Page 53 of The Rise of a Forsaken Lady
“We?” the younger man asked a bit facetiously while looking around, “I only see you and me here.”
“Do not push your luck,” hissed the older. “This is serious business for you, or would you rather forfeit all you have worked for nearly a year to make on account for your sudden hesitation?”
A deeply-insulted frown made a crevasse in the younger man’s brow, and his hand tightened around the glass of scotch so very imperceivably. “I am not hesitating, why would you get that idea?”
“There were two other incidents that you were supposed to enact after the first one—which though you pulled off perfectly—and made our third party that much more culpable. But you…” and here a finger was jabbed into his face, “have not acted on either which makes me believe you are hesitant.”
“A follow-up so soon would have looked too suspicious,” the younger man defended. “Or do you not know the art of subtlety? Anyone with a grain of common sense would see that rapid incidents are indicative of a frame-up. Surely, you with your many years behind scrupulous acts should know that.”
“Do not lecture me, ingenue, on the matters of strategy,” he was warned strictly, “You have not earned that right yet.”
Being likened to a young innocent girl rankled, but the younger man heeded the warning. It would not profit him to alienate this man when he was on the brink of achieving all he wanted.
“Very well, it will not happen again,” his assurance was given with reluctance.
“You will need to act this month,” he was ordered, “or you will forfeit it all. Do you have a plan?”
Rooting through his memory, the younger man lit upon a conversation he and the person he was planning to be his scapegoat had only a day ago. There was a certain event coming up soon and it was the prime place and time to heap more suspicion on his scapegoat. “Not only do I have a plan, but I also have the perfect person to use it on.”
“And who might that be?”
“I would prefer to not divulge that information yet,” was the reply.
“And you are sure this will work?”
Sitting back in his chair, the younger man lifted his glass, “Without a doubt.”
Chapter 20
Huffing a breath out, Penelope laid in her bed with a stack of twice-read books beside her. Her shoulder was throbbing dully under the cover of her cotton nightgown and was tender when she prodded at it. When she dared to twist, she had to look at it, the skin was battered black and blue. Angry dark purple splotches dotted her skin, advertising where she had taken the brunt of her fall. Thankfully, just like Mr. Moore—Heath—had said, nothing was broken, she was just sore.
Edward had visited her that morning, a cursory visit, after Martha had told him that she was not feeling well. He had not bothered to ask her deeper questions about her illness, a habit of his disinterested nature that she had become familiar with.
He just asked how she felt, and if there was anything he could get the cook to send her, and that was it. With a look to his watch, he left stating that he had to put in some work for his dratted hunt.
Dropping the last book beside her, Penelope slumped. She was bored out of her mind. Having thrice-read these books, they did not offer the same comfort they used to as her mind had already extracted all they had to offer.
Last night, especially the part where Bessie’s hoof had connected with the rock and she had lost her grip on the reins, was a recurring memory. She had felt unmeasurable terror those fleeting seconds when she had been hoisted from the saddle and flung sideways unto the ground. It was only God’s mercies why she had not landed on stony ground or some bone would have snapped in half.
I thought I was going to die…pain as I had never known was ricocheting through my body. I think at one time I actually prayed for death. Then he came along. Out of nowhere, Heath showed up. I swore he was an angel when everything around me was loopy.
A sigh left her, and her eyes fluttered, “There is more to him than we all think, I know it.”
“You know what?” Martha asked while entering with a tray of food and drink.
“Mr. Moore,” Penelope replied while straitening up to allow her maid to put the tray over her lap, “How he found me, I do not know.”
“I was going to go and look for you after your normal time passed by,” Martha said sorrowfully. “But then I fell asleep. I am so sorry for my negligence.”
“Don’t apologize,” Penelope said with a shake of her head. “If I had not gone riding, you would not have had to come looking for me. Thank God, Eddie does not know about it.”
Martha sat beside her and smoothed her skirt. “So, what is this about Mr. Moore?”
“I know what he said about going to speak with his horse but…exactly at the time I have been hurt? Everyone should have been in bed at that time. Why did he leave the house at all?” Penelope asked, her tone baffled.
Shaking her head, Martha snorted softly, “I suppose that God is creative enough to make two special people on the earth who speaks to horses.”
Glaring at her friend who had the audacity to mock her connection to horses, Penelope sniffed. “The insinuation meaning that the rest of the world is normal? I take umbrage to that. Tread carefully, Martha.”
