Lady Penelope's Christmas Charade, a Regency Romance (24 page)

Cavendish paled in the gathering dusk. "Those were accidents. If you had seen the gels, you'd be hard-pressed to know they were underage. They looked quite ripe, which is why we used them."

Pierce fought the bile flooding his mouth. He would never get over his distaste for Cavendish and what he'd done. He shook his head. "So, what are your plans now, Cavendish? If Twist and I both disappear, then the Runners will land on you like a hammer on a nail. So why bother us? Let us go, and face your punishment like a man."

Cavendish flinched. "I'm going to hold you here for a ransom. If the Runners want you, they'll pay handsomely to get you back."

"You've put a lot of faith in that, then?" Twist sneered. "The Runners don't have any money. You might as well kill us now."

"Stop telling me what to do!" Cavendish turned a deep shade of purple. "You'll stay here until I can figure out how to make the Runners drop the charges and keep the scandal out of the papers."

"Scandal? Imagine how Society will turn on you once it becomes known that you likely did away with a pair of thief-takers." Pierce added with a laugh.

"You don't know the society I run about with," Cavendish hissed. "That could well be a feather in my cap. Good evening, gentlemen. See you in the morning." He bowed, and quit the shed, locking it behind him.

Pierce grimaced. "And that, my good Twist, is what centuries of wealth and privilege will get you. Soft-headed, slimy bastard that he is."

Twist nodded. "Too bad we don't have any drinks. I'd toast to commoners right now."

Pierce shrugged one shoulder as best as he could against the ropes binding his wrists. "To commoners."

Chapter Twenty-Four

"It's not like Pierce to do this. Something has happened to him." Penelope paced the floor of Jane's study, and tripped over Byron. The cat hissed at her, and laying his ears back, scampered out of harm's reach.

"Well, if you suspect that he is in danger, then I say we should contact the Bow Street Runners," Jane replied in that same maddening, calm tone of voice. Oh, she shouldn't be annoyed with Jane and her unruffled façade. After all, she had sought Jane out this evening for her manner—she needed someone poised and composed to help her as she tried to unravel the mystery.

"I don't want to just contact the Runners, though I've thought of that myself. I want to find Pierce. I want to assure myself that no harm has befallen him." A cramp seized hold of Penelope's middle, and she sat down abruptly on the settee. "Ouch."

"Is it the baby?" Jane leaned forward, placing a cool hand on Penelope's cheek. "Truly, my dear, you should calm yourself. After all, all this exertion and worry is bad for you in your present condition."

Penelope swatted Jane's hand away. "My monthly arrived shortly after Jim dropped by. I am precisely the opposite of pregnant right now, dear Jane."

"Oh, darling. I am so sorry." Was that a shadow of disappointment crossing Jane's face? That was rather odd. Jane never seemed to care about children before now. And anyway, it didn't signify, for until they found Pierce and made sure he was safe and well, there wouldn't be another opportunity to get pregnant again. She only ever wanted Pierce.

A loud commotion sounded in the hall, and the study door burst open. Clarice Dupont sailed into the room, trailed by Jane's butler.

"Madame Dupont to see you, ma'am," he panted, trying to push past Clarice's elegant and graceful figure.

"I need no announcement," she reprimanded him shortly. "I have urgent business to discuss with these two ladies. If you will excuse us."

Jane motioned for her butler to leave, and he did so, wounded dignity apparent in the rigid set of his shoulders as he quit the room.

Clarice seized Penelope's hands and sat beside her. "Your thief-taker is in danger."

Penelope's heart lurched. "How do you know, Clarice?"

"I was having dinner at home with the Duke, when some of his cronies stopped by," Clarice replied, her large eyes wide with worry. "And I happened to overhear one of them speaking about the Gilded Lily. Of course, you know I pricked my ears up then, as I knew about your association with the Barclay Agency and the Lily. This gentleman, whom I had not seen before, mentioned that the Bow Street Runners now had enough information to shut the Lily down, thanks to a thief-taker who had informed on Lord Adam Cavendish."

"Cavendish hosted the stag party we attended," Penelope gasped. "Pierce must have found something out on Lord Adam when we were in Derbyshire. Is he connected to the Lily?"

Clarice nodded. "Yes. I asked the duke after they left how Cavendish was connected to the Lily. He has heard rumors that Cavendish owns the Barclay Agency and has a vested interest in the Lily. If his connection is found out, it will be a huge scandal, and if the Lily is shut down, then Cavendish will lose a fortune."

