Leave a Widow Wanting More by Charlie Lane

Chapter 5

Henry successfully sidestepped Hellwater’s probing questions for half an hour, but when Gabriel delivered the news that the doctor had come, gone, and begged them not to bother him for extremely healthy human beings, he knew his time was up.

“No more evasion, old man,” Hellwater said when Henry waved the question aside. Hellwater shoved a glass of brandy at him. “Confess. You’ve told me only her name, her position at Hopkins Bookshop, and her probable goal here tonight. But you know damn well that’s not what I want to know!

“There’s nothing to know.”

“You forget, I can sniff drama out across the English Channel. If you don’t tell me, I suppose I can share my theories with you.”

Henry sipped the brandy.

Hellwater’s eyes twinkled. “Tell me, Lear, are you not over Emmeline’s death?”

Zeus.How’d the old man guess? Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades! Did he really consider Hellwater old? They were of an age, so that meant Henry himself was old, too. He shifted his body about, feeling his still-strong muscles, his neck stiff from travel, and his hands, a bit achy. Was he old? Impossible. He hadn’t been old when Emmeline had died five years ago. He’d been in his prime. But five years of travel wearied a man.

“I knew it, you’re not over her.”

He certainly was over Emmeline. Evidence A—he’d spent the last few seconds reflecting more on his lost youth than on his lost wife. But Hellwater hit too close to home. Best to parry. “You know I’m over Emmeline. I told you my motives for this trip home to England not an hour ago.”

“You want the book.”

“Exactly.”

“And a wife.”

“Yes. For the girls.”

“Ah, yes, three daughters. You are King Lear. Just because you plan to remarry does not mean you’re over your wife’s death.”

“And are you over Annie’s death?”

Hellwater jerked back as if shot, then took a long sip from his glass. “Touché. But I don’t run through the streets trying to save women from heart attacks. You turn silly whenever a woman so much as sniffles.”

“They’re delicate creatures.” Emmeline had been a great example of it. So, too, his mother, his sister, and tiny Calliope. A big name for such a tiny creature.

Hellwater’s boisterous laughter felt wrong wrapped around the image of Calliope.

“My Annie was fit as a fiddle, Eaden, as you well know. Until her heart gave out.” His face drooped. “Delia Scarlet at the Pantheon and Katherine Peccadillo at the Lyceum—both strong, strapping, healthy. English women are not a universally diseased lot, you know.”

No, just the ones connected to Henry.

“Tell me, Eaden, do you hare about saving every female with the ague?”

Henry downed the rest of his brandy. There was Clarice in Egypt with the turned ankle. He’d carried her two miles to get her back to her husband and a doctor. She’d wailed like a banshee the entire time. His ears had been bleeding, but she’d been safe. Then there was the American in Canada—Miss Havers. She’d only cut her palm, but he’d worried about infection, so he’d spent three days hunting down a flower said to fight it off. The wound had never actually gotten infected. Then there was the girl in Poland and the chit in Argentina.

Zeus. It was a habit. “Of course I don’t. What rot. Save your stories for the stage.”

Hellwater smiled brilliantly. “You always were a shit liar,” he said, leaving the room.

“Where are you going?”

“The mysterious Mrs. P asked to speak with me. It would be rude not to oblige.”

Henry followed him into the hall. “You know what she wants. Send her home already.”

“Out into the dark? And rain? After you spent such energy saving her and angering the doctor, too?”

He’d forgotten the rain in his fear over losing Gulliver’s. “No. Of course not. Send her home in one of your carriages.”

“Capital idea, Lear. After I speak with her.”

“You promised it would be mine, Hellwater. There’s no use speaking with her. She wants to claim the book for Hopkins.”

“Perhaps not. Maybe she wants to take to the stage? She does have a flair for dramatic entrances. And if you’re right about her motives, why shouldn’t I consider a new offer?” He placed his hand on the doorknob and looked over his shoulder at Henry. “I’ve never liked you. Much too serious.” Hellwater opened the door and swept into the room, Henry close on his heels.

He saw her at once, though not by the fire as he’d expected. She perused a row of books on a shelf nearby, dragging one elegant finger across each spine, pausing to read each title. Her hair tangled down her back in snake-like coils, and he wondered what those heavy strands would feel like curled about his hand. She turned to greet them, her face a pale oval, her brows dark slashes above those lapis lazuli eyes.

Henry couldn’t take it any longer. He strode toward her. “Mrs. Pennington, it’s the height of folly to stray so far from the fire.”

“But—” she protested as he dragged her across the room.

He pushed her into an armchair. “There.” He rubbed his hands together at a job well done. If she died from exposure, it wouldn’t be because of him.

