A Lord Apart Page 10

  Miss Pendleton glanced up, saw him looking, and smiled.

  How many smiles did she have in her repertoire? This one was easy, mischievous, literally breathtaking. For a moment, Daniel’s chest locked.

  “Hellish thing,” muttered Kitty. “That’s no manner of tail.”

  A clatter from the hearth suggested that Mrs. Hart had dropped a sizable object.

  Miss Pendleton’s dancing eyes invited him to share in her enjoyment. Daniel’s spirit expanded, and he smiled back wholeheartedly. Perfect understanding seemed to tremble between them, like a hovering kestrel ready to strike. Then she blinked, looked away, and turned back to her stars. Daniel’s hand was the slightest bit unsteady when he addressed his scallops of dough once more. Perhaps he’d call them waves, he decided—tossed by a turbulent sea.

  When they finished, Miss Pendleton was unanimously judged the winner, though Kitty complained that she would have gotten her dogs’ ears right if she’d had more time. Daniel tried to see any trace of hound anatomy in her creations, and failed.

  They put the baking in the oven. Daniel realized that he’d been at Rose Cottage far too long for a courtesy call. And he’d promised to ride out with Macklin and show him a scenic overlook. “I must go,” he said.

  “You won’t wait to taste your creations?” asked Miss Pendleton.

  “I fear I can’t. I have an appointment with Macklin.”

  “Too bad. We’ll send your…waves up to Frithgerd. As a return for the cake.” Her eyes glinted.

  “Will you bring them?”

  The words came out urgent. She looked startled.

  Daniel moderated his tone. “Aren’t you coming tomorrow to continue working in the estate office?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well then.” Daniel brushed at the flour on his sleeve as he walked around the kitchen table. Miss Pendleton followed him to the back door. “I’ll go out this way to get my horse,” he added.

  “I suppose you took it to the barn when you arrived,” said his hostess. “I hope Foyle tended to it.”

  “He said he would.”

  “With poor grace, I suspect. What a ramshackle household I have.”

  “I had a splendid time,” Daniel said. It was true. This was the most fun he’d had in months. Perhaps ever? “Far better than a ton party.”

  Miss Pendleton raised her eyebrows, incredulous.

  “I’m perfectly serious.”

  “Then you are perfectly silly. You cannot compare this to a brilliant drawing room and fashionable entertainments.” She gestured at the bits of dough and scattered kitchenware.

  Standing in the doorway, Daniel surveyed the scene. Kitty, her apron festooned with swirls of brown and white, was grinning at them. Mrs. Hart had her back turned, but her stillness indicated a keen interest in their exchange. “Hostesses are always searching for ways to be original,” he said. “But it’s the quality of the conversation that distinguishes a society gathering, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never attended one.”

  “I didn’t think you could have,” said Daniel.

  She stiffened. “Am I so rag-mannered?”

  He shook his head. “I would have remembered you if you’d had a season in London.” Satisfied with the effect of this remark, he bowed and went out.

  Penelope watched the door close, hiding those intense brown eyes and the look in them that made her knees tremble. She turned to find Kitty gazing at her like an alley cat that had discovered a fish. Mrs. Hart, on the other hand, looked concerned. “We should tidy up,” Penelope said.

  “I’ll do that, miss,” replied the cook.

  “I’ll help.”

  Mrs. Hart held up an impervious hand. “Give me that apron, and go sit down. In a bit, I’ll bring tea and some of your cakes.”

  “The ones I cut.” She needed the wavy ones to take to Frithgerd.

  Scraping dough from the table surface, Mrs. Hart spoke without looking up. “Yes, miss.”

  “And some of mine,” said Kitty. “I wonder what Jip and Jum will think of them?”

  “Don’t you be giving pastry to those dogs,” replied the cook. “What did I tell you?”

  “I was only going to show them,” replied Kitty, convincing no one.

