A Rogue by Any Other Name (19 page)

Tommy took a step toward him, coming up to his full height, a match for Bourne. “This has nothing to do with Langford.”

“Don’t fool yourself. This has everything to do with Langford. You think he did not expect me to come after Falconwell the moment Needham won it? Of course he did. And he must also know that I will not stop until I’ve ruined him.” He paused, considering this man who had once been his friend. “And ruined you, in the process.”

Something flashed in Tommy’s gaze, something close to understanding. “You will take pleasure in it, I have no doubt. Pleasure in destroying her, as well.”

Bourne crossed his arms over his chest. “My goals are clear—Falconwell and revenge on your father. That you and Penelope stand in the way of those things is unfortunate indeed.”

“I shan’t let you hurt her.”

“How noble of you. What will you do, ferret her away? Guinevere to your Lancelot? Tell me, was he born on the wrong side of the blanket as well?”

Tommy went still at the words. “So that is your plan; you destroy my father by destroying me.”

Bourne raised a brow. “His legacy for mine. His son for my father’s.”

“You’ve a faulty memory if you think he ever thought of me as a son of his heart.” The words rang true—in all of their youth, Langford had never had a kind word for Tommy. He’d been a cold, hard man.

Bourne no longer cared. “It matters not what he thought. What matters is what the world thinks. Without you, he has nothing.”

Tommy rocked back on one heel, his jaw setting square, a quiet echo of the boy he’d once been. “You’re a scoundrel; I’m a gentleman. They’ll never believe you.”

“They will when I show them proof.”

Tommy’s brows knitted together. “There is no proof.”

“You are welcome to test that theory.”

Tommy’s jaw clenched and he took a step forward, anger propelling him toward Bourne, who dodged the blow before Bruno came out of the darkness to stay the inevitable brawl. The men stared down the bodyguard’s massive arms at each other. “What do you want from me?” Tommy asked.

“There is nothing you have that I want.” Bourne paused, letting the silence taunt his foe. “I’ve Falconwell and revenge and Penelope. And you’ve nothing.”

“She was mine before she was yours,” Tommy said, anger in his tone. “All those years without you . . . she still had me. And when she sees who you are . . . what you’ve become . . . she will turn to me again.”

Bourne loathed the idea that Tommy and Penelope had remained friends, even after Bourne had lost everything, even after he’d been unable to return to Surrey and resume his place—the third point of their triangle. “You’re a brave man to threaten me.” He looked to Bruno. “See him out.”

Tommy pulled out of the large man’s grasp. “I can see myself out.” He crossed to the exterior door, hovering there for the briefest of seconds before turning back to meet Bourne’s gaze. “Return her to Surrey, Michael. Leave her alone. Before you destroy her with your anger and your vengeance.”

He wanted to reject the premise. But he was not a fool. He would destroy her, of course. He would, because it was what he did. “If I were you, I would worry less about protecting my wife and more about protecting your name. Because when I am through with your father, you won’t be able to show your face in London.”

When Tommy replied, there was steel in his tone—conviction that Michael did not recognize from the boy he’d once known. “I don’t fool myself into believing that I can protect myself from the scandal you plan to unleash, but I shall do everything I can to fight you—everything I can to protect Penelope. To remind her that there was a time when her friends would have done anything to keep her from harm.”

Bourne raised a brow. “It appears you failed in that, didn’t you?”

Regret flashed quick and unguarded on Tommy’s face. “I did. But it was never supposed to be my role.”

If he’d allowed it, the words would have stung. Instead, he mocked, “Take comfort, Tom, at least she will not have to deal with your scandal when I release it to the papers.”

Tommy turned back, his knowing gaze finding Bourne’s in the darkness before he spoke his parting words. “No, she won’t have the scandal on her head . . . but she will have the regret of marrying you. Do not doubt that.”

He did not doubt it in the slightest.

The heavy door closed behind Tommy, and Bourne turned away from the sound, anger and irritation and something else—something he did not wish to define—coursing through him.

