Penelope by MC Beaton Read Free Book Online

you have me to advise you.”
    “Is it?” said Augusta rudely. “I hope so. I like my money’s worth and I don’t like to be cheated.”
    Penelope looked up quickly in surprise, and Augusta gave her a wide smile. Penelope smiled back. Of course, Aunt meant she hoped the vases were Ming, she thought, bending her head over her sewing again, and does not want to think she has been cheated with imitations. But for one awful moment, I actually thought she meant Miss Stride!
    She then wondered what on earth the haughty Earl would think if he could see this frantic dress rehearsal for his call tomorrow.
    As he prepared to ride over to Brook Street next day, the Earl wondered if he had taken leave of his senses. Miss Harvey’s visit to the Courtlands’ ball had left a wave of gossip washing about the clubs and salons of London, and, although she had not been seen at any function since then, society still mocked and talked.
    The house in Brook Street, he had to admit as he rolled up in his high-sprung chaise, seemed very respectable. The brass knocker was well polished and the steps gleamed white.
    A very correct butler ushered him into the hall and took his driving coat. Miss Harvey was modern enough to have her drawing room on the ground floor instead of the first, and the Earl was quickly announced.
    At first he did not recognise Augusta in the respectable stout matron dressed in plum-colored silk of a discreet cut and wearing a large velvet turban. He asked her how she went on and waited cynically for a long and vulgar outburst. To his surprise, she only replied, “very well, thank you,” and then went on to talk in subdued tones—pausing occasionally to correct her lapses in grammar—about the weather.
    The peremptory little clock briskly snapped up five minutes of time and Penelope appeared. She was wearing a white muslin dress, high-waisted, with little puff sleeves edged with artifical honeysuckle which also decorated the deep flounces at the hem of her gown. Her sunny hair fell to her white shoulders in ringlets from under a bergère straw hat which framed her delicate features. She carried a fine Norfolk shawl over her shoulders and a pretty little chicken skin fan with ivory sticks in one gloved hand.
    The Earl, decided Penelope, looked much more formidable than she had remembered, and her heart sank right down to the toes of her bronze kid Roman sandals.
    He was wearing a blue coat with brass buttons worn wide open over a transparent cambric shirt, rose waistcoat, and intricate cravat. Leather breeches and Hessian boots with jaunty little gold tassels completed the ensemble. His copper curls were intricately dressed in the Windswept, and one hard silver eye stared at her, horribly magnified, through the eye of his quizzing glass.
    He let the glass fall and bent over her hand. “You are a vision of loveliness, Miss Vesey,” he said with a slight mocking edge to his voice.
    “I
am
?” declared Penelope, startled. She knew her blond good looks were decidedly unfashionable in a world which favored dark beauties. Then she realised the compliment was probably no more than a meaningless gallantry, and her face fell.
    The Earl watched the various emotions chasing each other across her expressive face as he courteously held the door open for her. He was suddenly quite glad that he had decided to keep this appointment after all.
    The Earl gave his full attention to his horses until he had maneuvered through the press of traffic and had entered the gates of Hyde Park. All at once it seemed as if the noise and bustle of London were left behind, and Penelope stared about her with delight at the cool stretches of green grass, the grazing cows and deer, and the huge old trees.
    The Earl slowed his horses to a leisurely amble and then, turning to his companion asked, “And how are you enjoying your Season, Miss Vesey?”
    “I am not really having a Season,” said Penelope thoughtfully. “It seems that we are not