It wasn’t until Colin woke up the following morning that he realized he still hadn’t apologized to Penelope. Strictly speaking, it probably was no longer necessary that he do so; even though they’d barely spoken at the Macclesfield ball the night before, they seemed to have forged an unspoken truce. Still, Colin didn’t think he’d feel comfortable in his own skin until he spoke the words, “I’m sorry.”
It was the right thing to do.
He was a gentleman, after all.
And besides, he rather fancied seeing her that morning.
He’d gone to Number Five for breakfast with his family, but he wanted to head straight for home after seeing Penelope, so he hopped in his
carriage for the trip to the Featherington home on Mount Street, even though the distance was short enough to make him feel utterly lazy for doing so.
He smiled contentedly and lay back against the squabs, watching the lovely springtime scene roll by his window. It was one of those perfect sorts of days when everything simply felt right. The sun was shining, he felt remarkably energized, he’d had an excellent morning meal…
Life really didn’t get better than this.
And he was going over to see Penelope.
Colin chose not to analyze why he was so eager to see her; that was the sort of thing an unmarried man of three-and-thirty didn’t generally care to think about. Instead he simply enjoyed the day—the sun, the air, even the
three neat town-houses he passed on Mount Street before spying Penelope’s front door. There was nothing remotely different or original about any of them, but it was such a perfect morning that they seemed unusually charming butted up next to each other, tall and thin, and stately with their gray Portland stone.
It was a wonderful day, warm and serene, sunny and tranquil… Except that just as he started to rise from his seat, a short flurry of
movement across the street caught his eye.
Penelope.
She was standing on the corner of Mount and Penter streets—the far corner, the one that would be not be visible to anyone looking out a window in the Featherington home. And she was climbing into a hired hack.
Interesting.
Colin frowned, mentally smacking himself on the forehead. It wasn’t interesting. What the hell was he thinking? It wasn’t interesting at all. It might have been interesting, had she been, say, a man. Or it might have been interesting if the conveyance into which she’d just entered had been one from the Featherington mews and not some scruffy hired hack.
But no, this was Penelope, who was certainly not a man, and she was entering a carriage by herself, presumably heading to some completely
unsuitable location, because if she were doing anything proper and normal, she’d be in a Featherington conveyance. Or better yet, with one of her
sisters or a maid, or anyone, just not, damn it, by herself.
This wasn’t interesting, it was idiotic.
“Fool woman,” he muttered, hopping down from his carriage with every intention of dashing toward the hack, wrenching the door open, and dragging her out. But just as his right foot left the confines of his carriage,
he was struck by the same madness that led him to wander the world.
Curiosity.
Several choice curses were grumbled under his breath, all of them self- directed. He couldn’t help it. It was so unlike Penelope to be taking off by herself in a hired hack; he had to know where she was going.
And so, instead of forcibly shaking some sense into her, he directed his driver to follow the hack, and they rolled north toward the busy
thoroughfare of Oxford Street, where, Colin reflected, surely Penelope intended to do a bit of shopping. There could be any number of reasons she wasn’t using the Featherington carriage. Perhaps it was damaged, or one of their horses had taken ill, or Penelope was buying someone a gift and wanted to keep it a secret.
No, that wasn’t right. Penelope would never embark on a shopping expedition by herself. She would take a maid, or one of her sisters, or even one of his sisters. To stroll along Oxford Street by herself was to invite gossip. A woman alone was practically an advertisement for the next Whistledown column.
Or used to be, he supposed. It was hard to get used to a life without Whistledown. He hadn’t realized how accustomed he’d been to seeing it at his breakfast table whenever he was in town.
And speaking of Lady Whistledown, he was even more certain than ever that she was none other than his sister Eloise. He’d gone over to Number Five for breakfast with the express purpose of questioning her, only to be informed that she was still feeling poorly and would not be joining the family that morning.
