A Lady of His Own

CHAPTER 21

NICHOLAS STIRRED AS SOON AS THEY LIFTED HIM. NOT SO Jack. By the time he opened his eyes, then groaned, Dr. Kenton had arrived. The dapper little doctor lifted Jack’s lids, moved a candle before his eyes, then gently probed the huge contusion above his right temple.

“You were lucky-very lucky.” Kenton glanced at the cosh Charles had retrieved from behind the chaise. “If your skull wasn’t so thick, I doubt you’d be with us enough to groan.”

Jack grimaced; he bore with the doctor’s fussing, but signaled to Charles the instant Kenton’s back was turned.

If Jack was up to making such faces, he was at least in possession of his wits; Charles eased the doctor from his patient’s side and bore him away.

Fifteen minutes later, Gervase returned, grim-faced. They gathered again in the library as they had hours earlier; this time, both Jack and Nicholas looked the worse for wear, pale and drawn, both in pain, Jack from his head, Nicholas from the shoulder wound Fothergill’s blow had reopened.

They took it in turns to relate their story. Penny described how Fothergill had arrived, how he’d seemed so innocent to begin with, and how that had changed-how he’d incapacitated Jack, then used her to force Nicholas to do his bidding. She stopped at the point where Charles had appeared at the bedchamber door. She looked at him, sprawled beside her on the chaise. “How did you know to return?”

“I shouldn’t have left.” He looked grim. “We were galloping toward Fowey when the penny dropped. Dennis’s cousin couldn’t have had any direct connection with our nemesis; the knife and cloak were stage dressing to ensure I connected the death with the intruder here and raced off to investigate, presumably so something could then happen here. I turned back. Gervase went on to see if there was anything we could learn from Sid Garnut’s death.”

Gervase shifted restlessly. “Other than being proof beyond doubt that our man-Fothergill as we now know-is cold-bloodedly callous, there wasn’t anything more to be learned.” He paused, then added, “The boy had been dispatched with almost contemptuous efficiency. Fothergill, or whoever he really is, feels nothing for those he kills.”

Penny quelled a shiver. Charles took up the tale of what had transpired in the master bedchamber. He abbreviated the proceedings, stating only the necessary facts. He’d just reached the point at which Fothergill went out of the window when the crunch of approaching hooves reached them.

Charles rose and looked out. “One of my grooms. Looks like Dalziel has unearthed something.”

He strode out, reappearing two minutes later, one of the now familiar plain packets in his hand. He went to the desk and slit it open; unfolding the sheets, he returned to the chaise.

Swiftly scanning, he grimaced. “Dalziel writes that while they still haven’t cleared Gerond, the Julian Fothergill who’s a connection of Culver’s wife is a twenty-year-old with pale blond hair who, according to his mother, is presently on a walking tour of the Lake District with friends. He is, however, a budding ornithologist.”

Charles glanced at Gervase, then Jack.

Who humphed. “Other than the hair color and a few years, he had all the rest right.”

“Not only that, he used it to best advantage,” Charles said. “No one’s surprised to find an avid bird-watcher marching over their land.”

“How was it that Culver didn’t realize?” Gervase asked. “If our man’s been staying there pretending to be one of the family, surely the usual questions about Aunt Ermintrude or whoever would have tripped him up.”

“Not necessarily.” Charles glanced at Penny. “If the family’s as large as Dalziel suggests, then it’s always possible he truly is a member, just not that member, not of an English branch.”

“And Culver would never notice,” Penny said. “Aside from all else, the Fothergills are his wife’s connections, and with the best will in the world I doubt his lordship remembers his own connections. If this man hadn’t remembered Aunt Ermintrude, Culver would have thought he himself had got things wrong-he’s awfully disconnected.”

“He’s a true recluse,” Charles said, “but a terribly correct one.”

“What’s more,” Penny added, “his reclusiveness is well-known.”

Looking up at the ceiling, Jack sighed. “I just can’t get over how glibly he took me in. I was on guard when he walked in, but by the time he got behind me, I’d started to relax, to believe he was as harmless as he appeared.” He grimaced. “He was so damned English.”

Charles regarded him wryly. “Now you understand how I survived so long in France. No matter how alert and on guard one is, the eyes see what they see, and we react accordingly.”

Penny remembered her earlier thought; Fothergill was indeed a Charles-in-reverse.

“Regardless,” Charles said, “we can’t afford to sit back and reflect. He had a horse waiting. If he wasn’t worried about being identified, then he was ready to leave this area. If his mission is to punish the Selbornes and retrieve some of the pill- and snuffboxes, having failed here, where will he head next?”

