Page 12 of Trusting Her Duke

The Duke’s study showed clear signs of having been searched. Papers lay scattered across the desk and floor, books stood open or knocked askew on their shelves. But most alarming was the deed box lying open in the centre of the chaos - the iron-bound chest Penelope recognised as containing the registered documents and ancient claims records. Next to it lay their carefully prepared evidence for Chancery, disrupted and dishevelled.

“How?”

The Duke’s voice held deadly quiet as he surveyed the damage. His hand had moved to Penelope’s elbow, either forgotten or deliberately maintained in their rush to investigate.

“Jenkins found one of the maids crying in the hallway,” Albert reported grimly. “Seems Sir Lionel had been... persuading her to help him gain access to the deed box. Promised her brother a position if she’d let his man examine our registered documents. But that’s not the worst of it.”

He held out several sheets of paper, their edges crumpled as if they’d been handled roughly. The Duke released Penelope to take them, and she moved closer to read over his shoulder in the lamplight.

Her breath caught as she recognised what she was seeing.

Letters, apparently in her father’s hand, discussing private arrangements about the woodland boundaries - the sort that would invalidate the registered claims in Chancery if they were genuine. Letters that suggested exactly the sort of unofficial agreements Sir Lionel had claimed existed.

“These are forgeries,” she said immediately. “My father would never create private agreements that would invalidate our ancient rights. The Court of Chancery has confirmed our boundaries for generations.”

“Of course they’re forgeries.” The Duke’s voice held both anger and something else - something that made her blood run cold. “The question is, how did they come to be among our registered documents? Who had access to the deed box?”

She stepped back, stung by the implication in his tone.

“Surely you don’t think...”

“What am I to think?” He turned to face her, his expression harder than she’d ever seen it. “These documents appear immediately after I grant you access to my private deed box, to my family’s registered claims. After I trust you with papers that could destroy both estates if they fell into the wrong hands at Chancery.”

“Alexander,” Lord Albert began, but the Duke cut him off.

“No. The timing is too perfect. Sir Lionel’s threats, your apparent willingness to help, and now these conveniently discovered letters?” His voice had turned to ice. “Tell me, Lady Penelope, was that scene in the conservatory part of the plan as well?”

The accusation struck like a physical blow. Penelope felt all the warmth of their earlier intimacy freeze into something sharp and painful.

“How dare you?” Her voice emerged barely above a whisper, though she wanted to scream. “After everything we’ve worked for, everything we’ve shared...”

“Everything you’ve learned about our legal position, you mean?” His face had settled into harsh lines she barely recognised. “Every vulnerability in our ancient claims that you’ve discovered while pretending to help prepare our case for Chancery?”

“Cousin,” Lord Albert stepped forward, his usually cheerful face grave. “You’re not thinking clearly. Lady Penelope would never...”

“Never what? Protect her family’s interests?” The Duke’s laugh held no humour. “Even at the expense of honour?”

Penelope felt tears burning behind her eyes but refused to let them fall. She straightened her spine, lifting her chin in a gesture that felt like armour.

“You speak of honour,” she said, her voice steady despite the pain in her chest, “yet you dishonour us both with these accusations. I have never betrayed your trust. Never.”

“Then explain these.” He thrust the letters towards her, his hands actually shaking with suppressed emotion. “Explain how they came to be in my study, among my private papers.”

“I cannot explain what I did not do.” She met his eyes steadily, though it hurt to see the coldness there. “But I see now that your faith in me was as false as these forged letters.”

Something flickered in his expression - doubt? Regret? But before he could speak, another voice cut through the tension.

“What is the meaning of this?”

They all turned to find the Earl of Stanyon in the doorway, his distinguished features set in lines of concern. His eyes moved from his daughter’s pale face to the Duke’s rigid stance, then to the scattered papers and disrupted room.

“Papa.” Penelope’s voice nearly broke on the word. “It seems that I stand accused of betraying the Duke’s trust. Of planting false evidence in his study.”

The Earl’s expression darkened as he stepped into the room.

“Indeed? And what evidence would that be? What documents could possibly override centuries of properly registered claims?”

The Duke handed over the letters without speaking.

Penelope watched her father examine them, his experienced eye noting each detail as one who had handled estate documents his entire life. His face grew grimmer with each page.

“Well,” he said finally, his voice deceptively mild, “these are quite clever. They’ve even managed to copy that slight tremor in my hand that developed after my hunting accident two years ago. A detail known to anyone who’s seen my signatures in the parish registry since then.”

“What?”

The Duke’s harsh tone faltered slightly.

“Oh yes.” The Earl held one letter to the lamplight. “See here? The slight shake in the downstrokes? Most people wouldn’t notice it, but it only started after I broke my wrist. Which makes these letters, supposedly written four years ago and witnessed by your own grandfather’s solicitor, rather interesting, wouldn’t you say? Particularly as your grandfather had been deceased for two years by that date.”

