Thank you for your continued interest and support. I appreciate it.
I do not own Merlin or the characters, neither do I own An Offer from A Gentleman.
LADY MIDDLETON'S SOCIETY PAPERS, 7 JUNE 1815
More than one masquerade attendee has reported to this author, that eligible bachelor Arthur Pendragon was seen in the company of an unknown lady, dressed in a red and silver gown.
Try as she might, this author has been completely unable to discern the mystery lady's identity. And if this author cannot uncover the truth, you may be assured that the mystery lady's identity is a well-kept secret indeed.
She was gone...
Arthur stood on the pavement in front of Pendragon House, surveying the street. All of Grosvenor Square was a mad crush of carriages. She could be in any one of them, just sitting there on the cobbles trying to escape the traffic.
Or she could be in one of the three carriages that had just escaped the tangle and rolled around the corner.
Either way, she was gone...
He was half-ready to strangle Lady Bradbury, who had jammed her cane onto his toe and insisted upon giving him her opinion on most of the party goers' costumes.
By the time he'd managed to free himself, his mystery lady had disappeared through the ballroom's side door.
And he knew that she had no intention of ever letting him see her again.
At that, he let out a low and rather viciously uttered curse.
With all the ladies his mother had trotted out before him...and there had been many...he'd never once felt the same soul-searing connection that had burned between him and the lady in red and silver.
From the moment he'd seen her...no, from the moment before he'd seen her, when he'd only just felt her presence...the air had been alive, crackling with tension and sheer excitement.
And he'd felt alive, too...
Alive in a way he hadn't felt for years, as if everything was suddenly new and sparkling and full of passion and dreams.
And yet...
Arthur cursed again, this time with a touch of regret.
And yet...he didn't even know the colour of her eyes. They definitely hadn't been blue. Of that much he was positive.
But in the dim light of the candled night, he'd been unable to discern whether they were actually brown or hazel or gray.
And for some reason, he found this the most upsetting.
It ate at him, leaving a burning, hungry sensation in the pit of his stomach.
They said eyes were the windows to the soul. And if he'd truly found the woman of his dreams, the one with whom he could finally imagine a family and a future, then by God he ought to know the colour of her eyes.
It wasn't going to be easy to find her...although she had a colouring that was a bit rare in these parts, though not uncommon.
But it was never easy to find someone who didn't want to be found.
And she'd made it more than clear that her identity was a secret. One she intended to keep.
His clues were paltry at best. A few dropped comments concerning Lady Middleton's column and...
Arthur looked down at the single glove still clutched in his right hand. He'd quite forgotten that he'd been holding it as he'd dashed through the ballroom.
He brought it to his face and inhaled its scent, but much to his surprise, it didn't smell of rosewater and soap, as had his mystery lady.
Rather, its scent was a bit musty, as if it had been packed away in an attic trunk for many years.
Odd, that.
Why would she be wearing an ancient glove?
He turned it over in his hand, as if the motion would somehow bring her back, and that was when he noticed a tiny bit of stitching at the hem.
HMW.
Someone's initials.
Were they hers?
And a family crest. One he did not recognize.
But his mother would. His mother always knew that sort of thing. And chances were, if she knew the crest, she'd know who the initials HMW belonged to.
For the first time since his mystery lady had disappeared from him, Arthur felt his first glimmer of hope.
He would find her.
He would find her, and he would make her his. It was as simple as that.
It took a mere half hour to return Gwen to her regular, drab state. She was back to looking what she was in truth...nothing more than a housemaid.
Gone were all traces of the fairy princess she'd been for one short evening.
Gone were the dress, the glittering earbobs and the fancy coiffure.
The jeweled slippers were tucked neatly back in the countess' closet and the rouge the maid had used for her lips was resting in its place on Victoria's dressing table.
She'd even taken five minutes to massage the skin on her face, to remove the indentations left by the mask.
Now, she looked as she always looked before bed...plain, simple and unassuming, her hair pulled into a loose braid and her feet tucked into warm stockings to keep out the chill of the night air.
And saddest part of all...
Gone was her fairy prince too.
