Page 6 of His Duchess at Eventide (Mythic Dukes #2)

F ROM P EN’S PERCH at the duchess’s window, she studied the edge of the forest, searching for any sign of her son. Evening shadows muted the colors of day, gathering quietly in the space between day and night.

In other circumstances, she might have luxuriated in the twilight—day’s harsh judgments had hushed, night’s secrets were about to be revealed.

Not today.

She stopped herself from biting a fingernail. Instead, she rubbed her bottom lip.

Why had she agreed to allow Thaddeus to return to Pensteague on his own?

Not that she could outright forbid him, even if she wanted. Thaddeus’s smile sheathed razor-sharp resolve, much like his father.

In Chev, she hadn’t grasped the essential nature of his need to take charge and to protect. In fact, she hadn’t truly understood Chev until she mothered his son.

Through Thaddeus, she’d come to understand Cheverley in many ways. She pressed her forehead against the glass. Now, however, it was too late to make use of what she’d learned. And what she understood did not make Cheverley’s loss—or the hubris he’d displayed—any easier to bear.

Thaddeus had been thrilled when he discovered one of Cheverley’s first bows. He’d asked if Chev could shoot through twelve axes—a legend Chev himself loved to perpetuate.

“Not through the axes. Through holes in the axe handles.” She told Thaddeus the truth, hoping the truth would sift through the heart of Thaddeus’s romantic ideals. “Skill isn’t magic. Your father spent years testing his strength against different combinations of arrow weight and bow stiffness until he could shoot through all twelve handles.”

Men were impressed with Chev’s “magical” strength.

She’d been awed by his inventive planning.

She meant to encourage the latter in her son.

So much like his father, that boy. Soon, Thaddeus would transform excited dreams into ingenious remedies. And, if she weren’t careful, then, like Chev, he’d be gone.

But could anyone separate the engineer from the wanderer, the adventurer? Were they simply different sides to curiosity’s coin?

Behind her, Mrs. Renton tsked. “Come away from the window, my lady. You aren’t yet properly dressed.”

As if anyone looking up from the courtyard below could tell her shift and stays were all she wore beneath her dressing gown.

“Of course,” she said, moving into the room and preparing to be dressed. “I was just watching for Thaddeus.”

“I wouldn’t worry, my lady. He’s likely occupied with the new sailor who’s arrived at Pensteague.”

“A new sailor?” She frowned. She preferred to question any new arrivals before they saw Thaddeus.

“When Emmaus stopped by the kitchens today, he told me a captain arrived yesterday evening. Master Thaddeus is likely peppering the man with questions about life at sea.”

“No doubt.” If Cheverley were a subject at Cambridge, Thaddeus would take a first.

Thaddeus requested stories from the men Cheverley had led, the men Cheverley had called friend...anyone, really. In the absence of direct information, he collected other details. In his mind, he pieced them all together like precious puzzle parts, creating a phantom father.

“Not to worry.” Carefully, Mrs. Renton laid Penelope’s dress out on the bed. “The captain did not claim to have known his lordship.”

Penelope set aside the pang of disappointment.

“And,” Mrs. Renton continued, “I doubt he’d be a harm to anyone, what with him missing his arm.’”

“Poor man,” Penelope replied. The last sailor in a similar circumstance stayed only a few weeks before deciding London’s gaming hells were a more interesting use of his time. She prayed for true healing this time.

Mrs. Renton picked up the dress. “Ready?”

She nodded, lifting her hands.

The heavy velvet buffeted as the fabric slid down over her torso and tumbled to the floor. Mrs. Renton fastened hooks, and the bodice cinched over her breasts. Penelope held still as Mrs. Renton then began stitching the navy-inspired braid Penelope had woven over the hooks.

“Such a wonderful idea.” Mrs. Renton mumbled over pins, which disappeared into the seam one by one. “I never would have thought the duchess’s court clothing would have enough fabric in the skirt alone to make you such a beautiful dress.”

