Lady Penelope's Christmas Charade, a Regency Romance (22 page)

"A rider approaches, Cicely," she called. "I will go and meet him. Perhaps he has a message for me."

She wrapped her shawl about her shoulders and head, and darted out onto the yard. The rider drew up short, scattering dirt clods every which way. He leapt off his mount, which was heaving and sweating from the exertion.

Penelope gasped. His face was awfully familiar. "You're not Tom, are you?" She vaguely remembered him—but that was a few weeks ago, and her room had mostly been dark.

"I been riding for two days," he panted. "I hear my Cicely is here."

The door opened behind her, and Cicely stepped onto the front stoop. "Tom?"

"Cicely, sweetheart," he gasped, and gathered her in his arms. Penelope turned away. The sweetness of the embrace brooked no witnesses. She gathered the horse's reins and tied him to the hitching post in the yard.

"Pierce Howe told me all about what had happened," Tom called out. "And I've come to make things right. Mr. Howe gave me a position in his household and promised to pay me twice what I make with Dawson."

Penelope spun around. "He did?" The rogue—after he had promised Cicely not to reveal the truth—

"He lied at first, my lady," Tom continued hastily. Obviously some of her consternation showed on her face. "But it didn't make no sense. And so when I guessed the truth, he didn't deny it." Tom turned to Cicely, covering her face in kisses. "And we'll be married by special license," he added.

Cicely kissed Tom back, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Oh, Tom," she breathed. "Darling Tommy."

Penelope turned away once more. It was time for her to go. Back to London, back to her life. Cicely had been found, and her happily-ever-after was now assured.

So that only left one question. What about her own happy ending? She ran a hand nervously over her belly. The quicker she was back home, the better.

Chapter Twenty-Two

"So, how does one know if one is with child?" Penelope asked, her voice quivering slightly. She forced her hand to stay still as she poured another round of tea for Elizabeth and Jane. For she was confined to drinking tea, at least until she knew for sure whether or not she was carrying Pierce's baby. And Jane and Elizabeth were eschewing the harder stuff out of solidarity. Funny, just when one needed a good stout drink, one couldn't have it.

"Well, darling, I don't know. I would imagine you would be quite late with your monthly cycle," Elizabeth murmured gently, her eyebrows slightly raised. "I always make my gentlemen friends wear French letters, you know. I've never been in this situation myself before."

"How late are you?" Jane blew at her steaming cup, trying to cool the tea before she sipped.

"About two weeks." Penelope eyes them both uneasily. Her stomach was in knots, but it was better to talk about the matter than try to ignore it.

"It could be too soon to tell," Jane replied. "Do you have any other symptoms? Are you sick in the morning? Do you feel dizzy?"

"No. If it weren't for my monthly being late, I would feel fine." Penelope took another nervous swallow of tea. She didn't feel sick in the mornings, but the nervous agitation was playing havoc with her digestion.

"Then I would give it another week. Your monthly may just be delayed, that's all." Jane took a careful sip of her tea. "You've been riding all over the country,
attending the most notorious Christmas stag party in all England,
and chasing down your maid. All the excitement you've endured could well be enough to make you late."

"I suppose." Penelope plucked at the fringe of her shawl. She couldn't give voice to her true feelings, but deep down inside, a wriggle of hope and excitement was dawning. What if she was carrying Pierce's child? A sweet little baby girl with blonde ringlets and blue eyes? Or a stout little man with his father's strong chin? Her mind drifted towards how the future could be, if Pierce married her. She missed his barbed comments, his solid presence, his heavy warmth beside her at night—

"You're still pining after him, aren't you?" Elizabeth's lilting voice broke through her daydream.

"Certainly not," she lied smoothly. "Pierce Howe is a liar and a high-handed, authoritarian mule. I am so pleased to be done with him for good."

"Well," Jane assumed her practical, elder-sister expression and continued, "He had to lie. From what I was able to find out about his family, his father was the devil incarnate. Murdered his mother in cold blood. Ended up in the Old Bailey. Hung himself in his cell. Who wouldn't want to lie about a past like that? Why not reinvent yourself and start afresh? If anything, I think it shows strength of character that Pierce was able to create a new life as he did."

"I agree," Elizabeth pronounced. "And besides which, if you are done with him, that makes him fair game. I am rather partial to blonds, myself."

Penelope's fingers tightened around the fringe of her shawl and she forced herself to remain calm. "Fair game? I don't understand."

