Читать книгу The Historical Collection - Stephanie Laurens - Страница 27

Several days later, Penny sat at Nicola’s kitchen table, staring at the fresh-off-the-presses copy of the weekly Prattler.

“I can’t look,” she said.

“Do you want me to read it?” Nicola reached for the newspaper.

“No.” Penny slapped her hand over it. “I’ll do it. When I’m ready.” She looked at her empty plate. “Are there any more biscuits?”

“Between you and Bixby, the kitchen is bare.”

“Oh. Did you have any plans of baking more?” Penny asked hopefully. “It might help.”

Everything seemed a bit easier to face with a plate of fresh biscuits.

She tapped her fingers on the newspaper’s front page. “I don’t know why this is so difficult. It’s not as though I can change the contents by waiting. What’s printed is printed. I am either a scandal or a spinster already, depending on what’s inside.”

“Actually,” Nicola mused, “while the paper remains closed, you’re both.”

“Both?”

“Right now, you’re both a scandal and a spinster.”

“I’m so sorry. I’m afraid I don’t follow you.” Penny frequently had difficulty following the twists and turns of Nicola’s mind. Everyone did.

Nicola’s eyes went unfocused, as though she were staring at the distant horizon. One that only she could see. “Imagine you took a cat,” she said slowly, “and sealed it in a box.”

“Seal a cat inside a box?” Penny was horrified. “I’d never do such a thing.”

“Of course you wouldn’t actually do it. I’m only trying to illustrate a philosophical conundrum.”

“What sort of philosophical conundrum requires a person to imagine suffocating cats? Surely there’s a better illustration.”

“You’re right. I’ll think of something else.” Nicola set aside her tinkering. “Penny, if there’s anything you need to talk about, I’m always here for you. I know I’m not as sympathetic and comforting as Emma or Alexandra.”

“Nic—”

“Don’t worry. I’m not disparaging myself. I simply know my talents, and that’s not one of them. However, I’m always here to listen. And when it comes to matters of the heart, I’m not completely inexperienced.”

“You’re … you’re not?” Penny stared at her friend, amazed. In all their years of friendship, Nicola had never, not once, mentioned a sweetheart or a suitor. Much less being in love.

With a shake of her head, Nicola picked up a gear and turned it over in her hands. “Men can be terribly distracting.”

A thousand questions crowded Penny’s mind, but before she could ask any of them, the clocks began to strike the hour. From all around the house, they were bombarded by chimes, cuckoos, pendulum strikes, and clanging bells.

Nicola owned a great many clocks. Or rather, Nicola’s father had owned a great many clocks, and Nicola couldn’t bring herself to part with a single one of them. Although the hourly mayhem had a way of interrupting conversation, Penny never complained. How could she? A woman who took in kittens by the dozen had little room to criticize.

Today, it could have been worse. The clocks didn’t go on too long this time, as the hour was merely three o’clock in the afternoon.

Goodness. Three o’clock in the afternoon? Penny had been sitting there for ages already.

No more dithering.

She reached for the copy of the Prattler, opened it to the society pages, and briefly squeezed her eyes shut. Strangely, she didn’t know what to wish for. Perhaps Nicola had the right of it, and Penny had been delaying this because she enjoyed being a wallflower and a temptress—and she resented that society wouldn’t let her be both.

The days since the masquerade had been the most thrilling days of her life. While she and Gabriel awaited the verdict, they’d made use of the time in a variety of passionate, and increasingly inventive, ways. It was as if all the clocks had stopped, and they’d carved out a secret haven free from prying eyes or consequence.

When she opened this newspaper, the clocks resumed ticking. Time had caught up with them, and one way or another, their stolen era of passion would come to an end.

Penny didn’t want it to end.

Nevertheless, she couldn’t avoid the reality any longer. If she didn’t read this for herself, she would hear everything from Aunt Caroline. Better to be prepared.

“Read it aloud,” Nicola said.

“‘A Report from the Maximus Club’s Spring Fete.’” She skimmed the contents, pulling out the most important words. “Southwark, pleasure garden, masquerade, orchestra, champagne … Ah. Here we are. Prominent guests in attendance.”

Penny scanned through the list of names and titles. Her cousin the Russian prince received mention, naturally. Farther down, the Misses Irving were named. She’d nearly reached the end of the column, and no mention of Lady Penelope Campion yet.

Then she read the concluding paragraph.

“‘In the usual fashion of masquerades, the identities of most guests were plain for all to see. However, one gentleman in attendance succeeded in generating a considerable amount of intrigue. As the evening drew to a close, only one question was on the guests’ lips. Who was that knight in shining armor? The mystery remains. He was last seen in the company of …’” Penny groaned.

“Well?” Nicola asked. “Which is it? Scandal or spinster?”

“Neither, apparently.”

“Let me see.” Nicola took the paper and found the point where Penny had left off. “‘He was last seen in the company of an unidentified woman.’”

“Unidentified woman,” Penny repeated, separating each syllable. She let her head drop to the table surface. “What could possibly be more depressing?”

“A suffocating cat?”

“True.”

Nicola turned the page of the newspaper. “Hold a moment. Your neighbor is hosting a ball?”

“What?”

Penny rose from her chair and hurried to read over Nicola’s shoulder. There it was, in black and white.

