The Romantic (16 page)

“You cannot stay at Billericay. We will have to do this differently now. I must put you someplace tonight where I am absolutely sure that you will have protection. Until we are well away from Glasbury, you must never be alone again.”

“I do not think there is such a place. We are running out of sanctuaries.”

“There is one more.”

That evening, as the light waned, the gig rolled up a tree-lined lane in Hampstead. They had released the carriage horses halfway to Billericay.

It had been a tiring journey in the gig. The horse had needed rest quite often, and the road had bumped the small carriage along. Only the knowledge that Glasbury was stranded on the coast had kept Pen from getting fearful and impatient with their progress.

They approached an old cross-timbered house nestled picturesquely in a clearing. “Do you think he will agree to this?”

“He will be flattered to be asked. He will also not hesitate to stand against any man who tries to intrude.”

“He is a little old for that.”

Julian laughed quietly. “His sword arm is still unsurpassed, Pen. He has also relented and learned to use a pistol.”

The man they discussed stepped out the front door to observe their approach. Gray-haired and fine-boned, his average stature gave no hint of his wiry strength. Pen had seen him spar with sabre and foil, however, and knew the
deadly concentration and precision that he brought to that noble form of combat.

The Chevalier Corbet walked over to the gig. He greeted Pen with a bow. “Countess, I am honored. Julian, have you come to display your skill to the lady? The hour is late, but—”

“This is not a social call, Louis. I have come to leave the countess in your protection until morning. I do not expect any trouble, but there is a chance your skills will be needed.”

The chevalier’s eyes brightened. He flashed a subtle, smooth smile as he handed Pen down from the gig. “For the lady’s sake, I hope not. For my own, I would not mind. It has been too long since I did more than instruct others.”

“I trust that no students will be coming for lessons tomorrow morning,” Pen said.

“I expect no one. If any should arrive unexpectedly, I will turn them away. Both your person and your reputation are completely safe.”

Julian carried her trunks into the house and up to the chamber indicated by Corbet. Pen accepted the offer of some wine, in a room behind the big hall where the chevalier held those lessons for which he was famed.

Louis made her welcome and at ease. She had known him for years. Laclere and Dante had long been among the chevalier’s students. Along with Julian and St. John and some others, they still met here to practice with the sword.

When Julian joined them, the chevalier discreetly departed. Julian lifted a lamp and brought it to the table next to her chair.

“He does not appear very curious about this intrusion,” she said.

“He will demand no explanation, nor give advice unless asked. He will guard you with his life, however. Do not doubt that.”

He lifted her left hand. She thought it was a gesture of reassurance. Instead he gently turned her arm and began unbuttoning her sleeve.

“I am not sure that I want to see this,” she said.

“I do.” His fingers carefully unfastened the tiny buttons. “You told me Glasbury was not violent in this way.”

She winced when he reached the buttons over her bruise. Glasbury’s grip had embedded those small bumps into her skin. “He was not, in the past. This was my fault. I refused to pretend. I goaded him, to be honest.”

“Never say that again. The blame rests only one place, and it is not with you.”

He parted the gaping sleeve to reveal the damage. Her skin showed a bruise darkening in a thick band around her forearm. The images of the earl’s fingers were clearly visible.

“The bastard.” Julian gazed down at the abuse cradled in his hand. “It must pain you badly.”

“Not so badly.” That was a lie, although the sensation of his touch distracted her from the ache. A different, more pleasant warmth enlivened the skin resting against his firm palm.

“I will get something to ease the swelling.”

“No, Julian, you will start off for London. I can tend to myself, and if I need any help the chevalier will aid me. I daresay he knows more about wounds and injuries than we do.”

He appeared reluctant. “I will return in the morning, with what we need for this journey,” he said. “Expect me a few hours after dawn at the latest.”

“I will be ready.”

He gently kissed the ugly bruise.

“Whatever else happens, Pen, I swear to you that he will never hurt you again.
Never.”

