A Lady of His Own (41 page)

“I believe the countess, your sisters, Mrs. Frederick and Mrs. James, are attending a luncheon at Osterley Park, my lord.”

Charles’s relief showed. “In that case…” He looked at Penny. “Lady Penelope and I have business to attend to—our movements are uncertain.”

“Indeed, my lord.”

Knowing Charles would leave it at that, she turned to Crewther. “Please inform the countess that she shouldn’t delay dinner or her evening’s entertainment on our account—we’ll speak with her when we return.”

Lips thinning, Charles nodded. “We should call on Amberly without delay.”

She glanced down at her crushed gown. “Just give me time to wash and change into something more appropriate.”

Crewther stepped in, sending a footman for the housekeeper, directing the two who’d fetched their bags to take them upstairs.

Charles gave orders for his town carriage to be brought around, then took her arm; they started up the main stairs in the footmen’s wake. The housekeeper, Mrs. Millikens, came bustling up to meet them at the stair head. She greeted Charles, then bore Penny off to a bedchamber.

“Twenty minutes in the front hall,” Charles called after her.

Mrs. Millikens looked scandalized. “Twenty minutes?” She huffed. “He’s not in the army now—what is he thinking? Twenty minutes? I’ve sent Flora to unpack your things—” Millikens paused and opened a door. “Ah, yes, here she is.” She ushered Penny in. “Now, let’s see…”

With Millikens, who’d known her from childhood, and Flora assisting, Penny was ready, gowned in a walking dress of blue silk twill, in just over twenty minutes. Descending the stairs, she saw Charles pacing in the front hall below. Hearing her footsteps, he glanced up; the set of his features, the frown that lurked, told her he’d been debating ways and means of detaching her from their pursuit of Fothergill—and he didn’t care that she knew.

He walked to meet her, taking her hand, tucking it in his arm as they turned to the front door. “I sent a message to Elaine that you were here—it wouldn’t do for someone to see you about town and mention it. She’s staying with Constance, isn’t she?”

“Yes.” Penny shot him a glance as they went down the steps. “What did you tell her?”

He met her eyes briefly, then handed her into the carriage. “That you and I both had business to deal with, so I’d brought you up to town, that you’d be staying here, that our movements were uncertain, but that you’d explain when next you saw her.”

He followed her in and shut the door, then sat beside her. She studied his face. “Nothing else?”

Turning his head, he met her gaze. “Having you involved in this is bad enough—I’m hardly likely to say anything to bring both our chattering families down on my head…” He looked forward. “No matter the aggravation you cause me.”

She smiled and looked ahead. “Better the devil you know…?”

After a moment, he murmured, “Actually, I’m not that well acquainted with this particular devil.”

She pondered that comment as the carriage traversed the few streets to Amberly House. To their relief, the marquess was at home, but he wasn’t alone.

Charles had sent a rider ahead of them with a message for Dalziel; as they were shown into the library, Penny glanced briefly at her relative as he struggled up from the chaise, then transferred her attention to the gentleman who rose from the armchair opposite.

He was tall, well built; although neither as tall nor as heavy as Charles, he was every bit as physically impressive. His hair was dark brown, almost black, his face pale with the austere planes and strong features that marked him as an aristocrat. Deep brown eyes of that shade most often referred to as soulful took her in; as his gaze, outwardly lazy yet intelligent and acute, met hers, she had little doubt of the caliber of mind behind those bedroom eyes.

If anything, she would have labeled him even more dangerous than Charles. No matter that his manners were polished and urbane, the unmistakable aura of a predator hung about him.

She curtsied to Amberly, then less deeply as she offered her hand to—

“Dalziel.” He bowed over her hand with the same effortless grace Charles possessed. “Lady Penelope Selborne, I presume.”

His gaze flicked to Charles. There was the faintest trace of a question in his eyes.

When Charles didn’t respond, Dalziel looked at her, his lips lightly lifting as he released her.

She moved on to join Amberly. Behind her, Dalziel turned to Charles. “After receiving your missive this morning, I decided my presence here might be wise.”

Charles nodded and stepped forward to greet Amberly and shake his hand. “Nicholas is well—he sends his regards.”

Amberly was over eighty years old, white-haired, his blue gaze faded. He blinked, frowned. “He’s not here?”

