Lady Penelope's Christmas Charade, a Regency Romance (21 page)

Pierce nodded. "I will let him know that you are doing well and should be home soon. Hopefully, that will set his mind at ease."

He rubbed his hands together briskly. Their work here was done. They had found Cicely, and Penelope had a plan to care for the girl. He had a plan to tell Tom. There was nothing more to do now, except go home to London. But that would mean an end to his partnership with Penelope. And he didn't want to leave her now—not with feelings of anger and distrust. He wanted to smooth things over, to apologize, to make her see reason. He could not accomplish that goal in the confines of this small cottage.

"Cicely, is there an inn here in Dunstable? We have been traveling a great deal and need rest. Surely there is someplace close by where we could partake of a meal and enjoy a good night's rest."

Cicely nodded. "Down the road a bit, you'll come to an inn—I believe it's called the Traveler's Rest. You could get a room there, and perhaps a bit of cold supper."

Penelope rose, her graceful figure outlined in the firelight. He swallowed. He would never, ever get used to how astonishingly lovely Penelope was. "I shall stay here with Cicely, until I am able to arrange matters, Mr. Howe. But I do appreciate all your help on this journey." She stalked towards him and clasped his hand firmly in hers. "If you would send round a bill for your services when you return to London, I would be most grateful."

His mouth dropped open, and he could not form any intelligent response. She was dismissing him. No chance at reconciliation, no hope for the future. It was over. He had lost her.

Chapter Twenty-One

Pierce let himself into his office for the first time in well over a fortnight. A fine layer of dust had settled over his desk, his papers, and the inkwell. He sneezed heartily. He'd have to get one of the servants to come down and give the place a thorough going-over. As it was, a few half-hearted licks of his handkerchief would have to do for the moment.

Before he left Dunstable that awful night, he had made sure to inquire about Tom—where he worked, and what his last name was. Tom Wright had worked for Lord Dawson for nearly three years now. No wonder the poor lad couldn't afford to marry where he chose. Dawson was notoriously tight with his money. The
on dit
was that even his long-suffering wife had to sell bits of needlepoint and painted china to buy her own finery. So Pierce could only imagine what kind of ridiculously small wages Tom was paid.

He went over to the window, and peered out of its grimy panes into the street below. 'Twas getting damned cold outside. The sky was a bright steely grey, and the keen air bit through the panes as though the glass merely strained the air, rather than keeping it out. He'd light a fire in a moment. First, he needed to find an urchin. Ah, there was a little tyke, his face ruddy and chapped from the morning chill. Pierce thrust up the sash.

"Here, boy! Want to earn a farthing?"

The lad looked up, his dirty blonde hair falling back from his dirt-streaked face. "Aye."

"Go round to Lord Dawson's stables and tell Tom Wright that Pierce Howe needs to see him. Bring him back here, and there's a farthing in it for you." Pierce held the coin up and gave it a toss.

The urchin grinned. "On me way." Then he took off running down the street.

Pierce built up a fire in the grate, warding off some of the bitter chill that had settled over his empty office. He scowled around the room, giving a few more flicks of his handkerchief to the chairs and his desk. If only he could be at home, cozy in his flat, a warmed brandy in his hands. Or even better, spending a leisurely morning in bed with Penelope, her long, tangled hair fanning out over his pillows…

He shut off his thoughts with a snap. That way madness laid, he was certain. He could not stop thinking of her, no matter how hard he tried. He gave up last night, in the comfort of his own bed, and tried to pleasure himself while thinking of her. But to no avail. All he could think of was how Penelope spied him pleasuring himself at the stag party, and how she had stood in the doorway, offering herself to him. He could no longer pretend Penelope was there. He wanted her—real, in the flesh.

But if she persisted in stubbornly avoiding him, he would go mad. He could take a mistress, but that was hardly the point. He didn't want to make love to just anyone. He wanted his darling Penelope. If he did take a mistress, why, he'd have to make sure she looked like Penelope, and dressed like her, and had her same sweet, lilting voice, and perfumed herself with a mixture of peaches and gardenia. 'Twould be the only way he could be satisfied if he was denied his beloved.

Footsteps pounded up the stairs outside his office. With a grin, he fished the farthing out of his pocket. The lad was certainly quick about it.

