Chapter Seven

 

Lady Penelope had studiously avoided her patient for the remainder of the day before spending a rare, sleepless night wherein she endlessly relived the shattering interlude she had experienced in his arms. Although the troubled young woman finally did fall into a light, restless slumber an hour before dawn, Doreen had no trouble awakening her mistress for her morning chocolate just as the large, ornate Thomas Johnson anti-Gallic clock in the upstairs hallway wheezed out the hour of nine.

"Your young man is up and callin' for you already, milady," Doreen informed Lady Penelope even as she grudgingly held open the bedroom door to allow Farnley to enter, the butler laboriously carrying a heavy bucket of hot water that he promptly poured into the small, steep-sided bathtub already in position before the fireplace.

"Oh?" Lady Penelope responded in a belligerent tone, wondering why her stomach insisted upon doing a little flip inside her. "Did he by any chance tell you what he wants? I don't care how ill he is, I shall not hold his tooth cup for him while he snorts and spits."

"Glory, milady, it's nothing like that. He says he has a surprise for you. Maybe he's about to try his legs, I'm thinkin', and it would be a good turn to us all if he did. You're lookin' sorta peaky this mornin', truth to tell. The man's runnin' you ragged. Here now, Mr. Farnley, and look how you're sloppin' water all over that fine rug! Have a care!"

"There's nothing to worry about, if you don't mind my saying so," the butler told Doreen as he spilled the last of the steaming liquid into the tub. "This here's rainwater. The only time spilled water means bad luck is if it's water pulled from a well or pool."

"Well then," Doreen replied consideringly, "doesn't that make me feel ten kinds of a fool for yellin' at you. Tell me, Mr. Farnley, would you be thinkin' havin' your head bashed in by my dear departed da's shillelagh to be a bit of bad luck, you scrawny, misbegotten scarecrow? I do believe it can be arranged, don't you know."

Farnley drew himself up to his full height—which was, unfortunately for his opinion of his own consequence, not very impressive—and said repressively, "If ever you should wish water for bathing put in your room, be warned that I shall see that it is first boiled, so that the Devil will heap misfortune on you. He will, too, even you ignorant boglanders should know that!"

"Oh, is that the way of it, you snivelin' weasel? It's a good skelping you need, I say," Doreen retorted, one hand raised threateningly as she advanced toward the butler, who was rapidly backing toward the door, as he had already realized that his mouth had somehow outrun his small store of courage. "Ah, thinkin' better of it, are you?" Seeing Farnley in full retreat, she waved her apron at him as she pretended to shoo him out the door. "That's it. Away with you now, little man. Run as quick as you can, and if you fall, don't wait to get up!"

The sound of Lady Penelope's delighted laughter caused Doreen to turn her head and look at her mistress. "Well, and that's better now. Nothin' like a bit of foolery to put the bloom back in those pretty cheeks, don't you know."

It wasn't until her breakfast of eggs and country ham was eaten and her morning bath completed that Lady Penelope found the courage to ask, "You said my patient has a surprise for me. Did you see him yourself, or did Farnley pass on the message?"

Doreen swore softly under her breath as she realized she had somehow missed one of the small button loops on Lady Penelope's gown, and she busily began unbuttoning the gown back to the point where she had made her mistake—which may have been why her usually finely attuned ears did not pick up the unusual quiver of nervousness that had slipped into her mistress's voice.

"Doreen? Did you hear me?" Lady Penelope prompted after a moment, fidgeting a bit and making the maid's job even more difficult.

"It's cowhanded I'm bein' this mornin', milady, not deaf. Of course I heard you. Just like I heard the mister yellin' at me through the half-closed door like he did. If you want to know what I think, I think the rascal's pilin' it on a bit deep. Such a mess of grandeur he is, lyin' there. He should be up and about by now, not makin' you play fetch and carry all the day long. It ain't fittin'. Now, just let me fix your hair."

Lady Penelope gave a deep, resigned sigh. So much for thinking her patient had suffered as she had over their little interlude. She should have expected as much—after all, he was a man, wasn't he?

