She looked at him with interest. “Is that why your mama has such a strong dislike for your late papa? Did he cripple the estate?”
“He mortgaged anything that could be mortgaged. He was not a bad man, really. Not a womanizer or drinker or gambler, except upon ‘Change, where he invariably lost. When he wanted to sell this collection,”
he said, waving his hand around the walls, “Mama threatened to take him to law, for it is entailed. They did not get along. He married her for her dowry; she married him because her papa made her. She was in love with some other fellow at the time. I think her anger is as much against her papa as her husband. Now that she has outlived them both, she is determined to enjoy her last years. And I encourage her to do so. She has earned it. It’s appalling to think of being shackled for life to someone one does not respect or even like, say nothing of love. I am all for love matches. And after five years, I am now in a position not to have to marry for anything else. My affairs are in order.”
The playful Penfel sounded sincere, and while Abbie was not quite ready to acquit him of his amorous attack on herself, she found this sufficient excuse for his behavior with the dancer. He was assuaging his heartbreak in the time-honored manner. “I am sorry Lady Eleanor did not accept your offer,”
she said.
A conscious look seized his mobile features. “Oh, as to that, I shall get over it.”
“As you mean to marry for love, then one assumes you were in love with her. But I commend your common sense in determining to get over it. You should not let your heartbreak lead you amok. I am referring to your acquaintance with O’Leary,”
she added, lest he think she was harping on more personal peccadilloes.
“I only let O’Leary use the meadow to give the locals a little entertainment.”
“You have made a friend of him, I think? A gentleman is known by the company he keeps. Perhaps a cardsharp and possible thief is not the optimum companion for the Earl of Penfel and Baron Rutcliffe and quasi-Lord Worley.”
“Or even for Algernon Hatfield. That is who I am when I am not busy being a plurality of grand lords. Titles are no guarantee of character. Always excepting Marlborough and Wellington and a few others, I can think of few noblemen who attained their honors on merit. A tumble in the royal bedchamber is where most of us got our handles, that or some chicanery at court. Both, in the case of the Penfel honors.”
He pointed to a portrait of a lady in a tiara, rubies, and the farthingale style of the seventeenth century, and said, “That is the lady who achieved nobility for herself and her family by a brief fling with Charles II. She was an actress, and she isn’t even pretty, do you think?”
“No, not very,”
Abbie agreed. “The nose is somewhat pug, and the eyes too small for beauty.”
“She was to Charles’s taste, apparently, though he did not confer a dukedom on her husband, as he did on several of his bastards. I have little enough respect for titles. I would prefer you call me Algernon. And you, I think, are Abigail? Do your friends call you Abbie?”
“Certainly, when they have known me for a suitable length of time.”
“What is a suitable length of time?”
His flirtatious manner warned her it was time for caution. “Three months,”
she said.
“That is somewhat arbitrary,
n’est-ce pas?
Surely, there are extenuating circumstances? Three months of occasional teas and assemblies would amount to—
say, three hours a week. That is less than forty hours of actual familiarity. We, on the other hand, have shared a roof for—”
He drew out his watch and glanced at it. “It is four o’clock. Going on thirty hours. At two o’clock tomorrow morning, you may call me Algie. In the unlikely case that I am in your company in the middle of the night, that is to say.”
She refused to acknowledge his quizzing grin. “We have been in each other’s company for only a few of those thirty hours you speak of, Lord Penfel.”
“Have you never learned the arithmetic of romance, Miss Fairchild? Minutes count as hours when lovers are apart. Hours are but seconds when together.”
He came to a conscious stop. “I am cutting the ground out from under my own feet, am I not? It is that sly grin you are trying to conceal that distracted me. You are about to tell me we have only been together for seconds by that way of reckoning.”
“Not at all. You were speaking of lovers. We are not lovers. When a lady is with a congenital idiot, the seconds are hours. We are old friends by now.”
“Excellent! Then, I shall call you Abbie.”
“Oh—that is not what I meant!”
“What distracted
you,
I wonder?”
he murmured.
“What would the young ladies think to hear you call me Abbie?”
