Chapter 14

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

"That did not go as planned," Pen said, rubbing her arms. "Not at all as planned, and you knew Dashiel would turn nasty."

Lucien walked beside her, his imagination still caught up in how much worse the encounter could have gone.

"Dashiel broke rules when he was in uniform, Pen. Sensible rules rather than the other kind, and he begrudges even his horse proper rations in spring, when the grass is lush and abundant. It doesn't take close observation to see that he's long overdue for a sound trashing, but nobody has been on hand to put the manners on him." A vast, wide, and deep understatement.

Pen slowed as they reached the part of the path that overlooked the lake. "He frightened me. I've always known him to be cordial, a tad priggish, not as handsome or clever as he thinks he is, but harmless. He's not harmless."

Neither am I. "To realize you've underestimated an opponent is unnerving, but Dashiel underestimated you, too, and—God willing—me as well. He'll probably exert himself to be charming and redouble his attempts to try to entice you into marriage."

"Not if you and I announce our engagement at the assembly. "

Perhaps not, but Lucien hadn't wanted to make that suggestion. An engagement announcement should be an occasion of joy, not a tactic . Besides, they'd been engaged for years.

Pen stopped at a bench positioned to take advantage of the view. The water was an expanse of sparkling blue, the trees still held a hint of the gauzy, luminous green of new foliage, and a white swan made a stately progress parallel to the shore.

No place on earth held more beauty than Lynnfield in spring, but Lucien saw only the look on Dashiel's face when he'd laid hands on Penelope. Avaricious and determined.

Very, very determined. "I want to end his puling, arrogant existence," Lucien said. "Not very civilized of me."

Penelope took his hand and led him to the bench. "So do I, and Dash is likely just as angry, but who were you when you intervened? You were playing some part, the bumbler, the jester. I haven't seen you take quite that attitude before."

"I was the harmless, half-witted aristo. When I was bargaining over art treasures, a touch of the simpleton usually resulted in a better price. I was also safer if I could be convincingly stupid."

"Now there's a fine irony. Sit with me. I need to settle my nerves."

Lucien's nerves would be settled when Dashiel Ingraham was gelded. "You would have kicked him in another moment, Pen. I doubt you were in any real danger." Ingraham had been in danger, did he but know it. Still was.

"I'm in long skirts, Lucien. Kicking isn't nearly so effective through two petticoats, a skirt, and an underskirt."

How had she learned that lesson? "I truly want to kill him, Pen. Use your knee if a kick won't serve."

"My knee. Right. Good thought."

She sat next to Lucien, her breathing calm, her gloved hand in his, and gradually, the peace of the day caught up with Lucien's battle rage. Ingraham had behaved predictably, and he'd been thwarted by the simplest of schoolyard measures .

Pen was safe. A scintilla of ire drained away on that realization. "We must have a pointed discussion with the marchioness."

"She truly sings Dashiel's praises without ceasing, Lucien. She has persistently advocated for a match with him, no matter how unenthusiastic I've been in response. She probably did mislead him to some extent."

A question emerged from the muddle of upset and relief swirling in Lucien's mind. "Why?"

Penelope slanted a frown at him. "What do you mean, why?"

"Why would an aging, notably self-centered woman willingly part with the person who most reliably keeps that woman's life pleasant? You supervise the staff, you dote on the elders, you fetch and carry for her ladyship. She might manage well enough without you, but her life is in every way easier with you on hand. Why give you up to a mere baronet?"

Penelope wrinkled her nose. "Perhaps the marchioness sees my spinsterhood as a failure of her matchmaking abilities?"

"If you are a spinster, Pen, I'm the dowager queen. The marchioness sings Sir Dashiel's praises for a reason. I confronted her previously on her partiality to the baronet, and I went as far as to suggest he'd bullied her into taking on his cause. Her ladyship swanned off in high dudgeon on that occasion, but I watched her when Dashiel came for Sunday supper. She truly does not care for him."

