Penny House
St. James Square, London
1805
In the experienced opinion of Eliot Fitzharding, His Grace
the Duke of Guilford, there were few things better
contrived to reduce a sensible woman to blithering idiocy
than a wedding, and the nearer the relationship of the
woman to the bride, the greater the intensity of that
idiocy.
This is not to say that his grace did not enjoy watching
the idiocy, much the way that other gentlemen enjoyed a
good sparring match in the ring. As a confirmed and
practicing bachelor, he was free to watch the spectacle
surrounding a wedding as the purest of spectators:
emotionally uninvolved, financially uncommitted, with no
other goal than to amuse himself.
Which was why Guilford was sitting alone in the back
parlor of Penny House this evening, enjoying an excellent
brandy while he savored the exhausted quiet after the
storm of the wedding earlier that day. He didn't mind in
the least that he had the parlor to himself. Most nights,
Penny House was like any other gaming club in London,
vibrating with male bravado and high spirits, tempered by
the despair of those who'd lost at the tables. Guilford
had never seen Penny House as quiet as this, and he rather
liked it. All the other guests had left long ago, and the
servants seemed to have faded away for the night, too. The
hothouse flowers were wilting in their vases, the fire
nothing but gray ash and embers in the grate, and even the
candles in the chandeliers had mostly guttered out,
leaving the large, elegant room in murky shadow.
All were signs that would send most gentlemen to make
their own farewells for the night and head for the door,
as well. But Guilford never had been like most gentlemen,
much to his late mother's constant disappointment, and
instead of leaving, he stretched out his long legs before
him and settled himself more comfortably in his armchair.
Why should he leave when the best show of the night still
lay ahead?
A yawning maidservant shuffled wearily into the room, and
with the long-handled snuffer, began to douse the last of
the lit candles in the chandelier until, finally, she
noticed Guilford.
"Your grace!" she cried out, adding a little shriek for
emphasis. "Oh, your grace, how you started me!"
"Forgive me, sweetheart," he said easily, his smile in the
shadows enough to make the poor girl blush and fumble with
the snuffer in her hands. Of course she'd recognized him;
not only was he a peer, but he'd been a charter member of
the club — as much from sheer curiosity as anything — and
now served on its membership board. He'd also earned
favored status because he cheerfully dropped the
occasional large wager at the card tables, just to be
agreeable. "It's — it's me what should be asking
forgiveness, your grace!" she stammered. "Truly, your
grace!"
"Not at all." He raised his glass to the girl by way of
apology. "Frightening you was never my intention."
Belatedly she remembered to curtsy. "Is there anything I
might fetch for you, your grace? They're banking the
kitchen fires for the night, but if there's something
special you want, then I'm certain Mrs. Todd could —"
"But alas, not Miss Bethany." He sighed dramatically.
Bethany Penny was one of the three sisters who owned Penny
House, the one who'd overseen the kitchen, the one who
could rival the king's own French cooks for her delicacy
with spices, her wit with pastry. Of course, cookery fell
within a woman's natural sphere, a concept her older
sister had always failed to understand. "However shall I
survive without Miss Bethany's roast goose and oysters?"
The maid looked at him uncertainly. "Miss Bethany will
return to us, your grace. She's only gone away for a bit
on her wedding trip with the major."
"Oh, the major, the major," Guilford said darkly,
indulging in a bit of brandy-laced melancholy. No matter
what Bethany Penny had promised, she'd be like any other
new bride, besotted with her husband and her belly
swelling with his brat as soon as it could be managed.
Then she'd be ruined — ruined! — as a cook! "I scarce know
the man, but he can't possibly appreciate the cook he's
gotten in his wife."
"Beggin' pardon, your grace," the girl said, "but Major
Lord Callaway is an excellent gentleman, and he loves Miss
Bethany to distraction. You could see it in his eyes today
when they wed."
"The sweetness of her turtle soup will far outlast mere
love." Guilford sighed again. He appreciated the girl's
loyalty to her mistress, even if it were mired in mawkish
sentiment. "But thank you, no, sweetheart. I need nothing
more, and the kitchen may stay at peace. Go ahead now,
finish your tasks."
"Yes, your grace. As you please, your grace." She nodded
uncertainly, then bobbed another curtsy before she
returned to snuffing the candles. When she was done, she
backed from the room and gently closed the door, leaving
him with only the dying fire for light. Somewhere off in
the large house, a clock chimed twice, the sound echoing
down the empty staircase.
Guilford smiled. The lights might be dimmed, but the stage
was most certainly set.
And right on her cue, the leading lady of Penny House made
her entrance.
The double doors swung open to reveal a woman silhouetted
by the wash of light spilling from the room behind her.
Even from no more than this silhouette, Guilford would
have known it was her. Her height, the soft mass of hair
piled high on her head and crowned with a nodding white
plume, her very carriage as she stood there in the
doorway: it could only be Miss Amariah Penny, and no one
else.
"Your grace." Her voice was charming yet firm, and still
very much in her role as the grand mistress of Penny
House, even at this hour and after such a day. "Might I
ask if there is something wrong? Something amiss?"
"Indeed you might ask, Miss Penny," he said, smiling
though he suspected she couldn't see him, "and I shall
answer. Nothing is wrong, or amiss, especially now that
you're here to look after me."
