Chapter 18

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Penelope was aware of the bed dipping as the scent of lavender wafted about her. Lucien.

"You're here," she said, opening her eyes to behold her beloved braced above her. His features were drawn, his hair damp and combed back, and he wore not a stitch. "Welcome home, Lucien. You caught me napping."

They weren't home home, of course—Lynnfield was home—but he'd come home to her.

"Lucky me." Lucien offered Penelope a soft, peppermint-flavored kiss on the lips. "St. Didier sends greetings. The rest of the family will be along in a few hours. I wanted you to myself for a time. I nearly took a nap in the bath."

The kissing recommenced, becoming exquisitely languorous. Then Lucien cuddled close, a warm and welcome blanket of much-missed lover. Penelope stroked his damp hair and gave silent thanks that he'd made the journey from Lynnfield safely.

She was trying to get a peek at the clock on the bedroom mantel—how long had she been asleep?—when it occurred to her that Lucien's breathing had become deep and even and his weight inert. As she rolled him to his back, he barely stirred.

"You poor, dear man." And despite his exhaustion, he'd bathed before coming to her. Penelope drew the covers up over him, tucked herself along his back, and schooled herself to patience.

The shadows in the room had lengthened considerably when Lucien stirred. He muttered something—agate, agata , perhaps a Spanish word?—and then he laced his fingers with Penelope's and kissed her knuckles.

"Guarding me while I dream of you, Pen?"

"Enjoying a snooze with you, my lord. You were up most of the night, I take it?"

"I had a long discussion with Uncle Malcolm, who condescended to scribble in a copybook lest I spend the evening playing charades with him. Very interesting discussion, too, given what Malcolm has observed on his rambles. I also had to finish Mrs. Burney's novel, lest you beat me to the end. Then too, I wrote out directions for Theo and the stewards, brought the ledgers up to date, and generally prepared for travel. I missed you."

He'd put his affairs in order, an exercise he was too familiar with for Penelope's comfort.

"And after an hour's nap, you're fighting fit again?" He'd had the same ability as a youth. Nod off for forty winks, then be immediately alert and ready for the next debate.

"Fighting fit, also loving fit, if my lady is so inclined."

Penelope eased her fingers free of his grip and went exploring. "You were dreaming of me."

He rolled to his back. "The reality is so much lovelier, but if you keep that up, the reality will be short-lived."

Short did not apply in any regard. Lovely surely did. "You are in my bed in broad daylight, Lucien. We are taking a risk."

"Shall I leave and come back at midnight?"

He'd do it, too, the wretch. "You shall not leave now, and you shall come back at midnight." Rather than allow him an opportunity for argument, Penelope straddled him and silenced him with kisses. He answered her in the language of caresses, sighs, and smiles, until Penelope was half mad with yearning.

"I missed you for so long, but, Lucien, had I known I was also missing this… The whole Continent would not have been large enough to hide you from my wrath."

He ceased his attentions to her breasts to brush a lock of hair back from her brow. "I've thought about that, about what if I hadn't gone, what if you had come with me, and it would have been wonderful, of course, but I would not have known the joy of our reunion, Pen. I would not have known that I could be useful to my country, in all my peculiarities and privileges. I would not have seen just how formidable you are when given room to manage life on your own terms. You found a good measure of happiness and purpose for yourself without any help from me, and for me to see that has been important."

Penelope's body hummed with longing, but her heart appreciated the words. "I needed you, Lucien. I need you, but you're also right. We grew, we changed, we are different and more for having weathered those years, but I never want to lose you again."

"Nor I you."

His determination was evident in his lovemaking, which progressed from leisurely and sweet to passionate and relentless, until Penelope gave up the debate and surrendered to pleasure. When he would have withdrawn, she wrapped her legs about his waist and stopped him.

"This time, you stay with me. Together, Lucien. Please."

He drew a fingertip along her lips. "You're sure? I have the special license, Pen."

"I'm sure, and I would be even without the special license."

Lucien was apparently sure, too, because he began all over again, building desire and delight to impossible heights, until Penelope could not resist the pleasure. To her amazement, pleasure shared with Lucien was truly pleasure multiplied. She floated in the warmth of his embrace, awash in contentment and wonder.

He remained above her, his weight on his forearms. "I should move. I've already fallen asleep on you once, and I have no excuse now save for complete, ecstatic satisfaction. Push me off of you for the sake of my pride."