"How can you tell?"

Valid question, and Lucien took a moment to come up with an answer. "Do you recall our great cribbage tournament?"

The reference earned him a ghost of a smile. "A whole summer of pitched battle. Thank heavens we decided to switch to memorization."

"I realized about thirty games in that when your cards were poor, you breathed differently. Not a huff, not a sigh, just different. When your cards were excellent, you went still before you rearranged them. The marchioness has a habit of looking down and inhaling when she's marshaling her patience, as if she's fortifying herself to be gracious. Every time she had to concoct a reply to Dashiel, she went through the same little ritual."

"She'd lose a packet to you at whist," Pen said, tucking an errant curl back into her chignon. "Maybe she's lost a packet to Sir Dashiel?"

Interesting theory. "Does she gamble excessively?"

"You watch her breathing but not her pin money?"

"The pin money is hers. I cover her major expenses, and we don't question each other beyond that. What sort of hold could Dashiel have on her?"

The swan reached the shore, where it became a more ungainly creature, flapping and waddling instead of gliding.

"Dashiel has made himself privy to some sort of scandal involving her ladyship, would be my guess," Pen said. "The marchioness treasures her friendships, and when she's in Town, she rubs elbows with duchesses and archdukes. She isn't unduly snobbish. Those are simply the people who knew her in her youth, the ones who recall better days, before the king went mad and France fell to pieces. Anything that lowered her in the estimation of the old guard would cut deeply."

What could that anything be? The marchioness, having failed to produce a viable heir, would not have shared her favors outside her marriage. A love child was unlikely. A scandalous liaison at this phase of her life was nearly her right if she chose to indulge.

"We'd best talk to her," Lucien said, rising. "If nothing else, we owe her a warning. When Dashiel does finally grasp that his suit is doomed, he might take his disappointment out on her."

Lucien offered Pen his hand, and she took it, then tucked her fingers around his arm. "The marchioness holds Tabitha's future in her hands. Why would Dashiel jeopardize his sister's happiness and security over a courtship with me that happened mostly in his mind?"

"You put your finger on the crux of the matter. Knowing that Tabitha's marital future is in the marchioness's hands, knowing that I will be compelled by honor to protect the aunt who opened her home to me when I was an orphaned boy, knowing that I will for damned sure brook no nonsense when it comes to your happiness, Dashiel might still try to charm or compel you to the altar. For him to press his suit under those conditions, he must be very certain of his cards."

Penelope laid her head on Lucien's shoulder. "Such a pretty day and such an ugly muddle. The marchioness has been Dashiel's staunch supporter for at least the past three years, though she was equally vociferous on behalf of some of the bachelors I met in Mayfair. Whatever influence Dashiel has over her, he laid his traps carefully and at least several years ago."

Penelope was thinking critically, assessing facts, and applying logic. Lucien forced himself to attend to the same exercise.

"You will solve nothing by marrying him, Pen." Lucien made the point as calmly as he could. "Dashiel would use your wealth and standing to lay other traps. I would not be at all surprised to learn he's taking bribes in his capacity as magistrate."

"Another reason not to report alleged crimes. I am sorry you have come home to such a mess, Lucien."

"I came home to you, Pen, and about that, I am not sorry at all."

She favored him with a smile, and Lucien walked the rest of the way to Lynnfield in a silence both thoughtful and worried. The objective was to keep Penelope and the Lynnfield household safe from Sir Dashiel's presumptions, but the best path to that goal had grown considerably more difficult to discern.

"You turned him down?" The marchioness enthroned herself in her favorite wing chair, her skirts swishing about her slippers. "Sir Dashiel is a baronet, Penny, not some bumbling squire or knight. In case you failed to notice, we haven't many earls or dukes running about Lynnfield."

We have a marquess. Penelope glanced at Lucien, whose expression was nearly bored.

"My lady seems to forget," Penelope said pleasantly, "that I disdained the attentions of a ducal heir and at least two earls when I went up to London. Sir Dashiel had no right to assume that I'd favor his suit, but you led him to believe otherwise. Why?"

