by Laura Clarke
“You also need to meet the man who is courting her and see what sort he is,” the duke said.
A heavy sigh came from the room.
“Can’t I be tasked with finding Mary and getting her jewelry back?”
“The baubles are hers,” the duke said. “Who cares if she took them?”
“What if she took family heirlooms?” Emmett asked.
“I don’t care about jewelry,” the duke said. “I want the girl taken off our hands. As soon as possible.”
“And what of the books?”
“That is why we need to do an inventory,” the duke said. “Starting tomorrow. I will be leaving in the morning. Penelope has taken her meals in her room since we arrived. The only time we saw her was at the funeral, where she was clothed in what seemed to be widow’s weeds.”
There was a silence. “Do you think she and Chester were lovers?” Emmett asked.
“Certainly not,” the duke said. “Now, send a maid to her and tell her I require her presence at tonight’s meal. Tell her it is not an invitation but an order.”
There was the rustling of boots, and Penelope went back to her hiding spot, but this time she rushed up the stairs. There was so much going on now. She would wait for the maid, and then she would go to the library and see what was missing.
Then she would find out where the items went. There was no way she would be branded a thief.
She hurried to her room, slipped off her shoes and lay down, fully clothed, and pretended to be asleep. The knock on the door came quicker than she’d expected.
“Miss? It’s Clara.”
“Come,” Penelope said.
Clara shut the door behind her. “The duke requires your presence at dinner. He said to tell you it wasn’t a request.”
“So, my new master has spoken,” she said. “How pleasant.”
“I believe he has been very generous with you,” Clara said.
Penelope wanted to ask her if she would speak that way to one of Chester’s daughters, who came into town for the funeral and left the next day.
“I’ll lay out the lavender dress, shall I?”
“Thank you, Clara, that will be fine,” Penelope said. “Then I’ll like some time to myself before I face the man who will decide my future.”
“As you wish.” Penelope watched as the maid took the dress from the wardrobe. She draped it across a chair and then tsked in disappointment. “I’ll just take it downstairs and prepare it for tonight. That way you’ll have your privacy.”
She left with the dress in her arms and Penelope rushed to the door and listened. She hated that she was becoming adept at listening at doorways, but such things were necessary for her to find out what was happening. After all, it was her life, wasn’t it?
Once in the library her gaze was immediately drawn to the bookcase in the center of the room. The middle shelf, which held books from the time of Henry VIII, was empty.
Penelope’s mouth hung open. There had been six volumes there, carefully wrapped in cloth to keep them clean. The two bronze bookends, of the king himself, were still there. Who would have taken the books? They were valuable, but they would have to be sold to the right place, and they could be traced back to Chester’s household.
To Penelope’s point of view, that meant Mary would not have taken them with her. It would be dangerous to sell them because they were family heirlooms. That was obvious, since the duke and his son had been summoned upstairs to observe they were missing. Unless there was something else that was gone. How many things had Mary taken? She knew about the jewels, but the books?
Penelope sat down on a chair and tried to work through what she knew. Her father had always taught her that thinking things through was the only way to get to the bottom of a puzzle. If something baffled you, you needed to lay out the facts. If you thought long enough and hard enough, you would get to the bottom of the things.
That meant she needed to go back to her room, take out a sheet of paper and take up her quill. She exited the room slowly. She didn’t want anyone to see her, in case they would think she took the books.
Once she was at her desk, with her inkbottle open and ready, she couldn’t think of one thing to put on the page. What was she looking at, really? She had a few things she needed to figure out before she jumped to conclusions. Sure, the jewels were missing, but that didn’t mean anything, really. They belonged to Mary, as gifts from her husband.
Thinking about Mary made Penelope’s heart lurch just a little. She had always considered Mary a friend, since they were so close in age.
They laughed together, went to plays, went shopping. It was Mary who had told Penelope, in great detail, what went on between a woman and a man behind closed doors. Penelope had been shocked, at first, but after Mary had described the pleasure that came from the act, Penelope had been intrigued. That very night Penelope had allowed Andrew Bixley to kiss her.
And it had been quite pleasurable. She’d only allowed the one kiss; any more than that would be inappropriate. But a few days later, Mary had hosted a dinner party and invited the salesman. Chester had retired early, after they’d sat down to play cards. After a few rounds, when the other guests had left, Mary had taken Treva Reeves up to the library to show her—Penelope gasped as memory flooded her. She’d forgotten about why Mary and Treva had gone upstairs, because she’d been so shocked by Andrew Bixley’s actions after that. The minute the ladies left the room he’d pulled Penelope from her chair and kissed her, not once but three times. Then he’d tried to touch her breasts. She’d pushed him away and hadn’t allowed herself to spend time alone with him since then, despite his attempts at parties, and invitations to ride in the park, or go for tea.
It wasn’t because she didn’t like him. It was because she was frightened. Despite Mary’s assurances that contact between a man and woman was pleasurable, Penelope wasn’t sure she was ready to give herself to a man, despite her age. Now that the house was in mourning she wouldn’t be able to see him. Would he wait a year? Did she dare try to sneak a message to him? She would think about that later.