Charles exchanged a glance with Penny. Gently, she eased Amberly back to the chaise, then sat beside him. “Nicholas would have come with us, but he’s a trifle under the weather at the moment.”

“Perhaps,” Dalziel said, glancing at Charles as he resumed his seat, “you could bring us up to date with recent events?”

Charles drew up another chair, using the moment to marshal his thoughts. Amberly was attentive, watching and waiting, yet while his mind might still be acute, he didn’t look strong; there was no need to shock him unnecessarily. However glibly he couched his report, Dalziel would read between the lines.

Dalziel mumured, “I’ve already explained to the marquess all that happened up to the point of Arbry’s grappling with the intruder one night, the intruder’s subsequent escape and Arbry’s recovery from his injuries. Perhaps if you recount all that’s happened since.”

Charles did, relating only the bare facts in the most unemotional language. Dalziel picked up his omissions, but said nothing, just met his gaze and nodded for him to continue.

Despite his efforts, the tale left Amberly distressed. Fretfully plucking at his coat buttons, he looked at Charles, then Dalziel; finally, he turned to Penny. “It was never meant to be like this. No one was supposed to die.”

Penny patted his arm, murmuring that they understood; he didn’t seem to hear. He looked at Charles. “I thought it was all over—finished. All’s fair in war, and it was war, but the war’s ended.” Tears in his old eyes, he waved weakly. “If they want the boxes—the snuffboxes and pillboxes—they can have them. They’re not worth anyone’s life.”

Gaze distant, Amberly drew a short breath. “That poor boy Gimby, and a little maid, and now a fisherboy…” After a moment, he refocused; he looked at Charles and Dalziel. Confusion clouded his eyes. “Why? They weren’t part of the game.”

“No, they weren’t.” Dalziel sat forward, capturing Amberly’s gaze, steadying him by the contact. “This assassin’s not playing by the recognized rules, which is why, with your help, my lord, we need to bring his assignment to a swift end.”

Amberly looked into Dalziel’s eyes, then spread his hands. “Whatever I can do, my boy—whatever I can do.”

They spent the next hour discussing the possibilities. Charles was relieved to have his reading of Amberly’s abilities confirmed; although physically doddery, and sometimes vague when he became distracted, there was nothing wrong with his grasp on reality, his memory, or his courage.

Dalziel’s reading of the events to date, his prediction of what Fothergill was most likely to do next, tallied with Charles’s. The plan they agreed on was simple; give Fothergill what he wanted—the marquess at Amberly Grange.

“There’s no value in pretending you haven’t been warned,” Dalziel told Amberly. “A man of your age and standing, when threatened, would most likely retreat to his own estate, to be kept safe by his loyal staff. Given the snuffboxes are there, too, and he’ll imagine you’re obsessed with them and will know he means to take them, such a move makes even more sense.”

Dalziel’s gaze shifted to Penny, then he looked at Charles. “He won’t be surprised to see you there, acting as protector.”

Charles noted Dalziel didn’t clarify whom he would be protecting, Amberly alone, or Penny, too. That, he understood, was left to him to define.

“What Fothergill won’t know is that I’ll be there as well.” Dalziel met Amberly’s eyes. “I’ll remain with you for the rest of today, just in case—no sense taking any unnecessary risks. We’ll leave tomorrow morning—I’ll travel down in your carriage. Easy enough to slip into the house after we arrive.”

Dalziel’s gaze grew harder, colder. “Fothergill knows Charles—he’ll be expecting to have a guard he needs to distract to get to you, and Charles will obviously be that person. Once Charles is decoyed away, Fothergill will come in—from all we’ve seen of him to date, he’ll be overconfident. The last thing he’ll expect is to walk into me.”

Dalziel’s lips lifted in a faint, cold smile. Penny quelled a shiver.

“That,” Dalziel said, glancing at them all, “is how we’ll catch him.”

“And stop him,” Charles said.

There’d been a degree of finality in Charles’s tone, echoed in Dalziel’s murmured affirmation, that seemed to set the seal on Fothergill’s fate.

Once again in Charles’s town carriage rocking steadily back to Bedford Square, Penny thought of Gimby, Mary Maggs, and Sid Garnut—remembered Fothergill’s expression when he’d been about to slit Nicholas’s throat—and couldn’t find any sorrow for Fothergill in her.

One point puzzled her. She stirred and glanced at Charles. “Dalziel—I’m surprised someone in his position would…how do you phrase it? Go into the field?”