“He caught me unawares. Snuck up from the rear.”

“If a solicitor can best you, Jones, what good are you at all?”

Glasbury paced around the ridiculously small chamber he had been given at the inn in Billericay. To be left at that cottage while Dardly retrieved the horses had been intolerable. Then the coachman had insisted they wait until morning to return to London. Now he was stuck in this sty of an inn without his valet or clean garments or—

Jones’s eyes became two slits in his moon face. “I’ll find her once we return to London. Don’t you doubt that. I’ve a debt to pay Hampton, too.” He rubbed the blood-crusted hair on his crown.

“You idiot, do you think he would take her to London now? Hampton is not the most brilliant mind in creation but he is not a total fool.”

“If not London, then where?”

“Hell if I know. They also have a day’s start because of your negligence, so you can hardly follow, can you?”

Glasbury barely contained his frustration. To have been so close to finally ending this illegal and humiliating estrangement, only to have the incompetence of Jones and that coachman ruin it—

He poured more of the foul wine the inn had sent with his meal. He drank a deep swallow.

The meeting with Penelope had been playing in his head all day, infuriating him. For years he had been helpless against her threats, but no more. She would comprehend that soon enough.

There are others who know.
Yes, but none who would speak. The best thing about power and wealth was that one could buy silence with fear and money. Or buy men like Jones if necessary.

“Well, if he is not bringing her to London, we will have to wait until she shows herself,” Jones said. “No way I can run her to ground with all the roads and canals and villages in England, now can I?”

Glasbury took another swallow of wine. He pictured Penelope’s face in the cottage. Belligerent. Challenging. She had changed over the years. But then, so had he. Weakness no longer appealed to him. There was no victory if your opponent was weak.

Her resistance had been very … exciting.

There are others who know. It will not be my voice alone.

He heard her words again. He saw her confident expression as she threatened him.

He set down his glass as her meaning suddenly became clear.
Yes. Of course.
She had not meant his Jamaican slaves or his English servants. Not those still with him, at least.

He chuckled. He no longer cared about the discomforts of a night at the inn.

“I know where they have gone. I know where you will find her. You may even catch her on the road. I will give you instructions tomorrow. You will need another man to
go with you. This must be done without incident, without notoriety.”

Jones left, and Glasbury sat at the table. The wine was tasting better, and he poured some more.

“When you said a woman would accompany us, I thought you meant one of some maturity,” Pen said.

She stood beside Julian in front of the chevalier’s house while her trunks were hauled up to the top of the hired coach Julian had brought.

Directing the chevalier and the coachman was a young woman named Catherine Langton. Sandy-haired and fair-skinned, Catherine was sturdy in build and demeanor, and a head taller than Penelope. Her posture and crisp orders bespoke a woman who did not suffer fools gladly.

The chevalier climbed off the carriage and dusted his hands with finality. Catherine’s steely blue eyes examined the ties on the chests. Little hollows formed beneath her high cheekbones, as she sucked in her cheeks in disapproval. The chevalier responded with a low-lidded expression that indicated further criticism would carry risks.

“She
is
a mature woman,” Julian said.

“You know what I meant. Older. At least as old as I am. She cannot be more than twenty-five.”

Catherine marched to the door of the carriage, climbed in, arranged the window curtains to her liking, and waited.

“Where did you find her?”

“I called on your friend Mrs. Levanham last night and asked for a recommendation. Her fame as a woman who
abandoned her husband brings other women in similar straits to her attention.”

“Like me.”

“And like Catherine. I thought that another embattled wife would be glad for the position we had. Since Catherine’s husband is a sea captain due back in England any day, the opportunity to take a journey away from London appealed to her.”

“She is quite overbearing.”

“No doubt that is due to her circumstances. She makes her own way now.”

He sounded as if he admired her. For some reason, that made Pen like Catherine even less.

“Does she know who I am?”

