After an infernal walk that seemed never ending, the corridor spilled out into the wide foyer, awash in candlelight. Once more, Juliet expressed her gratitude for the both of them while Penelope flicked a panicky gaze throughout the foyer, taking in the white Italian marble and then her own hideously white gown. So much white. The color of innocence and purity. And now, with the whispers no doubt circulating, a color she had no right donning.
“Lady Penelope?”
Blinking wildly, Penelope brought her gaze up to the tall, regal duchess. “Your Grace?” How was she capable of words when her world was falling apart?
“My brother . . . he seems quite fearful to most.” To most? The other woman must mean “to all.” Who in their right mind wouldn’t be frightened by a man with punishing hands and life-hardened eyes? “But he’s truly a good man,” she said softly. “I’d have you know that.”
Why does she need me to know that? Because I am ruined . . . and there will be expectations. Hysteria threatened the edge of her sanity. Penelope managed a nod, proud she was capable of anything in this moment.
“The earl will have leave of our carriage following his . . . meeting.” Meeting. A meeting where possible talks of pistols at dawn and threats and accusations were likely made. She moaned low in her throat. The other woman hesitated and opened her mouth as though she wished to say something further.
Please, just let me go . . .
The duchess waved over two footmen. They rushed forward with Penelope’s and Juliet’s cloaks. As the velvet fabric settled over her shoulders, she burrowed deeper into the material, seeking warmth. Her teeth chattered noisily, and she clenched her jaw to keep from showing that telltale display of terror. A moment later, the liveried servant hurried to open the door, and Penelope left the place of her ruin.
Ryker had faced dagger fights in the streets of St. Giles less tense than the meeting inside the Duke of Somerset’s office.
Deliberately positioned with his back against the wall, Ryker stood, arms folded. Implacable. The lesson in presenting your back to no man, woman, or child had been served to him as a rash boy of ten. That vicious scar at his shoulder proved an indelible reminder.
And there was no doubt . . . the protective but not-watchful-enough brother glowering at Ryker wanted his blood. Unflinching, Ryker met his stare with a stony silence. For though the gentleman may wish him dead, he’d adhere to those useless rules that governed this polite world.
Positioned at the sideboard, Somerset poured several snifters of brandy. The clink of crystal touching crystal and streaming liquid the only sounds in the tense room. He held a glass out to the earl. Lord Sinclair claimed it with stiff fingers.
Somerset turned to Ryker with a proffered brandy. He pointedly ignored the offer. He’d no interest in dancing about pretend civility. He might have been granted a title by the King for his act of heroism in saving the now Duke of Somerset, but Ryker never was, or ever would be, one of these legitimate, rightful lords.
His brother-in-law set the glass down on a nearby table. “I expect, Sinclair, Lord Chatham can explain what happened in the gardens to your satisfaction.”
Somerset was corked in the brain if he truly believed any brother would be satisfied with any reason.
“Why did you have your hands on my sister?” the earl snapped.
On any other day, Ryker would have told the man to go to hell and showed him how to get there. Gossip about what transpired, however, would prove damaging to the club. “Do you know where your sister was, Sinclair?” he asked on a silken whisper.
The nobleman hesitated, and then shook his head once.
“Under a bench. In my world, no person lurking undercover is to be trusted.” As the earl’s pea-brained sister had brought all this on by hiding in the duke’s gardens, that was far greater clarity than he deserved.
“Your jacket was discarded, Black,” Sinclair retorted, setting his glass down hard on the sideboard.
He lifted one shoulder. “Oi was hot,” he said slipping back to his Cockney.
“It is bloody freezing out.”
Never would he reveal a hint of the weakness that came in being amongst large swells of people. Fixing a hardened grin on the other man, Ryker said, “I assure you, of all the women in London, the last I’d meet in the gardens is your sister.”
The earl stilled, and then flared his eyes in rage. He surged forward, but Somerset quickly placed himself between them.
