Penelope’s Pleasure (A Gentleman’s Guide To Understanding Women Book 1)

by Deborah Villegas

  Penelope slid down the last few feet of the runoff track to the beach. The descent was treacherous enough during the day, but at night with the clouds hiding the moon, it bordered on suicidal. She had ridden hard toward her destination. She was late, and the moon had already reached its zenith. The tide was going out. At least it wasn’t raining yet. There was a storm coming, and it was going to be a big one. She could feel the difference in the air, and her curls were shrinking into tight coils.

  She’d left Amanda back in London locked in the tack room blistering the air. She swore worse than a sailor returned from the seven seas.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t want Amanda to go with her, but Amanda would have slowed her down, and the letter was very specific—come alone.

  Besides, it wasn’t Penelope’s fault Amanda’s saddle broke while cinching it on her horse, and when Amanda went into the tack room to try to fix it, Penelope felt obliged to take the fortuitous opportunity to lock her in.

  She’d even explained why she had thrown the bolt and then shoved a shovel through the latch. Of course, there had been a sturdy door between them, so her excuses might have been muffled, but she did make her apologies. And she had warned Amanda not to follow her.

  The Arabian mare proved its mettle and stamina a hundred-fold. As much as she loved Hell Spawn, he didn’t have the endurance for the grueling pace. A pace that left Penelope so sore she couldn’t fathom the thought of getting back on another horse for several weeks.

  She clung to the shadows as she skirted her way around the bend where the beach widened out. A silhouette of two men stood near a longboat beached just above the surf. Off to the side, two others waited. She drew nearer and patted the pistol tucked into the pocket of her long coat. She was too far for accuracy, and if she stepped away from the cliff, she’d be in plain sight.

  When the clouds moved away from the moon, she inhaled a sharp breath. Ferris, beautiful Ferris, looked like he’d been used as a punching bag. His face was swollen and bloodied, his clothes torn and dirty, and his hands were tied behind his back. He hunched over as if he were protecting his side.

  “You are late Miss St. James.” Clive snarled across the sand. “Did you bring my letter?”

  Penelope stepped away from the security of the cliff and pulled the false manifesto from her pocket. “Give me my brother, and I’ll leave the letter in the cave.”

  Clive shoved Ferris to his knees and aimed a pistol at his temple. “You have no bargaining power. Hand over the letter.”

  Ferris hissed through his teeth. “Don’t Pen. It’s a trap.”

  Clive cuffed him. “Shut up. You have been a thorn in my side ever since I outplayed your hand.”

  Pen strode forward. Anger feeding her bravado. “You mean ever since he caught you cheating? Rumor has it, you’re no longer welcome at any of the gentleman’s clubs?”

  “The Earl of Stansworth will pay for his interference.”

  Reggie? How was he involved? Could he know about the debt? She didn’t dare glance at Ferris. “How long have you and Mrs. La Pierre been using the caves?”

  Clive cocked his pistol. “Long enough to make a fortune.”

  The wind picked up, sending a gust of spray stinging across the beach. The surf bubbled a receding line across the sand.

  Penelope’s throat constricted. What would Reggie do? “I doubt that.” She flicked her cuffs as if bored with the conversation. “Your men are getting nervous.”

  Clive looked over at the two sailors next to the longboat.

  Ferris saw the opportunity and lurched his body into Clive, and they both toppled to the sand.

  Penelope sprang forward, pulling her pistol out of her pocket and aimed it at Clive’s head. “Move, and I’ll put a bullet between your eyes.”

  Clive’s mouth twisted into a curled lipped smile that resembled a wolf in full snarl and left her chilled to the bone. “In the time it takes you to cock your pistol, Miss St. James, your brother, will be dead.” He pressed his barrel into Ferris’s ribs.

  “Shoot him, Pen.”

  Penelope met her brother’s gaze. Pain etched across his face. Soul searing pain of regret so deep her chest threatened to cave.

  She couldn’t breathe. Her lungs were full, but she couldn’t exhale. Her mind raced, but she couldn’t decipher her thoughts.

  “Shoot him.” His words cut through the babble of her brain.