It had not escaped Colin’s notice, however, that a rather hefty tray of food had been sent up to Eloise’s room. Whatever ailed his sister, it had not affected her appetite.
He hadn’t made any mention of his suspicions at the breakfast table; truly, he saw no reason to upset his mother, who would surely be horrified at the thought. It was difficult to believe, however, that Eloise—whose love of discussing scandal was eclipsed only by her thrill at discovering it— would miss the opportunity to gossip about Cressida Twombley’s revelation of the night before.
Unless Eloise was Lady Whistledown, in which case she’d be up in her room, plotting her next step.
The pieces all fit. It would have been depressing if Colin hadn’t felt so oddly thrilled at having found her out.
After they rolled along for a few minutes, he poked his head outside to make sure his driver had not lost sight of Penelope’s carriage. There she was, right in front of him. Or at least he thought it was her. Most hired
hacks looked the same, so he was going to have to trust and hope that he was following the right one. But as he looked out, he realized that they’d traveled much farther east than he would have anticipated. In fact, they were just now passing Soho Street, which meant they were nearly to Tottenham Court Road, which meant—
Dear God, was Penelope taking the carriage to his house? Bedford Square was practically right around the corner.
A delicious thrill shot up his spine, because he couldn’t imagine what she was doing in this part of town if not to see him; who else would a woman like Penelope know in Bloomsbury? He couldn’t imagine that her mother allowed her to associate with people who actually worked for a living, and Colin’s neighbors, though certainly well enough born, were not
of the aristocracy and rarely even of the gentry. And they all plodded off to work each day, doctoring and lawyering, or—
Colin frowned. Hard. They’d just rolled past Tottenham Court Road. What the devil was she doing this far east? He supposed her driver might not know his way around town very well and thought to take Bloomsbury Street up to Bedford Square, even though it was a bit out of the way, but—
He heard something very strange and realized it was the sound of his teeth grinding together. They’d just passed Bloomsbury Street and were presently veering right onto High Holborn.
Devil take it, they were nearly in the City. What in God’s name was
Penelope planning to do in the City? It was no place for a woman. Hell, he hardly ever went there himself. The world of the ton was farther west, in the hallowed buildings of St. James’s and Mayfair. Not here in the City, with its narrow, twisting, medieval roads and rather dangerous proximity to the
tenements of the East End.
Colin’s jaw dropped progressively lower as they rolled on…and on… and on…until he realized they were turning down Shoe Lane. He craned his head out the window. He’d only been here once before, at the age of nine when his tutor had dragged him and Benedict off to show them where the Great Fire of London had started in 1666. Colin remembered feeling vaguely disappointed when he’d learned that the culprit was a mere baker who’d not dampened the ashes in his oven properly. A fire like that should have had arson or intrigue in its origin.
A fire like that was nothing compared to the feelings coming to a boil in his chest. Penelope had better have a damned good reason for coming out
here by herself. She shouldn’t be going anywhere unaccompanied, much less the City.
Then, just when Colin was convinced that Penelope was going to travel all the way to the Dover coast, the carriages crossed Fleet Street and ground to a halt. Colin held still, waiting to see what Penelope was up to even though every fiber of his being was screaming to leap out of the carriage and tackle her right there on the pavement.
Call it intuition, call it madness, but somehow he knew that if he accosted Penelope right away, he would never learn of her true purpose here near Fleet Street.
Once she was far enough away so that he could alight unnoticed, he jumped down from the carriage and followed her south toward some church that looked decidedly like a wedding cake.
“For God’s sake,” Colin muttered, completely unaware of blasphemy or puns, “now is not the time to find religion, Penelope.”
She disappeared into the church, and his legs ate up the pavement after her, slowing only when he reached the front door. He didn’t want to surprise her too quickly. Not before he found out what exactly she was doing there.
His earlier words notwithstanding, he did not for one moment think that
Penelope had suddenly developed a desire to extend her churchgoing habits to midweek visits.