Silence fell in the study. Penelope watched the Duke’s face as understanding began to replace suspicion. But the pain of his accusations still burned too freshly for her to feel any satisfaction.

“I think,” she said quietly, “I should return home now.”

“Lady Penelope...” The Duke moved towards her, that terrible coldness finally leaving his expression. “I...”

“Don’t.” She stepped back, maintaining distance between them. “You’ve made your opinion of me quite clear, Your Grace. I won’t trouble you with my presence any longer. Though I suggest you have your solicitors examine those forgeries carefully before you present them to Chancery as evidence of my supposed betrayal.”

“ Penelope,” her father’s voice held gentle understanding, “perhaps we should consider how this affects our joint petition to the Court...”

“Please, Papa.” She was proud that her voice remained steady. “I would like to leave. Now. Our solicitors can handle any necessary communications regarding the case.”

The Earl nodded slowly.

“Of course, my dear. Though I believe I shall stay a while longer. His Grace and I have some matters to discuss.”

Penelope didn’t look at the Duke as she left the study, though she could feel his eyes on her. The weight of his gaze seemed to burn between her shoulder blades as she walked away, head high despite the tears she refused to let fall.

Behind her, she heard her father’s voice, cold in a way she’d never heard before.

“Now then, Your Grace. Shall we discuss how a man whose own family’s ancient rights depend on properly registered claims could so easily believe in secret arrangements that would undermine them? How readily you accepted the very sort of document that would destroy everything your ancestors built?”

She didn’t wait to hear the Duke’s response.

*****

The drive back to Stanyon House passed in a blur of moonlight and shadows. Penelope sat rigid in her father’s carriage, grateful that Mary had the wisdom to remain silent beside her. The steady clop of hooves against the road provided counterpoint to the thundering of her heart, still painful in her chest.

Her fingers traced the embroidery on her reticule, the familiar pattern offering no comfort. Just hours ago, she had dressed so carefully in this blue silk, had felt such foolish pleasure when the Duke’s eyes had warmed at the sight of her. Now the gorgeous gown felt like a costume, worn by some other, more na?ve, girl who still believed in trust and understanding.

The memory of his kiss burned like frost against her lips. How quickly warmth had turned to ice, tenderness to suspicion.

His face when he’d accused her... she pressed her eyes closed, but the image remained: those green eyes gone cold, that beloved mouth set in harsh lines of judgment. Beloved? The word rose unbidden in her mind, making her chest ache anew. When had she begun to care so much what he thought of her? When had his good opinion become so devastatingly important?

“My Lady?” Mary’s voice came soft in the darkness. “We’re nearly home.”

Penelope opened her eyes to find that they had indeed reached the familiar avenue of oaks leading to Stanyon House. Moonlight filtered through bare branches, casting dappled shadows across her lap like nature’s own lace.

“Thank you, Mary.” Her voice emerged steadier than she’d expected. “I trust you can handle any necessary explanations to the household?”

“Of course, my Lady.” Mary’s tone held fierce loyalty. “Though perhaps we should discuss what actually happened? So I know what to say?”

“What happened?” Penelope’s laugh held no humour. “What happened is that I was a fool. I allowed myself to believe that birth and breeding guaranteed honour. That a Duke’s word meant something.”

“If you’ll pardon my saying so,” Mary’s practical voice cut through her bitter thoughts, “a man doesn’t kiss a woman like that if he truly believes her dishonourable.”

Heat flooded Penelope’s cheeks.

“You saw?”

“I was bringing a message to His Grace. Though I retreated quickly when I realised the conservatory was... occupied.” A hint of satisfaction crept into Mary’s tone. “Which makes his subsequent behaviour even more incomprehensible.”

“Does it?” Penelope turned to watch moonlit fields pass by the carriage window. “Or does it simply prove that physical attraction means nothing compared to ingrained prejudice? That a man might kiss a woman one moment and believe her capable of betrayal the next?”

The carriage wheels hit a rut, jostling them slightly. Penelope welcomed the physical discomfort - it provided distraction from the deeper pain in her chest.

“Those letters,” Mary said carefully, “they must have been quite convincing to make him doubt properly registered rights.”

“They were excellent forgeries, crafted to look like private agreements that would invalidate our claims in Chancery.” Penelope’s hands clenched in her lap. “But that’s not the point. He should have known - after all our work preparing our case together, all our...”

She broke off, unable to categorise exactly what had grown between them during those hours in his library.

“All your trust?” Mary suggested gently.

“Trust.” The word tasted bitter now. “Such a small word for such a devastating thing to lose.”

They passed through the gates of Stanyon House, gravel crunching under the carriage wheels. The familiar facade rose before them, windows glowing warmly in welcome. Yet Penelope felt cold to her core, as if something vital had frozen inside her.

“What will you do now?” Mary asked as the carriage drew to a halt.

