Page 34 of A Lord Apart (The Way to a Lord's Heart 2)

“I’ll help.”

Mrs. Hart held up an impervious hand. “Give me that apron, and go sit down. In a bit, I’ll bring tea and some of your cakes.”

“The ones I cut.” She needed the wavy ones to take to Frithgerd.

Scraping dough from the table surface, Mrs. Hart spoke without looking up. “Yes, miss.”

“And some of mine,” said Kitty. “I wonder what Jip and Jum will think of them?”

“Don’t you be giving pastry to those dogs,” replied the cook. “What did I tell you?”

“I was only going toshowthem,” replied Kitty, convincing no one.

Penelope left her apron and went to sit in the parlor. Had she actually been baking with a viscount? She smiled, recalling his arguments in favor of his misshapen Shrewsbury cakes. It had been fun. She couldn’t remember when she’d enjoyed herself more. He’d brought excitement and laughter to her kitchen. He’d treated her like a…friend.

Penelope’s mood plummeted.

What she was feeling wasn’t wise. Her family was disgraced, her status ambiguous at best, tainted at worst. She was no partner for a peer. Very soon he must realize it, too. Unless he had some illicit connection in mind.

A hideous vision assailed Penelope—the viscount’s mistress lurking in Rose Cottage like some latter-day Fair Rosamund in the bower. Whispers wherever she went, snubs and snide insinuations. Who would come with the dagger and the poison and offer her the choice?

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said aloud. Gripping the chair arms, she added, “Idiotic.”

He wasn’t like that. He’d been unfailingly polite and respectful. And should he show any signs of misbehavior, which he wouldnot, she’d refuse, naturally. And that would be the end of it. This was real life, not a medieval legend.

The trouble was, she didn’t want to see the end of it. She wanted their association to continue, even though there was nowhere that it could possibly go. She wanted to laugh with him again, to learn more about him. Even perhaps to touch? Penelope remembered a saying her father had used when she and Philip were small. “This will end in tears.”

She rose. “I’m going to take the dogs for a walk,” she called and hurried out, forgoing bonnet and shawl. The dogs were delighted to see her, and she worked off her excess energy by pacing the back of the Rose Cottage property and then throwing sticks for them until they lay at her feet, panting in exhaustion.

Eight

In the wee hours of the morning, at the tail end of a wakeful night, Penelope decided not to resist temptation. Why should she? What did she have to lose? The ruin of her family had few advantages, but one was that she didn’t have to worry about losing her position in society. That had already gone up in smoke. She wanted to see Whitfield. She wanted information that must be buried in his estate records. She was going to get what she wanted.

And so she wrapped Lord Whitfield’s Shrewsbury cakes in a napkin, put them on the seat of her gig, and set out for Frithgerd alone at the appointed time the next day. A gray sky threatened rain, clouds scudding through damp air. Birdsong was muted, making the clop of her horse’s hooves and the rattle of the wheels seem louder.

Tom was at the gatehouse again, standing on the bench this time, repairing a broken shutter for Mrs. Darnell. The lad waved when Penelope turned in. “Could I come along with you, miss?” he asked. “I need more nails. I can take the gig around to the stables.”

Penelope pulled up, transferred the napkin to her lap, and let him climb in. “You’re often at the gatehouse,” she observed when they were underway.

“Just helping out while Mr. Darnell is laid up.”

“The gatekeeper? Is he ill?”

“Wrenched his back,” Tom replied, his homely face solemn. “Feels like knives stabbing into his entrails, he says.”

“Oh dear.”

“He says it’s happened before, and it gets better in a week or so if he don’t move about.”

“Is there no one else to help him?” On such a large estate, couldn’t Lord Whitfield find someone other than a stranger to aid his gatekeeper?

“Loads of people,” said Tom. “But I like to keep busy, same as you.”

“Me?” Penelope was startled by this personal comment.

“I beg your pardon, miss. I didn’t mean to presume.”

“No, it’s all right. I’m not offended. I do like to keep busy. I’m just surprised you noticed.”

---