Penelope's Guardian (Promises Book 3)

by Laura Clarke

  Penelope was surprised he was being so honest with her. She didn’t want Mary to be put in danger. If she knew where she was, she would send her a message to tell her what was happening. She didn’t want to see Mary put in prison.

  “I know of the books,” she said. “But I haven’t seen them in quite some time.”

  “Tomorrow we will search for then,” Emmett said. “You would know what is in the house better than anyone else. If you could make a list tonight of things you think might be missing, it would be much appreciated.”

  “I will think on it,” she said. Right after I write a letter to Andrew she said silently.

  They finished their meal in relative silence, talking only about the weather and the quality of the food. After she’d retired to her room, Penelope sat down behind her desk and wondered about the letter she would write.

  Should it be provocative? Or was that being disrespectful to Chester during her time of mourning? Perhaps she should just tell Andrew to meet her in the park tomorrow afternoon. They could discuss their future together.

  Deciding to play it safe, she wrote a quick note telling him she missed his company, and asking him to come for tea at four tomorrow afternoon. As soon as she’d written the words she tore the page into pieces and tossed it into the fire.

  The second draft asked him to come to the park at four. That one joined the first one when she tossed it into the flames.

  Next, she jotted down a few items she thought would be considered valuable. Unfortunately, it was mostly jewelry that Mary had shown her, and she was sure her friend—former friend?—had taken off with them. She still couldn’t believe Mary had turned into a thief, but there was no other explanation for the missing items.

  The jewelry would be easy to get rid of by selling to merchants. But the books. They were so rare that someone would be suspicious if they were offered them. The buyer would know they were stolen and, unless they were not on the up and up, they would, hopefully, alert the authorities that something was amiss.

  Penelope felt an overwhelming need to talk to Andrew. He always seemed to know what to say. Maybe he had heard gossip about Mary and her lover.

  She put down her quill and clenched her hands into fists. She was angry, an emotion she wasn’t really used to feeling. Before Chester’s death, she and Mary had been laughing, playing cards and enjoying each other’s company.

  Now, Mary had left her alone, wondering what would become of her. That meant their friendship left much to be desired. All she had left in this world was Andrew. It made her want to tear up the letter and go in search of him tonight. She fought back the urge. Instead she rang for Clara, changed into her nightclothes and went to bed.

  The minute she’d extinguished the lamp, however, her mind started to whirl. Where had Mary gone? Why had she gone? Did she have something to do with Chester’s death? What about the missing items?

  She tossed and turned, her mind refusing to shut down. When the clock struck midnight, she threw back the covers and decided it was time to start the search on her own.

  The duke was in his brother’s room, she knew that. But she wasn’t sure which room Emmett was using. Mary’s room was down the corridor from Chester’s. She was sure it was empty. If she could get there without being discovered she would have all the time she needed to see if anything looked like it was wrong, or out of place.

  She’d spent a lot of time in Mary’s room, so finding something shouldn’t be hard. And she wanted the chance to do it without her new guardian at her side.

  The thought of Emmett acting as her guardian made her want to be sick to her stomach. When his father was gone she intended to let him know she didn’t need him. She was a grown woman, and she had a man in her life. Once she and Andrew were married things would be fine.

  She sat in her bed, wondering about the wisdom of leaving her room in the middle of the night. Then she remembered what she’d just said. She was a mature woman, and this was her home. She didn’t have any sort of curfew when she had to be in her room. She could come and go as she pleased.

  After she was out of bed she wrapped her robe tightly around her midsection. I’m a grown woman, she repeated to herself as she grabbed a candle and lit it. This is my home, she said as she headed out the door. Those were the two mantras she repeated as she headed for the stairs to the second floor.

  She tried to keep her footsteps as soft as possible. She stopped at the top. She lifted the candle high and looked in both directions. Nothing stirred. In fact, it was so quiet and dark it was eerie. There was part of her that half expected to see Chester’s ghost floating down the corridor.

  Penelope stared into the darkness, second-guessing her decision. After several deep breathes, in which she repeated the two phrases that had led her here.

  “Stop being a superstitious baby,” she whispered. She went to Mary’s door and turned the knob. It opened without making a sound. Once she was inside she saw a candle on the night table. After she put down her candle she lit the taper to give herself a little more light, then she looked around.

  The room was in pristine condition, with a perfectly made bed. The lacy curtains were pulled tight against the darkness outside. She picked up the pillows and fluffed them up. She remembered reading in some gothic novel about how a thief had hidden objects in a pillow to keep it out of sight. She felt feathers and the material that held them together, but nothing else.

  Next, she ran her hands under the mattress, all the way around. Once again, she found nothing. After that she pulled out the drawer on the nightstand. There were slips of paper inside. She picked them up and held them close to the candles, so she could read them.

  It was the same thing over and over. I love you, I love you, I love you. There was no signature. It was definitely male writing, but it wasn’t Chester’s script. That meant someone had been leaving Mary notes about being in love with her. She knew Mary had left the house, but she didn’t think she’d escaped with anyone—until now.

