The Rise of a Forsaken Lady: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Linfield, Emma

  “So, to you, he is a servant first and a man second,” Penelope was appalled.

  Edward flicked a look up to her with a frown creasing his brow. “That is not what I said.”

  “No…” she shook her head, “but it is what you meant. You know Edward, one day you are going to realize that men are more than servants and the lords you spend so much time and that you laud every day might be less deserving of the title than you believe.”

  She spun around and walked off with Edward gaping at her like a fish out of water. Penelope passed the sitting room where Heath was fiddling with a shutter and their eyes met. Praying to see a flash of soft care and recognition of her turmoil there, her hope was sky-high, but his face was empty, a blankness that was beginning to spread to her soul.

  Numbly, she nodded and turned away swallowing over a parched throat, hating that Edward had just taken her damaged heart and was now slowly chipping away at it.

  Listlessly, she went to her room to sit, dazedly on her front room’s wingback and stare into nothing. She heard Martha’s quiet step and felt her soft touch on her hand.

  Looking hollowly to her best friend who held her unspoken question in her eyes said. “Mr. Moore…Heath…he kissed me....”

  Still shocked, Martha asked, “He what?”

  Her laugh was hollow, “Well, I kissed him first and I thought I had made a mistake but he—he said I had not made one but it wasn’t his place to do so,” Penelope whispered. “And then he kissed me. It was the sweetest touch Martha…it was like he was afraid to even touch me. I loved it.”

  “But something happ—oh God—” Martha’s eyes flew open. She was actively trembling, “Did Lord Allerton find out about it?”

  “No!” Penelope spoke stronger than she had to. “No. He does not know about that and he’ll kill me if he did.”

  Martha reached out her hand and Penelope grimaced at the damp, clammy feel of her palms, “Edward ordered him to keep his distance from me. Just when I…he saved my life, Martha! He saved my life out there. I don’t know if it was fate or a godsend or happenstance but…what—whatever it was…it’s now gone.”

  It’s now gone. The moment those words left her lips she wanted to snatch them back. They rung in the air like a death knell and settled into her stomach like a block of ice. She felt cold. Had she really been kissed? It still felt like a dream.

  She sagged in her seat feeling robbed. Robbed of a chance to be close to person who understood her and cared for her. The budding stem had just been cut before it could have ever bloomed. Her head fell into her hands. It is gone…and probably will never come back.

  Martha was hugging her, and she took the comfort as it was given. But it was not the pair of arms she wanted to be in. She could feel the despair coursing through her veins. She needed to be near Heath, but how? Could she defy Edward and go behind his back? Was she brave enough?

  Chapter 23

  Five days without being near Penelope was like being subjected to torture. Five days since the Earl had strictly ordered him to be strictly polite to Penelope had strained his resolve to the point the last thread was about to snap.

  He had to be strictly polite to her when everything inside him wanted to be anything but. He wanted to hold her, dance with her, brush those stubborn locks from her face and kiss her tenderly. But he could not.

  Every time he had passed her in the hallway or saw her in a room, his body shifted to go to her a second before her brother’s order stopped him in her tracks or stapled his feet to the floor. He hated seeing her dull eyes and hearing her lackluster greetings, but there was nothing he could do about it.

  The day for the hunt had arrived, and he was in Lord Allerton’s gun closet making sure the five extra muskets and five shotguns that were ready for the guests, if they needed them. The gun barrels were clean, extra bullets, loaded with powder was ready too.

  “All set, Mr. Moore?”

  Heath stiffened when the Earl’s voice came from behind him. “Yes, My Lord. This is an extensive collection.”

  Rows of hooks on the wall carried guns of all makes and models. From long shotguns to double-barreled flintlock to pistols and even coach guns. Three dainty six-inch ladies’ pistols with smoother patterned handles and even tinier bullets were there too and six infamous air-guns rested on silver hooks above the other, like monarchs living high and lofty over their subjects.

  “My grandfather started it with local guns from English manufacturers, but my father extended with Prussia.” The Earl said while tugging on his gloves. Clad in his hunting jack, tan breeches and onyx boots the Earl looked every part of the dignified peer he was.

  Reaching out for a shotgun, the Earl cocked the barrel and smiled. “Perfectly clean.”

  “Thank you, My Lord,” Heath said while moving to put the cleaning materials back in place. He deliberately kept his back to him, hoping that would dissuade the man from dredging up the sensitive topic of Penelope. “The dogs are ready and so are the beaters.”

  “Excellent.”

  Breathing out slowly, Heath wanted nothing more than to turn and leave the room but was pressed to ask the Earl if there was anything else he needed from him—as a true servant would.

  “No,” the Earl said absentmindedly while filling his pouch with extra shot. “Just carry these out to the waiting footmen and that will be all.”

  “Yes, My Lord.” Gathering the shotguns in his hands, Heath prayed to leave without any mention of Penelope when his hopes were blasted apart.

