Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

Penelope rose to the cheerful din of springtime birdsong and to a puzzling sense of relief. Lucien was home—that was part of the relief—but there was…

Ah. She had resolved to disabuse Sir Dashiel of any wayward matrimonial notions. The situation had weighed on her more than she'd admitted, but Lucien had given her a nudge in the direction of clear thinking. That Sir Dashiel had sold his commission just as Wellington was making some headway across Spain had puzzled everybody, but the baronet had come home to the requisite hero's welcome all the same. Dashiel had heirs—a cousin or three in Surrey—and his sisters were settled with the exception of Tabby.

Pilfering, of all the foolishness. Helping himself to the general stores and causing mischief like some churchyard gossip. There were worse crimes, but such behavior was unworthy of any officer. As for the French lace, the less said the better. An effective countermeasure by some fellow officer who'd had enough of wasted resources and false accusations.

Penelope rebraided her hair, chose a sensible day dress, then chose one a bit less sensible, then stuffed them both back into her wardrobe and donned her riding habit. She took her first cup of tea on her bedroom balcony, swaddled in her shawl and pleasant memories.

Lucien, sitting on the floor like a tailor's apprentice, as if he wasn't sixty-eighth in line for the throne. Lucien, asking, with that particular detachment he adopted when a question mattered, if Sir Dashiel was a problem. Lucien, tending the fire like an underfootman. Lucien, asleep on her sofa, wrapped in her shawl.

"How I have missed him." Missed him as she'd miss a best friend, a confidant, a boon companion, because he'd been all of that. She'd forgotten, though, that Lucien also had a protective streak.

Is Sir Dashiel a problem?

He might well have become one. Penelope would find a way to dissuade the neighborhood baronet from making a cake of himself, though the matter wanted thought.

The new day, however, called for a good gallop. She spread butter and jam on a thick piece of toast and made for the stable, where she found Lucien perched on the mounting block. The moment was prosaic—gentleman lounging in the stable yard on a gorgeous spring morning—but her heart leaped all the same, and that was as disconcerting as it was inevitable.

He was home. He had not abandoned her. He'd looked for a way to free them both from Lynnfield's demands. Foolish young man. Brave, daring foolish young man, and now he was home, not as young and no sort of fool.

"Penelope, good day." He rose and bowed over her hand. "I could not face breakfast with the elders. I'm out of practice."

"They aren't as lively as they used to be. Theo's habitually sore head makes him as quiet at breakfast as Malcolm. The flock usually breaks their fast in the dower house, and Tommie likes to read the paper."

"What of Aunt Purdy?" Lucien posed the question in Welsh, and to hear Welsh again, and from him, was luscious .

Penelope answered in the same language. "Aunt Purdy reads the Society pages while Tommie reads the financial pages, then they switch. The marchioness and I generally discuss the schedule for the day or week and any looming events."

Grooms led horses in from a night at pasture, stopping by the water trough some yards away. Morning sun glistened on verdant grass, and the last of the daffodils along the stable's north-facing wall bobbed gently.

Another morning at Lynnfield, but special too.

"Purdy reads the financial pages?" Lucien asked, sending a glance toward Lynnfield's stately fa?ade. "That's new."

"She hordes fripperies because she had to leave so much behind in Wales, or that's Theo's theory. The financial pages interest her. She invests her widow's mite here and there and has done quite well. Her less attractive behaviors haven't been as frequent since her funds began increasing."

Lucien was bareheaded, and Penelope spied his top hat on the ladies' mounting block. She retrieved his millinery and positioned it on his head.

Before she stepped back, Lucien put a hand on her sleeve. "You started Purdy on the investing, didn't you, Pen? You used to pore over the financial pages."

She still read them when everybody else had finished with them. "I have funds, and I like to know how those funds are faring, so yes, I made some suggestions. The solicitors obliged, and the results have been encouraging. Purdy still borrows a pocket watch or brooch from time to time, but not nearly as often as she used to."