  The wind tugged at her hair, whipping strands across her face. She lowered her weapon and released the air from her chest. “I can’t.” Irony was a cruel bedfellow. A highwayman who couldn’t shoot to kill. She knew it very well too, had all along, and the bluff was out…she wasn’t a true St. James, she wasn’t a man.

  Arms snaked around her from behind, lifting her off her feet, just as her pistol was tugged from her hand. She struggled and kicked the air, but her captor’s arms tightened around her torso like a steal band leaving her breathless.

  “Let me go.”

  Clive pushed Ferris off and jerked him to his feet. “Put them in the boat.”

  Penelope struggled, but it was no use. The sailor carried her like a sack of grain toward the longboat and tossed her in as if she was a rag doll.

  She landed hard against the wooden seat, and pain stabbed her side.

  Before she could right herself, Ferris was dumped in beside her. He groaned and tried to turn over but trussed up as he was, they were a mass of arms and legs sprawled at the bottom of the wet boat.

  A shot fired.

  Penelope disentangled herself enough to peer over the side. Two men ran along the shore up the beach. Good God, was that Edward? Her pulse raced. It was, but he was too far off. Too far to hear her scream over the surf.

  Clive jumped in and shoved her back, and the two sailors pushed the boat into the sea. In a thrice, they were muscling the oars against the waves.

  “Put your backs into it,” Clive yelled. He stood at the bow and took aim.

  “No.” Penelope lurched forward.

  Too late.

  The gun went off.

  Edward went down.

  “No!” Her heart beat a frantic path to her throat. Shot. Edward had been shot!

  The boat crested a wave then slammed back down, dipping beneath it. When it rose again, she could just make out another man rolling Edward onto his back, but she was too far away to discern who.

  Clive turned, his teeth glinting in the moonlight. The whites of his eyes bright with excitement. “He’s as good as dead.”

  She lunged at him and clawed his face. “You bastard.”

  A vicious backhand landed her hard across a sailor entangling the oars.

  With a roar, Ferris pushed himself to stand and hurled his body at Clive.

  Clive went down with a grunt and propelled Ferris over the side.

  No, she struggled to get free and grabbed the side of the boat. “Ferris!” Where was he? The sea churned and chopped devouring him. “Ferris!” She had to find him. He couldn’t swim with his hands tied behind his back. He would drown. He would die. She had to go after him!

  Clive’s firm grip jerked her back, and he shook her until her teeth rattled. “You little bitch. You’re not going anywhere. I have plans for you.”

  She tasted blood and spit in his face.

  He slapped her. Slapped her so hard, her ears rang. So hard, she reeled backward, lost her footing, and cracked her crown against the edge of the seat.

  * * *

  Edward lay in the sand, the searing pain in his shoulder radiated down his arm and made his fingers tingle.

  Rough hands turned him over, and he groaned.

  “You fool. What the hell did you think you were going to achieve running toward a mad man with a pistol pointed at you.”

  “I thought I was too far away for him to actually hit me and I didn’t think he was a crack shot if I wasn’t.” Edward gasped.

  “He’s not. Otherwise, you would be dead.”

  Edward pushed him off. “Look.” He p
ointed toward the boat dipping between the waves with his good arm.

  Reggie glanced over his shoulder in time to witness his brother going overboard. “Oh, my God. Ferris.”

  Reggie sprang to his feet, dumping Edward back into the sand. The pain nauseated him, and all he could do was watch Reggie run into the pounding surf through a blur of dizziness.

  “Come on, Ferris. Where are you?” Reggie stood knee-deep, scanning the dark water. The surf pounded, pushing against him, but he trudged further until he was thigh-deep in the freezing sea. “Come on Ferris,” he yelled, coaching his brother to the surface. “Where the bloody hell are you?”

  A head bobbed just beyond the surf and Reggie dove into the waves.

  Edward pushed himself up to a sitting position, grit his teeth, and stood. His shoulder protested the movement and his vision blurred. He sucked in a deep breath, held it, and concentrated on ignoring the blinding pain.

  The clouds parted just enough to outline a ship in the distance. Dark ghostly figures scrambled onto the deck and the sails unfurled.