He opened the door and nodded to Tom, who was panting and sweating even in the morning chill. "Come in, Tom, I have news for you." He tossed the coin to the urchin, who caught it in mid-air. "My thanks to you, lad. I may have other jobs for you this week. You might want to check with me each morning."

The urchin tugged at his hat brim. "Mind if I stay out here in the hallway, sir?" He rubbed his thin hands together. "It's warmer here than outside."

"Be my guest." Pierce tossed the lad his greatcoat. "Wrap up in this. Once the fire really gets going in my office, the hallway will get much warmer." Then he ducked back inside and faced Tom, who was nervously pacing the rug.

He closed the door behind him, and motioned for Tom to sit down.

"I'd rather stand, sir." Tom's voice quavered and he cleared his throat. "Did—did you find Cicely?"

Pierce sat behind his desk. "We did. She is doing well."

"Where is she? Why did she leave so quickly, without a word to anyone?" The color was returning to Tom's cheeks. Pierce opened his bottom desk drawer open and removed a small bottle of brandy and two glasses.

"You need a drink," he replied, pouring out two stout ones. Then he slid one glass across the desk at Tom. "Drink it slowly. It'll put the strength back in you."

Tom sank into a chair and accepted the glass with a grateful smile. "Tell me, sir, what happened to my Cicely?"

"Nothing happened to her. She's just visiting a sick aunt, that's all. She's in Dunstable." He had lied to clients before, but this was dashed difficult. If he had been in the lad's shoes, he'd want to know the truth.

"Visiting a sick aunt? But…why wouldn't she tell anyone?" Tom sat back, a puzzled frown creasing his brow. "I mean, surely she would at least tell her ladyship. She respects
Lady Annand
so much—she would never leave without telling her, unless it was a dire circumstance."

If he said much more of anything, he might give the secret away. So he merely shrugged. "I suppose she didn't think of it quite in that way."

"Cicely would only think of it in that way," Tom persisted. "Did you actually see her? Did she look all right? Perhaps she is ill."

Pierce focused on his brandy glass. "I saw her only briefly. Her ladyship is with her now. And everything is quite fine. So you see, there was no reason to be worried."

Tom shook his head. "Something's not right. Either you're keeping something from me, or she is. Someone ain't telling the truth."

Pierce swallowed another mouthful of brandy. "I assure you, that's all I know."

"Why would her ladyship stay with her, if she's just visiting a sick aunt? Is
Lady Annand
still in Dunstable?"

"Yes." Damn if the lad weren't persistent. He'd have to cut this interview short. "Well, now that you know that your Cicely is well, I'll bid you good day. I have much to catch up on today…" Pierce rose.

Tom didn't take the bait. "You aren't being truthful with me. What's wrong with Cicely? I want to know why she left in such a rush, and why
Lady Annand
is staying with her." As he spoke, a gathering understanding lit Tom's face. Pierce eyed him frankly. If the lad guessed the truth, he would not deny it.

"She—she's not with child, is she?"

Pierce nodded slowly.

"Why didn't she tell me?" Tom rubbed a tired hand over his brow. "I would have married her right away. I would've wed her months ago, only I can't support a wife..and a child. I can't support them now." He buried his face in his hands.

"Drink the brandy," Pierce barked. It would do no good for either of them if Tom went to pieces. "That is precisely why she didn't tell you the truth, and why she begged me not to tell you. She doesn't want to make life difficult for you. But if you love her, then you'll go to her in Dunstable and make things right. She's alone and she's scared, which is why
Lady Annand
stayed with her."

Tom nodded, sipping slowly at the brandy. "But, what shall I do? I make barely enough to exist on."

"Listen. She tried to rid herself of the babe by going to see her Aunt Bea—an old woman who is, I believe, skilled at handling these kinds of female complaints. But that did not work. So now she is facing the decision of what to do with the child—your child, her child. She thinks she cannot keep it. But I think you should be a part of that decision."

"I do want to be part of that decision," Tom spluttered, thumping the brandy glass back onto the table. "But what can I offer her? I have nothing. I've worked for Dawson for years and never received a penny more than I make. I can't raise a child up decent on what I earn. I can't keep a wife."

"Come and work for me then." The thought had been poking the back of his mind since he had found Cicely and discovered the truth. "I am ever in need of good help. I can always use an experienced hand in my stables, and I can offer you twice what you're making with Dawson."

Tom's eyes widened. "Aye, sir. I would be happy to accept the position."