But right now, she needed to think about the books. Mary had taken Treva Reeves to the library to show them off. Penelope went into the library quite often to choose a book, but she couldn’t remember if the books had been there when she’d gone in after Mary and Treva’s visit.
She closed her eyes and tried to imagine the shelves the last time she was there, which was just days before Chester’s death. She couldn’t remember, which seemed strange since she noticed them so quickly today.
“That’s because you were looking for something out of order,” she said to herself.
She put her quill in ink and wrote down, “Missing books. When did they go missing?”
Under that she wrote, “Letter. How did Chester’s brother receive the letter so quickly? Or did he? Need to find out when letter was delivered, and where. Who would want to slander me in this manner?”
She tapped her quill against the paper, leaving an ugly ink stain. She put down the quill and picked up her shaker, scattering pounce on the page to help dry the ink. After it sat for a few moments she picked it up and shook the excess onto the floor.
The last thing she wanted was for her new guardian to find this paper. If he thought she was suspicious about Chester’s death, or the missing books, things would not be good. She didn’t know the man, though. Maybe he had the same concerns. But she didn’t trust him enough to ask him.
She carefully put the paper in her desk, under her journal. Then, at the last minute, she took it back out, folded it in half and slipped it into her book of daily writings. Her father had taught her to put her thoughts down on paper. He told her it would do her good to have an account of things that happened, and her feelings about them.
She’d been very careful about recording things every day. But she’d not once gone back and read what she’d written.
Some of the things were very upsetting, like when she’d written about he
r father’s death, and Chester’s passing. She didn’t want to think about what she’d written those days. At one point, she’d thought about destroying the journal. But then she’d thought about her father, and how he’d urged her to keep it, and she’d stayed her hand when she thought to throw it onto the fire.
Her brow furrowed as a thought crossed her mind. What if Chester had kept such a journal? What would his words tell her about the few days before he had died? Had he suspected anything? If he did keep such writings, where would they be? In his private library, or in his bedroom? She’d never been in either place, which were connected and located on the second floor, one story above her room.
A knock on the door disturbed her thoughts.
“Come in,” she said.
Clara came inside, carefully holding the lavender dress.
“Do you think that’s appropriate?” Penelope asked. “After all, I’m supposed to be in mourning.”
“The gentlemen are not in black,” Clara said as she put the dress on the bed. “No offense, miss, but he wasn’t your father. I think it would be good for you to put your best foot forward, so to speak.”
Penelope wasn’t so sure, but she decided she didn’t want to argue. She put her arms out and waited while Clara helped her undress and then put on the beautiful lavender dress, which was one of Penelope’s favorites.
“How are things downstairs?” Penelope asked as Clara worked on her hair.
“Subdued,” Clara said. “I understand the men have spent most of the time in the downstairs library, talking about things that need to be done.”
Clara was silent, but the pause was pregnant, and Penelope thought the maid wanted to say something else.
“And?” she prompted.
“Well, I don’t want to spread gossip, but I understand they are going to do a search of the house, to take note of things that are there.”
And things that are missing, Penelope thought.
“Is something wrong?”
“Not that I know of, miss,” Clara said. “Now, don’t you look beautiful? I have to tell you the duke’s son is quite handsome. What I wouldn’t give to be of a station that he would consider for his wife.”
“Neither of us are,” Penelope said. She thought of Andrew Bixley, and how his lips had felt on hers, and how she’d shaken when he’d tried to feel her breasts.
“Clara, if I write a letter to Mr. Bixley, could you see that it is delivered?”
“Yes, miss,” Clara said. “When would that be?”
“Tonight,” Penelope said. “I will have it for you in the morning.”
The letter would let Andrew know that Penelope was thinking about him. Hopefully he was doing the same with her.
Chapter 2
He was a handsome man, but that didn’t mean she trusted him. Penelope dropped to a curtsey the minute she stepped into the dining room. Both men, despite the fact that she was nowhere near their station, bowed back. That said something about them. At least they would be respectful to her.
“Miss Martin, good to see you again,” the duke said.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said. She inclined her head toward the younger man. “Milord.”
“Please call me George,” the duke said. “And you can call my son Emmett.”
“Thank you.” She moved toward her chair, stepping out of the way when Emmett pulled it back for her to sit down.
She put her napkin in her lap and bowed her head as the duke—no, George—said a blessing over the food.
“I hope you don’t mind, but since it’s just three of us I asked the staff to put the food on the sideboard, much like breakfast,” he said. “I’m not much for formal dining.”
“I think that is a splendid idea,” Penelope said. She put her napkin on the table and started to stand, surprised that Emmett was behind her to help her with her chair before she could do it herself.
“After you,” Emmett said as he flourished his arm toward the offerings. She noticed the cook had fixed a lamb stew that looked delicious. Sitting next to it was a platter of bread. Next to that was a plum pudding that made Penelope’s mouth water.