As always, she ignored the compliment. "Then might I
inquire, your grace, as to why you are hiding in the dark
and alarming my staff?"
"I'm not hiding," he said, "I've merely been sitting here
so long that the dark has swallowed me up."
She made a little harrumph of polite incredulity. "Then
perhaps sitting here has made you unaware that everyone
else has left this house for the evening, your grace.
Shall I call for your carriage?"
His smile widened as he gently swirled the brandy in his
glass. She was still wearing the same gauzy gown she'd
worn earlier for the wedding, with the silver threads in
the deep embroidered hem glinting faintly like stray
sparks above her feet. He was certain she didn't realize
that, with the light behind her, he also had a splendid
view of her legs showing through her skirts.
"Everyone has left except for you, Miss Penny," he said,
"and for me. How could I be rude, and leave you alone
under such circumstances?"
"Because my staff is tired, your grace," she said, "and I
wish to close the house for the night."
"Then close it, and send your staff to bed." He reached
out and pulled another armchair closer to his. "Surely you
must be weary, too. Come and sit, and keep company with
me."
She sighed, betraying the weariness she shared with her
staff, but was too stubborn to admit. "You know why I
cannot do that, your grace. This is a gentlemen's private
club for gaming, not a house for assignations."
"But tonight I'm not here as a member of the club," he
reasoned. "I'm here as a guest at your sister's wedding."
She bowed her head, clearly perplexed, and didn't answer.
He couldn't blame her, either, though she'd made this
thorny little problem herself. Because the sisters lived
on the top floor of Penny House, they'd already blurred
the lines between their home and their trade. They weren't
really much different from a butcher living over his shop,
except that their shop was a grand house on St. James
Street, and the customers were a highly select group of
gentlemen drinking and gambling away vast sums of money
for their reckless amusement.
But the ever-ambitious Amariah Penny had taken matters
another step by inviting those members who served on the
club's governing board to attend her sister's wedding as
guests, including them amongst the family's oldest
friends. Guilford was certain she'd done it only to
strengthen the ties with those who helped her make Penny
House the exclusive club that it was. That was how her
unladylike mind seemed to work, always looking for an
advantage to improve Penny House and increase profits, but
now she'd have to face the consequences.
"You can admit you're tired, you know," he said, patting
the chair beside him. "Any other woman would."
Her head jerked up, any weariness banished. "But I'm not
like any other woman, your grace. Now I'll have your
carriage brought —"
"Did you know there's a wager in the book at White's that
predicts you'll be the only Penny sister not to marry?" he
asked, dragging his question into an lazy drawl. "Not
because you're lacking in beauty or grace — for you most
certainly are not, Miss Penny — but because you're far too
wedded to this club for any man to wish to play second."
"When my sister tossed her wedding bouquet today, your
grace, it was my choice not to try to catch it."
"I noticed," he said wryly. "Everyone did. You kept as far
away as possible from the other shrieking maidens vying
for the prize on the staircase, your hands locked behind
your back as if in iron manacles."
"And what is so very wrong with that, your grace?" she
demanded, her voice warming with a tedious missionary
fervor. "Nearly all the profits my sisters and I earn from
Penny House are given directly to charity. That was my
late father's wish, and I mean to follow it always. Each
time that you gentlemen amuse yourselves at our tables,
you are helping feed and clothe and shelter the poor in
ways you'd never do directly."
"No," Guilford said dryly, not in the least interested in
the poor or how they dined. "I wouldn't."
"Well, then, there you are, your grace," she said, as if
this were explanation enough, which it wasn't. True, she
was a clergyman's daughter, but, in Guilford's opinion,
her soul was as mercenary as they came. "Why should I wish
to marry for the sake of one single man when I can do so
much more good for so many others by being here?"
"Because you are a woman, my dear," Guilford answered,
offering his own perfect explanation. "No matter how much
you wish it, you can't do everything by yourself, and most
especially you can't save the entire world. You can't even
save the lower scraps of London. Of course, charity work
is an admirable pastime for a lady, but a home, a husband
and children must surely come first. It's in your blood,
your very bones. Not even you can deny nature, Miss Penny."
"Is this part of the wagering at White's, too, your
grace?" she asked suspiciously. "That I am
somehow...unnatural?"
"Not exactly unnatural, no." With his eyes accustomed to
the half-light, he'd no trouble seeing her, but he still
couldn't tell if she were angry or amused — not that it
would make any particular difference to him. "I do
believe 'virago' was the term that was used."
She gasped, and to his satisfaction, he realized he'd
finally struck home. "They dared call me a virago?" she
repeated with disbelief. "A virago?"
She charged into the room and straight to him, the heels
of her slippers clicking across the polished floor. He
could feel her anger like a force in the darkness, her
blue eyes wide and her gaze intense, her mouth set in a
line of furious determination. He'd known her for nearly a
year now, ever since she'd appeared in London from nowhere
to open Penny House, yet this was the first time he'd seen
the ever-proper, ever-capable Miss Penny lose both her
composure and her temper.
It was even better than he'd dreamed. "A virago, your
grace!" she said again, as if she couldn't say the hateful
word enough times. "What — what ninny dared call me that?"
"How the devil should I tell?" Even though he'd given her
leave to sit, she showed no intention of doing so, which
made him suppose he must stand, too. With a sigh he rose,
stretching his arms a bit as he now gazed down on her. "I
don't know everything."