“Honestly!” she huffed. “You’d think he’d at leastattemptto observe propriety while Thaddeus is under this roof... I’ll go down once I dress.”
Carefully she wound her hair into the tightest knot yet. It pulled from her nape, from her forehead, from the place behind her ears.
A quarter hour later, she approached the drawing room ready to face Lord Thomas armed with a riding habit, a stiffened spine, and a furious scowl.
The couple in question were already speaking in low tones, though she would not have been able to understand them even if they were shouting.
She spoke only the most basic French.
She recognized the petite, thin-but-amply endowed form of the widow staying with the vicar, still dressed and heavily veiled in grey.
The widow stamped her foot. Lord Thomas reddened. The widow made a slashing gesture with her arm. Thomas grabbed her by the shoulder and then tossed aside her veil. The widow smacked him hard across the face.
Pen gasped. Lord Thomas and the widow turned in unison.
The widow’s face was beyond beautiful. She had naturally puckered lips painted a deep, unnatural red. Her thin brows delicately arched, and she had chiseled cheekbones and eyes so vividly green their color was unmistakable.
Sin.
The widow possessed a face carefully sculpted for sin.
The widow lifted her lips into something akin to a smile, but smaller and more knowing, as if she were as fully aware of Pen’s secrets as she was her own. Then, she arranged the veil back over her face.
Penelope blinked to recover her balance.
“Forgive me,” the widow said in her indistinct accent. “I beg your pardon. I have a...loose temper.”
Thomas huffed and looked away. “Among other things.”
“Forgive my intrusion,” she continued. “We arrived early and did not wish to disturb the vicar. I was on business in London. Your cousin recognized me and was thoughtful enough to bring me home.”
In a carriage? “London is more than a day’s drive.” Travel to London wasfareasier in a boat.
“Oui.”
A moment passed before Pen realized the widow had merely agreed.
“Perhaps, Lady Cheverley,” the widow asked, “you would accompany me back to the vicar’s?”
Madame LaVoie.
She exhaled as she remembered the widow’s name.
Lord Thomas’s glance to the widow spoke volumes—volumes Pen could not decipher. Clearly, however, he did not wish Pen to comply.
“Of course,” Pen replied.
“Lord Thomas,” the widow practically purred, “you are no longer needed.”
Madame LaVoie glided across the floor, and then took Pen’s arm with a firm grip. Pen strode quickly, following through the hall, out the front door, and down the steps.
Then, Madame LaVoie climbed into Lord Thomas’s carriage and settled in beside the window. She rapped on the front as if she owned the conveyance and employed the coachman.
“You, too, are, I understand, a widow.”
Something about the way she said widow set Penelope’s teeth on edge.
“So,” the madame continued, “you understand a widow’s...particular needs.”
