Lady Penelope's Christmas Charade, a Regency Romance (23 page)

Tom had sent a message up from Dunstable that Penelope had returned to London. So she was likely home, unless she had gone out calling or to see her modiste. Pierce stalked over to the door and wrenched it open. "Here, Jim," he called.

"Yes, sir?" Jim jumped up from his spot on the floor.

"I want you to go round to
Lady Annand
's home, in Grosvenor Square. Make sure she's there, and if she is—tell her to pack a few things. Tell her I'm on my way, and I will let her know what's happening when I arrive." He tossed the boy a coin. "Hurry up then. On your way."

As the lad scurried off, Pierce ducked back into his office. He tossed the papers on his desk into the flames, and after they were fully consumed, doused the fire. Then he grabbed his greatcoat. He could be to his flat and packed in just a matter of moments.  Then he could collect Penelope and make haste into the countryside. He had a hunting lodge he shared with a few other gentlemen in Norwich. And as it was not prime hunting season, it would likely be empty. They could lay in a few supplies and stay there until the danger passed.

He locked his office door and ran down the steps. Penelope would understand the gravity of the situation. She was likely still furious with him, but once he explained…

A blinding flash of pain seared across the top of his head. He collapsed, unable to move. A sickening sweet smell engulfed him. Chloroform. He struggled against the cloth being pressed against his nostrils, but his limbs refused to do as he bade them. He slipped into the waiting inky darkness.

Chapter Twenty-Three

"I don't understand. Who are you, and why are you here?" Penelope ushered the young street urchin into the front hallway of her townhome.

"Listen, milady. I works for Pierce Howe. He sent me here to tell ya to hurry up and pack some clothes." The lad paused to wipe his nose on his sleeve. "He'll be coming after to collect you."

"You work for Pierce?" She stared down at the boy. Certainly he was an urchin, but he looked to be somewhat well-fed, and his clothes and face were presentable. Aside from his accent and scruffy manners, he looked a decent little chap. So he worked for Pierce running errands, did he? Why didn't Pierce come himself, though? Was he trying to trick her or manipulate her in some way?

"Why didn't he tell me so himself? Why send a messenger?" Penelope ushered the lad into the parlor, where a fire roared in the grate. 'Twas too cold to leave him standing in the vestibule. She rang the bell for some tea.

"All I knows is, I was crouching in the hallway, waiting for me next job. This old fellow came up to Mr. Howe's office, and there was a hell of a row. Mr. Howe was shouting at the old man, threatening to plant him a facer. Well, milady, I wanted to see that, so I moved closer to the door to take a peek inside." The lad paused for breath. "But there weren't no fight after that. The old fellow just said he was blowing Town mighty quick and told Mr. Howe to do the same. So here I am, 'cos after the old blighter left, Mr. Howe sent me for you."

The butler knocked discreetly and entered with the tea tray. If he was surprised to see a young street urchin huddling on her Aubusson carpet, extending his chapped hands to the blaze, Simmons was far too well-bred to show it. Instead, he placed the tea tray noiselessly on a nearby table, bowed, and left.

Penelope held out the plate of biscuits to the lad, and smiled to herself when he snatched the whole plate away. She made him a cup of cambric tea, and set it on the floor beside him.

Sending this lad to demand that she get ready was not Pierce's way of being stubborn or high-handed. No, indeed. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. If he were merely trying to get his way, Pierce would have come here himself long ago, and demanded an audience. But sending on a messenger, and then following after him—that was the mark of a desperate plan. She rang the bell once more.

What was taking Simmons so long? Heavens, just when she needed him, he decided to move as slowly as honey in January.

When at length the butler answered her bell, she turned on him in a whirlwind. "Have a small trunk packed for me and brought downstairs, Simmons," she ordered. "Sturdy, warm clothes that I can use for winter travel. Boots, too."

Simmons nodded. "At once, your ladyship."

She turned back to the lad as he polished off the remaining few biscuit crumbs. "I shall be ready for Mr. Howe when he arrives. I shall send you back in my carriage—it's far too cold for you to be running about outdoors. By the way, what is your name?"

"Jim. Least that's what Mr. Howe calls me."

"Very well, Jim. When Simmons returns with my trunk, I will have my carriage made ready for you. In the meantime, stay warm and drink your tea. You're likely to catch your death scampering about Town dressed as you are, in this weather."

