by Abigail Agar
“Of course, Your Grace.” Daniel nodded and gave Jules a quick bow before he set off to do Jules’ errands.
Once the young man was gone, Jules went over to the desk chair and sank into the soft leather cushions of it. He rubbed his face and wondered just what a fright he must look. Jules ran a hand through his hair and found the tie gone. He looked over and saw it lying on the floor next to the couch where he had slept.
Jules just frowned at the hair tie and decided it could stay there before he attempted to lean over and pick it up. He looked at the papers on the desk. He barely even remembered what he had been working on in here the last time he was home long enough from the investigation to actually look after the paperwork for the estates.
He flipped through the papers, but most were merely invoices, waiting for stamping or receipts that needed to be organised. Jules breathed in slowly then breathed out a sigh of frustration. He needed to be better sooner rather than later. This injury put him at a disadvantage that he could scarcely afford with someone out for his head.
“Why would anyone want me dead? There is no clear line of succession, and no one to rightfully profit from it,” Jules asked the painting of his father that hung over the fireplace to his left. “If they had succeeded in killing me the first time, perhaps this would be all over by now.”
His father simply stared back at him with that imperious look the man always had. Jules looked back at the desk and sighed. “I know,” Jules said with a nod. “Do not sit and worry, go out and do.”
There was a knock on the door, and Jules called for the person to enter. Daniel came in and said, “Charlotte sent me with your food, Your Grace.” Daniel set a tray on the desk in front of Jules.
“Thank you; it smells lovely,” Jules said honestly. The aroma wafting up from the meat pie made Jules realise how hungry he was after sleeping for such a long time. “Did you find the letters that I wrote?”
Daniel frowned. “I checked your desk, Your Grace, but I saw no letters. Is it possible that you moved them or one of the maids picked them up?”
“I am certain of where I left them,” Jules said with a sigh. “Perhaps one of the maids did move the letters. I shall check.”
Daniel dipped his head. “I would be happy to check with the maids for you if you would like?”
Jules thought about it but shook his head. “No. I shall ask them personally.” Daniel gave a bow and was swiftly out of the room at Jules’ words.
He pierced the pie’s flaky crust to allow it to cool somewhat as he thought of who could have moved the letters. As he poured himself a measure of brandy into a glass, there was a knock on the door. “Enter,” Jules called.
Leander came in and held up the letters in his hand. “Daniel said you were looking for these?”
“How did you come by them?” Jules asked with relief.
Leander shrugged. “Went by your room to check in with you but saw it empty. The letters looked ready to be sent on their way, but I could not find you anywhere to get permission to do so. I thought it better to carry them with me than leave them for prying eyes.”
“That was good thinking,” Jules said as he picked at the pie and watched the steam rise up from it. “You shall dispatch them for me then?”
Leander nodded then asked hesitantly, “You are not still thinking of going to the party tomorrow night, are you? With all that has happened, I do not know if it would be wise to be on your own.”
“No, the letters are just to let Lady Withersfield and her father know that I will be otherwise detained.” Jules had no intention of getting anywhere near Lady Withersfield until he was sure that his presence would not put the woman in further danger. She had come quite close enough to the murderers when she had run into that alley. She had not even known how close she had truly come, and Jules frowned at the thought. “Besides, I assumed that we might be well on the tracks of our unknown conspirators by then.”
Leander agreed with a nod as he put the envelopes in one of his inner coat pockets. “I will finish my enquiries then I shall be back with you in the morrow. Are you sleeping down here?” Leander glanced over at the couch with a faint look of disdain. “I do not know how the doctor would feel about that.”
“No, I shall be in my room,” Jules assured the man. “I merely was fatigued and decided to nap here instead of making the climb up to my room.”
With a nod of understanding, Leander gave Jules a smile. “Are you certain that you do not need some assistance to get back up to your room? It is of no bearing on your strength, Your Grace. We just do not want you to overtire yourself.”
“I am fine,” Jules said with a laugh. “I just should have taken a rest earlier in the day. I promise that if I feel faint, I shall ask for assistance.”
Leander watched Jules as if trying to determine if Jules was indeed being truthful. Finally, Leander nodded. “As you say, Your Grace. I shall just get these letters on their way then.”
“Thank you, Leander, for everything.” Jules said the words with feeling.
Leander did not seem eager to take on the gratitude as he shook his head. “It is nothing more than any of us would do for you, Your Grace.”
“Not any, apparently,” Jules said as he thought of the fact that someone under this very roof had a hand in trying to kill him. “There are not many who would do as much for someone else as you have done with so little to gain, Leander. You are a good friend.”