“They would think us no better than we should be. One must always keep in mind the youngsters. I shall only call you Abbie on those too rare occasions when we are alone together—with a door open, of course.”
He inclined his head toward her and said in a conspiratorial tone, “Don’t you adore secrets?”
“No, I save worship for church.”
Then she peered up and added, “But I like secrets,”
lest he take her for a confirmed prig.
His little chuckle was triumphant. “I knew there was a real woman lurking under that blue straitjacket!”
“And, one hopes, a real gentleman under that handsome Bath superfine jacket you wear with such élan.”
He bowed. “My jacket and I thank you for the compliment. Our first, if I am not mistaken. I shall forever cherish this jacket.”
She just shook her head at his nonsense. “About the key for the cartoons—”
“I see what you are about, miss. Butter the congenital idiot up, then wind him ‘round your finger to have your way with him.”
“You did promise.”
“So I did, and before I earn a reprimand, I had best deliver. Come to my study when you are finished.”
He stopped, waiting for an objection to the venue chosen. When she didn’t say anything, he continued, “You won’t want to interrupt your work here. There is no need to haul all your equipment back upstairs. Just leave it where it is. It is nice to see someone actually appreciating the collection.”
“Thank you, Lord Penfel. You have no idea what it means to me.”
He gazed at her face, rapt with delight, and said, “I think I do—Abbie.”
Then he turned and left, smiling, and Abbie finally began to work on her Chardin. It was not until he was gone that she recalled they had not discussed that O’Leary and Brannigan were one and the same man. He had not said a word about that. Nor had she asked him about the journal he said O’Leary had carried, though she was certain he had not. It was difficult to concentrate on her work with these questions gnawing at her. After half an hour, she put it away and went to his study. She did not intend to actually go in, but just ask him for the key and leave.
The door stood open. A tea tray sat on the corner of the desk, suggesting that he would soon be back. She stood a moment at the door, looking up and down the hall, then stepped into the study to await him. She noticed the teacup was half full. When she touched the pot, it was still hot, so presumably he had just stepped out for a moment.
She glanced at the desk, admiring the chased silver ink pot and matching tray that held an assortment of pens. He had been writing a letter. It sat on the desk, the page half full. She averted her eyes, and noticed a ring sitting by the letter, partially covered by it. Curious, she looked at it again, without touching it. It was a lady’s ring, gold with a large green stone.
Her breath suddenly caught in her throat. An emerald ring. The emerald ring stolen from Lady Peevey! Yes, it was certainly the same one. A baguette stone, edged all around with diamonds, as described in the journal. Her hand flew to her lips to stifle the gasp of astonishment. What was it doing here?
Black thoughts whirled in her mind like bats in a small room. Penfel had been at Peevey’s house. O’Leary had been nearby. They were friends. Penfel had certainly lied about O’Leary showing him that article in the journal, and now Penfel had this stolen ring. He must have lost heavily to O’Leary at cards. If he was in the man’s debt, he could be made to dance to his tune—even to the extent of having his own treasures plundered. He had said himself they were insured.
It was hard to come to any but the logical conclusion. Penfel was O’Leary’s cohort. He was a thief, and a scoundrel. Had Lady Eleanor or Lord Peevey become suspicious? Was that why he had been turned off? Had he ever even loved Lady Eleanor? He spoke of marrying for love, yet he was remarkably blasé
at her refusing his offer. Had Lady Eleanor been only an excuse to spy out the secrets of Peevey Castle?
She turned and darted up to her bedchamber and closed the door to contemplate what she had just discovered, and more importantly, what she should and could do about it.
As Abbie paced to and fro in her chamber, she tried to make sense of this enigma called Lord Penfel. She remembered various conversations with him and about him. He had boasted he had his financial affairs in order, yet Lord John said his brother’s pockets were to let. O’Leary’s offering Penfel a chance to win back the blunt he had lost at cards suggested gambling was his weakness. That and, of course, women. His own mama had accused him of being too fond of women. Lady Susan, on the other hand, had said he was not a lecher, and Lady Susan knew everything, or gave that impression.