Already pale, Nicholas turned a ghastly hue. “He’ll go after my father.”

“Where is he?” Gervase asked.

“London-Amberly House in Mayfair.” Nicholas struggled to get up.

Charles waved him back. “If we’re right, he can’t kill your father, not out of hand. He’ll know by now that he has no chance of laying his hands on the pillboxes-we’re not going to leave them here unguarded, and besides, he didn’t get you to show him how to open the panel.”

“Overconfident.” Gervase nodded. “But it does mean he won’t bother coming back here.”

“It also means,” Charles said, looking at Nicholas, “that he’ll feel compelled to get to thesnuffboxes. You said they’re at Amberly Grange, in Berkshire, in a priest hole much like the one here. Fothergill might not know of the priest hole, but he’ll now suspect something of the sort-some well-hidden chamber that only your father or you can open.”

“That’s why he won’t kill your pater outright.” Jack narrowed his eyes consideringly. “If I were he, I’d go to Amberly Grange, to where the snuffboxes are, and wait-use the time until Amberly returns there to learn the lay of the land, even ingratiate my way into the household, or at least into a position of being able to gain access to the house.” He glanced around at them all. “There’s no time limit applying for him, and the only pressure he knows of is that Charles now knows who he is and presumably will be searching for him.”

“Given his actions to date, I don’t think that’ll deter him,” Charles said.

“More, he seems young enough, arrogant enough, to see it as a challenge.” Gervase’s gaze was hard. “That should work to our advantage.” He looked at Charles. “So how do you want to play this?”

Charles rose. Seated beside him, sensing his impatience, Penny had wondered how much longer he’d stay still. He strode to the hearth, then faced them. “I need one of you to stay here-Jack, for obvious reasons. Gervase-you can get the word out along the coast as well as I. We need to shut the stable door so he can’t bolt.”

Gervase nodded.

Glancing at her, Charles continued, “I’ll go to London.”

“As will I.” Nicholas again struggled forward in the chair.

“No.”

Nicholas looked up, but the edict was unequivocal.

“I’m leaving now-tonight,” Charles said. “I’ll travel straight through and be in London by midday, possibly even before Fothergill. I’ll speak with your father, and Dalziel, and determine our best way forward.” He paused, his gaze on Nicholas’s determined but drawn face, then more quietly added, “I understand your wish to aid your father, but you’re in no condition to do so. A long, jolting journey will land you in a sickbed for days if not longer.”

“He’s my father-”

“Indeed, but I was sent here to deal with this matter.” Charles paused, then added, “You may safely leave it to me. Fothergill won’t succeed-and he will pay.”

“And you needn’t worry about your father, Nicholas, for I’m going to London, too.”

Her voice, so much lighter than theirs, rang like a bell. They all looked at her, but it was Charles’s gaze she met. She held it for a pregnant instant, then softly said, “Either with you, or independently-and, of course, I’ll be calling on Amberly.” She glanced at Nicholas. “Whatever else, he’ll have family beside him through this.”

Nicholas blinked; his dilemma showed plainly in his face-he was too tired to hide it. Should he be grateful to Penny and support her, or side with Charles as instinct prompted and keep her safely at home?

Gervase shifted; Jack frowned. Both were aware of the undercurrents; neither was in a position to say anything, a fact they were forced to accept. They had no authority here.

When, unable to make up his mind, Nicholas said nothing, Penny looked back at Charles. And raised a brow. With him, or by herself…

No real choice for him, either.

His jaw set; the planes of his face hardened, but, stiffly, he inclined his head. “Very well.”

He was too far away for her to read his eyes, but in this, she didn’t need to. She was perfectly aware of the various trains of thought-the swift and decisive plans-running through his head. Those she would deal with later; one step at a time.

She rose, waving the others back as they started to their feet. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’ll go and pack.” She glanced at Charles. “My carriage or yours?”

He considered, then replied, “Yours will do.”

She nodded and turned for the door. “I’ll give orders to have it prepared. Half an hour, shall we say?”

Glancing back from the door, she saw his lips thin; he nodded curtly. Suppressing a grimly satisfied smile, she opened the door and went on her willful way.

She next saw Charles when she decended the front steps, attired in a comfortable carriage dress and prepared for a long, uncomfortable drive. He was standing with the coachman and groom, confirming his orders. When her boots crunched on the gravel, he turned, flicked a comprehensive glance over her, noting the warm shawl draped over her shoulders, then looked back to the coachman and groom, and gave the word. They scurried to climb up to their perches as he joined her.

He took the door the footman had opened, held it and held out his hand. She put her fingers in his, felt him grip. Hard.

“I am not happy about this.” The words were a growl as he helped her up the carriage steps.

