The Determined Lord Hadleigh

Then, unprompted and in a tumbled rush, she had begun to reel off what she had seen and heard which she had thought suspicious. Things she had neglected to mention the first time he had interrogated her fresh from her husband’s arrest, doubtless because she didn’t dare say a word against him then in fear of his retribution. Hadleigh had had no intention of calling her to the stand for precisely that reason—wives, even grossly abused ones, rarely turned against their husbands or even testified at all—so her sudden extensive and embellished testimony surprised him.

The guards in the cellars, the menacing servants who watched her every move and reported it back to her spouse, the odd messages which arrived at the house at odder hours which Penhurst always burned after reading, the new and endless supply of money that he spent like water. Most significant were the dates she freely shared. Dates when her husband had been home which coincided with the same dates the Excise Men had recorded sightings of smuggling ships on the Sussex coastline. Dates Hadleigh had already appraised the court of during this significant and well-discussed trial. All in all, it had been a damning testimony, an incredibly detailed and courageous one, and one he was of the opinion she had come to the court room determined to share despite being a named from the outset as a witness for the defence.

Lady Penhurst was a very brave woman.

As a reward, she was subjected to the most spiteful rebuttal from both her vile husband and the defence that Hadleigh had ever heard in all his years in the courtroom. Horrendous mudslinging which highlighted the gross disparity between the law for men and the law for women. He had been reprimanded by the judge for bringing up the way she was beaten by her husband, but that same judge had blithely ignored all Hadleigh’s objections to her haranguing because the court deserved to know what sort of a woman the witness was before they chose to believe her.

She was a liar. Who had lain with a succession of men for money. Deranged. Cold and frigid. A drunkard. Unfit to be a mother. Throughout the litany, she had stood proudly, her clasped hands shaking slightly, her expression pained but defiant. Grace in the face of the contemptible. He admired that, too.

By the end, Hadleigh hated his profession and himself more for not adequately defending her, even though it was neither his place nor his job to do so. But as it had been his intrusive questions she had answered with more detail than he could have possibly dreamed of, he knew she was suffering this contemptible onslaught thanks to him. Knew, too, that she had helped him by hammering the last few nails into Penhurst’s already rotten coffin regardless of the inevitable cost to herself.

As she left the witness box, she held her head high, but her eyes had dimmed. He knew it wasn’t the first time she had been whittled down and belittled by his sex. He’d seen that same expression many times and, while he could never ignore it, he had played along with his mother and pretended he hadn’t seen it. That nothing was amiss. That all would be well. A flimsy lie that had never come to fruition. Oh! To be able to turn back time and do things differently...

Hadleigh couldn’t shift his immense sense of guilt and shame throughout his closing arguments, although bizarrely that painful, niggling, unprofessional emotion made them sound stronger than any closing speech he had ever made before. Perhaps because he had argued for her. Used his voice in an arena where she had none. Treason aside, more than anything he now wanted Penhurst to pay for what he had done to the quietly proud and stoic woman sat all alone in the gallery.

Then the jury were sent to huddle in a private room to discuss their verdict, away from the circus in the gallery. They came back unanimous in less than ten short minutes.

Guilty.

Of high treason.

Her face had blanched then. Her blue eyes filling with tears and for the first time she stared down at her lap as her husband was dragged screaming from the court. He had hoped she didn’t regret her part in the verdict. It had been small, but largely insignificant, because Hadleigh had done his job well. But then he had no emotional attachment to Penhurst, so could regard the man’s inevitable demise through a detached and pragmatic lens. For her, there would be complicated ramifications as well as the release from her suffering. Penhurst had fathered her child and been her husband. There were many in society who would judge her unfairly and she was unlikely to ever be welcomed within its hypocritical ranks again thanks to the sins she had not committed but which branded her nevertheless.

While the judge retired for the night to consider the punishment, she had left the court alone as always and gone who knew where, not realising that more machinations far out of his sphere of control would occur before morning which would make her future life undeservedly more impossible than it already was.

Hadleigh learned it had been a reporter for one of the scandal sheets who had blithely informed her that her husband’s title and estate had been transferred back to the Crown, his ill-gotten fortune and all his assets seized. It was a petty act of revenge as far as Hadleigh was concerned, designed to put the fear of God into his yet unknown co-conspirators. A stark reminder of what a traitor could expect for his crimes against England and its King even in this enlightened day and age. But Penhurst’s infant son was no traitor and nor was the child’s abused mother, yet now both of them would also pay for his crimes and for much longer than the crooked Viscount would. Their entire lives had been ruined with one vengeful stroke of a pen.

That was not his concern.

Or at least it shouldn’t be. But looking at her now, sat all alone in the gallery waiting to hear her violent and odious husband’s fate, he found he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her or not feel partly responsible for all she was about to suffer. Not a single family member had accompanied her on her daily trips to the court. Nor had a single family member leapt to her defence in any of the hundreds of newspaper stories that made outrageous and wild accusations. Was that because they had disowned her or because she had wanted to do this alone? Or perhaps she was alone? And why the blazes should he care about this woman when he had brought many a criminal to justice and not given two figs about any of their family, when the family were ultimately irrelevant when justice needed to be done?

