She turned her attention back to him, scrutinized his bandaged shoulder and lent a familial sigh of resignation usually reserved for her wayward nephews.
He resisted the urge to pull the covers over his naked chest. He wasn’t entirely comfortable with the warm fuzzy feeling he got from being on the receiving end of the familial sigh, or the idea of being relegated to the status of a wayward nephew.
“Goodness. What happened to you, dear?”
Reginald stepped in front of him. “Where are Miss Bishop and Miss Westfield?”
“Henrietta is downstairs ordering refreshments. She is quite the determined trooper. We didn’t stop except to refresh the horses, and we are absolutely famished. Thank goodness the roads were dry.”
Reginald advanced. “Where is Miss Bishop?”
Aunt Augustina blinked. “She’s not here?”
Ferris, eyes blazing planted himself in front of his Aunt. “What the hell do you mean Frances eloped with Archie?”
“The note said she was going to meet with Mr. Granger, and they were going to travel to Gretna Green.”
“And you didn’t try to stop her?” Ferris’s voice ended several octaves higher.
“And just how was I supposed to do that?”
He dragged his fingers through his hair. “You are a St. James. A female St. James.” He enunciated the word female as if it were a proper noun. “You have a conniving mind. Maniacal as you are, you would have made an exemplary general on the battlefield. You know it. We all know it, and we all know you would have contrived some insanely ridiculous plan to scout and retrieve.”
Aunt Augustina pursed her lips and pierced him with a superior parley. “I’m not entirely sure I like your tone young man, but you are in luck, I happen to agree with you.”
Ferris straightened as if he’d been jerked by his collar.
“I would make a damned fine general.”
“Yes, yes, my dear,” The old duke stood. His demeanor that of a stalwart oak weathering the storm. “How big a lead do they have?”
“I’ve sent Tom ahead to play with the quarry. He’s quite capable.”
“What about Miss Bishop?” Reginald’s roar came out of nowhere. He stood in the middle of the room, shaking like Mount Vesuvius ready to erupt.
Aunt Augustina jumped, “Miss Bishop?”
Reginald closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose as if visualizing his happy place—or happily placing his hands around his aunt’s neck. “Where did you leave Amanda?”
“I didn’t leave Amanda anywhere. You make it sound as if she were a misplaced book.”
Ferris pushed past his brother. “I’m going after Frances.”
“Wait.” Aunt Augustina intercepted him and blocked his exit. “What are you going to do when you find her?”
“I’m going to paddle her until she can’t sit down.” Without a by your leave, he moved her out of his way as if she were a piece of furniture and flung the door wide.
Mabrey stood in the hallway with his hand up about to knock.
Henrietta popped her head around from behind. “Is everything all right?”
“No. It is not.” Ferris sidestepped on his way out, yelling orders to the staff to have his horse saddled and ready to ride.
Aunt Augustina wrung her hands again, “Oh dear. I might have overplayed that one.”
“What’s going on? Is my brother worse?” Henrietta hurried into the room.
The unfamiliar warble of worry in his sister’s voice squeezed Edward’s heart, and he held out his hand. “I’m fine.”
She rushed to his side and threw her arms around him.
Stifling a grunt of pain, he embraced her and kissed the top of her head. The act was so foreign to him, he wasn’t sure how to respond and felt a trifle silly until she tilted her head to look at him. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. Concern, worry, love.
“Mabrey told me you were shot.” Her lips trembled, and a drop slid down her cheek.
He brushed the tear with his thumb, and his chest swelled. His sister. His dear little sister loved him. At that moment he understood the familial bond of kinship. The same bond he witnessed and envied between the St. James siblings. A bond so strong, it would never be severed—even in death. “I’m fine.”
“I am only going to ask one more time. Where is Amanda?” Reggie yelled at the top of his lungs.
Everyone stared at him. Reggie was red-faced, and his chest heaved like a bull ready to charge.
Aunt Augustina paled.
Henrietta pulled away. “She’s not here?”