Arthur Pendragon had been everything Gwen had read in Lady Middleton. Handsome, strong, debonair...
He was the stuff of a young girl's dreams.
'But not of my dreams,' she thought glumly.
A man like that didn't marry an earl's by-blow. And he certainly didn't marry a housemaid.
But for one night he'd been hers, and she supposed that would have to be enough.
She picked up a little stuffed dog she'd had since she'd been a small girl. She'd kept it all these years as a reminder of happier times.
It usually sat on her dresser, but for some reason, she wanted it closer right now.
She crawled into bed, the little dog tucked under her arm and curled up under the covers.
Then she squeezed her eyes shut, biting her lip as silent tears trickled onto her pillow.
It was going to be a long, long night...
"Do you recognize this?"
Arthur Pendragon was sitting next to his mother in her very feminine rose-and-cream drawing room, holding out his only link to the woman in red and silver.
Igraine Pendragon took the glove and examined the crest. She needed only a second before she announced,
"Penwood."
"As in Earl of?" Arthur asked.
She nodded.
"And the W would be for Worthington. The title recently passed out of their family, if I recall correctly. The earl died without issue. It must've been six or seven years ago. The title went to a distant cousin. And..." she added with a disapproving nod of her head, "...you forgot to dance with Phoebe Hanbury last night. You're lucky your brother was there to dance in your stead."
Arthur fought a groan and tried to ignore his mother's scolding.
"Who, then, is HMW?"
His mother's blue eyes narrowed.
"Why are you interested?"
"I don't suppose," he said on a groan. "That you could simply answer my question without posing one of your own."
She let out an un-ladylike snort.
"You know me far better than that."
Arthur just managed to stop himself from rolling his eyes.
"Who does the glove belong to, Arthur?" And then, when he didn't answer quickly enough for her taste, she added, "You might as well tell me everything. You know I will figure it out on my own soon enough. And it will be far less embarrassing for you if I don't have to ask any questions."
Arthur sighed. He was going to have to tell her everything. Or at least, almost everything.
There was little he enjoyed less than sharing such details with his mother...she tended to grab hold of any hope that he might actually marry and cling on to it with the tenacity of a barnacle.
But he had little choice.
Not if he wanted to find her.
"I met someone last night at the masquerade," he finally said.
His mother clapped her hands together with delight.
"Really?"
"She's the reason I forgot to dance with Phoebe."
His mother looked nearly ready to die of rapture.
"Who? One of Penwood's daughters?" She frowned. "No, that's impossible. He had no daughters. But he did have two stepdaughters." She frowned again. "Although I must say, having met those two girls.. well..."
"Well, what?" Arthur asked impatiently.
His mother's brow wrinkled as she fumbled for polite words.
"Well, I simply wouldn't have guessed you'd be interested in either of them, that's all. But if you are," she added, her face brightening considerably. "Then I shall surely invite the dowager countess over for tea. It's the very least I can do."
Arthur started to say something, then stopped when he saw that his mother was frowning yet again.
"What now?" he asked.
"Oh, nothing," she said. "Just that...well..."
"Spit it out, Mother."
She smiled weakly.
"Just that...I don't particularly like the dowager countess. I've always found her rather cold and ambitious."
"Some would say you're ambitious as well, Mother," he pointed out.
His mother pulled a face.
"Of course I have great ambition that my children marry well and happily. But I am not the sort who'd marry her daughter off to a seventy-year-old man just because he was a duke!"
"Did the dowager countess do that?" Arthur couldn't recall any seventy-year-old dukes making recent trips to the altar.
"No," his mum admitted. "But she would. Whereas I..."
Arthur bit back a smile as his mother pointed to herself with great flourish.
"I would allow my children to marry paupers if it would bring them happiness."
At that, he raised a brow.
"They would be well-principled and hardworking paupers, of course," she explained. "No gamblers need apply."
Arthur didn't want to laugh at his mother, so instead he coughed discreetly into his handkerchief.
"But you should not concern yourself with me," she said, giving her son a sideways look before punching him lightly in the arm.
