Chapter 15

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

"Lynnfield is coming to resemble a circus," Penelope informed her mare. "The marchioness is packing and repacking her trunks by the day or, more accurately, having her sorely tried lady's maid pack and repack. Tabitha remains in voluble good spirits, abetted by Lark, Phoebe, and Wren. Tommie keeps popping into the sewing room on any pretext, Malcolm glides about like a restless shade, Theo has taken up whistling , and Purdy frets."

Ursuline maintained her brisk walk away from the stable yard, but Penelope wasn't done with her lament.

"Dommie de Plessis had gone off to visit a sister in Bath, and thus returning the watch—why am I always charged with restoring the purloined goods to their owner?—is temporarily impossible."

Ursuline gently suggested that the time had come to trot, but Penelope kept her to the walk. "Lucien is preoccupied. He says I need my rest." For two nights, he'd not come to Penelope's bed, the blighter. "I'm not ill. What I need is him, his arms around me." She fell silent as Ursuline gained the wooded lower reaches of the ridge.

A night with Lucien was magic, even without lovemaking. He had a way of rubbing Penelope's lower back with an exquisitely firm touch that turned her boneless and sighing.

"I will tell him as much tonight, if I have to traipse down the corridor at midnight to do it."

Lucien's visit to the Roost had merely confirmed what they'd already known: Sir Dashiel was intent on mischief, and his objective was Penelope's hand—and fortune—in marriage. Whether Dashiel had known about the betrothal previously was immaterial when he was intent on ignoring it now.

Lucien had been preoccupied when he'd returned an hour ago from calling at the Roost, suggesting he hadn't disclosed the whole of the exchange to Penelope.

"I'd know if Lucien were packing his bags."

Ursuline made another polite suggestion, quickening her walk, unbidden.

"Oh, very well, but you keep to a ladylike canter."

A fine plan, except that before the mare had crested the ridge, Penelope had given her her head, and a sedate canter had escalated to a pounding, earth-shaking gallop. The trees whipped past, the cares of the day fell away, and Penelope emerged at the summit in a less gloomy frame of mind.

"You were right," she said, patting Ursuline's shoulder. "Blow away the cobwebs, and the troubles disappear too." For a time at least.

Ursuline shook her head and pranced a little. Let's do it again.

"Catch your breath, my girl, while I enjoy the scenery." And put off returning to Lynnfield for another quarter hour. The view was magnificent, Lynnfield in all its state glory presiding over a patchwork of fields, pastures, woods, and lanes.

Home , and showing to wonderful advantage, more wonderful because somewhere down there, Lucien was patiently listening to Theo's raptures about irrigation or having a word with the butler about the piping in the distillery.

"I do love him," Penelope murmured, patting Ursuline's shoulder again. "Very much." And that complicated life and simplified it too. The thought of Lucien disappearing again haunted her with irrational intensity, and even worse was the notion that Sir Dashiel might have some scheme in hand that would ensure Lucien's departure.

Penelope was about to turn Ursuline back the direction they'd come when Sir Dashiel emerged from the Roost's side of the hill. He rode the skinny bay, who'd apparently also been galloping, if lathered flanks and heaving sides were any indication.

Speak of the devil… "Sir Dashiel, good day."

"Penny. Might I hope you were wandering about up here on the off chance we'd meet?" He flashed her the smile Penelope was coming to hate. Superior, unctuous, and watchful at the same time.

"You may not. I simply needed some fresh air. Lucien tells me that you expect me to break my engagement to him and accept your proposal in its place."

Dashiel turned his gelding to fall in step with Ursuline. "Plain speaking, my dear, but the marquess does not lie. Somebody should tell him he's fair to a fault. I'm not sure the poor lad is clever enough to lie, to be honest. You and I will announce our engagement at the assembly the day after tomorrow."

Like hell we will. "After having pointedly refused your advances, why on earth would I change my mind?"

