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.”
“Mr. Clayton reckons you know how to run a big house and don’t have half enough to do at Rose Cottage.”
“Does he?” Penelope was beginning to be amused. “Who is Mr. Clayton?”
Tom looked chagrined. “Done it again,” he muttered. “Running my mouth. Hanging about with a lord is giving me bad habits.” He hunched a shoulder. “Mr. Clayton is Lord Macklin’s valet, miss.”
“Ah. Not part of the Frithgerd household then.”
“No.”
“I suppose Lord Whitfield’s servants wonder why I’m there so often.” It was just as well to know the opinion of the staff, Penelope thought. Though she wasn’t going to let it dictate her actions.
“Clearing up a mort of muck, Mrs. Phipps the housekeeper says.” Tom ducked his head. “Not in just those words, miss. But she’s right glad to have some bits set in order. I heard her tell Mr. Clayton the place ain’t had a proper mistress in an age. Not since she was a girl fresh come to service thirty years ago.”
“But Lady Whitfield died quite recently,” said Penelope. Hadn’t it been less than a year since the shipwreck that took Whitfield’s parents?
Tom shrugged. “Dunno what she meant by it, miss,” he said. “She did say it was a blessing that somebody was finally paying attention.”
They had reached Frithgerd’s front door. Penelope pulled up, handed over the reins, and climbed down with the wrapped cakes in hand. She’d expected a rather different reaction from the servants here. To be seen as a blessing was surprising, and surprisingly gratifying. She found she was smiling as she knocked on the front door.
It was opened by a man dressed as a valet. Oddly, Lord Macklin was with him. This, then, must be the Mr. Clayton who had so many opinions about her.
“Good morning, Miss Pendleton,” said the earl, imperturbable, as if he often played footman at great houses. “Did you see Tom when you passed the gatehouse?”
“I did. He rode up with me and was kind enough to take my gig to the stables.”
“Ah. Thank you. You’ve saved Clayton a walk.” He nodded at the valet, who went out as Penelope came in. “On your way to the estate office,” the older man added. It could have been a question, but wasn’t.
“I am,” answered Penelope. She moved on, and wasn’t pleased when the earl came with her. Glancing over at him, she suddenly realized one reason he made her uncomfortable. He reminded her of the magistrate who’d first questioned her last summer at her home in Lancashire—the one who’d brought her the news of her brother’s death. He had the same square jaw and broad brow, the same authoritative manner, as if command was as natural and unconscious as breathing.
“And you’ve brought a gift,” he said, with another nod at the folded napkin she carried.
She wouldn’t be intimidated. “Shrewsbury cakes.”
“Indeed?”
He sounded benignly curious, but Penelope remembered how an innocuous tone could grow gradually harsher as the questions continued. And end in venom.
“I’m fond of Shrewsbury cakes,” he said after a short silence.
Penelope kept walking. What did he want? She wasn’t going to offer him one of the oddly shaped pastries she carried. Why was this corridor so very long?
“May I speak to you for a moment, Miss Pendleton?” he asked.
She froze. Mild phrases like that one had begun some of the most grueling sessions with Lord Sidmouth’s men. “About what?”
“Nothing in particular. Merely to get better acquainted.”
This earl wanted to stand about in a hallway, with her clutching a knotted napkin, and exchange pleasantries?
As if he knew how unlikely that sounded, Macklin made a dismissive gesture. “And about Whitfield. His situation. And yours.”
“Situation?”
The older man looked vexed. Now it would start, Penelope thought. He would insinuate or accuse, and when she answered, he would twist her words. Such men always assumed the worst, and then used it against you.
“I’m not putting this well,” Macklin said. “I don’t suppose you’d like to go and sit. No, I can see that you wouldn’t.”
False sympathy. Did he imagine she hadn’t seen it before?
“I became acquainted with Whitfield because I grew interested in the many forms of grief.”
What sort of trick was this? Penelope wondered.
“And hoped to be of help, as I’ve experienced a good dose of it myself,” he added.
This wasn’t what she’d expected.
“You’ve heard that he lost his parents? In a shipwreck?”
She nodded.
“A sudden death is a great shock. As you must have felt.”
Penelope stiffened. Here it was. “Lord Whitfield told you about my brother.”
“He did.”