"Don't bother with anything fancy this morning, Doreen," Lady Penelope said, anxious to get to her patient's room and hear whatever it was he wanted to tell her. "We can just tie it back with a ribbon."

"Praise the saints, milady, what a mess this is and no mistake! Was it sleepin' on your head you were about last night? Don't you go makin' great bones about it if this hurts a bit," she ended, picking up a brush.

While Lady Penelope endured Doreen's tortures with the comb and brush, Lucien Kenrick waited most impatiently in the chamber down the hall, rehearsing the little speech that would dig him deeper into the pit of lies that had begun to yawn wide in front of him the moment he had opened his eyes and spied out the young woman whose overwhelming beauty had lured him into this imbroglio in the first place.

He wasn't feeling particularly proud of himself at the moment, but he had spent half the night cudgeling his brain for a solution that would save both her pride and his skin, and this halfway measure was the best thing he had come up with, the only salvation he could see as long as his injured ankle kept him a prisoner at Wormhill.

There was a slight movement near the open doorway. "'I am his Highness's dog at Kew; Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?' Pope."

These words, spoken in the innocent, singsong voice of a very young child, startled Lucien out of his brown study, and he looked toward the doorway to see the small figure of an elderly woman, vaguely draped in miles of filmy, flounced pink fabric, standing just inside the room, her curly blonde head tilted inquiringly to one side as she gaily waved one pudgy hand in his direction.

Lucien instinctively pulled the bedcovers higher against his chest. Just as he opened his mouth to ask why in blazes he hadn't been informed that there was to be a visitor from Bedlam dropping by Wormhill this morning, Farnley—who was never far away, it seemed, when there was the chance of anything interesting taking place—inserted his skinny frame into the room.

He drew himself up into a ludicrous parody of attention, then announced in stentorian tones, "This lady here is Mrs. Lucinda Benedict, sir, Lady Penelope's aunt and your hostess, if you don't mind my saying so." He clapped his heels together sharply and turned toward his employer before continuing, "Ma'am, the gentleman does not know whose dog he, er, that is, the gentleman still does not remember who he is."

Leighton prudently bit on his knuckles to keep from laughing out loud.

Aunt Lucinda slowly turned her head to look at Farnley, the man the dear Dowager Duchess of Avonall had the supreme nastiness to send along from London to run the household at Wormhill while her cousin was in residence, and pointed out carefully, "'One eye of the master sees more than four of the servant's,' Italian Proverb."

"Ma'am?" Farnley asked, for as much as he was around Mrs. Benedict, he had the Devil's own time understanding every second word she said. He'd worked up a potion once, drinking it down precisely at midnight of the first full moon of the summer in the hope he would then be gifted with the ability to read her mind, but it hadn't worked—except to have him visiting the necessary house hourly for three days. Her latest utterance now left him standing in the middle of the bedroom, totally confused.

"I believe Mrs. Benedict is telling you that your explanation was unnecessary, that she already knows of my current, lamentable condition. However, Farnley, I thank you for that sterling introduction. It was truly first-rate. And although I have heard about Mrs. Benedict, I have not before now had the chance to thank her in person for her kind hospitality. You may safely retire now, I think."

The butler looked closely at the man lying in the bed, as if deciding whether or not to withdraw and leave his mistress there alone with him. After all, it didn't take a large intellect to tell that the dear lady was a bit queer in the attic, and she might just send the poor injured fellow toppling into a decline with some of her silly sayings.

"Well, now, I don't know about that, sir, if you don't mind my saying so. Mayhap Mrs. Benedict should come back later when Lady Penelope is here to—" he began falteringly, only to be cut off by Aunt Lucinda's none too gentle tap between his skinny shoulder blades.

Really, the man was becoming an absolute pest. Perhaps she wouldn't send the Dowager Duchess that nice sampler she had been working on this age, the one that said "'Caesar had his Brutus; Charles the First his Cromwell; and George the Third may profit by their example,' Patrick Henry." Aunt Lucinda did not exactly know what it meant, but the Dowager had long been an admirer of King George, and she was sure the sampler would please her.

