Chapter Twenty-Three

Lucy acted in the role of Penelope's lady's maid again the next morning. She was good at it and seemed to enjoy the assignment. Penelope meant to ask Mr. Layton if she could make an offer of employment to the young woman. It was possible Lucy had family nearby or didn't wish to leave Pledwick Manor, and Penelope didn't mean to try to force anyone's hand either way.

The weather was wet once again, and she was delayed in taking her daily ride. She didn't mind, which was a rare thing. The rain afforded her the opportunity to spend the morning gabbing amiably with Violet and Nicolette and blessing fate once more for this unexpected opportunity to make two new friends. And the two of them told her enough about Lady Jonquil, whom they insisted would want Penelope to call her Julia, that she felt as though she knew the lady already and had gained a third friend. The Gents had begun to feel like friends as well.

And Niles... Well, Niles felt like something more. Something even better.

By early afternoon, the rain had ceased falling for a couple of hours. The grounds would be dry enough for a not-too-miserable ride. With Lucy's help, she changed into her emerald-green riding habit and quickly made for the stables. She hadn't ridden at all the day before, and she was anxious to be on horseback again.

Upon reaching the stables, however, she was distracted as she so often was by the filly. The little horse was standing in the midst of her small pen, being brushed by a stablehand.

"She is doing so much better," Penelope said, indicating the arrangement.

"She ain't so afeared of us as she has been," the stablehand answered.

There was something so heartwarming in watching an animal learn to trust people who were worthy of that trust. It was a connection that wrapped the soul in hope.

"Has she a name yet?"

The stablehand shook his head. "Haven't come upon one that suits her."

"She needs an elegant name."

"That she does."

The groomsman who had ridden out in search of Liam to deliver Penelope's letter happened past in the next moment.

"Did you find Mr. Seymour?" she asked him.

He doffed his hat. "I did, Miss Seymour. You guessed right on the inn he stopped at."

"And you gave him my letter?"

"I did, miss." He reached into the pocket of his coat, still muddied from the road, and pulled out a sealed letter. "He asked me to give you this."

Liam had sent a letter back. That had to be a good omen, didn't it? She took the letter, nervousness and excitement warring inside. This was likely similar to how Niles had felt upon receiving the letter from his family—hoping it contained words of reconciliation but fearing the letter held only more rejection.

"Mr. Greenberry doesn't happen to be out for a ride just now, does he?" Niles liked to ride as much as she did, after all, and the weather was finally clear enough.

"I don't know, miss."

But from the filly's pen, the stablehand chimed in. "I saw him aiming for the outbuilding he and the other gentlemen have been making use of, miss."

The Gents would be there. "Thank you."

She hurried in the direction of the outbuilding. She held fast to Liam's letter, unable to convince herself to feel relief at having received word from him. The possibility that he had written to denounce her again felt far too heavy.

But one thing she was certain of: she would feel better if Niles were with her while she read it.

He'd held her hand so tenderly. It had taken all her self-control not to simply curl into him and plead with him to hold her as he had when Liam had abandoned her. There had been such comfort in his embrace. She'd felt safe and cared about, and her heart had all but burst out of her chest. But the drawing room, surrounded by all the other Pledwick Manor guests, was not the place for throwing herself into the arms of a gentleman who wasn't related to her. An outbuilding in full view of the Gents wasn't either. But they couldn't object to Niles being at her side while she read a letter.

As she approached her destination, she heard the oddest sound: a repetitive thud, almost like the sound of carpets being beaten. Why such a thing would be undertaken inside a building, she couldn't say. The Gents indulged in some odd larks, to be sure, but this didn't seem like one of them.

Afraid that whatever it was would stop if they were alerted to her arrival, Penelope walked slowly and quietly to the door of the outbuilding, deeply curious. She peeked inside, then froze on the spot.

Niles was alone, standing in front of an enormous burlap bag hanging from the ceiling, punching it. That was not the most shocking bit though. He was stripped to the waist, revealing more rippling, glistening muscles than she even knew existed.

Good gracious.

Upon first glance, under ordinary circumstances, most everyone would describe Niles as small, and not merely because he was the shortest of his friends. He gave the impression of slightness. But heavens, seeing him shirtless, his muscles flexing as he delivered one crushing punch after another, she knew he was anything but flimsy.

Good gracious.

As she stood there, too astonished to speak or move or make sense of anything, Niles happened to look over at the door.

"Penelope." His eyes pulled as wide as hers must have been. He began frantically looking about, likely searching for his shirt.

The blush of embarrassment that inched up his neck pulled her out of her stupor. She turned away a little, setting her eyes on the doorframe. "I hadn't realized this outbuilding had been converted into a boxing salon, otherwise I would have..." What would she have done? "Knocked, I guess. Except the door was open."

Over the sound of his frantic footsteps, Niles said, "I would have kept the door closed, but it had grown overly warm in here."

"My brother once told me he enjoyed a bit of boxing while at school." Penelope kept her eyes diverted as she spoke. "Pugilism is, apparently, not unpopular amongst gentlemen, young and old. Not that I'm saying you are old; you just aren't a schoolboy any longer, clearly. I don't mean ‘clearly' to indicate that I was studying you and came to that conclusion. I—I simply—I need to stop talking." Merciful heavens, she was flustered.