  “Oh, Mr. Moore, in case you are not aware, this is prime time for my sister to sneak away and ride without supervision. Keep an eye on her, please…” Was that all? Please let that be all. “while making sure to honor the boundary lines we spoke about earlier.”

  He had to forcefully unlock his jaw to speak, “I understand, My Lord.”

  Taking the guns, he carried them to the front where the Lords, having had refreshment, were ready and mingling in the front yard. He handed off the guns to the hired footman for the day and took his place under the doorway eaves.

  Eleven lords of England were gathered, mostly barons, two other earls, a viscount, and if Heath remembered correctly, a Knight of the Realm who, while gaining knighthood, was the son of Oliver Stilton, the Duke of Quinton. He was impatient for this to begin and wanted to be back in the house, find Penelope and hold her. The desire was crawling under his skin like a tick crawls on a deer.

  “I’m surprised they have not gone yet,” Penelope said beside him, and Heath stifled the urge to turn to her and take her hand.

  “They are waiting for His Lordship,” Heath said quietly.

  Her hair was combed, but stubborn tendrils wandered from the coif and flittered around her head. Her slender neck canted to the side and her lips downturned a little.

  Heath followed her line of sight and lit upon Lord Hillbrook and—curse it all—Lord Swanville. Did the Earl not learn from the last time the man was there?

  Hillbrook turned to them and raised his hand, Penelope lifted hers and waved rather reluctantly if Heath was any judge. To further his ire, resting around her neck was the ivory elephant Hillbrook had given her. He forced his eyes back to the group and Penelope disappeared.

  Lord Allerton passed by and descended to the group, while immediately being enveloped into a welcome reception by his peers. The conversation was muffled while the handlers carried the horses around and loaded the carts with the leashed dogs. Heath watched the party move off to the woods with the carts for the game, the hired footmen, and fowl beaters in tow.

  He sighed and went back inside the house, flickering his eyes up to the staircase where Lady Penelope must have retreated to. His duties with Mrs. Burcham called him, and he went to the kitchen only to enter into a flurry of cooks and scullery girls making the luncheon for the men who would be back in about five hours.

  Three hours of shuffling back and forth from the kitchen to the dining room and loading the tables and sideboards, Heath became c
oncerned that he had not seen Penelope or even her maid since that morning. It was nearly one o’clock with no sight of the hunters, and Heath decided to search for her.

  Although he knew where to find her, Heath perfunctorily checked the sitting room and the library before heading out to the stables. Entering, he inhaled the scent of hay and horseflesh and the sound of whinnying and…what was that, was that…sobbing?

  The sound was coming from Bessie’s stall, and when the voice was clearer, Heath felt like someone had carved out a crater in his chest with a ragged iron spoon—it was Penelope crying. Tugging the door open he sank to his knees and reached out for her. She startled a little, not realizing who was holding her, before leaning into him.

  He pressed his chin to the top of her head he spoke “I’m sorry, Penelope,” he shushed softly. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”

  Watery eyes looked up to him, “What-what are you apologizing for? It’s my horrible brother who should be doing that.”

  “I should not have left you alone these past days,” Heath said while using his thumb to wipe her smooth cheek and regretted how rough his skin was. “Especially not after what I had said…or what I did.”

  “I kissed you first if you recall…” Penelope snorted, “you were my first real kiss, you know.”

  That remark had pride bursting in his chest, and he swiveled his head to look at her, “Truly?”

  “Truly,” she sagged and nuzzled into his neck. He glanced down to see that the ivory pendant was gone. Good. In his mood, he might have ripped the damned thing off her neck.

  “No one in London intrigued me as much as you do. Honestly, though, I hated the seasons there. The balls were boring, the gowns were made for people who don’t like to breathe, and the gents there were as interesting as whitewash.”

  She was as serious as a witness under oath, but Heath chuckled under his breath. “I bet they were.”

  Penelope twisted in his hold and she grabbed his arm, “I don’t want to go on with Hillbrook…”

  The words she wanted to say were lingering in the air and were heard anyway. “But you cannot be with me,” Heath finished for her.

  Her cheeks heated not in shame but anger, “There is a foreign and mutinous urge inside me to tell Edward that I will not bow to his expectations of me being with Hillbrook.”

  “But you still cannot be with me,” Heath said regrettably. “Penelope, you will still need to marry.”

  Her breath was ragged before she uttered a short derisive laugh. “I know…er…you wouldn’t happen to have a far-removed cousin with your looks and charm who just so happens to have a title, do you?”

  “No, I don’t, but even if I did, he still would not be me,” Heath said wryly.

  “You’re right,” she sighed deeply while making to get up. “Fanciful thinking, I suppose.”

  Getting to his feet faster, Heath helped her to stand and dropped his hands to her hips. They were mostly concealed by the stall door and he dipped to kiss her cheek quickly. “Let’s get you in.”

