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

by Deborah Villegas

  Matilde was due to arrive with her dinner, and then Penelope would be left alone for the rest of the night. Clive had visited a few evenings under the pretense of wooing her. Sonnets, chess, music. She pointedly ignored any attempts at conversation.

  But the music... Clive was an accomplished violinist. Penelope still couldn’t fathom the beauty that came from such brutality. At first, she’d heard the strains through her window and mused how sorrowfully passionate the strains of the melody sounded on the evening air. But when Clive pulled his violin from its case one night in the attic, she had been stunned to find out he was the deliverer of such exquisite magnificence.

  Matilde’s heavy footsteps on the stair alerted Penelope. The door clicked open, and she entered bearing a larger than normal tray.

  “His Lordship decrees you dine with him this evening. I’ve brought you some necessities. Soap to wash, a brush, tooth powder, and a dress.”

  Tonight? Not tonight. She had plans. Carefully laid out plans. Shear St. James will power kept her from exhibiting a modicum of anything but indifference, and she turned back to the bucolic view outside her window.

  “He’ll be expecting you on the hour, so you’d better make haste unless you want another beating.”

  Matilde left with the snick of the lock and Penelope remained silent, counting the stairs. At fourteen, she was on her feet. It was still dusk, but that was better than daylight. She dropped to her knees and pulled out the makeshift rope she had tied together using one of the draping cloths from the furniture. She ripped and braided the material for strength. With any luck, it would hold her weight.

  She tied it to the bedpost then checked to make sure no one was outside below before tossing the rope out the window. It reached to just above a first-floor casement.

  “Now or never, Penelope.” She threw one leg over the windowsill, then the other and turned onto her stomach, hanging half in—half out. “This is a piece of cake. Just like the cliffs.” Only the cliffs had handholds. She inched backward and held the handmade rope in a tight fist. The sill cut into her ribs. She was already breathing hard. Panic combined with terror. Even to think about what she was doing was exhausting. One more shift backward and she would be hanging on for dear life. With a quick prayer, she let go of the sill and held her breath, waiting for the material to give way. Her palms were already sweating, but she dared not let go. She looped the rope around her leg to take some of the weight off her shaking arms. Then she looked down.

  Way down. Too far down. Her stomach lurched. Sweat pricked her temples. The beat of her heart tripped then trebled. She couldn’t move. She closed her eyes and waited. Waited for the St. James determination to over-rule her acrophobia. Waited to hear Reginald coaxing her out of the tree the first time she’d ever climbed higher than Ferris.

  Way too high. It wasn’t the fear of heights that left her paralyzed, it was the fear of falling. “I’ll catch you Pen. I’ll always catch you.” Reggie’s mantra repeated under the oak, her only balm as he’d guided her down, telling her where to plant her feet and feel for handholds.

  When she swung from the last branch, his arms went around her and pulled her tight. She had never been so happy in all her life and instead of the thorough thrashing she had expected he’d praised her for her bravery.

  She took a deep breath, one foot at a time, one handhold. She could do this. Her brothers had taught her well. She opened her eyes and loosened her grip and let her feet guide the rope. One hand at a time, she descended. Slowly, until the rope slipped from her foot and she realized she was hanging just above the casement.

  Just above Clive, standing beneath her.

  Chapter 24

  Edward paced the small room above the inn just outside Chartres. Mabrey had been gone for several hours, and he was antsy. They had arrived two days prior and still didn’t have any information about Penelope’s whereabouts.

  It had taken three grueling days spent first on a ship and then traveling in an old wagon disguised as peddlers. The only new information Mabrey had gleaned was a rumor that Monsieur De Chevalier was affianced.

  Edward sat in a rickety chair near the window to catch the breeze. It was stifling in the room, and his shoulder ached. His arm was still stiff, and if he raised it above his head, pain shot straight down to his fingers. If he kept it in a sling, it was fine. His heart was another matter. Two weeks had passed since Penelope had been kidnapped, and he wouldn’t rest until he had her back in his arms safely ensconced in London. Then he might consider locking himself and Penelope in his rooms for a month—or two. That was an appealing idea and a pleasant diversion from the constant worry.

