Lady Penelope's Christmas Charade, a Regency Romance (25 page)

"Watch out for the glass, Penelope," the other female voice cautioned.

A woman's form, curvy and instantly recognizable, appeared in the window pane. She wriggled inside the shed and crouched on the window ledge. "Who's there?" she called once more.

There was no denying it any longer. Penelope had come to rescue him.

"Penny." It was all he could manage, but he said it as loud as he could.

"Pierce! Great God, it's you!" Penelope jumped down from the ledge, and scurried over to his side. "Jane, Pierce is in here. And he's hurt—oh, my darling, you're hurt." She peppered his cheeks with kisses, but he could feel none of them. "Pierce, you're half-frozen. We must get you out of this shed and to some warmth without delay."

Jane boosted herself in through the window and leapt nimbly onto the dirt floor. "There's another man here too." She turned to Pierce. "Is this Twist?"

He nodded. It was all he could accomplish. He was so bloody tired.

Penelope went to work on the ropes binding his hands and feet, while Jane awakened Twist. As soon as Pierce's ropes were cut, Penelope handed Jane the blade, and Jane cut Twist free. Then both women massaged their hands and feet until the blood began to flow once more. It hurt like the devil.

"My coachman is waiting a block away," Jane explained to them. "Can you walk that far?"

Pierce nodded, leaning heavily against Penelope. Her warmth crept through him, feeding him, giving him strength.

"We'll have to go out through the window," Penelope explained, chafing her hands against his cheeks. "They locked this place up like a king's ransom was in here, which of course clued us in to where you might be held. Although really, I think one good blow would demolish these wobbly walls."

Twist merely nodded—he looked as ghastly tired as Pierce felt.

"We'll put the men out first," Jane said to Penelope. "You and I are more limber, since they've been tied up in this dratted shed for so long. We can boost ourselves, but they might need our help."

The least he could do was help himself out of this godforsaken shed, seeing as how two women had rescued him. With a mighty heave, he pushed Twist through the broken window, and then braced himself against the ledge. Twist grasped his hands from the other side, and between the pair of them, Pierce managed to tumble to the frosted ground.

"Halt, damn you," a voice barked from the darkness.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Penelope froze as she wriggled out of the window. "How dare you order us to halt?" she demanded. "Who are you?" Was it Cavendish and his men? Oh, she hoped so. She would claw the bastard's eyes out for what he did to Pierce. She pushed her way out of the frame and fell onto the hard-packed earth. Pierce put his arm around her shoulder and helped her to her feet.

"Easy," he muttered.

"No," she cried. "I am
Lady Annand
, and I demand to know--who the devil are you? Cavendish—is that you?"

Two figures emerged from the darkness, one holding a torch that sputtered and flickered over the whole sordid scene—broken glass, bleeding wrists, half-frozen men, and women dressed as maids. The two men's eyes widened as they took it all in. No, neither one was Cavendish. But even so, her heart would not slow down. It was leaping in her chest.

"I'm Jannings, and this is Burkett, patrollers with Bow Street," the man holding the torch replied. "We were contacted earlier this evening by the Duke of Clarence. It seems that you are in need of assistance—if you're who we think you are."

Pierce spoke up, but his voice was a cracked whisper of his usual strong, deep tones. "I'm Pierce Howe, and this is Jonathan Twist. We were taken hostage by Cavendish for informing on him about the Lily." Even that small speech seemed to exhaust him. His body, always so taut and muscular, sagged against Penelope.

"My fiancé is badly wounded," Penelope put in. "Please—help me get him to our carriage. I need to take him home so that he can see a physician without delay."

"Of course," the two men replied in unison. Burkett wrapped his arm around Pierce's waist and tugged Pierce's arm about his shoulder. "How far away is the carriage?"

"About a block," Jane spoke up from behind Penelope. "But we can run ahead and fetch it closer."

"See that you do." Jannings crouched over Twist, who had not risen from his position on the frozen yard. "These men need help as quickly as possible."

Penelope grasped Jane's hand, and together they raced over the frosty grass, which crackled underfoot as they ran. Pierce is safe, her mind repeated over and over, forming a sing-song litany in her head. But he was not out of danger. Those men dealt with murders and crimes all day, every day, and their expressions were grave and still as they watched over Pierce and Twist. She had to get him home. If he didn't recover now—she turned off the tumbling thoughts in her head. She could not think that far ahead. Just the mere thought of losing Pierce sent a searing pain through her middle.

As they approached the carriage, Jane's coachman leapt off the box and ran towards them. "My lady, are you quite all right?"

"Yes, but the men are badly injured," Jane panted, grasping his arm for support. "We must make haste."