"'Go and tell those who have sent you that we are here by the will of the nation and that we shall not leave save at the point of bayonets,' Comte De Mirabeau," Aunt Lucinda declared with a defiant toss of her drooping curls once she was sure her repeated jabs had succeeded in attracting the butler's attention.

Farnley didn't take more than a moment to decide that he had been wrong—that the best possible thing the patient could have would be a long, uninterrupted interview with the so intelligent Mrs. Benedict—and he quickly backed himself out of the room, anxious to rush down to the kitchens and his dearest wife, Pansy, who was the sole person in the world who truly appreciated him.

But Farnley did feel sorry for the stranger—who certainly couldn't know what he was letting himself in for if Mrs. Benedict was in the mood for a comfortable coze—and as he made his way down the rear staircase, the butler decided to have Pansy make up some special treat for the poor man's dinner.

"I could sprinkle a bit of dried poppy petals into a finely spiced rabbit stew without his noticing it," he mused aloud. "That should give him a good night's rest and keep him from running entirely mad with brain fever if Mrs. Benedict stays too long."

While Farnley was on his way to his private pantry to seek out the jar of opium-laden poppy, Leighton was smiling appreciatively at his unexpected guest. Motioning for her to sit herself down in the comfortable though homely, armless conversation chair Lady Penelope had earlier positioned on the window side of his bed, he complimented her on her routing of the sad-faced butler, saying, "Bravo! Well done, Mrs. Benedict. I only wish I could do without the man myself. Not that I haven't tried, you understand, but so far Farnley has been all but oblivious of my desire for privacy. If only I could snap my fingers and be completely healed."

Carefully arranging her trailing skirts about her as she lowered herself into the chair, Aunt Lucinda smiled at him reassuringly and offered, "'Rome was not built in one day,' Heywood."

What an odd, entertaining nodcock, Lucien thought, grinning back at the woman. How Brummell would have loved her. "Too true, madam," he replied, relaxing his guard. "But I have made great strides since I first arrived so rudely on your doorstep, haven't I? I promise to remember your words and be more patient."

Aunt Lucinda looked into Lucien's dark eyes for a long, measuring minute, then tested the waters by saying in a deceptively pleasant voice, "'We may with advantage at times forget what we know,' Publicius Syrus."

Leighton stared at Aunt Lucinda, his thoughts tumbling over themselves as a faint niggle of fear tugged at the corners of his mind. What is she talking about? She looks at me as if she suspects me of something. Could she know who I am? Ridiculous! Impossible! If she did, surely she would have told Lady Penelope by now—wouldn't she? After all, she can't know that I'm shamming it—she'd have to think she was doing me a large favor by telling me who I am. I don't like this. I thought I was the only one running a rig around here. Well, there's only one way to find out!

"I was speaking only of my frustration at the slowness of my physical recovery, madam," he began, picking his way carefully. "I am not the sort to be lying around idle. You see, I did awake just this morning remembering who I am. I cannot tell you how amazed I was. You cannot imagine how worried I was that I could have been an awful person—perhaps even a hardened criminal—someone who could have started up one night and murdered you all in your beds. Surely that possibility had occurred to you, as you are all women, with only Farnley as protection?"

Aunt Lucinda just shrugged, dismissing such useless conjecture. "'Cleopatra's nose, had it been shorter, the whole face of the world would have been changed,' Pascal."

Lucien shook his head in wry amusement, bowing to the strange wisdom in Aunt Lucinda's curiously applicable declaration. "You're right, of course, dear madam. What is the sense of thinking about what could or might have been? And especially now, now that I do remember everything. I can scarcely wait for Lady Penelope to arrive, so that I can at last tell her my name. She has been feeling so guilty, you know, believing that she is to blame for the state I am in at the moment. I am almost embarrassed at the magnitude of her kind attentions."