While pretending to study a document in front of him, he found his gaze wandering back to her hands. As usual, they were buried in her dull skirt, out of sight. Her outfit today was austere, as they all had been this last week, but he noticed that, even though she was seated, the brown spencer hung from her frame. She had lost weight. Rapidly, if he was any judge, and the dark circles beneath her eyes were testament to the insomnia she had clearly suffered in the few scant weeks since her husband’s arrest. How would she sleep after today? Would she ever sleep again?

That was not his concern!

She wasn’t his responsibility and neither was her child. Doubtless someone would crawl out of the woodwork and take them in. If she had any sense, she would move to the opposite end of the country and change her name. Perhaps he should tell her as much once this was all over?

He sensed her looking at him and realised he had been openly staring. He schooled his features into the bland, emotionless mask he always wore and allowed his eyes to meet hers unrepentant. There was something about Lady Penhurst’s eyes which disarmed him and called to him in equal measure. He found he wanted to keep looking at them, as if within their sapphire-blue depths was something he needed, except the inexplicable guilt which had sat heavily on his shoulders for days got the better of him and he hastily looked away.

Not that he had anything in this instance to be guilty about. Penhurst was a traitor. He had robbed the Crown of taxes, as a minion of the infamous and still-unidentified mastermind known only as The Boss, he had willingly consorted with England’s worst enemies and had blood on his hands. Lots of blood. Too many innocent men had died thanks to that smuggling ring and it was hardly his fault the evidence had been so plentiful and compelling the man had got his rightful comeuppance. Hadleigh had no earthly reason to feel guilty at doing his job well. None whatsoever.

So why did he? Those eyes perhaps?

‘All rise.’

Putting his misplaced guilt and odd mood aside, he stood with the rest of the chamber and forced his gaze to remain fixed on the judge as he entered. The judge sat and so did the rest of the chamber, while Penhurst was brought in to hear the sentence. He appeared terrified and rightly so, his eyes darting around the room nervously while the whole indictment was read. Then, as Hadleigh and most of the baying crowd had expected, the clerk placed the black-silk square atop his wig as an eerie hush settled over the room.

Hadleigh’s gaze flicked to her and she was ashen, those lovely eyes swirling with emotion, his heart lurching painfully at the sight. All he could think of was what she might be thinking and what in God’s name was to become of her. No husband. No home. No money. None of it her fault.

Professional detachment be damned! Once the judge was done he would offer some help. He wouldn’t leave her all alone to be fed to the wolves today. He would escort her home. Give her money. A chance to start afresh. Something—anything—to make his misguided conscience feel better.

‘William Henry Ashley, formally the Viscount Penhurst and the Baron of Scarsdale, the court doth order you to be taken from hence to the place from whence you came, and thence to the place of execution, and that you be hanged by the neck until you are dead, and that your body be afterward buried within the precincts of the prison in which you shall be confined after your conviction. And may the Lord have mercy upon your soul.’

‘No!’ Penhurst broke free of his guards, scrambled over the dock and lunged at the bench. Instinctively, Hadleigh stepped forward to stop him and the Viscount’s fingers gripped his robe with all his might. ‘I’ll tell you everything I know. Everything!’ The genuine fear in the man’s expression was visceral. ‘You have the power to appeal! To respite my sentence! Transport me. Imprison me. Flog me. Do whatever you see fit, but surely I am more use to you alive than I am dead?’

Around them, the gallery had jumped to their feet and surged forward to get a better view. It took two clerks and four men to restrain the panicked Penhurst and several minutes to drag him kicking and howling from the melee of the court room before order was resumed. By the time it was, her chair was empty. The ruined, twisted handkerchief lying crumpled on the floor, still damp from her tears.

Chapter One (#u0381e7aa-4e2f-5590-ac52-8eb74b0ad354)

Cheapside—five months later

‘You are mistaken, Mr Palmer. I promise you I haven’t yet paid the account. I came in here today specifically to pay the account.’ Penny once again held out the money the pawnbroker had given her for her mother’s jade brooch only minutes before.

The shopkeeper smiled kindly, but made no attempt to take it. ‘’Tis all paid, Mrs Henley. In full.’ He turned around the ledger and pointed to the balance. ‘There is no mistake, I can assure you.’ His eyes wandered over to another woman in the corner who seemed perfectly content examining the rolls of ribbon all by herself. ‘If there’s nothing else I can help you with, Mrs Henley, I’d best see to my other customers.’

‘But I didn’t pay you, Mr Palmer!’

