The Lady Who Came in from the Cold Page 8

  Which was the height of hypocrisy, considering Lord Auberville had at least three by-blows with the mistress he kept. But that was the ton for you, Penny thought in disgust.

  “I’m not jesting,” she said steadily. “I am in need of a ladies maid, and you happen to be the best. As you also happen to be out of a position at present, I think we’re an excellent match.”

  Miss Randall stared at her. “You know… ’bout Molly. She hasn’t got a father.”

  “More credit to you for taking such fine care of her,” Penny said. “Which brings me to the details of my offer. I’ll pay you double the wages you received from Lady Auberville, along with a bonus to start, so that you may find Molly suitable lodgings close to work. We’ll arrange your schedule so that you may see her every day, and you’ll have holidays too—all paid, of course.”

  Hope flared in Miss Randall’s eyes, snuffed quickly by disbelief. She said in a taut voice, “I don’t understand, milady. You—you could ’ave any maid. Why would you be wanting… someone like me?”

  Because you made a mistake and did the best you could under the circumstances. You deserve a helping hand—and not to be judged by all the blooming Lady Aubervilles of the world.

  Aloud, Penny said briskly, “As I’ve explained, I want the best. I’ve seen your work: with Lady Osterly, Mrs. Jones-Sykes, and then with Lady Auberville. You transformed three dowdy matrons into ladies of the utmost style.”

  Miss Randall bit her lip and remained silent. The fact that she didn’t comment upon her former employers’ lack of fashion sense—or their sense in general—raised her even higher in Penny’s estimation. By Penny’s accounting, Jenny Randall was well within her rights to flay her last vicious mistress to pieces… but she didn’t. She took the high road instead. This spoke volumes about her judgement, loyalty, and discretion—qualities worth their weight in gold.

  “The job of being my ladies maid won’t be easy,” Penny went on. “I’ll expect you to keep abreast of the latest fashions and trends. Modistes, milliners, hairdressers—it will be your responsibility to find me the very best. I won’t settle for less.”

  “Of course. But your ladyship… you’re already lovely.”

  “My aim is to be more than lovely. I want to make my husband and my son proud,” Penny said with frank determination. “I mean to elevate the Blackwood name to the highest echelons, and I am not yet there.”

  Since the birth of James, she’d worked hard to improve her social standing. Her circle of acquaintances now rivaled Cora Pilkington’s, and her parties were well attended. She wasn’t yet the marchioness that Marcus deserved, but, with the right help, she would get there. From what she’d seen of Jenny Randall’s work and manner, the maid would be a valuable addition to her team.

  “I reckon I would make a few changes ’ere and there,” Miss Randall ventured shyly. “If you don’t mind my saying, with your coloring and looks, I’d dress you in bolder colors and styles, milady, so as to stand out. Sometimes, it’s not so much about following a craze, but starting one... if you get my meaning.”

  “See? I knew you were the one I was looking for,” Penny said.

  Miss Randall’s cheeks turned pink.

  “But I haven’t yet finished discussing my requirements. In addition to fashion and the like, I will expect you to report any gossip you hear to me. You and I both know that the servants’ talk travels faster than any other. They’re the first to know the best and worst of everything that goes on in the ton—and I want to know too.” Penny paused. “I will also expect that, when it comes to what goes on in my household, you’ll keep a discreet tongue.”

  “Yes, milady.” Miss Randall nodded. “I han’t e’er spoken ill of my employers.”

  “You’ll find I’m a fair employer who rewards loyalty, talent, and hard work.” Penny held out her hand. “Now have we come to an agreement, Miss Randall?”

  The maid’s eyes shimmered, and her hand suddenly shot out, gripping Penny’s.

  “God bless you,” she said, her voice hitching.

  With prickling embarrassment, Penny said, “There’s no need for that. Just know that if you do me a good turn, Miss Randall, I shall return the favor.”

  “It’s Jenny, milady.” A smile transformed the maid’s thin face, and she bobbed a curtsy. “You ’ave my word that I’ll do a good job. I swear,”—her words were earnest, her face turning serious—“I won’t let you down.”

