A Rogue by Any Other Name (25 page)

He stiffened. “So I did.”

She nodded once, firmly. “When?”

“We’ll see.”

Her gaze narrowed at the words, the universal synonym for
no.
“Yes, I suppose we shall.”

She turned her back and returned to the ladies’ salon, head high, shoulders straight as she turned the handle and pushed the door open, rejoining the women.

Temper fraying, vowing to remain unmoved.

Chapter Twelve

Dear M—

Tommy was home for Michaelmas and we celebrated in grand style, even though we were sorely lacking our own Michael. Nevertheless, we soldiered on, picked the lingering blackberries and ate them until we were ill, as per tradition. Our teeth turned thoroughly troublingly greyish blue in the process—you would have been proud.

Perhaps we’ll see you for Christmas this year? The St. Stephen’s feast in Coldharbour is becoming a fine fête indeed.

We are all thinking of you, and miss you very much.

Always—P

Needham Manor, September 1818

No reply

She’d asked him not to touch her, and he granted the request.

Taken it a step further.

He’d left her completely alone.

He’d left her alone that night, when he’d returned her to Hell House and promptly left, without a word, headed to wherever it was that husbands went without their wives.

And again the next night as she ate her supper in the enormous, empty dining room under the watchful eyes of several mismatched, too-young footmen. She was getting used to them, at least, and was quite proud of herself for not blushing through the entire meal.

And again the night after, while she stood at the window of her bedchamber like a ninny, pulled in the direction of his carriage as though attached with a string as she watched it trundle away. As though, if she watched long enough, he would return.

And he would give her the marriage she wanted.

“No more windows,” she vowed, turning away from the cold dark street and heading across the room to submerge her hands in the washbasin, watching the cool water pale and distort her hands beneath the surface. “No more windows,” she repeated, quietly, when she heard a carriage pull to a stop outside the town house, ignoring the increased beat of her heart and the pull of the glass.

Instead, she dried her hands with impressive calm and moved to the door that adjoined her husband’s bedchamber to her own, pressing her ear to the cool wood and listening for his arrival.

After long minutes that provided her with nothing but a rather irritating crick in her neck, Penelope’s curiosity got the best of her, and she headed for the door to her bedchamber to sneak into the hallway and see if her husband had indeed, returned home.

She cracked the door—less than an inch—to look into the hallway.

And came face to face with Mrs. Worth.

She gave a little start and slammed the door shut, heart pounding, before she realized that she’d just made a fool of herself in front of her husband’s unsettling housekeeper.

Taking a deep breath, she opened the door with a wide smile. “Mrs. Worth, you startled me.”

The housekeeper dipped her head. “You have a visitor.”

Penelope’s brows snapped together. “A visitor?” It was past eleven o’clock.

The housekeeper extended a card. “He says it’s very important.”

He.

Penelope took the card.

Tommy.

Happiness thrummed through her. He was the first person to visit her here in this large, empty house—not even her mother had come, instead sending word that she would visit
once the newly wedded bloom was off the rose.

Little did her mother know that such bloom had never even hinted at the rose.

But Tommy was her friend. And friends visited. She was unable to keep the smile from Mrs. Worth. “I shall be right down. Give him tea. Or . . . wine. Or . . . scotch.” She shook her head. “Whatever it is that people drink at this hour.”

She closed the door and righted her appearance before throwing herself down the stairs and into the front receiving room, where he stood at a large marble fireplace, dwarfed by the extravagant room. “Tommy!” she called, moving directly to him, thrilled to see him. “What are you doing here?”

He smiled. “I’m here to steal you away, of course.”

It should have been a jest, but there was an edge to the words that she did not like, and it was in that moment that she realized Tommy should not be there—that Michael would be furious if he discovered Tommy Alles in his receiving room, with his wife. It would not matter that Tommy and Penelope had been friends for an age. “You shouldn’t be here,” she said as he turned to her, taking her hands and lifting them to his lips. “He shall be livid.”

“You and I are friends still, are we not?”

