Page 53 of Dangerous Illusions (Dangerous #1)

O NE OF PENTHORPE’S COMPANIONS hailed a hackney coach in St. James’s Street, and Penthorpe climbed in beside Gideon, bidding his friends good night.

Gideon, leaning his aching head against the squabs and feeling a little sick, nonetheless could not contain his curiosity a moment longer.

“Where the devil did you spring from? I thought you were dead.”

Penthorpe chuckled, but before he replied, he put down the window and shouted, “Hey, there, jarvey, there’s no need to rattle us along at such a pace. Take it slow, man.”

The rocking of the coach eased somewhat, and Gideon let out a breath of relief. “Thank you, Andy. Now, answer my question.”

“No use giving me orders anymore, old son. You’ve sold out, if I haven’t, and I needn’t listen to ’em anymore.

What’s more, you’re sick as a horse, so you’d best keep mum till we reach Jervaulx House if you don’t want to disgrace yourself all over this coach.

Not,” he added with a fastidious sniff, “that anyone would notice much difference if you did.”

“But I saw you on the field,” Gideon murmured. “I found the miniature and saw your red hair.” The memory of what else he had seen nearly undid him, and for a moment his attention was fixed upon calming his stomach. Penthorpe’s chuckle sounded heartless.

“Not mine, you didn’t,” he said. “Some other poor stiff it must have been. Can’t tell you what a turn it gave me to learn I was supposed to be dead.

A friend had the Times, all the way from London, and there it was that I’d fallen at Waterloo.

Had to look in the glass and pinch myself to be sure it wasn’t true. ”

“But your uncle put that in months ago! How the—”

“Not now. Take a damper, will you, till we get you home and I can have a good look at that lump on your head. Daresay you ought to have a bloodsucker to take a look as well.”

“Not necessary,” Gideon muttered. “I don’t need a doctor.”

But when they reached the huge mansion on the banks of the Thames that had been the London home of the Marquesses of Jervaulx for two hundred years, it was Jervaulx himself who decreed that a doctor should be fetched, and Gideon, whose head was aching more by the minute, did not argue.

But when he had been helped to his bedchamber, and Penthorpe would have left him there, he said with a grim note in his voice, “Don’t you dare stir a foot out of this room until you have explained yourself to me, Andy, or by heaven, when I get up—”

“Oh, very well, don’t distress yourself,” Penthorpe said, grinning at him. “I’ll stay if your father don’t throw me out.”

Jervaulx, who had accompanied them upstairs, said, “You must do as you please, of course,” and left them alone.

“Still a dashed cold fish, I see,” Penthorpe said when the door was safely shut. “Talks like a book. Never known anyone like him. Don’t mind telling you, he frightens me to death.”

“Speaking of your death,” Gideon said, ignoring his pounding head in his determination to get the story, “what the devil—”

“Oh, very well, I daresay the sawbones won’t get here for a good while yet. Like as not your father’s man will have to roust him out of bed at this hour. Fact is, I wasn’t killed.”

“I can see that, damn you. What happened?”

“Horse fell on me,” Penthorpe said. “Had a ball in my shoulder, too, but the horse was much worse, and the devil of it was that I couldn’t get free.

Cannonballs flying all around me, and a lot of screaming and yelling that seemed to go on for hours, but I couldn’t see a thing.

Could scarcely breathe, for that matter.

Someone fell on top of me—on the horse, that is—and I was in the deuce of a lot of pain.

I must have blacked out, for the next thing I knew it was morning, and much more quiet.

Not that I could hear birds, or anything pleasant like that, mind you.

Just a lot of moaning and more screams, though nothing like before.

Then I heard a female’s voice, calling for someone named Jean-Paul, and I remember wishing I were Jean-Paul and someone would come and get me.

My brain must not have been working because it was the devil of a time before it occurred to me to shout to the wench to get the damned horse off me, but I did it at last, and she got someone with a wagon to help. ”

“Who was she? A Frenchie?”

“No, Belgian woman, name of Marie de Larrey, looking for her husband. Found him, too, if you can believe that. Wounded, like me, but still alive and kicking. She got us both into the wagon and rattled us home to her village. Worst ride of my life, I can tell you, for I had a broken rib, I think, and the damned ball in my shoulder. I picked up some infection or other afterward, so it was a good long while before I was fit, but here I am.”

“It’s been months, Andy,” Gideon said sternly.

“Well, I was delirious for a time, you know—didn’t even know I wasn’t in England.

