The Duke Goes Down

by Sophie Jordan

  And this certainly was not the kind of event the once most precious and valued Penning heir would ever attend. He certainly had not in the days before he inherited the dukedom and definitely not after, in his glory days as the Duke of Penning. Before the truth came out. Only now, apparently, did he deem it a good enough venue from him.

  Now he attended. Now he was here.

  She lifted her nose a notch as though his presence carried with it an unfortunate odor.

  People watched him as he moved about the room. Yes, Imogen watched, too, but she was not gawking at him for the reasons they were.

  Everyone in this village held him in awe. As though he were still the duke. Still a nobleman in their midst. It was most vexing.

  The Duke of Penning was not in this room. Indeed not. Only Mr. Butler was in attendance.

  Penniless and rankless, albeit handsome, Mr. Butler.

  Imogen nodded once and told herself to stop searching him out. She’d done enough of that. It felt rather desperate. It made her feel like one of the ladies who couldn’t keep their eyes off him. Usually it was because of his dashing good looks. He cut an impeccable figure in his smart and still fashionable attire.

  But there was more to it tonight. There was a difference. There were more to the stares he was eliciting.

  For a start, the long looks he garnered had nothing to do with his appearance. Not anymore. Not this night. The whispers behind fans and gloved hands were all about the latest on dit.

  The rumors circulating about him.

  She need not hear everyone’s words to know what they were saying—more or less. They were speaking the words she herself had breathed to life. The on dit she had created.

  “You’ve been busy,” Mercy’s sudden voice remarked.

  Imogen jerked at the arrival of her friend beside her. Her hand flew to press over her startled heart. “Oh,” she exhaled. “Mercy, dearest. How lovely you look this evening. Is that a new gown?” Imogen leaned forward to press a kiss to the young woman’s cheek.

  Mercy gestured to her gown—a garment Imogen had seen her friend wear many times before. “This tired thing?” In fact, Mercy had worn the same gown to the Blankenships’ last two country balls, and Imogen well remembered it.

  Mercy’s farm was quite prosperous, but one would never know it from the humble manner in which she lived. Plump pockets did not prompt her to spend money on herself and buy new frocks. She saw to it that her sister was always outfitted accordingly, but not Mercy. She never indulged in fripperies for herself.

  She also had her brother with whom to contend. She often bemoaned the fact that Bede was a bit of a spendthrift. Since finishing school, he spent very little of his time at his family home. He rarely visited—even on holidays. Imogen could not recall the last time she had seen him. He left the management of the farm to Mercy, devoting most of his time to his leisure pursuits in Town. Mercy was, in effect, the head of her family, shouldering all the responsibilities whilst her siblings led carefree existences. It was likely why Imogen was so drawn to her. Mercy understood all about obligation and duty to one’s family.

  “Yes,” Imogen insisted. “Your dress is lovely.”

  “Tsk! Rubbish.” Mercy swatted her with her fan. “Now you’re just trying to distract me with your lovely lies.” Mercy’s dark eyes danced. “And speaking of lies.”

  Imogen ignored the pointed mention of lies, asking instead, “Why would I be attempting to distract you?”

  “To keep from talking about all the natter floating about town. Would you know anything about that, Imogen? Hm?”

  Imogen sighed and decided not to pretend ignorance of her friend’s meaning. They were well beyond that. Mercy had been there, after all. She had stood witness to the first lie Imogen had uttered regarding Mr. Butler—when Imogen informed the Blankenship sisters that he was stark bald and wore a wig.

  “Just a few more carefully placed words here and there.” Imogen sniffed and took a sip from her glass of punch. “No more than that.”

  Mercy lifted an eyebrow and sipped from her own punch. “Apparently a few more carefully placed words served its purpose. It took not five minutes upon arrival before I heard the latest tattle about Mr. Butler. You’re quite the yarn spinner. I never realized you possessed such an imagination.”

  “I can be creative when called upon.”

