Promise Me Tomorrow

“I promise.” Marianne said her goodbyes and continued on her way to the lending library.

PENELOPE TURNED AND HURRIED OFF toward her grandmother’s house. She knew that her mother would not be well pleased at her making friends with someone she barely knew, and she did not want to make it worse by arriving late.

Rushing into the drawing room of her grandmother’s house, however, she found her mother in a pleasant mood. Lady Ursula smiled at Penelope, saying, “There you are, dear. My goodness, you look quite flushed. These girls…” She flashed a coy look across the room at the two men who had stood up when Penelope entered the room. “Always running about, looking at frills and geegaws.”

Penelope, following her mother’s gaze, understood Lady Ursula’s mellow attitude. Lord Lambeth and Lord Buckminster had come to call on her grandmother, the Countess of Exmoor, and while Lady Ursula dismissed Bucky as a “fribble,” she, like most of the other women in Society, was dazzled by Lord Lambeth. Penelope groaned inwardly. Frankly, Lord Lambeth made her a trifle ill at ease, and she was certain that he had absolutely no interest in her, despite her mother’s fond hopes regarding London’s most eligible bachelor. Though he was polite to her, the only reason he called on them was because he was friends with Bucky.

“Actually, I was getting a book from the lending library,” Penelope corrected her.

Lady Ursula frowned at her horribly. “Now, dear, you don’t want the gentlemen thinking you’re a bluestocking, do you?”

“I’m sure I don’t know why she should care.” The Countess spoke up for the first time. “Any man worth having admires a woman with a brain. Isn’t that right, Lord Lambeth?”

“But of course, my lady,” Justin replied smoothly. “After all, look how much you are admired.”

The Countess laughed. She was a tall, regal woman whom age had bent only a little, and it was clear that she had been a beauty when she was younger. “You are such a flatterer, Lord Lambeth. Fortunately, you are quite good at it.” She turned to her granddaughter. “Come here, child, and give me a kiss and show me what book you got.”

Penelope did as she was bid, kissing the Countess’s cheek and dropping onto the low stool beside her chair. While the Countess took her book from her hand and examined it, Penelope decided that it was better to get her news out now while her mother’s protestations would be tempered by the fact that Lord Lambeth was present.

“I met Mrs. Cotterwood while I was out,” she began.

Both Buckminster and Lambeth straightened at her announcement.

“Did you?” Buckminster asked admiringly. “By Jove, I might have known you would be the one who’d know how to find her. You always were a downy one.”

At his words, Lambeth turned and looked at him consideringly. “Were you trying to find her, then?”

“Well, I—that is—” Color rose in Buckminster’s cheeks. Finally he said, “Thought Nicola would probably want to invite her to her little soiree on Friday. You know. Have to send an invitation.”

“Ah. I see.” Justin thought that he did see, indeed. It was rare for his friend to be so interested in a woman. That certainly complicated the matter a bit. He glanced over at Penelope and saw that she, too, was watching Bucky, a wistful look on her face. He wondered what she made of it.

“Who?” Lady Ursula demanded. “Who is this Mrs. Cotterwood?”

“You know, Mama, the lady we met last night at the party. That woman you know, Mrs. Willoughby, introduced us.”

“I scarcely know Mrs. Willoughby—encroaching woman! I doubt that any friend of hers is someone we want to know.”

“Perhaps she is no more a friend of Mrs. Willoughby’s than you are,” Penelope suggested.

Her mother’s eyes narrowed, somewhat suspicious that Penelope in her quiet way was making game of her. But Lord Buckminster said seriously, “There you go. Probably Mrs. Willoughby was encroaching to her, too. Mrs. Cotterwood is perfectly respectable, I’m sure.”

Lady Ursula’s pursed mouth made clear her opinion of Lord Buckminster’s ability to judge respectability. She turned toward Lord Lambeth. “Is she known to your family, Lord Lambeth?”

“Oh, yes,” Justin replied easily. “I’ve been acquainted with Mrs. Cotterwood for some time.”

Penelope shot him a grateful look as Lady Ursula remarked, somewhat reluctantly, “I suppose that she is all right, then.”

“I invited her to call on us,” Penelope went on, pressing her point.

“Without asking me first?”

“Well, you were not there,” Penelope pointed out reasonably, “and I quite liked her.”