“Thank heaven for the panniers popular in the duchess’s time,” Penelope said.

“And for the new, slimmer style.”

After Mrs. Renton finished stitching, she stepped back and gasped.

Penelope winced. “Was that a good gasp or a bad one?”

“See for yourself.” Mrs. Renton gestured to the gold-gilt mirror.

Stepping in front of her reflection was like peeping into a different world—an imaginary world. Penelope didn’t recognize the woman in the glass. The crimson velvet emphasized her lips’ deep red, her cheeks’ subtle flush, her hair’s highlights, and her dark eyes’ contrast. The effect was striking. And the white, tasseled braid served its purpose—a tribute to Chev.

“Lord Cheverley would be speechless if he could see.”

Penelope’s heart panged, and she turned away from her likeness.

Mrs. Renton held out white gloves of the finest kid leather. “Your gloves.”

They weren’t her gloves at all. All of this—the room, the fabric, the gloves, even the pins in her hair—belonged to the late duchess. She was, for the night, in borrowed clothes, on borrowed time.

She looked like a duchess. She felt like a fraud.

At Pensteague, she was the proprietress of a haven. In this world, she was nothing without Cheverley. But that wasn’t the reason she ached.

She’d no doubt Chev would have been speechless if he could see her now—and desperately attempting to get her out of the clothes Mrs. Renton had taken such pains to get her into.

Then again, Chev had been complimentary of everything she’d worn—from her simple laborer’s clothes to the breeches she’d borrowed when she’d helped him plane their bed.

Especially the breeches.

Mrs. Renton tsked as she withdrew jewels from the bag on the dresser. “If only you’d let me do something equally dramatic with your hair. A loose twist would be so much more attractive. Are you sure you won’t change your usual style?”

“Yes.” A tight, serviceable knot would do. She had to draw a line.

Mrs. Renton clasped the duchess’s pearls around Penelope’s neck. The beads rested against her skin, heavy and yet soft.

“Oh, my lady, they look as if they were made for you. Mr. Anthony’s sure to burst in fury.”

That had been the idea. “He’s been intent on my discomfort. Acting in kind is only fair.” And perhaps, in his anger, he would reveal something he did not mean to reveal.

“I know you don’t wish to be at Ithwick at all.” Mrs. Renton’s eyes misted. “But having you preside over an Ithwick gathering...well, it is the rightest thing that’s happened in a long time. If only—”

“Let us not indulge fancy.” She interrupted with a pat to Mrs. Renton’s arm. “Tonight, I must be on my guard.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Renton sniffed. “Yes, of course.”

Penelope returned to the window.

Dusk made black paper cut-outs of the trees, completely hiding the path to Pensteague, but the un-doused carriage lamps glowed, creating peek-a-boo pockets of day.

She spotted Thaddeus by the stables and exhaled. Then, her gaze fell on his companion—the new sailor. The captain.

He was tall and thin with untied hair that cascaded down his back. Despite his slender frame, he moved with dangerous grace, untamed—predatory, even—as if he were aware of all things seen and unseen.

His shadowed face tilted up toward the window.

Penelope stepped back, touching the pearls at her throat. Was it fear that had soaked her with watered ice?

She shook her head. Clearly, the pending confrontation with her adversaries disturbed her usual calm.

“Thaddeus is on his way to the kitchen gardens. Will you go down and greet him? And will you thank the captain for ensuring his safe return?” Her own examination of the man would have to wait.

Mrs. Renton nodded.

She kissed Mrs. Renton’s cheek, catching a whiff of lavender-scented talc. “I don’t know what I would do without you, Mrs. Renton.”

“Likewise, my lady.”

Penelope set aside thoughts of the captain, set back her shoulders and prepared for the battleground disguised as a polite soiree. All that stood between Ithwick and ruin was one woman and an aging housekeeper.