Penelope hugged him. "Next time, I'll fall asleep on you."

He lifted his head. "Next time, Pen?"

"Oh, very well. We can take turns. The elders aren't due for hours, and I told the kitchen a cold collation would do for supper."

The moment called for lightness, for laughter and joy, but Lucien's expression sobered. "I have something to say to you."

Whatever he meant to say, he'd chosen a moment when Penelope could not busy herself inspecting a spotless mantel or adjusting the nearest curtain.

"Say it."

"I love you, Pen. Always have, always will."

Oh, Lucien . "I love you too. I tried to set my feelings aside, tried to distance myself, but it was no good. I prayed for your safety. I talked to you when you weren't there. I argued with you in absentia and seldom won. The love would not let me go."

"I hope it never does. I understand that now. The words are a gift, meant to be treasured. They can't promise anything, they don't come with conditions, but we get to keep them forever."

This had to do with his mama, assuring him of her love, then departing the earthly realm. "We have the words, and we have the love, and nothing can take that away."

They held each other for the space of three heartbeats, and then Penelope felt Lucien's mind catching at a thought.

"Do we even need the special license, Pen?"

"No, but the world needs us to use it at some point. Sooner would be better than later. I have plans for Tuesday evening, but other than that, my schedule is flexible."

He rolled, taking her with him. "As it happens, I have plans for Tuesday evening too. Would it be too gauche of me to acquaint you with my latest discussion with St. Didier? I am not properly dressed, in case you hadn't noticed."

"You will not be properly dressed until I assist you into your clothing, and I have no plan to undertake that task in the immediate future. What did St. Didier have to say?"

"He's in love with you too, poor sod. Or at least fiercely loyal. I like that, for the most part. In any case, Sir Dashiel is in Town, we know his whereabouts, the creditors have been notified, and, Pen, there's more."

As they cuddled this way and that, he told her about what Uncle Malcolm had seen and noted in his journal, about the brandy, about colluding with the French and inveigling the marchioness into delivering stolen goods.

"Her ladyship probably did it as a favor the first time," Penelope said, "then learned she'd been duped into trafficking in dangerously rare contraband. Sir Dashiel doubtless threatened to pin the whole thing on her and perhaps even arrest her for it."

"In addition to arresting Purdy, charging Theo with habitual drunkenness, having Malcom declared insane… You'd think a man with that much imagination could make a going concern of his inherited acres."

"You'd think a man with that great a capacity for underhanded schemes would have had his lights put out," Penelope replied, stroking Lucien's back. They'd returned to the Lucien-superior position, and sunlight was fading to shadows. "I'm growing peckish. We'd best get dressed."

"Must we? Such interesting things happen when I'm naked with you, Pendragon."

Penelope smacked his muscular bum, then petted him. "Interesting, scrumptious things. Seeing Sir Dashiel hauled away to the sponging house will be interesting, too, also a bit sad for Tabby."

Lucien hoisted himself to the side, then climbed from the bed. "We will make sure Tabitha isn't a witness to that part. Perhaps I should throw my clothing out the window. You could hold me hostage then and make me pay a ransom in kisses."

Penelope bounced to the edge of the mattress and sat up, feeling slightly dizzy. "Love makes you whimsical."

He drew her to her feet and hauled her into his arms. "Love makes me happy, Pen. Scarify-ingly happy."

"And honest," she muttered, nose pressed to his chest. "I'm a tad unnerved too, Lucien. Perhaps that special license is for us too."

He rested his chin on her crown. "Agreed. I love you."

Penelope kissed his cheek. "I will somehow resign myself to hearing those words from you as often as you care to give them to me. I love you too."

Her tummy growled, which made them laugh, and soon Lucien was lowering her afternoon dress over her corset and shift, and Penelope was fastening his sleeve buttons into his cuffs.

"I cannot have my marchioness padding about barefoot when I have to clomp around in my riding boots," Lucien said, peering around the room. "Where are your slippers, Pen?"

"Under the bed. They're lined in lamb's wool, and I vow I dread the thought of ever wearing boots again. I forgot I'd left them here the last time I was in Town."

Lucien produced the requisite footwear and ran his thumb around the soft wool tufted inside. " Lamb's wool."

Penelope took the slippers from him. "A baby sheep is called a lamb in English. We use the term oen in Welsh. What are you staring at?"