  He was too late. Penelope was gone. Gone beyond his reach.

  Blood seeped down his chest, warm and sticky. It didn’t matter. He didn’t care. He sank to his knees and held his arm. The only thing that mattered—the only person that mattered was disappearing into the darkness.

  Reggie rose out of the surf like mighty Neptune dragging Ferris with him. He hauled him over his shoulder, carried him up the beach, and dropped him a few feet from Edward where the sand met the surf. Ferris wasn’t moving. “Come on, Ferris, breath.” Reggie’s growl ended on a note of desperation, and he thumped him on his back several times.

  “Dammit Ferris, don’t die on me now.”

  As if on cue, he gasped, opened his eyes, and then vomited seawater. Reggie untied the knots binding his brother’s wrists and then turned him in his arms and pulled him in for a tight hug. “Don’t die on me now, baby brother.”

  Ferris choked and coughed and wheezed. “Why not? You wouldn’t have to put up with me anymore if I died.”

  Reggie pushed Ferris away just enough so that Ferris was partly sprawled over his lap yet still cradled in his arms. “Put up with you? You think I would rather you died so I wouldn’t have to put up with you? Put up with your wild antics? Or bail your sorry ass out of trouble? Or worry about you every time you run off to God knows where to do God knows what?”

  Ferris spasmed with shivers and Reggie pulled him back into a bear hug. His face, fierce and haunted. “I died a thousand times waiting for your damn head to pop out of the water. I dove into a freezing sea to rescue you.”

  “Why? Because it’s your duty?”

  “Because I love you. You are my brother. You are the one I can count on to keep tabs on Penelope. You are my hope, my freedom, my reminder that there is more to life than duty.”

  “You love me?”

  “Of course, I do.”

  “But I thought—”

  “Addison and Garrett have each other. I have you. You are my complement. And Pen—”

  Ferris grabbed Reggie’s shoulders. “Penelope! Clive took her. He’s a smuggler, and he’s been using the caves to store the goods. I found out when I followed him one night. He’s been using Archibald Granger as his hawker, and Mrs. La Pierre is his accomplice.”

  Reggie stilled. “Alice?”

  “They’re all in league. Pen knew before I did. She confronted Clive.” Ferris grinned. “You should have seen her. She puts your ducal disdain to shame.”

  “And put herself in danger.”

  “Clive admitted that he and Alice were working together.”

  Reggie’s face hardened.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” Reggie sat back. “We’d better get you and Lord Westfield back to the manor before you freeze, and he bleeds to death.”

  Ferris twisted around.

  “It’ll take more than a bullet to the shoulder to kill me.” Edward pushed the words through his teeth to keep from convulsing in a full-body shake. But loving Penelope just might send him straight to hell. The crushing pain squeezing his heart was proof. He fell face-first into the sand and oblivion.

  * * *

  Pain stabbed a throbbing pulse like a discordant drum through Edward’s temple. The glare streaming through the window threatened to annihilate his irises, and he turned away from the light.

  He lay back out of breath and concentrated on lifting the fog. Penelope in the boat. The bullet. Ferris falling into the sea. Reginald holding his brother with a vicious grip—comforting yet foreign. Foreign to Edward. The pure unconditional acceptance of a kindred bond. No one had ever held him like that. Not his mother, not his father, not Henrietta.

  “Try not to move, son. You’ve been extremely ill.”

  Edward turned his head. The elderly Duke of St. James sat in a chair beside his bed. He looked haggard and worn as if he hadn’t slept in days. Or if he had, it had been in his clothes, in a chair.

  “Reggie brought you here. You were shot in the shoulder. The doctor removed the bullet two nights past. You are lucky to be alive. The bullet was partially deflected by a button on your greatcoat. Your button, however, was not so lucky.”

  He closed his eyes. “Penelope.” His voice croaked on her name, and he fought the burning behind his lids when the memory crashed over him like a giant wave. Penelope had been kidnapped. Taken away to God knows where. He had failed her. His throat constricted, and he swallowed the despair threatening to choke him.