  Penelope left her apron and went to sit in the parlor. Had she actually been baking with a viscount? She smiled, recalling his arguments in favor of his misshapen Shrewsbury cakes. It had been fun. She couldn’t remember when she’d enjoyed herself more. He’d brought excitement and laughter to her kitchen. He’d treated her like a…friend.

  Penelope’s mood plummeted.

  What she was feeling wasn’t wise. Her family was disgraced, her status ambiguous at best, tainted at worst. She was no partner for a peer. Very soon he must realize it, too. Unless he had some illicit connection in mind.

  A hideous vision assailed Penelope—the viscount’s mistress lurking in Rose Cottage like some latter-day Fair Rosamund in the bower. Whispers wherever she went, snubs and snide insinuations. Who would come with the dagger and the poison and offer her the choice?

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said aloud. Gripping the chair arms, she added, “Idiotic.”

  He wasn’t like that. He’d been unfailingly polite and respectful. And should he show any signs of misbehavior, which he would not, she’d refuse, naturally. And that would be the end of it. This was real life, not a medieval legend.

  The trouble was, she didn’t want to see the end of it. She wanted their association to continue, even though there was nowhere that it could possibly go. She wanted to laugh with him again, to learn more about him. Even perhaps to touch? Penelope remembered a saying her father had used when she and Philip were small. “This will end in tears.”

  She rose. “I’m going to take the dogs for a walk,” she called and hurried out, forgoing bonnet and shawl. The dogs were delighted to see her, and she worked off her excess energy by pacing the back of the Rose Cottage property and then throwing sticks for them until they lay at her feet, panting in exhaustion.

  Eight

  In the wee hours of the morning, at the tail end of a wakeful night, Penelope decided not to resist temptation. Why should she? What did she have to lose? The ruin of her family had few advantages, but one was that she didn’t have to worry about losing her position in society. That had already gone up in smoke. She wanted to see Whitfield. She wanted information that must be buried in his estate records. She was going to get what she wanted.

  And so she wrapped Lord Whitfield’s Shrewsbury cakes in a napkin, put them on the seat of her gig, and set out for Frithgerd alone at the appointed time the next day. A gray sky threatened rain, clouds scudding through damp air. Birdsong was muted, making the clop of her horse’s hooves and the rattle of the wheels seem louder.

  Tom was at the gatehouse again, standing on the bench this time, repairing a broken shutter for Mrs. Darnell. The lad waved when Penelope turned in. “Could I come along with you, miss?” he asked. “I need more nails. I can take the gig around to the stables.”

  Penelope pulled up, transferred the napkin to her lap, and let him climb in. “You’re often at the gatehouse,” she observed when they were underway.

  “Just helping out while Mr. Darnell is laid up.”

  “The gatekeeper? Is he ill?”

  “Wrenched his back,” Tom replied, his homely face solemn. “Feels like knives stabbing into his entrails, he says.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “He says it’s happened before, and it gets better in a week or so if he don’t move about.”

  “Is there no one else to help him?” On such a large estate, couldn’t Lord Whitfield find someone other than a stranger to aid his gatekeeper?

  “Loads of people,” said Tom. “But I like to keep busy, same as you.”

  “Me?”
Penelope was startled by this personal comment.

  “I beg your pardon, miss. I didn’t mean to presume.”

  “No, it’s all right. I’m not offended. I do like to keep busy. I’m just surprised you noticed.”

  “Mr. Clayton reckons you know how to run a big house and don’t have half enough to do at Rose Cottage.”

  “Does he?” Penelope was beginning to be amused. “Who is Mr. Clayton?”

  Tom looked chagrined. “Done it again,” he muttered. “Running my mouth. Hanging about with a lord is giving me bad habits.” He hunched a shoulder. “Mr. Clayton is Lord Macklin’s valet, miss.”

  “Ah. Not part of the Frithgerd household then.”

  “No.”

  “I suppose Lord Whitfield’s servants wonder why I’m there so often.” It was just as well to know the opinion of the staff, Penelope thought. Though she wasn’t going to let it dictate her actions.