“We will use our false names at inns, but could not maintain the ruse all the time with her. She should do splendidly, Pen. She is willing to act as lady’s maid, but is educated and well spoken. Mrs. Levanham informed me that she also has a most unusual talent.”

“What is that?”

“An expertise with firearms. Catherine is a crack shot.”

He guided Pen to the carriage and handed her over to the formidable young woman waiting within.

Catherine immediately shook out a carriage blanket and tucked it around Pen’s feet. “Mr. Hampton will be riding above?”

“It appears so.”

“Why would that be? There is room enough in here.”

“I do not know.”

“Don’t you now? Is he a stranger to you?”

“I have known Mr. Hampton since I was a girl. He is an old friend. I cannot read his mind, however.”

“Not a matter of reading a man’s mind to know his habits and preferences.” Catherine spoke in the kind of brusque, no-nonsense tone that Pen had always disliked.

“He does enjoy being out-of-doors. Perhaps he wants to see the countryside, and feel the wind. That would be like him.”

With farewells to the chevalier, the carriage rolled down the lane and headed northwest. The overcast day held a bitter damp, and Pen was grateful for the blanket wrapping her feet.

She looked down and saw Catherine’s serviceable old shoes poking from beneath her skirt and petticoats. She bent and rearranged the blanket so that it covered Catherine’s feet and legs, too.

Catherine’s expression fell as if the gesture surprised her. Suddenly she appeared very young and not at all severe. With the smattering of freckles dusting her nose and cheeks, she actually looked somewhat girlish.

She leveled her blue eyes on Pen. They had not turned to ice yet, but in a few more years they might.

“I know about you,” she said. “Bold of you to leave an earl. Hard to give up that life.”

“No harder or bolder than your own decision. Less so, since I had family and resources that you did not.”

“Did he punch you?”

The blunt question startled Pen. No one had ever asked before. Not her brothers or friends. Not even Julian when she went to him that day.

She shook her head. The earl had not used his fists on her. Prior to yesterday, he had never hurt her in that way. The blows had been of a different, more wicked sort.

“My Jacob did. He would get drunk and hit me. First

I took it because he was my husband. Then I took it because I had a daughter. Then one day I walked away, even though it meant losing my precious child, because staying was too dangerous.”

“You feared for your life?”

“I feared for his. I woke one morning bruised and hurting, with hatred in my heart. I knew that if he thought to hurt me ever again I would kill him first. So I left.”

She told her story so calmly that one would think she described an old, vague memory. Her eyes betrayed her true emotions, however. Sadness and anger burned lowly in them, like fires dying but not yet extinguished.

“Have you not seen your daughter since?”

“He sent her north to family of his near Carlisle. He thinks my love for her will make me return, or else he can force me to on his own. I am safe while he is at sea. When his ship comes to England I am not, so I disappear however I can.”

“That must make it difficult to keep employment.”

“I manage. I haven’t had to sell myself at least. Although I could if I had to, I expect. After all, I sold myself to Jacob, didn’t I? If I could do that with a man I had grown to fear and hate, I expect it would be possible with a stranger.”

Pen knew that she should say something moral about virtue and sin, but she did not have the urge to do so. Who was she to judge this young woman and the choices that might be made? Especially since she herself had written a list of men with whom she might do “that” in order to find a way to be free.

The farms rolled past, gray and bleak like the sky. In a few days they would be in Grossington, and she would see

Cleo. She wondered how the years had passed for her, and what kind of woman that cowed, frightened girl had become.

Was she being cowardly in considering this choice instead of a bolder move? She would love to be truly free. She envied Catherine her greater freedom, even if they both remained bound to their husbands in the law. Catherine could escape Jacob’s reach, could disappear within Britain. The Countess of Glasbury never could.

For her, running away and hiding meant leaving all she knew and loved.

And standing and fighting meant hurting family and friends.

“Mr. Hampton is very handsome,” Catherine said.

“I think so.”

“I guess all women would think so. Quiet, though. I think more men could stand to be quiet more often. Usually they talk a great deal but say little of significance.”