They occupied the marchioness's old-fashioned private parlor. Penelope took the second wing chair, not as close to the windows. Fatigue dragged at her—fatigue and worry—though the hour was barely past midday.

Lucien prowled the room, peering at this botanical sketch or that framed arrangement of dried, pressed roses.

No sketches of children here. Her ladyship kept several of those on the mantel in her bedroom, and how painful it must be for her to see them each night and morning.

"Why would you refuse Sir Dashiel?" the marchioness asked. "He is the closest thing to an eligible to be had in this shire, and you are determined to dwell in the country. I had no doubt you intended to bide where you could both set up your own nursery and keep a close eye on the household here at Lynnfield."

This was pure evasion. "I can dwell in the country at Finbury, if rustication is the pinnacle of my ambitions, and the household here will run well enough without me."

"You're too young to dwell alone and too old to be this stubborn, Penelope. You gave Dashiel reason to hope, and that has nothing to do with me." The marchioness was prone to peevishness, but this display approached venomous.

"If he treasured hopes of the matrimonial variety, then he should have asked my leave to embark on a courtship. He never did that."

"Because he asked my permission to court you as soon as he returned from Spain."

Lucien propped himself against the mantel, all lazy grace and ennui. "You didn't think to alert Penelope to that development? She was of age by then and in control of much of her wealth. "

"Young women take odd notions. If Penelope believed that Dashiel had sought my permission before approaching her, she would have held that against him. Even the highest sticklers admit that a fellow ought to test the waters with the young lady before approaching those in authority over her."

"You are not now, nor were you ever, in authority over me," Penelope said slowly. "You were my chaperone in name only."

"And as such," her ladyship spat, "I was in authority over you as far as Sir Dashiel was concerned. I vow you've become clodpated, Penelope."

"That will suffice." Lucien stalked away from the mantel. "You were well aware that Penelope was betrothed to me and that the documents were binding unless repudiated. You never thought to mention that to Dashiel?"

Penelope hadn't forgotten about the betrothal, exactly, but she hadn't thought to pose that question.

"Neither of you was of age when that arrangement was concocted, and then you were gone for years, Lucien. How was I to know that you hadn't set aside the agreement immediately upon reaching your majority? If you two are done haranguing me, I will avail myself of a nap before supper. Tabitha's chattering is enough to give anybody a megrim, and she will doubtless be in good form after showing off her new frock in the churchyard."

Her ladyship rose and strode off for the door.

"Before you go," Lucien said, "be aware that if Dashiel has threatened you, if he is holding notes of hand over your head, or has otherwise brought untoward influence to bear on you, I am fully prepared to deal with him on your behalf. You are the closest thing I have left to a mother, and I will not see you ill-used for the convenience of a petty rogue."

Whatever broadside he could have fired, the marchioness had clearly not expected that, nor had Penelope seen it coming.

"And that sort of lordly interference is exactly what I must not allow." Tears welled in the marchioness's eyes. "You always were a peculiar boy. Penelope, please make my excuses at supper. I vow I cannot wait to leave this house for London."

She swished through the doorway, a lace-edged handkerchief clutched in her hand. Lucien closed the door in her wake and took the chair she'd vacated.

"If you say that did not go as planned," he muttered, "I will agree with you. She has always been something of an enigma to me and still is."

"She doesn't move one square at a time in predictable directions, does she?" Penelope murmured. "She is by far the ranking lady in the shire, and she is scurrying off to London as if she's…"

"Afraid," Lucien said. "Angry and afraid."

Penelope considered that description. "More afraid than angry, but you are right. She is out of charity with us and possibly with Sir Dashiel. She did not appreciate that reminder of our betrothal." Penelope took a piece of horehound candy from a silver dish on the low table. "I used to view those agreements as the last insult. I thought you were so indifferent to me that you'd not even bestir yourself to acknowledge what our expectations had once been."