She glanced at him, met his eyes. “I know. But we can’t always have what we want.”

Moving into the carriage, she sat. He looked up at the coachman, nodded, then leapt into the coach, slammed the door, and flung himself on the seat beside her.

Head back against the squabs, he looked up at the coach’s ceiling. “As it happens, I usually do manage to get what I want from women. With you, however…”

She took a moment to subdue her smile, then, lifting a hand, she gently patted one of his where it rested half-clenched on his thigh. “Never mind.”

His response was a growl of elemental male frustration.

But he opened his hand and closed it about hers.

The drive was as grueling as she’d expected; the coachman had his orders-he drove like one possessed. The crest on the carriage door gave them a certain license. The carriage was relatively new and well sprung, and Charles and his commanding presence ensured that the teams they were provided with at every halt were the very best to be had.

They made excellent time, racing on into the night. Other than easing the pace a fraction to allow for the fading light, the coachman made no other concession. As night closed in, they met fewer and fewer carriages; when full darkness fell, it seemed as if they were the only occupants of the road, streaking ever onward, the carriage lights faintly bobbing, throwing faint gleams that the darkness swallowed as they rocketed along.

The regular thud of the horses’ heavy hooves, the repetitive rattle of the wheels became a soporific lullaby. Drawing her shawl about her, she leaned against Charles; he raised his arm and gathered her in. She smiled, turned to him, lifted her lips for a kiss…which was truncated by the next jolt.

His arm tightened, holding her against him. She patted his chest, then settled her cheek on the warm, resilient muscle, and closed her eyes.

She awoke at their next stop, when he left her to see to the horses. When he returned, and their rattling trip resumed, he drew her back to him and rested his cheek against the top of her head.

A fitful rest at best, yet despite the rigors, the journey was restful in other ways. They spoke little; there was no point in arguing yet.

When dawn broke and Charles took a turn on the box, spelling the coachman who’d driven through the night, her gaze fixed unseeing on the landscape flashing past, Penny grasped the chance to consider the landscape forming between them.

Within it, she felt comfortable; the farther they traveled together along their road, the more the position at his side felt right, increasingly hers. Increasingly meant to be hers. His confidence in that, that that’s what would be, remained unwavering, feeding her confidence that this time…

Once they’d dealt with Fothergill, they would see.

Charles rejoined her in the carriage at Hammersmith, leaving the coachman to tool the coach through the outskirts and into Mayfair. They came to a rocking halt before Lostwithiel House in Bedford Square.

A mansion of gray stone, it was old enough to have developed its own charm. Penny had visited there frequently in years gone by; when Charles’s butler, Crewther, opened the door, she smiled and greeted him by name.

Crewther’s face lit; he was about to bow, then his gaze went past her to Charles, giving her coachman directions to the mews. Crewther’s eyes widened. As Charles turned and strode up the steps, Crewther stepped back and bowed them in. “My lord, Lady Penelope. Welcome back.”

Charles nodded. “Thank you, Crewther. Lady Penelope and I will most likely be here for a few days.” He fixed Crewther with a direct look. “Are my mother and sisters in?”

“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.”

Placing her earrings on a side table, she looked at him, puzzled, but he made no move to explain. Insisting she spend the night in his room, in his bed, with absolutely no concern over who in his household knew of it, was, to his mind, a clear declaration of his commitment to their goal-to her being his wife. Nothing else could explain such a blatant act; he was certain his mother, sisters, and even more his sisters-in-law, would see it for the admission it was.

They’d probably coo. Thank God he wouldn’t be about to hear them.

Penny pulled pins from her hair, then unraveled the intricate braid Jacqueline’s maid had set her long tresses in. She assumed she was in his room rather than him being in hers because her room was near his sisters’, and thus far since returning from Amberly House they hadn’t had a chance to talk-he hadn’t had a chance to persuade her to remain in London. She knew the argument was coming, had known it from the moment she’d jockeyed him into bringing her to town. In London with his mother, or Elaine, was where he would deem her safest, where he would prefer her to be.

That was not, however, where she needed to be.

But she couldn’t explain until he broached the subject. Combing out her long hair with her fingers, she shook it free, then started undoing the buttons on her gown.

Still in his trousers, he stopped behind her and undid her laces. She murmured her thanks, then drew the long silk sheath off over her head; she felt his hands slide around her as she shook the gown out. Tossing it aside, clad only in her fine chemise, she let him draw her back against him. Let him wrap his arms around her and surround her with his strength.