Edward clasped her hand. “As far as we know, she wasn’t with Penelope.”
“But—” Henrietta shook her head.
“Tell us everything you know.”
“Amanda left with Penelope to rescue Ferris. We thought it would be safer if they were disguised as two men traveling together. We sent Tom to find you.”
“When was the last time you saw Miss Bishop?”
She furrowed her brows in concentration. “When she went upstairs to raid the Earl of Stansworth’s wardrobe. She was mumbling something about having to pilfer appropriately sized potatoes.”
Edward met Reginald’s gaze for an instant, both sharing the sharply etched memory. “What about Frances?”
Henrietta teared up. “After we read the bans in the paper, Frances, well, she was upset. Once we returned home, she pleaded a cold and went to bed. When I went to check on her, she was gone. As soon as Tom returned, We came straight here.”
“When? How many days ago?”
“Three. We took your coach and sent grooms ahead to make sure there were fresh horses ready at each coaching inn.”
Henrietta looked rather proud, and Edward was impressed until her words sank in. “You used my coach?”
“Well, of course. It was best equipped and seats four comfortably.”
“Why four?”
“We brought two drivers and two grooms. One driver and groom rode inside with us while the other groom raced ahead to ready horses, and the other driver drove. They have to rest too, you know.”
Edward studied his sister. If their mother ever found out that Henrietta had broken protocol and allowed a servant to ride inside the ducal coach, she’d not only refuse to ride in said coach ever again, she’d have it burned. “That was brilliantly efficient.”
Henrietta beamed. “I thought so.”
“But where is my niece, Amanda?” Mabrey interjected.
Reginald threw up his hands. “Finally, someone on my side.”
Aunt Augustina shrugged. “Well, if she left with Penelope, but she is not here, then she is obviously somewhere between here and there.”
Chapter 22
The crockery flew across the attic room and crashed against the faded whitewashed wall in a congealed mess of cold porridge. Penelope’s satisfaction was short-lived.
The door crashed open, and she didn’t even try to move out of harm’s way when the back of Clive’s hand split her lip. She lay on the moth-eaten rug hating herself for cowering.
“You will not eat until you clean this mess up and learn obedience.” Clive stood over her with a menacing smile as if waiting for her to retaliate so he could hit her again.
She didn’t dare look him in the eye. That would be just as bad, or worse.
He grunted his satisfaction, then left, locking the door behind him. He always locked the door.
She counted out the heavy clomp of receding footsteps on the stairs. Only eight. He had stopped. She didn’t dare move. It wouldn’t be safe until she heard the remaining six.
She had only spent three days in this room, but it felt like a lifetime. Clive had beaten her senseless the night on the ship, and when she’d awakened, she was sprawled on the floor of a carriage. It was a grueling uncomfortable ride, but it gave her time to gather her senses.
It didn’t matter. Ferris was dead. Edward was dead. She wished she was dead. She wanted to cry, but there was nothing l
eft inside. Just an empty void that hurt worse than Clive’s brutal fist. How could so much nothingness hurt so bad? So bad that she had thrown her food knowing her jailer would come in and beat her. At least the physical pain filled the void, if only temporarily.
A minute later, she heard the creak of the remaining treads and let out a breath. She should get up, but she just didn’t have the will. She counted the forest of legs from her vantage point. Too much furniture squeezed into too small a room. She looked harder, noticing the fine carving on the legs and delicate spindles. Too much good furniture.
None of it appeared broken. Half of it was draped in dust covers. All of it was excellent quality.
She stood and removed a cloth revealing an exquisite escritoire with burl and rosewood inlay. It was a piece that belonged in a lady’s private solar not relegated to the top floor of a drafty chateau to be forgotten and left to rot.
Penelope scanned the room. The furniture wasn’t forgotten. It was well oiled and polished to a beautiful shine. She removed the other draping cloths. Every piece had been cared for. She ran her hand over the floral inlay on the escritoire admiring the craftsmanship.
“It is a lovely piece, is it not?”