Lucien crossed his legs at the knee. "Now?"

"The betrothal protects me," Penelope said. "Dashiel is the rubbishing magistrate. He cannot ignore a legally valid agreement, and isn't he open to some sort of lawsuit if he entices me away from you?"

Lucien's brows rose, and then he beamed at her. "My darling intended, I believe you have hit upon an argument even Sir Dashiel cannot attempt to gainsay. I suspect he knew nothing of that old bargain, and it does indeed protect you, albeit indirectly."

Indirectly was better than not at all. "How?"

"If you marry another while betrothed to me, the tort of breach of promise arises. I can sue you for the loss of your settlements, essentially, and the loss of you as my chattel."

"Delightful. I'm a prize heifer before the edifice of the law. This would cause a great scandal, I take it?"

"Great expense, certainly, and redound to my great discredit, because a gentleman is supposed to be discreet about these things. Leave the lists quietly, wishing the lady well."

Lucien's mood had brightened, probably because he'd seized upon a potential solution to a vexing puzzle. Penelope's mood was not improving.

"What scheme are you hatching, my lord?"

"I used to hate it when you ‘my lorded' me. You ‘my lorded' me when we enjoyed the grotto at Finbury, though, and thus I now place the honorific in the endearment category when it comes from you."

"Lucien, cease trying to distract me with a mention of grottoes. You are considering some deviousness that directly affects me. Out with it."

He turned the candy dish ninety degrees. "I will pay a call on Sir Dashiel and politely inform him that you and I are betrothed. He might know or suspect, but we cannot confirm that. I am inclined to think he's been kept in ignorance, which is interesting in itself. I will delicately sketch out the fuss to be made if you refuse to honor the agreement."

"Dash did ask me if you and I were betrothed, though he couched the query in roundaboutation. I was too annoyed to give him a direct answer at the time. The betrothal is still valid, isn't it?"

"You can repudiate the whole business now that you are of age. So can I. You haven't, though, and Sir Dashiel has loudly proposed to you before a witness. I can work with that. He has attempted to poach, Pen, and regards me as a titled eccentric unlikely to acquit myself well on the field of honor. For me to bring suit would not be out of character."

"Yes, it would. You are among the most private of men, and a lawsuit brought against a former intended… I do not like this scheme at all, Lucien. Dashiel is a neighbor, and I agree with the marchioness that stirring up trouble with him is ill-advised. Can't we simply let him lick his wounds in peace?"

Lucien sat forward and took her hand in both of his. "Your instinct is to overlook his disrespect of your person, to be tolerant and forbearing yet again. I treasure your fundamental kindness and decency, Pen, but that man is neither kind nor decent. I saw his face when he seized hold of you. His intentions were vile, and he must be firmly dealt with. I will be discreet, and he will grasp the advantages of keeping his mouth shut."

Such confidence in Sir Dashiel's common sense was surely misplaced. "I don't want to let you out of my sight, Lucien. If Dashiel challenges you, you could find yourself fleeing to the Continent, and I will not tolerate being left behind again. That, I vow."

Lucien patted her knuckles. "I have left you behind for the last time, and let us not forget, as far as I knew, you were all but sending me away." He kissed her cheek, a mere buss. "Trust me, Pen. I will have a private chat with the baronet, and he will rethink his matrimonial ambitions."

Unease that had followed Penelope from the churchyard became outright biliousness. "I trusted you before, Lucien. To turn your horse around and come back for me, to write, to send for me, to show up in every London ballroom where I was forced to dance with some leering viscount or ham-handed heir to an earldom. My trust has been tried, though I realize you were not to blame."

He released her hand and sat back. "Correct. Your trust was tried by circumstances, Pen, not by me. I am planning to jaunt over to the Roost and have a quiet word with Sir Dashiel. I am not taking ship for Calais."

Promise? Penelope refrained from begging for that assurance on the strength of dignity alone. "Did you ever find the letter you left for me?"