Gripping Sinclair by the shoulder, the duke glared at Ryker. “There still remains the matter of the lady’s reputation. Chatham is a viscount, and as such . . .” His brother-in-law turned to the earl.
Chatham. How bloody odd to be spoken of by a name different from the one he’d adopted and worn for thirty years of his life. There was something surreal in it, with Ryker more observer than participant, in this grand farce.
A look passed between the toffs. “I trust he’ll do right by her,” Somerset quietly assured the other nobleman.
Do right by her? Ryker stiffened, and then the wealth of meaning of those words registered. The man must be in his cups. Surely his brother-in-law wasn’t expecting a fine wirer turned gaming-hell owner to leg shackle himself to a bloody lady? He scoffed. “You’d overlook my roots to snare your sister a title?”
His baiting had the intended effect.
“I assure you,” he sneered at Ryker. “I’ll make no demands, Black—Lord Chatham. I’d see my sister with the devil himself before I see her with you.”
At least the Earl of Sinclair had sense enough to know—a cove from the streets had no place with a virginal English miss. Long ago Ryker had ceased to care about what a high-in-the-instep noble thought of him.
Feeling his brother-in-law’s stare leveled on him, Ryker looked at the two lords. “Given the earl’s profession, there is nothing further to discuss.” With that, he turned on his heel and strode from the stifling office, eager to put this world behind him and return to the comforts of his club.
Chapter 5
Dearest Fezzimore,
Sin has gone and fallen for our governess. Can you imagine a greater scandal?
Penny
Age 13
Just as she’d predicted in her diary, the Duke and Duchess of Somerset’s ball had proved the most memorable moment of Penelope’s life. But for all the worst reasons.
With sick dread, she’d lain awake staring at the plaster ceiling, waiting for night to give way to morning and illuminate just how dire her situation was. However, nothing in her worst imaginings could have prepared her for the words plastered upon the pages of the papers. Le scandale de la Saison, as all the gossip columns had termed it.
And in one fell swoop, Penelope, who’d pledged to become the proper young lady, found herself not only at the center of scandal but also listening at keyholes once more.
An ominous rumble of thunder shook the foundation of the townhouse, and she jumped.
Seated on the floor outside her brother’s office, her legs drawn to her chest, Penelope rested her chin on her knees and listened to the words periodically rendered inaudible by that wood panel.
“She is r-ruined, Jonathan.” Such words had been uttered no fewer than seven times by her mama since Penelope had begun listening, and yet, each time, they were punctuated by the same plaintive wail and noisy blubbering. “Her name is in every paper. The front page.”
I am ruined. Not Prudence. Not Patrina. Me.
Another useless sheen of tears marred her vision, and then trailed down her cheek. She brushed an annoyed hand over those futile expressions of grief and despair.
“She is ruined beyond repair.”
“Surely you do not expect I would ever . . .”
Penelope strained to hear the very important part of what Jonathan did or did not expect. Because more important, it spoke to what their mother did. But another rumble of thunder silenced his response.
“Wh-what choice does she have but to marry him?”
Marry
him?
“He is the owner of a gaming hell,” her brother’s booming voice echoed through the wood panel, followed by a loud round of shushing from their mother.
Penelope’s arms fell to her side, as she stared at the opposite end of the corridor. Marry . . . Mr. Black? Who else would marry her after this? A lady with her bodice down, and her back on the ground, with a jacketless man above her. Tears welled once more.
“He is a duke’s son and a viscount. Granted, I would have seen her wed a duke’s legitimate son.” On any other day, Penelope would have rolled her eyes at that backhanded snobbishness. “How could you not have demanded an offer from him? He must marry her,” Mother insisted.
Marry her? Her mouth went dry. Was her mother mad? Silence stretched its hold into the hall, and Penelope leaned closer to try to glean Jonathan’s reply.
“I’ll not have my sister marry a gaming-hell owner, because of . . . what transpired.” Her brother’s clear rebuttal rang out, resolute. A sharp crack, followed moments later by a magnificent rumbling echo. She loved Jonathan for being the devoted brother who would tell their mother and all of Society to go hang if it meant protecting his family. “And I told him—” Penelope pressed her ear against the door.
