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

by Linfield, Emma

  He attended to dinner and when it was over, leaned to take her plate, and whispered in her ear, “Meet me at the library, tonight.”

  Since the stables were gone, the library was the only room that offered them privacy. Her golden eyes looked at him quizzically before she smiled and gave her assent. Breathing out softly, Heath shoved to the back of his mind the words he was preparing to say to her and went about his duties until he closed the shutters, doused the lamps and went to change out of his livery.

  Aside from that night, he was never going to need it again, so he folded them and rested each piece on top of the dresser. Mind heavy and heart aching, he went to the library with faltering steps. At the cracked door, he forced himself to enter.

  Two lamps were lit, and Penelope was sitting, legs crossed to the side and a book on her lap. Not saying a word, he sat beside her, trailed his hand up to her cheek and brushed under her eye with a bandaged knuckle. Her innocent eyes were dark ochre in the lamplight and he felt a dagger pierce his heart.

  “Sweetheart, I need to tell you something.” He was fully prepared to spill his secrets when she interrupted him

  “Let me ask you one first,” she said while opening the book. “What are these?”

  He looked down and his breath froze in his lungs. Inside her book were his lock picks and he suddenly wanted to slap himself for forgetting them. He did not need to ask her how she had found them or why but was grateful she had. Mr. Gastrell had told him that his room had been searched. If they had found these, he probably would be back in London.

  “They are my lock picks,” he said calmly.

  “Why do you have lock picks?” She asked while snapping the book closed.

  The carefully-rehearsed speech in his mind was forgotten and the harsh truth came out. “Because I am an Agent for the Crown, and I was sent to investigate if your brother was a traitor.”

  She lurched away from him and scuttled to the other end of the couch with a horrified look on his face. “You what?”

  He meant to go closer, but she pressed herself into the arm so tightly that he stopped. This was what he had feared. Dropping his hand, he clenched it over his lap. “A few months ago, Westminster was aware of a sect of dissenters with illegal connections to France. Your brother was the common connection between all of them, Swanville included. And then the killing of the Viscount and the shooting of Sir Stratham only made him look guiltier.”

  “So…you’ve…you’ve been lying to me all this time?” Pain and betrayal were thick in her voice. “Is your name even Heath?”

  His eyes clenched tightly as pain rebounded through his chest, “I am Heath, but Heath Murray, not Moore.”

  “And…h-how—” she stuttered. “How old are you?”

  “Six-and-twenty,” he said tightly. She was slipping away from him and he could feel it.

  “Did you find anything on my brother?” Her voice had gone distant a bit bitter. “A plan to break Napoleon out of Elba or something of the like?”

  “No,” Heath said sharply, a bit too sharply, and instantly regretted it. “No, nothing like that.”

  “But you think he’s a traitor.”

  “No. I do not. Yes, your brother is innocent of involvement. He is easily influenced. but he is still a loyalist. I already reported that to my overheads in London.”

  “Then why…why did they take him?” She asked tightly. “If he had nothing to do with this revolutionary plot, why is he in London?”

  “I think someone is trying to frame him,” Heath admitted. “There is something of his that someone wants, and they will not stop in getting it.”

  She curled in further into herself. “Then shouldn’t you be doing that instead? What…why are you here?”

  “Because,” he said in defeat. “I had to tell you who I am and that I do love you.”

  Her head twisted to the side and he knew she had shut him out. There was not much more he could say anymore. “I…I have to go back to London, Penelope. I have another assignment.”

  “So that was what I was…an assignment?” She said emptily.

  “No,” he said strongly. “God no. I—I broke every rule in the book by falling in love with you. I came so close to telling you all of it, so—so —many times. It pained me to not show you the real me, Penelope. I love you. I swear it.”

  “I…I’m sorry. I—I cannot be near you,” she said, and in a flash, she was up from the couch making for the doorway. Heath shot out a hand grabbing for her arm and she stopped. Her eyes, stuck to his, were wide and trembling with fear? Hatred? Betrayal? All of them perhaps?

  He wanted to pull her closer but instead, let his hold loosen, little by little, slipping down her arm to her elbow until, finally, her fingers slid from his. Then she was gone. And he knew he had lost. Lost her. Lost himself. Lost it all.

  He had planned to stay the night and move with the dawn, but his soul felt blasted with sand and scrubbed over with shards of glass. He had to leave right away. It did not matter if it was night or that winter was already there with its bracing cold. He was leaving his heart behind, what else could go wrong?

  Chapter 30

  Love is funny Penelope—it can be wonderful if done right…but I can ruin you for the rest of your life. Once your heart is broken…it might never heal.

  Had Helena prophesied over her life, because this ache, this agony of betrayal and hurt inside was surely chipping her heart to gravel. The worst part? He did love her—she knew he did. It was plain as day in his glimmering green eyes but, still, Heath had lied to her.

