Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
It took Will less than a day to admit to himself he’d made a grave mistake with Penelope, but gentlemen in love being what they are—bewildered, stubborn and irrational—it was three more days before he could bring himself to acknowledge his folly aloud.
It might have taken longer if his siblings hadn’t lost patience with him. None of them had been at all pleased to see Penelope depart Cliff’s Edge, but it had taken a day or two before their muttered complaints had turned to demands, and then to outright threats.
It started at the dinner table, with an announcement from Christopher.
“I’ve got it all figured out. We’ll beat Will senseless, then toss him into a coach with instructions to the driver to dump him off in front of the Pandemonium Playhouse. Miss Hervey will find him there bloodied and bruised, take pity on him, and bring him home to Cliff’s Edge.”
“Splendid idea! I’d prefer it to watching him mope about here with that woebegone look on his face.
” Oliver’s nose wrinkled with distaste. “Look at yourself, man! Hair askew, cravat winkled, and what the devil happened to your coat? Is this how a gentleman comes to the dinner table? You look a mess.”
Maddy tossed her napkin aside with a sigh. “For pity’s sake, Will. ‘The Reformed Rake’ by the Pandemonium Players? Why, I’ve never heard such nonsense. Penelope wouldn’t do something so low.”
“Of course, she wouldn’t. Good Lord, you’re dense about women, Will.” Christopher gave a disgusted shake of his head. “Anyone can see Miss Hervey’s as sweet as they come.”
Will pushed his fork about his plate, his mouth drawn into a sullen line. “I saw the paper myself. What other explanation is there?”
But Will didn’t need to hear Penelope’s explanations. He only had to recall the stunned look on her face that morning to know he’d made a terrible mistake. The hurt in her dark eyes, the tears she wouldn’t let fall hanging on her lashes…
He’d had nightmares about it, every night since he’d sent her away.
“Dozens, I’d imagine. Here’s an idea for you, Will.” Oliver leaned forward in his chair. “Why don’t you ask her? It’s astonishing the things one learns when one asks.”
Will didn’t need to ask. All he needed, all he cared about was getting her back.
His fork hit his plate with a clatter, and he let his forehead drop into his hands. How could he apologize for such a thing? She likely never wanted to see him again, and he didn’t blame her. “I don’t know what to do.”
Oliver finished his wine in one swallow. “I’ll tell you what you don’t do. You don’t lay about here like some pathetic jilted lover. Go to London, find Miss Hervey, and don’t return to Cliff’s Edge until you’ve convinced her to come back here with you.”
“Grovel.” Christopher nodded wisely. “The on your knees sort of groveling, I mean. Women love that.”
Maddy rolled her eyes. “Oh, for pity’s sake. Women don’t care about groveling. All any woman wants is to be listened to when she speaks.” She gave Will a stern look. “When you find Miss Hervey, listen to her. Do you think you can manage that?”
Will gave a meek nod. He’d listen, then he’d grovel. He’d do whatever he must to get Penelope to forgive him.
“Good. Then go to London and bring her home.”
Once Will made up his mind to go, he couldn’t get to Penelope quickly enough. By the time the sun crested the horizon the following morning he was in his coach and on his way to London. It was just past noon when he arrived at his Mayfair townhouse.
He hadn’t any idea where Penelope lived, so he was obliged to wait until the Pandemonium’s evening performance to see her.
He bathed and changed and cursed with impatience as the hours crawled by.
By the time the curtain rose that evening he was tempted to jump from his box, storm the stage, snatch Penelope into his arms and take her straight back to Cliff’s Edge.
There was only one problem. Penelope wasn’t there.
Will’s gaze roamed over the players again and again, his heart pounding with trepidation.
Florentina was in the center of everything, of course, prancing and pouting her way through the performance as she always did.
Behind her, at the back of the stage was the usual collection of actresses costumed as bar-maids and whores, but none of them was Penelope.
Her light, graceful figure, the way she moved—even in her dark wig, he would have known her anywhere.
She wasn’t on the stage. He was certain of it.
Where the devil was she? Not more than five days had passed since she’d fled Cliff’s Edge. There was no way she could have left London in so short a time, was there? Where would she have gone, and with whom?