  Chapter Eleven

  November 1829

  “I think we should hang poison ivy instead of holly for your Winter Ball.”

  “Good idea,” Penny said absently.

  “See? I told you she wasn’t listening.”

  Silence followed, and Penny hastily returned her attention to the four female visitors in her drawing room. Wary by nature and from experience, she had numerous acquaintances but few close friends. The recent trouble with the Spectre, however, had brought her into contact with the Kents.

  The family was unconventional to say the least. Coming from middling class origins in the countryside, the intrepid Kent siblings had managed—apparently without design—to take Society by storm. The eldest brother, Ambrose Kent, had once been a Thames River Policeman. Somehow he’d ended up marrying the former Lady Marianne Draven, one of the ton’s richest and most glamorous widows. After his marriage, he’d started a private enquiry business, and Kent & Associates had quickly grown to become one of London’s most respected investigative firms.

  Several months back, when the Spectre had risen to blackmail Penny, she’d turned to Kent and his partners out of desperation. Back then, she’d have done anything to keep Marcus from knowing her past. Not only had Kent proved of assistance, but his wife and sisters had wholeheartedly taken on Penny’s cause as well. Apparently, the ladies often got involved in Kent’s cases (to his dismay and that of their husbands), and not only had the women helped Penny, they’d brought her into their fold.

  To Penny’s surprise, she had let them.

  At present, each of her friends wore an expression unique to their personalities. Kent’s wife, Marianne, a stunning silver blonde around Penny’s age, regarded her with knowing and compassionate emerald eyes. Emma, the eldest Kent sister, was a pretty brunette with an earnest air. Over a year ago, she’d landed the catch of the ton, the Duke of Strathaven, a once notorious rake; now the duchess had a slight furrow between her brows as if she were trying to decipher Penny’s state of mind. Sitting next to her, Dorothea, Emma’s sister and the newlywed Marchioness of Tremont, regarded Penny with concern in her gentle hazel gaze.

  Lastly, Miss Violet Kent, the youngest of the bunch and the one who’d been speaking, had triumph written over her vivid features. Probably because she’d made her point: Penny hadn’t been listening. She’d been caught up yet again in her tumultuous thoughts about Marcus and the state of her marriage.

  “Hush, Violet,” Emma said. “This isn’t the time or place.”

  “But you know I’m right. Lady Pandora doesn’t seem herself at all—”

  “Why don’t you go check on the boys, dear?” Thea’s tone was kind yet firm. “Make sure Fredward isn’t terrorizing the Blackwood boys?”

  Fredward referred to Frederick and Edward, Thea’s stepson and Marianne’s son, respectively. The nine-year-olds were so inseparable that the Kent family had given them a shared nickname, and they’d become favorite playmates of Penny’s boys.

  Collecting herself, Penny said wryly, “I doubt anyone could terrorize my sons. If anything, probably the opposite is true.”

  “Well, let’s minimize the bloodshed at any rate. Do run along, Violet,” Marianne said.

  Violet rose nimbly to her feet, rolling her tawny eyes as she did so. “No one ever listens to me,” she grumbled in a way that suggested this might be a refrain. “And I don’t know why I have to leave just when the conversation is getting good.”

  After her lithe figure disappeared through the doorway, Thea said, “I do apologize for my sist
er, Pandora. Vi’s just used to speaking her mind.”

  “Her honesty is refreshing,” Penny assured her.

  “I agree—but unfortunately the ton doesn’t,” the duchess said with a sigh. “If Violet doesn’t learn to curb her tongue and manner at least a little, she’s going to land in hot water. And after her behavior at the Waterson’s affair last week, the scandal broth is already at a simmer.”

  Penny had been so preoccupied by her own state of affairs that she’d missed the gossip. “What happened?” she asked.

  “Nothing really. Violet was just being Violet,” Thea said.

  From what she knew of the high-spirited Miss Kent, that could mean most anything.

  “I told her not to dance more than twice with any gentleman. But the moment my back was turned, she was off like a shot. And it was a waltz, too,” Emma huffed.

  “I suppose we can’t blame her. Mr. Murray is one of the most sought after bucks in Town,” Marianne said, “if rather too aware of that fact.”