Lucien wisely stopped talking once he realized he was babbling, wondering if he had overplayed his hand. It wouldn't do to change overnight from a demanding tyrant into a fawning sycophant.

Aunt Lucinda reached over and gently patted the Earl's hand in warning. "'He who has not a good memory, should never take upon him the trade of lying,' Montaigne," she quoted ominously, causing Leighton to shiver, as if a goose had just run over his grave.

He took recourse in nervous laughter. For as quaintly scatterbrained as he was sure she could be in many areas, the old widgeon's mind seemed to be as sharp as needles when it came to him. "I always liked Montaigne, Mrs. Benedict, but I vow, I fail to see his use in this instance."

She didn't answer, just rose to her feet, wiping her hands together briskly before turning to leave the room. She had heard her niece approaching down the hallway, Lady Penelope's usually brisk steps dragging slightly, as if delaying the inevitable.

The time had come for all good aunts to withdraw to a safe distance—although still within earshot—where she could listen as the Earl of Leighton disclosed his true identity to the young lady Aunt Lucinda had chanced to see clutched in his passionate embrace just a day earlier—not that she would ever mention such a thing to anybody!

There was really no need for her to stay in the room, for Aunt Lucinda already knew who her unexpected guest was and had known since that first evening when she had peeked into the sickroom when no one was looking, but she had held her own counsel, emulating Syrus, who had warned: "Never thrust your own sickle into another's corn."

She wasn't sure why she had not at one point during the next three days scribbled down the Earl's name on a slip of paper and handed it to her niece; she only knew that she had smelled a rat the moment Farnley had told her their patient could not remember who he was or how he had come to fall off his horse.

If she had learned nothing else during her sojourn in the Duke of Avonall's household, she had learned that nothing was ever exactly as it seemed—not when the more tender emotions entered the picture.

"Wise men say nothing in dangerous times," Seldon had written (and Aunt Lucinda had committed to memory); and some niggling little bit of feminine intuition had whispered in her ear that these were dangerous times indeed.

And so it was that even as Lucien called after her, asking her to stay, Aunt Lucinda floated out of the room, only nodding pleasantly to Lady Penelope as she went, and then closed the door to within a narrow crack before unashamedly listening to the conversation that had begun on the other side.

"You wished to see me?" Lady Penelope was saying just as Aunt Lucinda shooed away a curious housemaid who was standing in the hallway, her arms full of clean bed linens, gawking at her eavesdropping mistress. Aunt Lucinda pressed an ear against the slight opening, eager not to miss a single word of Leighton's sure-to-be-enlightening recitation.

"Yes, Lady Penelope," Lucien began hurriedly, not able to look her directly in the eyes. Lord, but she's beautiful! I'd best get over this rough ground as quickly as possible, before I lose my resolve. "I have a grand piece of news for you. It would seem that I have remembered who I am."

Lady Penelope's heart began pounding hurtfully against her ribs. After being in such a rush to hear what he had to say, she had begun having second thoughts as she walked down the corridor to his room. Now she wished she had never answered his summons at all.

"You have?" she asked him unnecessarily, knowing she must look dreadfully pale. "How very fortunate for you. Perhaps you can now give me the name of someone we can contact. After all, there must be someone worrying about you."

Here I go, Lucien sighed inwardly, crossing his fingers beneath the coverlet. "I imagine you could direct any correspondence to Annabel, in Surrey."

"Annabel?" Lady Penelope asked, swallowing hard. "Is that—I mean, could she be . . . do you mean . . ."

Lucien's dark face took on a sadly solemn expression as he nodded slowly, saying, "My wife, yes. I'm—I'm so sorry."

"You—your wife?" Lady Penelope's voice cracked as she forced herself to remain upright, longing as she was to swoon dead away onto the carpet. How dare he say he's sorry! I don't want to hear that now. He can't be any sorrier than I am. After all, he didn't kiss a married man!

His eyes staring holes in the coverlet, Leighton pushed on relentlessly, knowing he was absolutely the most miserable, mean-spirited creature on the entire earth. "Yes. She and the children must be quite worried about me by now.''

