Penelope flicked her fan open, tucked the note into her bosom, and eyed her brother. She wasn’t above using extortion on her family, but even she knew better than to use it on acquaintances. The philanthropic route was a much more interesting endeavor.
“Why Mr. Granger, I would be delighted.” She hesitated and drew out a practiced pout. “However, I am requesting a donation of ten pounds for every dance this evening.”
Mr. Granger froze, and she hurried on. “You see, I am seeking donations for a private charity and I was at Hyde Park today. Have you been to Hyde Park, Mr. Granger?”
“Yes—”
“And have you seen the new carousel?”
“Yes, I’ve even ridden it.”
Penelope slapped her fan shut and tapped the center of his chest. “Excellent. You see, if you think about it in a round-about way, you made a donation.”
“I did?”
“Well, of course. You made a donation so you could ride and then afterward, you felt happy.”
“I suppose you could say that.”
“So, if you were to donate ten pounds to my charity, I will honor you with a dance, and not only will you feel happy, you will be a hero because you have donated to a most worthy cause.”
Penelope batted her lashes for effect, monies exchanged, and with a wink and a nod to her brother who seemed to have picked up a stutter, she allowed Mr. Granger to escort her onto the dance floor.
Penelope’s next mark or rather dedicated donor was Lord Heatherton, followed by Lord De Chevalier. He was the most burdensome. He wanted to bargain for more than a dance. He wanted a stroll on the terrace as well. The only problem was that nanny Ferris wasn’t where she had parked him.
* * *
Edward stood next to Reginald and watched Penelope dance the quadrille with a man he wasn’t acquainted with, and he did not like the way the man leered.
“Who is the gentleman partnering your sister?”
Reginald scowled. “Lord Clive De Chevalier, the Marquis of Lansdowne.”
“De Chevalier?” Edward searched his memories. Where had he heard that name before? “Is he French?”
“Half. He’s our nearest neighbor. His estate borders ours on the other side of the bluff. He inherited the title and lands after his uncle died.”
“Where did he live before?”
“France. His father was French. His mother is the former Lord’s sister.” Malcolm’s wife died in childbirth, and he never remarried. He made Clive his heir, hoping his sister Leona would come home someday.”
“You don’t sound as if you like the man.”
“I don’t.”
Ferris stopped next to Reginald wearing the signature St. James scowl. “I want double if I have to babysit.”
“Ten pounds was the agreed-upon amount.”
“Your sister is earning ten pounds a dance.”
Both men turned their complete attention to Ferris.
“She’s charging for a dance?” Reginald almost lost his bland composure.
“Technically, her ‘partners’ are making donations to a worthy cause. She currently has forty pounds tucked into her bosom. Mr. Granger, Lord Heatherton, and Lord De Chevalier are quite philanthropic.”
“That only accounts for thirty pounds. What about the other ten?”
“Extortion. She’s threatening to throw in a good word or two for us to the mamas of marriageable maidens.”
Chapter 10
Edward headed straight for the decanter once he reached his library. It was much later than he had expected to be home—by several hours. The plan was to swoop in, dance the waltz with Penelope and then leave. Had Penelope been a typical debutante, his plan would have worked out fine. But Penelope was not a typical debutante. She was a St. James, and therefore there was nothing typical about her. She wasn’t shy and retiring or filled with giggles and gossip behind her fan. She was direct, stunning, cunning, and devious.
She reminded him of the older women, well adept at traversing the world of the ton. Her repertoire was impressive. Witty, highly intelligent, well versed in a wide range of topics. Topics no young debutante should know let alone a woman of gentle breeding.
The dildo. How the hell did that subject come up? Penelope and Miss Bishop were having an in-depth discussion on the merits of stone versus leather stuffed with shavings when he and Reginald approached them ensconced in a quiet corner toward the end of the ball. Artifacts, Miss Bishop, had called them.
