Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
“You are thinking about her again. What is it this time? The eyes, the hair, the—”
Malcolm tightened his grip on Benedict’s forearm and executed a sharp, economical pivot to silence him. He put his friend on the ground with a resounding thud.
Benedict hit the grass with a grunt, rolling to dissipate the momentum, and lay still for a moment with his eyes fixed on the pale, overcast London sky. He was breathing hard, the exertion of their sparring session flushing his face.
Malcolm, by contrast, was not. He stepped back and straightened his linen shirt, which had come untucked at the hip, and looked down at his friend.
Benedict wheezed from the ground, a lopsided grin pulling at his mouth. “You just proved that my suspicions are correct. That was unnecessary force for a friendly bout.”
“I pinned you in under a minute,” Malcolm said, his voice level.
“You pinned me in under a minute because I was trying to get you to drop your guard by mentioning Lady Romwich, and instead you went for my arm rather than my shoulder. You were not thinking at all, Malcolm. You were reacting.” Benedict raised one finger to punctuate the air.
“Which is precisely what thinking about a woman does to a man of your volatile constitution.”
Malcolm looked at him, his grey eyes narrowing into cold slits.
Benedict immediately held up both hands in a gesture of mock surrender. “I know. I know. The Duke of Brigrock does not have feelings; he only has tactical objectives. My apologies.”
He climbed to his feet with dignity, despite making his peace with the dirt. He retrieved his coat from the stone bench and shrugged back into it, examining a fresh grass stain on the elbow with a sigh of weary acceptance.
“You know,” Benedict said, brushing at the wool, “most men, when they lose, make some grand excuse. Wind direction. Uneven turf. A sudden cramp.” He gestured loosely at the garden. “You could try that. It would make you seem more human.”
“I am not the one who lost.”
“No. You are the one who won because the mere mention of a certain Dowager Countess turned your body into a loaded cannon.” Benedict straightened his collar, his eyes dancing with mischief. “Same result, different mechanism. She is under your skin, Brigrock. Admit it and we can go get a drink.”
“Benedict.” Malcolm’s voice was low thunder.
“Done. I am done entirely.” Benedict sat on the bench and stretched his legs out.
The garden behind his Mayfair townhouse was a narrow, well-kept strip of green hemmed in by high brick walls.
Plane trees stood like sentinels along the north wall, their leaves beginning to turn the color of old parchment.
The London morning sat over it, the light softer and grittier than the country, filtered through coal smoke and low-hanging clouds into something grey and even.
From the street beyond the wall came the constant, rhythmic rumble of the city: the rattle of carriages, the cries of vendors, and the distant percussion of a horse losing its footing on wet cobblestones.
Malcolm pulled on his own coat and sat on the low stone wall opposite his friend.
The heavy oak door to the garden swung open with a sharp bang, and Mrs. Halloway, Benedict’s housekeeper, practically spilled onto the gravel. Her cap was slightly askew, and she was clutching a sheaf of paper as thought they were the only thing keeping her upright.
“Lord Hayworth! I must have a word, it’s the ice!”
Benedict didn’t even look up from his position on the bench. “Unless the ice has achieved sentience and is currently picketing the larder, Mrs. Halloway, I suspect it can wait.”
“It’s the delivery from the confectioner, my lord! The decorative sculptures for the centerpieces have arrived early, and the ice house hasn’t been properly vented. They’re weeping, my lord. The dolphins are losing their fins as we speak!”
Benedict sighed, a long, theatrical sound, and finally looked at the frantic woman.
“Tell the footmen to move the sculptures into the cellar, not the ice house. The temperature there is stable enough to buy us three hours. Then, send a boy to Gunter’s and tell them if they don’t send a repairman for the venting by noon, I shall personally see to it that their next contract is with a fishmonger. ”
Mrs. Halloway blinked, the panic receding just enough for her to scribble a note. “The cellar. Yes. I shall see to it at once, my lord.”
She turned and vanished back into the house with the same frantic energy she’d arrived with, the door clicking shut behind her.
Benedict turned back to Malcolm, his expression once again smooth and undisturbed. “As I was saying. No carnations. And definitely no melting dolphins.”
