put down his quill when he heard someone at the window behind him. Leaping to his feet, Beau pushed his desk chair with force at the figure entering his library. The man fell to the floor, and the viscount was on him in an instant. It was St. Croix, wielding a knife.
He was a wirier individual than Beau’s former opponent. Using all his skills, Beau still needed several minutes to subdue him. The Frenchman managed to slice him deeply in the arm, saying, “This is for Devereaux.”
With the last of his strength, Beau snapped the man’s neck. He struggled to the bell pull. When his butler joined him, he instructed him to send a footman for the physician and one to Lord Castlereagh’s residence with the message that St. Croix had been dispatched and that Beau had a body to dispose of.
His butler also summoned Jackson, who untied Beau’s neckcloth and fashioned it into a tourniquet around his upper arm. The valet laid him out on the sofa of the library, endeavoring to stop the bleeding until the physician, Mr. Carberry, arrived.
The short, round doctor was his usual man, but he had never had reason to stitch him up before. Carberry ordered another branch of candles to help him see his patient’s wound.
“This is a nasty one, your lordship. It will require at least twenty stitches. We can only hope that it won’t become inflamed during the next few days.”
Beau scarcely had a grip on consciousness and merely nodded. Before the doctor was through with his work, darkness had descended on the viscount.
Chapter Twenty-One
With the goal of joining Beau in London, Penelope found that her packing up the belongings that did not go with the estate—clothing, drawings, the portrait of Mama, and her mother’s china and silver wedding gifts—did not take as long as she expected, especially with the help of her aunt.
The duchess had been a great support, as well, talking to her about things she would enjoy about London, telling her humorous stories about Beau, and promising to help to make her a success with the ton once her period of mourning was over. Surprisingly, Penelope grew eager to embrace the next phase of her life. It helped that she would not have to try her wings among high society until her feet were under her. If there was anything good about Papa’s death, that was it.
Tom had a great deal of trouble accepting her decision. They discussed the situation one morning in the rose garden.
“The fellow’s a dandy, Penny!” he said.
“Not really. It is a pose, Tom. He does important work for the Foreign Office. He likes his enemies to underestimate him. Did I not tell you that he knows Jujutsu? You should have seen him dispatch the spy Devereaux.”
“So you have fallen for a killer.”
Annoyed, she said, “He is no more a killer than a soldier in the King’s Army would be.”
“But you do not like London society,” Tom reminded her.
“The duchess was once young and green just like I am. She is going to help me make my way. And, of course, Beau will, too.”
Finally, Tom said what was really on his mind, “You and I always meant to marry, Penny. I am very fond of you. Does that count for nothing?”
Putting her hand on his arm, Penelope said gently, “I am very fond of you, as well, Tom. But I am a child no longer. Papa wanted me to find my future in London, since I no longer have a place here.”
“You would always have a place here as my wife,” Tom argued.
Penelope sighed. “We have come to an impasse, Tom. I am sorry. There will be a woman in your life soon, I expect, who will be far better suited as a vicar’s wife than I am. I have scandal in my past, after all. You will be happier with someone who is above reproach. As will your father.”
“I have only ever thought of you as a wife, Penny.” He moved to kiss her, but she dodged out of his way.
“You shall always be my friend, Tom.”
“I cannot believe you prefer a jumped-up tailor’s dummy,” he said darkly.
“He is my fiancé. Please do not speak of him thus.” Penelope was vexed with the conversation.
Tom left a short time later, exceedingly blue-deviled. She was glad, after all, that the future before her was not going to be determined by the Collingsworth family. While Tom was a good friend, he was no longer what she wanted in a husband.
The duchess left to go home to her family midweek. She promised Penelope that she looked forward to helping her with the small wedding she planned in London.
The following day at breakfast, Penelope was thrilled to receive a letter from Arabella, as well as one from Beau.
She opened the latter first. A small enclosed bit of paper, fluttered to the ground. Puzzled, she picked it up.
Miss Penelope,
I found this letter on Beau’s desk, ready to mail.
With hopes of seeing you soon,
Arabella Saunders
Beau had written her a letter, but had not mailed it? Arabella had found it on his desk? It did not make any sense to her.
Before reading Beau’s letter, she slit open the one from his sister.
Miss Penelope,
I am hoping you will be able to join me in London soon. Beau has been wounded in a fight with that dreadful St. Croix, who is now dead. My brother remains unconscious. Mr. Carberry, the physician, says he needs fluids, but it is almost impossible to get him to swallow. The situation is a frightening one.
Sir Bertie Backman and Viscount Strangeways are keeping watch over the sickbed, spelling me so I can sleep at night. We are all very eager for you to come. Perhaps Beau will hear your voice and revive.
We pray daily that Providence will spare his life.
Yours devotedly,
Arabella
Penelope’s heart raced, and she felt the blood drain from her head. Wounded. Unconscious. We pray daily that Providence will spare his life. She stared ahead of her unable to say a word, clutching the letter in her fist.
I must go to him. It took two days for this to come on the mail. It will take three days for me to get to him . . . unless I go by horseback. Another scandal. Ladies do not ride hell-for-leather to London.
Very agitated, she turned to her aunt. “Beau is wounded. He was unconscious when Arabella wrote this letter.”
“Oh! My dear! That is dreadful.”
“I must go. I am going to take Papa’s horse, Agamemnon. I will dress as a man, of course. Shall you mind travelling alone in the carriage? I can send a couple of footmen with you.”
�
��Penelope, it is too dangerous for you to travel thus. No one will ever take you for a man!”
“A boy, then. I shall have Tom bring me some clothes from the parish jumble drive.”
Rising, she went out of the breakfast room and strode to her desk in the morning room.
Tom,
I am in need of a suit of boys’ clothes that will fit me. Can you bring one to me? I am in a dreadful rush. Beau has been wounded, and I must ride to London in the greatest hurry. He may already be dead.
Pray for me,
Penny
She sent the note by footman to the vicarage, where her friend was staying with his parents for the village fete planned for that afternoon. Another footman was to go to the stable and bring in her father’s saddlebags. Then she went to the cook and asked her to pack sandwiches and fruit for the trip.
Aunt Clarice followed her around, murmuring suggestions. “You must take gowns with you, Penelope dear. You will have to dress like a lady once you are in London.”
“I only have my one black gown with the lace fichu. My blacks are not ready yet.”
“Well, pack that, for goodness’ sake. If only I weren’t so old, I would don your father’s clothes and come with you.”
“And I should be glad to have you. But I must go alone in this situation.”
Tom had other ideas. He brought the clothes over himself.
“Penny, if you truly mean to do this outrageous thing, then I must accompany you. I will not give you the clothes otherwise.”
She made up her mind in an instant. “I should be very glad of your company, Tom. But I leave this afternoon. Your mother will not want you to miss the fete.”
“I am glad of an excuse to miss it. She is driving me distracted to tell you the truth.”
“Thank you, Tom.” Looking over the shirt, breeches, waistcoat, riding coat, and cap, she said, “These will do very well, indeed.”
An hour later, dressed in her riding costume, Penelope kissed Aunt Clarice on the cheek, vowing to meet her in London. Her aunt agreed to take the trunks Penelope had packed with her in the carriage. She also promised to bring Wordsworth with her.
Her Fateful Debut: A Regency Romance (Three Gentlemen of London Book 1) Page 15