Jim smiled for the first time since he showed up on her doorstep. "Many thanks, milady."

As she turned back to the doorway, preparing to run upstairs and supervise her packing, an odd but familiar twinge clutched at her being. She paused a moment, bending slightly over a chair. Her monthly visitor was here at last. She didn't know whether to feel relieved or terribly disappointed.  She shoved both emotions down deep within, and focused on the practical. 'Twould be awkward at best to travel when having one's monthly—but then, there was never a really ideal time to have it.

She pulled herself upright and quit the room, taking the stairs quickly so that she could ready herself before the flow began in earnest. At least now she would not have to have any potentially heartbreaking conversations with Pierce. He would never have to know that, for the space of two weeks, she had been certain she was carrying his child. He would never have to know that she had spent her time imagining herself as his wife. At least now, if she threw herself at him as she had promised Jane and Elizabeth she would, she would get her answer based on honesty. He would not feel as though he should do right by her. He would either marry her—or not—based on his own feelings in the matter.

She prepared herself for her monthly flow and then changed into a sturdy riding habit. Then she hastened back downstairs as soon as her trunk was packed. She had the footmen place it next to the front door, for a quicker flight as soon as Pierce arrived. It was taking him longer to come for her than she expected, but perhaps he had business affairs to clear up before they left.

"Simmons, bring my carriage around for Jim, the young lad in the parlor," she instructed. "He should be taken back to Pierce Howe's office. Make sure the coachmen see that he gets back safely. I am sure Bill will see to his welfare."

"Of course, your ladyship."

Jim left in the carriage, his ruddy face beaming from the window as they drove off. With the lad gone, there was nothing left to occupy her mind. She paced the parlor floor, wearing a trail into the nap of the rug with her sturdy boots. At every sound, her head snapped up, but Pierce still had not arrived. She thought back on everything Jim had said about coming over in the morning—about the old man who was going to fight him, and about the need to leave Town as quickly as possible.

That old fellow could be anyone, of course. Pierce had many clients of all ages and backgrounds. But if it were just any client of his, why would he care about getting her out of Town too? No, the matter must be related to her. Pierce had gone snooping that one night at the stag party—perhaps he stumbled on something he wasn't meant to know. And because she had been there with him, she needed to flee as well.

Her back gave a mighty twinge and she sat down to ease the pain, but situated her chair near the window so she could gaze out onto the street. But no carriages or horses came flying down the street. In fact, aside from the occasional scrape of a bare tree branch along the window pane, the world had gone eerily silent. She didn't like this. Not one bit.

There was that old man who had accosted her when they stopped in Leicester. The cheeky old fellow—a thief-taker—who had told her the truth about Howe. Was he involved in this somehow? He seemed to take a close interest in their affairs. Perhaps he was the old fellow that Pierce had threatened to fight that morning, when Jim was listening in.

But what could cause all of this commotion? And where the devil was Pierce? Her heart raced against her ribcage. It was growing late. Soon it would be time for luncheon, and a good two hours since Jim had run up her front steps and banged on the door.

I'll give him another half-hour. If he's not here, then I will take action
. After all, she didn't want to mess up any kind of alibi he was creating, or perhaps he really was just settling a few affairs. She swallowed the bile rising in her throat. She would not give into hysterics and she would not act in any manner that might compromise his safety. Everything she did would be done in a calm and deliberate fashion.

She rose and selected a book off the shelf, then resumed her waiting by the window. The words blurred into a single line. Come on, then. Focus. She widened her eyes and tried again, but after trying to read the same sentence over and over again for a quarter of an hour, she gave up. But she kept the book open as a handy prop, in case any of the servants should come in and see her sitting there.

The clock on the mantelpiece finally chimed the half-hour. Pierce was still nowhere to be found. She would have to take matters into her own hands.

***

His head pounded as though a hammer were beating against his skull. Pierce groaned and opened his eyes. Damn, it was hard work. His eyelids felt as though they had weights tied to them. He gave an experimental wriggle, but his arms were bound tightly behind his back.

"Ain't no use struggling," a familiar voice laughed ruefully. "I see you didn't get out of Town quickly enough, either."

Pierce forced his eyes open, but everything was blurry. "Twist?" he croaked.