The coachman bundled them in and jumped back onto the box, whipping up the horses. The carriage clattered into motion, and Jane and Penelope braced themselves against the floor so as not to be thrown about by the heaving and shuddering of the coach as they neared the Lily.

"Drive up onto the lawn, towards the potting shed in the back," Jane called through the opened window to her driver. "I don't give a damn about leaving wheel tracks across their precious greenery."

The driver must have heard Jane's orders even over the hoof beats of the horses, for they swayed off the gravel path and onto the frost-covered ground. He pulled to a halt in front of the potting shed, and Penelope, despite her best efforts, tumbled to the floor of the carriage.

"Are you all right?" Jane tugged her to her feet.

"Yes, of course." Nothing mattered except getting Pierce safe. She didn't give a fig for a few bruises.

The coachman alit once more, and helped the two Runners lift Pierce and Twist into the carriage. Penelope and Jane covered them with rugs, and laid the still-warm bricks at their feet. Then Jannings and Burkett poked their heads through the carriage door.

"
Lady Annand
, you may take Mr. Howe to your home, or to his flat—we release him to your care since you are his fiancée." Jannings then turned to Jane. "Would you be so kind as to bring Mr. Twist down to our offices? I have a feeling that Richard Ford will want to speak to him, and will see to his welfare."

Jane nodded. "Of course I will, Mr. Jannings."

Jannings shut the door, and the carriage rumbled off to Grosvenor Square. Penelope cradled Pierce in her arms, willing her strength into him. She would not break down or give into hysterics now. He was safe, and she would get him home and into bed with a roaring fire in the grate. And she would call Doctor Brown to come and see to him. And everything would be fine. It had to be. They had come too far. She could not lose him now. Why, she refused to lose him now.

The following hours were a kaleidoscopic whirlwind of activity. Pierce was bundled upstairs and into Penelope's bedroom by Simmons and Jane's coachman, while the servants scuttled about, brewing tea and toddies, stirring up fires, piling blankets onto the bed. Dr. Brown arrived and looked over Pierce with a grave eye, shaking his graying head with a rueful air.

"He lost a lot of blood, and that is a nasty cut. But we'll give it some time. Time usually heals all things." He prescribed a diet of milk and honey and left a bottle of laudanum to help Pierce handle the pain.

After the doctor left, Penelope turned to Simmons. "Bring in one of the cots from the servants' quarters, and set it up here, beside the bed." She was not leaving him, not ever again.

Simmons, who had always been a butler of exceptional tact and courtesy, didn't blink an eye at his mistress' request. If he thought it odd or downright scandalous for her to sleep next to Pierce Howe, he had the good taste to mask it. "Of course, your ladyship."

Pierce had succumbed to sleep—at least, his eyes were closed, and his breathing regular. He didn't flinch as the servants set up Penelope's cot, lining it with fur blankets so that she would stay warm and comfortable as she kept watch over her beloved.

As the servants retreated, Penelope blew out the candles, leaving only the fire burning brightly in the grate. She tiptoed over to Pierce and laid a gentle hand on his forehead. At her touch, his eyes popped open.

"Penelope."

"I'm here, Pierce. I won't leave you." She grasped his hand in hers and squeezed as tightly as she could.

"My betrothed." It was a statement, not a question. His eyes drifted shut once more.

"Yes." He probably would never remember this moment, so what was the harm? He must've overheard her speaking to the Runners. She had used the term to save time and embarrassment—for explaining their relationship to others was a dicey proposition at best. She pressed a kiss to his forehead and placed his hand on his abdomen. Then she climbed onto her cot, covering herself with the fur blankets.

She said a silent prayer as she watched his immobile form on the bed. Never had she seen him so still, so quiet. She wanted Pierce back—robust, lusty, full of life.

Sleep would not come. But, alone with Pierce at last, she could give vent to her fears and frustrations without anyone ever knowing she broke down. There was no point in holding back now. So the tears flowed rapidly, scorching rivers down her cheeks. He would get better. He simply had to. She had so much to tell him, so many things she needed to set right between them.

***

Pierce dreamed so many things. The dreams simply would not leave his mind. His mother, with her dark hair and tawny eyes, spoke with him at length. Which was quite strange, for she had been dead for many years. But it was nice to see her again. He had almost forgotten what she looked like, and how she sounded. Father was there too, but never spoke. He just watched Pierce with that same hooded, inscrutable expression he had always worn. Funny, Father wore a noose around his neck, just like a man would wear a cravat. Pierce told him to remove it, but Father simply shook his head.

