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“Do as you like with them.” The statement came out harsh.
She gave him another strange smile, as if she knew things he couldn’t imagine. And then she was up and gone before he could rise to bid her farewell.
Daniel sank back into his chair, body aching with desire, mind whirling with confusion. He’d done the right thing. Why did it feel like he’d been a fool? And that Miss Penelope Pendleton had some lively plans for him? A riot of sensual pictures crowded his brain at the idea. But she hadn’t meantthat. Of course she hadn’t. Couldn’t have. But the look on her face when she’d said she didn’t want him to be answerable! Daniel had difficulty breathing for a moment.
She remembered everything he said. Daniel contemplated this admission for a while. The thought made his throat tight in a different way. His eyes felt hot, and he had to blink. Like a child unwrapping a gift and not daring to hope that it was the thing he really wanted, he thought. And what the deuce did that mean?
He was still sitting at the desk and wondering twenty minutes later when Macklin appeared in the doorway. His tall, dark-haired houseguest looked about the room as he came in. “Has Miss Pendleton gone?” he asked.
“She went home. I think. Yes, she must have.”
Macklin glanced at him. Had he sounded wrung out? Daniel wondered. He certainly felt it. He stood.
“I thought we could discuss inserting a few questions about newcomers into Tom’s rambles about the neighborhood,” said the earl.
“I see no need for discussion. By all means, set him to asking. You say people have grown used to him.”
“They have,” said Macklin. “And he’s a positive magnet for confidences.”
The small part of Daniel’s mind not fixed on Penelope Pendleton found this dubious. “Miss Pendleton was very unhappy, naturally, to learn that agents or friends of her brother might be lurking and watching her.”
“Ah, you told her that?”
“Did you imagine I wouldn’t?” He would not have her suspected, Daniel thought.
“I advised you to do so,” replied the earl. His glance was uncomfortably acute.
Daniel acknowledged this with a nod. “Let us have Tom do it.” He had to do something. He didn’t want her agitated again; he didn’t want her threatened. “This is my land. I’m the magistrate, taxed with keeping the peace. I have every right to gather information.”
“True.”
“Well then?”
“I wonder if government agents might have a duty to report to you.” Macklin shook his head. “This is Sidmouth’s covert corps, I suppose. They wouldn’t observe such niceties.”
“The Home Secretary is not above the law.”
“I agree. Sidmouth might counter that heisthe law.”
“Not on my land,” replied Daniel grimly.
Eleven
Penelope pushed the heels of her hands into a mass of bread dough on the kitchen table, leaning forward to increase the pressure. With practice, she’d learned to feel when the dough took on the springy texture that signaled it was ready to be set aside to rise. She folded, turned, and kneaded again.
Lord Whitfield didn’t want to beanswerable. Very well, she would take charge of things then. She’d certainly had plenty of experienceanswering. Penelope paused, startled. This was the first time she’d made a joke, if only silently, about her months of interrogation.
“Oh, it’s all spoilt,” said Kitty, bent over a pan on the hearth.
It was indeed, Penelope thought. Whitfield seemed to forget that she was already ruined, her status snatched away with her old life. She’d had no choice at all then. She swore she would now. She pounded the dough.
“A lighter hand there, miss,” said Mrs. Hart, who stood beside Kitty overseeing the preparation of a blancmange. Penelope obeyed. But inside, her determination continued to build. The cook turned back to Kitty and said, “You just have to keep on stirring.”
Penelope turned the dough and pushed it down. Matters with the alluring viscount were definitely stirring.
“How do I make it go stiff?” said Kitty.
Penelope snorted.
