“And then there’s your third problem.” Hammond nodded at the window. “Just out there, on the green. Lady Penelope Campion.”
Gabe strolled to the window. She looked different this morning. Different, but no less pretty. The spring sunshine lent her fair hair a golden sheen, and a simple frock skimmed the contours of her tempting, graceful curves. Even from here, he could see her smile.
Lovely as she might be, she wasn’t Gabe’s usual sort. He wanted nothing to do with delicate, pampered misses possessing no knowledge of the world beyond Mayfair. They were painted china on a high shelf, and he was the bull charging through the shop.
All the more worrisome, then, that Lady Penelope was working her way under his skin.
He took another bite of his apple, snapping the crisp sweetness down to the core.
Gabe watched her move to the center of the green. In one gloved hand, she clutched a leash. The other end of the leash was attached to … something furry and brown that rolled.
“What is that?”
“That would be a mongrel with two lamed hind legs. Apparently, Her Ladyship’s friend devised a little chariot for his rear half, and the dog careens around the neighborhood like a yapping billiard ball. If you think that’s strange, wait until you see the goat.”
“Hold a moment. There’s a goat?”
“Oh, yes. She grazes it on the square every afternoon. Doesn’t precisely elevate the atmosphere of Bloom Square, now does it?”
“I see the problem.”
“I’m only getting started. Her Ladyship has single-handedly set us back a month on the improvements.” Hammond pulled a collection of letters from a folio. He held one aloft and read from it. “‘Dear Mr. Hammond, I must request that you delay completion of the parquet flooring. The fumes from the lacquer are dizzying the hens. Sincerely yours, Lady Penelope Campion.’”
He withdrew another. “‘Dear Mr. Hammond, I’m afraid your improvements to the mews must be temporarily halted. I’ve located a litter of newborn kittens in the hayloft. Their mother is looking after them, but as their eyes are not yet open, they should not be displaced for another week. Thank you for your cooperation. Gratefully yours, Lady Penelope Campion.’”
Gabe sensed a theme.
“Oh, and here’s my favorite.” Hammond shook open a letter and cleared his throat for dramatic effect. “‘Dear Mr. Hammond, if it is not too great an imposition, might I ask that your workers refrain from performing heavy labor between nine o’clock in the morning and half-three in the afternoon? Hedgehogs are nocturnal animals, and sensitive to loud noises. My dear Freya is losing quills. I feel certain this will concern you as much as it does me. Neighborly yours, Lady Penelope Campion.’” He tossed the folio of letters onto the table, where they landed with a smack. “Her hedgehog. Really.”
Outside, Her Ladyship coaxed her dog back toward the house, lifting both dog and cart up the few steps to her door. Gabe turned away from the window, rubbing his temples.
“The situation is untenable, and that makes the house unsellable. No one wants to live next to a barnyard. I’ve tried reasoning with her, but when it comes to those animals, she’s surprisingly tenacious.”
Tenacious, indeed. And sufficiently reckless to trespass in a house after midnight and recover a parrot from a near-naked stranger’s shoulder.
However, even that degree of tenacity had poor odds against sheer ruthlessness. Lady Penelope Campion had a softness for animals. Gabe had no softness at all.
“You make certain the work is done and bring in potential buyers.” Gabe tossed the apple core into the fireplace grate. “I’ll handle Lady Penelope Campion.”
By society’s standards, Penny was rather lacking in accomplishments. As the daughter of an earl, she’d been given the best possible education. Governesses fluent in three languages, a full two years at finishing school, then private tutors in art, music, dancing.
None of it seemed to take. She’d never found an instrument willing to give up a tune for her, no matter how she strummed, plucked, or begged it. She’d attained only marginal competence in sketching.
And dancing? Impossible.
Penny did, however, emerge from adolescence with unparalleled accomplishment in one pursuit.
Caring.
Nothing pleased her more than looking after those around her. Feeding them, warming them, protecting them, giving them a home. She doled out affection from an endless supply.
The only problem was, she was running out of people to claim it.
She had her family, of course. But first her parents had gone to India as diplomats. Her eldest brother, Bradford, lived in Cumberland with his wife and managed the family estate. Timothy, the middle child of their threesome, had joined the Royal Navy.
Still, she had the most wonderful friends. Never mind that the finishing school girls had scorned her. Penny welcomed the misfits of Bloom Square. Emma, Alexandra, Nicola. Together, they made the rounds of the bookshops, walked in the park, and gathered at her house for tea every Thursday.
Or at least they had done so, until her friends began to start families of their own. First, Emma’s marriage to the Duke of Ashbury had transformed from a convenient arrangement into passionate devotion. Next, Alex had bewitched London’s most infamous rake and became Mrs. Chase Reynaud. As for brilliant, inventive Nicola … ?
Penny scanned the note she’d just received, peering hard to make out the breathless scrawl of ink.
Can’t today. Biscuits burned. Breakthrough near. Next Thursday?
Love, N
Penny laid aside the charred scrap of paper and regarded the tray of sandwiches on the tea table, all trimmed of their crusts and ready for a gathering that wouldn’t take place.
Fortunately, in this house, food seldom went to waste.
Taking a sandwich, she crouched near to the floor and whistled. Bixby scampered down the corridor, his two front paws clicking over the floorboards and his lamed hind legs following right behind, rolling along in an ingenious chariot of Nicola’s design.
After several excited sniffs, the dog gave the crustless triangle a cautious lick.
“Go on,” she urged. “It’s a new recipe. You’ll like it.”
Just as Bixby sank his dart-point teeth into the sandwich, the doorbell rang. Penny rushed to answer it. At the last moment, she hesitated with her hand on the door latch.
Could it be him?
It wouldn’t be him, she told herself.
But what if it was?
Sensing