"You—your children!" Lady Penelope squeaked, tottering across the room to sit down in the chair her Aunt Lucinda had just vacated. This last bit of information passed beyond the realm of belief. "You have children?"

Out in the hallway, her expression one of extreme consternation, Aunt Lucinda had recourse in the Bible, quoting softly: "'Many have fallen by the edge of the sword, but not many as have fallen by the tongue,' Ecclesiasticus."

"Three," the Earl pursued doggedly, wishing he had never embarked upon this new deception, but powerless to stop it now that it had begun. "Miranda, Gilbert, and little Sedgwick. He's just turned three, you know."

"No, no I didn't know," Lady Penelope answered absently, overcome by shame. She had kissed a married man. Worse, she had dreamt about him, reliving those glorious moments spent in his arms. She had, fool that she was, even begun to spin daydreams about her handsome, anonymous patient. Contrary to everything she had always thought, everything she had ever believed, she had begun entertaining the idea that this man was somehow different. Difficult, yes. Demanding in the extreme. But still different—perhaps even equal to her in the strength of his personality.

But she had been wrong; dreadfully, horrendously, scandalously wrong. He was married. He wasn't for her; never had been for her. Now there was the faceless Annabel to consider—and little Sedgwick. He even sounded different since he had regained his memory. He sounded . . . married. Oh, she was so ashamed, so dreadfully ashamed!

"You haven't asked my name yet, Lady Penelope," Lucien remarked, interrupting her thoughts in order to continue his lie. "I'm Kendall, Lucas Kendall. I'm attached to the Foreign Office in a very minor way. I was on my way north to visit my brother; his wife has just given birth to twins. Thankfully, I had planned my visit to be a surprise, so Theo has no reason for alarm. He has enough on his hands as it is, doesn't he?"

"Uh-huh," Lady Penelope said automatically, still wondering how she would ever be able to look at this man again and not remember how his mouth had felt against hers, how his hands had felt as they roamed her body. "Shall I get you pen and paper so that you can write to Annabel—to your wife, Mr. Kendall? Or would you rather I wrote the letter? I could assure her of your rapid recovery."

Lucien looked over at the top of Lady Penelope's downcast head, longing to reach out and gather her into his arms and tell her it was all a lie—a crazy, impetuous, self-serving lie. But no, it was better this way. Look what giving in to his last impulse had done for him. If he had harbored any lingering misgivings as to the wisdom of his actions, the look on the young woman's face as she had absorbed his news had told him better than anything that, no matter how much she had tried to hide the fact, her reaction to his embrace yesterday was only a small taste of the passion of which she was capable.

If she, Philip's only sister, were to tumble into love with him, it would be the worst disaster in the world, for he could not find it in himself to hurt her. He had to put her at a distance and then keep her there until his dratted ankle was fit enough to travel. She made him feel weak, tested his determination to remain heart-whole, and the sooner he was atop Hades and on his way out of her life, the sooner he would be able to remember his determination to love many but be true to none.

"I believe I should like to write the letter myself, Lady Penelope, if you don't mind," he replied at last, still looking at the small, dejected figure sitting slumped in the chair. "After all, it's a bit personal, isn't it?"

The fiery blonde head nodded yet again, and then Lady Penelope rose slowly to her feet, heading for the relative safety of the hallway. "I'll see to it that pen and paper are brought up to you directly, Mr. Kendall. Perhaps I should have a note sent 'round to the doctor, telling him as well. He had told me that it should only be a matter of time before your past came back to you. If you'll excuse me now, I have to go inform my aunt that you have regained your memory. I'm sure she'll be just as pleased as I am."

Lucien didn't bother to tell her that her aunt already knew of his miraculous "recovery," although she hadn't stayed long enough to hear his name, but the thought of Lucinda Benedict and the strange, knowing look in her watery blue eyes as she had walked out of the room earlier, reminded him of his misgivings about the lady.

"Your aunt," he called out to Lady Penelope's departing back, "is she as learned as she seems? I must say, I was very impressed with her. She certainly has a wide and varied knowledge of literature."