“Are you going to call on her, Pen?” Lord Buckminster asked, blithely unaware of Lady Ursula’s disapproving look at his use of Penelope’s nickname. “I would be happy to escort you.”

“I’m afraid I cannot. I don’t know where she lives,” Penelope confessed. “She did not tell me, and I didn’t think to ask.”

Buckminster’s face fell so ludicrously that Lambeth had to smother a laugh.

“Who is she?” the Countess asked. “Have I met her?”

“I don’t think so, Grandmama. She is very nice—and she’s beautiful, as well.”

“Ah. A rare combination, to be sure.” Lady Exmoor smiled at her granddaughter.

“Yes. But that isn’t even the best part. She likes to read. We had a nice chat about books. She had read this one I borrowed, and she said it was thrilling. In fact, that’s where I met her. I was coming from the lending library, and she was going to it.”

“I hope I shall meet her.” The Countess looked across at Lord Buckminster, who seemed to have sunk into a gloom, and Lord Lambeth, whose attention was focused on a tiny piece of lint he was picking from his trousers. “But I am afraid we are boring our visitors. Lord Buckminster came to see if we had had any word from Thorpe and Alexandra.”

“Oh! And have you?” Penelope’s interest was diverted.

“Yes. I got a letter from Alexandra this morning. They are still in Italy on their honeymoon—Venice now, it seems. She waxed quite ecstatic over the beauty of it, but she did say that they planned to come home shortly.”

“Good. I shall like to see her again.”

“Yes. I say, that will be bang-up,” Lord Buckminster agreed, abandoning his glumness. “Thorpe’s a good chap.” He paused. “Lady Thorpe, too, of course—well, what I meant was, not a chap, of course, but still—though I don’t know her all that well—I mean—”

“Yes, Bucky,” Lady Ursula stuck in blightingly. “I feel sure we all know what you meant to say.”

“Er—yes. Quite.” Buckminster subsided.

“I feel sure you will be very glad to have Lady Thorpe back, Lady Castlereigh,” Lord Lambeth said blandly to Ursula, observing her through half-closed lids.

The Countess smiled faintly and carefully avoided looking at her daughter. Lady Ursula colored. Most people in the ton knew how little she had believed that Alexandra Ward was her long-lost niece when the American heiress had arrived in London a few months ago, and how vigorously she had fought against the Countess’s accepting her as such. When finally it had been proved, she had given in with ill grace.

“Of course I will,” she told Lord Lambeth, reproof tinting her voice. “Now that I am sure that Alexandra is really Chilton’s child, I am fond of her, as I am of everyone in my family.”

“Naturally.” Given the fact that he had never seen any evidence of true fondness from Lady Ursula toward her daughter or son, Lambeth supposed that perhaps she was as fond of Alexandra as she was of others in her family.

He did not know all the facts of the case, not being close friends with the family or Lord Thorpe. However, ample gossip had passed around the ton this Season for him to know that the Countess’s son, Lord Chilton, and his French-born wife had been visiting in France at the outbreak of the revolution twenty-two years earlier. They and their three children had been reported dead, killed by the mob. This spring, at the beginning of the Season, an American woman had shown up in London and had somehow proved that she was in reality Lord Chilton’s youngest child. It had ended with the long-lost heiress marrying Lord Thorpe. The whole story, in Lambeth’s opinion, sounded like something out of a lurid novel of the sort Penelope professed to enjoy.

Lambeth’s purpose in persuading Buckminster to call on Penelope and her family had been accomplished. He had not found out the secretive Mrs. Cotterwood’s location, but he had discovered all that was to be gotten out of Penelope. It would be enough, he reasoned. A book lover—not what he had expected of that redheaded temptress—would return to the same lending library. A servant set to watch the place would soon find out where she lived.

Accordingly, Lambeth took his leave, having no wish to endure Lady Ursula’s presence any longer than was absolutely necessary. As soon as the front door closed behind him and Lord Buckminster, Lady Ursula turned on her daughter, scowling.

“Really, Penelope! Did you have to go on about those silly novels? One would think you could have made a little effort to impress Lord Lambeth.”

“Oh, Mama, Lord Lambeth has no interest in me,” Penelope replied, flushing with embarrassment. “I wish you would not say such things.”