  They walked back to the house with slow lingering steps. He opened a door and held it for her. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

  “Will the Lords be there?” she asked anxiously.

  “I believe so,” Heath added.

  “Will you take my meal to my room then, now before they arrive?” She requested with her hand resting on his arm.

  Heath could see her hesitation. It had to be unnerving with her being the sole lady in a room of men. Even a Queen would have had trouble in that situation.

  “As you wish, My Lady,” Heath said, switching from the tender man he had been in the stables to the servant that he was ordered to be.

  She looked a bit baffled before she realized that in company, he was supposed to be excruciatingly polite and her lips pressed tightly. “Thank you.”

  The calm harmony they had just had suddenly vanished and a terse, unnatural silence between them. He walked away, forcing himself to not look over his shoulder. It hurt. It downright pained him not to be as attentive to her as he wanted to be.

  He got to the dining room and set about to getting Penelope’s food when a loud commotion dragged his attention away. Hastening to the front foyer, he barely made his way past the first sitting room when a lord—good God! —the knight, the son of Duke Quinton, was reclining on a chaise with his bandaged left arm a mess of blood.

  Lord Allerton was five shades of pale when he came into view. Heath became a shadow in the doorway as the lords muttered and whispered among themselves in the rooms. Was the Lord dead? A second body on the Earl’s doorstep was not looking good and it would undoubtedly get the attention of the Crown. Apprehension was a stifling blanket around him as he watched on.

  “All of a sudden, bullets came,” one man in a tweed coat said.

  “Rapid spurts from the bottom of the ridge where the second part was,” another murmured.

  “Must be a stray one,” a fair-haired Lord shook his head. “No one in their right mind would dare harm Sir Stratham.”

  Then, to his relief, the man blinked and shook his head. His deep grimace was lessening by the seconds, but he still looked to be in pain.

  “My God, Stratham,” Lord Allerton’s voice was a mix of shock and outrage. “How are you feeling?”

  He managed to twist his neck and shook his head, “It stings like the dickens and looks bloody but ‘tis only a flesh wound, Allerton. The physician can pry it out of me in quick time. In retrospect, I—well, any one of us actually—should have expected accidents like this to happen while in the middle of a hunt. We’re not bulletproof.”

  But that leaves the question…who shot him? Was it truly an error of judgment or was it deliberate?

  He listened keenly to hear where exactly the Lord had gotten shot, and then, slipping out of the room he went back to making the tray for Penelope. He called a maid over and sent it with her.

  When the Lords were settled in the rooms with refreshments, and the doctor was on his way, Heath slipped out of the house to get Duke. With the horse saddled, he rode to the ridge that the lords had mentioned.

  The location, though deep in the forest, was a bit near to the Earl’s home. The deer must have been feeding near and the party had happened upon them by pure luck. He slipped off the horse and began to walk slowly around, looking with trained eyes at the very minute things that many would not notice like the trampled twigs, the sprinkle of gunpowder on the ground or the discarded bullets.

  He felt it was a very slim chance that he would find any evidence of the shot like the parchment casing or even the discarded bullet itself as it was the ground of a hunt. It would be littered with bullets and casings and sprinkled with gunpowder.

  Moving foot by slow, measured foot around the space, Heath shifted through the discarded casings that all had a generic English make. That was not what he was looking for. He kept looking diligently for anything out of the odds.

  On his second pass his toe kicked up a spot of dirt and a .46 caliber ball, about the same basic size and weight as other muskets the hunters might have used was revealed.

  He knelt and took it up trying to place the color. It was a strange amalgamation of tin and—he squinted—was that gold or steel? The look and makeup of this bullet were one he was unfamiliar with and felt that something was decidedly off with this one. Furthermore, there was no dent telling him that the bullet had not struck any tree of rocks like the other missed shots.

  Was this the bullet one of those that had struck the knight?

  He rolled it again, trying to discover any residue of gritty black gunpowder and found none. He kept examining the bullet when a strange suspicion build in the back of his mind. There is no gunpowder, no dent for a missed shot and a no paper casing laying around. Could it be that this came from an air gun?

  Those arms were quieter than any other firearm, they had no muzzle flash, and were smokeless, practically indistinguishable and a perfect assassin’s weapon. Anyone with a good sig
ht could have fired that weapon from over a thousand feet away which would account for the lack of gunpowder and casing. Supposing this spot was where the Lord had stood when he got shot, Heath stood and twisted around, fraction by fraction to see where the shot might have come from.

  With each shift, he saw only thick tree cover and branches that blocked the way, until about three-quarters through his turn he stopped dead. There was a clear sight from the base of the hill about a thousand or so feet from away where a rocky outcrop lay. It was perfect for camouflage for any shooter.

  That was it. That was where the shot had come from. But air guns were not usual in England and not many lords had them. Then he staggered so hard he almost fell to his feet. Lord Allerton! He had them!