Penelope spun around, her heart galloping in her chest.
A woman dressed in faded black cambric stood just inside the room. She was a diminutive figure. Tiny. Almost fragile. Her hair scraped back in the severe bun of a servant conflicted with the directness of her gaze. Grey eyes that reminded Penelope of a cloud-covered sky in midwinter were sharp with intelligence, yet held the weariness of the long-abused. She couldn’t decide if the woman looked young for her age, or old beyond her years.
“It was given to my mother as part of her Trousseau when she married my father then passed on to me when I wed.”
Penelope moved to the side, not ready to befriend the woman but needing an ally. She was the first person that had spoken to her since her arrival, other than Clive. The woman set a pail of water next to the door and waited as if she were expecting Penelope to respond.
“It is beautiful.”
“I had hoped to pass it on to my future daughter-in-law someday.”
“Who are you?” The question hung in the air.
The woman moved into the room and caressed the desk. “I would rather remember who I was, but that was so long ago, it seems like a forgotten dream.”
She picked up the discarded draping sheet and snapped it tight through the air with the efficiency of a task done many times and let it fall back over the escritoire. “I am Leona De Chevalier. My son informed me you are his intended.”
The blood drained from Penelope’s cheeks, and she grabbed the bedpost.
Leona’s shoulder’s sagged with a resigned acceptance of yet another disappointment. “I can see that is not the case. I will help you if I can.”
Penelope studied the woman. Classic beauty, hidden beneath tragedy. Resentment would have hardened her features; sadness made her timeless. “Why?”
Leona’s mouth lifted in soft self-mockery. “I was once a foolish young woman, and I have paid the price for my stupidity. I will not have you suffer the same.” She smoothed the cover over the escritoire and retrieved her pail. “Matilde is the old woman who brings your meals and cleans. She is my confidant. You can trust her, but no one else. I dare not come here again. She will bring you any news and relay messages.”
The door clicked shut, and Penelope sank onto the bed. Clive’s mother, Leona De Chevalier, was the sister of the late Marquis of Lansdowne.
Lady Leona Iverson.
* * *
Edward lounged across his bed, maps of France and a French primer spread across his lap. He knew French. He could read it, he could write it, and he spoke it like a true Englishman.
He pushed the papers aside and stood. If he had to wait one more day, he would go mad. Worry ate at his insides like maggots devouring rotten meat. Penelope was always on his mind. Was she okay? Was she hurt? Cold? Hungry? Afraid?
He didn’t bother with his topcoat before heading downstairs. His arm might be in a sling, but he refused to be an invalid any longer.
At least the dizziness had subsided—mostly, and he was hungry. That had to be a good sign.
The parlor and dining room were both empty. Not surprising since Ferris had run off to stop Frances from making a horrendous mistake and Mabrey had all but ordered Reginald to go find his niece—or else.
Reginald hadn’t bothered to find out what the or else meant. He was a wreck. Between waiting for news of Penelope and feeling compelled to search for the wayward Miss Bishop, he looked like a man being torn apart. In the end, going after Miss Bishop was at least compulsory exercise.
Thank God Henrietta had a good head on her shoulders.
Edward headed to the Library. The old Duke and Mabrey were huddled together over a letter when he entered. They both looked up wearing matching expressions of a stone wall.
“A message has arrived.” The Duke handed over the paper. His tone gave nothing away.
Edward took it. Looked at it. Turned it over. Held it to the light. Nothing. It was just a drawing of a landscape.
“What’s this supposed to mean?”
The old Duke’s smile held a faint bit of hope heavily dosed with severe reservation. “It means that Penelope is still alive. The runner brought this as proof he was able to make contact with her.”
“Where is he?”
“Gone.”
“Gone? You let him leave? Why didn’t you bring him to me?” Edward stormed back and forth in front of the hearth.
“Calm down son, we thought you were resting, and he’s not gone, gone, he’s making preparations for travel.”
Calm down? Edward wouldn’t find peace until Penelope was back on English soil and ensconced at Falcon’s Field as his duchess. “What news did he bring?”
