A Lord Apart Page 12

  And she hadn’t promised never to do it again.

  An almost feral smile lit Penelope’s features. Whitfield thought he had to observe the proprieties. But must she? With no family and no standing in the community, she wasn’t hemmed in by the social restrictions that had ruled her youth. No society matrons would be monitoring her behavior at assemblies and evening parties. The local social round wouldn’t include her, so she couldn’t lose her place in its ranks.

  Hard-faced government men, with their endless questions, had taken that position from her. They’d given her a lesson in vulnerability she would never forget. But she’d endured; she’d made it through, fought them off with the truth. And here, on the other side, she became aware of a fierce determination to grasp what she wanted with both hands. She would not be cowed. She would not see her life as wrecked. She’d pay them all back by enjoying herself while she had the chance.

  Penelope blinked, not seeing the rainy landscape any longer. Lord Whitfield would bring home a bride from the next London season, or the one after that. Nothing was more likely. That was what viscounts did. It was the path she’d expected to take herself before things came crashing down around her. She might have met him at a ball or evening party and made his acquaintance—in quite a different way of course. And who could say it was a better one? She wouldn’t know him as well from a few dances and rides in the park. She wouldn’t have spent time alone with him or shown him her organizational skills. He wouldn’t have been amazed at her abilities. She wrapped her arms around her chest as if to hug his admiration close. They had this time together. She would savor it. And if she wanted more, she would dashed well have it.

  Another knock heralded Kitty’s reappearance. “Are you all right, miss?” the girl asked, looking around the doorframe. “Only I thought you might’ve fainted dead away. I’m thinking I’ll ask Mrs. Hart about poultices tomorrow. I expect she knows.”

  “Poultices?”

  “A mustard plaster for your chest.” Kitty seemed to relish the idea. “That’d be the thing. Draw out the flan.”

  “The what?”

  “That stuff you cough up.”

  “Ah. I haven’t any phlegm.” Penelope moved toward her. “See, I’m coming downstairs with you. Perfectly well.”

  Kitty eyed her as if she might burst into a paroxysm of coughing at any moment.

  Penelope led her down the steps. “If you’d like to learn about poultices from Mrs. Hart, you’re welcome to do so, but none will be tested on me.”

  Kitty looked resigned. “Do they use them on dogs?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. They’re put on horses’ legs sometimes. Or is that a fomentation? Foyle would know.”

  “Eh. Don’t reckon he’d tell me. He thinks I’m stupid.”

  Penelope hadn’t been sure if the girl had noticed this. “Foyle has always been irascible.”

  “I ’spect that means grumpy as a bear with a thorn in its paw. But there’s no thorn to take out, is there?”

  Quite a clever summation, Penelope thought, and far from stupid. “Not that I’ve ever discovered.”

  “Mebbe Mrs. Hart’ll find one. He’s not so rascible with her.”

  Meeting the maid’s twinkling eyes, Penelope saw that she hadn’t imagined Foyle’s interest in their cook. She’d have to discover Mrs. Hart’s views on this subject.

  Kitty went into the kitchen. Penelope lit the kindling in the parlor fireplace and settled down in the armchair as the fire caught. Her thoughts drifted back to Whitfield, and a good bit of time passed in pleasant reverie.

  Kitty came in. “Mrs. Hart left a beef stew, miss.”

  Something had made the girl more anxious than usual, Penelope thought. And Kitty tended to worry. “How was your day? Did you see your friend Betty as you hoped?”

  The girl shook her head. “It was her half day, but she went out with Ned. He’s a footman up at Frithgerd, miss. They’re courting and mean to marry and go up to London and get fine new positions.”

  Penelope heard envy and resignation in her voice. Kitty’s position was a bit like her own, with fewer options. Penelope had a sudden vision of the two of them fifty years from now, old ladies moving about the place with much greater difficulty. There were such households. She shook her head. Her life would be more than that. Kitty’s, too. She’d see to it. She sat straighter. “The stew smells wonderful.” Indeed, the luscious aroma permeated the small house.

  “Shall I make up your tray?”

  “Yes, please, Kitty. And don’t worry.”

  Blinking in surprise, the girl went out. She returned so quickly that Penelope knew she must have had the tray waiting. As the only inhabitants of a small house, they might have eaten together, but Kitty wasn’t comfortable with the idea. She’d practically squirmed when Penelope suggested it. For her part, Penelope didn’t like sitting at the large table in the other room alone. A tray before the hearth was their compromise. Kitty set it across the arms of the chair.

  A scrabbling noise came from the kitchen. “Did you let the dogs in?”

  “No, miss, I wouldn’t.”

  A muffled woof and the tick of paws on floorboards contradicted her.

  The girl was lonely, Penelope realized. And who could blame her? So was she. She’d have to see what she could do about that as well. For now, she could pretend she hadn’t heard the noises and not give her usual order to put the dogs out.

  Kitty scuttled from the room as if eager to evade those very words.

  * * *

  Daniel had just finished numbering the trunks in the blue parlor with a bit of chalk from the billiard room when Macklin came to find him. “I’ve received some answers to my letters of inquiry,” he said.

  “Ah.”