"You will waltz with me, and only with me, and then we will announce our betrothal, because if you refuse me, I will arrest Calpurnia for stealing Mrs. de Plessis's heirloom watch. Then I will bind dear Aunt Purdy over to stand trial at the assizes. I will have Malcolm put into an asylum—he's an imbecile, you know. Blood will out. Theo is a habitual drunkard, and if given some time, I'm sure I can come up with criminal wrongdoing on the part of the remaining oddities."

"Those oddities are my family."

"Lord Lynnfield said much the same thing and seemed utterly oblivious to the insult he did himself. The man's not too bright, Penelope. You truly do not want your children calling him father, and thanks to me, they won't be. "

The urge to slash at Dashiel with her whip flitted through Penelope's mind, and Ursuline danced a few steps sideways.

Think, Pen. Dashiel believes he has the upper hand. Think. "What of the marquess? Have you some dire mischief planned for him?"

"You're protective of him? Very sweet, but his lordship truly didn't fuss much when I told him you'd be tossing aside that old betrothal agreement. He does pride himself on his logic, for all he hasn't much in the way of cleverness."

"And yet, you are doubtless willing to attack him, too, if it means my fortune falls into your hands."

Dashiel's smile became, if anything, merrier. "Don't sell yourself short, my darling. I want you falling into my bed as well, though your fortune does have its appeal. Has nobody told you that Lynnfield spied for the French? His ability with languages served him well, and all the time he was pretending to buy snuffboxes and miniatures, he was carrying information for Old Boney."

He was not. "How could you know such a thing?"

"We heard everything in the quartermaster's office. Who had ridden a horse to death on dispatch, who was contemplating French leave because the woman he'd left behind had written that she was in an interesting condition. An English marquess scampering about in proximity to enemy forces could mean only one thing. If you'd like to see Lynnfield hanged as a traitor, then by all means, reject my suit."

As the horses walked the spine of the ridge and the shadows grew longer, Penelope comforted herself with the knowledge that Dashiel was bluffing. He could arrest Purdy and menace Malcolm and probably even bring charges against Theo, but threatening Lucien was a pure, reckless bluff.

Overconfident, yet again. "Can you prove Aunt Purdy is a thief?"

"Dommie de Plessis is ready to lay information, but I don't have to prove anything. The law requires only that I find probable cause to believe Calpurnia committed a crime. She will then be bound over to languish until the quarter sessions, and not a single person in this shire will object. The woman's a nuisance. Jails, in case you've never had occasion to frequent one, are lamentably violent, unhealthy places, and quarter sessions just passed, so your dear auntie is looking at weeks of incarceration."

Purdy would not survive the ordeal. Bodily, she might come through in one piece, but mentally…

"She stole nothing."

"She stole an exquisite heirloom pocket watch of great sentimental value. Mrs. de Plessis can name no other suspect, but she knows of several other occasions when items of value have gone missing after Calpurnia Richard paid a call. Very sad, very felonious."

Ursuline, a lady to her bones, snatched at the reins.

"You need to put better manners on that mare, Penny, or I'll take the beast in hand myself."

"She knows we've been too long away from home."

"Accommodate yourself to the fact that the Roost will soon be your home, my dear. I've been thinking of procuring a special license. Five pounds isn't too much to pay for a lifetime of wedded bliss, is it? Then too, the longer you bide at Lynnfield, the worse effect it seems to have on your disposition."

Lucien had spent the past two days pondering what specific threats Dashiel would use to coerce Penelope to the altar, and yet, so far, Dashiel had yet to mention the marchioness.

"Has it occurred to you, Dashiel, that Tabitha will depart for London in a very few days, and her fortunes there rise and sink on the Marchioness of Lynnfield's whim?"

"You believe the marchioness would serve me such a turn? Of all people, she is the last one who will thwart my wishes, Penny. Suffice it to say, her ladyship has more to fear from the local magistrate than anybody, but why are you so loyal to that lot? They practically advertise a legacy of bad blood. You're better off far, far from the whole sorry bunch."

In other words, Dashiel had convinced himself that he was doing Penelope a very great favor by threatening her loved ones, stealing her fortune, and appropriating her future and her bodily freedom.

"The Pritchards are an old and respected family both here and in Wales. You slander them at your peril, Dashiel."