‘Somebody did, because it’s been noted down and I shan’t be taking the money twice. That wouldn’t be honest now, would it? And I pride myself on my honesty. Spend it on that little lad of yours, eh? I dare say he needs something. Growing boys always need something.’ He closed his ledger decisively. ‘Will there be anything else you need, Mrs Henley?’

He didn’t strike her as a stupid man, but it was obvious he was a stubborn one and too proud to admit his error. Perhaps his wife would be more accommodating? ‘Please send my regards to Mrs Palmer. I had hoped to see her today.’ She cast a glance over his shoulder to the little anteroom beyond the counter. ‘Unless she’s here so I can do so in person?’ The shopkeeper’s wife was meticulous and would find a way to gently correct her husband’s blatant accounting mistake.

‘She’s gone off to visit our daughter and the grandchildren, I’m afraid. I shall pass on your regards when she returns next week.’

Not wanting to argue further in public, Penny decided to come back then and attempt to pay her debt to the Palmers’ shop. She said her goodbyes and, mindful of the time, walked briskly up King Street to the home of her landlord, Mr Cohen, fully intending to pay in advance for her next month’s rent, only to find that, too, had been paid. Unlike the cheerful shopkeeper, Mr Cohen was a humourless individual who didn’t like to waste words.

‘I tell you it’s been paid, Mrs Henley. A full twelve months’ rent!’

‘But that is impossible! I haven’t paid you.’ But the coincidence was not lost on her and she found her teeth grinding at the suspicion as to who might have. ‘Who paid it?’

‘That I can’t say. Nor will I, as much as I don’t like it. Your benefactor wants to remain anonymous.’

‘Benefactor?’

The old man scowled and shook his head. His rheumy eyes burning with accusation. ‘That’s what I’ll call him for now, Mrs Henley—because he assured me he wasn’t your fancy man and I choose to think the best of my tenants, no matter how new they are to me or how implausible their stories.’

‘Fancy man?’ Penny didn’t need to hide her outrage at the suggestion. ‘I can assure you...’ The old man rudely held up his hand.

‘And I can assure you, rent or no rent, I’ll toss you out on your ear if I get so much as one whiff that he is. I won’t tolerate any scandal in one of my buildings, Mrs Henley—if indeed you are or have ever been a Mrs. If you hadn’t been vouched for personally by Mr Leatham, I never would have accepted you in the first place. I wonder what he’d have to say about a strange man paying a year’s worth of rent?’

An interesting question indeed. Exactly what would Seb Leatham have to say? He was a man of few words, but one used to blending into the background and doing covert things behind the scenes. Never mind that he would walk on hot coals if Clarissa asked him to.

Suddenly, a nasty suspicion began to bloom in her mind. This was all a little too contrived and convenient. Less than twenty-four hours before she had had a disagreement with Clarissa, the only friend she had left in the world and wife to the aforementioned Seb Leatham. It had been about her decision to seek employment somewhere as a governess or housekeeper or some such to make ends meet which had so thoroughly outraged Clarissa. She had been very vocal on the subject before she had backed down. Her friend had claimed she respected Penny’s decision even if she did not agree with it. Yet now, by some miracle, her rent and her household accounts were miraculously all settled by a mysterious benefactor. Twelve months gratis in Cheapside kept her close enough so her well-meaning friend could continue to keep an eye on her and Penny would have no need to sully her poor, pathetic hands with work in the interim.

‘I insist you give the money back whence it came, Mr Cohen! I’ll pay my own rent, thank you very much.’ She wasn’t that pathetic woman any longer. As much as she had grown to hate her husband, she had hated the woman she had been during their marriage more. A scared, spineless and stupid girl who had ignored everyone’s cautionary words about the man she had set her heart on marrying who had lived to rue the day. Oh! How she had hated being powerless and subservient, and because it went against the grain of her character she was determined to be a different woman now. She was neither worthless nor useless. Nor would she be beholden.

Because accepting charity and feeling beholden allowed others the opportunity to control her life and she was done with all that. How was keeping her in Cheapside any different from keeping her in Penhurst Hall? And just because her friends meant well, that didn’t give them the right to use their wealth secretively to get their own way. After three interminable years of being powerless and controlled, the only person who had any say about her life now was her son, Freddie. As he was still unable to talk, there was nobody else who held that power.

To prove her point, Penny began rummaging in her reticule for the money. What was the matter with working for a living anyway? Perhaps such a prospect daunted an aristocratic woman like Clarissa, but it didn’t faze Penny. She had come from trade, spent her formative years working within it and had enjoyed every second. Her mother and father had worked all their lives with her on their knee. Why, her father had built his business from scratch, from the ground up, and those same principles of hard work and honest enterprise were as ingrained in her as good manners. There was no shame in honest labour and she wouldn’t be deterred from finding a way to stand on her own two feet after everything she had endured. After three years she was finally free and intended to remain so. Making her own living, living her own life, was something she was looking forward to rather than dreading and just as her dear parents had, she would find a way to make it work around Freddie. A fresh, clean slate that left her shameful past firmly in the past.