"I haven't looked for it. After all these years, why?"

His favorite question. "Whoever took it has much to answer for."

"Somebody might well have considered such an epistle incriminating. The text was clearly in code, and we were at war with France. The coast is less than five-and-twenty miles away, and London closer than that."

A plausible explanation, but hardly satisfying. "There you go, being logical again. Not your best feature when reassuring a lady, my lord."

Lucien fiddled with his cuff. "What is my best feature when attempting to offer a lady reassurances of my devotion?"

Oh, he had many. His honor, his patience, his kindness, his intelligence, his touch …

"Come to my room tonight, and I'll be happy to show you." Penelope rose and quit the room and heard soft laughter in her wake, but she was far from happy with the discussion. The purpose of the conversation had been to get answers from the marchioness—no luck there—and now Lucien was intent on intimidating Sir Dashiel into retreating meekly from the marital lists.

Lucien had a sort of innocence, expecting people to deal as comfortably with sweet reason as he did, when, in fact, few mortals were as fond of logic as he was. As for Sir Dashiel, meekness was beyond him. Of that, Penelope was certain.

She was prevented from brooding on the matter further by Aunt Purdy, who accosted her three steps shy of the warming pantry.

"Oh, my dear Penny, you must spare me a moment. I'm afraid I've been a bit foolish." Aunt Purdy, whose yellow bandeau was no sort of complement to gray curls, pulled Penelope across the corridor to the music room. "Just a bit foolish, but foolish nonetheless, and I have been so good lately too. I'm very disappointed in myself."

For the merest instant, Penelope understood why the marchioness, why Lucien, why anybody would be relieved to quit Lynnfield.

"What did you take this time?" she said when the music room door was closed. "And from whom did you take it?"

Lucien decided to give Dashiel all of Monday to lick his wounds. Then too, Lucien had needed the day to think, to take stock, and to consider.

Penelope's lovemaking following Sunday's developments had been nearly desperate, pushing Lucien to the very edge of his self-control. The passion was amazing, but the worry driving it had created an edge he hadn't cared for. Penelope apparently did not trust him to thwart the presuming baronet, and Penelope's instincts were formidable.

Lucien also spent Monday night with his beloved, who'd expected him to blow retreat because her courses had arrived. Instead, he climbed into bed with her, and they'd cuddled and talked, about the elders—who had delivered such a drubbing to Uncle Malcolm? About Tommie, who appeared head over heels for Tabitha, and about anything and everything except Dashiel Ingraham's violent advances.

Tuesday dawned bright and mild. Lucien slipped from Penelope's bed and silently commanded her to sleep as late as she pleased to. He spent the morning with Uncle Theo, who'd come up with a plan to rearrange the home farm's sluice gates, the better to irrigate the kitchen garden.

The early afternoon was spent with Tommie, who was full of ideas for the gallery and even more enthusiastic about places Miss Tabitha might like to see during her London visit. Lucien sent Tommie on his way and wondered what Sir Dashiel would think of Tabitha marrying a mere mister.

When Lynnfield business had been attended to, Lucien had Lorenzo saddled and took a wandering path to the Roost.

"My lord." The butler, who'd been venerable in Lucien's youth, bowed slowly. "An honor, my lord. A noteworthy honor to see you on our doorstep. If you'd like to wait in the formal parlor, I will inform the baronet that he has a caller."

No seeing if the baronet was in, which would have been the routine fiction expected of a London servant.

"My thanks, Jenkins, but if Sir Dashiel is in the midst of something, I'm not in a hurry."

Mention of the man's name occasioned some blinking. "Very good, my lord. The formal parlor is this way." The butler's progress was stately in the extreme. Lucien took the opportunity to study the Roost's appointments. The place was tidy, but the wallpaper hadn't been changed since Lucien's boyhood and was thus faded from its once lustrous forest green to a sort of new-pea color. The landscapes and still lifes along the corridor hadn't been cleaned in some time, and the runner, while clean, was worn down the middle.