  She sat down on the bed, her mind reeling. Nothing was as it seemed. Mary did have a lover. Penelope had been loath to believe it, because Mary was her friend. She didn’t want to think Mary would hurt Chester in that manner. Plus, when Albert had said Mary had been kissing Clark Weston, the lending librarian, Penelope had not believed them.

  Penelope knew Clark, because she and Mary visited the library often. But the two of them had never shown any signs of being engaged in anything but the checking out of books.

  Thinking of Clark made Penelope wonder about the missing books. She and Mary had visited the library at least three times a week. Was it possible that Mary had been smuggling the books out of the house, giving them to her lover?

  It was a smart plan if that was what they were doing. No one questioned them when they left, the tomes clutched in their arms. They would talk about what they’d just read, and what they wanted to take out next. Penelope had not counted the books in Mary’s arms. Why should she? She counted on her friend to bring back the ones she’d taken from the library.

  “That little bitch,” Penelope said, much louder than she’d expected.

  “Such language.”

  Her breath caught in her throat and she jerked her head toward the door. “What do you think you’re doing here?”

  “I could ask you the same thing, Miss Martin,” Emmett Sway said. “I believe your room is on the first floor, not the second one.”

  “I could not sleep,” she said.

  “So, you came up to see if the stolen goods you and Mary took were still hidden?” He stepped into the room and lifted his candle high. “Or did she take them out from under you?”

  “I am not a thief,” she said. “What I said is true. I could not sleep. I knew the books were missing. I came up here to look for them.”

  “How did you know they were missing?” he asked.

  The truth would reveal the fact that she’d eavesdropped on them that afternoon, which wasn’t a good thing. She had to think fast
.

  “I went into the library today to look for a new book.” She made sure to keep her gaze on him. If she didn’t he was sure to think she was guilty. “I noticed the tomes were missing.”

  “Which tomes would that be?” he asked.

  “The ones that Chester prized, the ones from the time of Good King Henry,” she said. When he didn’t answer she glared at him. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

  “How did you know they were missing?”

  “This is ridiculous,” she said. “I told you I saw the shelves were bare.”

  “Just today?” he asked, suspiciously.

  “I don’t go in that library very often,” she said. “I use the one on the ground floor. I like the selection there better. I know that Chester keeps—kept—his private library on the first floor.”

  “Yet here you are on the second floor, snooping around at two in the morning.” He moved to Mary’s writing desk and sat down in the chair. “Why? You won’t find something to read up here. What are you looking for? A message from your confederate? Was she going to tell you where she left the books? Did she expect you to smuggle them out of the house?”

  “Search the room if you want,” she said. “There is no message. I simply became concerned after you and your father said you were doing an inventory. I wondered what else was missing.”

  “You’re lying,” he said.

  “How dare you!” She threw her arms out to her sides. “Search my person if you must. I assure you I have found nothing in the short amount of time I have been in this room.”

  “Perhaps I should,” he said. “You might have something hidden in your nightclothes.”

  She put her arms down to her sides. “You will not touch me. You must take my word for the fact that I’ve taken nothing.”

  “But have you left something?” he asked. He stood. “I would like you to sit in this chair while I examine the contents of Mary’s sleeping chambers.”

  “Milord, I believe it is not proper for us to be in a bedroom together,” she said. “I would think as my new guardian that you would be aware of that.”

  She stayed where she was, but she judged the distance between herself and the door, and how quickly she could get past him. He still sat at the desk, lounging with his legs in front of him.

  “Please, Miss Martin, the information I have says this is not the first time you’ve been in a bedroom alone with a male.”

  “I beg your pardon? How dare you make such an accusation!” Did that sound good? Would he figure out that she already knew someone had been besmirching her reputation? This was not an easy conversation to have. He couldn’t find out that she’d listened to him and his father talk that afternoon.

  “You deny having a lover?”

  “Most emphatically!” She marched toward the desk. She thought she might slap him, but she stopped herself just short of the desk. It wouldn’t do to antagonize him with physical contact.

  “I’ve heard differently,” he said.

  “From whom?” His answer would be interesting. She knew the letter he’d received had been anonymous. Would he lie to her? If so it said a great deal about his character. If he told her the truth she might, just might, be able to trust him.

  “If you must know, my father received an anonymous letter the day we arrived here. It was waiting for us.”

  That answered questions that she had.

  “Was the letter in a male, or female, hand?”

  “It was hard to say,” he said. “The writing was perfect, but it did not seem to have the curly letters one would suspect from a female. Still, there is every chance that Mary wrote the letter and tried to disguise her hand.”

  “Mary is my friend,” she said, although she now wondered about the truth of that statement.

  “Does that mean you would help her steal from us?”

  “No,” she said. “I may not know you, but Chester has been like a father to me for the past eight years, since my own father died. He cared for me, and in return I would not do anything that would hurt his family.”

  She was close enough that she could see doubt on his face.