  The door opened, and Edward was on his feet. Mabrey entered and strode to the window. “See that woman?” He pointed toward a female driving a mule cart plodding down the road.

  “Yes.” Edward studied the receding figure. Small and hunched with a veil covering her head and wearing what he assumed was a mourning gown.

  “That is Clive De Chevalier’s mother.” Vengeance danced at the edge of his tone.

  “Do you know her?”

  When Mabrey didn’t answer, Edward studied him.

  Mabrey leaned his forehead against the window and continued to watch in brooding silence until the mule cart was out of sight. “How far would you go to rescue your intended?”

  The question was surprising. The somber tenor of the delivery made his gut twist. “I will not go back to England without her.”

  Mabrey straightened and looked ready to lock horns. “Even if she is already wed?”

  Edward staggered backward as if Mabrey had punched him in the chest. Penelope married to Clive De Chevalier? He sat hard in the chair, sucking in the news and trying to wrap his head around it. “When? How long ago?”

  “Tonight, in a private ceremony.”

  “Then it hasn’t taken place yet?”

  “No, but…” Mabrey’s mouth thinned into a grim line. “She has been…abused.”

  His world stopped.

  The birds went silent. Dust moats hung suspended. The breeze stilled.

  Edward’s vision dimmed, flickered, the beat of his heart slowed to a trance. It was always like this before his temper snapped. Like tacking things down, securing everything before a violent storm, but this time…this time he would let the violence build. Let the fury burn. Hold onto it like a final benediction hanging in the air. “I will not go back to England without her.”

  Mabrey stepped back as if he’d been singed. “Then we must make a plan. Leona will stall as much as possible. The Vicar is due at eight. The wedding will take place as soon as he arrives.”

  * * *

  Penelope sawed at the rope around her wrist with a broach. It was the only sharp thing she could find in the new room Clive had dragged her to. She only had two eyes, and one was still swollen shut. She didn’t dare break anything else for fear of losing the last sliver of sharp-edged hope she held onto.

  After her one and only attempt at escape, Clive tied her to the bedpost with enough rope to move around but not stray far enough to reach the door or window. Her new surroundings were better than the drafty attic, but now she was ensconced in the bedroom next to his with an adjoining door.

  Dresses, jewels, flowers, and trinkets adorned every surface. The opulence of the room was meant to impress, but the state of the servants, the disrepair of the gardens just outside her window, and the telltale signs of neglect told an altogether different story. Either Clive was a miser, or he was in need of an influx of funds.

  Leona brought her a drawing pad, some charcoal, and watercolors as a gift. She’d ignored them until she bit through her last nail. Now it was the only thing that kept her from the top floor of the lunatic’s asylum.

  She liked the view from her attic window much better. The view from the window in her new room was blocked by the crumbled ruin of the garden wall. It was probably pretty at one time, but now the flowerbeds were choked with weeds, and the lone tree was dead.
r />   “Good afternoon.”

  Penelope jerked her head up and swallowed a scream. Leona stood just inside the door. The woman was so silent it was unnatural.

  Leona stepped aside, and Matilde came in holding a long white gown. The material was so thin it floated. Pearls and crystals dotted the fabric and sparkled when the light touched it.

  “Clive ordered it from Paris.”

  Penelope slid the broach beneath her pillow and slipped off the bed to make room for the gown. “Why?”

  “Tonight is the night.” Leona held her gaze a moment longer than necessary.

  Her pulse picked up.

  “I see the dress has arrived.” Clive strolled into the room as if he were accustomed to entering a lady’s boudoir at will.

  Matilde faded into the background.

  Leona froze. An almost imperceptible shake of her head warned Penelope not to anger her son. “I picked it up this afternoon. It is exquisite. Penelope will make a beautiful bride.”