  Sensibly, she knew why he had done it. His job had forced him to deceive her, but logic was losing the battle to her emotions. He said he loved her, and she wanted to believe it but why were tears streaming down her face?

  Edward was gone under suspicion of attempting to kill a knight, and the man she loved was not the man she thought she had known.

  Did I know him at all?

  Yes, she wanted to believe. She knew his appreciation for quality literature and his love for his horse; she had felt strength, softened under his caring touch, and she had melted under his kiss. She knew when he became protective, watchful, and calculating to keep her safe. She loved how he would gift her with that tender smile and his rare laugh.

  Her eyes were dry but were stinging and half blind she crawled into bed fully clothed. She did not even have the strength to cry but buried her face into a pillow hoping the pain would fade away, only to have it dull and settle in her chest like residue.

  She came awake to soft hands petting her hair and loathed opening her eyes. Comfort felt worthless to her when the dullness in her chest was now an empty cavernous hole.

  “I’m sorry, My Lady,” Martha said quietly. “I am so sorry.”

  “Why?” She asked, her muffled voice thick and foreign to her own ears. “Why?”

  “Mr. Moore,” Martha said. “He’s gone, but he left something for you.”

  Was it worth even looking? She barely lifted her head from the pillows, wiping the stubborn hairs sticking on her forehead away and then rubbing her eyes. “What is it, Martha?”

  “This,” the maid said while handing her a slip of paper.

  Taking it, she read a fluent script: Take care of him, for me.

  Him? What him? Her frown deepened in confusion before she understood and launched out of bed. She heard Martha’s frightened gasp, but ignored it while darting out barefoot. The few people she darted past looked at her askance, but she did not care, and ran to the makeshift stable.

  Duke. It had to be Duke. Heath’s horse. She felt terrified and mystified in the same proportions. Why would Heath leave his dearly-beloved horse for her? She came to the stables out of breath and with her heart pounding in her chest. The stalls were makeshift, and the walls were only waist-high. She did not have to search far to see Duke’s majestic head rising above all the others like the monarch he was.

  Her knees buckled under her and she fell to the ground, stunned. Why? Wh
y had Heath left her his one prized possession? How had he left the compound then? Was it not sensible for him to take Duke with him?

  “My Lady!”

  A gardener dropped his shears and ran over to her, thinking, perhaps she had fallen and injured herself. She looked at his extended hand with dazzled eyes until she reached out and took his hand. “I’m all right…Brady is it?”

  He nodded and wiped his hand on his stained trousers. “I’m all right, I was just…” she looked at Duke and marveled, “stunned.”

  “Are you sure, My Lady?”

  “Very,” she said while inching to the animal. Reaching out, she took the horse’s head in her hands. Her chest was tight and tears, long held in, sprang alive. She smiled as the salty drops of her pain trickled down her cheeks. Stroking the long onyx mane and the silk of his coat, she vowed, “I’ll take care of you, Duke, I promise.”

  Martha found her there, speaking to the astute animal, with shoes in hand. A tangible reminder that she was barefoot. “Breakfast is ready, My Lady.”

  Stroking Duke one last time, she promised again, “I’ll take care of you.”

  Before she went to eat, she washed her feet and her face, dressed in a clean gown, and went to breakfast. The table was set, and the sideboard was stacked, but the room felt empty—Heath was not there nor was Edward.

  The coddled eggs were tasteless and the sweet bread, cloying. Mr. Gastrell was the one who served her, and as he had other issues to take care of, she dismissed him and dined alone. And the solitude dragged on for days.

  A week felt like a month and a week and five days felt like a year. Martha was her only company and the absence of Mr. Moore felt like a lost limb. She was lost in monotony. Except when she went to take care of Duke. He was the only flash of color in her colorless life. There had been no more letters from Edward, and her fear for him increased every day.

  What were they subjecting him to? Torture? Edward was as innocent as Heath had said, she knew, so why did they not know that too? Surely the Crown had more leverage over the Bow Street Constabulary?

  Another morning came and she was staring, lethargically, into her bowl of porridge when Martha came in handing over a card she was too familiar with. “My Lady, Lord Hillbrook is here for you. He’s in the sitting room.”

  Pushing away from the table, Penelope ignored her faint strains of hunger and went to see him. Lord Hillbrook’s face was grim and instantly, she felt anxious.

  “Lord Hillbrook,” she asked. “What brings you here so early in the morning?”

  His brows lowered and knitted together. “You don’t know?”

  “Know what?” she asked as her fright increased. “Is it my brother?”

  A blond head shook, “No. Not directly. Another Lord has been killed, Lady Penelope, and he is also affiliated with the Crown. Westminster is walking on a tight rope and—” he stopped and looked over her shoulder. “Where is the footman?”

  “He left,” Penelope said succinctly, swallowing over the tightness in her throat. “What about Westminster?”