“Now?” Penelope straightened her spine, drawing dignity around herself like a cloak. “Now I shall do exactly what I have always done. I shall continue our charitable work, manage our estate responsibilities, and prove through actions rather than words that honour is not the exclusive province of Dukes.”

Inside Stanyon House, the familiar scents of beeswax and lavender wrapped around her, yet provided no comfort. Penelope moved through the halls like a ghost, barely acknowledging the concerned greetings of their evening staff. She had just reached the stairs when another carriage’s wheels sounded on the gravel outside. A moment later, Lady Rosalind burst through the front door, her evening cloak askew and her dark eyes bright with concern.

“Penelope! Thank heavens I caught you. My brother is being an absolute fool!”

“Lady Rosalind.” Penelope’s voice emerged cooler than she’d intended. “You should not have come. It’s most improper at this hour.”

Even as she said those words, Penelope was drawing Rosalind into the small parlour, away from curious staff, and closing the door after them.

“Improper?” Rosalind advanced on her, where she now stood in the centre of the parlour, rather at a loss for what to do next. Rosalind was practically vibrating with protective fury. “Do you know what’s improper? Accusing someone you care for of betrayal without a moment’s thought! Making judgments based on manufactured evidence when all logic suggests otherwise!”

“Please.” Penelope held up one hand, unable to bear Rosalind’s fierce loyalty. “What’s done is done.”

“No,” Rosalind insisted, catching her hand. “It’s not done. Alexander is already beginning to realise his mistake. Albert is making him see reason, and your father...” a slight smile touched her lips, “well, I’ve never seen the Earl quite so forceful in his opinions.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Penelope gently withdrew her hand. “Whatever your brother now believes, he revealed his true nature when pressure was applied. He showed exactly how much his fine words about trust and partnership were worth.”

“He’s afraid,” Rosalind said quietly. “Surely you can see that? After losing our parents, after nearly losing the estate once before... fear makes him react badly to perceived threats.”

“Fear may explain his actions,” Penelope replied, fighting to keep her voice steady. “It does not excuse them.”

“No,” Rosalind agreed softly. “It doesn’t. But perhaps it makes them understandable? Forgivable, even?”

Penelope turned away, unable to bear the pleading in her friend’s eyes.

“Understanding and forgiveness are luxuries I cannot afford right now. We have real threats to face - Sir Lionel’s petition to Chancery, the tenant farmers being pressed for sworn statements, the upcoming depositions before the local justice...”

“ All the more reason to stand together!” Rosalind moved around to face her again. “You know we’re stronger united. You and Alexander work so well together when you’re not both being ridiculously stubborn.”

A knock at the door interrupted whatever response Penelope might have made. Mary appeared, her face grave.

“Begging your pardon, my Lady, but Sir Lionel has been seen riding towards the village. He appears to be gathering people at the pub again.”

“Of course he is.” Penelope’s laugh held no humour. “He must have planned this perfectly - sow discord between the estates, then strike while we’re divided.”

“Then don’t let him succeed!” Rosalind caught her hands again. “Come back with me. Help us fight this properly.”

“No.” Penelope squeezed her friend’s hands once before releasing them. “I will fight this, but I will do it my way. Through the proper channels, with evidence and facts, not... not emotions and misplaced trust.”

“Penelope...”

“Please, Rosalind.” She was proud that her voice remained steady. “Go home. Your brother needs you more than I do right now.”

As if summoned by her words, they heard another carriage approaching. This one’s wheels rang against the gravel with military precision that could only mean one thing.

“He wouldn’t...” Rosalind began.

“Oh, but he would.” Penelope turned towards the stairs. “Mary, please show Lady Rosalind out. And inform His Grace, should he demand entrance, that I am not at home to visitors.”

She had reached the first landing when the Duke’s voice carried from below, deep and commanding.

“Lady Penelope!”

She paused, one hand on the banister, but did not turn. The polished wood felt cool beneath her fingers, grounding her against the sudden wild beating of her heart.

“Your Grace,” she heard Mary say with perfect correctness, “I regret that my Lady is not receiving visitors this evening.”

“This is ridiculous.” His voice held frustration now. “I must speak with her. There are things to explain...”

“There is nothing to explain.” Penelope surprised herself by speaking, though she still did not turn. “Your actions made your thoughts perfectly clear.”

“Did they?” Something raw entered his tone. “Or did they simply prove how badly fear can cloud judgment? How easily past hurts can poison present trust?”

She closed her eyes against the pain in his voice, steeling herself against the urge to turn, to look at him, to allow him to explain.

“Past hurts? And what of present ones, Your Grace? What of trust destroyed not by time but by choice?”

“Penelope.” Her name on his lips still held power to wound. “Please.”

“No.” She forced steel into her voice. “You made your choice in your study, sir. Now I make mine. Good evening, Your Grace.”