He slipped quietly into the church, keeping his footsteps as soft as he could. Penelope was walking down the center aisle, her left hand tapping along each pew, almost as if she were…
Counting?
Colin frowned as she picked her pew, then scooted in until she was in
the middle. She sat utterly still for a moment, then reached into her reticule and pulled out an envelope. Her head moved the teeniest bit to the left, then to the right, and Colin could easily picture her face, her dark eyes darting in either direction as she checked the room for other people. He was safe from her gaze at the back, so far in the shadows that he was practically pressed up against the wall. And besides, she seemed intent upon remaining still and quiet in her movements; she certainly hadn’t moved her head far enough to see him behind her.
Bibles and prayer books were tucked in little pockets on the backs of the pews, and Colin watched as Penelope surreptitiously slid the envelope
behind one. Then she stood and edged her way out toward the center aisle.
And that was when Colin made his move.
Stepping out of the shadows, he strode purposefully toward her, taking grim satisfaction in the horror on her face when she saw him.
“Col—Col—” she gasped.
“That would be Colin,” he drawled, grasping her arm just above the
elbow. His touch was light, but his grip was firm, and there was no way she could think that she might make an escape.
Smart girl that she was, she didn’t even try.
But smart girl that she was, she did attempt a play at innocence. “Colin!” she finally managed to get out. “What a…whata…”
“Surprise?”
She gulped. “Yes.” “I’m sure it is.”
Her eyes darted to the door, to the nave, everywhere but to the pew
where she’d hidden her envelope. “I’ve—I’ve never seen you here before.” “I’ve never been.”
Penelope’s mouth moved several times before her next words emerged. “It’s quite appropriate, actually, that you’d be here, actually, because, actually…uh…do you know the story of St. Bride’s?”
He raised one brow. “Is that where we are?”
Penelope was clearly trying for a smile, but the result was more of the openmouthed idiot sort of look. Normally this would have amused him, but he was still angry with her for taking off on her own, not giving a care to her safety and welfare.
But most of all, he was furious that she had a secret.
Not so much that she’d kept a secret. Secrets were meant to be kept, and he couldn’t blame her for that. Irrational as it was, he absolutely could not
tolerate the fact that she had a secret. She was Penelope. She was supposed to be an open book. He knew her. He’d always known her.
And now it seemed he’d never known her.
“Yes,” she finally replied, her voice squeaking on the word. “It’s one of Wren’s churches, actually, you know, the ones he did after the Great Fire,
they’re all over the City, and actually it’s my favorite. I do so love the steeple. Don’t you think it looks like a wedding cake?”
She was babbling. It was never a good sign when someone babbled. It generally meant they were hiding something. It was already obvious that Penelope was making an attempt at concealment, but the uncharacteristic
rapidity of her words told him that her secret was exceedingly large, indeed.
He stared at her for a very long time, drawn out over many seconds just to torture her, then finally asked, “Is that why you think it’s appropriate that I’m here?”
Her face went blank.
“The wedding cake…” he prompted.
“Oh!” she squealed, her skin flushing a deep, guilty red. “No! Not at all!
It’s just that—What I meant to say was that this is the church for writers. And publishers. I think. About the publishers, that is.”
She was flailing and she knew she was flailing. He could see it in her eyes, on her face, in the very way her hands twisted as she spoke. But she kept trying, kept attempting to keep up the pretense, and so he did nothing but give her a sardonic stare as she continued with, “But I’m sure about the writers.” And then, with a flourish that might have been triumphant if she hadn’t ruined it with a nervous swallow, “And you’re a writer!”
“So you’re saying this is my church?”
“Er…” Her eyes darted to her left. “Yes.” “Excellent.”
She gulped. “It is?”
“Oh, yes,” he said, with a smooth casualness to his words that was intended to terrify her.
Her eyes darted to her left again…toward the pew where she’d hidden her correspondence. She’d been so good until now, keeping her attention off of her incriminating evidence. He’d almost been proud of her for it.
