Lady Penelope's Christmas Charade, a Regency Romance (2 page)

"It's true." Jane smiled. "We're
not beholden to
anyone. We can do what we please, when w
e please. Even the dowagers of s
ociety steer clear of us."

"So, we are, in a way, the merry widows of Windsor." Eliz
abeth concluded with a chuckle, folding her be-ringed hands onto her silken lap.
"But only you, Penny, can lay official claim to the title of widow. Jane and I have it more as a ceremonial title."

"We should call ourselves the Liberated Ladies." Jane, ever the clever novelist, suggested.

Penelope grinned and clapped her hands. "
C'est tout!
So, why not use our wealth and power for the betterment of others? We can start by finding Cicely. And then—who knows what other young women may need our help or protection?" She rose and made her way to the little mahogany table, the one that always held her favorite
Scotch
in a cut-glass decanter. Pouring three stout glasses, she handed them to her friends. "Hang Pierce Howe and his
domineering ways!
We shall find Cicely ourselves."

"And when we find her," Jane said, spluttering a little from the burn of the
liquor
, "you can rub his face in it."

"Ah, well, I shall take it easy on his delicate vanity." She didn't really want to taunt the thief-taker. Only to challenge him. But the whisky made her talk bigger than she meant to—a surefire downside to imbibing. "To the Liberated Ladies' Club. Long may we reign."

The three friends touched their glasses together with a satisfying
clink
.

Chapter Two

Pierce rubbed the stubble of his beard with a weary hand. He was ready to leave his office and head for his flat for the evening, but he was still waiting on one informant. It was possible that Silent Sam knew something about the disappearance of
Lady Annand
's maid. After all, he saw and reported on almost everything that happened in the back streets of London. A missing servant girl on the run might have crossed her path—or at least gossip about her might have made her way to Sam. Pierce toyed with the bag of coins on his desk. Sam was a solid informant, and worth waiting for even when he was usually tardy.

The door to his office opened, but it wasn't Sam's toothless, grinning face peering around the frame. Instead, Jonathan Twist entered the room. The old reprobate was a thief-taker too—had been doing it for many decades longer than Pierce, in fact—and they shared a friendly rivalry.

"Twist? What ho, man. Come in and have a drink." Pierce extended his hand cordially.

"Don't mind if I do." Twist sank heavily into one of the leather chairs that flanked Pierce's desk. "You're here mighty late. What are you up to?"

Pierce poured two brandies with a heavy hand. "Waiting on Silent Sam. I thought he might hav
e information about a servant of hers
who went missing." He held out one short glass, which Twist accepted with a gleam in his eye.

"Oh, really? Anything you care to share?"

"Not at all, you old bastard. I am almost certain it's another lovelorn runaway maid." He took a long draught of the burning liquid and grimaced. "To what do I owe the dubious pleasure of your company?"

"Ah, well." Twist took a sip of his drink, deliberately drawing out the suspense with a smile. "I've had a message from Dick Ford. He wants me to join the Bow Street Runners."

"You?" Pierce spluttered, the brandy stinging his nose and throat. He coughed several times, and a good whack from Twist across his back enabled him to breathe once more. "Why—you wouldn't be caught dead. Would you?"

"I'm thinking of it." Twist
resumed his seat
. "He made me a mighty good offer. Wanted me to test you out and see if you'd think of it too. They want our contacts. Blokes like you and me—we've got all the informants and back-alley dealers. The Runners have all the official stature and authority. Blend the two together—"

"And all hell might break loose." Pierce swirled the brandy around in his glass. "You know me, Twist. I like being able to pick and choose my cases, and I prefer not to have to answer to anyone."

"I agree. I'm the same way. But hark ye this…" He leaned forward in his chair, his grizzled eyebrows drawing together. "Ford wants to do away with the Gilded Lily. Seems the madam who runs it has gotten a little too free with kidnapping very young girls to work for her. She and her pimp are in a lot of trouble. And that's where we come in. We know the best ways to break through and get the information we need about the Lily. We know all the thugs and informants who can help shut the place down."

