Lady Penelope's Christmas Charade, a Regency Romance (10 page)

He kissed her forehead and opened the carriage door, slamming it shut behind him.

Chapter Ten

Penelope dressed with as much grace as she could muster in such tight quarters. Her body ached
and she had the odd sensation of being both cold and
sticky with sweat and, well, other things. Nothing would be better than a hot bath and a bracing cup of tea. No, better make that a supremely stout, short
Scotch
. She struggled with the tapes on her maid's costume and managed to do them up herself. When she had changed into her costume before their visit to the Lily, Pierce had helped her. Now that he was gone, it was difficult not to feel lonely and bereft.

She gave herself a quick shake. No. There would be no heading down that road. She would never make herself a fool over a man again. She plopped down on the bench and pulled up her stockings, tightening her garters so they would stay up. The voices outside the carriage window were hushed and urgent, but she could make out parts of what they were saying if she strained enough. That was Bill's rarely-used bass tone, and Pierce's hushed and urgent voice questioning him. But there was a third man with them that did not sound familiar, and he was speaking more loudly than the others.

"Howland, if you've got anything on the Lily, you may as well hand it over."

Howland? To whom was the man speaking, and why was that name so familiar?

"Stubble it, Twist, or I'll…" Pierce's voice grew indistinct and the sound of footsteps retreating was all that could be heard. Why was this man Twist pestering Pierce about the Lily, especially at this hour of the night? And why did he call Pierce by the wrong surname?

She gathered her cloak and peered out of the window. No one in sight. She pushed open the carriage door and alit, but her legs were trembling so badly she could barely stand.

For heavens' sake, Penelope. Pull yourself together.

Pierce was gone, and the other men with him. Would he expect her to say goodnight? Or…was that all he wanted from her this evening. She needed a drink badly. Everything else would have to wait until she got her bearings. Wobbly legs or no.

She rushed around to the side gate and let herself in through the back door to the kitchen. The staff would all be asleep by now, and no one would be hanging about to watch her most undignified entrance. The house was dark but she knew her way around well enough—and the promising glint of firelight under the library door meant that her well-trained servants had thought only of her comfort before retiring.

With a grateful sigh, she let herself into the room and closed the door behind her, locking it for good measure. Then she poured herself a large whiskey and settled down before the fire, drinking it in one burning draught. She shuddered. That was the stuff.

She waited a few moments more. Perhaps Pierce would come to the door and ask about her. If so, she could run to the door and answer before the servants arose. But if Pierce intended to return, it was not going to be any time soon. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked past another fifteen minutes.

Very well, then. He wasn’t  coming. Well, it wasn't like she needed a goodnight kiss, or any other kind of reassurance after her carriage exploits, was it? Even so, a feeling of disgust crept over her. Just as she had suspected, he had used her for what she could offer, and then forgotten about her.

Penelope unlocked the library door and trudged up the stairs with leaden feet. No, there was no need to become a martyr. She was curious about what happened between normal men and women, and she had satisfied her curiosity. That was all. And just because it happened to be satiated with Pierce Howe's help didn't mean he owed her anything in particular. In fact, it was better this way. No attachments or commitments to hinder her liberation.

Her bedroom was dark save for the glow of the fire in the grate. If Cicely was here, she would have been waiting for her mistress in the dressing-room. Penelope would have poured the tale out to Cicely's sympathetic ear while Cicely gave her hair the required one hundred brushstrokes before bedtime. But now, her friend and champion was gone. And not only that, but she had vanished into some strange world where men paid for the favors of masked women. It was all very bizarre and unsettling. And though one of the servants had kindly laid out her night rail and left the fire burning to keep her room warm, some of the coziness had gone out of her life with Cicely's absence.

Penelope undid the tapes of her servant costume and let it puddle on the floor as she pulled on her night rail—a sensible flannel gown for chilly nights. She kicked her costume into a corner, watching it sail through the air with smug satisfaction. If only one could deliver such a well-placed kick to Pierce Howe's posterior.