“My church,” he repeated. “What a lovely notion.”
Her eyes grew round, scared. “I’m afraid I don’t catch your meaning.”
He tapped his finger to his jaw, then held out his hand in a thoughtful manner. “I believe I’m developing a taste for prayer.”
“Prayer?” she echoed weakly. “You?” “Oh, yes.”
“I…well…I…I…”
“Yes?” he queried, beginning to enjoy this in a sick sort of way. He’d never been the angry, brooding type. Clearly, he hadn’t known what he was missing. There was something rather pleasing in making her squirm.
“Penelope?” he continued. “Did you have something to say?” She swallowed. “No.”
“Good.” He smiled blandly. “Then I believe I require a few moments for myself.”
“I’m sorry?”
He stepped to his right. “I’m in a church. I believe I want to pray.” She stepped to her left. “I beg your pardon?”
He cocked his head very slightly to the side in question. “I said that I want to pray. It wasn’t a terribly complicated sentiment.”
He could tell that she was straining hard not to rise to his bait. She was trying to smile, but her jaw was tense, and he’d wager that her teeth were going to grind themselves to powder within minutes.
“I didn’t think you were a particularly religious person,” she said. “I’m not.” He waited for her to react, then added, “I intend to pray for
you.”
She swallowed uncontrollably. “Me?” she squeaked.
“Because,” he began, unable to prevent his voice from rising in volume, “by the time I’m done, prayer is the only thing that is going to save you!”
And with that he brushed her aside and strode to where she’d hidden the envelope.
“Colin!” she yelled, running frantically after him. “No!”
He yanked the envelope out from behind the prayer book but didn’t yet look at it. “Do you want to tell me what this is?” he demanded. “Before I look myself, do you want to tell me?”
“No,” she said, her voice breaking on the word. His heart breaking at the expression in her eyes.
“Please,” she begged him. “Please give it to me.” And then, when he did nothing but stare at her with hard, angry eyes, she whispered, “It’s mine. It’s a secret.”
“A secret worth your welfare?” he nearly roared. “Worth your life?” “What are you talking about?”
“Do you have any idea how dangerous it is for a woman alone in the City? Alone anywhere?”
All she said was, “Colin, please.” She reached for the envelope, still held out of her reach.
And suddenly he didn’t know what he was doing. This wasn’t him. This insane fury, this anger—it couldn’t be his.
And yet it was.
But the troubling part was…it was Penelope who had made him thus.
And what had she done? Traveled across London by herself? He was rather irritated at her for her lack of concern for her own safety, but that paled in comparison to the fury he felt at her keeping of secrets.
His anger was entirely unwarranted. He had no right to expect that Penelope share her secrets with him. They had no commitments to each other, nothing beyond a rather nice friendship and a single, albeit
disturbingly moving, kiss. He certainly wouldn’t have shared his journals with her if she hadn’t stumbled upon them herself.
“Colin,” she whispered. “Please…don’t.”
She’d seen his secret writings. Why shouldn’t he see hers? Did she have a lover? Was all that nonsense about never having been kissed exactly that
—nonsense?
Dear God, was this fire burning in his belly…jealousy?
“Colin,” she said again, choking now. She placed her hand on his, trying to prevent him from opening the envelope. Not with strength, for she could never match him on that, just with her presence.
But there was no way…no way he could have stopped himself at that point. He would have died before surrendering that envelope to her unopened.
He tore it open.
Penelope let out a strangled cry and ran from the church.
Colin read the words.
And then he sank to the pew, bloodless, breathless. “Oh, my God,” he whispered. “Oh, my God.”
By the time Penelope reached the outer steps to St. Bride’s Church, she was hysterical. Or at least as hysterical as she’d ever been. Her breath was coming in short, sharp gasps, tears pricked her eyes, and her heart felt…
Well, her heart felt as if it wanted to throw up, if such a thing were possible.