She looked up at him with curious eyes, head shaking slowly as if she couldn’t quite make heads or tails of him. Slowly, she rose, fidgeting with the bodice of her gown. It was much too large and gaped open scandalously. “I’m perfectly fine,” she said. “The doctor said I was healthier than he. My only current ailment is ill-fitting clothes.” She pushed away from the armchair and peeked around Henry to Hellwater. “I don’t mean to make light of your kindness, my lord.”

Hellwater waved away her worry. “Not at all. It’s more costume than gown, a castoff from a Bond Street dress shop. I pay the shop well for their unwanted wares.”

Mrs. Pennington tilted her head in confusion. “A costume?”

Lord Hellwater bowed low. “For my amateur theatricals! Planning one for next month if you’re interested. You’d make a marvelous Lady Macbeth, though I think I’ve decided to go a less Shakespearean route this time.” He turned, laughing, to Henry. “You remember when I stole old Hopkins’s journal?”

Henry rolled his eyes. “Unnecessary piece of cruelty, that.”

“Unnecessary? It’s kept me in mirth these many years. And it will provide the action for my next play. A Hopkins original!” He turned to Sarah. “I’ll show you the stage I had erected. It’s in the ballroom.”

She held up a hand, shaking her head. “Thank you, but I’m afraid I have no wish to tread the boards.”

“Wise women,” Henry mumbled.

“Shame,” Hellwater sighed.

Sarah threaded her hands together in front of the ill-fitting gown. “I do thank you, my lord, for helping me this evening. It, ah, wasn’t raining when I set out.” She peeked up at Henry, and a bit of his anger at her folly evaporated. At least she hadn’t purposefully put herself in harm’s way, and for a book.

Mrs. Pennington gave her full attention to Hellwater. “I must speak with you privately, Lord Hellwater.”

Her mind was on the book, too, then. Fine. It was time she learned her dangerous journey was all for naught. There was no way in Hades she was getting that book for Hopkins. “No need for privacy, Mrs. Pennington. Do you think I don’t know why you’ve followed me here?”

“I didn’t follow you! I came on my own!”

“But for someone else, hm?”

“For Mr. Hopkins. It’s no secret.” She turned her back to Henry. “Mr. Hopkins would like to buy the first-edition Gulliver’s Travels. He’s sent me to make an offer.”

The earl scratched his chin. “Odd. Hopkins already offered for it. Said he’d offer no higher, too. And I rejected him. Has he raised his price?”

Mrs. Pennington’s teeth appeared and pulled on her full bottom lip. Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades, the motion aroused him. Henry shifted in an attempt to hide his growing erection.

“I don’t know what price he offered originally,” she admitted. “And I have nothing of further worth to add to it, but I need this book, more than Lord Eaden does.”

“Do you?” Hellwater’s smile broadened, and he clapped his hands together. “Let’s hear it, then.”

“Hear what?”

“The story. Don’t be slow. There’s a story here. That will be your extra offer. Whatever Hopkins is offering plus your story. Let’s see if it’s good enough to outweigh Henry’s offer. I must warn you, Henry is horridly rich, and he wants the book badly. Your story better be good.”

Mrs. Pennington stared at Hellwater, her mouth agape.

“Go on, then,” Hellwater prompted.

Mrs. Pennington plunked into the armchair he’d plopped her into earlier, then popped back up again, twisting around to look at her skirts. “Damn,” she whispered, seeing the damp spot. She’d been more than wet earlier. She’d been drowned. Henry scooted her to the side, pushed the armchair out of the way, and pushed another in its place. He gave her shoulders a gentle shove, sending her down into the dry chair.

“Nicely done, Henry,” Hellwater, said. “Always had a knack for action. I couldn’t write stage direction as good as that.”

Henry rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. “Go ahead and speak, Mrs. Pennington. Your story won’t change a thing. That book is mine.”

That certainly transformed her. She shifted from flustered to ruffled to determined in the space of five seconds.

“I need that book because Mr. Hopkins is going to sack me. He told me today I have one month to find a new position.”

Hellwater took a seat and propped his feet on an ottoman. “And what put you in such a precarious position?”

She shifted. Those pearly teeth peeked out again, worrying her bottom lip. “That’s neither here nor there, my lord. But if I bring that book back to Mr. Hopkins, he’ll let me stay on. My only other option is to work as a seamstress, and I just can’t.” The way she turned her palms up in her lap and gazed at each individual fingertip, as if seeing them pricked raw, tore at Henry’s heart. Damn. If he was moved by her, then Hellwater surely would be.