  “Clearing up a mort of muck, Mrs. Phipps the housekeeper says.” Tom ducked his head. “Not in just those words, miss. But she’s right glad to have some bits set in order. I heard her tell Mr. Clayton the place ain’t had a proper mistress in an age. Not since she was a girl fresh come to service thirty years ago.”

  “But Lady Whitfield died quite recently,” said Penelope. Hadn’t it been less than a year since the shipwreck that took Whitfield’s parents?

  Tom shrugged. “Dunno what she meant by it, miss,” he said. “She did say it was a blessing that somebody was finally paying attention.”

  They had reached Frithgerd’s front door. Penelope pulled up, handed over the reins, and climbed down with the wrapped cakes in hand. She’d expected a rather different reaction from the servants here. To be seen as a blessing was surprising, and surprisingly gratifying. She found she was smiling as she knocked on the front door.

  It was opened by a man dressed as a valet. Oddly, Lord Macklin was with him. This, then, must be the Mr. Clayton who had so many opinions about her.

  “Good morning, Miss Pendleton,” said the earl, imperturbable, as if he often played footman at great houses. “Did you see Tom when you passed the gatehouse?”

  “I did. He rode up with me and was kind enough to take my gig to the stables.”

  “Ah. Thank you. You’ve saved Clayton a walk.” He nodded at the valet, who went out as Penelope came in. “On your way to the estate office,” the older man added. It could have been a question, but wasn’t.

  “I am,” answered Penelope. She moved on, and wasn’t pleased when the earl came with her. Glancing over at him, she suddenly realized one reason he made her uncomfortable. He reminded her of the magistrate who’d first questioned her last summer at her home in Lancashire—the one who’d brought her the news of her brother’s death. He had the same square jaw and broad brow, the same authoritative manner, as if command was as natural and unconscious as breathing.

  “And you’ve brought a gift,” he said, with another nod at the folded napkin she carried.

  She wouldn’t be intimidated. “Shrewsbury cakes.”

  “Indeed?”

  He sounded benignly curious, but Penelope remembered how an innocuous tone could grow gradually harsher as the questions continued. And end in venom.

  “I’m fond of Shrewsbury cakes,” he said after a short silence.

  Penelope kept walking. What did he want? She wasn’t going to offer him one of the oddly shaped pastries she carried. Why was this corridor so very long?

  “May I speak to you for a moment, Miss Pendleton?” he asked.

  She froze. Mild phrases like that one had begun some of the most grueling sessions with Lord Sidmouth’s men. “About what?”

  “Nothing in particular. Merely to get better acquainted.”

  This earl wanted to stand about in a hallway, with her clutching a knotted napkin, and exchange pleasantries?

  As if he knew how unlikely that sounded, Macklin made a dismissive gesture. “And about Whitfield. His situation. And yours.”

  “Situation?”

  The older man looked vexed. Now it would start, Penelope thought. He would insinuate or accuse, and when she answered, he would twist her words. Such men always assumed the worst, and then used it against you.

  “I’m not putting this well,” Macklin said. “I don’t suppose you’d like to go and sit. No, I can see that you wouldn’t.”

  False sympathy. Did he imagine she hadn’t seen it before?

  “I became acquainted with Whitfield because I grew interested in the many forms of grief.”

  What sort of trick was this? Penelope wondered.

  “And hoped to be of help, as I’ve experienced a good dose of it myself,” he added.

  This wasn’t what she’d expected.

  “You’ve heard that he lost his parents? In a shipwreck?”

  She nodded.

  “A sudden death is a great shock. As you must have felt.”

  Penelope stiffened. Here it was. “Lord Whitfield told you about my brother.”

  “He did.”

  “Must I say it again? I knew nothing about his activities or associates or political writings. Yes, it is strange that two people living in the same household could be so separate. But we were!” She bent her head. “As I was sad to discover.” She’d regretted that distance in so many ways, not least in her failure to understand her only brother.

  Lord Macklin took a step back. “I beg your pardon.”