"Thank you. Purdy's larceny gave me nightmares. If she stole from the wrong party, she could end up being hauled before the assizes, and that would never do."

The horses were led out, Penelope's chestnut mare and a dark bay gelding.

"Good morning, Lorenzo," Penelope said, stroking the bay's nose. "How is he settling in? "

Lucien took up the girth a hole. "He's a well-traveled beast, though lately he's been biding in Town. Some ruralizing will suit him. His Magnificence is rising eight and blessed with a very good opinion of himself, which is mostly justified. He will purr if you offer him an apple."

"This is Ursuline," Penelope said, gesturing to the mare. "Nobody wanted her because she wasn't quite built for the plow, and she's tall to be a lady's mount."

"Tall and solid. Is she sensible?"

"Very, and honest to a fence. We suit." She scratched the mare's chest, which occasioned some undignified lip-wiggling from the horse. "I've known her to enjoy oranges, pears, and grapes."

"She has your appetite for fresh fruit. Up you go." Lucien passed Lorenzo's reins to the groom and led Ursuline to the taller mounting block. "I know a young lady whose favorite friends are a pair of carved wooden bears. She sleeps with them under her pillow and calls them her Ursulas, though they are properly referred to as Ursa Major and Minor. Her pet dragon, also carved of wood, stands watch on the bedside table each night."

What did it mean, that after all these years, Lucien recalled Penelope's love for fresh fruit? "Would this imaginative young lady be your daughter, my lord?"

He tugged on Ursuline's girth and apparently found it sufficiently snug. "I have no children, Pen. My travels did not lend themselves to those sorts of attachments."

And yet, he knew the child's bedtime routine. "Who is she?"

"My former employer's cousin of some sort. Let's be on our way, and I'll tell you the whole story."

A fair offer. Penelope settled into the saddle and took up the reins. Lucien arranged her skirts, a courtesy a gentleman was expected to perform while the lady controlled her mount. He had a word with Jeffers, the groom on duty, and swung into the saddle.

"Lead on, my lady. I want to renew my acquaintance with the whole estate, but one morning is insufficient for that undertaking. I am at your command."

"Let's start at the top of the ridge. I will never tire of that view."

They walked their horses from the stable yard, the mare and gelding clip-clopping side by side onto the lane that led to the home farm.

"How is it a peer of the realm was in another man's employ?"

"Do you want the polite version or the less flattering tale?"

The serious note in his question bothered her. "I want the truth."

"What follows is a confidence, Pen, but you have long held my confidences. The honest label for much of what I got up to is ‘spying.' The word is ugly, and the reality can be too. The military likes to pretend that spying is cheating. That wars are won by good, honest slaughter of one's fellow man, by marching the enlisted men to death for the sake of Merry Olde, or blowing up siege walls that have stood for centuries. That's honorable warfare for you. A sanguinary challenge for true men. Skulking about behind enemy lines, capturing the enemy's dispatches, and cozening his generals' servants in their weak moments is not done."

"Except it is?"

"No officer worth his rank wants to be responsible for avoidable bloodshed, and all the marching and arming and victualing is damned expensive. Wellington relied on reconnaissance officers whose work consisted of observing territory and reporting back to headquarters. The Spanish did a magnificent job of intercepting French dispatches for us. For the truly dirty jobs, His Grace relied on spies."

The morning, among the prettiest Kent had to offer, lost some of its shine as the track turned up a wooded incline.

"Some of those jobs fell to you, though you are a peer and left England without an heir." Why on earth take such risks? Lucien wasn't fanciful, nor was he irresponsible.

"I left England when I was thinking none too clearly. The art collecting began without any particular intention on my part, then a colonel on leave took me aside and explained that I was well placed to be of assistance to the crown on a particularly delicate matter."

Why would Lucien, whose thinking was prodigiously clear and quick…? Oh dear . "You missed Lynnfield."