"I thought of something as I was falling asleep the first time . Lamb . St. Didier mentioned a monastery, St. Agnes of the Goats, but he was off. The brandy was stored at a convent, not a monastery. St. Agata's. Humble establishment, been there for centuries. Rambling old place that doubtless has vast and venerable cellars."

Penelope set the slippers on the cedar chest at the foot of the bed. "Why does this matter, Lucien?" Because it did, his abruptly serious eyes told her that .

"We'll need to revise our plans for Tuesday night. Let's find some food, and I will explain."

Food appealed, but even as Penelope passed Lucien his boots and accompanied him down the footmen's stairs to the deserted kitchen, she knew that food had also been offered up as a distraction. Lucien was organizing his thoughts, deciding the best way to present to her what had to be bad, if not awful, news.

Lucien had seen ballrooms from Saint Petersburg to Salzburg to Salamanca, and each one was unique. The fashions varied, as did the music, the topics under discussion, and even the dances preferred, but they'd all been lacking in one vital regard: Lady Penelope Richard hadn't seen those ballrooms with him.

She ascended the curving steps of the Moreland mansion on Tuesday evening, looking quietly resplendent in a gown of imperial purple velvet, a discreet dusting of amethyst pins in her hair. She'd chosen a half-up, half-down coiffure, both demure and feminine. A single amethyst on a purple velvet choker adorned her throat, and white gloves covered her arms past the elbows.

A corsage at her wrist combined a single violet orchid, thistles, and gentian in a cluster of pinks, blues, and lavenders. Let Sir Dashiel make what he would of the corresponding sentiments—love, determination, and victory.

They passed through the reception line without incident, Moreland greeting them as the old lion he was—tall, white-haired, with snapping blue eyes. His duchess, a statuesque blonde of mature years, conveyed genuine warmth toward Penelope.

"Your ladyship must keep a close eye on Lord Lynnfield," the duchess said. "He is not well acquainted with Mayfair's formal entertainments. Perhaps we'll remedy that oversight with your ladyship's assistance. "

A scold, but also a welcome. Lucien replied in the requisite platitudes, and the line moved on.

"We start with punch," Penelope murmured when the herald had announced them. "I thought that line would never move."

"Sir Dashiel will wait until there's no formal receiving line to get past," Lucien murmured as Penelope steered him to a side of a ballroom illuminated by blazing chandeliers and graced with the soft strains of one of Herr Beethoven's piano sonatas.

"Lord Valentine is playing," Penelope said, cocking her head. "He's wonderfully gifted, but limits his public playing. Sad music for a ball, though."

Lucien would have called it peaceful music, intended to blend into spoken conversations rather than do battle with exchanges shouted amidst a crush.

"The violins will commence soon enough, and I would dearly love to dance with you."

They were spared having to wait in line at the punchbowl by a footman who offered them glasses of champagne. That was Moreland's doing, no doubt, or his duchess's. Lucien would avoid any activity that kept him and Penelope pinned in a single location. They would not sit at the card tables, would not occupy a bench in the torchlit garden.

A moving target was harder to strike, and if Sir Dashiel had to track them down, then he made a target of himself while he was in pursuit.

St. Didier, by contrast, had been in earnest conversation by the door to the cardroom with an older lady, whose plumed headdress nodded slowly in time with Lord Valentine's adagio.

"Would my lady care to dance?" a tall, chestnut-haired gentleman asked—without benefit of an introduction.

"Westhaven, a pleasure." Penelope curtseyed, her smile radiant. "Doing the pretty for a change? Lynnfield, may I make known to you, Gayle, Earl of Westhaven. Westhaven, this handsome devil is my dearest friend Lucien, Marquess of Lynnfield. Westhaven rescued me from more than one fortune hunter, and I returned the favor where the diamonds and originals were concerned."

Pen had conspired with the earl to foil Society's machinations. As Lucien bowed, resentment flared, followed by grudging gratitude. Westhaven was Moreland's heir and would have been a suitable match for Penelope, and yet, he'd kept his handsome paws off of her and her money.

"Westhaven, my thanks for sparing her ladyship from tedium. Who guards you from the diamonds and originals now?"