  “Bride?” The room blurred, and Penelope swayed. She caught the bedpost and hung on for support.

  Leona sprang forward and helped her to a chair. “Matilde, bring some peppermint tea and make it strong.”

  Clive stepped back. “What’s wrong with her?”

  Leona’s smile was tight. “Nothing, I’m sure it’s just wedding jitters. All women have them.” She smoothed Penelope’s hair, then patted her hand.

  Clive returned his mother’s smile, only his was loose and wet. “She’d better not have them in front of father Buford, or I’ll have to beat her on our wedding night.”

  Penelope’s stomach flipped, lurched, and curdled. She pushed Leona away and lunged for the pot in which to heave.

  When she sank back on her heels, she was clammy and cold from her exertions. Her muscles twitched and spasmed.

  Leona knelt at her side and handed her a damp cloth.

  Clive was gone, and Matilde was back with the tea.

  Penelope wiped her mouth with shaky hands. “I won’t marry your son.” The words sounded weak, and she twisted the cloth and repeated them—louder, with a staccato rhythm of determination, and then again, turning the words into a sacred oath.

  Every time she repeated them, her blood heated and pulsed through her veins as if they had been frozen by winters cruel grip until the spring thaw had vanquished the cold. She rose with the haughty contempt, only a St. James could achieve. She. Would. Not. Marry. Clive.

  “Where are my boots?”

  * * *

  Edward waited in the orchard for Mabrey’s all-clear signal—the Kittiwake birdcall. Mabrey had a message delivered to Clive from Alice La Pierre suggesting she was in the village and needed to speak to him regarding their business venture. The plan was for Mabrey to stand watch at the front and signal when Clive’s carriage left.

  The plan wasn’t working. The only people who left were the servants, two old women, and a young maid. He watched from his hiding place behind a pile of deadwood. Their footfalls passed within a few feet heads down and plodding along like broken pack mules carrying too heavy loads for too many miles.

  After they disappeared through the back gate, he moved around to the side for a better view of the attic window.

  Something wasn’t right. No light shone through the windows. Surely a room or two should have been lit by now. It was almost dark.

  Edward heard the call of the Kittiwake, indicating Clive’s departure. He waited several minutes for Mabrey. When he didn’t appear, Edward started to worry. Another call pierced the night. This time it was the sound of the Puffin. Something was definitely wrong. He called back it’s mate and waited. Silence.

  Too long. Mabrey was in trouble.

  Edward cursed under his breath and circled the house. There was no sign of his friend. Where the Bloody hell was Mabrey? He stole halfway down the drive, scanning the road on both sides and whistled once more. No answering call.

  He heard a crunch and ducked behind a hedge. Damn. Clive De Chevalier walked up the drive with a large mastiff straining his leash. For any other man, the dog would have been too much to handle. For Clive, the dog might as well have been a beagle. It sniffed the air and growled.

  “What is it, Brutus?” Brutus strained and lunged toward the opposite hedge.

  Edward was downwind, and if his guess was correct, Mabrey was hiding directly across from him.

  “Leave it,” Clive growled. He jerked the lead and thrashed the end over the dog’s nose with a vicious snap.

  The mastiff yelped and heeled to his side, accustomed to sharp rebukes from his master.

  Clive entered the house and closed the door. Bloody hell. That was an unexpected complication. How were they supposed to get past the beast?

  He skirted the hedge and ran to where Mabrey was hidden from view.

  Mabrey held his hand, wrapped in his bloody neckcloth.

  “What happened?”

  “Brutus happened.” Mabrey groused. “When Clive opened the door to leave, he ran straight toward the bushes and dove at me.”

  “Is it bad?”

  Mabrey shook his head. “Not as bad as it might have been. Brutus has a formidable bite, but he didn’t have a chance to shake me. As soon as Clive whistled, he let go and hightailed it back to his master.”

  “Why didn’t he come back in the carriage?”