He brushed a glance over her. "I missed you , more than I thought possible. I labored under some mistaken impressions, and—lest we forget—I was young and pigheaded. Enough said on that topic. Nobody would suspect a man in my circumstances, a peer of the realm, a hobbyist polyglot overly attached to his chessboard, to be on the king's business. I was safe enough most of the time."

Penelope's Welsh was rusty, but she had an excellent command of common sense. Clearly, Lucien had risked his life, repeatedly, and without the protection of an officer's uniform.

"This is why you didn't come home? You were defeating Napoleon, one pawn, one rook, one dusty portrait or silver tea service at a time?"

They left the trees near the crest of the long ridge that bordered the western edge of Lynnfield proper. The track continued at an angle to the ridge, ascending more gradually.

"In that business, Pen, you adopt a role and try to become it. I went into the game thinking I'd try my hand, translate some purloined dispatches, get the French general's groom drunk, and have some stories to tell in my dotage, assuming I survived to enjoy a dotage. But the stakes are so high and the prizes to be won enormous. Battles averted or won versus battles ending in a rout. Weeks of supplies for the French stolen, weeks of our supplies carried off by brigands. A war within a war and not a shot fired. One is seduced into thinking one matters."

"You did matter. You do matter." Ye gods, if she'd lost him and Henry… Penelope turned her face to the sun and sent up a prayer of gratitude that Lucien had come home. Not that he'd come home to her and Lynnfield, or that he'd come home hale and handsome, but rather, that he'd come home at all .

"I ended up in Italy, and because I spoke the language well, and not many Britons do, I spent much of the war there. I was safer in Italy than I'd been in France and Spain—though if anybody asks, I was never in France while hostilities raged—and I took up employment as the majordomo to an English sculptor."

"Not His Grace of Huntleigh? You were a duke's butler ? Lucien, that would be humorous if it wasn't so outlandish."

"He wasn't His Grace of Huntleigh when our paths crossed. He was a tired, grouchy, talented artist whose staff was stealing him blind. He knew it and didn't care, and that drove me nigh to Bedlam. He was so enthralled with his marble and alabaster and clay… Somebody had to take him in hand, and the exercise brought much-needed balance and order to my life as well."

"His Grace is on his wedding journey, isn't he?"

"He is, and his advice to me was that I should do exactly as I had advised him to do and go the hell home."

In Welsh, the profanity wasn't as harsh. "You've been in England for months, and you didn't think to come to Lynnfield?"

"I passed through the neighborhood, saw that all was prospering, and returned to my duties in London. I did not venture onto the estate itself for fear of seeing familiar faces, but by God, this view is wondrous, and I have longed to see it again."

The conversation had been lovely too. Honest, a bit rambling and unexpected, but personal. When was the last time Penelope had had a personal discussion with anybody? Her exchanges with Malcolm halfway qualified, which was a compliment to Malcolm and a pathetic comment on her social life.

"Are you home to stay, Lucien?" Please say yes.

"I am, much to my surprise. I expected to look in on matters here, sort out a few issues, and… I don't know what I thought I would do with myself. I was so homesick and so determined not to admit it, but here you are, and when I'm with you, I have no dignity. Only embarrassing quantities of honesty. How about you preserve me from further mortification and tell me how you've managed all these ye ars and how you're planning to put an end to Sir Dashiel's matrimonial campaign?"

"I haven't worked that out yet," Penelope said, "but something will come to me that preserves his pride and my reputation. In all those years away, Lucien, wasn't there anybody special?"

He brought his horse to a halt at the very top of the hill and gazed not at the glorious patchwork of pastures, fields, and forests spread out beneath them, but at Penelope.

"There was you, Pentimento. There was always and only you."

"Your ladyship, good day." Leopold St. Didier bowed to Rhian, Marchioness of Lynnfield, in an abundance of caution.

Lynnfield Manor was one of the least formal peerage establishments he'd come across, and the older generation could be shockingly casual. Marchionesses as a species were nonetheless due considerable deference, even at the first meal of the day.