  “Wickham Murray?” Penny sat up straighter.

  “Yes.” Thea’s honey-brown locks tipped to one side. “Do you know him?”

  “He’s the younger brother of Viscount Carlisle, one of Blackwood’s cronies.” At the thought of her husband, her heart throbbed.

  “I don’t think I’ve met this Carlisle,” Emma said.

  “He’s not much for Society. Prefers his estate in Scotland or his lodge in the country.” She couldn’t help but wrinkle her nose. “He’s always struck me as a bit high in the instep, a rigid, traditional sort of man. Quite the opposite in temperament and looks of his charming younger brother. But Blackwood swears Carlisle’s a good chap and a gentleman’s gentleman, whatever that means.”

  “That doesn’t sound too promising.” Thea nibbled on her lower lip. “Violet doesn’t do well with rigidity or tradition. If she’s truly forming an attachment to Wickham and his older brother doesn’t approve—”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we get there,” Marianne said firmly. “No matter what happens, we’ll support Vi in finding the happiness she deserves.”

  As the other two murmured their agreement, Penny felt her throat thicken. From the start, she’d admired the close bonds between the Kents. Although like any family they had their share of squabbles and disagreements, they also seemed to greet each other’s quirks and foibles with unwavering acceptance. It was the sort of love that Pandora hadn’t encountered until she’d met Flora and Harry… that she’d believed she had with Marcus.

  The despair that she’d been holding back surged to the fore. Since the episode in the bathing room ten days ago, nothing had changed between her and Marcus. No, not nothing: things had gotten worse. Now he was actively avoiding her, spending as little time as possible at home, and she had to battle growing hopelessness. Would they ever get past their impasse?

  Had her lies destroyed everything?

  “Well, enough about Violet. Let’s get to the crux of why we’re really here.”

  The duchess’ crisp tones broke Penny’s anguished reverie. She looked up, and the compassion on her friends’ faces was almost more than she could bear.

  “Pandora, dearest, how are things?” Thea said softly.

  Don’t be a blasted watering pot. Pull it together.

  “Well, there’s more to do, of course,” she said with false cheer. “Fortunately, there are three weeks left to prepare. I’m thinking of hiring the most splendid orchestra—”

  “We don’t mean the ball. We mean between you and Blackwood.” Although Marianne’s words were blunt, her green eyes held empathy.

  Given the three’s involvement in her case, they knew about the Spectre and his final act of destruction: the letter that had revealed her secrets, smashing her world to smithereens. And even if they hadn’t known about her clandestine past, they couldn’t have missed the rumors buzzing through the ton. Everyone was talking about the Blackwood Estrangement.

  Before the disaster had happened, Society had labelled them a love match. Marcus had accompanied her most everywhere; at balls, he’d even danced with her—something husbands rarely did with their own wives. Yet in the past week and a half, she’d showed up on her own at a few functions, which she’d attended to keep up appearances. Her solo status had started the tittering behind fans. What fueled the gossip further was that when Marcus did show, he’d paid perfunctory attention to her. He’d greeted her coolly and then went off to socialize with others.

  It was bad enough that those others had included women. Being a war hero and a devastatingly virile man, Marcus had always attracted female attention. In the past, his behavior as an obviously devoted husband had discouraged interested ladies from trying to pursue an affair. Now, however, the high-kick harlots sensed blood in the water, and they’d wasted no time in circling him with hunger in their eyes.

  The most persistent amongst them was the Countess of Ashley, the former Miss Cora Pilkington. The milk-fed trollop was more devious than the rest. Whilst Marcus was too upstanding a gentleman to flirt with other ladies even now—thank God—Lady Cora hid her salacious intentions behind a demure and winsome manner. Everyone knew her marriage to Ashley was an unhappy one, and she wasted no time in garnering Marcus’ sympathy. Her damsel-in-distress act set Penny’s teeth on edge.

  On two recent occasions, Penny had seen the other clinging to Marcus’ every word, wearing a doleful, worshipping expression, and she’d wanted to scratch the bitch’s eyes out.

  But that was neither here nor there.

