Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

"You're leaving us tomorrow?" Lucien asked, passing St. Didier a glass of brandy. "Has the hospitality been lacking?"

"The hospitality has been excellent," St. Didier said, accepting the nightcap. "The company interesting. To journeys safely concluded."

Lucien sipped, more amused than annoyed at St. Didier's allusions. "I am home to stay. You are right about that." Where was home for St. Didier? The family seat where he'd likely been raised was doubtless now in the hands of the Crown.

"What does her ladyship make of your return?" St. Didier asked, starting on a circuit of the library. "Lady Penelope, that is."

"She and I have sorted the confusion regarding the terms of my departure. We are firmly in charity with each other." What a relief to be able to say that.

St. Didier studied a portrait of Malcolm and Purdy done when they'd first arrived from Wales, before Lucien's day. Malcolm had been a tall, serious youth, a glimmer of wildness in his eyes. Purdy had been petite and much given to the elaborate embroidery and excessive lace of an earlier age. She'd exuded timidity even in girlhood, while to Lucien's eye, Malcolm had been fierce.

"Why doesn't he speak?" St. Didier asked. "Rude of me to inquire, but your uncle is clearly intelligent and observant."

As St. Didier was intelligent and observant. "We don't know. According to Aunt Purdy, Malcolm spoke Welsh as a boy without any problem. When he was brought here, he tried to learn English, then gave up speaking altogether. He reads in several languages and knows every weed and wildflower on the estate, but he keeps his words to himself."

"He wasn't at supper."

"Or lunch. He was caught out in the rain this morning and got quite a soaking." Though Lucien was certain that more than wet weather had put Malcolm in an angry state.

"He sketches," St. Didier said, peering at an exquisite drawing of purple heather finished in watercolors. "Quite competently."

"He was educated as a gentleman until his parents' demise. I gather he did a lot of wandering once he came to Lynnfield, and the old marquess allowed it. Do you plan to lecture me about the betrothal contract that I have yet to rescind?"

St. Didier sipped delicately. "Would lecturing do any good?"

"You will be pleased to know that Lady Penelope and I have embarked upon a quiet courtship."

St. Didier's expression became severe. The change was subtle, a firming of the lips, a slight lift of one dark eyebrow. "Fast work, my lord."

"Having resolved the old misunderstanding, I have leave to discreetly pay Penelope my addresses, nothing more." Though Lucien was troubled by the fate of the note. Who had found it? What had they done with it? He'd written in code, of course, but Theo was a good amateur cryptographer, and Tommie had been underfoot at the time as well.

"I still say, fast work. Why be so precipitous in your wooing? "

That St. Didier took the situation seriously was encouraging. He truly would thrash anybody who offered Penelope insult.

"Sir Dashiel has taken it into his head that he and Penelope would suit. Penelope had begun talking herself into considering the same possibility. She doesn't particularly like Sir Dashiel, but the marchioness favors the match."

"And Lady Penelope has spent her adult years, such as they are, ensuring that the marchioness has no cause for complaint. Old habits die hard." St. Didier moved on to a portrait of Lucien as a youth.

"Is returning to London an old habit?" Lucien asked.

"Oh, perhaps. One has inquiries to make. You were skinny."

"I grew three inches the summer I sat for that one. I could eat banquets without ceasing, and it made no difference." Endless raids on the kitchen with Penelope standing as lookout. Impromptu picnics on every corner of the estate... A lovely summer, full of yearning and sweetness. "The old marquess said my father had been the same way as a boy."

St. Didier treated Lucien to a head-to-toe perusal. "What does Huntleigh make of your decision to leave his employ? He was fond of you, in his way."

"His Grace sacked me for about the seventeenth time. Said I was an idiot not to take my own advice. That I had family, true family, waiting for me at home, and putting off the inevitable never made it any easier. Then he told me I was welcome to remain as a guest in his house as long as I needed to and swept off to Italy with his duchess."

"He's unconventional, but nobody's fool. You'll write to him?"

Huntleigh was another of St. Didier's finds, the heir of last resort to an impoverished dukedom. Also a decent man and a wickedly talented sculptor.