Then Penelope would come. Her hair streamed down like rays of sunshine. He lifted his hand to grasp a ray in his hand, but it was always out of reach. Her emerald eyes were reddened and the expression on her face so sad. Penelope should never be sad. She was meant for joy and for love. He told her so, but her eyebrows drew together and she bent down closer. "Say it again, Pierce," she would urge, but he had to give up. He was tired. Too damn tired.

She drifted away and he put up his hand to stop her, but he had more vis
itors. Charlotte, his paramour
from so long ago came to see him, her rosy cheeks drained of all color. "Let me go," she stated simply. "You don't need me any longer." He nodded his head. They didn't need each other anymore. "Goodbye," he murmured. And she flitted off. Everyone drifted in and out of his field of vision. It was exhausting trying to keep up with their comings and goings.

One man came more often than the rest. He poked and prodded at Pierce, issuing orders in a commanding tone of voice. Pierce had grown weary of this visitor. If only he would go away and leave him in peace. After that man left, Penelope would appear, her forehead puckered with worry, and she would stroke his forehead with a damp cloth until he fell asleep. He liked that part. He hated how that bastard caused his Penelope so much worry.

The man appeared again and mumbled something about a turn. Penelope answered, her voice quivering, but he couldn't make out her response. After the man left, Penelope did not rub his forehead as she usually did. Instead, she pulled back the blankets and
lay
beside him, wrapping her arms around him.

Ah, that was blissful. He closed his eyes. Even over the stench of fever, he could smell her special scent of gardenias and peaches. He inched closer to her warmth. Penelope. How he had missed his Penelope.

***

Well, that was odd. Pierce opened his eyes, trying to focus on any point of reference, but nothing looked familiar. Whatever room he was in was not his own. It was a decidedly feminine room, painted the sky blue of a robin's egg. And the bed was comfortable, softer than his, for certain. A fire burned low in the grate, and the windows allowed sunshine to stream in, softened by lace curtains.

He cleared his throat, but could hardly swallow. He'd give anything for a cup of tea, broth, anything just now. His mouth tasted sticky-sweet, like honey. It was a taste he despised.

Something pressed against him, warm and heavy. He inched his head over to get a better look.

Red-gold curls. That's all he could see. He inhaled slowly. Gardenias, peaches, warmth. Penelope.

"Penny?" he croaked. Gad, but his voice sounded bizarre. Like rusted nails against a bit of tin.

The curls stirred. "Hmm?"

"Penny." It was easier to say the second time.

The bed shifted, and the curls tumbled back, revealing Penelope as she sat up, her emerald eyes wide. "Pierce?"

He couldn't speak again, not until he'd had something to drink. And he couldn't move his head, the fatigue grasped him so strongly. But he blinked, and Penelope cried out in delight.

"Oh Pierce, my darling." She threw her arms around his neck, covering his cheek, his eyes, his forehead with kisses. "Oh, I thought I'd lost you."

"No." It was all he could manage.

"Pierce, darling, let me get you some tea. You must be so thirsty." She leapt from the bed and pulled on the bell-pull with all her might. Lord, he had forgotten what an astonishing figure Penelope possessed, but the sight of her in her flannel nightgown brought it all back to him with searing clarity. As soon as he got his strength back, he would prove to her how badly he'd missed her.

The housekeeper brewed a stout pot of tea, which he drank straight, no milk and no sugar. He wasn't sure exactly why the thought of milk and honey turned his stomach, but he would be perfectly happy never to taste either again. Penelope propped him against some large feather pillows and spooned the tea into his mouth. It took the entire pot before he regained the use of his voice.

He couldn't talk as long as he wished to, for fatigue still held him tight in its grip. But he could manage a few words here and there, and he could ravish Penelope with his eyes. He never wanted her to leave his side. Ever again.

"Pierce, you cut yourself badly trying to escape and a kind of blood poisoning set in," she explained, holding the spoon up so he could sip more tea. "But Jane and I found you and Twist, and we were able to get you out of there and back home with the help of two patrollers from Bow Street."

"Twist…all right?" The old blighter had likely fared even worse than he.

"Yes, he is recovering too." Penelope switched from tea to beef broth, which was the most incredible, mouth-watering thing he had ever tasted. "He caught a bad cold from being in that shed, but his wife nursed him back to health. He was offered a position at Bow Street but from what I've heard, turned it down. He's retired now."

Pierce possessed the strength to roll his eyes. Not bloody likely. The old buggar would be at it again, as soon as Ruth's back was turned. And what of Cavendish? He couldn't bring himself to ask the question. He wanted to live in this moment, watching Penelope's every movement, drinking in the delicious broth as his power slowly returned.

Once he drank the tea and the broth, Penelope smiled at him. "You need a good shave. You're beginning to look like Rip Van Winkle, or Henry the Eighth."