The word “loan” hung uncomfortably in the air, and Selina looked as if she would have liked to comment on it. But she knew better than to come between sister and brother, so she remained silent. She was surprised when Penelope, instead of ignoring the subject as she usually did, addressed it.
“Iwillspeak to him,” Penelope spoke firmly. “I cannot continue to fund his wild habits. As for Uncle Bertie... I wish I had never allowed Mortimer to stay with him. Instead of being a sobering influence, he is making matters worse.”
Bertie was her mother’s brother and called himself an inventor. But his inventions never succeeded and never made any money, and now Mortimer was caught up in Bertie’s madcap schemes.
“I think that is for the best,” Selina replied cautiously.
She had been Penelope’s maid and companion for ten years and understood her better than anyone. When Penelope’s mother had died, Selina had agreed to come to live with Penelope in the house in Chelsea, where she resided as Lord Muir’s mistress. Selina had seen for herself the struggles of her young mistress and was glad when she left that life behind. It was just a pity Mortimer had battened himself on his sister. Selina knew Penelope still thought of him as the little boy she had comforted all those years ago, when he had wept for their lost parents, but he had grown into a most unpleasant young man.
“We have had a lucrative year so far,” Penelope was saying. “There were the two Hanbury sisters who could barely manage a curtsy.”
“Mill owner’s daughters,” Selina said disparagingly. “You whipped them into shape in no time.”
Penelope smiled with satisfaction and tapped a fingertip onThe Timeswhich lay on the table in front of her. “I was just reading that one of them is now engaged to a titled gentleman.”
“Let’s hope she does not keep you a secret.”
“And then there was the Fotheringham boy. Remember how he blushed every time he saw a girl and stammered when he asked one to dance? His mother sent me a very nice note when he excelled at Almack’s.”
“You worked miracles,” Selina agreed proudly. “You always do.”
Penelope looked pleased with herself, the worry line between her brows vanishing now they had moved away from talk of her wretched brother. “I do, don’t I, Selina?”
“This new client we are waiting on is a duke’s son, is that right? Does he have a title?”
“Indeed he does. He is the Marquess of Morven. Although no title will help him if he keeps attacking table decorations.” She drew her shawl closer about her and gave the hearth a longing look. The fire had dwindled to a mere flicker.
Selina took her cue and went to the basket and began to add more coal. Immediately, the fire began to smoke badly, the room filling with the putrid clouds. She tried to remove the coal she had just added, to remedy the problem, but it was the chimney that was at fault. Selina was coughing now, and so was Penelope, holding her shawl to her mouth.
“Why didn’t I have the chimney cleaned last week when I had the chance?” she cried. The sweep had come to the door, but she had been economizing and sent him away again.
“Because Mortimer needed some money to buy a part for the latest invention,” Selina muttered under her breath, and then coughed violently as she breathed in more smoke.
Just then, the door knocker banged loudly from the street below.
Selina wailed. “Is that him? Whatever shall we do?”
Penelope wafted a hand in front of her face. “Let him in, of course! Hurry, Selina, before he goes away.”
Selina set off at a quick trot, and a moment later Penelope heard voices, one of them deep and Scottish. It was him. She tried to wave some of the smoke away with her copy ofThe Times, but it did little to clear the air.
Heavy footsteps on the stairs and then there he was. The Marquess of Morven. Tall and broad shouldered with wild dark hair. And handsome, good God, so very handsome. Her eyeswidened, watery though they were, and she gave another little cough.
After one swift glance around the room, the marquess strode to the window and thrust it open. Then he went to the fireplace and proceeded to rectify the smoking fire by putting it out completely. As he knelt on the hearth, Penelope had the chance to take a good look at him. He was tall, yes, and broad across the shoulders, but his jacket did not fit him at all well, and the pantaloons he was wearing bagged about the knees. He would have looked much smarter if he were dressed by a reputable tailor. His boots were shiny, there was that, but as he rose to his feet and turned, wiping his sooty hands on his thighs, she could see his necktie was badly arranged, despite the rather nice sapphire pin securing it.
His eyes were brown, the light tea shade of brown she had always admired, and his dark hair was too long and too untidy. He looked as if when he got up this morning, his valet—if he had one—had not bothered to even attempt to make him look presentable.
“You need your chimney cleaned, mistress,” he announced, his voice deep.
“I know.”
He cocked a dark brow at her.
“Never mind that,” she said briskly. She was standing, but she had to look up at him, because he was at least a foot taller than her. “You are the Marquess of Morven, I presume?”
“I am,” he said.
She waited for him to bow or take her hand, but he stood and stared down at her like he had all the time in the world. Hmm, there was work to be done here, and work meant she would be paid. Again, she admitted to herself how desperately she needed the money.