"I will inform His Grace that I am happily established at the family seat and inquire after the duchess, Miss Emily, and her menagerie. Lady Penelope has asked me to remain silent regarding other developments, though she gave me leave to impart the generalities to you. "

St. Didier took another measured sip of his drink. "I am honored, also puzzled. Haste on your part, hesitance on hers. She's an earl's daughter and an heiress. You're a marquess without a marchioness. The ladies are supposed to favor vows spoken sooner rather than later. What's holding her back?"

What a sour view St. Didier had of matrimony, but then, his own marital prospects had doubtless plummeted when his family's title had reverted to the crown.

"Penelope seeks to avoid embarrassing Sir Dashiel. He's smitten with her fortune, would be my guess, and prepared to turn up difficult if I come between him and his beloved."

St. Didier left off playing art critic. "I don't care for him, but I don't care for many people."

Did St. Didier envy Sir Dashiel even a lowly baronetcy? "I don't know Sir Dashiel as well as I ought. He's a few years my senior, and he was sent off to public school, while I was educated at Lynnfield. I went to Oxford; he didn't last a full year at Cambridge. He bought his colors. I went on a version of the grand tour."

"And you don't trust him." A statement, not a question.

"I've ridden his home wood, and the windfall and deadfall has all been gathered up. He's either burning that wood to save money, or he's selling it. He is most assuredly not allowing his tenants to have it, and yet, he's a stickler for tradition and custom. His sister should have made her come out last year, but she lingers at home. Why? We're in the time of year when all the byres, barns, and muck pits should be cleaned out and the manure spread on the fields. Sir Dashiel has either sold that resource, too, or he lacks the manpower to see the task done at the appropriate time."

"He's pockets to let and looking to marry money. Is that so puzzling? This is good brandy, by the way. Fournier's stock?"

"Of course. His everyday offerings are better than most vintages I've sampled in France." Which had nothing to do with anything. "Why doesn't Sir Dashiel use his military rank, St. Didier? I'll tell you why. He was nearly drummed out of the regiment for stealing from the quartermaster's stores—not so he could consume the occasional tin of purloined jerky, but so he could incriminate anybody he disliked, from laundresses to lieutenants. The less said about his military exploits, the less likely anybody is to learn of his larceny."

"I thought fighting and philandering were the soldier's favorite pastimes." St. Didier wandered over to the chessboard, where somebody had placed a few pieces as if to set up the king's gambit. "Larceny for the sake of entrapping one's fellow officers is nasty behavior."

"I suspect the laundresses denied Sir Dashiel an opportunity to philander, and he wasn't in uniform long enough to do much actual fighting. He had no need to steal, much less to make others suffer for his convenience. I call that criminal behavior, not mere nastiness."

St. Didier finished his drink and returned the glass to the sideboard. "I want to tell you that you are simply jealous of the man who took understandable advantage of your absence to whisper in Lady Penelope's ear. To some extent, you must be, and yet, I traveled on the Continent as well, trying to locate Huntleigh and bring him to heel."

"I won't like what you're about to tell me, but do go on."

"I frequented the inns favored by English travelers, chatted with any officer on leave I came across, and generally listened at keyholes."

Lucien had suspected that St. Didier's extensive travels hadn't been strictly in pursuit of missing heirs. "One occasionally must listen at keyholes in the course of certain endeavors." One also picked locks, lurked in shadows, and resented the hell out of one's duties.

"Sir Dashiel's superiors were relieved to be shut of him," St. Didier said. "So were the men under his command. When I heard Sir Dashiel's name mentioned in connection with Lady Penelope, and then the lady herself asked me to facilitate her legal freedom from you... One grew concerned."

For Penelope. Truly, she had a champion in St. Didier. "Thank you for that. The puzzle now becomes how to ease Sir Dashiel away from his marital schemes, but Penelope has asked that I leave that challenge to her."

St. Didier glanced at the clock. "You will keep me informed?"