She thought of their recent conversation in the gallery, when he had seemed completely carefree, flirting, happy. And all the while that stolen ring sat in his office, or in his pocket. Did he have no conscience at all, or was it possible she was misreading the evidence, that he was innocent? He might have won the ring from O’Leary in a card game. But O’Leary would not wager such an incriminating thing. Penfel knew the ring was stolen, so that excuse would not do. Excuse? Why was she looking for an excuse for him? He was nothing to her. She scarcely knew the man.
She only knew her heart beat faster when she was with him, that his smile made her feel special, that when she was in this house, her eyes were always on the door when he was not present, and on him when he was. She knew that, while she had acted grossly offended at his embrace, her heart had thrilled to it. She told herself it was only infatuation, and she was fortunate to have found out his true character before infatuation deepened to love, and tried to believe it.
Very well then, accept that Penfel was a man of weak character. What should she do? She could report him to Bow Street, but they would be intimidated by a noble criminal and palmed off with some explanation. Nothing would result but embarrassment and ill feelings all around. The kinder and more sensible thing would be to confront Penfel face-to-face, and get a promise from him to return his ill-got gains and sever his connection with O’Leary. And if he refused, then she would resort to Bow Street. At least he would be forced to stop stealing if he knew Bow Street was watching him. And he would hate her forever.
She steeled herself for the coming confrontation and returned to Penfel’s study. The door was closed. When she knocked, no one answered, and when she tried the handle, the door was locked. She went in search of Sifton, who told her Penfel had decided to ride out and join Lord John and the ladies. He had forgotten all about her. He was supposed to give her the key to the Leonardo cartoons.
“Did he leave a key for me?”
she inquired.
“No, ma’am. He didn’t. Perhaps I can help?”
“It was the key for the da Vinci cartoons.”
“Oh, I am afraid I do not have that key, ma’am. His lordship has it. Shall I remind him when he returns?”
“Never mind. I shall do it myself, if you would notify me when he comes back.”
“Certainly, madam.”
She returned abovestairs and worried for another half hour until the girls came back. Kate told her that Penfel had not joined them, but she had seen him talking to a man on the road half a mile from Penfel Hall.
“O’Leary?”
Abbie asked, her stomach churning.
“No, Miss Fairchild. We did meet
him.
I was going to tell you. Susan stopped a moment to talk, but I rode back to hear what she was saying, and it was nothing of any importance.”
“What was it?”
“Just something about Lord Sylvester. O’Leary thought he had met him.”
This sounded fairly harmless. “What about the man Penfel met?”
“He was just a little ordinary-looking man. Not a gentleman. He looked like a racetrack tout.”
“I see.”
That Penfel had lied to Sifton told her he was ashamed to admit who he was really meeting. It sounded like another colleague of O’Leary’s. Perhaps a fence Penfel was selling the emerald ring to, as his pockets were to let.
“Why are you so curious about Penfel? Did you have a rendezvous with him?”
Kate asked, and did not wait for an answer. “He is terribly handsome, quite like John. Don’t you love being in love, Miss Fairchild? How Slats would stare if we came back engaged ladies.”
“Don’t be so foolish,”
Abbie scoffed, and turned away to hide her blush.
Dinnertime was fast approaching, and Spadger was bustling about to assist the young ladies with their evening toilettes. Abbie took care of her own dressing. In a dispirited mood, she wore a navy gown and took no particular care for her coiffure. The pale face and haunted eyes staring back at her from her mirror made her look like a ghost. She pinched her cheeks and bit her lips to give her some color, but when she essayed a smile, it was a sad travesty.
This visit that had begun so pleasantly was fast turning into a nightmare. From their first meeting, Penfel had seemed to fancy her. Her first idea that he only did it to discourage Lady Susan could not account for all his attentions to herself. Most of them occurred when Susan was nowhere near them. Was he just one of those gentlemen who always flirted with any decent-looking female who crossed his path? At least he did not badger the young girls, say that for him.
Spadger came dashing into Abbie’s room for one of her private words after she had attended to the young ladies.