She filled a soup bowl and carried it, and some bread back to the table. Once they were all seated she waited for them to take hold of the conversation. For what seemed like forever they ate in silence. Finally, the duke spoke.
“I’m sure my brother’s death has been hard on you, Miss Martin,” he said.
“If I am to call you George, I believe you should call me Penelope,” she said. “And yes, Chester’s death has been hard. It was so sudden. If I may ask, sir, where were you when you heard about your brother’s death.”
“In Bath,” he said. “But Emmett was in London and sent for me just hours after the death. A heart seizure in a man his age is not unknown, but it was surprising nonetheless. We didn’t see each other very often, but we did communicate through letters.”
“He mentioned you quite frequently, usually after he read one of your missives,” she said.
“May I ask what he said?” The duke took a drink from his wine.
“Mostly he talked of adventures the two of you had in your youth,” she said. “He told me about the river affair, and he said that you saved his life.”
George chuckled. “He exaggerated. His pant leg was caught on a rock and he couldn’t lift his head above the water. All I did was tear the material.”
“What was this?” Emmett said. “I’ve never heard this story.”
“They were swimming in a river near their home, and Chester became distressed, as your father said,” Penelope explained. “Chester always said if your father hadn’t been there he would have been dead.”
“Stuff and nonsense,” George said. “But I am sorry that Chester and I didn’t spend more time together in our later years. We should have made the time.”
“He felt the same way,” Penelope said. She wanted so much to ask him about the letter, but she wasn’t supposed to know about it. There had to be some way she could turn the conversation, though. And then suddenly, an idea popped into her mind.
“May I ask, do you know when Mary will return?”
Emmett choked on his stew, and his father got up and began pounding him on the back as he coughed.
“I’m sorry, have I asked something I shouldn’t have?” she asked, praying her question sounded innocent.
“I don’t think Mary will return,” George said as he sat back down. “She has left with her lover. Surely you knew she had a lover.”
It was a statement, not a question.
“I had assumed, but we never discussed it.” That was the truth. There were rumors about Mary having a lover, but she’d never seen the evidence with her own eyes.
“She took jewels, and other valuable items,” Emmett said. “To that end we are going to inventory the house, from top to bottom, starting tomorrow. We will see what is missing. You don’t happen to know of anything that has gone amiss, do you?”
He was looking at her as if she was the fox at the start of the hunt.
“I have no idea, sir,” she said. “Is there something in particular you are asking about?”
“No,” he said.
She wanted to tell him she knew he was lying. They had been called upstairs.
“Tell me, Penelope, do you have a suitor?” Emmett asked.
“Are you offering your services in that regard, sir?” Penelope batted her eyes at him. “I am four and twenty, which means I am older than most men want for a wife, but if you are offering, I can put forth my credentials. I can dance, and I am quite well read, and am good at holding a conversation. I even know how to play cards, and chess. I played chess with your uncle quite often.”
The duke chuckled, and Emmett shook his head ever so slightly. There was a slight smile on his lips, and, despite herself, she laughed.
“As a matter of fact, I do have a suitor,” she said. “His name is Andrew Bixley. He is a storeowner. He sells furniture, and antiques.”
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“An honorable profession,” George said. “Of course, as your new guardian, Emmett will have to meet him.”
She tried to look shocked. “Emmett is my new guardian?”
“I have appointed him,” George said.
“Sir, I am four and twenty, as I said.” She wiped her mouth before she continued. “I do not need a guardian.”
“Be that as it may, Chester left you to my care, and I have entrusted Emmett to take care of matters in that regard,” George said. “I would think you would honor my brother’s memory and follow his wishes.”
Damn him, Penelope thought. If she put up a fuss now it would be disrespectful to Chester. She needed to think of another way to get out from under Emmett’s care.
She would be nobody’s ward, not at this stage of her life.
“As you wish,” she said, meekly.
“In that regard, you need to help him with the inventory of the house tomorrow,” George said. “I am leaving in the morning. Emmett will take care of everything in my absence.”
“So, I am to be alone, in the house with a single man,” she said. “What will that do for my reputation?”
“You needn’t worry,” George said. “A friend of Chester’s will arrive tomorrow afternoon. Her name is Mrs. Whistle, Jane Whistle. She will keep things on the up and up.”
Penelope wanted to laugh. It didn’t matter if Mrs. Whistle was here or not. She was probably an old woman who could barely walk. Penelope would run circles around her and sneak out of the house to meet with Bixley. Her first unauthorized trip out of the house would be tomorrow. She would set forth a meeting time with Andrew in the letter she would write tonight.
“Have you heard me?” George said.
“Sir?”
“The inventory, you will know if something is missing,” he said. “It is important that you help.”
“I will,” she said. “May I ask, is there something in particular you are looking for, a family heirloom, perhaps, that you think Mary took?”
“There is a set of books, they are quite valuable,” George said. “In addition, there is a series of letters written to a descendent of ours. Both are missing. If Mary has taken them I will see that she is charged with theft and thrown in prison.”