She sank onto her dressing-table
bench and
grasped her silver hairbrush—a favorite, with boar's hair bristles—and began giving her hair its requisite hundred strokes. If no one else was here to care for her, at least she would look after her own needs.

She tilted her head and gazed sightlessly in the mirror, when a movement near her reflection caught her eye. She froze, her heart pounding. Surely it was just a shadow cast by the fire in the grate. Her mouth went dry and she couldn't swallow to save her life.

Nothing stirred. With slow and deliberate movements, she resumed brushing her hair, keeping a sharp gaze trained on the mirror.

There it was again. A movement in the shadows, near her wardrobe.

She stood up quickly, knocking the bench over in her haste. "Who's there?" she
cried
with
a tell-tale quiver in her voice.

No answer, only a slight scuffling sound. If only she had a candle or a lamp so she could see her enemy. She hurled her hairbrush in the direction of the movement and noise, connecting with her target with a satisfying clank.

"Ow! Oh, please,
my lady
, don't hurt me. I come to tell you about Cicely." A young man, dressed entirely in dark clothing, limped out of the shadows, rubbing his knee.

"Who the devil are you?" Penelope hefted her heavy silver hand mirror.

The young man shrank back, holding up his hands in surrender. "I'm Tom. I
courted
Cicely. Please, your ladyship, don't strike me again."

Penelope dropped her mirror onto the dressing-table. "Tom? Are you the stable lad who would come by my home and take Cicely for strolls?"

"I am." He stayed where he was, slightly hunched over in the shadow of her wardrobe.

"For heaven's sake, Tom, are you all right?" Penelope rushed over, grasping his leg and rubbing it. "Did I hurt you badly?"

With a loud thump,
Penelope's window swung open wildly. Pierce jumped into the room from the balcony and pushed Penelope aside. He rammed Tom against the wardrobe with enough force to knock the breath out of him in a whoosh.

"Who are you, damn your eyes! I demand to know." Pierce grasped Tom by the collar, holding him against the furniture so that the young lad's toes barely skimmed the floor.

"Pierce! Have done," Penelope cried, grasping Pierce's arm. "He's done no harm."

Pierce relaxed his hold enough so Tom could regain his footing. Then he turned to Penelope, his brows drawing together. "Who is this young pup to you, that he feels he can make himself at home in your boudoir at this hour?"

Tom opened his mouth to speak, but Pierce choked off his explanation with a slight movement of his hand.

"Pierce, let him go. This is ridiculous." Penelope stroked his forearm. "Tom is Cicely's beau, and he came here to talk to me about her disappearance. That is all."

Pierce let go of Tom's neck, taking a swift step backward. "My apologies, mate," he replied, patting Tom on the shoulder. "Just looking after her ladyship's welfare."

Tom coughed and spluttered, his face a purple hue even in the dim light cast by the fire. Penelope grasped his arm and dragged him over to a chair by the fire. "Sit," she commanded. She motioned Pierce over to the other chair, and then poured three stout drinks from the small tray she kept for restoratives in her boudoir.

As she splashed the brandy into the cut crystal glasses, she snuck a glance at Pierce. Why had he defended her so vociferously? And why had he demanded to know why a man was in her bedroom? His reaction was most interesting. And if poor Tom hadn't been so dreadfully shaken, she might even call Pierce's actions entertaining.

Pierce refused to look at her as she handed him the glass. Very well. His pride must be hurt. Or something else was going on inside of him at that moment. She permitted herself a small inward smile as she sipped slowly at the brandy. This evening might be improving after all.

***

"What did you come to tell
Lady Annand
?" Perhaps Pierce
could save face by asking all the questions. The rest of his actions were inexcusable. Inexplicable too. He had no right to leap into
Lady Annand
's bedroom like a musketeer, no right to maul an unsuspecting lad who had been hiding in the shadows. No right, that was, except he cared for the lady. More deeply than he previously thought, which was rather unsettling.