"True, we do. But why go in with the Runners? Seems like a step backwards to me."

"Money, my friend. The government is kicking in a lot of blunt to make it worth everyone's while. You need never worry again if you join the Runners and shut down London's most notorious brothel."

"I don't worry now." Pierce reminded him with a lifted eyebrow.

"Oh well, la-di-da." The old man slapped his knee. "No
t all of us are nobility, your l
ordship."

"Stubble it," Pierce hissed through clenched teeth. If Silent Sam knew he was wealthy, his price would triple. "I go to great lengths to keep my identity secret."

"Think of it as a feather in your cap, then. Or a community service. Either way, you'd be ridding London of an awful blight, and it makes a man proud to know that he's got what everyone wants. Connections. They're more powerful than money, in some ways."

"Exactly so." Pierce rose, and paced the floor. "Why give up the kind of valuable information it took years to establish? When I started, I had nothing but a keen mind. I didn't use my title to get here. So why give it all away?"

"Well, I don't know why you would, if you put it just so. But I am going to do it. Might as well. I'm not getting any younger and the thief-taker lifestyle begins to pall when you get old. I get tired up getting jumped in alley, beaten to a bloody pulp. I'm going to turn respectable, and I'll finally marry Ruth and make a real home. If you change your mind, tell Dick Ford. He's waiting to hear from you, by the end of the week." With that, the old man heaved himself out of the chair and turned toward the door. "Best of luck to you, Pierce. You're a stubborn young mule, but a good thief-taker."

Left alone, waiting for Sam, Pierce paced the floor and considered Twist's offer. If he said yes, then he would be established as a keeper and protector of Society. But if he stayed on his own, he could do as he liked when he liked. He preferred to thumb his nose at the pretensions of polite Society. Where exactly this dubious impulse came from, he didn't know. But it was deuced fun, and he had no need of respectability or money at the moment.

No, better to refuse the offer. 'Twas not enticing enough to tempt him.

The only thing that had tempted him, in fact, was the pretty young widow who'd engaged his services. It was far more amusing to stick with her, at least for the time being. The Ice Goddess, she was called in Society. Rumor had it that her marriage to
Viscount
Annand
wasn't everything it should be. Was there any fire beneath that ice? 'Twould be quite interesting to find out for himself.

***

Penelope eyed her housekeeper uneasily across the kitchen table. "So let us recapitulate. Cicely was seeing a young man?"

Mrs. Welch nodded, her forehead creasing with worry. "Yes, as far as Cook and I knew. She met with this young man every Tuesday and Thursday night. They would go for a walk together. He always brought her back on time, and always seemed so polite and well-spoken. We thought no ill of him,
Lady Annand
.
Besides which, Cicely occupied her own place in the household. It wasn't really our place to say anything
."

Blast. There was a young man involved. Well, perhaps that cocky thief-taker knew only one part of the story. She smiled in reassurance to Mrs. Welch. "So, did she see him on Thursday--the night she disappeared?"

"Yes, I believe she did. It was raining, so they sat together in the kitchen for a bit. I left them alone."

"Did no one chaperone them?" She had been chaperoned for ages, right up until the moment she married. It was how she knew so little of Peter's real—ahem—character.

"Why would anyone do that?" Mrs. Welch stared at her employer, her eyes
widening. "She's a servant
, after all. Hardly a society miss."

The blood rushed to Penelope's forehead. She wished the floor would open up and swallow her for such a naïve gaffe. She had so little experience of the real world, and yet covered herself with such a thick cloak of sophistication, that it humbled her whenever her weakness was exposed. "Yes, yes, of course," she muttered, waving her hands. "My apologies, I forgot about—stations, and so forth."

"Of course, your ladyship." The housekeeper had turned a bright shade of poppy, too. Now that she had unnerved her housekeeper, so what was there left to do?