How could he have done this? He’d followed her. Followed her! Why would Colin follow her? What would he have to gain? Why would he—
She suddenly looked around.
“Oh, damn!” she wailed, not caring if anyone heard her. The hack had left. She’d given specific instructions to the driver to wait for her, that she’d only be a minute, but he was nowhere in sight.
Another transgression she could lay at Colin’s door. He’d delayed her
inside the church, and now the hack had left, and she was stuck here on the steps of St. Bride’s Church, in the middle of the City of London, so far from her home in Mayfair that she might as well have been in France. People
were staring at her and any minute now she was sure to be accosted,
because who had ever seen a gently bred lady alone in the City, much less one who was so clearly on the verge of a nervous attack?
Why why why had she been so foolish as to think that he was the perfect man? She’d spent half her life worshiping someone who wasn’t even real. Because the Colin she knew—no, the Colin she’d thought she’d known—clearly didn’t exist. And whoever this man was, she wasn’t even sure she liked him. The man she’d loved so faithfully over the years never would have behaved like this. He wouldn’t have followed her—Oh, very well, he would have, but only to assure himself of her safety. But he
wouldn’t have been so cruel, and he certainly wouldn’t have opened her private correspondence.
She had read two pages of his journal, that was true, but they hadn’t been in a sealed envelope!
She sank onto the steps and sat down, the stone cool even through the fabric of her dress. There was little she could do now besides sit here and wait for Colin. Only a fool would take off on foot by herself so far from home. She supposed she could hail a hack on Fleet Street, but what if they were all occupied, and besides, was there really any point in running from Colin? He knew where she lived, and unless she decided to run to the Orkney Islands, she wasn’t likely to escape a confrontation.
She sighed. Colin would probably find her in the Orkneys, seasoned traveler that he was. And she didn’t even want to go to the Orkneys.
She choked back a sob. Now she wasn’t even making sense. Why was she fixated on the Orkney Islands?
And then there was Colin’s voice behind her, clipped and so very cold. “Get up,” was all he said.
She did, not because he’d ordered her to (or at least that was what she told herself), and not because she was afraid of him, but rather because she couldn’t sit on the steps of St. Bride’s forever, and even if she wanted nothing more than to hide herself from Colin for the next six months, at the moment he was her only safe means home.
He jerked his head toward the street. “Into the carriage.”
She went, climbing up as she heard Colin give the driver her address and then instruct him to “take the long way.”
Oh, God.
They’d been moving a good thirty seconds before he handed her the
single sheet of paper that had been folded into the envelope she’d left in the
church. “I believe this is yours,” he said.
She gulped and looked down, not that she needed to. She already had
the words memorized. She’d written and rewritten them so many times the previous night, she didn’t think they’d ever escape her memory.
There is nothing I despise more than a gentleman who thinks it amusing to give a lady a condescending pat on the hand as he murmurs, “It is a woman’s prerogative to change her mind.” And indeed, because I feel one should always support one’s words with one’s actions, I endeavor to keep my opinions and decisions steadfast and true.
Which is why, Gentle Reader, when I wrote my column of 19 April, I truly intended it to be my last. However, events entirely beyond my control (or indeed beyond my approval) force me to put my pen to paper one last time.
Ladies and Gentleman, This Author is NOT Lady Cressida Twombley. She is nothing more than a scheming imposter, and it
would break my heart to see my years of hard work attributed to one such as her.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 21 APRIL 1824
Penelope refolded the paper with great precision, using the time to try to compose herself and figure out what on earth she was supposed to say at a moment like that. Finally, she attempted a smile, didn’t quite meet his eyes, and joked, “Did you guess?”
He didn’t say anything, so she was forced to look up. She immediately wished she hadn’t. Colin looked completely unlike himself. The easy smile that always tugged at his lips, the good humor forever lurking in his eyes— they were all gone, replaced by harsh lines and cold, pure ice.
The man she knew, the man she’d loved for so very long—she didn’t know who he was anymore.