“Must I say it again? I knew nothing about his activities or associates or political writings. Yes, it is strange that two people living in the same household could be so separate. But we were!” She bent her head. “As I was sad to discover.” She’d regretted that distance in so many ways, not least in her failure to understand her only brother.
Lord Macklin took a step back. “I beg your pardon.”
Penelope looked up, surprised. Where was the doubt, the barrage of questions?
The earl bowed. “I’ve upset you. Forgive me.”
None of her questioners had asked forgiveness.
“I won’t keep you any longer.”
She hesitated briefly, not daring to believe, then turned and hurried along to the door of the estate office. “Good day, Lord Macklin,” she said, and entered the sanctuary of the estate office.
The older man stayed where he was, pensive. Clayton found him there some minutes later. “I sent Tom off with the message,” he said.
“Good. Thank you, Clayton.” He still didn’t move.
“Something wrong, my lord?”
“My conversations with Miss Pendleton don’t go well.”
“What are you aiming at, my lord?”
“That’s the problem, isn’t it? I’m not sure I know.”
“She seems like a pleasant enough young lady,” answered the valet. “The servants here say she’s quality.”
“But does she add up?”
“My lord?”
Arthur sighed. “I suspect she’s been treated shabbily, and I’m sorry for that. But I’m really here for Whitfield. I’d like to see him happy. Is she the sort to make him so?”
“You should receive replies to your letters soon,” said Clayton.
“Yes.” Arthur gazed at the closed door of the estate office as he tried to be satisfied with this.
* * *
“They taste good even if they look ridiculous,” said Daniel on the other side of the panels. He took a second bite of a Shrewsbury cake that he’d shaped so ineptly. The room seemed different with Miss Pendleton installed in a chair beside his at the desk. Fresh and lovely in a blue cambric gown, she transformed it from a place of dry drudgery to a chamber full of possibility. She’d seemed harried when she first came in, but the sight of his documents, and the donning of her oddly charming dust sleeves, had visibly settled her.
She finished her cake. “That’s the great thing about pastry,” she said. “It’s still delicious even when you’ve sat on the box. Although eclairs are rather a challenge in that regard.”
Daniel raised an eyebrow. “That sounds like wisdom drawn from direct experience.”
Miss Pendleton nodded. “The…rather squashed-looking Shrewsbury cakes reminded me.”
“I must hear the story.”
Her smile was pensive, a little distracted. “As a special treat, my mother and I sometimes visited a bakeshop in a town near where we lived. Mama used to say the owner was an artist of the oven. On this particular day, I insisted on carrying the box with its wonderful pink string. I was so proud, like an altar boy bearing the chalice.” She glanced at him. “I was four years old, you understand. I put the box on the seat of the carriage while I climbed up. Mama stepped in after me and sat on it.” She shook her head. “I hadn’t thought of that in ages.”
Daniel imagined how his own austere mother would have reacted to this misstep. “Was she annoyed?”
“Oh, worse than that.”
He had visions of a thundering scold, even a boxed ear.
“She burst into tears,” said Miss Pendleton.
The picture in his mind underwent a quick revision.
“She’d picked out a lemon tart, one of her favorite things in the world. She was looking forward to it as much as I was to my éclair. More, perhaps. And now they were both ruined.” She made a melancholy face. “So I had made my mama cry.”
“Difficult.” Daniel started to point out that it wasn’t entirely her fault. Her mother might have been more careful about where she sat. But Miss Pendleton went on before he could speak.
“Utterly tragic for a small girl.”
“You might have gone back to the shop and replaced them.”
“I suppose. We didn’t. Perhaps there was a reason Mama had to be back. But in any case, she soon recovered. She was wonderful that way. She turned setbacks into…festivals.”
Rather like her daughter did with an upended life, Daniel thought. “How does one redeem squashed pastry?”
“Ah.” Miss Pendleton’s smile was impish now. “We took our flattened box to her sitting room and hid it away until a maid had brought tea for Mama and a glass of milk for me.”
“Hid it? Why?”
“We didn’t want to hurt Cook’s feelings by letting her know we’d bought pastry. She was very skillful, but not with sweets. So we always ate our treats in secret.”
“That was kind,” said Daniel. Had his parents had any such concerns about Frithgerd’s cook? Or any of the servants? He didn’t think so.
Miss Pendleton blinked rapidly. “My mother was extraordinarily kind.” She took a deep breath. “When the coast was clear, we spread open the box and ate spoonfuls of the…contents. We decided to call it an ‘eclart.’ Which I still think is a very fine word.”
