Die I Will Not by S. K. Rizzolo Read Free Book Online Page A

Tory.”
    â€œOh, poor Mrs. Leach,” said Mrs. Hewitt, wringing her plump hands. “She must be beside herself with worry.”
    Her husband patted her arm. “You may visit her one day soon, my dear.”
    With dismay, Penelope saw Jeremy’s eyes straying in the direction of the card room, and he smiled, murmuring, “Will you excuse us, ladies? Kester, Hewitt—shall we go have a word with Poole?”
    Disappointed, Mrs. Hewitt smoothed one hand over her ostentatiously ugly gown and gazed up at Jeremy. “You may depend on me to keep your wife company.” She gave an irritating titter. “I’ll call on you to discuss having my portrait painted, sir. Mr. Hewitt was just saying he should like to find someone to execute the commission.”
    Jeremy bowed. “I would be honored, madam.” With a wry glance at Penelope telling her he would rather paint a turnip than Mrs. Hewitt (but that he would, of course, accept the commission for her sake), he moved away gracefully with his friends.
    Having resigned herself to hearing particulars of this woman’s wardrobe and servants and carriage, Penelope was not displeased when their host approached. He greeted Mrs. Hewitt, then lifted Penelope’s gloved hand to his lips, his hair glinting silver in the candlelight.
    Smoothly, he detached her from her companion with the excuse that he must further his acquaintance with the daughter of so old a friend. As he led her to a sofa against the wall, he said, “You are in fine looks this evening, ma’am.” With obvious approval, he examined her amber crepe dress over white sarsnet, trimmed with white beads. Jeremy had helped to choose the gown from a fashionable modiste, even as Penelope had protested its expense, but she was glad of it now since its rustle and gleam bolstered her confidence. At her throat she wore her mother’s pearls, one of the few pieces of jewelry she possessed, and when Mr. Rex complimented her upon them, she explained their origin.
    He smiled at her. “I regret I never had an opportunity to meet your mother, though your father often spoke of her to me. I understand she died when you were young?”
    â€œOf influenza, sir, when I was ten years old. My father always thought an English doctor might have saved her, but she was never strong.”
    â€œTragic but all too common.” A look of melancholy settled over his face, and after a moment he added, “I remember you as a little girl, Mrs. Wolfe. You were a bright little thing but rather sad. I’m sure you must have been missing your mother.”
    Memory stirred. She sat in a coach while her father climbed down to speak to another man in hushed, urgent tones. It was very early in the morning; she was cold and frightened. Where were they going? Was this the day they fled England? She did not recall, but the man her father had been talking to was Horatio Rex. Despite the quiet voices, they were furious, so furious that she had shrunk into a corner of the coach, whispering to the doll in her lap and trying to pretend they weren’t there.…
    â€œYes, I was about five, a little older than my daughter Sarah is now.”
    â€œPerhaps it is best your mother did not accompany your father to England. Those were not happy times for our country, and matters are not much better today. However, we’ve got Boney on the run at long last.”
    â€œMy father rarely speaks of those days.”
    â€œWise of him. We’ll let the ghosts of the past rest, my dear. You are enjoying London?”
    â€œVery much. Jeremy has been grateful for your patronage, sir.” She paused. “Forgive me, but he said you have experienced an unhappy event in your own family?”
    Rex slanted a glance at her that was neither surprise nor resentment at the pointed question but instead a kind of watchfulness. “Your refer to my son-in-law. I was terribly shocked when the news first