What had it cost him to ask that? "I will do better than mere dispatches. Take a pigeon or two with you back to Town. Make all the inquiries you please regarding Sir Dashiel's situation. If he has markers, buy them up on my behalf. If he owes the shops, get those debts in hand too. If Miss Tabitha Ingraham has settlements—or had settlements—find out the extent of her wealth."

St. Didier looked subtly relieved. "I cannot be in your employ and Lady Penelope's at the same time. Until she releases me from my obligations, I can only make informal inquiries on my own behalf."

Such fine lines he drew. "Then please make those inquiries, and perhaps you can also nose about on behalf of a cordial acquaintance who is head over ears for the lady."

"She has truly given you permission to court her?"

"She absolutely has, to my shameless delight."

"Very well." St. Didier strode for the door. "No need to see me off in the morning. I have some pressing inquiries to make in Town—on behalf of a friend." He disappeared through the door, closing it silently in his wake.

Two seconds later, the door reopened, and St. Didier leaned around it. "Don't muck this up, my lord. Get it right, or go back to your little art business. Are we clear?"

St. Didier was a proper scold when motivated. "We are clear. Good night, St. Didier. Safe journey."

The door closed once again. Lucien finally took a sip of his brandy, enjoying the library's silence and the brandy's smooth burn.

"He meant me," Lucien said to the portrait of Malcolm and Purdy. "He's making inquiries on behalf of a friend, and that friend is... me. Odd fellow, though a good sort."

The chess set beckoned, and Lucien ignored it. He had a report to make to Penelope, and the hour was growing late. He took his brandy with him and made his way to his intended's door.

Penelope was belting her dressing gown when a syncopated four-beat tattoo sounded on her parlor door.

Lucien, using the old signal. She opened the door. "I was just about to head your way, sir." He looked tired by the light of the sconces, also worried. With him, worry was a subtle thing, mostly around the eyes. When fretting over some private anxiety, he became more polite and slightly distant.

"Should I be flattered that you would seek me out?" He stepped into her parlor, closed the door, and offered Penelope the brandy glass he'd been holding. "I enjoyed a nightcap in the library with St. Didier. He is very much your sworn vassal."

"One would rather have him for an ally than an enemy." She nosed the drink, the fragrance hinting at apples, sunshine on weathered oak, and a trace of warm spices. The gentleman had been enjoying the good stuff.

"St. Didier is leaving in the morning," Lucien said, "and he asked that I not see him off. He likes to make his entrances and exits quietly, I gather. How is Malcolm?"

Lucien would ask. That hadn't changed, thank heavens. "Recovering. I don't think a tramp in the rain is bothering him half so much as whatever inspired his temper. I've never seen him so wroth."

Lucien prowled to the hearth and tossed another square of peat on the flames. "Nor have I. Somebody or something mortally offended him. Shall I make inquiries?"

That he would ask her to decide was pure Lucien. No pretenses, no pride when it came to what mattered.

"I think not," Penelope said, setting the drink aside, untasted. "You are the marquess now, no longer young master Lucien. The youth could pry into all manner of odd corners and be regarded with tolerance, if not affection. The peer is a different article." Penelope settled on the sofa and patted the place beside her. "Let's put Theo on to the inquiry. Everybody regards him as harmless, but he can be shrewd."

"When he's sober. Drunk, he's not so impressive." Lucien settled onto the cushions. "I am pathetically tired. No stamina. Being a butler is a soft life in some regards. Long hours, but most of them spent indoors, lifting nothing heavier than a magnum of wine."

"Why did you do it?" She took his hand, though appropriating his lap also crossed her mind.

"At first, because I needed a post other than nosy Englishman who appears to have no purpose in life. Then because I was useful to the war effort even when in Rome, and then because..."

"Yes?"

He kissed her fingers. "I liked the work, and I saw in my employer something of myself. He'd been away from home longer than I had, had traveled more extensively, and actually made something of himself. I decided that I could make a butler of myself, though the title majordomo has more cachet. You don't suppose Malcolm was taunted by schoolboys?"

The worry would not leave him, which Penelope accounted a good thing.

"Uncle shows the children the best berry patches and has rescued more than one of them from the odd scrape. They like him."

"Poachers would leave him alone—he's not capable of giving evidence through oral testimony, and they tend not to be abroad in daylight—but something upset him mortally."