Chapter Nine

Dear M—

I am writing to you from a carriage, where I have spent the last six days with
all four
of my sisters and my mother trundling through the North Country to visit Aunt Hester (whom you will remember from my last letter). I cannot imagine what would have possessed the Romans to continue their march north to build Hadrian’s Wall. They must not have had sisters, or they would not have made it through Tuscany.

Yrs, persevering—P

Somewhere on the Great North Road, June 1816

No reply

He’d left her.

It had taken a quarter of an hour for Penelope to come to her senses, standing there in the entryway of Michael’s London home, along with several piles of her belongings.

He’d left her, summarily, with a simple, “Good-bye.”

She stared at the massive oak door through which he had departed for longer than she cared to admit, struggling with several key truths.

He had left her.

On her first night at his London home.

Without even introducing her to the staff before leaving.

On their wedding night.

She did not want to think too carefully about that bit.

Instead, she focused on the fact that she was standing like a fool in the foyer of her husband’s town house, with no companions but two very young-looking footmen who seemed uncertain of their exact role in such an event. Penelope wasn’t certain if she should take comfort in the idea that they were not often met with solitary females in this town house, or if she should be offended that they had not thought to put her in a receiving room while they devised a plan for her.

She forced a smile and addressed the older of the two—who could not have been more than fifteen—desperate to soldier on. “I assume the house has a housekeeper?”

She watched a wave of relief flood the young man and felt a bit envious. She wished she knew how to behave in this situation. “Yes, m’lady.”

“Excellent. Perhaps you could fetch her?”

The footman bowed once, then again, obviously eager to do his best. “Yes, m’lady. As you wish, m’lady.” He was off like a flash, his counterpart growing more and more uncomfortable by the minute.

She knew the feeling.

But just because she was in a state of complete uncertainty did not mean the poor boy standing in front of her was required to suffer as well. “You needn’t remain here,” she said with a little, encouraging smile, “I’m sure the housekeeper will be along presently.”

The footman—far too young to be a footman, frankly—mumbled an agreement and disappeared, nearly instantly.

Penelope let out a long breath and considered the entryway of the town house, all marble and gilt, the height of fashion and expense—a touch too extravagant for her tastes, but she instantly understood the décor.

Michael might have lost everything in a now-infamous game of chance, but he’d earned it back twentyfold; anyone entering his home would see that.

Something clenched in her chest at the thought of the young marquess working so hard to restore his fortunes. What strength it must have taken . . . what commitment.

It was a shame he did not have the same commitment to his wife.

She pushed the thought aside, confronting the massive trunk that had arrived along with their carriage that evening. Well, if she wasn’t to be put in a room, she might as well make herself comfortable. She unbuttoned her traveling cloak and sat on the luggage, wondering if, perhaps, she was to live here . . . in the foyer.

A commotion began at the back of the house . . . a smattering of fevered whispers punctuated by the clattering of footsteps, and Penelope could not help but smile at the sound. It seemed that none of the servants had been apprised of their master’s taking a bride. She supposed she should not be surprised, as she herself had not expected such a thing until two days prior.

But she could not help but be slightly annoyed at her husband.

He could have at least taken a moment to introduce her to the housekeeper before heading off to whatever important business called to him at this point in the day.

On the day of his marriage.

She sighed, hearing the impatience and the irritation in the sound. Knowing that ladies did not display irritation.

She could only hope that the rule was not so steadfast if one was married to a fallen aristocrat.

Surely there was possibility for interpretation when one was sitting in one’s new home, waiting to be shown to a room. Any room.

She inspected the palm of one glove and wondered how Michael might respond if he returned, hours from now, to discover her seated on a trunk, waiting for him.

The image of him, surprise in his eyes, made her chuckle.

It might be worth it. She shifted, ignoring the pain in her backside.

Marchionesses most certainly did not think of discomfort in their backsides.

“My lady?”

Penelope shot to her feet, spinning toward the words, tentative and curious, spoken from behind her, by the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen.