She did not hesitate, her guilt over their last meeting still fresh. “Of course we are.”

“And as a good friend, I’m here to make sure that you are all right. Hang him.”

After the last interaction she had with her husband, she should have supported the
Hang him
strategy, but she couldn’t. For some reason, the very idea of standing here in this room with Tommy made Penelope feel as though she was betraying her husband and their marriage.

She shook her head. “It is not a good idea for you to be here, Tommy.”

Tommy looked down at her, uncommon seriousness in his gaze. “Tell me one thing. Are you all right?”

The words were soft with concern, and she wasn’t expecting the emotion that crashed through her at them, the tears that sprang instantly to her eyes. It had been a week she’d been married in a tiny, rushed ceremony in Surrey, and no one had thought to ask after her.
Not even her husband
. “I—” she stopped, emotion closing her throat.

Tommy’s normally friendly blue eyes darkened. “You’re miserable. I’ll kill him.”

“No! No.” She put one hand out, resting it on his arm. “I’m not miserable. I’m
not.
I’m just . . . I’m . . .” she took a deep breath, finally settling for, “It’s not easy.”

“Has he hurt you?”

“No!” She leapt to defend Michael before considering the question. “Not . . . no.” Not in the way he meant.

He did not believe her. He crossed his arms. “Do not protect him. Has he hurt you?”

“No.”

“What then?”

“I don’t see him much.”

“That is not a surprise,” he said, and she heard the sting in his words. The emotion that came with friendship lost. She had felt it when Michael had left. When he’d stopped writing. When he’d stopped caring. Tommy was quiet for a long time before he said, “Do you wish to see him more?”

It was a question without an easy answer. She wanted nothing to do with one-half of Michael, with the cold, distant man who had married her for land. But the other half—the man who held her and cared for her comfort and did delicious, wonderful things to her mind and body—she wouldn’t mind seeing him again.

Of course, she could not say that to Tommy. Could not explain that Michael was two men and that she was at once furious with and fascinated by him.

She could not say it because she barely wanted to admit it to herself.

“Pen?”

She sighed. “Marriage is a strange thing.”

“Indeed it is. Doubly so if one is married to Michael, I’m guessing. I knew he’d come for you. Knew he’d be cold and heartless and devise a way to marry you quickly—for Falconwell.” Belatedly, Penelope realized she should be protesting the words and telling Tommy their well-spun tale, but he was moving on, and it was too late. “I tried to marry you first . . . to spare you marriage to him.”

Tommy’s words from the morning of his proposal echoed in her mind. “That’s what you meant. You wanted to protect me from Michael.”

“He’s not the same as he was.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that?”

He tilted his head. “Would you have believed me?”

“Yes.”
No.

He smiled, smaller than usual. More serious. “Penny, if you’d known he was coming for you, you would have waited.” He paused. “It was always him.”

Penelope’s brow furrowed. It wasn’t true. Was it?

A vision flashed—a warm spring day, the three of them inside the old Norman tower that stood on Falconwell lands. As they had explored, a staircase had given way beneath Penelope, and she’d been trapped a level above Michael and Tommy. It hadn’t been far, a yard or two, but far enough for her to be afraid of jumping. She’d called for help, and Tommy had been the first to find her. He’d urged her to jump, promised to catch her. But she’d been frozen in fear.

And then Michael had come. Calm, fearless Michael, who had looked up into her eyes and given her strength.
Jump, Sixpence. I shall be your net.

She’d believed him.

She took a deep breath at the memory, at the reminder of her time with Michael, of the way he had always made her safe. She looked to Tommy. “He’s not that boy any longer.”

“No. He’s not. Langford made sure of that.” He paused, then said, “I wish I could have prevented it, Pen. I’m sorry.”

She shook her head. “No apologies. He’s cold and infuriating when he wishes to be, but he’s built so much for himself—proven his worth tenfold. The marriage may be challenging, but I imagine most of them are, don’t you?”

“Ours would not have been.”

“Ours would have been a challenge in a different way, Tommy. You know that.” She smiled. “Your poetry . . . it is abhorrent.”

