Page 86 of The Rise of a Forsaken Lady
Wasting no time, he went to the desk and rifled through it, seeking to give him a lead on what Hillbrook was doing. If nothing else, the Baron was painstakingly keeping records, but those records showed poor tax repayments, little tenant presence, and almost no profit from agricultural or manufacturing input. The Baron was basically broke. That was probably why his house was deserted. How then was he sustaining his lifestyle, posh clothes, and trips overseas?
He closed the files and searched for hidden compartments holding messages but found none. He could not get rid of the feeling that the Baron was holding a secret, and if he did, where would he keep it?
Close to the chest. He felt and there was nowhere closer that the man’s bedroom. On silent feet, he left the room and went down the hall to where the master bedroom was and slowly inched the door open. The moonlight was less as the windows faced away from the heavenly orb, but he could see a large canopy bed with curtains, a couple of chairs, a dressing table, and an escritoire.
He went to the escritoire first and searched there—nothing. He went to the dressing table; the drawers yielded nothing of value. Feeling frustrated, his eyes lit on the bed. It was paltry but some people did keep valuables under the mattress. He slipped to the floor and his fingertips nudged a box. Sliding it out, he flicked the latch and there were papers. His ears heard footsteps just outside, and he slid further under the bed.
The door opened, and he held in his breath. From his viewpoint, he could only see the tips of boots and prayed the man would not look under the bed. He counted five long agonizing heartbeats when the man stood there before he turned and walked out, closing the door behind him
Heath breathed in and laughed quietly. He had forgotten the fear that came with infiltration. He kept his pose for another five heartbeats before sliding out and taking up a paper. There were letters from Duke Stratham, all business-related but…Heath squinted. His mind, trained to pick on hidden clues, lit up a pattern, and bells were ringing. Taking it, he looked at the date. September 13, not too long ago. He closed the letter and slipped it into his inner pocket.
With the chest back under the bed, he shimmed out and left the room. He had made it to the same entry-point window and was through it in seconds. He made it to the ground when a loud shot blasted through the air. He took off with a sprint. Another shot whistled past his ear, and just as he hoisted himself up to the wall, a bullet grazed his leg and pain ricocheted up his body, but he did not stop.
The horse was waiting just around the corner and he managed to stop and yank a rag from the saddlebag to tie it around the bleeding wound. It was only when he slowed, did the pain became acute, but he managed to hoist himself up on the horse.
About six miles away, he got to the bunkhouse and gingerly lifted himself off the animal. Despite the throbbing pain, he unsaddled the animal and hobbled inside the hut. There, he slid the letter out first then went to gather a basin of water, a bottle of alcohol, and another rag.
The leg wound was angry red when it met air. Heath only clenched his jaw and wiped the blood off before sucking in a deep breath and dumping the alcohol on it. A volcano of pain erupted, but he breathed through it.
When he felt somewhat stable, he wiped the alcohol off and grimaced at the cut. The bullet had grazed him deep enough to show bone and muscles tissues. He rummaged around again and found another shirt and his teeth ripped at the seams. Bandaging the wound, he swallowed the rest of the spirits to quell the pain from inside.
His head fell back, and eyes fluttered closed—this is all for you, Penelope. You must know that I truly love you and will do my damnedest to get you away from Hillbrook.
Time drifted away, and the pain ebbed enough so he could move; he lit a lamp and spread the letter on his lap. There is something here…what is it?
He read the two-page letter, once, twice, three times before he spotted how the words were carefully placed in the margin. The first letter of each line below it read a full sentence.Use Allerton to our advantage, get the contact for the Prussian Duke. He is our only way to riches. Marry the woman if you need to.
The first reaction was that Wethington needed to see this but as he stood, his knee was giving out, and he sank back to his cot. As soon as the throbbing subsided, he would make his move, but first, he needed to sleep.
I’ll save you from him, Penelope. I swear.
* * *
He is going to need my answer today.
Penelope was on edge. Hillbrook had been steadily laying on the pressure since he had asked her to marry him, and she had the niggling feeling that he was getting more desperate every time she put him off. Earlier that day, she had sent a note asking him to visit, and his response was that he would, only later that day.
As the time drew near for his evening visit, Penelope considered telling Martha to tell Hillbrook that she was ill or beg Mr. Gastrell to tell him that she and Martha were out. Hillbrook might not be an oracle, but he would see through it. However, she did need to get married. Social properness and standards were not going to stand up to her waiting in vain for a love that she would never have.
A month ago, she had believed that Heath’s giving Duke to her was in some way saying he was coming back. The long cold days said differently, and she had to reel herself back from the pool of fantasy to the land of reality.
She let out a breath. Hillbrook was going to be happy today. The rarely-used dress, a soft pale-golden chiffon silk with darker gold trimmings felt strange on her skin, as was the beautiful chignon threaded through with ribbons.
Her reflection was a stranger wanting to see her hair windswept and in breeches. If she did marry Hillbrook, this formality was probably going to be her constant state of dress instead of the casualness she preferred. She looked calm, but her nerves were on edge.
Everything was falling apart. Heath was gone, her brother was still in London, her days felt empty, and there was no enjoyment in anything. Not even Bessie was able to lift her spirits.
“My Lady,” Martha, clad in deep green said, “His Lordship is here.”
She felt Hillbrook before she saw him and when he did, his dressed in pure dandy style. Cobalt blue eyes assessed her from under a crop of precisely-combed blond locks. But it was his clothes that Penelope couldn’t drag from her gaze—a burgundy waistcoat of trimmed velvet.
The man would never allow her to be who she was or to look unkempt. Suddenly, her resolve to say yes was taking a beating. The Earl lifted an eyebrow, and she swallowed tightly. He was not going to like this, but she had to be true to herself.
Squaring her shoulders, she said, “I will not marry you.”
Hillbrook closed the door, shutting out any eavesdropping, and calmly said. “You will regret saying that.”
Chapter 31