“Like a burst of excitement in your mouth,” he replied.
“Exactly!”
As their eyes met, alternative meanings for this phrase seemed to unfold between them. Daniel was suddenly conscious of the beautiful shape of her mouth, not far away at all. He wasn’t aware of leaning forward until he noticed that she’d done the same. They were inches apart. He wanted to wrap his arms around her, pull her close, and kiss her passionately, repeatedly, until they were both dizzy. He could just barely make himself sit back. The effort left him rigid, in more ways than one.
Penelope caught her breath. She hadn’t touched him, but it felt as if she had. The sense of connection had been as intense as an actual caress. She’d never experienced anything like it. She was suffused with longing. Did it show on her face? Was he wondering what was wrong? Her hand twitched. Their fingers brushed, and another bolt of sensation coursed through her.
Whitfield moved his hand away. He raised it, left it hovering in the air for a moment, then reached for another Shrewsbury cake.
Penelope ordered her hands to stop trembling, and they obeyed. She’d learned to hide her feelings in the past year, as she discovered that a person being questioned by the authorities, particularly a woman, had to appear calm and rational at all times. Emotion roused suspicions and drew contempt. Interrogators might shout and be seen as forceful, but they would pounce on the slightest tremor in their prey and call it instability. Not that Lord Whitfield was like that. She was muddling two very different things. She had to get hold of herself.
Picking up a page from one of the piles she hadn’t yet investigated, Penelope scanned the contents. “Are you installing a bathing chamber at Frithgerd?”
Whitfield leaned over to look, and the page shook slightly in her grasp. “I forgot about that,” he said. “I met a fellow in London who promised we could have hot water at will and all sorts of other conveniences. He made that drawing.”
Penelope ran her eyes over the diagram, interest growing as she understood the various elements. “Do you have a water tank in your attic?”
“Not now. We have a rainwater cistern, but it’s dependent on the weather, of course.”
“And a mill-wheel pump?”
“No. We’d have to build that part. Unless the servants carried the water up to the tank.”
“Which would be at least as much work as hauling cans of hot water,” said Penelope.
Lord Whitfield nodded.
“Imagine turning a spigot and having hot water!” Penelope looked more closely at the drawing. “The water would be heated in the wall beside the kitchen fires?”
“The fellow said that was the way, because they’re always lit. People would have to come downstairs for a bath.”
“It would be worth it!” She met his eyes, thought of naked limbs lolling in a luxurious bath, and looked away. “You’d have to lay in a good many pipes.”
“You’re very clever with architectural plans.”
“Philip was interested in all sorts of mechanisms.” It was easier to say her brother’s name this time. Perhaps, eventually the pain would fade? “He used to explain new inventions at the dinner table, with illustrations.” She turned the page over. “A water closet, too?”
“That was the plan.”
“You should install it,” said Penelope, imagining a world in which no one had to deal with chamber pots.
“I don’t know.” Lord Whitfield surveyed the cluttered room. “There’s so much else to do.”
“You’d only have to supervise. I’m sure you know the best workmen in the neighborhood.”
“I do. But they’ve never built anything like this.” He gestured at the plans.
“You could get advice from the person who made these.”
“I’ve forgotten his name.”
She pointed to a neat signature at the bottom of the page. “Andre Fontaine. With his address as well.”
Whitfield smiled at her. “You’re very enthusiastic.”
The warmth in his eyes made Penelope feel as if she’d stepped close to a roaring fire. “My family has…had a mechanical bent,” she managed.
He leaned closer again to examine the drawing. His brown hair curled slightly at the nape of his neck. Penelope was seized by an intense desire to run her fingers through those strands.
“All right. Yes, let’s go ahead. If you’ll take charge.”
“What? Me?”
“You’re so efficient.”
“Efficient,” Penelope repeated. It was the sort of compliment she’d sometimes wished for when a dance partner had praised her fine eyes or her grace. Now, it seemed less than satisfactory. He couldn’t know how her heart was beating.
“I’m sure all would go smoothly under your direction,” Whitfield added. “I’m continually amazed at your abilities.”
Penelope couldn’t help herself. She leaned into his warm brown gaze, basking in the admiration she saw there. They were close, closer, and then their lips brushed. A soft, glancing kiss. Fleeting, but volcanic as a rush of desire shuddered through her.
