Page 57 of The Rise of a Forsaken Lady
Then it struck her—was Lord Hillbrook trying to advertise his…what? Ownership of her? His status as a suitor in her life or how close there were—which honestly was not that close at all. Yes, they had come far away from the strangers they had been before, but still. What was he trying to get then?
“Erm, sure,” Penelope replied, hoping the silence had not stretched longer into awkwardness. Handing the brush to Mr. Moore she said, “Please finish brushing Bessie down, thank you, Mr. Moore.”
Taking Stephen’s arm, she walked out with him, catching by happenstance, the Baron’s superior look he shot over his shoulder. Her grip tightened as she wondered when and where could she give him a piece of her mind.
Chapter 21
Mechanically, Heath did as Penelope had asked him and finished brushing Bessie down. The Baron’s entrance had taken the light air he had with Penelope and smashed it to smithereens. The Baron irked him for more reasons that were well, reasonable.
His charm, with all its innocent veneer, is the same that dratted snake used to get Eve to bite that forbidden fruit I’d wager. He has the same serpentine smoothness with hidden fangs just ready to sink into an innocent’s flesh.
His glare was aimed at nothing in particular, but anger was still roiling in his stomach. His efforts gained him a pleased whinny and he patted the horse’s side before stepping out and closing the stall. Striding—or rather stomping—back to the house he got to the backyard before stopping. Spinning he went over to the carriage house where the Baron’s vehicle was supposed to be.
Slipping inside, he spotted the unhorsed black lacquered carriage and circled it. It was a strange make, one that he was not familiar with. It had the same make-up as a barouche but was not.
The side panels had ogee back ends and a concave front end. The boot was framed to the front of the body with a removable coachman’s seat and footboard mounted on the boot and the hind boot with a rumble seat bolted to the hind footboard. Was it German? A strange American make he did not know of? French perhaps?
He looked over his shoulder to make sure there was no one looking and then opened the handle and hopped into the carriage. There was not much to search but he did see a seat that looked liftable. He reached under and found the latch and lifted it up to see a double-barreled flintlock. There were boxes of ammunition beside it, and he reached out and took one bullet, slipping it, still in its cartridge wrapper into his pocket.
He did not make much of it as many carriage owners had guns at their disposal in case of highwaymen. Closing the seat and refastening it, he left the carriage house and went to the manor house. Deliberately circuiting the lower sitting rooms and any room where that insufferable twit Hillbrook was, he found refuge in the kitchens.
Mrs. Burcham eyed him curiously but only greeted him with a glass of lemonade and a smile. He sat and sipped the cool drink while forcing himself to not think how the slimy Baron, with his smokescreen façade of decency, was there charming Penelope.
“Unlock your jaw, Mr. Moore,” Mrs. Burcham said while bustling past. “Unless you are aiming to swallow your teeth, that is.”
He literally had to force his teeth apart. Taking the glass, he sighed into it. He had not even gotten to act on the impulse churning in his stomach. He had been an inch and a breath away from kissing Penelope before the thrice-damned Baron had made his appearance.
Pressing fingertips to his eyes, Heath wondered when that burning urge had taken residence in his chest? Last night perhaps when he had seen her bent in half in the ditch? Perhaps before when he had seen her hurting from her brother’s stinging words about her heading off into a long life of spinsterhood? Could it be that night when he had seen her riding like a warrior princess in the night? When had it begun?
“Mr. Moore,” Mrs. Burcham said. “Dinner is ready to be served.”
He stood up, nodded and handed his glass to the cook and went to take the loaded trays to the dining room. He stacked the sideboard and made sure the table was set with mats, napkins, and cutlery. His breath of relief was nearly audible when it was only Penelope and Lord Allerton entered. Hillbrook was gone then.
The siblings were bickering between themselves over the upcoming hunt.
“It is only a few peers, Penelope,” the Earl huffed.
“To lighten the forest of its devastating amount of pheasant, woodcocks and roebucks. Are all the animals on the verge of forming a coup-de-grace if they are not cut down, skinned, and roasted then?” Penelope drawled dryly.
Heath nearly choked on thin air. Their eyes met briefly, and he loved how her eyes sparkled with her cheeky quote of his words from before. He covered his mouth and busied himself at the sideboard. With half an ear on the two speaking, Heath overheard Lord Allerton mentioning a Mr. Percival Graham, a Marquess of Porthington.
While laying the cup of tea on the table, Heath heard Lord Allerton say, “He’s a decent shot, but Hillbrook will outdo him in spades.”
Hillbrook. Was there any occasion where the man does not show up? He retreated to his place in the corner and seethed over seeing Hillbrook again. His hand brushed his pocket where the bullet from the Baron’s carriage still rested in his pockets.
Speaking of bullets…how can I tactfully ask Lord Allerton about the findings on Viscount Shirlling?
Dinner was done and, after making sure the dishes were sent back to the kitchen, he cleaned up the table. He made sure the hearths were stocked with coal, closed the shutters, did the lamps. He was standing in a lonely sitting room when he fished out the bullet from his pocket. The parchment paper covering was curious with a tiny dark inked swirl of a trademark in the top. He spun the lead ball around and wondered again what type of bullet had killed Shirlling.
“What do you have there?”
Lady Penelope’s voice cut through his musing, but he did not jump in shock. Instead, he slowly placed the bullet in his pocket. “Nothing really.”
She came near to him and bumped his shoulder softly. “I am sorry about Hillbrook. He was…I don’t like him that way.”
Shifting on his feet to look at her, he frowned. “Which way?”
“Possessive,” she replied. “Like a dog with a bone. He tried to…I don’t know…make you angry or something of the sort. I’m sorry.”