Tom swallowed nervously. "I come to tell her ladyship that Cicely would never leave her service on her own. Cicely was that fond of her ladyship. She loved working here, and had no reason to leave."

"Indeed?" Penelope arched one eyebrow delicately and her lovely lips curved in a half-smile.
I told you so
, the expression on her face read. With masterly self-control, he ignored her.

"If Cicely did not leave of her own accord, then why is she gone?" Pierce took another sip of his brandy. The liquor really was incomparable. Just like anything associated with Penelope.

"Well, she had this cousin come to London from the country, and she needed a position. Something that paid well. I don't know what was happening, but her family were bad off. So, Cicely was going to ask her ladyship for a position for her cousin—"

"She never did," Penelope interrupted. "Of course I would have given any of Cicely's friends or family members a place in my household. But Cicely never asked me."

"Hush, let him finish." Pierce waved a hand to still Penelope.

She sat back with a huff, nursing her brandy.

"No ma'am, she didn't ask you for a position. Her cousin needed money quickly, and found a place that was willing to help her find employment fast and make her rich—or so they said. Cicely didn't think it was a good idea, but her cousin was that set on it. And so Cicely said she would go with her to take a look at this place, to see if those folks were going to take advantage of her cousin, or if it was a real agency." The young man looked up at Pierce from under lowered brows. "I should have stopped them both. I haven't seen Cicely since."

"Was this cousin named Emma?" Penelope asked.

"I believe so. That sounds right," Tom replied. "I didn't pay much attention to Emma, ma'am. I only had eyes for Cicely."

"And was this agency called the Barclay Employment Agency?" Penelope was taking over the questioning again, just when he was beginning to assert his authority. Time for him to regain control. He was, after all, the only legitimate thief-taker in the room.

"I believe so." Tom frowned, a dark expression clouding his face. "I should have kept my ears open. Should have stopped them both. I didn't think that any harm would come to them."

Pierce gave him a hearty slap on the back. "Don't worry overmuch. I am sure we will find both ladies safe and sound. We've already been to visit the Barclay and have some ideas of what to do next. If you think of anything else, be sure to contact
Lady Annand
or myself. Only—don't hide in her ladyship's boudoir any more. Next time she might not be here to hold me back."

The lad swallowed and nodded. "And your name, sir?"

"Pierce Howe. I'm a professional thief-taker."

Tom nodded. "I promise if I think of anything else, I will contact
Lady Annand
or yourself, sir."

Penelope led the young man downstairs, leaving Pierce behind in her boudoir. When she returned, she would have questions, a lot of questions, for him. And he would have to explain all of his actions. But how could he tell Penelope that he left their rendezvous because one of the Bow Street Runners had threatened him with exposure? After all, Penelope had no clue as to his real identity. Would she be as enamored of Pierce Howland, the second son of the Earl of Chester, as she was of Pierce Howe, the rough and tumble thief-taker? He had his doubts.

He finished off the brandy and paced the floor. How to explain bursting into her bedroom and nearly killing a young stable lad who had taken refuge there? He couldn't even conceive of his actions. It all happened so quickly. He had been waiting on her balcony for ages, waiting to join her when she retired to her boudoir. And when he heard voices, and heard Penelope call out—why, he had sprung into action to save her. That was all. It was a mere reflex
. Certainly nothing to get in a-
swither about.

Penelope entered the room, closing the door behind her. Her hair, free of pins and caps, cascaded in curls around her shoulders. The silhouette of her body, all soft curves, was barely discernable beneath the flannel nightgown she wore. She was Danae or Venus, a young proud goddess whose fall from grace made her that much more desirable and delectable. He was already aroused, and backed toward her bed—a large, complex affair festooned with garlands of curtains and draperies.