"Yeah. They got me too. Just as I was leavin' your place. Got down the stairwell and out into the street when I got coshed on the head." He chuckled. "Ruth's gonna be furious. I promised her a trip to the country,
to see her family
. Our first time to have a proper
Christmas
holiday."

He couldn't shake his head to clear his vision—it was throbbing too much. So he had to make do by closing and opening his eyelids a few times. Slowly, his vision cleared, and the shapes in the room became sharp and distinct.

"I was on my way out when I got hit, too." He ran his tongue over his lips. "Where are we?"

"Damned if I know. Some shed of some kind," Twist replied. "Got a dirt floor, and no fire to speak of. I been shivering me arse off since they tossed me in here."

Pierce stared around the room. Broken tools lined the rough-hewn walls. Must be a gardening shed of
sorts
. He craned his head. Some of the cracks in the wall were big enough to see through. They were definitely large enough to let the keen air blow through. He wriggled closer to the wall, inching his way through the dust.

"What're you doing?"

"Trying to see outside." Pierce pressed his face against a crack, and forced the pounding in his head to subside so he could focus. It was late in the day—the sun sent long shadows across a well-manicured lawn. He could just catch the sliver of a large house—really a mansion—just across the way. There was something familiar about it. A back door with a little dormer roof over it. He strained harder, but could see no more.

That back door—it was so familiar. Penelope had stood there, shivering in a skimpy maid's costume the night they had questioned those light skirts.

"We're at the Lily," he pronounced, and wriggled back away from the draft. Using all the muscles of his abdomen, he pulled himself into a sitting position on the floor. "In case there was any doubt that this is Cavendish's doing."

Twist nodded. "I figured as much. So what the hell are we going to do now? No one knows we're here."

"We're going to get out of this, of course." Pierce cast around for a glimpse of a sharp object—anything that could cut the ropes. "We're thief-takers. We don't wait for the Runners to rescue us, do we?"

"No, by God, we don't." The old man chuckled. "Howland, my lad, I apologize that I got you into this mess. I thought it meant a sure and steady retirement for us both. But if I hadn't intervened, I would still be enjoying my Ruth, and you would be taking your pleasure with that feisty little red-head."

"
Penelope. Viscountess Annand
," Pierce admitted.

Twist nodded sagely. "I know. I knew it from the start."

Pierce scowled. "You are a son of a bitch, you know that, Twist?" He sighed. "Don't apologize, either. We can still get out of this mess. We're just going to have to find a way to free ourselves of these ropes. I'll wager there are some stout ruffians standing guard over us. So we'll have to find a way to beat them, either with brains or with brawn."

"Well, you might be able to put up your dukes still," Twist muttered. "As for me, I can only hope to outsmart them."

"Good enough." Already Pierce was tiring of this situation. He had his trip to the hunting lodge all planned…his reconciliation with Penelope almost assured…and at the very least, he would be near her again. And now? Here he was rolling around in the dirt of some godforsaken gardening shed, waiting for Cavendish—that heartless rogue—to decide his fate.

He managed to flop forward, onto his knees, and then scuttled over to the part of the shed with the gardening tools. A broken pair of shears sat rusting against a rubbish bin. He backed up to them and grasped the blade in his hands, taking care not to cut his palm in the process. Then he scurried back to his spot over by Twist.

The shed door banged open. "What, up already boys?" A cultured voice sneered. Cavendish himself.

"We're honored, your Lordship," Pierce muttered. As he spoke, he eased the blade to the earth, between his booted ankles. "I thought we would have to deal with your hired goons."

"Shut up," Cavendish barked. "Why the hell did either of you go to the Runners? I would have cut you in on the deal. Plenty of money to be made through whores, you know. And as it is, you are stealing pleasure from a lot of deserving gentleman."

"I ain't no gentleman," Twist replied in an exaggerated Cockney accent.

Cavendish flicked his wrist at Twist to make him hush. "True." He turned to Pierce. "But you've enjoyed my hospitality, Lord Howland. You and your red-headed doxie." He shook his head as though dismayed at Howe's behavior. "Pretending to be some baron when you're a viscount all along. How a man of your station could stoop so low—cooperating with the Runners—after all, you know more of sordid family matters than most of us."

"That's why I'm no longer Lord Howland," Pierce replied. "I'm a thief-taker. And I don't like how men of the gentry use their titles to harm others, and then get away with it. And that's why I turned you in. Prostituting children? Honestly, Cavendish. You're better than that."