Chapter Two
Jasmyne Street, London
The room was elegant, as was the woman seated on the chaise longue.
Fair hair coiled neatly upon her head, and a plain and yet tasteful plum-colored gown showed off her bosom, but modestly.
Penelope Armstrong was a beauty. She might be two years off thirty, but she had the sort of ageless good looks that would serve her well into old age.
Penelope had once been a courtesan, but those days were—thankfully—over.
The gentleman who had paid for her to live in a house in Chelsea and put the clothes upon her back had died three years ago.
She could have found another protector, but the thought made her dreadfully unhappy.
Not so much because her lover had died—he was old after all—but because the life she was leading was not the one she wanted.
It was a life she had been forced into through circumstance.
She had long wanted to step away from that awful title of “courtesan,” but the truth was she was not trained for any other occupation.
Even in normal circumstances, her birth would have made those choices limited—she could choose to be a governess or a companion—but who would employ her when they learned about her past?
Though if she was no longer a courtesan, then the future looked stark.
How would she afford to eat? And what of her young brother, Mortimer, who was still dependent upon her?
It was her now deceased protector, Lord Muir, who had given her the idea of how she could attain her freedom.
One day he had overheard her explaining in detail to another woman—yes, also a courtesan—how she should behave when in the company of aristocratic gentlemen.
What to call each of them depending on their title or standing in society, and which of them should receive the deepest curtsy.
Impressed, Lord Muir had declared her a marvel, and only then did it occur to Penelope that she knew things that others didn’t.
She had been schooled by a first-rate governess up until she had attended a ladies’ finishing college, so she had many useful skills when it came to manners, rules, and etiquette, and she was an excellent teacher.
Once Lord Muir was dead, and she was considering her future, Penelope remembered that moment.
She thought of all the newly wealthy people who desperately wanted to consort with blue-blooded aristocrats or dreamed of mingling in polite society, only to be mocked and refused entry because they did not know even the bare rudiments of acceptable behavior.
They needed help, and it was the sort of help Penelope was qualified to give.
For a fee.
At first, after setting up her business, she had struggled.
She was a “fallen woman” after all, and would-be clients were wary.
But as word spread, mostly due to the whispers of those who had succeeded because of her tuition, Penelope found herself with plenty of eager pupils.
She was not wealthy by any means, but her new occupation meant that she did not lie awake at night worrying where the next meal might come from.
Or at least she would not worry if Mortimer did not keep asking her for money.
He was perpetually broke and Penelope had a sick feeling that was only the tip of the iceberg.
Her father had been a gambler who had wasted his inheritance, and when he and her mother died in a coach accident, they had left nothing for their eighteen-year-old daughter and eight-year-old son.
It had been up to Penelope to act as both sister and parent.
She had been embarrassed that she had had to take up the offer of a friend of her father’s, and become his mistress, so that she could put food on the table.
She had imagined Mortimer was embarrassed, too, and would be pleased and proud that she had now become respectable.
Yet something he had said the other day came to mind.
It was better before.
At the time, she had dismissed his words—he had been cross because she could not loan him the full amount he had asked for—but now she wondered. Did he care so little for her reputation that he would push her back into the scandalous life she had escaped, just so he could have more spending money?
She shifted restlessly upon the chaise longue. No, surely her brother would not do such a thing. And yet . . . she loved him dearly, but she was beginning to think she might have spoiled him by always giving way to his demands. Perhaps it was time she said no.
She looked across the room to Selina, her maid and closest friend, who was arranging some flowers in a vase. “What time was the gentleman’s appointment?” she asked, with a glance at the ticking clock on the mantel.
“Now!” Selina said with a frown. “I wonder where he is?” She went to peer out of the window that overlooked the street. “There is no one at the door. Perhaps he has changed his mind.”
“Changed his mind?” Penelope scoffed. “After the incident at the Yeos’, I think he would know he needs all the help he can get.”
Selina smiled broadly, her pretty, mature face creasing into familiar lines. She was no longer the young girl who had dressed Penelope’s mother, but she had become a dear friend.
Details of the incident at the Yeos’ had been spread far and wide, and there had been universal wonder and condemnation that the son of the Duke of Bonnyrigg lacked such basic social skills.
“Barbarian” was one of the words affixed to him, as well as “brute”.
It was not a good start for someone who had only just arrived in London.
“Did he really attack the table decoration?” Selina asked, eyes bright. “I wish I could have seen it.”
“One of my old school friends was there—the only one who still speaks to me—and she said he believed the stuffed boar was about to run rampant among the guests.” Penelope replied in her usual droll manner, but she was grinning too.
“I suppose that his actions could have been considered brave. Boars are dangerous, particularly in Scotland. Ellie said that before it happened, the ladies had all been swooning at the sight of him, but now no one will invite him anywhere.”
Selina laughed and then gave an enormous shiver. She looked to the hearth and the half empty basket that sat there. “Is that all the coal we have for the fire? It is freezing in here.”
“Put more clothes on,” Penelope suggested. “We won’t get any more coal until next week, and even then I have ordered a lesser quantity. You know how stretched we are at the moment, Selina. I had to loan Mortimer some more money.”