On the one hand, the Roost might simply be showing signs of Sir Dashiel's protracted bachelorhood. On the other, a paucity of coin also explained the details Lucien noted.

"Here we are, my lord." The butler opened the door to a sunny, pleasant parlor done up in much the same style as the marchioness's private retreat. Pastel blue and pink with white trim, dried hydrangeas on the mantel, lace curtains filtering the afternoon sun.

Though here, too, the carpet showed some wear, the dried hydrangeas were a bit bedraggled, and the curtain lace sported a few snags.

"Shall I bring a tray, my lord?" Jenkins asked.

"No need for that. This is a mere neighborly chat. I won't be staying long."

"I see." Jenkins creaked toward the door, then paused. "Might I presume to inquire, my lord, how Miss Tabitha is faring. We do miss her."

"She misses you, too, and daily threatens to trot over here and see that you're all managing. She is a delightful guest, we are spoiling her rotten, and London will soon be reeling with delight at her charm. We'll take very good care of her, Jenkins. I promise."

Now the old fellow was sniffing and blinking. "One is relieved to hear it, my lord. Wonderfully relieved. I shall inform the housekeeper, who has missed the girl terribly." He paused, a veined hand on the door latch. "Might I also presume so far as to offer felicitations on your lordship's safe return to Lynnfield? I am doubtless trespassing beyond all bounds of a butler's station, though my excesses might be excused considering the length and nature of your lordship's absence, when I say we are glad to have you home, sir."

He tottered off before Lucien could frame a reply. Like most butlers, Jenkins apparently knew a great more than he let on, and he clearly cared about Tabitha.

Lucien was admiring the view out the slightly dusty windows—a tidy formal garden complete with sundial, stone benches, and birdbath—when Sir Dashiel sailed through the door.

"My lord, good day. A pleasure and a surprise to see you at the Roost. I've informed the kitchen that the equivalent of two fatted calves are to appear instantly on the tea tray, or at least some sandwiches. I'm famished, so your call is timely. Do have a seat."

They were to take the hale and hearty route. Let bygone be bygones. No need to belabor any minor unpleasant moments. Very well. Lucien chose a corner of the blue tufted sofa.

"A busy time of year," Lucien said as his host took the only wing chair. "If I'd used more common sense, I would have come back to Lynnfield at the conclusion of harvest."

"But what need has a marquess for common sense, eh?" Sir Dashiel replied, smiling. "I'm surprised you aren't accompanying the ladies up to London, my lord. Your escort would lend Tabitha's arrival quite a bit of cachet."

Was that flattery or a hint that Lucien's presence in the neighborhood was de trop ? "London is always worth a look, but as it happens, Thomas has volunteered to see the ladies to Town. I will be reacquainting myself with Lynnfield's practical workings, and with my betrothed."

Sir Dashiel looked honestly pleased. "And who, precisely, has the honor of your affections, my lord?"

"My affections?" Lucien arranged his features to reflect puzzlement. "I'm fond of the whole lot at Lynnfield. Sweet souls, for the most part, though Cousin Lark tends to sermonize. When I refer to my betrothed, I mean Lady Penelope. She and I were matched years ago by the old marquess. He had our engagement reduced to settlement agreements and contracts and whatnot. Penelope is an heiress," he added, completely unnecessarily. "They aren't often permitted much sentimentality when it comes to marriage. You understand all about that, I'm sure."

Sir Dashiel's posture, chin propped on his hand, elbow braced on the arm of his chair, shifted. He sat up straight and began tapping a middle finger against the armrest.

"You and Penny are still betrothed?"

She's Lady Penelope to you, sir. "Have been for ages, I'm afraid. I thought you should know before there's more awkwardness. She probably forgot—we were quite underage when this arrangement was settled—but I've reminded her." Lucien added a bashful smile for good measure, while Sir Dashiel stared daggers at Lucien's cravat pin.