"Mr. St. Didier, do have a seat." Her ladyship presided over the head of the table, the room's sole occupant. "The household is quite at sixes and sevens, but you may depend on the breakfast parlor for peace and quiet until well after nine of the clock. Are you missing London?"

He settled at her right hand. "No, actually, and yet, one feels one should not be away from the place too long."

"Precisely. The beating heart of good society, the universal nexus of art and culture, the best place to shop. How does anybody stay away?"

St. Didier poured himself a cup of steaming China black. "The unrelenting stench of coal smoke and, worse, the noise, the wretched poverty, and human misery?"

"Serious conversation at the breakfast table is bad form, young man. I knew your mama. She would scold you roundly for such observations, and yet, you do have a point. One doesn't long for London, exactly. One longs for Mayfair and its surrounds. Fill your plate, and we will establish our mutual acquaintances."

She liked giving orders, did her ladyship. St. Didier disliked taking orders, but he'd learned to tolerate them of necessity. Besides, he was hungry. Fresh country air and all that. He served himself some omelet and a few slices of ham and took a generous bowl of orange sections as well.

"How is it you knew my mother?"

"Her godmother was Lady Paloma Essington until Lady Paloma became Lady Barnstable. Her ladyship and I attended the same select academy for two interminable years, and the connection was formed. Being a godmother is somewhat like being a grandmother, without the tedious family gatherings. Lola and I spoiled our godchildren competitively. Why aren't you married, Mr. St. Didier?"

St. Didier tucked into his eggs. "I am flattered to believe you'd ask me that, whether I was the head gardener or a royal duke."

"Spring turns an old lady's thoughts to matchmaking. Lucien is home, and as soon as Mayfair grasps that he's back in Britain, a stampede of heiresses and originals will renew their acquaintances with me. Good of him to reappear while I still have my wits about me."

Nobody could accuse the marchioness of subtlety. "His lordship is young yet, and he'll need some time to take up the reins here. He's been in London since autumn, from what I understand, and in spring, a young man's thoughts can turn to preserving his bachelorhood."

The marchioness sipped her tea, the gesture conveying disapproval. "His lordship was off traveling for years, sir. Years. Lucien is my great-nephew, not my son. My late husband and I did not see any of our children survive to start their schooling, much less arrive to adulthood. Lucien might be similarly cursed. He needs to get on with his responsibilities and to blazes with skulking about on the crown's business. Undignified business, at that. At least he bought some lovely art while he was up to no good."

St. Didier hid his shock behind the complicated process of selecting an orange slice. "Skulking about on the crown's business, my lady?" One suspected, of course, but one did not mention such suspicions. Not at the breakfast table and not at the club two hours past midnight when only close friends were at hand.

Not that St. Didier had close friends or frequented clubs in the small hours.

"Oh, don't take that tone with me, Mr. St. Didier. I hear all the gossip. All of it, and when half of Mayfair had sons, nephews, and grandsons in uniform, letters supplemented the talk. Lucien was positively identified in Bordeau when he was supposedly writing to me from Berlin. I could go on, but suffice it to say I do not appreciate Fat George putting the Lynnfield succession at risk, but that's precisely the sort of game Prinny plays. All lark's tongue in aspic on the surface and a lot of deviltry beneath. He would love to get his pudgy hands on Lynnfield, and then we'd all have to remove to Finbury and impose on Penelope."

"I have never been served lark's tongue, in aspic or otherwise, and I hope to die in that state of grace. More tea, your ladyship?"

"You are changing the subject. Somebody put the manners on you, but there are times, young man, when manners are an obstruction. I've said the same thing to Sir Dashiel, who thinks his gentlemanly airs will impress our Penelope. The fellow has her on some sort of pedestal, I fear, and Penny will miss her chance if she's not a bit more forthcoming."