“The ball,” Malcolm said, the word sounding like a sentence.
“Next Friday. Everything is arranged.” Benedict examined his elbow again. “It shall be a good ball. People are looking forward to it. The ton has not had a decent scandal in weeks; they are positively starving for excitement.”
“I am not looking forward to it,” Malcolm muttered.
“You do not look forward to anything; that is a condition of your character, not a commentary on the ball.” Benedict crossed one ankle over the other. “And you are coming.”
“I have returned to London to see you, not to stand in a crowded ballroom and be stared at like a circus bear.”
“Yes, but as you said, you are already in London, Malcolm. You are sitting in my garden. You have been here two days staring at the walls of your own townhouse.” Benedict spread his hands.
“The only thing left to decide is whether you’ll put on a decent coat on Friday or whether I’ll be forced to physically dress you.
Which I will do. And I’ll win that bout, too, because you’ll be distracted by the thought of your Lady Romwich. ”
Malcolm’s jaw set, a muscle leaping in his cheek. “Speak of her one more time, Benedict, and I shall put you back on the ground.”
“Noted.” Benedict studied the brickwork behind Malcolm’s head. “She is coming, though, you know. Lady Romwich.”
Malcolm said nothing. He looked at the trees.
He was going to see Penelope in London. In candlelight. Without the safety of the orchard or the studio.
He imagined her in whatever silk or lace women wore to these things when they weren’t wiping paint off their hands or bracing themselves against a stable gate. He had not let himself think about it directly, and the effort of not-thinking was taking up a staggering amount of his internal space.
At his elongated silence, Benedict spoke on.
“So that’s reason enough, if the ball itself isn’t sufficient.”
Malcolm stood, picking up a towel from the bench and dropping it again, his movements restless. “Fine, there, I have said it, and I agree. I will come to your ball.”
“Excellent.” Benedict smiled. “You know, it is permitted. Enjoying oneself. It will not kill you, even if it feels like it might.”
“I enjoy myself.”
“She’s a remarkable woman, Malcolm.” Benedict’s voice lost its edge of mischief, turning genuine and careful. He looked at his friend directly. “She’s had a hard time of it. She’s not what the gossips say she is. And neither are you.”
A heavy silence followed, filled only by the muffled roar of London beyond the walls.
Malcolm looked at the ground. “I’m coming to the ball,” he repeated.
“I know.” Benedict stood, clasped him once on the shoulder, and let go. “Now come inside.”
Malcolm followed him toward the house. In the back of his mind, quietly and without his permission, the image settled:
Penelope in candlelight, her chin lifted in that defiant way she had, her eyes the particular honey-brown he had started noticing in the same involuntary way a sailor notices the tide.
“There are so many horses!”
Nicholas had his face pressed against the carriage window, both hands framing his eyes against the glass to see past the glare. They had been inside the city limits for twenty minutes, and he had not sat back once.
“There are always many horses in London, Nicholas,” Penelope said, her voice amused.
“Not like this. Look!” He turned briefly, his eyes wide. “There are three just standing there waiting, and two more coming around that corner. And that one is white. Have you ever seen a horse that white in the countryside?”
Penelope watched him rather than the street.
He had been transformed the moment they crossed the eastern toll, his energy shifting from its usual enthusiasm into a sustained, wide-eyed wonder.
Every corner was a revelation; every stretch of street had a vendor or a crossing sweeper or a building that required an immediate, breathless commentary.
“Mama! That building is enormous. Which one is that?”
“I don’t know that one, darling. Perhaps a livery stable or a warehouse.”
“Why are there so many signs? Look at that one, it is a giant boot!”
“Because there are many shops, and people need to know what they sell.”
“Can we go to the shops? The one with the giant boot?”
“Within reason, Nicholas.”
He accepted that.
Penelope sat with her hands folded in her lap and looked at the slice of London visible past her son’s shoulder.
She had not been to the city in a while. She had left it with the deliberate intention of burying her past, and she had largely succeeded. If success meant a quiet life and a mind that didn’t dwell on the coldness of her marriage or the sharp tongues of the ton.
What she had not accounted for was the feeling of returning. It felt like stepping back into a dress that no longer fit.