"Women don't forget things like that. I'd heard a few old rumors, but assumed they amounted to nothing. Penny went up to Town, and why do that if the young lady already has a match with a marquess?"

"To the world, I am Lord Lynnfield, but to Lady Penelope, I'm just Lucien. That fellow who bested her on horseback from time to time and who was always bringing up politics at supper. We'll rub along tolerably well, I'm sure, but I thought somebody should put you on to the facts. Decent thing to do and all."

Sir Dashiel swung his gaze to meet Lucien's apologetic eye. "I appreciate that your lordship is attempting to deal from honesty—so few people do these days—but you really need not have bothered. Penelope will be repudiating the betrothal agreement, as is her right."

"She will? Can she do that? Are you sure, Sir Dashiel?" The baronet apparently was sure, appallingly so, given the difference in their stations and the binding nature of legal agreements.

"Lynnfield, I'm the ruddy magistrate, for my sins. Trust me when I tell you that contracts executed when the parties are underage can be repudiated upon their majorities."

"I see. What if Penelope doesn't want to repudiate—was that the word?—this contract? She wasn't exactly encouraging your advances on Sunday, was she?"

Sir Dashiel offered Lucien a dazzling smile. "I bungled that. I concluded that Penelope wasn't much of one for protocol, that we had an understanding. In the way of such things, the details could be assumed, or so I believed. I'll put it right, and she will see the benefit of a union with me."

Sir Dashiel was much too confident of his appeal, considering he was at best solvent, he'd been turned down by the lady in no uncertain terms, and he was blithely dismissing the appeal of a wealthy, if somewhat dimwitted, marquess.

What in blazes is he up to? "I wonder where your sandwiches are," Lucien mused. "I grow light-headed when I'm peckish. Been known to fall off my horse if I go too long without food."

"Have you really? How unfortunate for you."

"Wasn't any too lucky for my hat either, and it was a new hat."

Sir Dashiel looked as if he was barely containing his laughter, which was precisely the effect Lucien was striving for. "One hears you enjoy the occasional game of chess, my lord."

"I do. I very much do. Do you play?" Lucien allowed the question to brim with eagerness.

"The occasional informal game only. I really do think you'd best accompany the ladies to London, my lord. Lady Penelope might be accepting my suit as soon as the assembly on Saturday, and you'll need to confer with your lawyers when that happens."

Whatever hold Sir Dashiel had over the marchioness, he somehow intended to extend his grasp to include Penelope too.

"Hadn't we best put the boot on the other foot?" Lucien asked. "I'll sort out the legal fellows, and then Penelope will be free to accept your suit or renew her agreement with me?"

"Sort the lawyers out by express. I might even go through the bother of a special license. By the time you return from London, her ladyship and I might well be enjoying wedded bliss."

Lucien rose and pretended to consider the hydrangeas. "She's stubborn, you know. Her ladyship can put artillery mules to shame when it comes to digging in her heels. Been that way all her life."

Sir Dashiel rose as well, as manners required when one held the lesser rank. "I can make her see reason, have no doubt of that. Penelope is fundamentally softhearted, and that collection of oddities you harbor at Lynnfield is very dear to her."

A frisson of dread prickled over Lucien's nape. "They are dear to me as well, and most of them are family or as near as makes no difference."

"Then you will be pleased to know that I have no intention of cutting Penelope's ties with her friends at Lynnfield. Her first duty will be to me and the Roost, of course, but one should remain cordial with one's neighbors."

Sir Dashiel was beaming, and Lucien was longing to throttle the man.

"Let's have a brandy," Sir Dashiel said. "I know the hour is early, but the day has been long, and it's not often that the Lynnfield peer graces the Roost with a call. I well know the disorientation that comes from returning home after a protracted absence. I sailed back from Spain, and you'd think Napoleon's army had crossed my acres. Place was a complete ruin."

He fiddled at the sideboard, eyeing decanters and lifting a glass stopper or two. "The occasion calls for a celebration—you do take spirits, I trust?"