"My countess." The earl's smile revealed a resemblance to his ducal father. "She guards me very, very well." For all his dignity, Moreland's heir had clearly made a love match. "I understand we might have an interlude of unscheduled entertainment later in the evening, courtesy of some mischievous baronet. Be assured that Their Graces will have all in hand and are likely looking forward to the excitement. If you will excuse me, somebody needs to tell Lord Valentine to cease his dirges and give us livelier music. A pleasure to see you, my lady, and to make your acquaintance, my lord. Mind the punch. Her Grace's recipe has ambushed bishops, and their heads are notably hard."

He glided off in the direction of the piano, a duke-in-training who was also, despite his reserved demeanor, a happy man.

"I thought he'd never surrender," Penelope said, "and one hears all sorts of stories about how he and his countess met, but no man will put the earl and his lady asunder, of that I'm certain. Try the punch."

Lucien complied. "Go carefully. Slowly and carefully."

They were still going slowly and carefully, fielding a few conversation sallies from the bolder beldames when Lucien spotted Moreland in conference with his duchess by an enormous spray of delphiniums. Her Grace's cordial expression never faltered as she leaned nearer her duke. She nodded, he patted her arm, and they parted like a pair of spies pretending they'd been discussing when to bring the coach around rather than how to move a herd of mules across an armed border .

"The baronet has arrived," Lucien said as a pair of footmen heeded some invisible signal given by the duchess and made straight for Lucien and Penelope. "Blighter broke every rule of polite behavior and crashed a duchess's gate."

"I forget which of the elders told me the high sticklers bear the closest scrutiny because they are usually dealing off the bottom of some deck or—he's at the top of the steps, Lucien, and trying to look nonchalant."

Sir Dashiel was largely succeeding. He'd turned himself out in regulation evening attire, complete with a red carnation boutonniere. He surveyed the ballroom as if looking for familiar faces while giving the entire assemblage a moment to behold him.

"I want to knock him arse over dancing slippers down those stairs, Lucien."

"We agreed to eschew violence, your dragon-ship."

Penelope set her half-empty glass of punch on a passing footman's tray. "You agreed. I made no such promise. Purdy is cowering behind a locked door, scared to death because of that man. The marchioness has been under his thumb for years at least."

The marchioness was doing a magnificent job of shepherding Tabitha about, and at present, Tabby was twirling down the room with a viscount's heir, bedazzling half the lordlings and spares who saw her.

"Let's greet him," Lucien said, "before Tabby sees him, before he can choose how to create a scene."

"I want to create a scene. A nasty scene, but I won't. He's coming down the steps."

"And trying to ignore us. Too bad for the baronet." Lucien offered Penelope his arm, and nearly had to trot to keep up with her progress among the other guests at the side of the ballroom.

They were met at the foot of the grand staircase by Sir Dashiel and no less person than Percival, His Grace of Moreland.

"Lady Penelope." Sir Dashiel bowed. "A pleasure. Lynnfield, a surprise. I have a few things to say to you, my lord, my lady, the first being that I come bearing a warrant for the arrest of one Calpurnia Richard on charges of felony theft."

Moreland, looking quite severe and a bit like his heir, pretended to examine the red gem winking from the folds of Sir Dashiel's cravat.

"See here, sir. You have trespassed on private property to violate the hospitality of this house. I don't care if you have a warrant for the arrest of the sovereign, you are not making a spectacle in front of my duchess's guests. To my study, you lot, now."

Former military. Lucien knew the tone, and so, apparently, did Sir Dashiel.

"My warrant is valid," Sir Dashiel retorted, but he got moving before the two enormous blond footmen could hasten him along.

"Would my lady prefer to remain in the ballroom?" Moreland asked.

"Not on Your Grace's life," Penelope muttered, charging after Sir Dashiel.

Lucien fell in behind Penelope, the duke at his side.

"Puts me in mind of Her Grace," the duke murmured. "Splendid marchioness you have there, Lynnfield."

The old matchmaking rogue. "So I do, and she has me."

One of the footmen opened the door to an opulently comfortable study sort of room. Laughter from the terrace below floated up through an open balcony door, and portraits of handsome young people—lordlings and ladies—adorned the walls. A painting of Her Grace as a younger woman with several children about her held pride of place over the mantel, and a massive carved oak desk sat before an equally splendid hearth.

A bouquet of pink roses on a table by the windows added a graceful touch, though the room was coolish.

Moreland motioned to the second footman, who closed the balcony door, a prudent measure.

