Page 13 of Trusting Her Duke

She continued up the stairs, each step requiring more strength than the last. Behind her, she heard Rosalind’s quiet murmur, then Mary’s firm announcement that she really must insist His Grace leave now.

The sound of the front door closing echoed through the house like a physical blow. Penelope reached her chamber door before her composure finally cracked. Once inside, she pressed her back against the solid wood and allowed herself to slide to the floor, her blue silk skirts pooling around her like water.

Only then, in the privacy of her room, did she finally let the tears fall.

Dawn found her at her writing desk, correspondence spread before her like battle plans. She had not slept - what was the point of trying when every time she closed her eyes she saw his face, felt his kiss, heard his accusations? Better to work, to plan, to prepare their defences against whatever Sir Lionel might attempt next.

Her evening gown lay discarded across a chair, the blue silk now seeming to mock her with memories of happiness so briefly held. She had changed into a practical morning dress of grey wool, its severe lines matching her mood.

A knock heralded Mary’s arrival with breakfast and the morning’s reports from the village.

“Sir Lionel was busy last night, my Lady,” her maid announced without preamble. “He’s been making grand promises to anyone who’ll listen. Better lease terms, improved rights of usage, positions of authority for those willing to swear statements supporting his petition to Chancery...”

“ Empty promises,” Penelope said, not looking up from her letters. “But effective ones, I suppose? How many seem willing to give depositions?”

“Some of the younger men, mainly. Though...” Mary hesitated. “Thomas Carter was there. He says Sir Lionel had papers with him. Documents he claimed would prove to the Court of Chancery that both the Duke and your father have been... concealing ancient rights.”

“More forged evidence for his petition?”

“It seems so. Though these appear to be private agreements between His Grace and your father, supposedly showing how they’ve conspired to deny traditional grazing rights. The sort of evidence that could undermine all those centuries of registered claims.”

Anger flared hot in Penelope’s chest.

“As if either of them would ever... no. This ends now.”

She rose, moving to the window where morning light painted the frost-covered gardens in shades of silver and gold. The same way that light had filtered through the conservatory roof last night, turning that kiss into something from a fairy story... She pushed the memory aside with savage determination.

“My Lady?” Mary’s voice held concern.

“Bring me the records from our tenant meetings.” Penelope turned from the window, purpose replacing pain in her bearing. “All of them - every properly witnessed statement I’ve taken these past months about traditional usage rights, water privileges, and ancient boundaries. We’ll need everything properly documented for our solicitors. And send word to Mrs. Williams - I want to meet with her this morning.”

“Mrs. Williams?” Mary frowned. “The farmer’s wife who’s been helping coordinate our charitable distribution?”

“Exactly.” Penelope moved to her desk, beginning to sort papers with swift purpose. “She knows every family in the area, knows their concerns, their true loyalties. And more importantly, they trust her.”

“You mean to counter Sir Lionel’s influence through her?”

“I mean to ensure that our people understand exactly what they stand to lose if his petition succeeds in Chancery.” Penelope’s voice held steel now. “He offers them dreams of better futures while hiding how their sworn statements could destroy rights their families have held for generations. We’ll show them the truth of what they’d be giving up before the Court.”

Mary nodded, something like satisfaction crossing her face.

“I’ll fetch the records immediately. Though... what of His Grace? Surely he should be informed...”

“His Grace,” Penelope said coldly, “has made his position quite clear. We will proceed without his assistance.”

A soft tap at the door interrupted them. One of the maids entered, bobbing a nervous curtsey.

“Beggin’ your pardon, my Lady, but Lady Rosalind is below. She says it’s urgent.”

Penelope closed her eyes briefly.

“Tell her I’m indisposed.”

“She... she says she won’t leave until you see her. Says it’s about Sir Lionel’s plans for this afternoon.”

That made Penelope’s eyes snap open.

“This afternoon?”

“Yes, my Lady. Something about taking tenant depositions before a local justice? Lady Rosalind says he means to use them to support his petition in Chancery. He’s gathering sworn statements about ancient rights and historical usage.”

For a moment, Penelope stood frozen, mind racing through implications. These sworn statements would support Sir Lionel’s petition to Chancery, forcing both estates to defend their ancient rights. Such cases could take years to resolve, during which time every traditional usage would be questioned. Years during which Sir Lionel’s influence could grow, during which more tenants might be persuaded to give damaging testimony, during which generations of carefully preserved rights could crumble...

“Very well.” She straightened her spine. “Show Lady Rosalind up.”

Mary moved to protest, but Penelope shook her head.

“Personal feelings must wait. This is too important.”

Moments later, Rosalind burst into the room, her usual elegance somewhat disrupted by obvious haste.