"Of course I must," he said quickly.
She smiled serenely.
"I shall put aside my feelings for the dowager countess if you care for one of her daughters..." She looked up hopefully. "Do you care for one of her daughters?"
"I have no idea," Arthur admitted. "I never got her name. Just her glove."
His mother gave him a stern look.
"I'm not even going to ask how you obtained her glove."
"It was all very innocent, I assure you."
Her expression was dubious in the extreme.
"I have far too many sons to believe that," she muttered.
"The initials?" Arthur reminded her.
And she examined the glove again.
"It's rather old," she said.
He nodded.
"I thought so as well. It smelled a bit musty, as if it had been packed away for some time."
"And the stitches show wear," his mother commented. "I don't know what the M is for, but the H could very well be for Hannah. The late earl's mother, who has also passed on. Which would make sense, given the age of the glove."
Arthur stared down at the glove in his mother's hands for a moment before saying,
"As I'm fairly certain I did not converse with a ghost last night, who do you think the glove might belong to?"
"I have no idea. Someone in the Worthington family, I imagine."
"Do you know where they live?"
"At Penwood House, actually," his mum replied. "The new earl hasn't given them the boot yet. Don't know why. Perhaps he's afraid they'll want to live with him once he takes up residence. I don't think he's even in town for the season. Never met him myself."
"Do you happen to know..."
"Where Penwood House is?" she cut in. "Of course I do. It's not far, only a few blocks away."
She gave him directions, and Arthur, in his haste to be on his way, was already on his feet and halfway out the door before she finished.
"Oh, Arthur!" she called out, her smile very amused.
He turned around.
"Yes?"
"The countess' daughters are named Victoria and Penelope. Just in case you're interested."
Victoria and Penelope...
Neither seemed fitting for her, but what did he know?
Perhaps he didn't seem a proper Arthur to people he met, either.
He turned on his heel and tried to exit once again, but his mother stopped him with yet another,
"Oh, Arthur!"
He turned around.
"Yes, Mother?" he asked, sounding purposefully beleaguered.
"You will tell me what happens, won't you?"
"Of course, Mother."
"You're lying to me," she said with a smile. "But I forgive you. It's so nice to see you in love."
"I'm not..."
"Whatever you say, dear," she said with a wave.
Arthur decided there was little point in replying, so with nothing more than a roll of his eyes, he left the room and hurried out of the house.
"Gwen! Guinevereeeeee!"
Gwen's chin snapped up. The countess Calliope sounded even more irate than usual, if that was possible. Somehow, she was always upset with her.
"Gwen! Drat it, where is that infernal girl?"
"The infernal girl is right here," Gwen muttered, setting down the silver spoon she'd been polishing.
As lady's maid to the countess, Victoria and Penelope, she shouldn't have had to add the polishing to her list of chores, but the countess positively reveled in working her to the bone.
"Right here," she called out, rising to her feet and walking out into the hall. The Lord only knew what the countess was upset about this time. "My lady?"
The countess came storming around the corner.
"What is the meaning of this?" she snapped, holding something up in her right hand.
Gwen's eyes fell to her hand and she only just managed to stifle a gasp. The woman was holding the shoes that she had borrowed the night before.
"I...I don't know what you mean," she stammered.
"These shoes are brand-new. Brand-new!"
Gwen remained quiet until she realized the countess required a reply.
"Um, what is the problem?"
"Look at this!" she screeched, jabbing her finger towards one of the heels. "It's scuffed. Scuffed! How could something like this happen?"
"I'm sure I don't know, my lady," Gwen said. "Perhaps..."
"There is no perhaps about it," the countess huffed. "Someone has been wearing my shoes!"
"I assure you no one has been wearing your shoes," Gwen replied, amazed that she was able to keep her voice even. "We all know how particular you are about your footwear."
The countess narrowed her eyes suspiciously.
"Are you being sarcastic?"
Gwen rather thought that if the woman had to ask, then she was playing her sarcasm very well indeed. But she lied and said,
"No! Of course not! I merely meant that you take very good care of your shoes. They last longer that way."
