Chapter 22
The Right Honourable the Viscount Alworth.
My Lord,
Pray forgive me. I never meant any of this. If you only knew—
Alworth,
I do miss your friendship! Your company and anecdotes, your smile—
Dear Alworth,
This is terrible. I am a girl now, and Charlotte Wentwood is dragging me to every single social event! I don’t have a single minute to myself. The women gossip, and the men ogle me like a piece of flesh for sale on the market. They are all pig-widgeons. I keep looking for you, but you are never there. Marcus isn’t, either. You’re right, he’s not worthy of a guardian, a friend – and I hate him! I’ve taken your friendship for granted, and I am so, so sorry! I wish we could meet so I could tell you—
Dear Archie,
Please, please, please don’t marry that terrible Miss Letty Mountroy.
She has translucent eyes like a fish, and she lisps.
Pen crumpledup the paper and threw the fourteenth ball of paper into the fireplace and watched it burn to a crisp.
The Whittlesborough ball was tonight, and she was a nervous wreck.
Somehow, she had to accomplish the impossible.
She had to attend as both Pen and Penelope!
How on earth was she to accomplish that?
She’d heavily bribed a footman to take her bag with her men’s clothes and hide it under a bush in the Whittlesborough’s garden. Somehow, she’d have to sneak out, find the bag, and transform herself to Pen, meet Alworth and explain.
As easy as pie.
Pen snorted. The hardest part may well be having to explain to Alworth.
Explain what?
She did not know what to explain, or how, but she felt down to the marrow of her bones that if she did not meet and talk to Alworth at the ball, she would lose his friendship forever.
She’d considered meeting him as Penelope. It would be the easiest solution. He would see her in her ballgown anyhow. But confront him in petticoats? The thought made her lose all courage. She had more self-confidence when she was the boy Pen. She’d known Alworth when wearing trousers. Ergo, it seemed fitting that she would have this last conversation with him in her disguise.
Something heavy lodged in her breast at the thought, and she could not identify what it was. It had been sitting there ever since they’d last talked, when she’d missed the opportunity to come clean with him. Ever since Alworth had looked at her in that odd way, as though he’d expected her to trust him, and she didn’t. It wasn’t disappointment, precisely. But a slight sadness. Like he hadn’t expected anything else from her to begin with.
The look had nearly killed her.
Pen chewed at the tip of her quill.
Trust. It was a two-edged sword. When you trust someone, it makes you vulnerable. She knew, deep down, that she could trust Alworth. So, why didn’t she?
Because she was afraid he’d treat her differently.
If she were a woman again, would he treat her like that terrible Miss Letty Mountroy? Look down on her with that patronising smile, not take her seriously? She would hate it if he ever treated her like that.
She’d seen them from a distance in Hyde Park in the morning.
“Oh look, there’s Alworth with his fiancée,” Charlotte had said, and pointed to a dashing sporting curricle that drove speedily along the avenue.