  “I assure you, that is the truth.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” he said. He stood. “It is late, or should I say it is early, very early in the morning. Perhaps we can discuss this situation tomorrow, before we start the inventory.”

  “As you wish,” she said. “After breakfast?”

  “I will escort you to your room,” he said.

  “Thank you, but I can find my way on my own,” she said. She crossed to the bed and extinguished the flame on one candle and picked up the other. “While we are on the subject, I want you to know I do not need a guardian. I can take care of myself.”

  “If you cared for Chester as much as you say, you would allow us to follow his wishes, which is for a member of the family to be your guardian.” He stood and picked up his own candle. “Now, I will see you downstairs.”

  “So you can lock me in my room?” she huffed. “I’ve read enough gothic novels to know things go badly for the poor, orphaned female.”

  His laughter was almost contagious. Almost. She was afraid if she joined him, he would think she was accepting of his care.

  “You’ve read too many novels,” he said. “Now, let’s go. I am growing tired and we have a busy day tomorrow.”

  Yes, we do, she wanted to say. She thought about telling him about her inviting Andrew for tea, then decided it wasn’t the right thing to do. She would surprise him with her visitor, and, at some point, she would tell him that she and Andrew would be married before long.

  Of course, she needed to talk with Andrew about that, which meant she needed to go to her room and write another letter before she went to sleep.

  How did a female write a marriage proposal? She wasn’t sure, but she planned to find the perfect words. Then, while she was serving Lord Emmett Sway the perfect cup of tea, she would be able to tell him she really didn’t need his protection, since she would soon be Mrs. Andrew Bixley.

  Chapter 3

  They found nothing in the search, which vindicated what Penelope had said about Mary.

  “Perhaps Chester sent the books out to be mended,” she said around two in the afternoon. She knew the time because she’d just checked the clock. “There might be a mention of it in the household accounts.”

  “They are three hundred years old,” Emmett said. “They do not need mended.”

  Penelope looked at the clock again.

  “Am I keeping you from something?” he asked. “Your gaze keeps straying to the clock in whatever room we are in.”

  It was now or never. “I have plans to go to Portobello for tea with my suitor.”

  “Without my permission?” He didn’t sound happy. “You knew we would be busy today.”

  “I want to see him,” she said. “And, as I reminded you before, I am four and twenty. I do not need a guardian.”

  “I gave my father my word that I would care for you,” Emmett said. “If you want to meet him for tea that is fine, but you need to clear it with me, first. Plus, your chaperone has not yet arrived. You cannot go alone. Send him word that plans have changed. Ask him to come here tomorrow so I can meet him.”

  “I will not,” Penelope said. She held a book in her hand, one that she’d found on Mary’s bedside table. Why they’d searched her room again she didn’t know. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t looked in there the night before. “I am to meet him at four. I need to change and make my way there, so I am not late. I ordered a carriage to be at the front door at three.”

  “You take too much upon yourself, Miss Martin,” Emmett said. “Once again, I forbid it.”

  “I decline to follow your orders,” she said. “Now, if you will excuse me, I need to wash my hands and clean up.”

  “Miss Martin, if I need to lock you in your room I will do so.”

  Penelope laughed. “So, my life has turned into a gothic
novel. I’m sorry, Milord Emmett, but once again, I decline your offer of guardianship.”

  She moved quickly, moving out of the room before he could say anything else. Part of her expected him to follow her, or to yell at the servants to find the key to her door. But nothing happened. She entered her room to find the blue day dress laid out as she’d instructed Clara to do. Her maid came inside moments later.

  “You’ve stirred a hornet’s nest,” Clara said. “Lord Emmett is storming about, screaming about teahouses in Portobello.”

  Penelope laughed. “Maybe if I upset him enough he will realize I am a grown woman and don’t need a guardian.”

  “Not that one, Miss,” Clara said. “Something tells me he’s as stubborn as you are.”

  “I am not stubborn, Clara, I am determined,” Penelope said as she examined her reflection. She looked rather beautiful, even if she did say so herself. She sat and let Clara put her hat on her head, and tie the bow under her chin. After she’d examined herself once again she smiled at her maid.

  “As always, you’ve done magnificent work, Clara,” Penelope said. “Thank you so much. Please go down and see if the carriage is here. I don’t want to run into Lord Emmett again.”

  “As you wish.” Clara rushed from the room and Penelope glanced into the looking glass.

  She cleared her throat and said, “Andrew, how do you feel about marriage.”

  No, that wouldn’t work. It was too formal. “Andrew, I have discovered I have great feelings for you.”

  No, she couldn’t tell him that because it was a lie. It was true that many relationships started out that way, but Penelope didn’t want hers to be one of them.

  “Andrew, I need your help. I realize I have little to offer, but I want to marry and…”

  And what? You’re the only man I know, and I need your help? How would he respond to that? She was sure Chester had settled money on her in his will, but she didn’t know the amount, so she couldn’t offer it to Andrew.