" Sir Dashiel, my darling, unless we are very, very private, which we will soon be on countless occasions. I had it from the marchioness herself that the present titleholder's mother took her own life. Laudanum, of all the unimaginative measures. Grieving, supposedly, but doubtless as wanting for sense as her son clearly is. You will send off an epistle to the lawyers posthaste putting to rest any rumors about some musty old betrothal agreement."

Ursuline tugged subtly on the reins. "Lord Lynnfield's mother did not take her own life."

"He was a child at the time, so of course nobody would have told him the worst of it. He's still childlike, which does not speak well of the peerage, does it? Write to your lawyers today, Penny, and wear your prettiest frock for me on Saturday."

He looked as if he was contemplating a horseback kiss, an inanity he'd attempted before, and Penelope wanted to be sick.

"I cannot rescind a betrothal to a peer with a simple letter. The business wants legal draftsmanship and signatures and witnesses."

"Then see to it, because I've been patient long enough. Besides, you could not have been seriously considering marriage to such a dimwit, even if he is a marquess. He'd expect you to play chess on the wedding night, for pity's sake, and he's a traitor to the crown."

Penelope longed to argue, to fight, to whip the smile right off Dashiel's face.

Back away slowly, Pen. Now. The voice in her head was Lucien's at his most serious.

"I'll wish you good day, Sir Dashiel, and take this conversation into most careful consideration."

He saluted with his crop. "I knew you'd see reason. Until Saturday, my darling. I'll be counting the hours."

Penelope nodded and turned Ursuline down the track. When Dashiel's hoofbeats had faded, she cued the mare into the trot. Not the canter—Penelope was too distracted for the faster paces—but a brisk, businesslike trot.

When she returned to the manor, she made straight for Lucien's study, her heart thumping as if she'd just finished another hair-raising gallop. What she had to say left her angry, frightened, and ready to curse fate in several languages.

"You must leave, Lucien." She advanced on his desk, skirts swishing, even as she felt a pang to see him looking so much of a piece with his elegant, masculine study. "You must saddle Lorenzo as soon as darkness falls and get as far from Lynnfield as you possibly can."

Lucien was on his feet before she'd finished speaking, and then his arms were around her. "I'm not going anywhere without you."

"Yes, you are. You must." Penelope began to cry as she hadn't cried since she'd lurked in the orchard all those years ago and watched him canter out of her life.

"Pen, please don't cry. You break my heart. Calm yourself, fy nghariad ." Broke his heart and terrified him. Pen wasn't given to lachrymose dramatics, and damn anybody who drove her to them.

She lifted a tear-stained face from his shoulder and glowered at him. "Don't call me your love thinking to distract me, Lucien. I met Sir Dashiel on the ridge, and his schemes exceed all bounds. If I refuse to marry him, he'll have Purdy arrested for theft and bound over for the assizes. She's guilty as charged, drat the luck, and transportation isn't out of the question, if she even survives to stand trial."

Lucien led his beloved to the sofa. "I can have Aunt Purdy in Scotland by Monday." He'd even managed to sound halfway calm.

Penelope sat, accepted Lucien's handkerchief, and dabbed at her eyes. "You'd best escort her, and take Malcolm and Theo too. Malcolm is to be confined as a lunatic, and Theo is a habitual drunk. Cousin Lark is doubtless a scold, Wren a counterfeiter, and Phoebe a housebreaker. Dashiel is the magistrate—though I'm to call him Sir Dashiel unless he's rutting on me—and he can wreak all this mischief in the king's very name."

Lucien dropped down beside her, felled by Penelope's furious recitation. "He will never… If that presuming rodent lays a hand on you, I will gut him."

"Not if I beat you to it."

Pen's anger reassured Lucien inordinately. "Dashiel is desperate," he said. "St. Didier writes that the baronet is bobbing about in the River Tick and has been for some time. The report arrived today. Dashiel will prettily beg this merchant for a bit more time and send a few pounds to that one, then open up a new account with an unsuspecting bootmaker who's pleased to have a baronet's custom. He seems to have a bit of coin in the spring, which makes no sense when most gentry see an influx of cash only around harvest."