"You are upset too." Penelope could feel the subtle tension humming through Lucien, for all his quiet. "Perhaps I should kiss away your worries."

The words were out, shameless but honest, and then Penelope found herself straddling Lucien's lap, his arms around her waist.

"Your kisses steal every particle of sense from my mind," he said, tracing a finger along the neckline of her dressing gown. "You haunted me when I traveled. You positively possess me here at Lynnfield."

He punctuated that declaration with a kiss to her throat. His silky hair brushed her chin, his breath warmed her neck, and his hands...

"Lucien, we mustn't."

"Why not? We are courting."

Another delicate caress, spiraling heat and languor through Penelope in equal measures. " Mae angylion yn fy amddiffyn."

Lucien went still. "Pen, you don't need the angels to defend you from me. Tell me to stop and I stop. It's as simple as that. Tell me to leave and I leave. Tell me to shed my clothing and I'm naked."

"Don't."

He rubbed his thumb across her nape. "Don't stop? Don't leave?"

"Don't shed your clothes, because then I will be inspired to shed mine, and such behaviors have consequences." She sounded like her old governess, who'd muttered darkly about animal spirits and sneezing men.

"I will be careful, Penelope. We will be careful. No consequences will befall you save those you choose. You are right, though. I did not come up here thinking to anticipate any nuptial vows. Well, not precisely that. I wanted you to know that I asked St. Didier to make some inquiries."

To business, then, and at her insistence. Penelope extricated herself from Lucien's lap, took the place at his hip, enjoyed a hefty sip of brandy, and passed him the glass.

"This meeting will now come to order," she said. "Inquiries in Town?"

"About Sir Dashiel. He was a very naughty fellow when in uniform, but for present purposes, I'm concerned that he's pockets to let."

"Of course he's pockets to let. Half the shire and most of the gentry are pockets to let. We do a little better here in Kent, because we can raise market produce to sell in Town rather than rely exclusiveley on corn and hay, but very few of the landed class are flourishing." She accepted the glass back and finished the drink. "Lucien, are you pockets to let?"

He tucked an arm around her shoulders and crossed his legs at the knee. His pose was casual, affectionate, and frustrating. Penelope set the glass on the side table as she envisioned hurling it against the hearth.

"I am on solid footing," he said. "The benefit of being the sole offspring of the house is that I have no sisters to dower, and all of the wealth of previous generations has concentrated itself in my hands. But for Tommie, I've not been asked to educate any young men, and the elders incur minimal expenses. Then too, I am flummoxed to report that my art ventures have been lucrative. Did you think I was marrying you for your money, Pen?"

"You would see me a doddering spinster before you'd marry me for money."

Another kiss to her fingers, this one more lingering. "I'm afraid the same cannot be said for Sir Dashiel."

Penelope shifted, draping a leg over Lucien's lap. "I don't judge a man for wanting to marry well. That's what the whole Season seems to be about."

Lucien ran a caressing hand over her calf and ankle. "Sir Dashiel's military misbehaviors mean he cannot go wife-shopping in Town. Too many former officers and even enlisted men might know of his scandalous activities. The only person to suffer if the gossip starts up would be Sir Dashiel."

"I did wonder. I don't think Dash has even gone hat-shopping in Town. This will also make matters very awkward for Tabby."

Lucien was drawing something on the top of Penelope's foot. His touch was maddening, half caress, half tickle, then he grasped her arch in one of those lovely squeezes at which he apparently excelled.

"I will have a word with the marchioness," he said, "about taking Tabby up to Town. Her ladyship will protest that Tabitha has nothing to wear, but we have seamstresses at Lynnfield, and fashionable London has a dress shop on every third street corner."

"You want Tabitha away from her brother. Should I be pleased that you are so considerate of a blameless young lady going to seed in the shires, or worried that you're moving noncombatants away from the battlefield?"

"Mostly pleased. I've asked St. Didier to get us a picture of Sir Dashiel's debts and to listen for any club gossip regarding Sir Dashiel."