It wasn’t a great leap for Amanda to have a relative amount of knowledge. She had spent her formative years in India, and their culture was more progressive. At a very young age, women learned how to please the male persuasion. But Penelope seemed to be just as well informed. Much to Reginald’s displeasure and Edward’s curiosity.
He wasn’t sure if he was displeased or not. Was there such a thing as a knowledgeable miss? There were merits in knowing. Edward set his glass down. Knowledge was fine, but he wanted to be Penelope’s teacher. Yes, he was definitely displeased.
Reginald had sent both ladies to their respective bedrooms on the promise of a severe scolding, then headed straight for the library after the last guest left and poured himself several fingers. Edward didn’t think he remained in the category of guest any longer. No, his status had been elevated to relative in waiting. Reginald mumbled about comrades in arms and sticking together, strength in numbers, routing the enemy.
Edward shook his head and stared into the amber liquid. “Dildos.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Edward swung around so fast he sloshed the remainder of his whiskey over the back of his hand. “Henrietta? What in God’s name are you doing up so late?” And in his private domain?
Henrietta tucked her legs under her backside and artfully arranged her robe. “Waiting for you. I must have fallen asleep. I thought you were only going to make an appearance.”
“Yes well—”
“Frances stopped by to see me.”
“After I left? That’s a little late to be calling, don’t you think?”
Henrietta picked at her robe, then, as if she realized what she was doing, folded her hands together. “She arrived a week ago, and she called on me this morning while you were out. I didn’t have a chance to speak to you before you left for the evening, so I waited up.”
Edward settled into the chair across from his sister. She seemed nervous. “How is Miss Wilcot?”
Henrietta dragged out a long sigh. “Miserable. Mother is in London.”
Edward bounded out of his chair and paced. His cheeks flushed with anger. The last correspondence he’d had with his solicitor, his mother was safely installed at the dower house. “Where is she staying?”
His sister flinched at his abruptness and raised her chin. “With Frances and her maiden aunt, Miss Wilhelmina Wilcot.”
He stopped. “That old bat is still alive?”
“Edward.”
“Forgive me. That was unkind.”
“But accurate none the less.” Henrietta’s lips twitched in the soft light.
“The Lady Wilhelmina is chaperoning Frances for the season.”
“Can she stay awake long enough to do her duty? The last time I had the displeasure of her company, she was snoring at Almack’s.” That had been over five years ago.
“Mother is keeping a sharp eye out. Frances has been to three balls, and not a single gentleman dared to approach her. She had to dance with a doddering curmudgeon older than Moses and a full foot shorter.”
“Moses, you say.”
Henrietta took a deep breath and braced her hands on the arms of the chair. “I have a favor to ask of you. Frances is going out of her mind. Now that you two are no longer affianced, she is forced to search for a husband in one season or resign herself to the shelf.”
“Frances is a beautiful woman. She will never end up on the shelf.”
“She is almost twenty-three vying for a good match among much younger ladies. She is not comfortable w
ith the crush, terribly shy, and her height dwarf’s the more delicate young ladies.”
“What would you have me do? Find her a husband?”
“It’s the least you can do. I think a tall husband is in order.”
“Oh no Henrietta, I am not a matchmaker.”
“But you know men that might take an interest in her. Tall men. Surely you can put in a few encouraging words.”
“Henrietta, if I were to recommend Frances to any man, they would run in droves in the opposite direction.”
“Why?”
“Because they would assume the worse.”
“That is ridiculous.”
“As ridiculous as it may sound, unfortunately, with her great age, they are bound to think there is something wrong with her.”
“This is all your fault, Edward. You have to do something to make it right.”
“My Fault? I had nothing to do with her state of un-wedded bliss.”
“Fine, it is mother’s fault, and you need to make right her wrong. Frances is the one that will suffer for it, and she has already been through enough. Mother, as you already know, is not a happy person and has taken her peak out on Frances for three years. You have no idea the strictures we have had to endure.”
