herself. She might not have the strength to utter the word next time; the likely consequences didn’t bear contemplating. She had absolutely no ambition to be his sometime lover, warming his bed for however long he was there, only to be alone again when he returned to London. To be forever alone once he found his bride.
Eventually, unable to continue to pretend to be unaware of his gaze, she looked up and met it. “How are we going to learn how Granville communicated with the French?”
Down the length of the table, his dark eyes held hers. “Other than by continuing to ask, perhaps being rather more specific in our questions, I’m not sure we have that many avenues to follow.”
He looked down, long fingers idly stroking his coffee cup.
Suddenly realizing she was staring at those mesmerizing fingers, she looked up as he did.
“One thing-I think we need to pay more attention to Nicholas.”
She swallowed. “In case he knows how Granville arranged things?”
“I doubt he knows-if he did, he wouldn’t be asking so many questions, and so widely. But it’s possible, even likely, that he knows a piece of the puzzle-he at least knows enough to realize that there has to be someone else, or something else, involved.”
“Hmm…so how can we learn more from him?”
Charles resisted the temptation to jump in with his solution. Not yet-let her ponder, weigh up the options, think things through. If she came up with the answer he wanted by herself, so much the better. “There’s still the other gangs to speak to. The more we learn of Granville’s activities, the better chance we stand of stumbling onto some clue. But Nicholas is the one person we’re sure was involved-keeping apprised of his movements would be wise.”
He set down his cup, pushed back his chair. “I’ve estate matters to attend to. If you can think of any way to improve our intelligence of Nicholas’s activities, I’ll be in the study.”
Rising, he walked out of the room, knowing he’d surprised her. Finding Filchett hovering in the hall with a fresh pot of coffee, he directed him to the study, and followed.
Penny remained at the breakfast table, sipping her tea, nibbling her toast, and trying to fathom Charles’s direction. Eventually reflecting it was never wise to question the benevolence of the gods, she rose and headed for the parlor. A sun-warmed, feminine sitting room his mother, sisters, and sisters-in-law used when relaxing
She sat on a window seat, looked out over the manicured lawns, and considered what to do. What she could do.
For years she’d been accustomed to keeping a close eye on all estate matters, yet once Amberly and his stewards had taken over at Wallingham, she’d been restricted to distantly overseeing hers, Elaine’s, and her half sisters’ inheritances; she’d filled in her time helping Elaine run the house. Now…she had nothing to do, and idleness fretted her. She felt restless and worse, useless. Good for nothing because she had nothing to do. Some part of her mind was examining and studying the problem of how to keep a more comprehensive watch on Nicholas, but she thought better while doing.
Ten minutes passed before the quietness about her finally fully registered. There were no ladies in this house, only her.
In lieu of managing her home, there was no reason she couldn’t manage Charles’s. In the absence of his mother-her godmother-there was no reason she couldn’t keep herself occupied by performing the myriad overseeing tasks involved in ensuring the smooth running of the Abbey.
Mrs. Slattery certainly wouldn’t mind.
Rising, she headed for the housekeeper’s quarters.
In the study, Charles noted their findings from the previous night and his consequent direction for inclusion in his next report to Dalziel. That done, he sat back and reviewed his plans for Penny. Despite his personal goal, if it had been possible to isolate her from the investigation he would already have done so, his preferred option being to send her to his mother in London with strict instructions she be kept under lock and key until he came to fetch her.
A lovely conceit, but not an achievable one. And given his personal goal, not a wise one, either.
He would have to work with the options fate had dealt him.
At least he now knew what his personal goal was; he just had to ensure she didn’t get too tangled in the web of his investigation while he was steering her to it.
The thought of steering, of influencing her female mind, left him considering the piece of the puzzle she’d given him that he was finding difficult to ease into the picture; to his mind, it didn’t fit.
She seemed to have accepted it, but his instincts were prodding him, experience insisting that pieces that didn’t fit meant he was seeing some part of the solution wrongly.
He couldn’t question Granville. There was, however, one thing he could check, and despite her apparent acceptance, it might go some way to easing Penny’s mind. After fifteen minutes of mulling over his contacts and how best to approach them, he drew out fresh sheets of paper and settled to write two letters. One to his mother, who suitably adjured would deliver the other to her old friend Helena, Duchess of St. Ives.
If anyone had a hope of establishing the details of how Granville Selborne had died, Devil Cynster, now Duke of St. Ives, was that man. He’d led a cavalry troop in the relief of Hougoumont; he would know, or know how to learn of, the survivors, and how to elicit the pertinent facts.
Charles hadn’t known Granville well; for all he knew, Penny might be right. Yet the contradiction between running military and government secrets to the French, and then enlisting to fight them at Waterloo, was too big for him to swallow easily.
If they could discover exactly how Granville had died, it might shed some light, and perhaps relieve him of the premonition that in all he’d learned of the Selbornes’ scheme, he was misreading something. His memories of Penny’s father, too, didn’t fit well with coldly calculated long-term treason.
The heat of battle burned away all falsity; if Granville had gone to his end unswervingly pitted against the French, then no matter Penny’s stance, he would find it very hard to believe Granville, at least, had knowingly assisted the enemy.
He’d just set his seal to the packet of letters when Filchett tapped and entered.
“Lady Trescowthick’s carriage is coming up the drive, my lord. Are you at home?”
Charles raised his brows. “I suspect I better be.”
Rising, he went out to meet her ladyship, one of his mother’s bosom-bows, also his sister-in-law Annabelle’s mother-no surprise Lady T knew he was in residence. If she didn’t catch him now, she was perfectly capable of laying seige to his house, and with Penny about…
He paused in the front hall, then turned to issue an order to the footman who’d come hurrying from the kitchen. The footman bowed and retreated. Overhearing the exchange, Filchett cast him a surprised look. Ignoring it, Charles donned an easy smile and went forth to greet her ladyship.
A small, rotund, matronly lady, Amarantha Trescowthick was delighted to have him hand her down from her carriage and escort her up the steps.
“But I really can’t stay, my boy-oh!” She lifted a hand to her bosom. “It’s
“Such are the vagaries of fate,” Charles murmured, well aware that as part of those vagaries, her ladyship’s daughter, while still styled countess, would not be the mother of the next earl.
“To what do I owe this honor?” he asked as he guided Lady T into the hall.
“I’m holding a small party tomorrow night-just the usual crowd, those of us who haven’t gone up to town-and I expressly wished to invite
His most charming smile to the fore, he bowed. “Tomorrow night will suit admirably.”
Her ladyship blinked, then beamed, having, it seemed, been girded for battle. “Excellent! Well, then-”
She broke off, following the direction of his gaze as he glanced to the rear of the hall.
The baize-covered door swung open, and Penny came through. She saw him-he’d positioned Lady T so the stairs blocked Penny’s view of her.
