Alworth threw Pen a meaningful look and stepped across the threshold.
The door closed in her face.
Pen walked over to the birch tree in front of the house and leaned against it, watching the door. She had to admit; she was relieved she didn’t have to enter that house. But would Alworth really look for the duke there? Could she really trust him?
She picked a piece of bark from the tree and chewed on it. She’d observed a stable boy do it once. It looked nonchalant, so she did the same. It tasted bitter. Pen spat it out.
Alworth was growing more and more of a mystery to her. At first, she’d thought he was a mere dandy. He insisted he lived the life of the superficial. Then why his solicitousness regarding her safety? Why his insistence on friendship? It seemed contradictory. Her feelings were contradictory, too. The pang of disappointment when he’d said he did not believe in love had surprised her. The feeling of shock when he’d announced he’d get married. Pen rubbed her forehead. What was she doing, thinking about Alworth, when she was supposed to be thinking about Marcus?
At that moment, the door opened, and Alworth stepped out. Barely ten minutes had passed.
She rushed up to him. “Is he there?”
Alworth shook himself, as if ridding himself of something distasteful. “No. He’s long gone.”
Her shoulders slumped. “What happened?”
“Madame Beaumont herself greeted me. She would not immediately tell me whether the duke was here. She was rather reticent, talked about protecting her customers, etcetera, etcetera. Then someone called for her, and she left me for several minutes. In the meantime, the peaky-looking girl who opened the door came into the room to serve drinks. It took her only a minute to tell me all about the duke –after I’d given her a bribe.”
“You bribed her! How clever of you.”
“The duke indeed had been here for the last several days. He’s a permanent customer, as good as living there. But with your kind of luck, he left shortly before we arrived.”
Pen looked at him in disbelief. “You’re roasting me.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “My dear Pen, why would I do that?”
Indeed. Why?
“I thought we’d established that you simply had to trust me in the matter. It turns out the duke took his, er, lady to a ridotto at Vauxhall gardens.”
Pen’s face brightened. She’d been with Marcus to Vauxhall once and enjoyed herself tremendously. There’d been concerts under the night sky, dancing, and fireworks.
“Let us go there right away.” She pulled Alworth to the carriage.
He groaned.
Vauxhall waseverything it promised to be. It was a pleasure garden accessible by boat. There were dancers and tightrope walkers, and a balloon that had begun to ascend. Strains of Handel hung in the air. In the centre was a Chinese pavilion, and beyond were the secret alleys and walks for amorous adventures, for which Vauxhall was so famous. Lampions hung between the trees, which would be lit by dusk.
Pen looked around, fascinated, her eyes sparkling saucers, her mouth pursed to an astonished O. She’d forgotten how magical the place was.
“Enjoying yourself?” Alworth watched her with amusement.
“What is that?” Pen pointed at a construct behind the orchestra.
“That is the Turkish tent. Shall we look at it?”
Alworth strolled over. It was supported by eight columns and was lavishly decorated with flowers and feathers. From its dome hung crystal chandeliers.
“I haven’t seen this before.” Pen marvelled at the structure. “At least, I don’t remember it.”
A party of people dined inside. A portly, well-dressed gentleman turned toward them and raised his quizzing glass. “Alworth! Well met. What good chance that you happen to pass by. Join us? Your friend as well, of course.” He nodded at Pen.
“Lord Mountroy,” Alworth introduced. “This is Pen Kumari.”
Pen gave a quick bow.
“Ah yes. I have heard of you. You hail from India? I myself have resided there for the past decade or so. Terribly hot, the weather. Not to mention the food. Alworth here won’t let that deter him. He is to take the passage himself soon, aren’t you?”