The Prattler has learned that one Mr. Gabriel Duke, better known to readers of this esteemed publication as the infamous Duke of Ruin, is planning to host a ball at the former Wendleby residence on Bloom Square. According to our sources, Mr. Duke has invited the better part of the London ton. Considering the host’s financial influence, and the ruthless way in which he wields it, the question will not be who will accept his invitation—but rather, who would dare decline?

“Burns! Burns!”

Gabe winced. Just what he needed—another ridiculous conflict between his architect and his housekeeper. He rose from his desk and followed Hammond’s bellowing into the dining room, hoping to head it off before it could begin.

He was too late, sadly. Mrs. Burns had already arrived.

“Yes, Mr. Hammond?” The housekeeper starched her spine. “Is there something I can do for you?”

Hammond gestured at the portrait on the wall. “You can explain to me why I’m looking at the inbred offspring of a suet pudding and a weak-chinned salamander.”

“That’s a portrait of Mrs. Bathsheba Wendleby.”

“I expressly told the workmen to remove these paintings two days ago. Lo and behold, they have reappeared. As if by magic.” His tone sharpened. “Dark magic.”

Burns did not address Hammond’s unspoken accusation of witchcraft. “These are family portraits, representing generations of Wendlebys.”

“Those generations of Wendlebys don’t live here any longer.”

“Nevertheless, Mr. Hammond,” she said with foreboding. “This house has a legacy, and it will not be forgotten.”

“This house has a desirable address,” Gabe interjected. “I’m going to sell it to some new-money upstart who wants to hobnob with aristocrats. Those buyers don’t want moldering portraits of a crusty squire and his hunting dogs. They want modern water closets and gilded molding. If Sir Algernon Wendleby cared about his precious legacy, he shouldn’t have frittered away the family fortune on cards and mistresses.”

When he finished his tirade, Gabe felt rather shabby about it. He wasn’t frustrated with the housekeeper. He was frustrated with himself.

After the last few days—and nights—with Penny, Gabe needed a reminder of just what the devil he was doing in Mayfair. He was here to sell this house for the highest possible price, and if the new occupants displeased the ton, so much the better. He wasn’t here to stay.

He wasn’t here to carry on a torrid affaire with the lady next door, either. With every tryst, he promised himself this time would be the last. It must be the last. The risks to Penny were too great.

Then she would whisper his name, or give him a coy smile, or breathe in his general vicinity, and all his resolutions turned to dust.

“As you like, Mr. Duke,” the housekeeper said. “The paintings will be removed today.”

“One more thing before you go.” Hammond narrowed his eyes at her. “How did he die?”

“To whom are you referring, sir?”

“Mr. Burns. Your husband. You were widowed, I assume.”

“It’s customary for housekeepers to be addressed as Mrs., whether or not they are married. There was never a Mr. Burns.” At the sound of the doorbell, she inclined her head. “If you will excuse me, I’ll answer the door.”

After the housekeeper left the room, Hammond approached Gabe and dropped his voice to a whisper. “No Mr. Burns? I don’t believe that for a moment. She’s hiding his corpse in a wardrobe somewhere.”

Gabe sniffed the air hovering about his architect. “What is that smell?”

“Garlic.” Hammond pulled a white, papery bulb from his pocket. “I’ve taken to carrying some at all times, and so should you. For protection. They don’t like garlic.”

“Housekeepers?”

“Vampiresses.”

“For God’s sake, this has to stop. Burns is not a vampiress.”

“She’s pale enough. But then, she does walk about during the day. Perhaps she’s a wandering evil spirit who possessed the reanimated corpse of a virgin beauty.” Hammond stalked away, scrubbing both hands through his silvered hair.

Gabe stared after the man. A virgin beauty? Burns?

If one looked past her gloomy attire and perpetually dour expression, Gabe supposed the woman might not be unattractive. But a beauty? Maybe she truly did have Hammond bewitched.

Light footsteps approached from the corridor. “A ball? You’re hosting a ball? Were you planning to tell me about this?”

Penny. Speaking of enchanting beauties.

Gabe turned to greet her—but he found himself without words.

God above, she was lovely.

Over the brief course of their acquaintance, they’d been systematically destroying her frocks—first rescuing Bixby from the coal store, then chasing after Hubert in the river … After the masquerade, even her black mourning dress would never be the same.

As a result, she’d been reaching further and further back into her wardrobe, drawing out frocks she likely hadn’t worn for some time. Each one painted a portrait of a different, younger Penny. In a strange way, he was growing acquainted with her in reverse. There was a year she’d chosen brighter hues and lower necklines, and a year she’d preferred demure lace, and a year when a modiste must have talked her into an absurd number of flounces.

Today’s frock must have been made several years ago, when she was not merely younger, but slighter in form. Her figure had matured since, and now the muslin clung to her body the way limewash gripped stone. Praise heaven, he could make out nipples.

His conscience niggled at him. There was something he’d been reminding himself of a few minutes ago. Something about selling this place, leaving Mayfair behind—and Lady Penelope Campion with it. He was supposed to remember it.

He remembered nothing. Nothing, that was, except for her silky thighs wrapped about his hips and the coarse saddle blanket chafing his knees when he’d taken her in the hayloft above the mews yesterday. He’d breathed in so much dust, the sneezing had kept him awake half the night.

He had no regrets.

“I’m up here, Gabriel,” she said tartly, yanking his gaze away from her breasts. Her brow wrinkled with concern as she held up a folded newspaper for his view. “And we need to talk about this.”