“You told him what?” Mother screeched. “He is a viscount, Jonathan.”
Penelope gave her head a shake. What would marriage to Mr. Black entail? A man who’d put his hands on her and demanded answers was certainly no manner of gentleman any lady dreamed of.
You forfeited your right to dream, Penny.
“What choice does she have, Jonathan?” their mother entreated, as though she’d followed her daughter’s unspoken thoughts. “She is . . . r-ruined.” Another lengthy round of wailing commenced.
“She can stay here.”
“Forever?” their mother replied.
“I do not care if she is a spinster. She’ll always have a place with our family.” Penelope furrowed her brow. She’d always loved this home, had loved being wherever her family was, and yet what her brother spoke of was not the dream she’d had for herself. Then, was being a spinster, dependent on kind kin, any woman’s dream?
“What of Poppy, then?” Mother persisted. “There is Poppy to think of.”
Poppy? Oh, God. Poppy. Selfishly she’d not allowed herself to think of all the ramifications of what had transpired in the duchess’s gardens. Penelope slid her eyes closed. For with her night of recklessness, she’d consigned Poppy, already of an uncertain fate, to a certainly disastrous one. Patrina’s failed elopement and then rushed marriage to another had almost been forgotten, but now . . . this . . . ? Penelope had only reminded Society of the scandals to follow a Tidemore. There could be no undoing this. Not as long as she was unmarried. Nay, unmarried to Mr. Black. Her stomach pitched, and she swallowed down the bile at the back of her throat.
“You’d sacrifice Penny to save Poppy?” And she adored her brother all the more for the outrage shaking his tone.
Except . . . her breath came in sharp, ragged spurts. There was Poppy to consider.
Footsteps sounded down the hall and brought her head up. No doubt it was Juliet or Prudence come to join the discussion on Penelope’s uncertain fate. Shoving to her feet, Penelope raced into the parlor across from her brother’s office.
A sharp rap interrupted the now-muted debate between Jonathan and their mother.
“The Duchess of Somerset has come to call, my lord,” Strathmore murmured.
Penelope’s heart sped up, and she peeked through the crack in the open doorway as her brother said something to the butler. She strained to hear his reply. A moment later, Strathmore turned on his heel and rushed in the opposite direction.
Her mind whirred. The duchess was here? What business could she have with them now? Had the woman come to take their family to task for the scandal Penelope had brought down on her ball? She had been sneaking about the woman’s home. Her toes involuntarily curled tight into the soles of her slippers. Soon, Strathmore returned, ushering the tall, regal duchess to Jonathan’s office. Nearly six feet in height, and with a large scar marring a portion of her cheek, there was nothing conventional about the young duchess. The woman stilled and glanced about. Heart racing, Penelope drew back and waited until Strathmore’s announcements and eventual parting.
She counted the passing moments, and then ducked back into the hall, reclaiming her spot outside Jonathan’s office.
Except, straining to hear, the reality slammed into her. In listening at keyholes. In allowing her family to meet with a stranger on the topic of Penelope’s fate, she was proving their every opinion about her being nothing more than a child. Hadn’t her brother and mother’s earlier discourse proved that they didn’t see a woman? And sitting outside this very office only confirmed that very fact.
Taking a deep breath, Penelope pressed the handle and stepped inside.
Three pairs of eyes swung to her.
“Penny.” Jonathan swiftly came to his feet. “We are meeting with Her Grace.”
Which by the set of his mouth, and the pointed look he gave, indicated Penelope was to take her leave. Instead, she favored the duchess with a curtsy. “Your Grace,” she said stoically.
The young woman eyed her with such gentleness another blasted sheen of tears blurred her vision. Despising she should be seen as a weak, pathetic, weepy creature, Penelope blinked several times.
“Please, you must call me Helena.”