Anything else could wait.

~~~

Thaddeus disappeared into the house and the door to the servants’ entrance clicked closed. Chev moved back until entirely concealed within the shadows of the hedge.

Night had nearly settled. But the terrors of sightlessness were nothing compared to his son’s safe return to Ithwick.

Thaddeus would be back in the schoolroom in no time, and with a little suavity, he might even be able to convince Mrs. Renton that he’d been there for quite some time.

Just as Chev had done more times than he could count.

Silently, he followed the garden path inlaid with stone, moving like a spirit—like a man long-dead.

But when the pathway split, he hesitated.

The stone path turned back toward the courtyard and the tall, lighted windows of the conservatory. The other way—the way he’d intended to go—wasn’t marked but led to the edge of the wood.

He glanced to the heavens.

Evening stars had appeared, and the waxing moon would soon rise from the sea. But for a few hours, darkness would reign. If he chose to linger—the light of the risen moon would ease his way back to the gamekeeper’s cottage. He moved toward the courtyard, not because of the moon but because of the chance he might see her again.

Penelope.

Her feminine silhouette in the duchess’s window had drawn his gaze like a beacon. There’d been a brief, indescribably transcendent moment of recognition, which panic, then pain, had flushed away.

Still, he longed for another look. A closer look.

He scowled. Why entertain such madness? Hadn’t being introduced to his son caused enough bitter-sweetness for one evening?

When Thaddeus sunk his first arrow into the target Chev had fashioned, the boy had whooped and smiled, and Cheverley’s armor had been pierced with an altogether different kind of arrow—a deadlier arrow, an arrow that locked him into place when the only way to survive was to keep moving.

The fist-that-did-not-exist ached, hanging tight and heavy at his side.

Move. He had to move.

One footstep. Then another. Then another. And suddenly, he found himself in the courtyard, hidden just beyond the glow spilling onto the slabs of slate.

The glass separating him from the soiree guests was more than mere sand and ash, melted and then reformed. It was a barrier as uncrossable as the River Styx—the mythical boundary between the living and the dead.

The people inside were alive, glittering. He was nothing more than a wraith—a moving swarm of vengeful anger.

First, he recognized the long-time local magistrate, Sir Jerold—much unchanged but for the color of his hair. The man Jerold spoke with stood with his back facing the window, but his stance claimed authority.

Chev’s gaze moved through the room until he found Lord Thomas, his cousin, in a circle of people too far away to identify. One among them, a woman, was heavily veiled.

Penelope?

No. Though familiar, the veiled woman’s form was all wrong.

Then, the conversation that had filled the night air like the rumble of a distant sea, ceased. Tingling danced up his spine. He turned toward the entrance.

Breath and time ceased.

Pen. His Pen.

The wind in the hedges sighed, at last.

~~~

Penelope believed she possessed the power of “right,” and she believed that power made her capable of vanquishing men of greed and ill-intent.

But facing a sea of faces—some lustful, some hostile, and all of them marred with the volatile mix of haughty condescension and bitter envy—and armed with only a pretty dress, she suddenly understood the truth.

The men she hoped to vanquish were the same men who had written the laws and owned the courts. They were the same men who commanded all arbiters of power from the armies to the customs houses, to the lowly inquests in pubs.

Against them, the power of “right” was a meager weapon at best.

Pen swallowed as she was announced, feeling the weight of the duchess’s pearls resting against her dried throat.

Give me strength .

Mr. Anthony—standing next to Sir Jerold, the magistrate—made a motion for the music to resume, and the rise of conversation followed. Then, Anthony stretched out his hand in a silent gesture screaming with authority.

Borrowed authority—less his right than the duchess’s pearls were hers.

She made her way across the room, iron in her gaze, steel in her fixed smile.

“My dear Lady Cheverley”—Mr. Anthony clasped her fingers—“how good of you to join us.”

“But of course,” she replied, grateful for gloves.

“You have deceived me.” He did not return her smile. “I thought you above such petty concerns as fashion.”

“Petty?” She blinked. “I thought you would be pleased. Fashion appears to be among you and your guests’ chief concerns. Did you not insist I make a good impression?”