And later, well, the village was a pleasant place, and the people very friendly, and no one seemed in any hurry for me to leave.

Didn’t see that dashed paper until January—no season for travel then, of course—and I kept meaning to write to someone here, but …

” He shrugged ruefully. “You know how I am about that sort of thing, Gideon.”

“None better,” Gideon said sourly. “Why come back now?”

“It was spring, and I got restless,” Penthorpe said simply. “I ask you, Gideon, would you like to be stuck in a Belgian village when you might be in London for the Season?”

“Your reappearance is going to shock a good many people, I should think. Does Tattersall know yet?”

“Well, he’s in town, I think, but I haven’t quite got round to seeing him yet.

I’ll do it tomorrow, of course. Have to arrange to sell out properly, too, I suppose.

Just got here late this afternoon, you see, and straightaway went looking for you.

Went to the clubs—to Brooks’s and White’s, at least—before someone chanced to mention that it was opening night at Almack’s.

Not dressed for it but came round anyway, hoping to get a message in to you if you were there.

Just pure dumb luck I came along in time to be of any help.

Didn’t even know it was you at first. Wouldn’t have expected you to escape the place so early. ”

Gideon gave him a look. “Your betrothed told me to leave.”

“My betrothed?” Penthorpe’s expression altered rapidly from bewilderment to a blank look. “I’d hoped … that is, I’d feared that was all off by now. Didn’t you tell her I was dead?”

“Yes, but since you are not, and since no other arrangement has been made for her, I have a feeling her father is going to welcome you back with open arms. Not that you seem so delighted, Andy. Did Mrs. de Larrey have a pretty little sister?”

Penthorpe shook his head. “No, no, not at all. I ain’t such a paltry fellow as all that, dash it, though I did get to thinking what a good thing it was that I hadn’t got married before Waterloo—and left a grieving widow, don’t you know?”

Gideon started to nod, remembered his headache, and said, “I do know, but you’ll have to keep your vow, you know.”

“Well, of course, I will. Good God, what else can I do? If I’d realized—What’s she like, Gideon?”

“As beautiful as her picture,” Gideon said. “She has a mind of her own though, just as you were told.”

Penthorpe eyed him uneasily. “What do you mean, exactly?”

“She holds a sadly unfavorable opinion of our sex, Andy.”

“She don’t like men? Good God, what sort of female is she?”

Gideon hesitated, thinking of all the words he might use. Finally, watching Penthorpe closely, he said, “She’s aggravating, exasperating, and too damned hot at hand for her own good, but with a light hand on the rein I think you’ll like her, Andy.”

“Good God.” Penthorpe looked appalled, but he rallied quickly, saying hastily, “That is … well, I say, I hope you haven’t been trying to bridle her yourself, Gideon.

” His laugh was forced. “What I mean to say is, I’d find myself ditched if you were to wave your expectations at the lass, don’t you think? ”

Gideon did not answer at once, but when Penthorpe began to look rather hopeful, he said quietly, “She’s a woman of her word, Andy. She won’t cry off.”

“Well, you needn’t make it sound like I want her to do any such thing,” Penthorpe said quickly. “Couldn’t say so if I did, not even to my best friend, not without looking like a dashed scoundrel, but you’re talking fustian, you know. Cried off three times before, didn’t she? My uncle told me so.”

Gideon smiled. “The other times were different, or at least she would say they were. This time she gave her word of honor to her father and that, in her view, will make all the difference.”

“Oh.” He was silent for a moment, then said, “I suppose St. Merryn is in town. I’ll have to see him at once.”

“The whole family is in town,” Gideon said, shifting his position. His headache was easing, so long as he did not move without caution.

“Lady Susan and Seacourt, too?”

“Yes. You might as well know before you hear it from the tabbies that there was an unfortunate turn-up in that household before Christmas. Lady Susan ran away from her husband.”

“Ran away? Why?” Penthorpe’s gaze sharpened.

Instead of answering directly, Gideon said, “Seacourt was forced to apply to a magistrate for a writ of habeas corpus to get her back.”

“Don’t babble Latin at me. What the devil does it mean?”

“That she had to return to him or appear before the same magistrate to give cause for not doing so. She said Seacourt beat her. She was heavily veiled, so we did not see her face, but he did not deny it.”

“The devil, you say! Good thing she left him if you ask me. He was a Captain Hackum at school, too. Where’s she living now?”

“The magistrate sent her home.”

“What? How could that be?”

“It’s the law, Andy, even when the fellow’s a bully.”