Bending his head, he pressed his lips to her throat, lingered there. She could almost hear him thinking how best to open the debate, then he raised his head, steadied her, and stepped back. “Before I forget…”

Crossing to his tallboy, he lifted a letter from the top. “This was waiting for me.” He handed it to her. “It’s really for you.”

Puzzled anew, she took it, unfolded the sheets, smoothed them, and read. It was an account of an engagement at Waterloo, written by a corporal who’d been in the same troop as Granville.

She read the opening paragraph, slowly moved to the bed and sank down as the action unfolded, told in the young corporal’s unpolished phrases. She read on, aware that Charles sat beside her; blindly, she reached for him. He took her hand, wrapped his around it, held it while through the corporal’s eyes she saw and learned of the circumstances of Granville’s death.

When she reached the end, she let the letter refold, sat for a moment, then glanced at Charles. “Where…how did you get this?”

“I knew Devil Cynster led a troop of cavalry in the relief of Hougoumont. It was likely he or some of his men would know various survivors, so I asked. One of his cousins had assisted Granville’s troop afterward; he remembered the corporal and searched him out.” He nodded at the letter. “The corporal remembered Granville.”

Mistily, she smiled at him. “Thank you.” She glanced at the sheets in her hand. “It means a lot knowing he died a hero. In some way it makes it, not easier, but less of a waste.”

After a moment, she looked at him. “Can I give this to Elaine?”

“Of course.”

She rose, crossed to the side table, and left the letter with her jewelry. Turning back, she paused, studied him waiting for her, broad chest bare, his dark mane framing his dramatically beautiful face, his midnight eyes steady on her. He held out one hand. She walked to him, gave him her fingers, and let him clasp them as she sat again on the bed, angling to face him as he shifted to face her.

He searched her eyes, then simply said, “Please stay here and let me and Dalziel handle whatever happens at Amberly Grange.”

She studied his eyes, equally simply replied, “No.”

The planes of his face hardened. He opened his lips-she stayed him with a raised hand. “No-wait. I need to think.”

His eyes widened incredulously, then he flopped back on the bed, gave vent to a pungent curse, followed by a muttered diatribe on the quality of her thought processes and her familial failing regarding same.

She fought to straighten her lips, aware of the tension riding him-aware of its source. “I know why you want me to stay here.”

His dark gaze flicked down to fix on her face. “If you know what violence it does to my feelings to have you exposed to any danger, let alone a madman who’d be quite happy to slit your throat”-he came up on one elbow, patently unable to keep still-“then you shouldn’t have to think too hard.”

She met his blatantly intimidating gaze. “Except that there’s more at stake here, something more important than just catering to your protective instincts.”

For a moment, he stared into her eyes, then he sighed tensely and looked away. And sotto voce in idiomatic French reminded himself of the futility of arguing with her.

She tightened her fingers, squeezing his hand. “I understood that.”

He glanced at her, and humphed.

They were both trying to lighten a fraught moment-fraught with emotion rather than threats. Dealing with emotions had never come easily to either of them; what they now had to face, to manage, accommodate and ease, was daunting.

He was descended from warrior lords; one of his strongest instincts was to protect, especially those he cared about, especially the females in his life. Especially her. She’d accepted that in drawing close to him again, his protective instinct would flare again, and it had, even more fiercely than before. But she was neither weak nor helpless, and he’d always acknowledged that and tried to rein in his impulses so they didn’t unnecessarily abrade her pride. However, this time the danger was immediate and very real; he wouldn’t easily be persuaded to let her face it with him.

She searched his dark eyes, saw, understood, and felt certain, this time, that it was important she be with him; why, however, wasn’t easy to explain.

Slipping her fingers from his, she slid from the bed and stood; clasping her elbows, she walked a few paces, then turned and slowly paced back.

Charles watched her, saw the concentration in her face as she assembled her thoughts. As she neared the bed, he sat up. She lowered her arms; he reached for her hands and drew her to stand between his knees.

She looked into his eyes, her gaze steady; her fingers locked with his. “There are two reasons I need to go with you. The minor one is that this ‘game’ was a Selborne enterprise-concocted, instituted, and executed for years by Amberly and my father. Amberly represents his side of it, I represent my father and Granville, who are no longer here. It’s right that Amberly should have one of us beside him to the end.”

She paused, then went on, “I could point out how old and frail he is, but it’s more a question of family loyalties, and that’s something I know you understand.”

He arched a resigned brow. “No point arguing?”

“In my shoes, you’d do the same.”

He couldn’t contradict her. “What’s the other, more important reason?”