Leander looked down at the floor. “Thank you, Your Grace. You honour me.”
“Well, enough of that,” Jules said with a laugh. “I think this pie might be cool enough not to burn the skin off of my mouth.
Leander chuckled. “She does seem to heat them in the very furnaces of the underworld. Mind you, they taste like Heaven, though.”
“Indeed,” Jules agreed with a grin.
Chapter 10
When Penelope walked through her painting studio, she eyed the easel where she had been working before. Beside it on a table were various cups that Penelope had gathered, some she had even made during one of her classes in pottery. She ran her finger along the rim of a creamy coloured cup that she used to hold water. The light touch left a smidgen of dust on her fingertips that she rubbed onto the old dress she had donned.
“I suppose I have been a bit lacklustre in visiting,” Penelope said with a smile. The painting she had worked upon last was still up on the easel. Penelope picked it up and shook her head at the painting. She put the painting of herself dancing with the Duke in the grassy field of flowers against a wall and covered it with a cloth. “Time to start a new one.”
She went to find a new canvas. Selecting one from the canvases leaned against the wall of her studio, Penelope eyed the blank piece of canvas critically. She nodded to herself at some agreement she had come to and placed it upon her easel.
Penelope set about tidying up her workspace, cleaning up old dried paints and getting everything organised for herself. It was nice to have her mind orderly again after the chaos of the last few months. It was due time that her studio reflected her newly enlightened thoughts.
She then prepared her painter’s palette. For this particular portrait, she chose shadowy blues, sunlit yellows, and crisp white. Penelope picked up a knife and cut the pigment with a bit of thinner. When it was the consistency she wanted, Penelope picked up a brush and dipped it delicately into the darkest of the blues.
In her mind’s eye, she saw the ice and snow, the landscape that she was looking for. It slowly appeared on the canvas as she worked, her smile coming to her face as the paint found its way onto the canvas.
Her heart was at ease, and her mind danced along with it as her hands nimbly painted the winter scene that Penelope held in her mind. The night with Jules had left Penelope with a light heart, and she painted the ice flows along a frozen creek bank, melting ever so slightly in the sunshine of a late winter’s morning.
Thinking of the Duke made Penelope smile. She wondered if the man would call u
pon her father personally before the party or if perhaps he would write to her father as a forewarning of his intentions. Penelope did not care so much for the details, but she had been quite disappointed to see the Duke leave before breakfast.
It was a bit unreasonable to think that the Duke would make an announcement over breakfast, but Penelope longed to hear the words spoken aloud in the daylight. Surely, the Duke’s words before his departure had meant that he was still committed to courting her. Penelope drew in a breath and painted the reflection of light on the ice ever so delicately.
A knock on the door brought Penelope out of her vision of a crisp winter morning. “Yes?” she called with a puzzled frown. It was rare for anyone to interrupt her in her studio.
Her mother’s voice called through the door, “May I come in?”
“Yes, please,” Penelope said as she sat her brush and palette down on the table near her easel as the door came open. Lady Winchester swept into the room, closing the door behind her. “Mother, what is the matter?”
Lady Winchester’s expression held a sour note that Penelope was not used to seeing on her mother’s practiced and well-constrained face. “I had a horrible dream last night,” Lady Winchester said as she walked over to Penelope. The woman’s hands folded in front of her, clinging to one another as if they might keep the dream at bay while she spoke.
“That is unlike you,” Penelope observed as she studied the woman’s face. “Perhaps if you told me what it was about, it would not seem so bad.”
Lady Winchester shook her head slowly. “It was about you. I could not find you. It woke me and left this fear in me that you were gone somehow.”
“Oh, Mother, that sounds terrible, but you can see that I am here to be found.” Penelope came over and put her arm around her mother’s shoulders. It had been quite some time since Penelope had seen her mother in such a sensitive light, and it warmed her heart to know the woman cared so much for her.
The neat and tidy bun that Lady Winchester’s hair was styled into did not match with the distraught look on her face. “Daughter of mine, tell me the truth when I ask you this next question, I beg you.”
“Of course, Mother,” Penelope said. “Why would I not answer truthfully?”
Lady Winchester sighed. “Only my fear knows,” she whispered. Lady Winchester straightened her shoulders and took a breath. “I went to your room last night in search of you, but I found you gone. Where were you, Penelope?”
“I—I probably had gone to the kitchen. I had a dream myself that awoke me, and I found I could not go back to sleep.” Penelope stepped away from her mother as she smoothed her hands along her muslin dress. “You know that I often go to the kitchen for milk when I cannot sleep.”