The countess said nothing, so Gwen added,
"Which means you don't have to buy as many pairs."
Which was, of course, utter ridiculousness, seeing as the woman already owned more pairs of shoes than any one person could hope to wear in a lifetime.
"This is all your fault," the countess growled.
But according to her, everything was always Gwen's fault. Though this time she was actually correct.
So Gwen just gulped and said,
"What would you like me to do about it, my lady?"
"I want to know who wore my shoes."
"Perhaps they were scuffed in your closet," she suggested. "Maybe you accidentally kicked them last time you walked by."
"I never accidentally do anything," the countess snapped.
Gwen silently agreed.
The woman was deliberate in all things.
"I can ask the maids," she said. "Perhaps one of them knows something."
"The maids are a pack of idiots," the countess replied. "What they know could fit on my littlest fingernail."
Gwen waited for the countess to say,
"Present company excluded."
But of course she didn't. Finally, she said,
"I can try to polish the shoe. I'm sure we can do something about the scuff mark."
"The heels are covered in satin," the countess sneered. "If you can find a way to polish that, then we should have you admitted to the Royal College of Fabric Scientists!"
Gwen badly wanted to ask if there even existed a Royal College of Fabric Scientists, but the countess didn't have much of a sense of humour even when she wasn't in a complete snit.
So to poke fun now would be a clear invitation for disaster.
"I could try to rub it out," she suggested. "Or brush it."
"You do that," the countess said. "In fact, while you're at it..."
'Oh, blast!' Gwen thought. All bad things began with the countess saying,
"While you're at it."
"... you might as well polish all of my shoes."
"All of them?" Gwen gulped. The woman's collection must've numbered at least eighty pairs.
"All of them. And while you're at it..."
'Not again.'
"Lady Penwood?"
The countess blessedly stopped in mid-command and turned to see what the butler wanted.
"A gentleman is here to see you, my lady," he said, handing her a crisp, white card.
She took it from him and read the name. Her eyes widened and she let out a little, "Oh!" before turning back to the butler and barking out,
"Tea! And biscuits! The best silver. At once!"
The butler hurried out, leaving Gwen staring at the countess with unfeigned curiosity.
"May I be of any help?" she asked.
The countess blinked twice, staring at her as if she'd forgotten her presence.
"No!" she snapped. "I'm far too busy to bother with you. Go upstairs at once!" She paused, then added, "What are you doing down here, anyway?"
Gwen motioned towards the dining room she'd recently exited.
"You asked me to polish..."
"I asked you to see to my shoes!" the countess fairly yelled.
"All...right," Gwen said slowly. The woman was acting very odd, even for herself. "I'll just put away..."
"Now!"
With that, Gwen hurried to the stairs.
"Wait!"
She turned around.
"Yes?" she asked hesitantly.
The countess' lips tightened into an unattractive frown.
"Make sure that Victoria's and Penelope's hair is properly dressed."
"Of course."
"Then you may instruct Victoria to lock you in my closet."
Gwen stared at her. The woman actually wanted her to give the order to have herself locked in the closet?
"Do you understand me?"
She couldn't quite bring herself to nod. Some things were simply too demeaning.
At her hesitancy, the countess marched over until their faces were quite close.
"You didn't answer," she hissed. "Do you understand me?"
Gwen nodded, but just barely.
Every day, it seemed, brought more evidence of the depth of her hatred for her.
"Why do you keep me here?" she whispered before she had time to think better of it.
"Because I find you useful," was the countess' low reply as she turned on her heel and left the room.
Gwen watched as the countess Calliope stalked from the room, then hurried up the stairs.
Victoria's and Penelope's hair looked quite acceptable, so she sighed, turned to Penelope and said,
"Lock me in the closet, if you will."
The girl blinked in surprise.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I was instructed to ask Victoria, but I can't quite bring myself to do so."
Penelope peered into the closet with great interest.
"May I ask why?"
"I'm meant to polish your mother's shoes."
The girl swallowed uncomfortably.
"I'm sorry, Gwen."
"So am I," she said with a sigh. "So am I."
So sad...
Stay safe!