Charles glanced at her. After a moment, he said, “I would have been more surprised if he’d left it in my hands alone.” He considered, then went on, “We’ve always spoken of Dalziel as if he simply sits behind his desk in Whitehall and directs people hither and yon. Recently, we’ve known that isn’t the case—in fact, it’s probably never been the case. Our view of him reflected what we knew, and that wasn’t the whole picture. Still isn’t the whole picture. We’ve always recognized him as one of us—he couldn’t be that without similar background, similar training, similar experience. In this instance…”

Charles paused, then glanced at her. “I told you whoever corners Fothergill has to be one of us.”

Penny nodded. “You or someone equally well trained.” She slipped her hand into his. “Like Dalziel.”

“Indeed.” Grasping her hand, Charles leaned his head back against the squabs. Of all those he knew who were “like him,” prepared to kill when their country demanded it, there was none other more “like him” than Dalziel.

They reached Lostwithiel House to discover Charles’s mother, sisters, and sisters-in-law all waiting to pounce. Not that his mother pounced; directed by Crewther to the drawing room, Charles ushered Penny in—his mother immediately saw them and held out her hand, compelling him to cross the room to her side. Clasping her hand, he bent and kissed her cheek.

Her gaze lingered on Penny, who had stopped to talk with Jacqueline and Lydia, who had squealed and pounced on her—the reason he’d made sure she preceded him into the room. Seated nearby, Annabelle and Helen were eagerly listening to Jacqueline’s inquisition and Penny’s replies.

Smiling, his mother looked up at him. “Business?”

Dragging his eyes from the scene, his mind from wondering how Penny was coping, he nodded. “We’ve just come from Amberly House.”

His mother’s eyes widened—the marquess was the titular head of Penny’s family. He rapidly clarified, “It’s the same business that took me away.” Pulling up a chair, he sat beside her. “Arbry was at Wallingham.”

He hesitated, then lowered his voice. “I haven’t yet told Elaine—we need to keep the whole quiet, at least for the moment, but…” Briefly he explained how the Selbornes had been involved in a long-running scheme providing incorrect information to the French, and how some French agent was now intent on exacting revenge.

“Good God!” His mother’s gaze went to Penny. “Penny will remain here, of course.”

His frustrated sigh had her glancing back at him. He felt her eyes searching his face, but kept his gaze on Penny. “I would, quite obviously, prefer she remain here, with you or with Elaine, but I doubt she’ll agree.”

A moment passed, then his mother merely said, “Hmm…I see.”

When he looked at her, she was studying Penny.

“Still,” she mused, “at your relative ages, it’s to be hoped you both know what you’re doing.”

He did. It didn’t make the doing—the adjusting—any easier.

“So.” His mother turned to him. “How long will you be in town?”

“Just tonight—and no, we won’t be attending any events. We’ll be leaving for Amberly Grange in the morning.”

He stood, intending to go back down the room and greet his sisters and sisters-in-law. The twinkle in his mother’s eye made him pause. “What?”

At his suspicious tone, she smiled—gloriously smug. “I’m afraid you won’t be able to hide away here, not tonight.”

A hideous thought bloomed. “Why?”

“Because I’m hosting a dinner, followed by a ball.”

When he only just succeeded in biting back an oath, she raised her brows at him, not the least bit sympathetic. “Without the distraction of organizing your life, your sisters fell back on theirs. As it happens”—she gave him her hand and let him help her to her feet—“there’s a captain in some regiment who’s been casting himself at Lydia’s feet, and a rakehell if ever I saw one sniffing at Jacqueline’s skirts—not that either Lydia or Jacqueline is likely to succumb, but it’s just as well that you’re here.”

She patted his arm, ignored his groan. “Now come, I must warn Penny.”

It was two o’clock in the morning before, with the captain and the rakehell routed and most of the guests long gone, Charles finally succeeded in seizing Penny’s hand and dragging her upstairs. To his room.

She protested; her hand locked in his, he kept walking down the corridor to the earl’s apartments, now his private domain. He didn’t release her until they were in his bedroom and he’d locked the door.

Exasperated, she sighed and met his eyes. “This is hardly the right example to set for your sisters.”

He shrugged out of his evening coat, then looked down as he unlaced his cuffs. “I’m not sure this isn’t exactly the right example to set them.”