Penelope rose and paced before the desk. "He's anticipating a huge influx of cash the moment he dragoons me to the altar. I nearly horsewhipped him, Lucien, and you were right that he apparently has some desperate hold over the marchioness. He bragged about it. Said she'd be the last to gainsay him."

The marchioness went to London each spring. Coincidence? Was she paying off his bills? Pawning her jewelry to keep him afloat?

Lucien retrieved St. Didier's report from the desk. "I'd like you to read this when you can give it your full attention. I noticed that if Dashiel paid any bills, he did so between late March and mid-May."

Penelope took the report. "When her ladyship is in Town. This explains why Tabitha has rusticated at such length. Dashiel doesn't dare get in hock to the modistes and milliners on top of everything else." She set the report on the mantel. "None of this truly matters, though."

"Dashiel can be jailed for debt. He isn't a peer. That matters."

Penelope came to a halt and crossed her arms. "Dashiel claims you spied for Bonaparte, said the quartermasters heard everything. A marquess fluent in several languages flitting about France with impunity and pretending to collect art had only one explanation. This is why you need to leave, Lucien. Get to Scotland or France or Portugal. Dashiel truly does have the upper hand."

Penelope believed he did, and that was bad enough. "Purdy's situation notwithstanding, in my case, Dashiel doesn't remotely have the truth."

She studied him, expression solemn, and Lucien realized that Penelope would not care if he had spied for the French. She'd have trusted that he'd had his reasons and let little bygones like treason and abetting the enemy be bygones.

"He has credibility," Penelope said, stalking to the sideboard and sniffing the stoppers of each of the three decanters one by one. "He bragged about that too. He made me cry, the blighter. I could horsewhip him for that too. Theo is a sot, and so are half the gentlemen I danced with in Town. Purdy borrows trinkets without permission, albeit not to keep. The very realm of which we are subjects prospers by plundering its colonies, but let's not mention that, shall we? Dashiel has to remove you from the equation, so of course he'll tell any convenient lie about you that he pleases. That Dashiel would threaten our Malcolm, though… How dare he, when Malcolm's sole offense is that he's quiet?"

She poured two generous measures of a fine old Andalusian brandy and brought Lucien one.

"He dares because he can," Lucien said. "Whatever mischief Dashiel got up to in the quartermaster's ranks, the only consequence was passage home. Nobody in the local surrounds will confront him, and he's too smart to go near London."

Penelope nosed her drink. "Maybe you should go to London. He'll be reluctant to follow you there."

"To your health," Lucien said, gesturing with his glass, "and to Sir Dashiel's comeuppance."

Penelope drank to that and with no missish airs. "He will attack you, Lucien. He knows I'm fond of you. We can send Malcolm, Theo, and Purdy to Scotland, but getting you out of the picture has to be on Sir Dashiel's agenda too."

"I did not spy for Napoleon, Pen. The deaths that fiend caused, the destruction of his own country, the pillaging and slaughter… While Sir Dashiel sat on his horse, safely counting barrels of rum far from any battlefields. What I saw, by contrast, will haunt me until my dying day."

"And you pretended you were haggling over snuffboxes." She sipped her drink again. "You cannot stay at Lynnfield, Lucien. I hate the notion of parting from you ever again. I dread it. I'm sick at the very thought, but you must listen to me."

The brandy was exquisite, benefiting from a unique blending process that used spirits of varying ages to create a mature, complex, luscious result, and yet, all Lucien sought was the burn.

"Dashiel does want me gone, you are correct," he said, setting his half-empty glass beside St. Didier's report on the mantel. "He urged me at least three times to accompany the marchioness to Town. With me out of the picture, you are without a champion, meaning no disrespect, and it's you Dashiel is determined to marry."

"By special license, the rotter. Five pounds to buy him a lifetime of wedded bliss."

More evidence of desperation. "I can buy up his debts, Pen. In fact, I've already begun that process."