Penelope glanced at the kitchen clock. Soon the servants would be returning to their evening duties: stoking the fires, readying
meals
,
closing the curtains, and the myriad of trifling duties that came with running a big house
. She had already questioned most of the people on her staff, but Cook would have to wait until tomorrow. She rose. "Thank you, Mrs. Welch. Tell Cook I should like to speak to her tomorrow, after breakfast and before luncheon. I am trying so desperately to find Cicely that I want to speak to anyone who knew of her whereabouts or her life."

"Certainly, your ladyship." Mrs. Welch bobbed a curtsy as Penelope quit the kitchen.

Really, she had no idea that Cicely had a young man. Penelope rubbed her temples. Cicely knew everything about Penelope's life—right down to the truth about Peter's own, well, proclivities—that Penelope simply assumed they were mutual confidantes. Now she was finding out how very little she knew about the girl who had been her caretaker for so long. It was a humbling and somewhat troubling revelation.

She mounted the stairs slowly. Her bedroom beckoned. She was weary and developing a headache. A handkerchief soaked in perfume and a rest in her downy bed would be just the thing. She flung open the door to her room, savoring the peace that enveloped her like an embrace whenever she walked into the room. Her favorite books, her most prized heirlooms, masses of yellow roses, and a bed piled high with pillows and a satin counterpane—how luxurious and yet simple her boudoir was. With shaking hands, she wrung a handkerchief with rose water and lay on the bed, draping the cloth across her forehead.

She closed her eyes, breathing deeply of the dusky scent. As she drifted, free-falling through her own consciousness, Pierce Howe's handsome, angular face
flickered
across her mind. What lovely hair he had. What would it be like to run one's fingers through it? Or to trace that rigid jawline? She sat up, pulling herself back to reality.

Really, Penelope,
she scolded herself.
It's like you've never seen a handsome man before.
She was in danger of becoming an archetype, a love-starved widow ready to fling herself at an eligible
man's head. Or--eligibility be hanged--j
ust any man would do, the handsomer the better. Perhaps some romance could be welcomed into her life. After all, Peter had been dead for two years. Surely she could move on. And of course, their relationship wasn't exactly orthodox when he was alive.

Her friends had taken lovers before. Jane had enjoyed an entirely satisfactory fling with a poet some
month
s ago, and Elizabeth prided herself on keeping a line of beaus on a string. Only Penelope had risen above matters of the heart—or put more
bluntly—matters of the bedroom
, thus earning her soubriquet of
The Ice Goddess. Despite
how Peter had
deceive
d
her, she loved him and appreciated all he
did
to make things right. Because of his generosity, she was now entirely free to do as she pleased. Free as he himself had never been.

She reclined against the pillows again. Hang romance, it would bring her nothing but trouble. By steering clear of matters of the heart, she had done rather well for herself. Rather than satisfy her baser instincts, she should work on improving herself in other ways. Perhaps she could prove herself as more than a love-starved widow and a thoughtless, wealthy pillar of society by finding Cicely. It was worth a try, after all. And Jane and Elizabeth promised to help. Maybe if she went to Mr. Howe and showed him how much she had done, questioning the staff, he would be more assured that she was serious about the case.

After all,
that dratted man
didn't even get a description of Cicely before bounding out of her home last night.

That tore it.

Penelope bolted out of bed, flinging the handkerchief onto the floor. With two short steps, she rang the bell-pull with all her might. Then she hurled open her wardrobe, rooting through it for the perfect gown. Heavens, where was it? And why was everyone so slow around the house today? She scurried over to the bell-pull and rang again.

Grace, one of the downstairs maids who had been recruited to fill in for Cicely, popped her head round the door. "Yes, your ladyship?"

"Help me change into my gray dress. I am going to see Mr. Howe. And order my carriage. Have it brought round to the front as soon as possible."

"Yes, ma'am." Grace pilfered
through the wardrobe, and found
the fashionable but severely tailored
dress
Penelope sought. It was just the thing to show Pierce Howe that she was serious. A woman to be reckoned with. All business. No one to be trifled with or laughed at.

Certainly not a lovelorn, affection-starved widow.