"On occasion. Never too much. Spirits can muddle the old brainbox." Lucien mentally thanked Thomas for that term.

"So they can, but this brandy is not to be missed."

Dashiel's insistence on a brandy in the later afternoon was odd—a stirrup cup before a morning hack or a digestif after supper would have been more the thing—and his graciousness also had the quality of the serpent tempting Eve to sample the apple.

Perhaps the baronet wanted to gloat that Lucien had toasted an engagement between Penelope and Sir Dashiel? An odd boast, but then, Sir Dashiel felt his station in life keenly. He poured out two modest servings of dark amber potation.

"You've never had anything quite this fine," Sir Dashiel said, "and you never will again. Drink up."

More pressure to taste the apple, and perhaps a passing reference to Penelope's impending engagement to Sir Dashiel.

Lucien nosed his drink somewhat affectedly and got an intriguing surprise. The bouquet was exquisite, perfectly blending apples, caramel, vanilla, and a hint of spices. The aroma put him in mind of sentimental poetry read on a winter night beside a roaring fire, which was ridiculous.

Sir Dashiel waited while Lucien tried a sip.

"Tell me, my lord, is that not the most exquisite libation you've ever had the good luck to sample?"

"Quite lovely," Lucien said, admiring the play of sunlight on the glass's contents. "Quite, quite lovely. How on earth did you come by it?" The brandy was far too fine for a baronet who couldn't afford to have his paintings cleaned.

"That is a tale best left for another day, my lord. Suffice it to say, this brandy saved my life, and there isn't much of it left, alas."

The brandy was French . Lucien would bet his entire art collection on that. "I'm honored, Sir Dashiel. One envies you your cellar."

"And my future too. Penny will be very happy here at the Roost, and I'm sure you're of the same opinion."

Perhaps the brandy was some sort of truth potion, because Lucien was sorely, sorely tempted to share an honest assessment of just how a future at the Roost would suit Lady Penelope.

"My opinion doesn't matter," Lucien said, sipping primly. "Yours isn't of any moment either. We're the fellows. The choice belongs to the lady, and thus there's no point in either one of us putting on airs. May the best man win and all that."

"Very civil of you, my lord. Very logical."

Lucien lifted his glass in acknowledgment of the compliment, if a compliment it was. Sir Dashiel finished his brandy and returned the glass to the sideboard. More cordial blather followed, with Sir Dashiel alternately thanking Lucien effusively for hosting Tabitha's visit and urging Lucien to see the ladies up to Town himself.

Lucien allowed himself to be escorted to the front door by his fawning host and refrained from pointing out that a fellow had hoped to cadge a sandwich or two before riding back over the ridge.

He mounted up as Sir Dashiel waved him on his way and let Lorenzo saunter down the drive. At the gatehouse, Lucien stopped, turned his horse around, and considered the aging edifice that was the Roost.

Two aspects of the visit stood out to him. First, Sir Dashiel was up to absolutely no good where Pen was concerned. Whether he had a signed confession from the marchioness implicating her in highway robbery, or he'd found a trio of witnesses willing to attest that Cousin Lark was an accomplished forger, Sir Dashiel was certain of victory, despite Penelope's unequivocal refusal.

That was bothersome enough to give any besotted swain nightmares.

The second item on Lucien's list had to do with the brandy. The brandy didn't fit. Not with the fading wallpaper, the tired carpets, or the neglected paintings. Not with Dashiel's fundamentally avaricious character. That brandy was exquisite, well-aged, expensive, and French .

Lorenzo swished his tail at an imaginary fly and stomped a back hoof. Lucien could give no logical explanation for his next decision, but he sent Lorenzo ambling back up the drive in the direction of the Roost's somewhat dilapidated and understaffed stable. There, he found a groom and sent a note by way of the kitchen to old Jenkins.

Not five minutes later, Lucien had his reply. He cantered off this time, having no desire to linger in the vicinity.