“Thank heavens you’ll see me! Penelope, it’s worse than we thought. Sir Lionel has somehow convinced three of the boundary farmers to give depositions supporting his claims in Chancery. He’s taking them before a justice this afternoon to swear statements about historical usage rights!”

“Which farmers?” Penelope demanded, her mind already calculating possibilities.

“The Hendersons, young John Carter, and...” Rosalind hesitated.

“And?”

“And Thomas Williams.”

Penelope felt the blood drain from her face.

“Mrs. Williams’ son? But they’ve been loyal to Stanyon for generations!”

“Sir Lionel offered him a position managing part of the woodland - once the Court of Chancery grants him control, of course.” Rosalind’s voice held bitter understanding. “The boy’s always wanted more responsibility than his father would give him. Now he’s ready to swear away his family’s ancient rights for the promise of advancement.”

“And he’ll lose everything his family has built over generations, all for empty promises that won’t stand once the case is settled. His sworn statement could destroy rights his children should have inherited.” Penelope turned back to her desk, drawing out fresh paper. “Mary, send for the carriage. And find Featherstone - the Duke’s Mr Featherstone. Tell him... tell him I need to speak with him immediately.”

“Penelope?” Rosalind stepped closer, hope lighting her face. “Does this mean you’ll help?”

“This means I’ll do what needs doing.” Penelope’s quill scratched rapidly across paper. “With or without your brother’s cooperation.”

But even as she wrote, she couldn’t quite suppress the ache in her chest at the thought of facing this battle alone.

*****

The morning sun slanted through the library windows at Stanyon House, catching dust motes that danced in the air like silent witnesses to Penelope’s restless pacing. She had transformed the room into a command centre of sorts, with maps and documents spread across every available surface. The familiar scent of leather bindings and beeswax polish mixed with fresh coffee, brought by an increasingly worried Mary.

Three days had passed since that disastrous dinner party at Ravensworth Hall. Three days of careful planning, of gathering evidence, of trying to ignore the hollow ache in her chest that had nothing to do with estate business and everything to do with green eyes gone cold with suspicion. Every time she touched a document, she remembered how they had worked together in his library, heads bent close over similar papers. Every time she examined a map, she recalled the warmth of his hand covering hers as he pointed out important details.

The blue silk gown still hung in her armoire, a silent reminder of everything that had gone so terribly wrong. She had taken to wearing her most severe dresses, as if their dark colours and practical lines could somehow armour her against memories of candlelight and dancing, of moonlit conservatories and devastating kisses.

“The local justice has agreed to delay taking the tenant depositions,” her father announced from the doorway, making her start slightly. The Earl looked tired, silver hair slightly dishevelled as if he’d been running his hands through it. His usual elegant composure showed signs of strain - this crisis was wearing on him more than he would admit. “Though I’m not certain that’s entirely to our advantage.”

“Sir Lionel will use the time to gather more support,” Penelope agreed, turning to face him. The morning light caught the silver threads in her father’s hair, reminding her painfully of how much he had aged in recent years. “How long?”

“A week.” The Earl moved into the room, examining the papers spread across her desk. His fingers traced the edge of a particular document - one showing ancient rights properly registered with the Court of Chancery generations ago. “Though I suspect that our opponent already knew this would happen. He seemed remarkably pleased for someone whose plans had been apparently disrupted.”

Penelope’s fingers clenched on the document she held, crinkling the paper slightly before she forced herself to relax her grip.

“Because delay works in his favour. Every day gives him more time to gather sworn statements from tenants, to turn more people against the properly registered rights of both estates.” She paused, then added quietly, “As if we needed help creating division.”

“Indeed.” Her father’s keen eyes studied her face, missing nothing of the shadows beneath her eyes or the tension in her bearing. “Though I wonder if he might have another reason for satisfaction? Division between estates makes his work considerably easier, after all.”

“Papa, please.” She turned away, unable to bear the gentle understanding in his gaze. The morning light caught her reflection in the window - she looked pale, she realised, the grey wool of her dress washing out her complexion. Not that it mattered. Not anymore. “We have more important matters to consider than His Grace’s... than the Duke’s opinion of me.”

“Do we?” The Earl settled into his favourite chair, the leather creaking softly. The sound reminded her sharply of Alexander’s study, of hours spent working together in comfortable silence. Her father watched her with the careful attention he usually reserved for estate matters. “When that opinion affects our ability to present a united front against Sir Lionel’s schemes?”

“We don’t need Ravensworth’s help to prove our case.” The words emerged sharper than she’d intended, brittle with suppressed pain. She moved to her desk, straightening papers that needed no straightening, just to have something to do with her hands. “Our registered rights are clear, our ancient claims properly documented.”

“And yet we’re fighting with one hand tied behind our backs.” Her father’s voice held careful neutrality, though she could hear the concern beneath it. “Division weakens our position before the Court, Penelope. You know this. It’s exactly what Sir Lionel hoped to achieve - two ancient estates appearing unstable just as he challenges their rights.”