  “And you’re called upon to be creative now?” One of Mercy’s dark eyebrows arched sharply.

  Imogen gave a mild shrug, and lifted her glass for another sip, returning her attention to the dance floor. Mercy followed her gaze. They watched the colorful dancers for several moments. Standing by and watching was a familiar habit.

  Like Imogen, Mercy was not interested in attracting a dance partner. Imogen might once have had dreams of dancing the night away in the arms of a dashing gentleman, but it had been a long time since she harbored those kinds of aspirations. As two firmly on the shelf spinsters, it had been several years since either Imogen or Mercy were even asked to dance at one of these things. They were content to chat and watch and keep a vigilant eye on Mercy’s sister who did have those aspirations.

  Although tonight Imogen found herself distracted from their usual easy flow of conversation. Mercy’s words of caution from the other day echoed in her mind. When this reaches his ears, which you know it will, and he finds out you are the source . . . what then?

  Indeed. What then?

  Imogen tried to envision that moment and what she would say. What would she do? Was there some way she might avoid the man? Could she feign ignorance? Deny all accusations? Or should she simply confess her actions and tell him why she had felt compelled to ruin his matrimonial prospects? She cringed at the notion of having such a conversation with him. Such a candid exchange would not be an easy thing.

  Pushing the unwelcome prospect from her mind, she did her best to follow Mercy’s conversation and contribute her own remarks. It was difficult. Maintaining a discussion while tracking Mr. Butler was a challenge.

  She watched him edge the ballroom, heading toward Emily Blankenship with long strides and a steely-eyed purpose. Blast the man for still looking so very handsome. His change in circumstances had done nothing to alter his physical appeal. Unfortunately.

  Emily’s eyes widened at his approach. In a less than discreet move, the girl spun around and dove awkwardly down the corridor for the ladies’ retiring room, reminding Imogen of a hen fleeing the fox.

  Imogen lifted her cup to her lips to hide her smile.

  Apparently Mercy did not miss the little interaction either. She tsked. “Well. Your words have certainly done the trick.”

  Imogen shoved the guilt away that threatened to beset her. She would not let such emotion torment her. She knew the manner of man Mr. Butler was, and she knew the hope that brimmed in these young girls’ hearts. She would not permit him to crush any of them.

  He was only looking to find an heiress and use her for his gain. He needed an heiress for what she could bring to him, for his own salvation—not for who she was. Not for reasons of affection or respect. And while Imogen knew that was often the way it was in marriages—they were rarely formed on the basis of love or fondness—she could not look at him without remembering that disagreeable lad by the pond . . . and later the young nobleman in the conservatory.

  Why was it that the wretched memories were always the ones that stuck with you?

  The warm memories, such as her mother’s laugh, her mother’s face . . . those grew dim with time. The harder Imogen tried to pull those memories from where they were buried in the far recesses of her mind, the more elusive they became.

  But not the wretched memories. Those were clearly imprinted. Never to be erased. It was not fair how it worked out like that.

  “You realize you could be ruining him.”

  Imogen stiffened at Mercy’s words.

  “His fate should not rest on me or anyone. Nor should it rest on his marriage to someone else. His fate is in his own
hands.” Her parents had always told her that—happiness came from within a person.

  “You think so?” Mercy queried thoughtfully.

  She heard the doubt in her friend’s voice, and even felt a little bit of it creeping in on herself, but she chose not to react to it.

  Mercy could not understand. She had no personal experience with Butler. She had not been the one to suffer those afternoon teas at Penning Hall that her well-meaning parents insisted were obligatory given the Duke of Penning’s total and unfettered influence over their lives.

  That’s what being the Duke of Penning was. Power. The position meant power and absolute authority over those born mere mortals.

  That was why it had been so gratifying to learn that the prized Penning heir was in fact no heir at all. He was mortal.

  No winged seraph, but mortal. Vulnerable to wounds. Just. Like. Them.

  Just like Imogen.