  “The Marquis of Lansdowne took her. Ferris told us everything. Mabrey thinks he knows where she is. We’ve already sent runners.”

  “Where?”

  “France. At his residence just outside of Chartres.”

  “Isn’t that the seat of the Duke of Orleans?”

  “Clive De Chevalier’s great grandfather was the progeny of a morganatic marriage with a minor member of the House of Orleans. Clive’s wealth and title come from his mother’s side of the family.”

  Edward pushed at the covers. His shoulder protested the movement, and he felt like he’d been used as a pugilist’s dummy. “I have to rescue her.”

  The duke stopped him with a firm hand on his good arm. “Yes, yes, but right now you need to rest for another day or two. Three would be better.”

  “My fiancé is at the mercy of a mad man. Clive will kill to get what he wants.”

  “You think I don’t know that? She’s my daughter. But we are at war with France. You can’t just go charging in on a white steed demanding the release of your intended.”

  “I can’t just lie around either.” He dropped his legs over the edge of the bed, and a wave of dizziness hit him like a load stone.

  The duke caught him before he fell and lowered him back onto the bed. “If you don’t, you won’t be able to get on your steed, let alone go charging off.” The old duke’s tone was both soft and harsh and gave no quarter.

  Edward released a hissing breath through his teeth. It was no use. The duke was right. He was weak as a babe, and the throbbing at his temples drove the point home with a relentless beat that made the shoulder wound seem like a scratch.

  Reginald strode into the room with Ferris following at his heels like a loyal hound.

  “How is he?” Reginald sounded worried.

  They both studied Edward as if he were at death’s door, and they weren’t sure if they should call for the clergy.

  Edward wasn’t used to so many people who seemed to be genuinely concerned about his wellbeing. It was damned embarrassing—no matter what the reason, and he felt ridiculous lying in bed with three grown men fawning over him like nursemaids. “I’ll live.”

  Reginald raised a brow. “I suppose that’s a good thing. Pen would have murdered me in my sleep if I had let you die.” Reggie’s shudder mollified him.

  “I sustained a bullet to the shoulder. It’s hardly a death knell.” They all knew that it was a brave lie. He was lucky to be alive.


  “It’s not the bullet that would have killed you, but the fall from the cliff that almost did you in.”

  Edward stared at Ferris. “What fall?”

  “Reggie had to haul you up the cliff. He dropped you.”

  Reginald withered a serious glower at his brother. “It wasn’t that far.”

  Ferris shrugged and winced when he grinned. “No matter, you’re awake now. Even if you suffered brain damage, Penelope probably wouldn’t mind.”

  “You don’t look any worse for wear after your plunge into the drink.” Edward couldn’t help the petulance in his voice. Brain damage, indeed. Ferris still sported the remnants of bruises around his jaw and nose which had a decidedly crooked bend to it.

  “It took me an entire day to warm up.”

  A commotion in the hall had heads turning.

  Aunt Augustina barged into his room in a swirl of cambric and lace. “I know he isn’t receiving visitors, but I’m not a visitor.” She shut the door on the sour-faced butler then turned to the bed with a flurry of determination. “Honestly, one would think I wasn’t welcome in my brother’s house with the way the staff insists on treating me. I had to practically mow the poor man over on my way up the stairs.”

  Reginald narrowed his eyes. “What the devil are you doing here, Aunt Augustina? You’re supposed to be in London.”

  “Yes, well, that’s why I’m here, dear.”

  Aunt Augustina wrung her hands in a very un-Aunt Augustina manner. Her eyes darted to the old duke, glanced off Reginald, and settled on Edward. “We have encountered a slight mishap.”

  Edward tensed. “What kind of mishap?”

  Aunt Augustina straightened her spine like a well-starched collar and took a deep breath. “The young Miss Wilcot ran off with Mr. Granger after Penelope left to rescue Ferris.” She took a good look at her youngest nephew. “You really need to learn how to duck my boy.” She frowned and searched the room as if she’d misplaced her opera glasses. “Where is Penelope?”

  Edward leaned his head back against the headboard. Frances eloped with Archibald Granger? It couldn’t be true. “Are you sure?”