Lady Penelope turned back to smile weakly at Lucien. "Aunt Lucinda? Learned? According to Farnley, my aunt is considered to be the family eccentric and is not to be taken seriously at all costs. However, I have once or twice thought that she knows more than she says. Why do you ask?"

Lucien pretended an interest in one lace cuff of his nightshirt. "Oh, no reason," he replied, plucking at a stray thread. "I was just making idle conversation, I suppose. Even now I dread being alone. It's silly of me, isn't it?"

"Perhaps I'll ask my aunt to sit with you this afternoon while I'm exercising my horse, Nemesis. Good day to you, Mr. Kendall, if I do not see you again today. I shall be very busy, you know, now that you are mending and not in such constant need of my services."

"I shall miss you, little one," Lucien breathed softly once Lady Penelope had closed the door behind her. "I believe I shall miss you quite a lot." Then he frowned, remembering how she had said his "past" would all come back to him. His past was Ann Louise, the real wife. Beautiful, cold, unfaithful Ann Louise. The thought of his wife brought the bitter taste of bile into his mouth, and he turned his mind to his unpleasant memories, hoping they would help to erase Lady Penelope's appealing image from his brain.

Lady Penelope's head was down as she left the room, and she nearly collided with her aunt in the hallway. Raising her eyes, she noticed the flush of color in Aunt Lucinda's cheeks, and correctly deduced that the woman had succumbed to listening at keyholes.

"Why, Aunt," she teased, giving the woman a quick kiss, "what a happy coincidence that you should be here. I was just about to look for you. Our patient seems to have remembered his name. He is Lucas Kendall, of Surrey. He has a wife, Annabel, and three small children. Isn't that above all things wonderful? That he should remember, that is. I'm so happy for him!"

Aunt Lucinda looked into her niece's suspiciously bright emerald eyes and gave a deep sigh. "'The lady doth protest too much, methinks,' Shakespeare," she pronounced sadly before moving off down the hallway toward her own chamber, leaving Lady Penelope behind to watch after her, stifling a sob with the back of one small hand.

Once inside her bedroom, Aunt Lucinda stood before her overloaded bookcase, reading the titles on the spines until she found the one that spelled out in gilt letters: Miguel de Cervantes, His Works. Reaching up to take the book down from the shelf, she then blew the light layer of dust off it and carried it with her to the desk that held her stationery.

She would write a letter. It was time she took a more active hand in things, before poor little Penelope's heart could be broken beyond repair. There was much plotting and mischief afoot, first on Lady Penelope's side, and now on Leighton's. Cervantes would be perfect for the task ahead of her, as his creation, Don Quixote de la Mancha, had much to say about the folly to be found in outlandish schemes.

Dipping her pen into the ornate, peacock-shaped well at the head of the desk, she drew out a crisp piece of paper and began to write, staying doggedly at her task for over two hours, making many references to the book that lay at her elbow as she frowned over her work.

The end result, although comprehensible to her, was sure to strike terror into the heart of the Marquess of Weybridge, who would receive the missive in a week's time. After rereading the letter a last time, Aunt Lucinda nodded her approval, sanded the page carelessly, then left it lying on the desk when the bell rang for luncheon.

The thin, spidery script, with grains of sand stuck to it in places and dotted here and there with blotches as the lady refused to take the time to repoint her pen, was left in the sunlight to dry. It read:

"I must speak the truth, and nothing but the truth." "Honesty's the best policy." "Forewarned forearmed." "By a small sample we may judge the whole piece."

"He's a muddled fool, full of lucid intervals." "More knave than fool." "He casts a sheep's eye at the wench."

"That's the nature of women . . . not to love when we love them, and to love when we love them not."

"Love and War are the same thing, and stratagems and policy are as allowable in the one as in the other."

"Those who'll play with cats must expect to be scratched." "Raise a hue and cry!" "Here's the devil-and-all-to-pay." "I begin to smell a rat."

". . . a word to the wise is enough."