"Well, if you find his company so distasteful, you probably won't ever see him again." Penelope's voice held a faintly teasing ring. "Find a new lover, though, that is my best advice. There's a stable lad who works for me at my father's estate—very tall, blond, handsome—and young. Many's the time I've given him a second glance. Would you like to retire to the estate for a few weeks, Penelope?"

Penelope glowered at Elizabeth, keeping her chin tilted at a haughty angle. "Are you insinuating that I should give you Pierce, and then chase off after one of your stable lads? Good heavens, Elizabeth, you are as bad as the madam of the Barclay Agency."

"Don't get your feathers ruffled," Elizabeth purred, her eyes flashing with mirth. "If you really hate Pierce as much as you say you do, then you won't mind when someone else takes up with him. Whether the lady in question is myself, or anyone else, it shouldn't matter. And besides, you really do need to find another lover, darling. Just think—once you've been with a man, it's difficult indeed to go for a long time without one."

"I'll thank you to stop running on in that disgusting manner," Penelope snapped. "I don't care to hear anymore about the matter."

"Bet, do stop teasing Penelope. She's all a-swither since she thinks she might be pregnant." Jane intervened in her calm and practical manner. "Of course none of us will chase after Pierce. It's simply not done among friends. But," she turned to Penelope with one eyebrow arched, "you really should take another lover. It is the best way to get over Pierce."

"Get over Pierce?" Really, this had gone far enough. Here she had invited her two closest friends for tea and gossip, but the afternoon was spinning out of control. Besides, hang it all, she didn't want just any man. She only wanted Pierce Howe touching her. She only wanted to touch Pierce too—not some random stable hand. "I don't need to get over Pierce." Tears pricked at her eyes, and she took a long, shaky breath to regain control. "To get over someone, you need to care about them deeply. You need to—"

"Love them?" Jane supplied in a helpful tone. "And you don't love Pierce, do you?"

The flood would not be held back any longer. Penelope dissolved into tears. She was angry at herself for being so weak, embarrassed that she was crying in front of her friends. But mostly, she was furious that she fell in love with a man—yet again—who had lied to her. And now she could very well be carrying that man's child.

"There, there." Elizabeth patted her back with a soothing hand. "I was only joking with you, darling."

Jane pressed a fresh handkerchief into Penelope's fist. "You aren't going to get over Pierce. Face facts, Penelope. You're in love with him."

"I shouldn't love him!" Penelope swiped at her eyes with the linen square. "You would think I would have learned my lesson with Peter. All men are liars. All men will try to get away with anything they can. Oh, what a fool I am."

"You are a fool if you are going to let your relationship with Peter dictate your choice of men for the rest of your life," Jane stated in a flat, even tone. "Your marriage to him was unnatural, yes. But recall, Peter had to keep his true self a secret. Men get killed over that kind of preference, you know."

"Yes, and what Jane said earlier is true. Pierce didn't keep his true name from you a secret as a way to gain control over you," Elizabeth murmured. "He kept his name a secret from everyone so he could carry on a life free of scandal. Have a little mercy on the poor man, Penelope. And mercy on yourself, while you are at it. Pierce sounds like a good man. He's helped you, protected you, and cared for you on your journey. There's no shame in loving him."

Penelope allowed the floodgates to remain open as Jane and Elizabeth took turns soothing her with kind, uplifting words, and gentle pats on the back. She cried until she had no more tears. The release was draining, but so very welcome. She had been holding back for weeks now, and with her possible pregnancy, had lived in a state of agitation and fear for what seemed like an eternity.

Damn it to hell. She did love Pierce Howe. Lord Howland. Whatever his name was. And if she locked herself back in her tower and protected herself with that same impenetrable layer of ice she had covered herself in since Peter's death, she would be denying them both happiness.

Her sobs eased to the occasional hiccup. She sat up, trying to find a dry corner on the handkerchief. Elizabeth pulled a fresh linen square out of her bosom, and pressed it into Penelope's hand.

"I do love him." Penelope sniffled. "So what do I do about it now? Go and fling myself at his head? He's bound to be angry at me. And what about the possible pregnancy? Should I tell him about that too?"

"Well, first you must wait until your eyes and nose return to their natural shades. You're as red as a cherry right now, my dear." Elizabeth sat back, laughter lighting her wide blue eyes. "And then, if I were you, I would put on my prettiest dress, douse myself in a cloud of French perfume, and take myself down to that shabby little flat he calls an office."

Jane smiled and nodded. "And when you arrive, you'll know what to do. Don't try to plan it in advance. Trust me, as a writer I know. The best dialogue is spontaneous."