  Even at a young age Imogen knew her family existed at the Duke of Penning’s whims. His pleasure with her family dictated everything for them. How many frocks she and Mama possessed, how often they indulged in desserts, their summer trips to visit family in London and whether they took spring holiday in Brighton so that they could frolic in the sea waves.

  From the start, Imogen had been aware that they were just as beholden as the lowest scullery maid to the Duke of Penning. Also from the start, resentment had simmered within her at the unfairness of it all.

  During those obligatory visits, whilst the adults conversed, Imogen was stuck with the young lordling and his overly beribboned little sister. The two rotten children wanted nothing to do with Imogen, and clearly viewed keeping company with the vicar’s daughter akin to torture.

  They’d done nothing to conceal their aversion about keeping company with her.

  They’d done nothing to make her feel comfortable.

  In fact, they had made her quite miserable.

  Chapter Five

  A shallow pond, 1831

  Imogen was eight years old when Papa was chosen as the new vicar.

  She recalled arriving to Shropshire and her first visit to Penning Hall, a requisite upon Papa’s appointment to the role. As it turned out, the old duke heartily enjoyed a theological discussion. She had no notion on that first day that it would become routine and the first of many miserable afternoons spent at the grand house.

  Imogen sat in awe in the well-appointed drawing room with its sky-reaching ceiling and the myriad gilt-framed paintings—some landscapes, some portraits—covering every inch of wall space. She thought the place a palace.

  Her legs swung in front of her, several inches above the carpet as she sat on the sofa in her best Sunday dress. Mama reached out and pressed a gloved hand over her knee in a clear attempt to settle her anxious movements.

  The Duchess of Penning smiled, and it was a blast of dazzling brilliance. “Would you like to play outside with the children?” She gestured with an elegant hand. “My son and daughter are outdoors with the governess. They would be most happy to have your company.”

  How naïve she was to have believed that. Imogen thrilled at the notion of other children. She was eager to make friends in her new home, and she imagined that this girl and boy, even if they did happen to live in a palace, would be her bosom friends.

  She eagerly followed one of the maids out of the drawing room and outside to locate the young lord and young lady.

  They found them on the back lawn beside a crystal-blue pond. The little lordling was a few years older than her eight years. Imogen recognized that at once and was awestruck to find herself in the presence of an older, obviously well-heeled lad.

  He held a fishing pole and was bossing his younger sister on how to properly hold hers whilst their governess snored beneath a tree. The young Lady Thirza was a few years younger than Imogen, but seemed vastly more sophisticated in her fancy dress and perfectly arranged ringlets.

  “Lord Peregrine! Lady Thirza!” the maid escorting Imogen called out.

  Both children whipped their heads around at the sound of their names.

  The maid motioned to her. “This is Miss Imogen, the new vicar’s daughter. Your mother bade you keep her occupied whilst the adults have their visit.”

  Their gazes fastened on Imogen intently.

  “Occupied?” The little lordling looked affronted as he uttered the word.

  “Indeed.” The maid pushed Imogen toward the siblings. “Now play together.”

  The maid turned then and left them even as the boy further complained, “We’re not playing. This is fishing. It’s manly business. I didn’t even want her here.” He pointed a damning finger at his sister.

  Thirza stuck her tongue out at her brother and then turned a discerning eye—much too discerning for a six-year-old—on Imogen. She looked her up and down. “You’re ugly,” she offered. Not meanly, just in that very matter-of-fact way that belonged to children accustomed to galling honesty.

  Imogen’s face burned. It was only mortifying because of the beautiful boy there to bear witness. He did not reprimand his sister or rush to Imogen’s defense and that was all the more crushing. Instead, he smirked as though amused by his sister’s insult.

  Imogen mistakenly thought perhaps he would stick up for her. Foolishly so. She did not yet know the manner of boy he was. That was soon revealed, however, when she picked up a discarded fishing rod, presumably belonging to the snoring governess, and joined him beside the pond. For several moments they fished, their lines disappearing in the placid waters.