You. Sliding her fingers from his, Penny raised her hands and framed his face, looked into his midnight eyes. She watched his expression harden as he read the resolution in hers. “It’s important to me to see this through with you, by your side. We’ve been apart for a long time; I’ve been out of your life for more than a decade, and you’ve been out of mine. If we’re to marry, if I’m to be your wife, then I’ll expect to share your life-all of it. I won’t be cut out, shielded, tucked away even for my own safety. If we’re to marry, then I’ll be by your side not just figuratively but literally.”

She now understood how important that was-for him no longer to be alone, for her to be with him. She’d decided to accompany him to London more than anything because instinct had insisted she should.

Instinct hadn’t lied. Alerted by it, she’d watched him since they’d left Wallingham; she could now see beyond his mask most of the time. She’d observed how he’d behaved and reacted during the grueling journey, through their arrival here, their interview with Amberly and Dalziel, and even more tellingly, in dealing with his womenfolk. She’d seen how he’d coped with her beside him, and contrasted that with how he would have managed if she hadn’t been.

If she’d harbored any doubt of the difference her presence made, his behavior over the evening would have slain it. When they’d greeted the first guests, she’d seen how inwardly tense he’d been, although not a hint showed, even to his sisters; his mask of devil-may-care bonhomie was exceptionally good, exceptionally distracting. At first, knowing his background and experience in ballrooms, she’d been at a loss to understand his difficulty, then she’d caught him swiftly scanning the room, and realized-he held everyone at a distance. He was used to being completely alone, even in a crowd, guarding against everyone, trusting no one…except her.

As the evening wore on, and he realized she didn’t mind being used, that she was amenable to being his link, his connection with the glittering throng, his interactions with others subtly changed, shifted. By the end of the night, much of his defensive tension had left him. When he laughed, it was more genuine, from his soul.

She was the only person he trusted unreservedly, without thought. She could be his anchor, his trusted link with others, one he now, after all his years of being alone, desperately needed. His mother understood, possibly the only other who saw clearly; from across the ballroom, she’d smiled her approval. A few other matrons who knew them both well probably suspected.

He needed her. He’d told her so, in multiple ways, but she hadn’t truly appreciated how real that need was. She was still getting used to the situation; she had yet to learn how, between them, they needed to deal with it.

Lost in his eyes, in all she could now see, she drew in a deep breath; releasing his face she lowered her hands, found his and let their fingers twine and grip. “We’ve missed a lot of each other’s lives, but there’s no reason for that to continue. If we’re to face the future together, it has to be all the future, side by side.”

His eyes had narrowed, gaze sharp as he searched hers, reading her message. She wasn’t agreeing to marry him; she was establishing parameters. After a moment he confirmed, “That’s the sort of marriage you want-the sort of marriage you’ll agree to?”

“Yes.” She held his gaze. “If you want all of my future, then I want all of yours, not just the parts you think safe for me to share.”

Not the wisest ultimatum to put to a man like him. She’d tried to avoid it, but cloaking his need and her determination to fulfill it in her usual willful stubbornness seemed the simplest way forward.

His expression impassive, he stared at her for ten heartbeats, then he carefully set her back from him, stood, and paced away. His back to her, he stopped. Hands rising to his hips, he looked up at the ceiling, then swung around and impaled her with a gaze that held all the turbulent power of a storm-racked night. He’d spoken of violence and it was there; she knew it wasn’t feigned.

“What you ask isn’t-” He sliced off his next word with an abrupt gesture.

“Easy?” Propping her hip against the bed, she folded her arms and lifted her chin. “I know-I know you.”

He held her gaze, then exhaled through clenched teeth. “If you know me so well, you know that asking me to let you go into danger-”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He frowned.

“I said I wanted to be with you. If I am, by definition I’m not in danger.” Pushing away from the bed, she walked to him. “If there’s danger, I’ll be perfectly content to stand behind you. I don’t even need to help with what you have to do.” Halting, she laid a hand on his chest, over his heart. “I simply need to be with you.”

A certain wariness filled his eyes. Raising a hand, he closed it over hers, held her palm to his chest. “You don’t have to be with me physically-”

“Yes, I do. Now, I do. Years ago, perhaps not.” She held his gaze. “The youth you used to be is not the man you are. The man you are learned to be alone-very alone, very apart. You can keep the rest of the world at bay, but if we marry, you can’t and won’t keep me at a distance.” After a moment, she softly added, “I won’t let you-I won’t accept that.”

She wouldn’t accept leaving him to deal with life alone.

He understood what she was demanding; she saw comprehension in his eyes, a center of calm coalescing in the darkness.

A long moment passed, then he exhaled. He briefly closed his eyes, then opened them. “Very well.” His eyes were still stormy when they met hers. “We’ll go to Amberly Grange tomorrow, and…we’ll see.”