Hellwater reached for the brandy decanter. “And why should I care about a shopgirl who doesn’t want to be a seamstress?”

Henry’s gaze snapped from Mrs. Pennington’s slender fingers to Hellwater’s stony face. What the devil was the Mad Earl up to?

Sarah twisted her hands in her lap. “I have a son. James is sixteen, and he’s at Harrow on scholarship.”

Hellwater shrugged. “He sounds well taken care of, then.”

Mrs. Pennington shot from her seat. “No!” She sat again immediately, folding her hands in her lap. “I mean, yes. I do my best. But he’s always ruining his clothes. Or growing out of them. And he needs nice things. The other boys … the ones not on scholarship … they have nice things, and James likes to fit in.” She stammered the last bit, as if unsure of herself.

Henry’s jaw clenched. Hell if he’d let the Mad Earl bully her! “Hellwater, you’ve had enough fun, now tell Mrs. Pennington she can’t have the book, and stop toying with her.”

Hellwater sighed. “You are no fun, Eaden. Never have been. Mrs. Pennington, you said you were widowed. What happened to your late husband?”

She sat upright, refusing, it seemed, to be pitied. “Died in battle in ’06.”

Henry quickly did the math in his head. “Your son was two?”

She nodded.

Henry frowned. Why had a soldier gotten married and sired a son during war? Careless. “How long had he been enlisted?”

“Not quite a year.”

Henry swallowed the yell that gathered in his throat and moderated his tone. “After your son’s birth.”

Her cheeks pinked, and her gaze dropped to the floor.

Hellwater’s exhale filled the room. “Bloody hell. No pension, then?”

“No. But there wouldn’t have been at any rate. He lied about having a wife and son. The army didn’t even know we existed.”

Henry wanted to bring the man back from the dead to rip him limb from limb.

“Family?” Hellwater asked, his voice ever hopeful.

Sarah seemed to sink deeper into her chair with each new question. “None of my own. I married James because I had no other options. My father’s house and land were entailed to a distant relative. James was a willing friend. His father died soon after he left for the Continent. Same story as before. The inheriting relative didn’t like useless female relations.” Her voice sounded tired. Of the story? Of recounting it? Of how common the tale was?

Hellwater whistled. “That is quite the story, Mrs. Pennington.” He stood and strode across the room to a small table. He pulled a key from his pocket and opened a drawer, pulling a small wrapped package from its depths.

Gulliver’s Travels. Henry’s breath caught in his throat, as he strode across the room to Hellwater. He’d waited years to own the damned book, and now it would be his. Hellwater pulled back the soft velvet wrapped around it, and Henry’s heartbeat quickened. Then, there it was. A soft gasp at his side told him he and Hellwater weren’t alone. Mrs. Pennington had crossed the room, too, and stood on tiptoe beside him, gazing down at the book.

It appeared ordinary enough, its cover butter-soft and brown, the gold letters on its spine faded only slightly. Henry reached out to take it. Finally.

Hellwater pulled it out of reach. “Ah, ah, ah, Eaden. You make assumptions.”

Henry reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his checkbook. “Quit playing around, Hellwater. I’ll cut you a check now.”

“If you must, but you’ll not get the book, not for all your money.” Hellwater extended the book to Mrs. Pennington.

She took it, cradling it in shaking fingers. “Why?” she asked. “Do you pity me?” Her voice rose fierce, offended. But, Henry noticed, she did not extend the book back to Hellwater.

Hellwater shook his head. “Not pity. I like you. I don’t like Hopkins. Never have. This book is for you. You may do whatever you please with it.”

Mrs. Pennington stroked the book’s spine like it were her lover. What would it be like for her finger to stoke down Henry’s chest, his abdomen? Lower?

He shook his head. He should be feeling rage right now, not lust. “Look here, Hellwater—”

“I don’t have Hopkins’s funds,” Mrs. Pennington said, clasping the book to her chest and grasping Hellwater’s hand. “But I’ll tell him to get them to you immediately tomorrow morning. Thank you, my lord. I don’t know how to thank you!”

Hellwater pulled his hand from hers. “Don’t thank me. Not yet. I don’t want Hopkins’s money. You misunderstand me. I’m giving the book to you. It’s a gift, a wedding present.”

Zeus, what game did the fool play?

Mrs. Pennington pulled her hand to her chest, coving the book as if protecting a child. “Excuse me?” She shook her head. “I’m not getting married.”

Hellwater chuckled. “Nevertheless, it’s a present for you.” She held the book out and tilted her head, considering it from a new light. As her eyes lit with an idea, Hellwater spoke. “Do with it what you please, but don’t give it to Hopkins.”