  Penelope looked up, surprised. Where was the doubt, the barrage of questions?

  The earl bowed. “I’ve upset you. Forgive me.”

  None of her questioners had asked forgiveness.

  “I won’t keep you any longer.”

  She hesitated briefly, not daring to believe, then turned and hurried along to the door of the estate office. “Good day, Lord Macklin,” she said, and entered the sanctuary of the estate office.

  The older man stayed where he was, pensive. Clayton found him there some minutes later. “I sent Tom off with the message,” he said.

  “Good. Thank you, Clayton.” He still didn’t move.

  “Something wrong, my lord?”

  “My conversations with Miss Pendleton don’t go well.”

  “What are you aiming at, my lord?”

  “That’s the problem, isn’t it? I’m not sure I know.”

  “She seems like a pleasant enough young lady,” answered the valet. “The servants here say she’s quality.”

  “But does she add up?”

  “My lord?”

  Arthur sighed. “I suspect she’s been treated shabbily, and I’m sorry for that. But I’m really here for Whitfield. I’d like to see him happy. Is she the sort to make him so?”

  “You should receive replies to your letters soon,” said Clayton.

  “Yes.” Arthur gazed at the closed door of the estate office as he tried to be satisfied with this.

  * * *

  “They taste good even if they look ridiculous,” said Daniel on the other side of the panels. He took a second bite of a Shrewsbury cake that he’d shaped so ineptly. The room seemed different with Miss Pendleton installed in a chair beside his at the desk. Fresh and lovely in a blue cambric gown, she transformed it from a place of dry drudgery to a chamber full of possibility. She’d seemed harried when she first came in, but the sight of his documents, and the donning of her oddly charming dust sleeves, had visibly settled her.

  She finished her cake. “That’s the great thing about pastry,” she said. “It’s still delicious even when you’ve sat on the box. Although eclairs are rather a challenge in that regard.”

  Daniel raised an eyebrow. “That sounds like wisdom drawn from direct experience.”

  Miss Pendleton nodded. “The…rather squashed-looking Shrewsbury cakes reminded me.”

  “I must hear the story.”<
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  Her smile was pensive, a little distracted. “As a special treat, my mother and I sometimes visited a bakeshop in a town near where we lived. Mama used to say the owner was an artist of the oven. On this particular day, I insisted on carrying the box with its wonderful pink string. I was so proud, like an altar boy bearing the chalice.” She glanced at him. “I was four years old, you understand. I put the box on the seat of the carriage while I climbed up. Mama stepped in after me and sat on it.” She shook her head. “I hadn’t thought of that in ages.”

  Daniel imagined how his own austere mother would have reacted to this misstep. “Was she annoyed?”

  “Oh, worse than that.”

  He had visions of a thundering scold, even a boxed ear.

  “She burst into tears,” said Miss Pendleton.

  The picture in his mind underwent a quick revision.

  “She’d picked out a lemon tart, one of her favorite things in the world. She was looking forward to it as much as I was to my éclair. More, perhaps. And now they were both ruined.” She made a melancholy face. “So I had made my mama cry.”

  “Difficult.” Daniel started to point out that it wasn’t entirely her fault. Her mother might have been more careful about where she sat. But Miss Pendleton went on before he could speak.

  “Utterly tragic for a small girl.”

  “You might have gone back to the shop and replaced them.”

  “I suppose. We didn’t. Perhaps there was a reason Mama had to be back. But in any case, she soon recovered. She was wonderful that way. She turned setbacks into…festivals.”

  Rather like her daughter did with an upended life, Daniel thought. “How does one redeem squashed pastry?”

  “Ah.” Miss Pendleton’s smile was impish now. “We took our flattened box to her sitting room and hid it away until a maid had brought tea for Mama and a glass of milk for me.”

  “Hid it? Why?”

  “We didn’t want to hurt Cook’s feelings by letting her know we’d bought pastry. She was very skillful, but not with sweets. So we always ate our treats in secret.”