"It is certainly a popular sport, though actual bouts fall outside the bounds of acceptable gentlemanly pursuits." Niles took an audible breath. "I suspect I would, nevertheless, have an impromptu bout with your brother on my hands if he knew I'd appeared in front of you bare-chested." His voice grew louder as he drew nearer. "I am sorry about that."

He wouldn't have moved to stand by her were he still without his shirtsleeves, so she hazarded a glance. He was dressed once more, though only in his pantaloons and untucked shirt. It was entirety possible he didn't have anything else there, having had no reason to expect company.

"You are not the one needing to apologize," she insisted. "'Twas I who intruded on your privacy."

"Then, let us agree that our moment of awkwardness was neither of our faults and we both are to be considered utterly blameless."

"I think that is a brilliant strategy." Her panic began ebbing. She took a breath, the first full one she'd drawn since stepping inside. "How often do you box?" Curiosity was quickly replacing her befuddlement. "A lot of effort was put into transforming this space, and at least at the moment, you are the only one taking advantage of it."

"Quite often, when I am able. I have a similar space to this at my parents' estate in Cornwall, and I patronize an establishment in London." He wiped at a trickle of sweat making its way down his chin. Doing so drew attention to the strips of fabric wrapped around his knuckles.

A realization landed on her mind. "This is how you hurt your hand yesterday. The cut on your knuckle."

He nodded. "Probably. I don't remember it happening specifically, but I was in here most of the afternoon."

He really did enjoy the exercise, then. "You told me when we first met that you enjoyed athletic endeavors. I could tell you meant it in the context of horse riding, and you clearly enjoyed the game of ground billiards. I am beginning to suspect you are more of a sportsman than most people would guess."

Niles snatched up a rag and wiped the perspiration from his brow and neck. "I am small and tend to be quiet. People make a lot of assumptions based on that."

"Believe me, I understand."

"You are tiny; I won't argue with you on that score. But—" He seemed to suddenly think better of the remainder of his comment.

"You were about to insist that I am not, in fact, quiet."

His lingering blush turned furiously red once more.

Penelope set her hand on his arm. "I am the one who told you about my nickname of the Little Banshee. I am not unaware that I am far from silent. I am also perfectly and wonderfully content to simply be at peace when I am able."

"You fight when you need to," he summarized, "and cherish times of serenity all the more, as a result."

She had never known anyone who seemed to understand her as well as he did. Even her father, who had been the one in her family to comprehend most the person she was, had struggled. "I suspect you are the same, Niles. Peace and contentment are important to you, but that doesn't mean you won't fight when that is what is needed."

He set his hand atop hers. It felt odd, wrapped in fabric as it was, but there was still such comfort in his touch. "We are proving more and more alike, you and me." He then adjusted his hand so he was holding hers, pulling it away from his arm. "What was it that brought you out here looking for me?"

She had all but forgotten. "The letter I sent to Liam reached him last night at the inn."

"You guessed right, then." He sounded genuinely pleased for her.

"And he wrote back."

"Did he?"

She glanced at the letter once more. "But I'm nervous about what it might say, so I came here, hoping you would hover nearby while I read it."

"You did the same for me when my family's letter arrived," he said. "I'd be honored to return the favor." He motioned her toward two well-worn chairs under one of the small windows.

Already feeling more equal to discovering what her brother had to say, Penelope took a seat and waited for Niles to do the same. With him beside her, soothing her nerves, she turned the letter over and broke the wax seal. She unfolded the parchment and read.

Penelope,

No "Dearest Sister" or "My Dear Penelope." When he'd written to her while away at school, he'd begun his letters with variations on those two tender greetings.

I am not certain what to write in response to your letter. I do appreciate that you made the effort, and I am grateful that you have acknowledged the effort I have expended and the frustrations I have endured on your behalf these past weeks and months. But you also insisted you will not abandon your current course.

I am now charged with explaining to our mother why you have abandoned Ireland altogether without so much as a farewell to her. When Dublin society wonders where you have disappeared to, I will be required to formulate some explanation that does not portray me as a browbeaten brother or that would undermine Mother's standing.

More worrisome than those consequences, though, are the ones you are courting for yourself. Mr. Greenberry might not have chosen to move forward with the arranged match, but your choice to move forward with your ill-advised requirements for Fairfield will all but guarantee that no one who is worthy of you will ever consider you again. And that, Penelope, is an utter shame.

Something in the hint of kindness with which he ended his otherwise painful summary of her difficult situation brought a thickness to her throat.

Should you have a change of heart before moving forward with this folly, I will be returning to Ireland by way of first London, as I have friends there whom I have not seen in some time, and then Cornwall, wishing to offer my gratitude to the Greenberrys for their hospitality and my apologies for the way things ended.

I wish you luck in the path you have chosen, Penelope. And I will endeavor to formulate a version of events that will neither alarm our mother nor give her reason to think poorly of her daughter.

Write to me now and then and let me know how you are faring. We may not be in agreement about this, but I do not wish to be forever at odds.

Yours, etc.

Liam