"He can arrest Purdy tonight , and she's guilty, Lucien. She told me so herself, and Dommie de Plessis, her supposed victim, has gone to Bath, so I can't return the watch and claim the whole business is yet another misunderstanding."

Weariness came through in that recitation, and weariness could be a harbinger of defeat. "You go to London," Lucien said slowly, the words as unnerving as they were sensible. "Dashiel won't expect that. I'll remain here, tending to business as usual. You take Purdy, Malcolm, Theo, and the others and get up to Town tonight. The marchioness and Tabby can follow on Monday as planned. "

"Leave Lynnfield? Leave you here at Lynnfield to deal with that boar hog in breeches?"

Lucien pushed that image aside and mentally examined his own suggestion. "I've dealt with worse. For you to decamp gives us an element of surprise and takes the fight off Dashiel's preferred turf. I have allies in Town more highly placed than Dashiel can dream of."

"I thought His Grace of Huntleigh was on his wedding journey?"

"He is, but His Grace of Wellington bides in England. If he's not in Town, he's no farther away than Stratfield Saye House, a day's journey into Hampshire from London."

Penelope's temper appeared to give way to surprise. "Lucien? Are you telling me you can summon the Duke of Wellington?"

"‘Summon' overstates the matter, but I'll have His Grace's support if I need it. I was very good at playing the wealthy, titled English fool, Pen. I don't intend that either of us play the fool for Sir Dashiel. You have been very good at being anything and everything Lynnfield needed. You took every burden onto your own shoulders, from keeping the house to keeping the peace. You were prepared to sew Tabitha's whole wardrobe yourself if you had to go two weeks without sleep to do it. This time, it's you who must blow retreat."

He'd spoken in plain English, but Pen regarded him as if he'd dropped into some arcane dialect of Latin.

"You expect me to leave Lynnfield?"

"Leaving Lynnfield is hard," Lucien said. "I know how hard, but retreat is not surrender, and you will find safety in numbers if the household goes to Town with you." Perhaps she'd find comfort in numbers, too, as Lucien had found comfort under Huntleigh's roof.

"I don't want to go," Pen murmured, running her finger around the rim of her glass. "I truly don't want to leave Lynnfield, Lucien. I hate London, and you've fought too many battles in solo combat too. I don't want to leave Lynnfield and I assuredly don't want to leave you. You don't even take snuff."

Which had nothing to do with anything, but was indicative of Pen ruminating on a decision. "I didn't want to go either," Lucien said. "Not truly, but I was young and at my wits' end." And so in love he hadn't known up from otherwise.

Before he could find words to convey that truth, the door opened.

"Oh, don't mind me." Tommie sidled into the room. "Came by to borrow the big abacus. Had an idea. We could loan out art to all the gentry coming into Town for the Season. Charge 'em a bit for some genuine, high-quality pieces, help them do the pretty for their entertaining without breaking the bank, then put the pieces back in inventory or ship them off to a gallery in Scotland or York. Renting art. I don't know as it's done, but warehousing the goods costs money. Renting brings in money. Are we having an aperitif? Pen, you look a bit peaked, also piqued. All that sewing must be driving you daft."

"Renting art is a fine idea," Lucien said. "A lucrative, fine idea, Thomas. I will be pleased to discuss it with you at some other time."

"But that's the thing," Tommie said, propping a hip against the desk. "We haven't another time. You're promised to Theo and the steward tomorrow, Saturday is the assembly, Sunday is final preparations for the jaunt to Town, though we're not supposed to be exerting ourselves on the Sabbath."

"Tommie," Penelope said, "we have greater concerns than how quickly you can afford to propose to Tabitha. Her brother will never give you leave to court her unless I agree to marry him, and I am unwilling to accept his suit."

Tommie looked from Penelope to Lucien and back to Penelope. "Varlet. Don't care for the man myself, though he's Tabitha's brother. She says she hasn't a dowry because Dashiel had to spend it on seed. He purloined the older sisters' settlements as well. He spent it on those wretched hunters, Hoby boots, gold cravat pins, and French sleeve buttons. A gent don't dress in the first stare of even rural fashion for free. The man's a thief. Theo could tell you stories."