Will dragged a hand down his face.
It couldn’t be too late…
A sudden thought occurred to him and he dropped his hand and leaned forward eagerly in his seat. Penelope wasn’t there, but mightn’t Miss Bishop—
Yes! She was there at the far right of the stage, her dark hair hidden under a long brown wig. Relief flooded through Will, so intense he went dizzy with it. He’d speak to Miss Bishop at the end of the performance and she would tell him where Penelope was.
All he had to do was suffer through another few hours of Florentina’s shrieking, then he’d have Penelope back in his arms.
Will rested his back against his seat and settled in to wait.
* * *
Silas fired Penelope three days after she and Dinah returned to London.
Not because of the ten pounds. No, he’d been happy enough to close those golden sovereigns in his fist—so happy he hadn’t much cared whether they came from Lord Snedley’s purse or not.
Ten pounds was, after all, ten pounds.
No, she’d lost her place at the Pandemonium because of an entirely different disaster—one she hadn’t even seen coming. Foolish of her, really. She should know by now another disaster was always lurking in the wings.
Penelope hadn’t the faintest idea how Florentina had discovered she’d spent four days at Cliff’s Edge with the Tainted Angels. She may have overheard Dinah whispering to another one of the actresses about it, or perhaps she’d heard it from one of Lord Archer’s house party guests.
In the end, it didn’t really matter.
Florentina had a screaming tantrum in her dressing-room backstage. By the time it was over, so was Penelope’s career as a Pandemonium Player. She hardly had time to remove her wig before Silas tossed her out the door.
There’d been nothing she could do to stop it. No way to save herself.
Except for one.
She could have rewritten ‘Boughs of Folly,’ into ‘The Reformed Rake,’ and given the play to Silas.
Florentina would have forgiven Penelope any sin for the chance to humiliate Lord Archer, and Silas…
well, Silas didn’t care about Penelope’s sins.
He cared only for money, and all of London would have come to the Pandemonium to watch their favorite rake’s bumbling attempts to find his one true love and redeem himself.
Dinah, in a panic over Penelope’s desperate situation had begged her to take her one chance to get back into Silas’s and Florentina’s good graces. Really, what did she have to lose? Why shouldn’t she reap the rewards of a crime for which she’d already been convicted?
But Penelope hadn’t been able to do it.
The more fool she…
That one act of honor would be her last.
Dinah had been right all along. She’d warned Penelope a day would come when she could no longer afford her scruples, and that day had arrived. She hadn’t given up the play to Silas, but she had given up something else.
Herself.
To Lord Snedley.
After her first lover abandoned her, Penelope had sworn to herself she’d never let another man own her—her body, or her heart.
She was an actress, yes, but she wasn’t a whore. Society might not make much distinction between the two, but Penelope always had. She’d had to. If she didn’t, the person she’d once been—the vicar’s daughter from a small village in Berkshire—would be lost forever.
Then where would she be? Who would she be?
Now she knew. She’d gotten her answer two days ago, when she’d agreed to become Lord Snedley’s mistress.
She was an actress, and actresses—the lucky ones, that is—remained actresses only for as long as it took to become the mistress of a wealthy, powerful aristocrat.
The reason most of them took to the stage in the first place was to secure a protector. Why should she be any different?
She should have seen from the start it would come to this and succumbed to the inevitable the night she’d walked through the door of Lord Snedley’s country house in Essex.
She wasn’t the vicar’s daughter anymore.
She wasn’t a lady, or anything close to one.
There would be no more Christmas miracles, and no winter gardens in her future.
London, the stage, men like Lord Snedley—this was her life now.
The sooner she accepted it, the better her chances at survival.
Penelope had been gazing out the window of the cramped flat she shared with Dinah, staring down at the wet London streets. Her few belongings were packed into the small traveling case resting at her feet. The carriage Lord Snedley had sent for her would arrive any moment.
Tonight’s performance at the Pandemonium would be over by now. Dinah would be returning soon, and Penelope wanted to be gone before she arrived. There was only one thing left she needed to do.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out the pouch Will had given her. She emptied the coins inside into her palm and set them down in the middle of their small dining table, where Dinah would be sure to find them.