Free Penelope by MC Beaton

triumphant smile on the other’s face.
    Charles waited impatiently until the footman had withdrawn and then said, “The day of reckoning has come, my dear de Chernier. I am here to pay back every penny I owe you!”
    “Nonsense, dear boy,” said the Comte, cleaning his nails with an orange stick, “I would not dream of taking it from you.”
    “
What
!” The smile was wiped from Charles’s face. “But you gave your word. You gave your word as a de Chernier.”
    “So I did,” said the Comte languidly, “and I hope the de Cherniers appreciate it—or their headless ghosts rather. If I have it right, the complete line of de Chernier died out under the guillotine.”
    “You are an impostor,” said Charles, his face turning ashen.
    “That, yes, and a few other things too tedious to mention,” said the Comte, throwing down the orange stick and standing up.
    “What is your real name?”
    “None of your business, dear Charles. Come now! Enact me no Haymarket tragedies. This is real life. What is a country after all? What is patriotism? A myth. I work for money and so should you.”
    Charles thrust his hand into the pocket of his frock coat and drew out a pistol which he pointed at the Comte’s head with a trembling hand.
    “Oh, go ahead and blow my brains out if you must,” sneered the Comte. “But my papers will be examined after my death and your name is mentioned in them. Believe me. It is very much to your interest to keep me alive. Come now, only two months and you will be free.”
    Charles let the pistol fall and sank into a chair with a groan and buried his head in his hands. “Two months! I don’t think I can live through another hour of it.”
    “You will, you will,” said the Comte indifferently. “And now, dear boy, this is what I want you to do…”
    “If my brother ever finds out,” interrupted Charles, beginning to cry in a hopeless, dreary way, “he’ll kill me. Anyway, Augusta Harvey knows about it. She was hiding behind that screen on the night of the Courtlands’ ball and heard every word.”
    The Comte’s eyes narrowed into slits, and he crossed the room in a few quick strides and shook the sobbing Charles until his teeth rattled. “She has been blackmailing you, yes? What does she want?”
    “She wants Roger to marry her nice. She wants to be accepted by society.”
    “
Vraiment
! And that is all this woman demands in return for her silence?”
    “Yes,” said Charles sulkily, wiping his streaming eyes on his sleeve.
    “Then I shall call on her,” said the Comte softly. She is dangerous… and must be removed.”
    Penelope and Miss Harvey had been invited to a party to be given at a Mrs. Skeffington’s villa that very evening. The villa was some way out of town on the Richmond Road with beautiful stretches of formal gardens running down to the brown and gray waters of the Thames.
    It was a glorious evening when they arrived accompanied by Miss Stride. The air was very still and sweet and heavy with the scents of summer. A Viennese orchestra was playing waltzes under the trees, and a blackbird, silhouetted against the pale green sky, added a glorious counterpoint to the lilting music.
    Penelope found herself trembling with anticipation. Perhaps
he
would be there. But one by one the guests arrived, and there was no sign of the tall figure of the Earl. She began to feel sad. Augusta was noisily and resentfully drinking tea, Miss Stride having forbidden her to touch anything stronger. Port wine had a nasty habit of bringing all Augusta’s horrible manners to the surface.
    “If you sit there all night with a long face, nobody’s going to look at you,” said Augusta sourly to Penelope. “What is more, God will never forgive you for passing up your opportunities. He’s like that, you know. He strikes the sinner with a bolt of lightning from on high. Don’t ever forget it, Penelope. I don’t,” she added moodily, alternately picking her teeth with a tired goose quill and