  “They are holding anyone who was accused in correlation with these deaths and sadly, Dawson is one of them,” Lord Hillbrook said while coming closer, “Lady Penelope, the longer this issue goes on, the worse the scrutiny will grow and the social shunning will come with it if…if you are not secured. I know you are not fully assured, but I am asking you to marry me.”

  She was blindsided. “Marry you?”

  “Yes,” he said while coming in closer and taking her hands. “Think about it. I have all the standing to dissuade any snubs from our peers. I have a lovely home where you can live in peace and splendor. Anything you would desire would be at your fingertips and no one would dare give you the cut.”

  Her hands were resting on Lord Hillbrook, and the meager calluses she felt there were indicative of a lord, who worked hands off. She suddenly craved Heath’s rough, fire-branded palms and strong hands. Slowly, she pulled away and fidgeted before putting her hands behind her back.

  “Are you saying Eddie might not come back soon?” Fear was palpable in her voice.

  “I think he will but I—we—cannot assume when,” Hillbrook said sagely.

  She shook her head, “I cannot, Lord Hillbrook. I cannot marry you.” Not when she was so raw and empty with Heath’s departure.

  “I am…disappointed to hear that,” Lord Hillbrook’s blue eyes were gentle, but there was a hard-sapphire glint of uncanny knowledge under it. “But will you promise me to think about it.”

  An attempted smile faltered, and she let it drop completely. What was the sense of looking positive when all her emotions ranged from worrying to loneliness to despair? She felt she could be honest with Hillbrook, despite her wariness of him.

  “I am worried about Edward. There has been no word from him and I…I feel something terrible has happened to him.”

  His hands rested on her shoulder and he was closer than she liked, “Nothing untoward has happened to him, My Lady. He is just following the law as any upstanding citizen should. If you need me to take you to him, I will.”

  Shaking her head, she stepped away, clamping down on the shudder of being too near to him. “That is not necessary, My Lord, but thank you. Er…I’ll think about…”

  “Marrying me,” he smiled and winked cheekily. “I promise that you will not regret it. Good day, Lady Penelope.”

  Her parting words died on her lips while watching him walk away. With him gone, she sank to the nearest seat. Was Hillbrook right? Was danger lingering over her head if she did not get married? The shelf was still looming over her head, but that and having to suffer the social cut too? Could she survive undue disrespect?

  “My Lady?”

  Martha’s voice made her look up. “Hmm?”

  “Your breakfast,” the maid said. “Do you want to finish it?”

  “No,” she said while standing. A pressing need to go visit Duke rested on her shoulders. “I have to clear my thoughts for a moment.”

  The air was cold, but her dress of sturdy thick wool kept her warm. The new stable felt like freshly-cut wood, hay, horses, and leather. She gave Bessie an apologetic look and went directly to Duke. He was fidgeting, tossing his head to and fro, and Penelope knew he was searching for his master.

  She took his head, scratched his ears and smiled wanly, “I know, I know, Your Highness, I miss him too. I’m…” she breathed in sharply, “still hurt. Every day it feels like he steals another part of my heart away until there is nothing left.”

  Duke’s head cocked to the side. “I…miss him. I miss Heath.” Another shuddering breath left her, “A man just asked me to marry him today…but I cannot marry him. It may be sensible but…I don’t think I can marry him.”

  Because my heart is already taken.

  After feeding Duke, she brushed Bessie down and took a detour through the gardens on her way back to the house. There were no blossoms, and the shrubs were slowly losing their color as the plants died.

  “Too much of poetic justice here,” Penelope said wryly while brushing her fingers over the dying leaves. “But I cannot marry Hillbrook.”

  Drifting back inside when her lips began to get dry, she went to find Martha. She could ask her friend her opinion on the matter but decided to hold off on saying it yet.

  * * *

  Brooks Gentleman’s Club, London.

  A Month Later

  Wethington dropped a file on the desk before Heath. “Another one had been found dead. This time, it is Lord Ogilvie, he was coming back with information on who has been sending Bonaparte gifts.”

  “Gifts?”

  “Contraband goods, gold, letters with directions to incapacitate his guards and escape Elba perhaps,” Wethington said sourly. “But that is not the point, Murray. More allies to the Crown are dying, and we don’t know why.”

  A deep frown creased Heath’s forehead as he opened the file. The name, Pierre Montgomery, Baron of Ogilvie was three-and-forty years and an Agent f
or the Crown. He had been journeying back to London and had stopped at his contact in Bath. That was the last time anyone had seen him until his body had floated up in a pool.

  “What does this have to do with me?” Heath asked tiredly.

  He had not begun to formally resign from the service but the toll of the last month-and-a-half was telling on him. Penelope was never far from his mind as the last interaction they had was still slicing his soul into pieces. He had even lost some weight.

  “Ogilvie was another at Allerton’s hunt,” Wethington said simply. “One way or another, Allerton is still a contact point in all this.”