"You, sir," Moreland snapped, "spouting off about warrants in the middle of a polite, private entertainment, introduce yourself. "

"Sir Dashiel Ingraham, late of the Raven's Roost, and I am on the king's business."

"On the king's business, are you? Well, you will be in my duchess's bad books if you think to cause any mischief this evening. A fate to be avoided, regardless of which king you claim you're serving. I will leave you to state your business to Lynnfield and Lady Penelope, but bear in mind that those two handsome louts in livery, upon whom my duchess dotes shamelessly, will be just outside the door. They have orders to quell any untoward disturbances. Lady Penelope, I bid you good evening."

"Your Grace will not support the king's man in the course of a lawful investigation?" Sir Dashiel asked as the duke turned to leave.

Of course Dashiel would want witnesses to his grand finale, and a duke was more than a witness. A duke was an arbiter of truth. If Moreland examined the warrant and found it valid, all of Society would find it so as well.

"Are you daft?" Moreland replied. "Half the peerage is about to be knocked on its collective fundament by Her Grace's punch. The other half will find itself engaged to be married before the good-night waltz if I tarry here. Besides that, my duchess has promised me a dance, despite all convention to the contrary. I'll send Westhaven to handle bets and referee the match, but my money is on Lady Penelope."

"Perhaps Your Grace might also send us St. Didier?" Penelope asked.

The duke bowed with exaggerated graciousness. "Of course, my lady. Shall I tell the Regent to step 'round as well? He makes a predictable appearance at midnight, in the tradition of all legendary curses, just as the buffet is put out. Perhaps you'd like me to flag down some strolling players while I'm wandering aimlessly about? You'll have Westhaven and St. Didier, but more than that will attract notice, and that we cannot have."

"Your Grace is not interested in seeing justice served?" Sir Dashiel said as the duke made another try for the door .

Moreland turned, and while a hint of humor had laced his earlier asperity, he was every inch the autocrat now.

"Cease your importuning. If it's justice you're after, then I trust Lynnfield to see to the matter. Wellington trusted him too. Still does. You'd do well to recall that. The sort of justice that does not rely on paste rubies for its cravat pin and mendacious warrants that threaten harmless, aging spinsters."

On that telling shot, Moreland took his leave. Westhaven strolled in, took a seat on a pink tufted Queen Anne chair, and consulted his pocket watch. St. Didier followed, and the footmen decamped, closing the door silently in their wake.

"Before these witnesses," Sir Dashiel said, "I inform you, Lady Penelope Richard, and you, Lord Lynnfield, that I have a warrant for the arrest of one Calpurnia Richard, late of Lynnfield Hall. She is suspected of having committed felony theft of a gold pocket watch inscribed to Mr. Roland de Plessis on the occasion of his twenty-first birthday. Anybody harboring said Calpurnia Richard will be considered to have interfered with a lawful investigation and be charged with abetting a known felon."

"You're wrong on the law," Lucien said, strolling across the study to the sideboard. "I could accuse anybody—even you, Sir Dashiel, of stealing a watch, and that does not make me a convicted criminal, much less a known felon." He managed to pass close enough to Sir Dashiel that he could have picked the man's pocket, had he chosen to.

Which, of course, he had not, despite the temptation to lift the warrant from Sir Dashiel's person and destroy it in the nearest fire.

"I am not wrong about Calpurnia's suspected activities," Sir Dashiel retorted. "Your best course, my lord, my lady, is to turn her over to me. I will see her held in reasonable comfort until she can be bound over for the assizes."

"At which time," Lucien said, "you will commend her to the keeping of some corrupt jailer until the quarter sessions. Not very gentlemanly, Sir Dashiel. Would anybody else care for a drink? Lady Penelope, I know strong spirits are not a lady's typical preference, but we find ourselves in an unusual and vexing situation."

"A medicinal restorative would be appreciated," Pen said.

"Sir Dashiel, Westhaven, St. Didier?"

Only Penelope joined Lucien in sampling Moreland's brandy. The vintage was excellent, but not on par with Sir Dashiel's stolen goods. This was fortunate, because one should not waste good brandy, and the look in Penelope's eye said that her serving was shortly to be tossed in Sir Dashiel's handsome face.

Which was the least he deserved.

St. Didier lurked by the window. Westhaven was ever so casually guarding the door on his pink-tufted throne.

"My lady," Lucien said, "you have the floor."