Whitfield jerked back. “I beg your pardon,” he said, sounding breathless.
“You do?”
“I should. I must. You’re a guest in my house, a young lady. I would not offer you insult for the—”
“I believe I kissed you. I think I did.”
She had. Those brief sentences brought the experience back in every detail. How could there be so much to remember in such a brief caress? The surge of longing that followed was overwhelming.
“Did you like it?” she asked.
Daniel groped for words. One didn’t speak to young ladies about such matters. It wasn’t done. They would be scandalized and offended. Or so he’d always been told. Miss Pendleton did not seem to be either. She appeared simply inquisitive. She wasn’t like other young ladies. Unless they were all like this, and he’d just never had the opportunity to find out. She wasn’t going to walk out in a huff; that was obvious. Little else was, at this moment. Except that Daniel was seriously interested in Miss Penelope Pendleton. He would have liked to hear that she felt the same. He did want to hear it. “Very, very much. Did you?”
She looked away, straightening a stack of documents on the desk. “Yes.”
Exultation raced through his veins. The muddle of his papers suddenly seemed more a blessing than a burden.
“What shall we do about that?” Miss Pendleton asked.
It seemed an honest question. She spoke as if there might be an answer lurking out there somewhere. He ought to promise that kisses would never happen again. He didn’t want to. But he couldn’t expose her to gossip and disrespect. “I suppose it would be best if we get back to work and forget what happened,” he said.
“I don’t think I can forget.”
The heat in her blue eyes thrilled him beyond measure. No, forgetting was right out, Daniel thought. “Ignore it then. Obviously we can’t be in here kissing when we’re supposed to…” A vivid picture of embraces silenced him. Her expression suggested that she shared his imaginings, which was the most enflaming idea of all. “To be keeping our minds on the task at hand,” he finished weakly.
She blinked, breaking the lock of their gaze, and looked down. “I do want to find information about Rose Cottage,” she said. “And of course help you bring order to your papers, as I promised. It would be fascinating to supervise construction of the bath.”
He wanted to continue enjoying her company. And kiss her again. He thought of having her here for the rest of the day. Of sitting down to dinner with her and talking afterward in the drawing room. Her presence would brighten a humdrum evening, which all of them tended to be lately. And when the time came for bed… Ah, what was he thinking? He couldn’t take advantage of her innocence. But he couldn’t let her go either. He had to make sure she would be here tomorrow, and the day after. “So, we’re agreed. We’ll go back to the way things were before the… Before.”
Penelope gazed at him. This was not a disappointment. On the contrary, it was the only choice, unless she wanted to leave Frithgerd and never return, as a respectable young lady would undoubtedly do. What would he think of her otherwise? What did he already think after the way she’d behaved? She looked down at the papers on the desk. Order suddenly seemed such a dull thing, such an overrated ideal. “Very well. We’ll say no more about it.”
“Agreed.” He seemed about to offer a handshake; then he didn’t.
They sat in silence. Having told herself to forget the kiss, Penelope of course thought of nothing else. Echoes of longing still reverberated through her. “Perhaps we should have a look at the trunks they brought down.” She needed to move, to put some distance between them, or she was going to kiss him again. What would a longer, deeper embrace be like? She rose and stepped away. “To see what we have.”
Daniel stood when she did. They walked to the parlor where the trunks had been placed, with some distance between them, like two people who were barely acquainted. He found it maddening.
Miss Pendleton moved around the room, opening all the lids. Then she stood back and gazed at the trunks. “I don’t suppose it matters where we start. We can pick a trunk and go clockwise from there.”
“Very methodical.” He hadn’t meant to be sarcastic, but he was frustrated at her withdrawal, even though it had been his suggestion. She gave him a sharp look. Daniel turned to the nearest trunk and picked up a sheaf of paper.
“I’ve forgotten my notebook,” said Miss Pendleton. She turned and left the room.
Despite the trunks, the parlor felt empty and barren without her. Daniel realized that he’d begun to think of her as part of his home, part of his day. He looked forward to her arrival. He thought of things to tell her when she wasn’t here, set aside items to show her. He enjoyed that. A new estate agent would be a damned nuisance, he realized. He’d put off hiring a new one until…until he decided to do so.
She’d been gone quite a while. Could she be as unsettled as he was? He hoped so. Daniel put the pages back in the trunk. His thoughts were as disorganized as his dashed estate records.