  “Shall we sit in the estate office?”

  “Let’s go upstairs.” The estate office was her spot. “You look grave,” Daniel added as he led the way to the drawing room.

  “I’m bemused,” his guest replied as they sat down. “Miss Pendleton’s brother seems to have gone out of his way to insult people. He actually printed up copies of Byron’s Luddite poem and sent it around to everyone in the government.”

  “Poem?” Daniel frowned. “Don Juan? The Corsair? The ministers of the crown were offended by bombast?”

  Macklin smiled. “Not those. Byron’s ‘Ode to the Framers of the Frame Bill.’ Came out in the Morning Chronicle several years ago. You may not remember it. Rather a masterpiece of sarcasm, dripping with contempt for Liverpool and the rest of the government. It was one of the reasons Byron fled the country.”

  “I thought that was down to debauchery.”

  “That, too.” Macklin’s smile faded. “The point is, reviving that piece was a foolish thing to do. Philip Pendleton sent it around with a signed letter condemning current policies.”

  “Which put people’s backs up.”

  “An understatement. It was unnecessarily incendiary. And in their anger, his targets paid less attention to his arguments.”

  Daniel nodded.

  “A man may disagree with certain laws,” Macklin continued. “I do. But one of my correspondents said that Pendleton seemed more interested in spewing outrage and destroying his opponents’ reputations than in real reform.”

  Daniel wondered how such a man could be related to Miss Pendleton. He sounded completely unlike her. “Perhaps he was misunderstood.”

  “He commissioned a broadside listing all the Prince Regent’s mistresses and debts, going back to his youth, and arguing that it was past time to abolish the monarchy.”

  “Ah.”

  “It included a caricature of the king suffering a fit of madness.”

  “Prinny must have been livid. I’m surprised Pendleton wasn’t arrested.”

  “His sponsorship wasn’t proven until after the Manchester incident.” Macklin shoo
k his head. “The man seems to have been a political idiot. If I listed all the ways one could antagonize the government, he would tick every box. Without anything to offer to replace them but ranting.”

  “Reform is brewing, I think.” Daniel had never delved too deeply into politics, but he knew that much.

  “And I’m behind it,” replied Macklin. “Change is necessary, and inevitable. But I dislike stupidity. And it doesn’t do to tear everything down all at once. We saw where that leads in France. Do we want another Terror?”

  “Obviously not.”

  “I don’t think Philip Pendleton would have agreed. He seemed intent on mayhem. The ‘Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war’ sort of thing. I wonder if he was a bit unbalanced?”

  “Can Miss Pendleton know all this?” Daniel still had trouble reconciling these two radically different people. Scurrilous broadsides and fiery rhetoric just didn’t fit with the young woman who’d sat by his side organizing documents. And kissed him so sweetly that his spirits still reeled.

  “I expect she does, by this time.”

  “This time?”

  “She was questioned after he was killed. They would have shown her their evidence at some point, trying to get more information.”

  “She told me about the investigation,” Daniel said.

  “About being locked up?”

  “What?”

  “The aftermath of the shooting was chaotic. Miss Pendleton was taken from her home and…secured in Manchester for a while.”

  “Secured! They imprisoned her?”

  “More of a house arrest. Or hotel arrest.” Macklin shrugged. “Her brother was thought to be one of the ringleaders. Because of his rank, I suppose. Some imagined he was the head of a network of revolutionaries, and that his house would be a treasure trove of information. They wanted free rein to search the place. As it turned out, they found nothing. She was soon released, but forbidden to leave Manchester until the inquiries—which is to say interrogations—ended.”

  Daniel was horrified. When she’d spoken of an investigation he’d imagined something like the local magistrate’s court, over which he presided. Stern, but courteous; just, but kindly. Now he saw her hemmed in by frowning men shoving broadsides into her face and demanding facts she didn’t possess. “My God.”

  “It must have been very difficult for her,” said Macklin.

  “Difficult!” Daniel’s hands curled into fists. It was all he could do to sit still. He wanted to go to her and comfort her and assure her of…what?

  “You’re right, worse than difficult. A friend of mine who is familiar with the case was shocked and outraged by the way she was treated. He said some of Sidmouth’s men went much too far in the aftermath of Peterloo. It was soon clear that Miss Pendleton had nothing to do with her brother’s activities.”

  “As she told them!”

  “In their defense, they may have really believed that a revolt was imminent.”

  “By the daughters of baronets? I wonder she doesn’t lay an action against them in court.”

  “She may wish to forget the whole matter, insofar as she can.”

  She’d certainly been reluctant to talk about it. And what would his efforts to comfort do but reveal that he and Macklin had been poking into her past? A vast frustration descended on Daniel. He wanted to be…something to her.

  A knock on the door heralded the entrance of young Tom. “Another letter’s come, my lord. Clayton would’ve brought it, but he’s out.” He handed the folded sheet to Macklin.

  “Thank you, Tom.”

  “I thought I’d walk up into the hills. Unless I can do anything for you, my lord?”

  Macklin merely waved him off, breaking the seal and beginning to read his letter. With a grin, Tom went out. “Ah,” said Macklin after a while.