  “Things haven’t improved between Blackwood and me.” The admission made her voice rusty. “I don’t know that they ever will. I’ve been trying… but Blackwood hasn’t thawed. I don’t think he can ever forgive me.”

  “You mustn’t give up hope.” Thea reached out and squeezed Penny’s hand. “Your husband loves you. I’m sure he just needs time to adjust.”

  Leave it to Thea to think the best of every situation.

  “Do you think it would help if Tremont spoke with your husband?” Thea went on. “Because he would be happy to—”

  “It won’t help. Blackwood doesn’t want to hear about my past—least of all from my former colleague.” Penny forced a smile. “And while I sincerely doubt that Tremont would be happy to play any part in my imbroglio, I have no doubt that he would do so at your behest, my dear.”

  Thea blushed. She said nothing, but then she didn’t have to. It was clear to all and sundry that Tremont adored his new bride, would take the stars down from the sky if she asked. Having been acquainted with the cold and ruthless spy that Tremont had once been, Penny thought the change in her old comrade nothing short of a miracle. Then again, a sweet and innocent lady like Thea deserved no less.

  “So what is your plan?”

  Penny looked to Marianne. “Plan?”

  “For winning Blackwood back,” the blond beauty clarified.

  “What I’ve been doing, I suppose.” She shrugged to hide her frustration. “Having his favorite foods prepared, making our home an oasis of domestic tranquility. Doing my part as the perfect marchioness, which includes planning the Winter Ball to end all Winter Balls.” She paused, adding wryly, “And then there’s the groveling.”

  “Food is an excellent idea,” the duchess put in. “Whenever His Grace and I have a disagreement, I find Scotch pie an excellent way to make peace.”

  “She makes Scotch pie at least once a week,” Thea said, her hazel eyes sparkling.

  “Twice,” Emma said.

  “Food and being the consummate hostess are all well and good,” Marianne said, “but in my opinion there ought to be a limit to the groveling.”

  “Obviously I haven’t reached it yet.” Penny allowed herself a sigh. “Blackwood shows no signs of forgiving me.”

  “Perhaps it isn’t his forgiveness you most need.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Marianne smoothed the skirts of her fawn silk carriage dress. Having learned to read others as a ne
cessary part of survival, Penny interpreted the other’s gesture as preparation for saying something difficult. Marianne’s next words proved her intuition right.

  “I’ve done things that I’ve regretted—that many consider beyond the pale,” the blonde said steadily. “One could say that, in some ways, I’ve been where you are now. Given the wrong that I’d done, I didn’t believe I could win over a man as good and honorable as my husband.”

  She didn’t need to say more. It was a well-known fact amongst the ton that her daughter, Primrose, had been born out of wedlock, the product of a youthful indiscretion. When Ambrose Kent had wed Marianne, he’d also adopted Primrose, and the Kent family had taken the girl under their collective wing, making it clear that she was one of their own.

  “How did you? Win him over, I mean?” Penny said.

  “By forgiving myself. In truth, Ambrose helped me to realize that we all make mistakes, and, most importantly,”—Marianne’s eyes held hers—“true love forgives.”

  The words struck tinder, a painful flare within Penny’s chest. It took her a moment to recognize what she was feeling. The emotion was so at odds with her guilt and remorse that she hadn’t paid it any mind. But the smoldering ember was there, had been there for days if she was honest, and it was one of… resentment.

  True, she’d wronged Marcus and broken his trust. She deserved his anger… and yet didn’t she also deserve at least a chance to make amends? He’d vowed that they would never go to bed angry with one another, yet for six weeks now, she’d endured his wrath and, worse yet, sleepless nights in a cold and lonely bed. He wouldn’t listen to her, shut her out completely, and when she’d made that desperate attempt to connect with him, he’d dismissed her… like a whore.

  Because that’s what you are. And he doesn’t even know the ugliest part of it. Imagine how he’d despise you if he knew the full truth…

  Her hands balled in her lap, a vise of shame digging into her heart. She couldn't share these dark thoughts with friends—or with anyone, except for Flora. So, with skill borne out of practice, she pushed them into a mental box and locked them away until such time as she knew what to do with them. Which might prove to be never.