“I’ll take that as a no,” she said shakily.
“Do you know what I am trying to do right now?” he asked, his voice startling and loud against the rhythmic clip-clop of the horses’ hooves.
She opened her mouth to say no, but one look at his face told her he didn’t desire an answer, so she held her tongue.
“I am trying to decide what, precisely, I am most angry with you about,” he said. “Because there are so many things—so very many things—that I am finding it extraordinarily difficult to focus upon just one.”
It was on the tip of Penelope’s tongue to suggest something—her deception was a likely place to start—but on second thought, now seemed an excellent time to hold her counsel.
“First of all,” he said, the terribly even tone of his voice suggesting that he was trying very hard to keep his temper in check (and this was, in and of itself, rather disturbing, as she hadn’t been aware that Colin even possessed a temper), “I cannot believe you were stupid enough to venture into the City by yourself, and in a hired hack, no less!”
“I could hardly go by myself in one of our own carriages,” Penelope blurted out before she remembered that she’d meant to remain silent.
His head moved about an inch to the left. She didn’t know what that meant, but she couldn’t imagine it was good, especially since it almost seemed as if his neck were tightening as it twisted. “I beg your pardon?” he asked, his voice still that awful blend of satin and steel.
Well, now she had to answer, didn’t she? “Er, it’s nothing,” she said, hoping the evasion would reduce his attention on the rest of her reply. “Just that I’m not allowed to go out by myself.”
“I am aware of that,” he bit off. “There’s a damned good reason for it, too.”
“So if I wanted to go out by myself,” she continued, choosing to ignore the second part of his reply, “I couldn’t very well use one of our carriages. None of our drivers would agree to take me here.”
“Your drivers,” he snapped, “are clearly men of impeccable wisdom and sense.”
Penelope said nothing.
“Do you have any idea what could have happened to you?” he demanded, his sharp mask of control beginning to crack.
“Er, very little, actually,” she said, gulping on the sentence. “I’ve come here before, and—”
“What?” His hand closed over her upper arm with painful force. “What did you just say?”
Repeating it seemed almost dangerous to her health, so Penelope just stared at him, hoping that maybe she could break through the wild anger in his eyes and find the man she knew and loved so dearly.
“It’s only when I need to leave an urgent message for my publisher,”
she explained. “I send a coded message, then he knows to pick up my note here.”
“And speaking of which,” Colin said roughly, snatching the folded paper back from her hands, “what the hell is this?”
Penelope stared at him in confusion. “I would have thought it was obvious. I’m—”
“Yes, of course, you’re bloody Lady Whistledown, and you’ve probably been laughing at me for weeks as I insisted it was Eloise.” His face twisted as he spoke, nearly breaking her heart.
“No!” she cried out. “No, Colin, never. I would never laugh at you!”
But his face told her clearly that he did not believe her. There was humiliation in his emerald eyes, something she’d never seen there, something she’d never expected to see. He was a Bridgerton. He was popular, confident, self-possessed. Nothing could embarrass him. No one could humiliate him.
Except, apparently, her.
“I couldn’t tell you,” she whispered, desperately trying to make that awful look in his eyes go away. “Surely you knew I couldn’t tell you.”
He was silent for an agonizingly long moment, and then, as if she’d never spoken, never tried to explain herself, he lifted the incriminating sheet of paper into the air and shook it, completely disregarding her impassioned outcry. “This is stupidity,” he said. “Have you lost your mind?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You had a perfectly good escape, just waiting for you. Cressida Twombley was willing to take the blame for you.”
And then suddenly his hands were on her shoulders, and he was holding her so tightly she could barely breathe.
“Why couldn’t you just let it die, Penelope?” His voice was urgent, his eyes blazing. It was the most feeling she’d ever seen in him, and it broke her heart that it was directed toward her in anger. And in shame.
“I couldn’t let her do it,” she whispered. “I couldn’t let her be me.”