“Not much, I’m afraid. She’s in Chartres at Clive’s chateaux. He keeps her hidden away in the attic. He’s not a particularly gracious host.”
Edward sat. “When do we leave?”
“With the evening tide. Lucky for us, there is a smuggler’s ship just offshore.” The sparkle in Mabrey’s eyes gave him away.
“How is that possible?”
St. James leaned forward. “John Luke will escort us to Le Havre. From there we will travel to Chartres in disguise.”
“You?” Edward couldn’t believe his ears. “You can’t go along. This will be dangerous enough without—”
“Without what? I may be an old man, but I can speak better French than you.”
Mabrey held up his arms. “You will both remain here. Neither of you can speak the language well enough without getting us killed.”
St. James thumped his fist on the edge of the chair. “She is my daughter.”
“She is my intended.”
Mabrey rolled his eyes at Edward. “You can’t even seat a horse at the moment.”
Edward turned on him. “I’m going. With you, or on my own, and that’s final.”
“Me too.”
Mabrey motioned Edward to back off. “St. James, You can’t go. You need to take the package to London and inform Whitehall. John Luke said the next shipment will be leaving in a fortnight.”
Whitehall? Edward studied both men. The irony didn’t sit well. Edward had been given a task by Whitehall to find out who the smugglers were working for. All of the evidence had pointed to St. James until Clive De Chevalier proved he was the traitor. Now Edward was confused. “You work for Whitehall?”
“No.” St. James and Mabrey chorused.
“Well, not regularly.” St. James sank back into his chair with a bullish pout.
“We’re too old.” Mabrey slumped his shoulders and kicked the edge of the table. “Getting on in years, dotage, retirement. Or so they say…”
Edward studied the two old men moping like schoolboys not allowed to go out of doors until they had completed their numbers. “Define, not regularly.”
Both men held a silent conversation—or battle. Edward settled further into his seat and waited.
“You might as well tell him St. James. He is going to be your son-in-law.”
St James harrumphed. “Fine. We keep an eye out along the coast for smugglers. Mostly we ignore the usual lot of ships. For the last several months, we’ve heard rumors of more serious contraband. Guns, ammunition.”
Edward frowned. They were at war. That wasn’t a surprise. “And what else?”
“Young boys.”
Edward’s body went slack. Young boys? That was why Clive was at the molly house. Penelope and Amanda must have interrupted a shipment. “And Ferris?”
“Ferris found out about it and followed Clive one night. Clive was using the caves to house the boys until a ship would arrive.”
Edward remembered the wooden figure of the horse in the cave, and his heart sank. “What did Clive do with the boys?”
“He kept them drugged and then dumped them into barrels to carry them to the boats. John Luke thought he was smuggling tin and whiskey. When he hauled a barrel onto his ship, it felt too light, so he pried it open. Six out of the thirty barrels held young lads. The youngest he figured was about five.”
“What did Ferris do?”
“He’s been wreaking havoc on Clive’s clientele.”
“How so?”
“As far as we know, Ferris has been rescuing the lads before Clive can smuggle them, and then sending them north to his estate in Edinburgh.”
Chapter 23
Penelope watched the shadow of a figure on the hill outside her window just beyond the back wall of the neglected orchard. A few lone trees with blossoms scattered among the deadwood struggled to survive.
Ten days in this private hell had given her a singular purpose—she must get away. The first five days, she spent wallowing in regret and loss, and the second pacing and planning, and waiting for an opportunity to arise. The shadowy figure had been an unexpected comfort.
Someone knew about her beyond the walls of Clive’s moribund home. Even if they couldn’t help her, they were always there. Like a sentinel, they gave her hope, a standing beacon, whose shadow stretched the length of the day until it was too dark to make out on the hillside. Each morning the figure reappeared, and she watched it through the long and tedious hours of the afternoon, and as it grew, so did her courage, bolstering her to make a plan. Tonight, she would escape.
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