To get us a picture... Penelope retrieved her leg and peered at Lucien in the firelight. "You think Dash will prove difficult?"

"You believe he'll bow gallantly, cede the field, and find some wealthy widow to court?"

"I want to believe that."

"But you know the man, and you know the extent of your own wealth." Lucien rose and disappeared into the bedroom, then returned with a pair of worn slippers. "Your feet are cold, my lady. While I would delight in warming up each individual toe, mischief lies in that direction, and my reserves of restraint have been tested enough for one day."

Penelope pretended to consider her toes. "You could chase the chill away from one or two, seeing as we're not in a hurry and all."

He knelt and put the slippers on her feet, then laid his forehead against her knee. "You deserve a leisurely courtship, Pen. I know that. Leisurely and thorough, but do show the occasional glimmer of mercy, too, won't you?"

She kissed the top of his head and wrapped an arm around him. "Glimmers, if you insist. I'll be courted only the once, after all. I think you'd best take yourself to bed, my lord, before my merciful inclinations desert me."

Lucien sat back and considered her. "I am endlessly pleased to try your self-control. Endlessly." He rose, planted a smacker on her mouth, bowed, and decamped.

"Not a moment too soon either," Penelope said, shaking the dregs of the brandy into her mouth. "Leisurely and thorough. The imagination boggles."

To Sir Dashiel's practiced eye, Penelope was looking a bit knackered. Lord Lynnfield's return apparently had put demands on her, and she'd been a busy lady before the marquess had deigned to rejoin the household.

The marchioness presided over Sunday supper as nominal hostess, and Lord Lynnfield occupied the head of the table like some brooding university boy who'd rather be anywhere else.

Would that he were anywhere else.

"Was Italy exciting, my lord?" Tabby asked while her lemon ice melted in the dish before her. "Was it beautiful and fascinating?"

"Italy was lovely," the marquess replied. "More mountainous than we usually think of it, and much of the region is capable of a heartier winter than you'd expect, but the coastal areas are generally mild and the art impressive."

Drivel, and yet, Tabitha looked enthralled.

"I like an Italian wine now and then," Dashiel observed. "As a complement to humbler fare. Lady Penelope, what of you? What aspect of Italian culture interests you the most?" She'd been all but silent during the meal, and a quiet woman was invariably a harbinger of trouble.

Penelope considered a spoonful of ice. "I value Italy's legacy of statesmanship and philosophy. You cannot beat Machiavelli for insights into political workings, and the Stoics were clear-sighted about much of life."

The elders up and down the table all subtly became more alert, even that inveterate sot Theo. The halfwit Malcolm was apparently not displayed at company suppers, though Tommie the Twit had done his best to offer bon mots while inhaling his beef roast.

The marquess poured more wine for Tabitha. "The Stoics were not entirely off the mark, though my lady knows of my quarrels with them."

The elders exchanged glances, some of which might have qualified as smirks.

"You quarrel with philosophers, my lord?" Tabitha asked.

Must she be such a bumpkin? "The marquess speaks metaphorically," Dashiel said. "Perhaps his lordship falls more into the camp of the hedonists?"

"I fancy myself a realist," Lynnfield replied, "and a pragmatist. What of you, Sir Dashiel? Which philosopher provides your ethical lodestar?"

Dashiel took a thoughtful sip of his wine, a pallid sauternes. "One finds some value in almost every school of classical thought." Carpe diem, carpe pecuniam, carpe mulier . And if unable to seize the day, the money, or the woman, find a good case of brandy and seize that.

"A generalist, then," the marchioness observed from the foot of the table. "They always have the best small talk. I vow I could not eat another bite."

"My compliments to the kitchen," Dashiel said, "if I might presume to such a degree. A very satisfying meal." Also tedious beyond belief, even given the delicious roast, though useful too. Lord Lynnfield still lacked social polish, the aging oddities were still very much in evidence despite the marquess's return, and Tabitha had managed reasonably well in his lordship's august presence.

She would dine out on that feat for weeks, and Dashiel was pleased to have arranged a small social victory for her.