"So if Cavendish hosted the stag party, Penelope, then it's likely that Pierce found the connection while you were at the party," Jane supplied. Her eyebrows were drawn together and she drummed her fingers on her lap—the pose Penelope had come to recognize over the years as her "I am thinking as an author" pose. "So, in some way, Cavendish must have learned the truth about who Pierce is, and probably sent someone round to shut him up."

"There was a man named Jonathan Twist who spoke with me whilst we were on our journey," Penelope remembered. "And he told me the truth about Pierce—he's really Lord Pierce Howland, but gave up his title and denied his family connections to make a life as a thief-taker," she explained to Clarice. "So he must be involved in this in some manner too. He told me he is a thief-taker just like Pierce."

"I don't think Cavendish will kill Pierce. From what I know of the man, and what the duke said tonight, he hasn't the courage to kill a fly. But even so, there is reason for grave concern." Clarice leaned closer to Penelope.

"Pierce was supposed to come by my townhome this afternoon, but he never arrived. He sent a lad around with a message to get ready and pack my trunk. He must have heard from someone—perhaps even someone like Twist—that Cavendish was out to get him." She paused. "But Clarice—how did you know I was at Jane's?"

"I went to your home first, and your butler informed me you had come here. I flew over as quickly as I could. From what it sounds like, Cavendish has Pierce. I don't know where, but I have my suspicions." Clarice smiled, an encouraging glint lighting her eyes. "You had the courage to go to the stag party and chase after your maid. I think you probably have the stomach to find Pierce as well."

"I do. Do you see, Jane? At last, some advice that doesn't involve tattling to the Runners." Penelope's spirits lifted and her heart began pounding with excitement.

Jane huffed and lit up a cheroot.

"Oh, I think we need to send word round to the Runners," Clarice corrected Penelope. "I can get the duke's help with that. They will listen to him quicker than they will listen to a handful of women."

"Very well," Penelope agreed. "But I feel like I should try to find Pierce too. I don't want to sit at home wringing my hands, waiting for the Runners to stop by and report their findings."

"I would think that Pierce is probably being held somewhere at the Lily. I mean, just think of it. The place probably has hidden stairways, thugs to guard doors—just about anything that you might need if you were trying to secret someone away." Jane looked over at Penelope, her eyebrow arched. "So, the question is simple: whore or maid?"

"If I may…" Clarice interrupted with a discreet cough. "It will be rather dangerous to sneak around the Lily dressed as a whore. Men there are accustomed to taking whatever pleasure they find from anyone who seems ready to supply it. No. I would say you should trade on the theory that to men of a certain class, all maids look the same."

"True, that," Jane responded, slapping her knee. "No one will notice if we sneak in dressed as maids. In fact, they will probably order us about. So, what do you remember about the grounds, Penelope?"

"I stood on a back porch stoop for an eternity, waiting for Pierce to let me in," Penelope responded. "It must be the servant's entrance. We should probably start there, though how we are to get in I haven't a clue."

"We'll just have to find a way once we get there," Jane responded confidently. "Well, Clarice? It seems as though Penelope and I have our work cut out for us tonight. Can we depend upon you to engage the duke's help and inform the Runners of what has transpired?"

"Absolutely." Clarice stood, wrapping her shawl securely around her shoulders. "The duke should be coming to visit again shortly. He always goes home after dinner to see to business at his home, and then he comes back to—ahem—sleep at my house."

Penelope could not suppress a chuckle. "The ideal man?"

Clarice's lovely mouth quirked downwards. "I suppose so."

After Clarice departed, Jane and Penelope ran upstairs to Jane's bedroom and ransacked her wardrobe for appropriate attire. "How on earth do you have not one, but two maid's costumes?" Penelope held a black gown up to her neck.

"Um, well, fancy dress parties and the like." For the first time ever, Jane looked uncomfortable—embarrassed even. Her cheeks were rosy and her eyes downcast.

"Or perhaps for other, more intimate reasons?" Penelope pressed on.

"Enough," Jane snapped, and Penelope couldn't contain her grin. Obviously Jane had a gentleman friend who enjoyed playing games. Well, it was rather fun, after all. She had discovered that from her romps with Pierce.

They donned their black gowns and starched linen aprons, tucking their hair under modest white caps. Penelope turned to Jane. Funny, she wasn’t nervous any longer. She was ready to go, eager to find Pierce. But some of Jane's calm demeanor had rubbed off on her, and even her palms had ceased their perspiring. Every nerve she possessed was trained on the mission at hand.