Guilt settled onto his shoulders—not only for Frances but for his sister. “What would you have me do?”
“I have invited Frances to spend the remainder of the season with us.”
“What? She can’t stay here. It is not proper. That is completely out of the question.”
“Too late, she’s already settled in the blue room.”
* * *
Penelope hoofed it down the stairs at a quarter past six in the morning with the skirts of her riding habit thrown over her arm determined to be out of the house before Reginald finished his morning ablutions.
After he’d banished her to her room over a row about certain artifacts, she was so riled up she couldn’t sleep. Not wanting to waste a moonless night, she decided industry never slept—neither did philanthropy. Unfortunately, Tom was nowhere to be found. Slipping out of the house was easy, stealing back in, however, was not. By the time she had managed to sneak back up to her bedroom, it was half-past four.
She made it to the stables and skidded to a stop. Hell Spawn was already saddled and waiting for her.
“It’s about time.” Amanda tossed her the reins and mounted her horse. “If we don’t get out of here now, we’ll end up listening to the endless drone of your brother, and I for one have no intention of sitting through another oration on the proper topics of young ladies of decorum.”
Penelope wasn’t about to complain. “Let’s ride in the park, and then I know of a coffee house where we might get breakfast.”
On a nod, they trotted out of the mews without an escort. Thankfully, Tom was still nowhere to be found. Otherwise, he would have given them his own form of lecture while he sent one of the younger grooms to tattle. Penelope loved Tom, but he reminded her of her brothers—overprotective and peevish with a tendency toward an imperious pout.
Other riders were out enjoying brisk morning rides, but Amanda seemed on a mission, and Penelope’s interest was piqued when they cut through the riding trail and headed out of the park.
They rode in silence at a determined clip. Not quite a cantor but neither a trot through the quiet streets bypassing St. James Park, past Whitehall and up the Strand to Fleet Street.
Penelope had never been outside the west end of London without a proper carriage and escort. Not that it bothered her now, but Amanda seemed intent on a destination, and Penelope was quite sure it was not on Reggie’s list of appropriate sojourns for a lady of impeccable breeding. “Where are we going?”
“Cheapside.” Amanda’s clipped tone and determined straight forward stare broke no quarter.
Cheapside was a popular place to shop and be seen but this early, and without escort, two women of good standing did not venture out—especially on horseback. The sun was not fully risen, and the soupy fog from the coal-burning fires and dozens of odorous smells combined turned even the stoutest stomach.
“Stay close.” Amanda’s brisk command was barely overheard above the noise and congestion even at such an early hour. They skirted several small streets zigzagging their way to their destination—wherever that was, and Penelope would have been hopelessly lost if she had not studied every map of London and its surrounding enclaves—not to mention the coaching routes leading out of the city from Charing Cross.
Amanda held up her arm and stopped. She nodded toward a hackney down the street just as a gentleman in a long French coat emerged from a red door and stepped into the carriage.
Penelope watched it move away, and a skitter of recognition passed over her. After the hackney turned the corner, they heard a groan from the alley.
Ferris rose from the muck, stumbled a few yards, and fell back into the waste.
Penelope stared at Amanda for a full ten seconds then leaped from Hell Spawn and ran to her brother. Crouching, she turned him over. “What in the bloody hell happened to you?” Ferris’s face looked as if he’d been on the wrong end of a pugilist’s fist. Puffy eyed, split lip, and bloodied nostrils. He smelled like the alley in which he lay with a sharp dousing of cheap whiskey.
Ferris groaned again and looked at her as if addle walloped then his eyes sharpened with recognition. “Pen? Good God, what are you doing here?”
“I might ask you the same, but right now it looks as if you could use a lift.” She sat straight and turned away from his offensive breath. “And a bath. You dear brother are skunked.”
“Not so loud. My head is pounding like a blacksmith’s hammer.”