Penelope rose from the settee and walked over to her dressing-table. It was true—her reflection in the mirror was a disaster. Her emerald green eyes were reddened, and her nose was swollen. The paths of her tears left streaks down her cheeks. She could never go and try to win Pierce back looking like such a fright. She poured fresh water from the pitcher into the basin and scrubbed her face with her favorite gardenia-scented soap. Thus refreshed, she turned back to her friends.

"My dear fellow Liberated Ladies, I cannot thank you enough. Whether I am carrying Pierce's child or not, I shall try to win him back. You've helped me break through the ice at last. I won't be imprisoned by my marriage to Peter any longer." She joined her friends around the tea table once more, and held her cup high. "To the Liberated Ladies. Long may we reign."

They touched their teacups together with a satisfying clink.

***

The urchin had proven himself, over the following few days since Pierce found him, to be very helpful. He ran errands, cared for the horses, and even trailed a few clients. Pierce's housekeeper sent him warm bowls of soup and fresh loaves of bread, and the darting look in his eyes had begun to abate since he had food in his belly. Bill had adopted him as his own son. He fit in like a piece of a puzzle.  But when Pierce asked him his name, the young lad scowled. "I can't remember. Been hungry too long." So Pierce christened him Jim, and allowed him to sleep in the stable at home. And every day, Jim followed him to the office, ready to take on the day's challenges.

Things were turning out well. So well, in fact, that he might ignore the gaping hole in his heart left behind by Penelope. He couldn't stop dreaming of her. Would he ever get a full night's rest again? Her unique scent, her lovely hair, her eyelids drifting closed over emerald eyes as they made love—the memories of her were enough to drive him mad. He buried himself in his work, to no avail. He could hear her lilting voice chiming in with sarcastic comments as he questioned his informants.

He would have to do something to cure himself of this madness, and soon.

He shuffled a few sheets of foolscap around on his desk. Maybe he could go around to Penelope's house and demand payment for his services. Not that he intended to collect anything. But—he could go there just to see her once more. Surely there would be no harm in that.

There was a sharp rap on the door. He stood. "Enter," he barked. Surely it wasn't Penelope. But his heart lurched just the same. Perhaps she had come to personally deliver his fee…

The door opened, and Jonathan Twist's craggy face peered around the edge of the frame. "Don't suppose I am welcome here," he muttered, a glint in his eyes.

"You bloody well aren't welcome here." Pierce brought his palm down on his desk. "Give me one good reason not to plant you a facer right now, you damned rogue. You told
Lady Annand
the truth about me even after I gave you what I wanted. What happened to honor among thief-takers?"

"I didn't tell her after I go the information from you." Twist let himself in and closed the door behind him. "I told her before I spoke to you."

Rage seized hold of his gut with such speed that he was, for a moment, rather dizzy. "You lying bastard."

"You shouldn't keep secrets from your lady friends, mate," Twist replied with a nonchalant air. "Always comes back to bite you on the bum. If you had already told her the truth, I could hold nothing over you. Do you follow?"

"Get out now," Pierce hissed through clenched teeth. "I'll give you a ten
-
second
lead
since you're of an advanced age. Just to be sporting."

"Wait, now. Just a moment, you young pup. I've come to extend the olive branch, so to speak." Twist settled down in one of the chairs, extending his booted feet to the hearth. "I turned your information over to the Runners, and you're off the hook. But a word to the wise. Lord Adam Cavendish is plenty hot about being found out. He's looking for the bastard who turned him in." Twist glanced up at Pierce. "So, I am headed out of Town with Ruth for a few weeks. Just until things cool down a bit. I'd advise you to do the same."

Pierce shook his head. "Nice try, Twist. Trying to put me out of business, are you?"

"Not at all, not at all. Just trying to keep you from getting your neck stretched. But if you're going to play dumb about it, there's nothing I can do." Twist stood, and shouldered his way past Pierce to the door. "Cavendish is going to figure it out. He's not going to rest until he finds out which guest at that stag party was the informer. And if I were you, I'd take that toffy sweetheart of yours and find my way to a nice little hunting cabin in the countryside until this all blows over." He touched the brim of his hat. "See you about, Howland."

He left, and took all of Pierce's impotent rage with him. What the old man said was right. Had he been honest with Penelope from the start, Twist wouldn't have had any ammunition to use against him.

But surely Cavendish wouldn't suspect him. After all, Twist was the one who turned the information over to the Runners. As far as Cavendish knew, he was just a guest with a particular penchant for redheads. And besides which, Cavendish had been pretty foxed that night. He probably didn't even remember their conversation. Even so—Pierce had tired of taking risks. Time to heed Twist's warning. If Cavendish could find Pierce or Twist, he might be able to track down Penelope too.