The carriage slowed as they entered the dignified streets of Mayfair. Violet’s townhouse was a pale stone facade, composed and assured. Nicholas was on his feet before the wheels had even stopped.
“Nicholas, wait until we have stopped.”
He waited exactly until the carriage came to a halt, then opened the door himself.
“That is for the footman to do,” Penelope scolded gently as she descended.
She found him standing on the pavement, head tilted back as he cataloged the height of the house. He had his hands clasped behind him in an unconscious imitation of a much older man.
The door opened before they reached the top step.
“You’re here!” Violet appeared in the doorway, a vision in pale yellow silk. Her hair was slightly escaped from its pins, and her face was lit with genuine pleasure. She flew down the steps and took Penelope’s hands. “I’ve been watching the street for an hour.”
“We were delayed at the toll.” Penelope squeezed her hands back, a lump forming in her throat at the warmth of the welcome. “You look well, Violet.”
“I look extremely well, thank you.” Violet turned her attention to Nicholas, who was currently staring at a passing hansom cab. “Nicholas. What do you think of our noisy city?”
He turned, considering the question with gravity. “Is it always this loud?”
“Always. Even at night.”
“I like it,” he said with certainty.
“Then we shall continue getting along famously.” Violet stepped aside, gesturing them in. “Come. My father has been asking after you, and our cook has made enough food to feed the entire street.”
The interior of the Richards townhouse had the comfortable, lived-in warmth that Penelope remembered. Books left on chair arms, the scent of lavender and old floor wax, and a large, incredibly fat cat asleep on the hall table.
Nicholas stopped dead in his tracks. “Does he live here?”
“His name is Ptolemy,” Violet said. “He believes he owns the house. We allow him the fiction for the sake of peace.”
Nicholas put one careful hand on Ptolemy’s back. The cat opened one golden eye, assessed the boy, and closed it again with a purr like a small engine.
“He did not run,” Nicholas whispered.
“He never runs. He’s far too confident for that.”
Penelope watched her son, noting how his body settled the moment he touched the cat. He was taking stock. He was happy.
Amelia arrived from the sitting room, reading glasses perched on her nose. “You’re finally here,” she said, folding Penelope into a warm embrace. “You look tired from the journey, Penelope.”
“I am perfectly well,” Penelope quickly answered, not wanting to cause distress or a fuss.
“Of course you are.” Amelia held her at arm’s length, then looked at Nicholas. “Nicholas, I see you have grown in the last two days ago.”
“I don’t think that’s possible,” Nicholas said, now entirely absorbed in Ptolemy’s ears.
“It’s entirely possible. Growing doesn’t require your permission.”
Violet steered the group toward the sitting room where the fire was crackling and tea was waiting.
“The ball is Friday,” Violet said, settling into her chair with her feet tucked under her. “There’s enough time to get something made if you haven’t brought anything suitable, Penelope.”
“I brought a silk in deep plum. I thought it was suitable.”
“Suitable for a country assembly or suitable for Lord Hayworth’s ball? Because those are two very different languages.”
Penelope hesitated. “I may need to look at it again.”
“I thought so.” Violet looked entirely satisfied. “We shall attend the modiste tomorrow. Amelia, you too.”
Amelia didn’t look up from her tea. “I brought a gown.”
“So did she,” Violet said, tilting her head at Penelope. “We’re all going to the modiste. It is non-negotiable.”
Nicholas appeared in the doorway with Ptolemy draped over his shoulder like a heavy fur stole. The cat looked resigned to its fate.
“He let me pick him up,” Nicholas reported proudly.
“That’s unprecedented,” Violet said. “You’ll have to stay forever now.”
Nicholas looked at his mother, his eyes bright with the possibility.
“We’ll see,” Penelope said softly.
He took the cat back toward the hall, and Violet looked at Penelope over the rim of her cup.
Penelope knew the conversation was coming. The one about who would be at the ball, about Malcolm, and about what his presence in London meant for them both.
She picked up her cup, her fingers steady. To her surprise, she didn’t feel like running.
For the first time in years, she felt like she was stepping back into her own life, rather than hiding from it.