"Very good." Pierce extended his hand and Tom shook it. The lad's hands were trembling and perspiring. "Now, here's what you need to do. You need to hand in your notice to Dawson this morning, then come 'round to my place in the afternoon. I've got a new stallion, he's a feisty bugger, in need of a good hard run. Take him out to Dunstable. You'll be doing me a favor. And you can see your Cicely in the meantime."

Tom rose on unsteady legs, manfully swallowing a few times before he spoke. "Thank you, sir. I-I don't know what to say."

"Think nothing of it." Pierce replied briskly. "If it were my child, I would want to know about it."

Tom ducked his head. "Can I do anything for you in return?"

"No." Then he paused. Perhaps he could ask about Penelope. Just a report about her well-being—that would be all. "Well, if
Lady Annand
is still there, you could make certain that she is well."

Tom glanced up sharply, a knowing glint in his tired eyes. "Of course, Mr. Howe. I would be only too happy to check in on
Lady Annand
for you."

"Very good." Pierce hated that his emotions must be on display for everyone to see. He walked to the door and jerked it open. "Hand in your notice, then, and be off to Dunstable. That's all the time I have for you today. I wasted a lot of good working time scouring the countryside for your beloved."

Tom's wan face broke into a wide grin. "Of course, Mr. Howe. I won't disappoint you. Good day, sir."

As he left, Pierce spotted the street urchin still huddled in his greatcoat. "Come in here by the fire," he ordered. "You'll catch your death in this weather."

Funny, he had never particularly cared for anyone since his paramour had died in the alley, her throat slit by a footpad. He had refused to create bonds with anyone. Until Penelope spun him in the golden web of her hair, he thought love was dead. And since he had known Penelope, some of her warmth and goodwill had thawed his heart. He was a better man for knowing her.

And now, if there were only some way he could win her back.

***

"There now, isn't this nice?" Penelope waved her hand around the fresh, clean little cottage she had managed to obtain for Cicely. "Much better than Aunt Bea's, and all your own, too."

Cicely nodded, her eyes wide. "It's beautiful, my lady. But it's too nice. I could make do with a little lean-to of my own. No need to have a cottage with three rooms."

"Nonsense!" Penelope fluffed the pillows and the bolster with a sure hand. "This will be just the thing for you. When your nurse comes, she will have her own room, and you will all be much more comfortable."

Though she made her voice sound cheery, Penelope was exhausted and filled with dread. It had been most difficult to secure a cottage for Cicely in the tight-knit little village. Everyone knew she was pregnant and everyone knew that the father was, at best, in the dark about her state. And so it had taken all of Penelope's charm, and a good deal of Penelope's money, to make sure that Cicely was well cared for once she returned to London. Though she would visit often, apprehension tightened Penelope's throat whenever she thought about leaving.

And then, there was the little issue of her monthly cycle. It was late. She had never been late, not in her whole life. Like clockwork it was, and she realized with dawning horror that she could well be carrying Pierce Howe's child. After all, she had taken none of the precautions that Jane and Elizabeth had gossiped about when they came to tea. It simply had not crossed her mind that she could become pregnant. Not after years of a loveless
marriage blanc
.

So it was a trifle unnerving, to say the least, to be helping one's servant with her impending pregnancy, when one might be pregnant herself.

The way he had acted when Cicely had told them all the truth—it was apparent that if she were in fact with child that Pierce would demand to know. He was not the kind of man to leave a woman alone and frightened. Her mind flashed back to the stag party, and how he had brought her breakfast on a tray after their night of lovemaking. And she thought he had abandoned her—when all along he had gone to see to her comfort.

Thoughts like that made her heart melt a bit and she pictured Pierce with his strong shoulders and daring blue eyes, as he might appear if she went to him and told him of her suspicions. But then she recalled how he had lied about his family, about his name, about everything—and her heart frosted over once more.

She would merely have to give things more time. If she were truly pregnant, she would know in a week or two.

Penelope went to the windows and opened the curtains to allow the grey light of late afternoon to spill into the cottage. As she peered out across the fields, she spotted a rider—a rider going faster than lightning on a horse as fine as any she had seen. Her heart leapt into her throat. Was it Pierce?

As the horse and rider neared the cottage, her pulse resumed its normal beat. No, the rider was about a head shorter than Pierce, and lighter too. He must have a message for them, though, as he came directly towards the cottage.