The truth of this struck her like a physical blow. Had they played directly into their enemy’s hands? Had pride and pain done Sir Lionel’s work for him? Before she could examine this uncomfortable thought too closely, Mary appeared in the doorway, her usually calm face showing signs of agitation.

“Begging your pardon, my Lady, my Lord, but Mr Featherstone is here. He says he has information about Sir Lionel’s latest visits to the boundary farms.”

Mary’s eyes held sympathy as she looked at Penelope, making her wonder just how much her maid understood about the situation. Penelope straightened, pushing personal concerns aside with the practice of recent days.

“Show him in.”

Featherstone entered looking uncomfortable, his weathered face showing signs of internal struggle. Though technically the Duke’s employee, he had been providing information to both estates since the crisis began - a fact which probably violated his strict sense of loyalty. His coat showed signs of hard riding, and his boots were mud-spattered, suggesting he’d come directly from the boundary farms.

“My Lady, my Lord.” He twisted his hat in his hands, a gesture she’d noticed he made when particularly distressed. “Sir Lionel’s been making more promises. Not just to the younger farmers now - he’s started approaching the older families. Offering to honour all ancient rights once the Court of Chancery grants him control, plus additional considerations for those willing to give sworn testimony supporting his petition.”

“And do they believe him?” Penelope asked, though she feared she knew the answer.

She moved to the large map spread across one table, the one showing tenant holdings along the disputed boundaries. Each farm represented a family whose future hung in the balance, whose trust they needed to maintain.

“Some do.” Featherstone’s face showed his distress, years of loyal service warring with current uncertainties. “Others... well, they’re worried about choosing wrong. If Sir Lionel wins his case, they don’t want to be on the losing side. But they don’t trust him neither. They remember how his father treated tenants on his own lands, before...”

“Before he lost them through mismanagement,” the Earl observed quietly, his tone suggesting intimate knowledge of that history. “So they wait, these families who have worked our lands for generations.”

“Yes, my Lord.” Featherstone glanced between them, clearly struggling with something. His fingers worked ceaselessly at the brim of his hat, threatening to permanently reshape the worn felt. “Though... if I might speak freely?”

“Please do.”

Penelope gestured for him to continue, noting how he shifted his weight nervously, as if what he had to say might be unwelcome.

“They’re confused, seeing the estates divided. They’ve always looked to both houses to protect their ancient rights, especially since you and His Grace started working together to document and preserve traditional usage.” His eyes met Penelope’s briefly before dropping, but not before she caught the mixture of loyalty and concern in them. “They don’t understand what’s happened. One day you’re both visiting farms together, showing such unity of purpose, and the next...”

He broke off, clearly uncomfortable with speaking so plainly to his betters.

“The next we appear to be at odds.”

Penelope finished the sentence for him, her voice steady despite the pain that lanced through her chest at the memory of those shared visits. How natural it had felt, working with Alexander, their different approaches somehow complementing each other perfectly.

His methodical nature balancing her more intuitive one, his attention to detail supporting her grasp of human considerations.

“Yes, my Lady.” Featherstone’s voice held genuine distress now. “And Sir Lionel, he’s using that confusion. Telling people that if the great houses can’t trust each other, how can simple farmers trust either of them? Making them wonder if perhaps it’s time for... for new leadership.”

The Earl rose from his chair, moving to study the map beside Penelope. His finger traced the boundary line that had caused so much trouble.

“He plays his game well, I’ll give him that. Every action calculated to increase uncertainty, to shake loose old loyalties.”

“And we’ve helped him do it,” Penelope said bitterly. The morning light seemed suddenly harsh, highlighting every worry line on her father’s face, every sign of strain in Featherstone’s bearing. “Our... discord... has given weight to his arguments.”

“My Lady,” Featherstone ventured carefully, “if I might... His Grace, he’s not been himself these past days. Hardly sleeps, from what the house staff say. Spends hours in his study, going over the same documents again and again...”

Penelope held up one hand, unable to bear this glimpse of Alexander’s state of mind.

“Thank you, Featherstone, but the Duke’s personal habits are not our concern. What we need to know is how many families Sir Lionel has approached, and what specific promises he’s made.”

The estate manager recognised the dismissal in her tone and turned to more practical matters. For the next hour, they discussed the situation in detail - which farmers seemed most swayed by Sir Lionel’s arguments, which remained loyal, which waited to see how events would unfold. Throughout it all, Penelope maintained rigid control of her expression, refusing to show how each mention of Ravensworth lands or the Duke’s tenants made her heart clench.

When Featherstone finally departed, laden with instructions to keep watching and reporting, the Earl turned to his daughter with concern evident in his face.

“You cannot go on like this, my dear.”