  “Good question. Maybe he sent it on to fetch Alice instead and decided to enjoy an evening stroll? Did you see anything from your vantage?”

  “The servants left, and there are no lights on at the back of the house.”

  “Do you think father Buford will ignore your message?”

  Mabrey tightened his hasty bandage. “I don’t know. He sent me reports for a long time. The correspondence stopped about five years ago. I hadn’t heard from him until we received word from the runner.”

  “If he shows up, we’ll have our answer.”

  Chapter 25

  Penelope shoved the croissant into her mouth and drained an entire glass of milk. She needed her strength, and running on an empty stomach was like going to war without a cook. Bruises snaked up her arms in various shades of reds, blues, and greens against her pale skin. She kept her hair pulled back to display the black eye that rivaled Ferris’s. She would be damned if she was going to conceal her abuser’s sins. She would flaunt her disgust and wear it like a badge in front of the priest and all who would witness this atrocity.

  If it came to that.

  Leona was the only person between her freedom and a life of imprisonment. Clive had gone to pick up the priest, and their window of opportunity was only a small shard of time.

  The door flew open and crashed against the wall. Leona rushed into the room. “He’s gone. We have to hurry.”

  She flung a heavy wool cape at Penelope and tossed her boots to her.

  “I thought you said he wasn’t leaving until seven. It’s not fully dark out.”

  “A message arrived, and he left. I don’t know where he went or when he’ll be back. He dismissed the servants, and the house is empty.”

  Penelope dragged on her boots, grabbed the broach, and hurried after Leona.

  The house was more substantial than she thought, they passed several rooms on the second floor and headed down the back stairs.

  At the bottom, Leona peeked around the corner then leaned her head back and stifled a whimper.

  “What?”

  “The dogs. They’re in the house.”

  “So?”

  “That means Clive is back.”

  Blood pounded through her temples. “But—”

  “Going somewhere, mother?”

  Clive rounded the corner with a firm grip on the collar of the ugliest mastiff Penelope had ever seen.

  The dog bared his teeth as if he was smiling and with a menacing growl, he lunged forward, ready to attack.

  Clive held the dog in check with a jerk of the collar. This dog was not a pet. This dog would kill on command.

 
Penelope swallowed the knot of panic threatening to close her windpipe and pulled Leona back. “That’s enough.”

  Leona pulled a small pistol from her pocket and aimed it with shaking hands. “Let us go.” Her voice trembled.

  Penelope slipped her hand in her pocket and gripped the broach with the sharp pin protruding between her fingers. It was a paltry weapon, but she had the element of surprise.

  Clive laughed. The full barrel-chested sound bounced up the hollow walls of the back stair. “Who will you shoot, mother? Me or Brutus?”

  Brutus surged forward again, and Leona shifted her aim back and forth.

  “Shoot the dog.” Penelope didn’t have to say it twice.

  Clive let go.

  Brutus lunged.

  The pistol exploded, and the beast yelped.

  Leona fell backward and dropped the gun.

  Everyone stared at the pile of fur at her feet.

  “Brutus?” Clive knelt next to his hound and ruffed its fur. His hand came back bloody, and he stared at his crimson fingers.

  Penelope pulled Leona to her feet, and they pounded up the stairs.

  Halfway up, Leona screamed.

  Penelope looked back.

  Clive grabbed his mother’s ankles and yanked her down several stairs. His face mottled purple, his pupils dilated.

  “You bitch! You shot my dog!”

  “Run Penelope!” Leona grabbed the spindles and kicked out. “Run for the village! Mabrey is there with the Duke of Berwick.”

  Mabrey? And Edward? Edward was alive? Her world spun. Edward was alive.

  She looked at the top of the landing. Three more steps and she’d make it to the front staircase and be out of the house.

  She took two steps toward freedom and Edward and stopped. She couldn’t leave Leona. She wouldn’t leave Leona. She turned around. “I’m not going without you.”