When even the little auntie who stole sachets and hatpins had finished her ice, the farewell rituals began. The marquess offered Tabitha his escort to the stable, and Dashiel seized the initiative to offer his arm to Penny.

"Walk me to my horse, my lady." He murmured the suggestion while patting the hand she'd placed on his arm.

"You can no longer find the stable on your own, Dash?" Her smile said she was teasing him, or trying to, though her humor missed the mark.

"The assembly approaches, my dear. Will you save your waltz for me?"

They processed out the main door on Lynnfield's east fa?ade, into bright afternoon sunshine. The day was lovely as only spring could be, but the brilliant beams confirmed that Lady Penelope had left the schoolroom behind years ago. She was no longer dewy .

"I wasn't aware we were to have any waltzes on the program, Dash. I'll certainly dance the Roger de Coverley with you."

Always the first dance, lively to the point of ridiculousness. "I might not arrive in time for the opening festivities. Tabitha can take ever so long over her toilette."

They descended the terrace steps. Ahead of them, Tabitha laughed at something the marquess said. Smart girl, to flatter the neighborhood's highest title, even if he aspired to Byron-come-lately brooding airs.

"About Tabitha," Penelope said. "I've been meaning to raise a few topics with you, Dash, discussions best conducted without an audience. Who does most of your sewing at the Roost?"

"I have no idea. The maids, I assume, under the direction of the housekeeper. My valet sees to my wardrobe. Tabitha knows how to ply a needle." Either that, or she spent hours pretending to embroider slippers and linen and whatnot. "Why?"

"I cannot go up to Town with the marchioness this year, and I'm sure she will want for female companionship. Her ladyship usually spends a month or two in London when the social whirl begins. I was hoping Tabitha could go with her."

Dashiel took his time considering a reply. Tabitha was certainly old enough for a Season, and the marchioness would be an appropriate chaperone. But the expense of such an excursion could be staggering.

Then too, Penelope mustn't get in the habit of assuming her every wish and whim would be granted for the asking.

"From what little I fathom of these matters," Dashiel said, "a proper Season takes considerable preparation. A girl ought to have her trousseau all but packed, along with enough fripperies and finery to impress any hostess in Mayfair. Tabitha hasn't bestirred herself to make such an effort."

She had lodged a few timid requests for fabrics, and she'd known to ask for muslins rather than velvets or silks.

"We have capable hands at Lynnfield," Penelope said. "The aunties and cousins are all competent seamstresses, and his lordship has noted their idleness. Making up a few dresses for Tabitha is well within their abilities, and the marchioness is au courant when it comes to fashion."

As the stable came into view, it occurred to Dashiel that Penelope was engaged in a bumbling game of chess. She wanted Tabitha, who already took a domestic hand in managing the Roost, out of play. With the marchioness—who was also Penelope's chaperone—off in Town, opportunities to advance a courtship dangled close at hand.

What a charming little schemer, though Penelope had a great deal to learn about strategy—a very great deal.

"My dear, I realize you mean well, but I refuse to send my sister off to be paraded before polite society as an unpaid companion to a difficult dowager. Tabitha is the daughter and sister of a baronet. Her gentility is beyond question. You are not to soothe your conscience by subjecting poor Tabby to drudgery you yourself hope to avoid."

Dashiel kept his tone mild, almost amused, but Penelope would grasp his point: She was asking for a very great favor if she sought to have Tabby trotting around Mayfair after the marchioness.

They walked along in silence for a dozen yards, while Tabitha's mirth graced the sunny air again.

"To bear a loved one company is not drudgery," Penelope said. "My apologies if I ever gave you the impression that the marchioness is difficult. I did not seek to subject Tabitha to an unpleasant situation. Just the opposite."

The note of apology was grudging, but adequate. "What else did you seek to discuss with me, my dear?"

"I'm not done discussing Tabitha, as it happens. I had in mind for the marchioness to see to your sister's court presentation while in London. If you'd rather find another sponsor next year, you have only to indicate. I can vouch for the marchioness's willingness and ability to see to formalities now, but going forward, I can make no guarantees. Her ladyship is not young, and with the marquess on hand, other expectations might be placed upon her."