  “More ill news?” The older man’s expression suggested it.

  He tapped the page. “This is from Cranbourne. The man I mentioned who is deep in government councils. He suggests that Miss Pendleton may be seen as a way to catch rioters who are still at large.”

  “How? Why?”

  “Sidmouth’s people have been working to eliminate their refuges. Should any of her brother’s supposed confederates apply to her for help—”

  “But she didn’t know anything about them!”

  “And from what we’ve learned, her brother probably had none. No sensible radical would want to ally with an inept firebrand. But agents never believe they’ve found the whole truth. Deception is their profession. They see it everywhere.”

  “So Miss Pendleton is being watched?”

  “That seems possible.”

  “Well, you must write your friend and put a stop to it at once.”

  “He works in the Foreign Office and has no power to end such an investigation,” Macklin replied. “Nor do I. Sidmouth and I are not friends. I’d be happy to vouch for her character, if I thought it would help. But that might not be a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “In an agent’s mind, a character reference implies a need for justification, and thus some secret wrong.”

  “That’s preposterous.”

  “When you live in a world of suspicion, everything is suspicious.”

  “We can’t just do nothing! When Miss Pendleton has been staked out as bait.”

  “I believe you’re overstating the case, Whitfield.”

  He didn’t care. He was filled with a burning desire to help her.

  “I wonder if any strangers have arrived in the area recently?” said Macklin.

  “I’ll find out.” Daniel was glad of some action to take.

  “I think it would be better for Tom to ask. He’s a stranger himself and would naturally ask questions. You or your servants will attract attention.”

  Daniel struggled with the wish to do it himself. But in the end he had to acknowledge Macklin’s logic. “Do you think the lad is up to such a task?”

  “I do. He’s clever and can be surprisingly subtle.”

  Thinking of the homely, grinning youngster, Daniel doubted that. Yet he trusted Macklin’s judgment, and the earl knew Tom far better than he did. “If any spies are found, I can send them packing.”

  “Not behind Miss Pendleton’s back. I’ve learned my lesson on that sort of interference.”

  “She’ll be happy for the assistance,” Daniel said.

  “Will she?”

  “Why do you look so dubious? You can’t suspect her of deceit.” The thought outraged Daniel.

  “Not deceit.”

  “You think it’s unusual to know nothing of a brother who lived in the same house all your life?” Daniel was far too familiar with that sort of sensation.

  “I think assistance is sometimes a hard thing to define,” Macklin said.

  Daniel scarcely heard him. “I scarcely knew my parents,” he retorted. “They might have been acquainted with any number of revolutionaries, and I would never have known.”

  Macklin gave him a long look, but he said no more.

  Ten

  When Penelope arrived at Frithgerd the following afternoon, she discovered that someone—it had to be Whitfield—had numbered the trunks in the blue parlor with chalk, just as she’d ordered. This tangible sign that he appreciated her ideas and remembered them when she wasn’t here lightened her spirits. She had a place in his mind, as he did in hers. They were linked. And she was glad. “Glad,” she murmured. “So there.”

  “Who are you talking to?” asked the gentleman in question.

  Penelope whirled and found him in the doorway. He wore a blue riding coat and buckskin breeches today, and he looked ready to take on the world. “My better self,” she replied. “Or worse one. I’m not really certain.” She repressed an errant laugh.

  He came closer.

  “You n
umbered the trunks.”

  “As decreed.” He gave her a mock salute.

  Whitfield wasn’t conventionally handsome, Penelope thought. His features were too blunt, his bone structure too rugged. She tended to forget this fact because when his face was animated, as it was now, he was rivetingly attractive.

  “Are we going back to the trunks?” he asked. “I thought we’d decided to leave them for later.”

  She couldn’t stand here gazing at him, enjoyable as that was. He’d think her a mooncalf. “I woke in the night certain I’d missed something,” she answered.

  “In the night.” He smiled at her. “Was it a nightmare about the papers? I’ve had those. Sometimes they smother me. There was one where documents rose up like a great wave ready to break over my head and bury me. I had to fight them off with a cricket bat.” He mimed a swing, put a hand to his brow, and pretended to watch something fly off over her head.

  She laughed. “Nothing like that. This was a nagging sense that I’d noticed something without fully taking it in.”

  “What?”

  “Well, that’s the question.” Penelope went to the trunk she’d been sorting through yesterday, opened it, and looked down at the stacks of documents. They were just the same—columns of figures, blocks of text, ornate signatures and seals, all jumbled together. There was too much to notice and nothing at all. She frowned, remembering what she’d done yesterday. She’d leafed through the pile at the end, reached down to take out part of it, then put it back. She repeated these actions.

  As she finished, she felt it. The cloth lining of the trunk bulged out at this end, a small irregularity that one couldn’t see but could feel. She ran her fingers over the square, flat shape. “I think there’s something hidden here.”

  He came up beside her, his shoulder brushing hers. “Hidden?”

  Penelope took his hand, and then had to pause at the thrill that went through her at his touch. He noticed the brief hesitation, meeting her eyes. Warmth washed through her. With an accelerated pulse, she guided his fingers over the shape.