“I’m pleased, of course.”

His grip tightened. She nearly stumbled as he yanked her close and kissed her cheeks. His lips lingered next to her ear a moment longer than proper—a warning that did not have to be spoken.

“Lady Cheverley,” Sir Jerold greeted, “you look like a duchess.”

“Thank you,” she replied, though reprimand threaded through Sir Jerold’s voice. “Have your patrols been successful?”

“Not a Frenchman to be found”—Sir Jerold rocked back on his heels—“I’m proud to say.”

“I sleep soundly, sir”—she opened her fan—“knowing your militia is patrolling the shoreline.”

“Yes, well,” Sir Jerold replied. “We do our best.”

Anthony sent Sir Jerold a not-so-subtle glance and tilted his head.

Sir Jerold cleared his throat. “If you would excuse me.”

“Of course.” She curtseyed to his bow before he disappeared into the crush.

“I always marvel”—Mr. Anthony spoke low—“how closely you can approximate a person of noble birth.”

“I have many talents which would surprise you.”

He faced her with lifted brow. “I wonder what your sartorial talents”—his eyes fell to the pearls—“are attempting to convey.”

“I should think that is obvious.” She fluttered her fan, forcing an inviting glance. “I wish to retain my place in this household.”

He studied her intentionally inscrutable expression. “Does that mean you are accepting my proposal?”

“Not yet.” She looked away. “However, I am, as you so helpfully pointed out, a widow in need of protection. I must consider which man can make the best offer.”

He grasped her arm.

She could not do this. As much as she needed to deceive, she could not feign affection. Not with a naval braid circling her waist and the duchess’s pearls around her throat. She hadn’t felt as much like Cheverley’s wife in years.

“I do believe, Mr. Anthony,” She smiled, apologetic, “that the musicians seek an audience with you. You have my sympathies. There are so many things to consider when one is in charge.”

His gaze, heated, lingered on hers. He glanced to the musicians and sighed. “If you will excuse me.”

“Do go on,” she replied. “We all must do our part.”

He moved across the room.

Placing a hand to her stomach, she suppressed a wave of nausea. What had made her believe she could prevail?

Her determined stride for the door was stopped by the vicar and his wife.

She forced a smile and exchanged greetings. Then, Mr. Rowe returned to his favorite topic—the improvements Pen had made at Pensteague. No one else ever took as much interest.

“...I must say, Lady Cheverley, you put the men of the county to shame,” the vicar finished.

“Mr. Rowe,” the vicar’s wife said playfully, “am I to deduce that you admit a woman’s management can be superior to a man’s?”

“I must give credit where credit is due, Mrs. Rowe.” His eyes twinkled with good cheer. “In an age when many seek quick profit that sacrifices land quality, our Lady Cheverley has proven that it is possible to invest in good cultivation practices, take measures to ensure health of those in one’s employ, and still earn generous return.”

“From your blush, Lady Cheverley,” Mrs. Rowe laughed, “I gather such praise is rare.”

“Rare, indeed,” Pen replied. “I cannot, however, claim all credit. When first married, Lord Cheverley and I spent a great deal of time talking about our vision for Pensteague.”

Though dreaming was, perhaps, more apt. In truth, neither of them had known much about estate management. “I’ve employed Lord Cheverley’s approach—never saying ‘it cannot be done’ before exhausting all possible methods.”

“Lord Cheverley’s memory is important to you,” Mr. Rowe spoke with a vicar’s practiced cadence—and too-observant eye for the truth.

“I have heard, of course, of your husband’s daring,” Mrs. Rowe added. “I’m delighted to know his substance was equally impressive.”

Pen looked away.

Mr. And Mrs. Rowe’s twin expressions of concern were nearly her undoing. After thirteen years, how could grief remain so raw?

Then again, her grief wasn’t only for the young man she’d known, she grieved, too, for the life they’d planned together. A life finally yielding pearls of achievement she could not share.