Not for the first time, Lucien had the sense of seeing Tommie anew. "What sort of stories?"

"Bribes, of course. Justice of the peach, they call him in the village. He's bribed witnesses to shore up his cases and looked the other way for coin. I know it happens, but it wasn't happening here until he joined the Commission of the Peace. Theo has the details, and Cousin Lark has picked up a few tales too. Heaven alone knows what Malcolm has seen and heard on his rambles, and he might be willing to swear out an affidavit if he can't exactly testify from the witness box."

Lucien felt an odd frisson of joy. Surprise figured into his emotions too. "You've been keeping Sir Dashiel under surveillance?"

"He likes to accost Penelope when she's stealing some solitude on horseback. Malcolm noticed it first. We don't care for that sort of behavior."

Penelope sank into the chair behind Lucien's desk, and he liked the look of her there. She was calmer and more thoughtful than she'd been even a quarter of an hour ago, and yet, Lucien wasn't ready to let her go bustling away on some domestic errand.

"Thomas, would you excuse us for a moment?" Lucien asked. "Take the abacus, and we'll talk about your art rental tomorrow after breakfast."

"I thought perhaps after supper—"

"Tommie, go," Penelope said, shifting back to her perch on the sofa. "Explain your scheme to Tabitha, and she will think you the cleverest fellow in England."

"Might she? Might she, really? Don't see why. Tenants have been renting land for generations, and it's always the squire who profits. Nothing very original about renting. The squire keeps the rent and the land, the tenant does the work. Should be illegal, but there you have it."

"Shoo," Lucien said, opening the door. "We'll see you at supper." He closed the door after Tommie went muttering on his way. "What are you thinking, Pen?"

"I don't want to go to London."

"I don't want to let you out of my sight either." Hated the very notion.

"But here we are." She patted the place beside her. "I keep thinking about the last time one of us left, Lucien. We didn't fight then. You let the tutors and solicitors and matchmakers drive you from your home, and I let you go."

"I certainly blew retreat." Though Pen's words were more accurate. He'd not retreated that time. He'd quit the field altogether. A defeat of sorts, if not a complete rout.

"Maybe this time, I do have to be the one to leave. I cannot believe I said that, but you are right that Dashiel won't expect such a maneuver. Lady Penny adores rural life. Ask anybody."

Lucien crossed the room to sit beside her. "We didn't fight. We were too young, too inexperienced. I've been to war, though, and you've fought battles without number here at Lynnfield. If you tell me that you are determined to marry Sir Dashiel, that is your decision, but it won't solve anything. Nobody in this shire will be safe once the baronet gets his hands on your fortune. I cannot allow Dashiel to prosper, whatever you decide."

"To marry that man, to be his wife…" She shuddered. "Defeat on that scale is unthinkable. I'll go anywhere you wish to take me, Lucien, if we need to regroup and take stock, but I say we fight."

I love you. He kissed her hand and kept hold of it. "I agree. This time, we fight." I love you. I will always love you.

"And we win free," Penelope said, "or we go down swinging, and cursing in Welsh so loudly they'll hear us in Cardiff."

"We'll win," Lucien said, as much a prayer as a prediction. "But Thomas has me thinking."

"You excel at thinking. He's a clever lad, our Tommie."

"He is, and a sweet fellow, and I will dower Tabitha if her idiot brother has truly bankrupted her. Tommie is clever, Malcolm observant, Lark well informed, Theo well liked. St. Dider has given us interesting ammunition too."

"You're saying we shouldn't fight alone. I like that notion, and I suspect the elders will love it." She started to rise, doubtless intent on sallying forth and rallying the troops, but Lucien stopped her with a hand on her wrist .

"Before we make battle plans, would you stay with me here for a bit? Once we decide on next steps, life will become busy and fraught, and if we divide and conquer, we'll be parted for a time. I want… I need to hold the woman I love."

He'd fallen short of the traditional declaration, but Penelope sparkled as if he'd spouted odes and panegyrics.

"How convenient. I need to hold the man I love." She bundled close, and Lucien's joy was almost limitless.