The word “loan” hung uncomfortably in the air, and Selina looked as if she would have liked to comment on it. But she knew better than to come between sister and brother, so she remained silent. She was surprised when Penelope, instead of ignoring the subject as she usually did, addressed it.
“I will speak to him,” Penelope spoke firmly. “I cannot continue to fund his wild habits. As for Uncle Bertie . . . I wish I had never allowed Mortimer to stay with him. Instead of being a sobering influence, he is making matters worse.”
Bertie was her mother’s brother and called himself an inventor. But his inventions never succeeded and never made any money, and now Mortimer was caught up in Bertie’s madcap schemes.
“I think that is for the best,” Selina replied cautiously.
She had been Penelope’s maid and companion for ten years and understood her better than anyone.
When Penelope’s mother had died, Selina had agreed to come to live with Penelope in the house in Chelsea, where she resided as Lord Muir’s mistress.
Selina had seen for herself the struggles of her young mistress and was glad when she left that life behind.
It was just a pity Mortimer had battened himself on his sister.
Selina knew Penelope still thought of him as the little boy she had comforted all those years ago, when he had wept for their lost parents, but he had grown into a most unpleasant young man.
“We have had a lucrative year so far,” Penelope was saying. “There were the two Hanbury sisters who could barely manage a curtsy.”
“Mill owner’s daughters,” Selina said disparagingly. “You whipped them into shape in no time.”
Penelope smiled with satisfaction and tapped a fingertip on The Times which lay on the table in front of her. “I was just reading that one of them is now engaged to a titled gentleman.”
“Let’s hope she does not keep you a secret.”
“And then there was the Fotheringham boy. Remember how he blushed every time he saw a girl and stammered when he asked one to dance? His mother sent me a very nice note when he excelled at Almack’s.”
“You worked miracles,” Selina agreed proudly. “You always do.”
Penelope looked pleased with herself, the worry line between her brows vanishing now they had moved away from talk of her wretched brother. “I do, don’t I, Selina?”
“This new client we are waiting on is a duke’s son, is that right? Does he have a title?”
“Indeed he does. He is the Marquess of Morven. Although no title will help him if he keeps attacking table decorations.” She drew her shawl closer about her and gave the hearth a longing look. The fire had dwindled to a mere flicker.
Selina took her cue and went to the basket and began to add more coal.
Immediately, the fire began to smoke badly, the room filling with the putrid clouds.
She tried to remove the coal she had just added, to remedy the problem, but it was the chimney that was at fault.
Selina was coughing now, and so was Penelope, holding her shawl to her mouth.
“Why didn’t I have the chimney cleaned last week when I had the chance?” she cried. The sweep had come to the door, but she had been economizing and sent him away again.
“Because Mortimer needed some money to buy a part for the latest invention,” Selina muttered under her breath, and then coughed violently as she breathed in more smoke.
Just then, the door knocker banged loudly from the street below.
Selina wailed. “Is that him? Whatever shall we do?”
Penelope wafted a hand in front of her face. “Let him in, of course! Hurry, Selina, before he goes away.”
Selina set off at a quick trot, and a moment later Penelope heard voices, one of them deep and Scottish. It was him. She tried to wave some of the smoke away with her copy of The Times, but it did little to clear the air.
Heavy footsteps on the stairs and then there he was. The Marquess of Morven. Tall and broad shouldered with wild dark hair. And handsome, good God, so very handsome. Her eyes widened, watery though they were, and she gave another little cough.
After one swift glance around the room, the marquess strode to the window and thrust it open.
Then he went to the fireplace and proceeded to rectify the smoking fire by putting it out completely.
As he knelt on the hearth, Penelope had the chance to take a good look at him.
He was tall, yes, and broad across the shoulders, but his jacket did not fit him at all well, and the pantaloons he was wearing bagged about the knees.
He would have looked much smarter if he were dressed by a reputable tailor.
His boots were shiny, there was that, but as he rose to his feet and turned, wiping his sooty hands on his thighs, she could see his necktie was badly arranged, despite the rather nice sapphire pin securing it.
His eyes were brown, the light tea shade of brown she had always admired, and his dark hair was too long and too untidy. He looked as if when he got up this morning, his valet—if he had one—had not bothered to even attempt to make him look presentable.
“You need your chimney cleaned, mistress,” he announced, his voice deep.
“I know.”
He cocked a dark brow at her.
“Never mind that,” she said briskly. She was standing, but she had to look up at him, because he was at least a foot taller than her. “You are the Marquess of Morven, I presume?”
“I am,” he said.
She waited for him to bow or take her hand, but he stood and stared down at her like he had all the time in the world. Hmm, there was work to be done here, and work meant she would be paid. Again, she admitted to herself how desperately she needed the money.
Penelope glanced over at the door and saw Selina lingering. Her maid’s eyes were wide with a mixture of anxiety and glee.
“Fetch tea, Selina,” Penelope said in her well-modulated voice. “I believe the marquess will be staying.”