From spying to matchmaking. Who said country life was dull? "I am not well acquainted with Sir Dashiel, but he seems to enjoy a good opinion of himself."

"Penny thinks well enough of him too. She sees him for what he is—uppish gentry with some military pretensions."

St. Didier mentally winced on behalf of Sir Dashiel's dignity. "Why isn't he Captain Sir Dashiel? Most fellows are proud to brandish their military past on occasion."

Her ladyship set down her tea cup. "One doesn't pry, Mr. St. Didier." She said this in all seriousness. "Penelope's brother died in uniform, and I can see Sir Dashiel being delicate enough to drop the use of his rank rather than remind Penny of a sad loss. He's that considerate."

Sir Dashiel was not considerate. St. Didier had observed the man on a previous outing to Lynnfield, and whatever adjectives might be applied to Sir Dashiel—priggish, scheming, self-important, overbearing—he was not considerate unless appearing considerate served some end of his own.

"Will you take Tabitha Ingraham up to Town with you?" St. Didier asked.

"Next year," her ladyship replied. "Those oranges look good. Suppose you fetch me a few slices, there's a good fellow."

St. Didier followed orders again, taking a few more slices for himself too. For this late in the season, the quality was excellent.

"Does Lady Penelope return Sir Dashiel's esteem?" he asked, resuming his place at the table. "She appears to be a very capable sort." More of a potential marchioness than a potential wife to a baronet.

"Penelope likes to stay busy, and heaven knows, this old pile has provided her with opportunities for bustling about. Lucien is home now, though, so Penelope need not remain bound by any responsibilities here. She's not getting any younger, and when Lucien takes a wife, Lynnfield will have less room for an unmarried heiress without portfolio."

St. Didier chose an orange slice and was rewarded with an absolutely scrumptious burst of gustatory sunshine. By contrast, the day beyond the window, which had started with such promise, was turning a bit dodgy. The breeze had picked up, making the daffodils around the fountain bob, and clouds were scudding in from the east.

"Then I gather you favor a match with Sir Dashiel for Lady Penelope?" Lady Penelope would have Sir Dashiel sorted in very short order, but she'd be wasted on that exercise .

Then too, she was still technically betrothed to the marquess, wasn't she?

"Penelope has known Sir Dashiel for ages, and they get on quite well. They make an attractive pair on the dance floor, and no bride wants to go far from familiar surrounds when she sets up her own household. Besides, Penelope has no other options in terms of suitors, unless she's willing to do the Town whirl again. She honestly did not take when she made her previous attempts. She'd best accept what's on offer from Sir Dashiel, if she knows what's good for her."

St. Didier tried to enjoy his oranges, but the turn of the conversation bothered him.

Exceedingly.

Lady Penelope Richard had inherited the entire personal wealth of a family that knew it was down to a sole heir and had planned accordingly. She had at least ten child-bearing years left, likely more, and she was the daughter of an earl.

Any other marchioness would consider that Sir Dashiel's aspirations aimed far too high for his station, Byronic curls and baronetcy notwithstanding.

As the orange slices met their fate, St. Didier mentally began the arrangements necessary to return to Town on the morrow. Lady Penelope was still his client after a fashion, and thus he was entitled to make a few inquiries on her behalf.

Her ladyship had at least one other option when it came to suitors. An option that should be obvious and appealing to the marchioness.

Lucien, Marquess of Lynnfield, looked at Lady Penelope as if she were a chess riddle, a Canova goddess, and a treasured friend, all rolled into one magnificent woman. His lordship was arse over ears for the lady, and if she didn't return his regard, St. Didier would be very much surprised.

He had not been surprised in ages. He was puzzled, though, by the marchioness's insistence that Lady Penelope make a match with Sir Dashiel. Damn puzzled .

"If your ladyship will excuse me, I must prepare for my journey back to Town and get off a few letters before I take my leave of Lynnfield tomorrow." He rose and decamped, swiping a whole orange from the bowl on the sideboard as he headed out the door.