Shock filled the dowager countess’s expression, and in that moment, Penelope was forever indebted to the regal guest for diverting her mother’s attention away from the whole bloody scandal. Penelope lingered her gaze on the powerful duchess, this lady who’d spent her life inside a gaming hell, one of those places Penelope had longed to visit as a girl, but had disavowed all mention of that desire as a woman determined to be polite and proper. That old intrigue stirred to life.
Then, in a gesture that only further endeared her to Penelope, the duchess held out her hands and motioned for her to join their gathering.
Jonathan squared his jaw but said nothing as Penelope slid into the seat beside Her Grace.
“I came to speak with you about my brother,” the duchess said without preamble. “Ryker . . . Black,” she added, as though there were another Ryker. Harsh, unforgiving—the name perfectly suited the man who’d gripped Penelope by her shoulders last evening. A chill went through her at the memory of him.
“I assured Mr. Black . . .” Jonathan grimaced. “Lord Chatham, that he need feel no obligation to my sister. I would not see Penelope married because of a misunderstanding.”
Her skin pricked with the feel of Helena’s probing gaze on her. “And what of you, Lady Penelope? If my brother offered for you, would you be . . . amiable to his suit?”
“Your Grace?” she puzzled aloud. Then the duchess’s words registered. Where decisions were made for her, and Penelope left so wholly out of discussions on her future, this woman had entered her brother’s home and all but challenged Jonathan by putting the question to Penelope. What kind of courage had Lady Helena been born with that she was this unapologetic? Was it something all duchesses possessed? Envy filled Penelope.
Mother scrambled forward to the edge of her seat and implored Penelope with her eyes, all the while ignoring the glower trained on her by her son.
Fixing her attention on her palms, Penelope finally looked to the duchess. “I daresay it is not a consideration if the gentleman has not even come to speak of it.” As such, what was there, really, to discuss with this woman?
Then in a very relatable, very unduchess-like way, Her Grace smiled gently back. “My whole reason for being here is to tell you what manner of man my brother is.” She held her gaze squarely. “He’s in possession of a title for an act of bravery.”
Intrigue stirred. The first real sentiment beyond Penelope’s despair and shame. She’d attended those gossip columns so little she’d not gleaned anything about the man who’d earned a title. What wa
s that display of bravery? “Is he?” she forced herself to ask.
The duchess nodded. “He’s exceedingly wealthy.”
For the first time since the scandal had shaken their family the previous night, Mother beamed through those perfunctory enumerations. Those details about a gentleman which had never mattered to Penelope.
“But that is not what makes my brother who he is. He is a man of honor and strength and courage. And those who do not truly know him cannot see the remarkable good in him.” Her gaze strayed and lingered upon the scandal sheets scattered upon the table. She pursed her lips. “The papers have not been kind in what they’ve said about Ryker.”
They say he’s killed men . . .
“But, then, I expect we all have learned Society is in general cold and unfeeling,” said the duchess in quiet, solemn tones, words that reached inside Penny, resonating deeply.
If the papers had been so very wrong about Penelope’s family, and this woman before her, mayhap they’d exaggerated Lord Chatham, as well. “You are indeed correct, Your Grace,” Penelope murmured. “The ton is not known for its kindness.”
“I appreciate your coming,” Jonathan said tightly, cutting in to that slight bond that had been forged. “And thank you for your assurance about Mist—Lord Chatham’s suitability, but as I explained to him last evening, he belongs to a different world from that of my sister, with them sharing nothing in common, and as such, they would not suit.”
An air of finality hung on those words. Words that presumed Jonathan knew more about Penelope than Penelope herself did. She balled her hands on her lap.
The duchess looked to Penelope with something indefinable in her green eyes. She expected something. What does she expect of me?
“Of course,” the duchess said softly and came to her feet.
The assembled Tidemores promptly rose, with the dowager countess escorting the other lady to the front of the room. As they walked, the duchess murmured something to Penelope’s mother, who nodded several times. Then, the Duchess of Somerset took her leave.
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