  It was not long before she felt a pull on her line.

  “I’ve got a fish!” she cried, grappling with her suddenly bowing rod. She reeled feverishly, hoping she didn’t lose her catch in the process.

  It was as she was reeling in her fish, a grand writhing silvery thing, that she noticed she was the only one excited on the bank of the pond. The little lordling and his sister watched in grim silence.

  Imogen triumphantly lifted her fish over the ground of the bank and held it up in the air, proud of her prize and eager to show it to them and have them look at her with respect.

  “Girls don’t catch fish,” the young lord accused.

  Imogen frowned, her elation ebbing. “But . . . I did.”

  “Perry has never caught a fish that big,” his little sister volunteered, nodding in the direction of her brother. “I didn’t even know there were fish that big in there.” She leaned forward and peered into the pond as though she could see into its depths.

  The young boy flushed bright red. “You’re stupid,” he snapped at his sister. “Of course there are big fish in there. I’ve caught them. Many many times.”

  She commented by sticking out her tongue again. That must be a common reaction from her when it came to her brother.

  “I am certain it was just beginner’s luck,” Imogen mumbled, and she wondered why she should even say that. She’d fished before when they summered in Brighton and often caught fish. She should not apologize because she had done something well. Where was her pride?

  “I’m certain you are correct,” he countered. “Girls can’t fish.”

  She lifted her fish higher, unable to feign meekness any longer. “Well, apparently I can.”

  His nostrils flared. “Where did you say you moved here from?”

  “Hereford.”

  “As in the cow?” His nostrils slightly flared as though scenting something foul.

  “Yes.” She nodded.

  “Never heard of it,” he announced, and for some reason she felt a stinging rejection in those words and she knew—this boy did not want to be her friend. She was not of their ilk. How foolish she had been thinking these golden children would become her bosom friends.

  Imogen’s eyes started to burn treacherously. She told herself that she would not surrender to tears in front of this vicious little girl and boorish lad.

  She held out the fish in a gesture of goodwill toward the boy. “Would you like to keep it?”

>   His face reddened and he reeled back as though she had most grievously offended him. “I don’t want your stupid fish.”

  He tossed his rod aside and stalked away.

  “Now look what you’ve done,” Thirza accused, propping her tiny fists on her hips. “You’ve made him mad. He doesn’t want to fish anymore. Who will bait my hook for me now?”

  Imogen shook her head, marveling how things had gotten so ugly. “My apologies. I did not mean to. I was only trying—”

  Before she could finish, the little girl lunged toward her, hands stretched out. The flats of her palms made hard contact with Imogen’s chest, slamming into her.

  Suddenly Imogen was propelled backwards, arms flailing like a windmill. It did no good. She plunged into the pond.

  It wasn’t very deep, especially so close to the shoreline. She was able to stand.

  Soaked and sputtering, her best Sunday dress plastered to her body, she scrambled to her feet and held her arms out at her sides.

  Thirza laughed shrilly, her ink-dark curls bouncing. She bent over and held her stomach as though it made her belly ache.

  The young lord stopped his retreat and turned back around. He watched Imogen with twitching lips. Unable to keep his mirth at bay, he burst out laughing, too.

  The racket woke up the governess from her nap. She lumbered to her feet, wobbling for a moment until she gained her balance. Blinking herself awake, she smoothed her hands over her voluminous skirts. “What is happening here?” Her gaze lighted on Imogen. “Who are you?”

  Imogen didn’t respond. She could not.

  Speech was beyond her. The sting in her eyes was too much. The tears began to roll unchecked down her face. She cried. Her tears blended with the droplets of water covering her face, so her weeping wasn’t too noticeable. There was that at least.

  “Who are you?” the governess demanded again, and Imogen shook her head, unable to speak the words burning through her.

  No one.

  She wasn’t anyone. Not anyone that mattered to this girl and boy.