“Let us speak of other things,” Mrs. Rowe suggested gently. “You’ll be happy to hear we have taken your example to heart.”

“My example?” Pen asked.

“I was a stranger...” Mr. Rowe quoted, “...and you welcomed me.”

Mrs. Rowe’s gaze moved to a veiled woman beside Lord Thomas. “We’ve welcomed into the vicarage a young woman seeking refuge from the war.”

“The lady is French?” Pen asked.

“American,” Mr. Rowe answered, “but of French descent. She lost her husband at Trafalgar, and he was fighting on our side.”

“Extraordinary.” Pen had no idea there were Frenchmen in the Royal Navy, though with all the other nationalities, she shouldn’t be surprised.

“She has no love lost for her ancestral homeland,” Mr. Rowe continued. “Her grandparents were among those lost to the terror.”

“Nor does she have the means to return home,” Mrs. Rowe added.

“We thought, perhaps, when Emmaus is ready to return, he could escort—”

“Emmaus,” Pen interrupted, “has no plans to return to the Americas.” Not ones he would share with a stranger, anyway.

“Ah.” Lord Thomas’s approach saved her from further inquiry. “If it isn’t my charming cousin. Lady Cheverley, may I introduce, Madame LaVoie?”

“Delighted, Madame,” Pen replied.

“And Madame,” Lord Thomas continued, “may I present my cousin’s widow, Lady Cheverley?”

“Your husband was of great renown.” Madame LaVoie spoke in clear English and roughly resonant tones. “I am delighted to meet you, Lady Cheverley.”

“If you’ll pardon us,” Thomas spoke to the vicar, “I’d like to escort my cousin to the refreshment table.”

“How thoughtful of you,” Mrs. Rowe commented.

“Scripture commands attendance on widows,” Lord Thomas answered smoothly. “Is that not correct, Vicar?”

“‘Honor the widows who are widows indeed,’ wrote Timothy.” The vicar smiled. “However, I’m not certain he had ratafia in mind.”

Lord Thomas shrugged. “Well, one must work with what one has.” He held out his arm. “Shall we, cousin?”

Reluctantly, Pen placed her hand on his arm.

“Careful,” Thomas said as they moved beyond the vicar’s hearing, “I detect a root of bitterness in your stance.”

“You interrupted a perfectly pleasant conversation.”

“Are you chastising me for wishing to provide you with refreshment?”

“No,” she replied lightly. “I am reprimanding you for practically dragging me away.”

They stopped at the table. He filled a glass. Her gaze fixed on the almonds floating in the bowl.

“Remember”—he handed her the liquor—“there is little that happens on this estate that I do not know.”

“I imagine,” she said dryly, “having confidants within the staff is most helpful. And, I must refuse. Bitter almonds are not to my taste.”

He froze. Then, he laughed. “Oh, you are delightful.”

“You needn’t humor me, Lord Thomas. Mr. Anthony has been honest enough to shed pretense. You may as well.”

“Me?” he said, pointing to himself, but not so closely as to ruffle his cravat. “I only have your best interests at heart. Unlike others.” His gaze moved to Anthony. “Allow me to compliment you on your use of the duchess’s clothes, by the way. Anthony is both incensed and drooling. You have confused the enemy—Chev would be proud. But”—he turned—“Cheverley isn’t here. Is he?”

“Don’t tell me you are about to propose, too?”

“Your look of abhorrence wounds, cousin. And here I thought you wise and kind.” He sipped from her glass. “Tell me, if you were compelled to place your loyalty either with Anthony or with me, which would you choose?”

A Hobson’s choice. “I would choose, as always, my son.”

“I’d also remember, then, that Thaddeus is under my guardianship.”

“You and His Grace,” she pointed out.

“We both know that the duke cannot tell a cat from a dog.”

“He improves.”

“Yes.” He downed the rest of the glass. “But will he improve in time?”

“In time for what?” she asked.

