Part 41 (1/2)

CHAPTER 21.

One week later, Penelope was sitting at the desk in her drawing room, reading Colin's journals and making notes on a separate piece of paper whenever she had a question or comment. He had asked her to help him edit his writing, a task she found thrilling.

She was, of course, overjoyed that he had entrusted this critical job to her. It meant he trusted her judgment, thought she was smart and clever, felt that she could take what he had written and make it even better.

But there was more to her happiness than that. She'd needed a project, something to do. In the first days after giving up Whistledown, she'd reveled in her newfound free time. It was like having a holiday for the first time in ten years. She'd read like mad-all those novels and books she'd purchased but never gotten around to reading. And she'd taken long walks, ridden her horse in the park, sat in the small courtyard behind her house on Mount Street, enjoying the fine spring weather and tipping her face up toward the sun for a minute or so at a time-long enough to bask in the warmth, but not so long as to turn her cheeks brown.

Then, of course, the wedding and its myriad details had consumed all of her time. So she really hadn't had much opportunity to realize what might be missing in her life.

When she had been doing the column, the actual writing of it hadn't taken too terribly long, but she always had to be on the alert, watching and listening. And when she wasn't writing the column she was thinking about writing the column or desperately trying to remember some clever turn of phrase until she could get home and jot it down.

It had been mentally engaging, and she hadn't realized how much she'd missed having her mind challenged until now, when she'd finally been given the opportunity again.

She was jotting down a question about Colin's description of a Tuscan villa on page 143 in volume two of his journals when the butler knocked discreetly on the open door to alert her to his presence.

Penelope smiled sheepishly. She tended to absorb herself entirely in her work, and Dunwoody had learned through trial and error that if he wanted to get her attention, he had to make some noise.

”A visitor to see you, Mrs. Bridgerton,” he said.

Penelope looked up with a smile. It was probably one of her sisters, or maybe one of the Bridgerton siblings. ”Really?

Who is it?”

He stepped forward and handed her a card. Penelope looked down and gasped, first in shock, and then in misery. Engraved in cla.s.sic, stately black on a creamy white background were two simple words: Lady Twombley.

Cressida Twombley? Why on earth would she come calling?

Penelope began to feel uneasy. Cressida would never call unless it was for some unpleasant purpose. Cressida never did anything unless it was for an unpleasant purpose.

”Would you like me to turn her away?” Dunwoody asked.

”No,” Penelope said with a sigh. She wasn't a coward, and Cressida Twombley wasn't going to turn her into one. ”I'll see her. Just give me a moment to put my papers away. But...”

Dunwoody stopped in his tracks and c.o.c.ked his head slightly to the side, waiting for her to go on.

”Oh, never mind,” Penelope muttered.

”Are you certain, Mrs. Bridgerton?”

”Yes. No.” She groaned. She was dithering and it was one more transgression to add to Cressida's already long list of them-she was turning Penelope into a stammering fool. ”What I mean is-if she's still here after ten minutes, would you devise some sort of emergency that requires my presence? My immediate presence?”

”I believe that can be arranged.”

”Excellent, Dunwoody,” Penelope said with a weak smile. It was, perhaps, the easy way out, but she didn't trust herself to be able to find the perfect point in the conversation to insist that Cressida leave, and the last thing she wanted was to be trapped in the drawing room with her all afternoon.

The butler nodded and left, and Penelope shuffled her papers into a neat stack, closing Colin's journal and setting it on top so that the breeze from the open window couldn't blow the papers off the desk. She stood and walked over to the sofa, sitting down in the center, hoping that she looked relaxed and composed.

As if a visit from Cressida Twombley could ever be called relaxing.

A moment later, Cressida arrived, stepping through the open doorway as Dunwoody intoned her name. As always, she looked beautiful, every golden hair on her head in its perfect place. Her skin was flawless, her eyes sparkled, her clothing was of the latest style, and her reticule matched her attire to perfection.

”Cressida,” Penelope said, ”how surprising to see you.” Surprising being the most polite adjective she could come up with under the circ.u.mstances.

Cressida's lips curved into a mysterious, almost feline smile. ”I'm sure it is,” she murmured.

”Won't you sit down?” Penelope asked, mostly because she had to. She'd spent a lifetime being polite; it was difficult to stop now. She motioned to a nearby chair, the most uncomfortable one in the room.

Cressida sat on the edge of the chair, and if she found it less than pleasing, Penelope could not tell from her mien. Her posture was elegant, her smile never faltered, and she looked as cool and composed as anyone had a right to be.

”I'm sure you're wondering why I'm here,” Cressida said.

There seemed little reason to deny it, so Penelope nodded.

And then, abruptly, Cressida asked, ”How are you finding married life?”

Penelope blinked. ”I beg your pardon?”

”It must be an amazing change of pace,” Cressida said.

”Yes,” Penelope said carefully, ”but a welcome one.”

”Mmmm, yes. You must have a dreadful amount of free time now. I'm sure you don't know what to do with yourself.”

A p.r.i.c.kling feeling began to spread along Penelope's skin. ”I don't understand your meaning,” she said.

”Don't you?”

When it became apparent that Cressida required an answer, Penelope replied, somewhat testily, ”No, I don't.”

Cressida was silent for a moment, but her cat-with-cream expression spoke volumes. She glanced about the room until her eyes fell on the writing desk where Penelope had so recently been sitting. ”What are those papers?” she inquired.

Penelope's eyes flew to the papers on the desk, stacked neatly under Colin's journal. There was no way that Cressida could have known that they were anything special. Penelope had already been seated on the sofa when Cressida had entered the room. ”I fail to see how my personal papers could be of your concern,” she said.

”Oh, do not take offense,” Cressida said with a little tinkle of laughter that Penelope found rather frightening. ”I was merely making polite conversation. Inquiring about your interests.”

”I see,” Penelope said, trying to fill the ensuing silence.

”I'm very observant,” Cressida said.

Penelope raised her brows in question.

”In fact, my keen powers of observation are quite well known among the very best circles of society.”

”I must not be a link in those impressive circles, then,” Penelope murmured.

Cressida, however, was far too involved in her own speech to acknowledge Penelope's. ”It's why,” she said in a thoughtful tone of voice, ”I thought I might be able to convince the ton that I was really Lady Whistledown.”

Penelope's heart thundered in her chest. ”Then you admit that you're not?” she asked carefully.