Skunked wasn’t the half of it. Dried blood caked the back of Ferris’s head. She gently massaged his scalp and discovered a goose egg just behind his left ear.
“Get him up.” Amanda’s terse command was no more than a harsh hiss. She stood holding the reins at the mouth of the alley standing guard. “We mustn’t tarry. It isn’t safe to be on foot here.”
Penelope grabbed her brother’s arm and helped him to stand taking a fair amount of his weight until he was in command of his legs.
“Do you think you can haul yourself onto Hell Spawn?”
“It’s not mounting the devil I fear, but the ride straight to hell.” Ferris’ split lipped grin turned into a wince, and he concentrated on finding the stirrup. On the third try, he succeeded, and Penelope gave his bottom a firm push then grabbed his leg to keep him from tumbling off the other side.
“Move up. I might have to ride behind an arse, but I won’t be riding on one.”
Ferris scooted forward with a chuckle that turned into a groan, and he held his side. “Fortunately for Lord Westfield, your arse isn’t as broad as your horse’s. Not that a broad arse isn’t a delightful complement to a woman’s form. In fact, it can be quite entertaining when deliciously plump. I should write an Ode to the female backside. ‘Oh, fair lady, lift up your skirts, so that I may behold temptations flirt. Be it buxom, or saucy, or tiny and pert; a fine derriere is the fem de rigueur-‘T’.’”
Penelope mounted behind her brother, ignoring his appalling rhyme, and adjusted her twisted skirt as best she could.
Amanda handed over Hell Spawn’s reins with an ill-concealed snort and then caught Ferris when he teetered precariously forward.
“I should ride with you, sweet Amanda. Then you could ride in front.”
“At least she would be upwind.” Penelope snarled. “Let’s get you home before Reginald is awake enough to catch your scent or we will both dine with the devil.”
* * *
Edward waited to be announced at the St. James townhome. It was too early to be making calls, but he was in a bind, and Reginald was an early riser.
The butler ushered him down a long hall to the breakfast room. A large bow window with a view of the garden dominated the space and lent the impression of dining-out-of-doors. Even the artfully painted wallpaper c
ontinued the deception along the other walls. Reginald sat at the head of the table with the paper folded next to his plate.
“Sorry to bother you at such an early hour Stansworth, but I have a bit of a problem.”
Reginald waved him to sit. “Have you breakfasted?”
“I have, but I wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee.” Two would be even better. He hadn’t slept much and had even locked his bedroom door, afraid of an unwanted late-night guest. Not that he believed Frances would be brave enough to try to catch him abed, but she might be desperate enough to think about it. And after Henrietta’s announcement, he wasn’t taking any chances.
“What kind of problem?”
“Female in nature. Sibling in origin and I would prefer it to remain between us.”
Reginald leaned back in his chair and grinned. “Let me guess. You have a younger sister too.”
“Henrietta is twelve years my junior. This is her first season.”
“So, what is at issue?”
“I need a proper chaperone, and as much as this distresses’ me, I would like to borrow Aunt Augustina. If she were willing to stay at my home, I would be most appreciative—”
“Done.” Reginald slapped his hand down on the table for emphasis.
“But don’t you want to know why?”
“No.”
“But—”
Reginald leaned forward. “Westfield, I would consider it a great favor if you were to take Aunt Augustina off my hands for the duration. One less overly independent female in this house is one less headache powder I have to swallow at the end of the day and trust me when I tell you that a man can have the vapors.”
Edward sipped his coffee and studied his future brother-in-law over the rim of his cup. Surely it wasn’t as bad as all that? Was it? Maybe he should insist on Frances’ return to her maiden aunt. No, he couldn’t do it. Henrietta was correct in a round-about way. His mother had duped Frances, and somehow, he needed to make reparations and the thought of either Henrietta or Frances having to spend another minute under the same roof with his mother and Miss Wilcot’s aunt was thoroughly distasteful.
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