It did not matter that she wore a simple uniform—identifiable in any home across Britain as a housekeeper’s frock—or that her flaming red hair was pulled back tightly into a neat, perfect knot. This woman, young and lithe, with the largest, most beautiful blue eyes Penelope had ever seen, was stunning.

Like a painting by a Dutch master.

Like no servant Penelope had ever seen.

And she lived in Michael’s house.

“I—” She began, then stopped, realizing that she was staring. She shook her head, “I—yes?”

The housekeeper gave no indication that she had even noticed the odd behavior, instead coming forward and dropping into a curtsy. “I apologize for not greeting you immediately upon your arrival. But we didn’t—” It was her turn to stop.

We didn’t expect you.
Penelope heard the words even as they weren’t spoken.

The housekeeper tried again, “Bourne didn’t—”

Bourne.

Not Lord Bourne. Just Bourne.

Emotion flared, hot and unfamiliar.
Jealousy.

“I understand. Lord Bourne has been very busy for the past few days.” She lingered on his title, noting the understanding in the other woman’s gaze. “You are the housekeeper, I assume?”

The beautiful woman flashed a small smile and dipped another curtsy. “Mrs. Worth.”

Penelope wondered if Mrs. Worth was married, or if the woman had come by the title with her position. The thought of Michael with a stunning, young, unmarried housekeeper did not sit well.

“Would you like to see the house? Or meet the staff?” Mrs. Worth seemed uncertain of what came next.

“I should like to see my rooms for now,” Penelope said, taking pity on the other woman, who was certainly as surprised by her master’s marriage as Penelope was. “We traveled much of the day.”

“Of course.” Mrs. Worth nodded, leading the way to the wide staircase that rose to what Penelope assumed were the private quarters of the house. “I’ll have the boys bring your trunks up immediately.”

As they climbed the stairs, Penelope could not help herself. “Is your husband also in the employ of Lord Bourne?”

There was a long pause before the housekeeper answered, “No, my lady.”

Penelope knew that she should not press. “A nearby home, then?”

Another pause. “I have no husband.”

Penelope resisted the unpleasant jealousy that flared with the pronouncement . . . and the urge to ask more questions of the beautiful housekeeper.

Mrs. Worth had already turned away, calmly opening the door to a dimly lit bedchamber. “We will start a fire immediately, of course, my lady.” She moved forward with purpose, lighting candles around the room, slowly revealing a cozy, well-appointed bedchamber outfitted in lovely greens and blues. “And I shall have a tray made for you. You must be hungry.” When she had completed her task, she turned back to Penelope. “We don’t have a lady’s maid on staff, but I would be happy to . . .” She trailed off.

Penelope shook her head. “My maid cannot be far behind.”

Relief flashed across the other woman’s face, and she dipped her head in acquiescence. Penelope watched her carefully, fascinated by this beautiful creature who seemed to be both competent servant and not servant at all.

“How long have you been here?”

Mrs. Worth’s head snapped up, her eyes finding Penelope instantly. “With Bou—” She stopped, catching herself. “With Lord Bourne?” Penelope nodded. “Two years.”

“You’re very young to be a housekeeper.”

Mrs. Worth’s gaze grew guarded. “I was very lucky that Lord Bourne found room for me here.”

A dozen questions flashed through Penelope’s mind, and it took all her energy to hold herself back from asking them—from uncovering the truth about this beautiful woman and how she had come to live with Michael.

But now was not the time, no matter how curious she was.

Instead, she reached up and unpinned her hat, moving to a nearby dressing table to set it down. Turning back, she dismissed the housekeeper. “My trunks and supper sound lovely. And a bath, please.”

“As you wish, my lady.” Mrs. Worth was gone instantly, leaving Penelope alone.

Taking a deep breath, Penelope turned in a slow circle, considering the room. It was beautiful—lushly appointed with silks on the walls and an enormous rug that had to have come from the East. The art was tasteful and the furniture perfectly wrought. There was a fire in the hearth, but the chill and the lingering smell of smoke on the air proved that the house had been unprepared for her arrival.