Lady Winchester inclined her head towards Penelope. “Yes, I know this. Which is why I went downstairs when I could not find you.”
“I feel there is more that you wish to say,” Penelope said as she straightened herself. Her mother was being unusually evasive in her words, and Penelope felt a sense of foreboding about that.
For a long moment, her mother said nothing as if waiting for Penelope to relinquish all her secrets. When Lady Winchester finally spoke, her gaze settled on Penelope’s face with a look of dissatisfaction. “I had hoped you would be forthcoming, but since you have chosen to lie, I see no reason to sugarcoat what I am about to say.” Penelope opened her mouth to protest, but her mother raised her hand to silence her. “Allow me to speak before you dishonour me with more foolish lies, daughter.”
Lady Winchester drew herself up, her hands still clasped in front of herself. “I know that you were with the Duke of Richmond last night. I heard your voices. I never would have suspected that you would behave so recklessly. You have put not only your future and reputation at risk but also that of your family.”
“Nothing happened between the Duke and me, Mother. You have to believe me,” Penelope begged. She shook her head. “We were only talking. I saw him in the hallway when I went to leave my room last night after awakening, and he seemed distraught.”
With a shake of her head, Lady Winchester scolded, “A distraught man does not need a lady alone in his room with him.”
“We were not in his room or mine. We simply stepped into the room because he did not wish to be overheard,” Penelope said then cringed at how her words sounded once they left her mouth. “I did not mean that in any foul way.”
Lady Winchester scoffed, “It hardly matters how you meant it, Penelope.” She sighed. “The facts remain that you have been alone with a man, completely unchaperoned in the middle of the night. That will all but kill any chances you have at finding a decent match if word gets out about it, and it almost always does on things like this.”
“Mother, you work yourself into a frenzy over nothing,” Penelope said with a shake of her head. “The Duke asked for my hand in marriage last night. We shall marry, and all will be well.”
Lady Winchester did not look the least bit impressed with Penelope’s disclosure. “Men often say things in the dark that they promptly forget, Penelope. I have heard of no such tidings from your father, and I am sure he would not have kept the Duke speaking to him of marriage to himself.”
“He hardly had time to speak, now did he? You sent him off straight away this morning!” Penelope stamped her foot. “Is that why you sent off that letter to his household? You thought I had been around with him last night, and you wanted him gone?”
If Penelope had been expecting her mother to look embarrassed, the woman proved her wrong. Lady Winchester frowned at her daughter. “I hardly think anyone could blame me for my actions. I did what I thought was necessary to protect you since you seem to not know any better.”
“I can protect my own virtue, Mother,” Penelope insisted. “I know that we have had a hard time of it lately with our disagreements at how the Season has been progressing, but I have only the best of intentions.”
Lady Winchester nodded. “That may be true. It, however, is up to the Duke to follow through, and I certainly hope he shall.”
Penelope gave up and turned away from her mother. She tried to will herself to just remain calm. Her mother was often a bit high-strung, and once Jules talked to her father, everything would be sorted out.
“I know why you have been making such poor appearances, you know,” Lady Winchester said. Her voice held a tone of sadness that made Penelope turn around to look at her mother. The woman stood as still as a statue and eyed Penelope back before she nodded. “When I couldn’t find you initially, I went into your room, and I found my journal.”
Penelope’s mouth fell open. “You snooped in my room? You destroyed what privacy I had because you could not readily find me?”
“And you have been deliberately sabotaging your social appearances because of the ramblings of a young wife,” Lady Winchester countered. “Do you know how foolish that is?”
Penelope laughed in disbelief. “I was perfectly happy to go out and be on display for my family. I was happy to hunt for a husband.” She put her hands on her hips. “Your journal is of little consequence; what turned for me was finding all of the journals. One journal can easily be dismissed, Mother, but I found journals for generations of women in our family. They all said the same thing: marriage contains only misery.”
“This is why I removed those journals from the country estate and brought them here,” Lady Winchester said with a sigh. “When I was your age, my mother gave me those journals. Forewarned was forearmed, she said.” Lady Winchester frowned and eyed Penelope sadly. “It’s tradition, to hand those journals down, and I swore it would stop with me. All it does is perpetuate this cycle of misery that seems inevitable but we place upon ourselves.”
Penelope scoffed, “But Grandfather and Father—”
“Were and are good men with bad traits,” Lady Winchester finished for Penelope. “Men have flaws, Penelope. Grand flaws, at that, but they are just flaws. Your father’s greed and brashness get in the way of the
man he was.”