A bit sniffy, but Penelope was making the desired concession. Not a stupid woman, when she stopped being so stubborn. "Expectations relating to Lynnfield's prospective marchioness?"

"His lordship has been home barely a week, Dash. Not even her ladyship is trying to marry him off just yet."

And what a thankless task that would be. "If you can assure me Tabitha will be presented at court and that Lynnfield resources will be put at her disposal to prepare for this excursion, I suppose I can spare her for a few weeks."

"You don't want her to have a come-out ball with all the trimmings too?"

"I would have to attend such an event,"—and pay for it—"and not even for my darling sister can I tear myself away when planting must be seen to. When does the marchioness go up to Town?"

"The Monday following the assembly. If you send Tabitha to us tomorrow, we'll have two weeks to put together a wardrobe for her. That should be enough."

"Send Tabitha to you?" Tabby kept the grumbling from the staff to a bearable roar and maintained the household ledgers, among other duties.

Grooms led out Thor and Tabitha's old mare, and the marquess checked the mare's girth.

"Dresses require multiple fittings, Dash. Tabitha will need everything—a presentation gown, though we might be able to make over the one I wore—day dresses, afternoon dresses, carriage dresses, at least one fancy riding habit, a ball gown, if not several ball gowns. She will need slippers, gloves, and bonnets to match, and underlinen, reticules, parasols... We can outfit her largely from Lynnfield stores, but she must be on hand for the exercise."

Dashiel wouldn't exactly miss Tabitha, but if this London presentation went well, and she managed to bag an offer of marriage, the timing of the settlement negotiations could become delicate.

"Very well. I will send her to you tomorrow morning, but don't blame me if you come to regret this whole scheme, Lady Many Pennies. Was there another matter you sought to discuss with me?"

Penelope glanced around the stable yard. The marquess had assisted Tabitha to mount, and the grooms were loitering about, doubtless hoping to collect gossip.

"About the assembly, Dash." Penelope looked very earnest and determined, and she kept her voice down.

Oh, right. The assembly. "If there is a waltz, will my lady save hers for me?" He owed her that much. All heads would turn, they would make a lovely couple, and then...

The next thought inspired Dashiel to positively beam at his plain, aging, stubborn intended. Engagements were announced at the quarterly assemblies. A venerable tradition and an occasion for much goodwill.

Well, of course.

Penelope looked to be filling her sails for a fine diatribe, probably a discourse on the passage of time and gathering rosebuds and life being uncertain for a lady without family. Broad hints that amounted to begging for a proposal now that Lord Lynnfield was so inconveniently underfoot and the marchioness making tracks for Town.

Sometimes, patience truly was its own reward, though before Penny could embark on her speech, the family dimwit Malcolm emerged from the barn. He caught her eye, scowled, and withdrew without even glancing at Dashiel. Either Uncle Muttonhead had a scintilla of sense, or he'd been attempting some sort of cut sublime.

How quaint. "You were saying?" Dashiel prompted.

Penelope's expression lost its seriousness. "Nothing that won't keep. We will look for Tabitha tomorrow morning." She bobbed a curtsey and offered him a smile.

Dashiel bowed, swung into the saddle, and touched a finger to his hat brim. The outing had been worthwhile after all, if Tabitha was to be socially launched without emptying Dashiel's coffers, and Dashiel owed that lovely development indirectly to Penelope.

Not a bad day's work, and the roast had been done to a turn. "Lynnfield, my thanks for a fine repast. Come along, Tabitha. Lady Penelope has proposed a scheme of which you should be made aware."

Tabitha's mare plodded away from the mounting block, and Dashiel considered how best to explain to his sister that thanks to his clever finagling and skillful bargaining, she would have a proper come out, complete with a marchioness for a sponsor and a fashionable wardrobe in the first stare of fashion.

He glanced over his shoulder and saw Lady Penelope standing beside the ladies' mounting block, the marquess in conversation with her. His lordship was utterly focused on whatever Penny was saying, and the blighter stood too close to her too.

Lynnfield would soon learn to keep a proper distance from what didn't belong to him. Dashiel would administer the lesson personally and as often as necessary.