"Well, shall we go?" She motioned toward the door.

"I'm ready if you are," Jane replied with a nod of her cap.

***

Penelope's nervous energy returned as the coach neared the Lily. Suppose they were found out? Suppose that Lord Adam was waiting somewhere, looking for an opportunity to kidnap them? And worse still—what if Pierce wasn't all right? Clarice could be wrong. They didn't know Cavendish's character that well. He might have killed Pierce already.

That last thought sent a searing pain down her insides, and she turned off her racing thoughts. Better to focus solely on the present, rather than the might-have-been.

The carriage slowed to a halt a block away from the Lily, just as she and Jane had planned. It was much better to sneak up on the Lily and pretend to be servants if they didn't arrive in Jane's coach. The keen wind bit through her shawl, and threatened to blow off her cap. Penelope tightened the shawl and held her bonnet on with one hand, and jerked her head in the direction of the Lily.

They were coming up on the back side of the house, to the servants' entrance she remembered. The night was so frigid that not a solitary soul lingered out in the yard. Even the stable lads must be cooped up inside the barn, for no fire burned brightly outside. Only the dull roar of laughter and music emanated from the windows of the house. All the merriment was confined to the indoors.

Her teeth would not cease chattering, though she clamped her jaw shut to still them.

"A-almost there," Jane panted. Ah, her teeth were chattering too. Penelope didn't feel like quite so much of a weakling if Jane was freezing too.

If the back door were locked, then they would have to simply wait on the stoop until someone passed by. Oh, if only Pierce had shown her how to pick locks. She could have them indoors and warm in a trice if she only knew how to manipulate the bolt just so.

She pulled Jane over towards the stoop. "We have to wait here," she muttered, her teeth clattering together. Out of an undying sense of optimism, she tried the latch. No luck. Of course it was locked.

As they stood outside on the porch, Penelope flicked her glance around for shelter—any shelter that would protect them from the wind. The barn was off-limits, as the stable lads had likely gathered there. Unless someone came out to pass water, toss up their accounts, or see to some mundane household chore, they were stuck. She stamped her feet in frustration.

Wait. That little garden shed—she hadn't noticed it before. Of course, there was no fire in it, but it might be enough to shelter them from the cold until they could sneak into the house. It was merely an old potting shed—likely no one would even be apt to use it until spring.

She tugged Jane's arm and motioned for her to follow across the lawn. But when they arrived at the potting shed door, it was locked too—with a heavy padlock, quite ridiculously large for a structure so small and rickety.

Why would they need such a stout lock on such a flimsy door? She put her eye to a crack in the wall, but could discern nothing except shadows inside. But something was calling to her. She needed to get in that shed.

***

Pierce had long ago given up hope of escape. He rubbed the rusty blade against the ropes binding his wrists, as gingerly as he could, but his hands were frozen and clumsy. The warm trickle of his own blood and the sudden rush of pain that seared his wrist meant he missed his target—and by quite a bit. Twist had chuckled at him, and shrugged off the offer of help.

"After what you just did to yourself? No thank you. I would rather freeze in dignity than bleed to death."

And so the old thief-taker had fallen asleep in his corner, after dropping from his knees into a fetal position in the dirt.

He could do nothing except hope the oozing of his own blood would cease; that he hadn't accidentally lacerated his wrist too deeply. In time, the bleeding stopped—or froze, 'twas hard to tell which. His mind drifted and he half-dreamed, half-imagined Penelope there beside him, unbinding his wrists, kissing his wounds.

He must have fallen asleep, for the next thing he knew, shards of glass showered the dirt floor of the shed, and a rock hit the floor with a heavy thud.

He rolled over, wriggling to his knees. Twist slept on, either oblivious in deep sleep or near death from cold.

A feminine hand, covered in white linen, glowed briefly in the moonlight. The hand moved gently around, dodging the bits of jagged glass still hanging in the pane, until it encountered the window latch. Then with one swift movement, his rescuer undid the latch and threw up the sash.

A head appeared in the window, but the moon was behind her, and he could not make out her face. "Hello?" she cried. "Is anyone here?"

He had gone mad from the cold. That was the only answer. For he would know that voice anytime, anywhere, the lilting tones that enchanted him from the first moment he met her.

"Penelope." It was a croak. The word wouldn't even form properly on his frozen lips.

"Someone is there! I heard a sound," his rescuer cried to someone else. "Boost me, Jane. I need to get inside."