“There is that.” His smile was there, then gone. He changed the conversation. “I’ve been thinking of India. They say there is a world of opportunity there.”

“You would leave England? Why?”

He drank deep at the words, placing his empty glass on a nearby table. “Your husband plans to ruin me.”

It took a moment for her to comprehend the words. “I’m sure that’s not true.”

“It is. He told me.”

Confusion flared. “When?”

“On the day of your wedding. I came to Needham House to find you, to convince you to marry me, only to find that I was too late and that you’d already left for London with him. I followed you. Went straight to his club.”

Michael hadn’t said anything. “And you saw him?”

“Long enough for him to explain that he had plans for revenge against my father. Against me. When he’s through, I shall have no choice but to leave Britain.”

The words did not surprise her. Of course Falconwell would not be enough for her immovable husband. Of course he would want vengeance against Langford. But Tommy? “He wouldn’t do that, Tommy. You have a past. A history. The three of us do.”

Tommy smiled a small wry smile. “Our past does not weigh so heavily as revenge, I’m afraid.”

She shook her head. “What could he possibly plan—”

“I am not . . .” He took a deep breath. “He knows . . .” Paused. Looked away. Tried again. “I am not Langford’s son.”

Her jaw dropped, along with her voice. “You cannot mean it.”

He laughed a small, self-deprecating laugh. “I certainly would not lie about it, Pen.”

He was right, of course. This was not the sort of thing one lied about. “You are not—”

“No.”

“Who—”

“I don’t know. I didn’t know I was a bastard until a few years ago, when my—when Langford told me the truth.”

She watched him carefully, registering the quiet sadness behind his eyes. “You never said anything.”

“It’s not something one says, really.” He paused. “You do what you can to keep it a secret . . . and hope no one discovers.”

But someone had discovered.

Penelope swallowed, turning her attention to a large oil painting on the wall—another landscape—this one in a wilderness too rugged and untouched to be anything but the North Country. She fixed her stare on a large boulder to one side of the artwork as understanding dawned. “It would ruin your father.”

“His only child, a bastard.”

Her gaze returned to his. “Don’t call yourself that.”

“Everyone else will, soon enough.”

Silence. And in it, the keen awareness that Tommy was right. That Michael’s plans included his ruin.
A means to an end.
He saw the moment she recognized the truth and took a step toward her. “Come with me, Penny. We can leave this place and this life and start fresh. India. The Americas. Greece. Spain. The Orient. Anywhere you choose.”

Her eyes went wide. He was serious. “I’m married, Tommy.”

One side of his mouth crooked up. “To
Michael.
You require escape as much as I do. Maybe more—at least my ruin at his hands will come swiftly.”

“Be that as it may, I’m married. And you . . .” She trailed off.

“I am nothing. Not when he’s through with me.”

She thought of her husband, to whom she had vowed fidelity and loyalty, who had fought for so long to rebuild his fortunes without his name. He knew the importance of a name. Of an identity. She couldn’t believe he’d do this.

She shook her head. “You’re wrong. He wouldn’t . . .” But even as she said the words, she knew they weren’t true.

He would do anything for his revenge.

Even ruin his friends.

Tommy’s jaw set, and she was suddenly nervous. She’d never seen him so serious. So driven. “I’m not wrong. He has proof. He’s willing to use it. He’s ruthless, Pen . . . no longer the friend we once knew.” He was close, and he took one of her hands in both of his. “He doesn’t deserve you. Come with me. Come with me, and we neither of us shall be lonely.”

She was quiet for a long moment before she said softly, “He is my husband.”

“He is using you.”

The words, however true, stung. She met his gaze. “Of course he is. Just as every other man in my life has done. My father, the Duke of Leighton, the other suitors . . . you.” When he opened his mouth to deny it, she shook her head and raised one finger. “Don’t, Tommy. Don’t try to make fools of us both. You might not be using me for land or money or reputation, but you are afraid of your life once the truth is out, and you think I will make a friendly companion—someone to keep the loneliness at bay.”