Chapter 8
Pen was sleeping, her head dug into her pillow, and she dreamt of Alworth. Even in her sleep, she was irked. She wanted to dream of Marcus. Instead, here was Alworth. The sun glinted in his blond hair, and he smiled in a way that turned her insides into jelly. He bent down and kissed her, and even though it was a dream kiss, she felt a mix of contradictory emotions. She was elated on one hand, on the other outraged. How dare he? And for that matter, how dare she? She’d vowed she’d only ever kiss one man, and that was not Alworth. So how dare he kiss her, even in a dream?But dear me, he kissed so well.So she allowed it to go on.
Until someone knocked on the door.
Pen tangled herself up in her sheets and crashed on the hard floor.
Another rap on her door.
“Who is it?” Her voice was thick with sleep.
“Alworth.”
Sweet heavens. What was he doing here? Had he just materialised from her dreams? She looked around, panicked. She wore her nightshirt, and her clothes were sprinkled all over the floor.
“I–uh. I am sleeping!” She pulled on her trousers and hopped around on one leg.
“Open up, Pen.”
“I’m not even dressed, yet.”
“Tell your valet to hurry.”
“I don’t have a valet,” she muttered.
“Eh? I thought I heard you say you don’t have a valet. Say, Pen, can you open the door? Deuced uncomfortable to be conversing with you through this wood. ’Tis not the most salubrious of hallways, either. I think I just saw a rodent flit down the corridor.”
She’d bandaged her breasts hastily and dragged a shirt over her head. Stuffing it into her trousers, she padded barefoot over the door, kicking random items of clothing under the bed. Her room was a disaster, but there was Alworth waiting outside.
He’d think it odd if she didn’t open. She couldn’t just let him stand out there, either.
After dragging her hand through her hair once, twice, she decided it would do. She opened the door.
Alworth had his knuckles raised for another knock. “Ah. Here you are.” He let his eyes drift over the room and lifted an eyebrow. “Your valet?”
“Don’t have one. I’m ready. Let’s go.” Pen hopped on one leg as she attempted to pull on a boot on the other.
But Alworth was in no hurry. He stepped into the room and closed the door.
“But my dear, dear boy.” He pinched his nose with forefinger and thumb. “There are no words. This is a hovel.” He lifted the dingy curtains with his cane to reveal dirt-smeared window panes. “Couldn’t you have procured better—and cleaner—lodgings in the Albany, mayhap?”
“No. Anyway, it’s none of your—”
“—business,” they finished together.
He tapped his cane on the floor and frowned. “I find it extraordinarily irresponsible of your guardian to have left you to your devices like this. Especially if he was present at the opera last night.” He shook his head. “Are you still in the frame of mind that it was him?”
Pen nodded. “Most definitely. I would recognise him anywhere.”
“So you’ve said,” he murmured. “And yet, given your–shall we say–affection for him—he seems inordinately, if not inexcusably, absent.”
Pen sat down on her rumpled bed unhappily. “I know,” she whispered.
“Let us approach this matter factually. Based on what evidence are you even certain he is in London? Surely you must have something, anything, some sort of communication, a missive that would indicate his whereabouts?”
Pen hung her head. “He doesn’t like to write. But—” her head snapped up. She got up and pulled out a folded missive from a drawer. “I have this.”
Alworth held out his hand.