Enough. This was ridiculous. “Cease, Hellwater.”

“Cease what? I’m giving a gift, but with stipulations. If she wants it, she’ll have to abide by them.”

“But it’s useless if I can’t give it to Hopkins!” She jerked her head toward Henry. “You might as well just give it to him!”

“Yes, Hellwater, just sell it to me and be done with this farce.”

“I’m not going to sell it to you. Either it goes as a gift to the lady or back in the drawer.”

“No!” said Mrs. Pennington.

“Fine,” said Henry.

The glare she turned on him had the power of the furies behind it. Henry stood mesmerized. Not an hour ago she was soaked to the bone, a shivering parcel of fluff, and now she’d transformed into an avenging warrior with a spine of steel and daggers for eyes. This small but mighty woman held the book to her gapping bodice as if it were the secret to life itself. Hm. Perhaps Hellwater was right about the book being a wedding present. He’d come home looking for a strong woman to care for his daughters and wards and he seemed to have stumbled upon her. And if she accepted the earl’s gift …

Henry let his mouth soften into a smile. “It’s fine,” he said, not quite believing he was saying it. “Take the book.”

“It’s no good to me now! I’ll still lose my job!”

He reached out tentatively, and when she didn’t jerk away from him, he took her free hand in his own. “I have a feeling you’ll be fine.”

She eyed him quizzically.

“I’ll speak with Hopkins. Convince him to keep you on.”

She scoffed.

“Or I’ll help you find a position elsewhere. He’s not the only bookseller in town,” Henry promised her.

Her face fell. “He’s the only one willing to hire a woman.”

Well, she probably had a point there. But perhaps she wouldn’t need to worry about it. “Take the book.”

She held the book away from her, shaking her head. “It’s lovely,” she whispered.

“Indeed,” he agreed.

“You can sell it.”

Henry and Mrs. Pennington shot gazes toward Hellwater. “What?” they exclaimed together.

“You can’t sell it to Hopkins, but you can sell it to whomever else you’d like.”

Henry groaned. Again, Hellwater defied logic!

Mrs. Pennington stroked the book once more. “Oh,” she said. “I suppose I could do that.” But there, glowing in her eyes, shone reluctance. She’d fallen in love with the book just as he had long ago. She shook her head. When she met Hellwater’s gaze, it was with fierce determination. “Thank you, Lord Hellwater. I accept your gift.”

He waved away her gratitude. “Who knows, perhaps Lord Eaden will buy it from you.”

Mrs. Pennington eyed Henry. He could see her running calculations in her mind.

Henry was calculating as well. “Hellwater, you’ve been incredibly useful this evening.”

Hellwater beamed. “Haven’t I just!”

“But we must take our leave.”

“So soon?” his friend pouted.

“Yes.”

Mrs. Pennington turned an impish ear upward. “Is it still raining, do you think?”

Henry turned on her. “Zeus, Mrs. Pennington, do you think to walk back out in the rain? With that book?”

“I don’t have the money for a hackney.”

Hellwater chuckled. “Such a practical widow, Henry. She’s just the thing, I think.”

“Shut up, Hellwater.”

Hellwater did not shut up. “Yes, Eaden, just the thing to solve the problem you were telling me about earlier. You know, the one about needing a—”

Henry interrupted the earl. The best thing to do with Hellwater seventy-five percent of the time was to ignore him. “Mrs. Pennington, I’ll take you home in my carriage.”

Her teeth once more besieged her poor bottom lip. He wished it was his teeth making her lip swell.

“Yes,” she said finally. “That would be much appreciated, Lord Eaden. For Gulliver’s sake.”

Henry nodded. “Yes, of course, for Gulliver’s sake.” He offered her his arm and she slipped her hand through it. “We’ll take our leave of you, Hellwater.”

“It was lovely meeting you, Mrs. P,” Hellwater chimed. “Invite me to the wedding!”

Henry tugged her out the door and into the entry hall. He wrapped his greatcoat around her, pulling it tight. “Don’t object, Mrs. Pennington. Don’t object. Tell me, where are we going?”

She let him usher her forward without objection, her eyes full of questions. “Just take me back to Hopkins’s,” she mumbled, then turned to him sharply. “Why does the earl think I’m getting married, Lord Eaden?”

Her question settled around them as Gabriel opened the front door and the carriage rattled to a stop in front of them. He considered his answer as he told the coachman where to go and helped her up into the carriage, shut the door behind them, and took the seat opposite her. She tilted her head in thought, working her bottom lip with her teeth.

Those damned teeth. That sinful bottom lip. He had to have them.

“He thinks you’re going to get married, Mrs. Pennington, because you likely will. To me.”