“A storm is coming, cousin. You’d be wise to batten down the hatches.” He bowed slightly. “My offer stands.”

~~~

Had Cheverley thought himself in pain when he’d dreamed of Penelope?

His dreams and memories were watercolor and canvas—a pale copy of her vividness in flesh and blood.

Excruciating heat seeped from his wrung-out heart.

Physically, the years had altered her little. Her face was, perhaps, more rounded. Her skin, however, remained unlined. And what he could see of her blonde tresses—sadly twisted into a tight knot—showed no hint of grey.

Yet, a hardness he did not recognize effused her presence. A hardness transferred into the molten mess of his own sentiments, floating like crusted flakes of metal—little, doomed ships on an inward, storm-battered sea.

He could reach her in little more than ten steps, though he was no longer as close as he’d been when he’d heard her speak to Anthony with calculated invitation, a spider, confident in her web’s allure.

I am, as you so helpfully pointed out, a widow in need of protection. I must consider which man can make the best offer.

He should leave . Go back to sea. Forever silence the pirate—a mission, unlike his time here, with a distinct beginning and end, a clear measure of achievement.

But Thaddeus—

He inhaled in silence.

But Thaddeus wanted to learn to shoot.

Lord Thomas bowed, turned and walked away, his triumphant smile growing wider as he strode.

Penelope touched her forehead. All traces of her earlier confidence vanished. She moved toward Cheverley—or, at least, toward the doorway to the courtyard. She reached for the door—

Anthony called the room to attention.

With a grimace, she turned, and then rested against a pillar in the shadow of a potted palm.

Anthony spoke, but Cheverley could not understand his words over the rushing in his ears, the over-loud thudding drum inside his chest.

Then, the music began again. The words ran together, but their tone resonated. A mournful song. Anger. Longing. Grief. He couldn’t stop the flood any more than he could tear away his gaze.

Penelope .

Her body tensed—she shoved away from the pillar.

He caught the words— The HMS Defiance —and turned his attention to the stage. In shock, he listened as his terrors were folded into softly spoken rhymes.

A sob that could have been his own wrenched from his wife’s lips.

“Stop,” she whispered. Then louder, “Stop!”

The music came to a jagged end in domino succession, a cacophony that intensified his chill. All eyes turned to Penelope. She gripped her pearls, and for a moment, Chev expected her to rip the strand from her throat.

“I—I can hardly bear my grief.” She appeared lost. Hunted. “I miss him. I miss him.” She sobbed again. “All the time.”

Anthony moved back to the front of the room.

“The music will continue,” he said to the crowd. Then, to Penelope, “do you think you are the only one who has lost anyone?”

Penelope placed the back of her gloved hand to her lips.

Go to her. The command was instant, undeniable.

Then, Chev saw his son.

“Her ladyship said to stop the music,” Thaddeus spoke in a low, controlled rage.

“What I’ve said is true,” Anthony replied. “You and your mother are not the only ones here who have suffered a loss.” Anthony raised a brow. “Do you seek to challenge me?”

“I seek,” Thaddeus said with quiet authority, “to rule my house.”

Thaddeus placed his arm around his mother’s shoulders and then led her from the room.

Chev gazed after them, an unexpected stinging in his long-dry eyes.

“Please disregard my cousins.” Anthony broke the silence. “The trial has placed Lady Cheverley at wit’s end, and young Thaddeus is quite at a loss. However, let us not allow her frailty to dampen this excellent tribute to the bravery of his lordship and the many others who have sacrificed so that we may someday live in peace.”

For a heartbeat, the room remained silent. Then, Sir Jerold pounded his cane upon the ground.

“Hear, Hear,” he said.

“Hear, Hear.” A smattering of guests replied.

There hadn’t been an ounce of surprise in Anthony’s reaction. No doubt, Anthony had anticipated Penelope’s tears.

There was more here than he understood. And he must stay until his questions were answered.

Melting back into the garden wall, Cheverley spit the foulness from his mouth.