“I have called the constable, young woman. We shall not tolerate this sort of desecration of our garden." He assumed a pose somewhere between lecturing and threatening.
Whirling about, Penelope was dismayed to discover a constable bearing down upon them, fire in his eyes at the wild description he must have been given, judging from the look on his face. The old gardener limped along behind him, rake in hand, looking for all the world like an avenging devil.
“But you cannot do this,” she pleaded, wondering how it would look in the papers when it was revealed that Lady Penelope Winthrop, heiress to a vast fortune, had been placed in jail for pilfering a bit of herb. Or worse yet, would they dare hang her for the deed? She was well aware that penalties were harsh for seemingly slight infractions of the law. Not long ago she had read of some poor soul hanged for cutting down some hop vines. Was taking a bit of herb any less serious? Why hadn’t she remembered this before?
Bolder still, now that he had reinforcements from the local constabulary, the garden’s keeper stormed and raged at Penelope until her head ached with the noise of it all.
Helpless to stop the disaster that had befallen her, she stood silently as the constable moved to take her into custody. “I would that you send for my solicitor. Do you know who I am? You are doing injury to Lady Penelope Winthrop, I shall have you know, my good man.”
“Ha! And I’m old farmer George himself. A likely story, that one is.” The constable, his blue suit stained with splotches of ale and food, grinned, revealing a missing front tooth. “No real lady would come here without no maid to attend her, now, would she?”
“My carriage awaits me,” Penelope cried, growing desperately afraid as she stumbled along Swan Walk toward the main road. Here she was proved wrong. Her cowardly coachman had taken himself off to London, leaving his mistress behind. He apparently had wanted no part of an unsavory scene and felt no loyalty to her.
What had seemed a mission of mercy now assumed dire consequences. For the first time in her life, Penelope was utterly terrified. What if her solicitor failed to appear in time, provided they actually sent for him? Would she be able to get word to Cousin Letty or Lord Harford? She had a pitiful few shillings in her reticule, and she feared that little sum would be taken from her, Stupidly, she had tucked the cutting deep inside her little bag, hoping to buy her way from her dilemma and have the herb as well. Now it would serve to convict her of a crime, it seemed. She had a vision of herself on the gallows at Tyburn Hill, her neck firmly in the rope, hanging for all to view. She shuddered at the very image.
“Is there some problem here?” The masculine drawl carried the boredom of the elite class, revealed a touch of the dandy’s disdain for contretemps.
Tearing free of her captor, Penelope spun about, then cast herself into her savior’s arms. “Lord Harford! You have come!” With those dramatic words that impressed the hearers to a considerable degree, she swooned completely away.
Chapter 9
Everything appeared extremely hazy, blurred, as though looking through a dense fog. Then she heard retreating footsteps and felt a cool waft of air on her face, and the fog drifted away.
Blinking her eyes, she slowly sat up, wondering where she was and what had happened. Then she glanced up and saw him. Lord Harford. And everything returned. In the distance she saw the stiff figure of the constable, his blue suit clearly visible, marching hurriedly off toward the center of Chelsea. Of the gardener and the disagreeable young man, she saw nothing.
Swan Walk was peaceful and tranquil in the soothing afternoon stillness. Sunlight sparkled and danced on the Thames and songbirds warbled away within the Physic Garden. A breeze swayed the tops of the old cedar trees seen over the garden fence, bringing with it the scents of gillyflowers and rich herbs. There was nothing around to indicate that a young woman had been so threatened only moments before.
Suddenly realizing that she clutched her reticule to her with a death grip, she relaxed her left hand, then rose uncertainly from where she had been placed. Lord Harford stepped closer to offer his hand.
Shaking her head to clear all remnants of fog from her mind, she sensibly inquired, “What happened?” When a reply was not immediately forthcoming, she continued, embarrassed at the silence and that he should see what had happened to her, “I assure you I have never fainted before in my life, not even when the news of the accident of my parents came. How vexing, to be sure,” she murmured. “I thought I was to be hanged, or at the very least transported to Botany Bay. However did you persuade them to go away? And without placing charges?” Then, observing the altered expression on his face, she continued, “Or did they, and I have merely staved off the day of reckoning?”
“You bacon-brained pea-goose!” His exasperation rang in every syllable. “To go haring off beyond the city with an unreliable coachman, no maid, and not obtaining permission for a cutting is outside of enough. You deserve a punishing.” Hands on hips, he shook his head in disgust while he stared at the young woman who looked frightened and badly shaken. Her bonnet was askew, and blond curls tumbled about her head in charming disarray. Her eyes were enormous, their blue of a startling intensity. He stepped toward her to place his arm in support, certain she was about to collapse again. He had never suffered such a fright in his life and was totally unprepared to deal with it. What he wanted to do