The object of his perplexity returned with her small notebook. “Lost your pencil?” he asked.
“What? No.”
“Thought you might have been looking for it.”
“I keep it with the notebook,” she replied, frowning at him.
“Of course you do.” Who would have imagined that efficiency could be adorable, Daniel thought. If anyone had asked him a few months ago, he’d have sworn the idea was ridiculous.
“We’ll assign numbers to the trunks,” Miss Pendleton declared. “Then we’ll glance through them quickly, and I’ll record a general idea of their contents.”
He nodded.
“A bit of chalk would be helpful,” she murmured as she surveyed them. “But eight isn’t too many to remember. The trunk on this side of the door shall be one, and we will go from there.”
“Clockwise,” said Daniel. Could she switch to business so easily? Or had her extended absence to fetch the notebook provided time to subdue her agitation? He hoped for the latter.
She gave him a sidelong glance as she pointed at the other trunks, designating them two through eight. Then they dug in. Their shoulders brushed as they began to riffle through the stacks of paper, and Daniel nearly caught hold of her. His mind wasn’t going to settle on these new documents, he thought. But a general idea of the contents of these trunks would be the same jumble as everywhere else.
“This is odd,” said Miss Pendleton.
“What is?”
“It seems to me… I don’t know.” She went to another trunk and sifted through the contents, tried a third.
“What?” Daniel repeated.
“I almost think these documents have been mixed up. As if they’d been quickly searched and shoved back in. See, part of this stack is upside down, and another section is reversed compared to the rest.”
He looked. “Perhaps they were just dumped in by someone clearing out the estate office.” Daniel frowned. “I don’t remember that ever happening though. The room has been much the same for as long as I can recall.”
“This account is twenty years old,” she said, indicating a page at the top. “The one below it is three decades older. And then, facedown and reversed, comes a hundred-year-old receipt.” She turned it over to match the order of the pile. “Which hardly needed to be kept,” she muttered. “Five shillings to the blacksmith.”
“You think the records were gone through and put back out of order?” Daniel asked again because it was such a strange idea. Who would care to do that?
Miss Pendleton nodded. “These trunks were all in the attic?”
“Yes.”
“So someone could search them without being noticed.”
“Not just anyone. They’d have to get into the house and…” Daniel shook his head. He couldn’t see it. “Perhaps my father’s estate agent was looking for a particular record. Rather as we are about Rose Cottage. And he went mad over the disorganization. Had to fling papers about to relieve his feelings.” He could see the appeal. “Perhaps that’s why he left.”
“Possibly.”
She smiled, and Daniel felt a spark of triumph. He wanted her smiles. Nearly as much as he wanted her kisses. Nearly. “I’ll write and ask him.”
“If he went mad and tossed papers about?”
Daniel smiled back. This was better. “If he went through the trunks.”
“A good idea. You might inquire how he kept track of transactions, too. This top one had to have been placed here when you were a boy.”
“Briggs wasn’t here then. That would have been old Garrity.”
She sighed. “The label ‘old Garrity’ does not fill me with confidence.”
“You’re very perspicacious. Garrity worked for my grandfather for many years, and my father kept him on. By the time I knew him he was… ‘Doddering’ is the word that comes to mind.” Daniel looked at the trunks. “That might account for this mess. Papa kept him on until he died.”
“Sitting at the desk in the estate office, I suppose,” said Miss Pendleton. “With a quill in his hand and a blotted parchment. And so he haunts the chamber still, mixing up the records to thwart his successors.”
Daniel laughed. “At his cottage in his sleep, I’m afraid. Though your tale is much more exciting.”
She closed her notebook. “There’s no simple way to record what’s in these trunks. We may as well give up. And I should go.”
“It’s pouring rain,” he said. Water streamed down the windows.
“I see that it is.”
“Better wait till it clears. That gig of yours won’t keep you dry.”
“That could be hours.”
Their eyes met. That kiss would remain between them whatever their resolutions, Daniel thought. Until, perhaps, another sweeter one replaced it.
“Lord Macklin will be wondering where you are,” she added.
He’d forgotten his noble guest. He kept doing that. The lovely Miss Pendleton drove everything else from his mind.
“I must go.” She sounded determined, or resigned. He couldn’t tell which.
“A little longer.”
“No, I really must.” She hurried out, leaving him alone with his muddled heaps of history.