A footman approached and caught her eye. “Mr. Campbell would like to speak with you,” he said.
Penelope made her excuses and left the drawing room. She found Mr. Campbell emerging from the door that led down to the cellars.
“Your Grace, John informed me that the port was running low, so I took it upon myself to bring up two more bottles to be decanted,” Mr. Campbell said, handing the bottles over to the waiting footman. “Will you be wanting more champagne poured as well?”
“No,” Penelope said after a moment’s thought. “I doubt we will drink half of what has been opened. The ladies seem to prefer the chilled Madeira this evening.”
And perhaps if they ran out of champagne, the guests would be encouraged to leave soon, and Penelope could seek out her own bed. It was an unworthy thought, but her earlier headache had returned in full force.
“Very well, Your Grace,” the butler replied.
As Penelope made her way back down the hall, she found Mr. Wolcott standing outside the door to the drawing room.
“Sir?” she asked, wondering at his presence.
“I hoped I might have a word with you,” Mr. Wolcott said. “In private.”
Penelope hesitated. She was tired, her head ached, and if she was absent for much longer her guests would begin to wonder.
“Please,” he entreated, reaching for her hand.
She pulled her hand back before he could clasp it.
“As you wish. I can spare a moment,” she said.
She led him to the small parlor that she had taken for her own. Mr. Wolcott closed the door behind them, a breach of propriety. She thought about asking him to reopen it, and then realized that perhaps it was best that there be no witnesses to this conversation.
“Have I done something to offend you?” Mr. Wolcott asked.
“No,” Penelope said.
“Then why this sudden coldness? You have scarcely spoken to me this past fortnight,” Mr. Wolcott said. “Please, tell me what I have done wrong and I will mend my ways.”
“I have been otherwise occupied since my husband journeyed to Edinburgh,” Penelope said.
Mr. Wolcott nodded, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “I hear he is soon to depart. May I hope for your companionship once he has returned to his muddy fields and yapping dogs?”
“Marcus’s stay is undetermined,” Penelope said. It was only a small prevarication. True, Marcus had said he only intended to stay a fortnight, but it had been that long already, and he showed no signs of leaving.
“But surely you can not prefer his company to mine? He is scarcely civilized, for all his newly acquired rank and wealth. I doubt he’s read a dozen books in his entire life. What on earth do you find in common with him?”
Penelope grew angry. How dare he disparage Marcus in this way? “My husband is a true gentleman. Just because he sees no need to prattle does not reflect upon his intelligence or his character. Indeed, I find I prefer his company above all others,” she said, realizing even as she said it that it was the truth. “In fact it is our differences that strengthen our bond.”
“I apologize if I misspoke,” Mr. Wolcott said, seemingly realizing that he had erred. “I did not mean to insult the duke. I am certain that in his own way he is a man of worth. It was simply my disappointment speaking. In these past weeks I had allowed myself to hope—”
“That is my fault,” Penelope interrupted. She had a strong suspicion as to what Mr. Wolcott had hoped for, but did not wish to hear the words said aloud. “I have been unfair to you, taking advantage of your good nature when there can be nothing but civilized friendship between us. In fact I believe it for the best that we not see each other in the future, to avoid any awkwardness.”
There. She had said it. She had expected to feel sorrow, but instead she felt an overwhelming sense of relief. It was hard to realize that she had once thought herself passionately in love with this man. Now all she felt was a distant affection, tinged with regret.
“And there is no chance I can change your mind?”
“None,” she said firmly.
Mr. Wolcott eyed her assessingly. “I believe you,” he said. And then he smiled, and it was not a pleasant expression. “Which is unfortunate for you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Mr. Wolcott advanced toward her, and Penelope retreated until she found her back literally against the wall.
“Do you know how much blunt it takes to live as a gentleman? To support myself as I deserve? Far more than the measly allowance my father sends me, and a hundred times more than I will ever make from that pathetic drivel I pass off as poetry.”
His blue eyes were cold, and his face had hardened. Penelope realized for the first time that she was seeing the true man behind the civilized mask that he showed the rest of the world. She was frightened, although as yet he had made no move to touch her.
If he did, she would have to call for help, regardless of the consequences to her reputation. She closed her eyes in mortification. How could she have been so foolish as to agree to this private meeting? Were she to be discovered, the scandal would undo all the hard work she had done to reclaim her good name. A duchess found privately entertaining one of her male guests. Her reputation would be ruined, and the blame would be hers for having allowed herself to be placed in this situation.
“I do not understand you,” Penelope said.
“Did you never guess why I left Edinburgh? Your father paid me quite handsomely to do so,” Mr. Wolcott said. “He would have done anything to protect his precious daughter.”
Penelope swallowed, tasting bile.
“Other papas in London were equally protective of their daughters,” Mr. Wolcott said, his eyes lost in some private meditation. “Of course, once my reputation was known, it was time to take my earnings and leave the country. On the Continent one can live quite well on a modest sum. I did travel, as I had said. But eventually the money ran low, and I returned to England. Imagine my surprise when I found out that you had just become a wealthy duchess. I knew my fortune was made.”
“You thought I would pay you off?”
Mr. Wolcott shrugged. “I hoped you would agree to be my patroness. By all accounts your husband was a dull stick, and I thought you would be pleased to take a lover who shared your interests. And once I had made you mine, it would be a simple matter to convince you to share your wealth. To support my muse, as it were. How could I know that you would actually be loyal to that clod?”
Penelope raised her hand to slap him, but he caught it tightly within his fist.
“Temper, temper,” he said. “Think well before you do something you will regret. Would you like me to call out and summon the servants?”
“No,” Penelope said swiftly. There was no need for anyone else to witness her humiliation.
“I thought not,” he said, with an unpleasant smirk. “I will make this simple for you. Let history repeat itself. You will give me five thousand pounds, and I will disappear from Scotland, and trouble you no more.”
“I will do no such thing,” Penelope said.
“I advise you not to be foolish,” Mr. Wolcott said. “If you do not cooperate, I will make sure all of Edinburgh hears that we have been lovers. And then you will find out just how tolerant your husband is.”
“You are despicable,” Penelope said.
Mr. Wolcott shook his head. “Merely practical. The choice is yours. I will expect your answer tomorrow. You have my direction.”
With that he released her hand and stepped back. He gave an ironic bow and then left.
Penelope sank down in a chair, her nerves overcome by that confrontation. She felt like such a fool. How could she ever have been taken in by such a man? Many had tried to warn her, but she had been too blind to see.
She was ashamed that she had fallen for his wiles not once but twice. And this time she was not a girl of sixteen, but a married woman of one-and-twenty. She should have known better. If only her father had told her of Mr.
Wolcott’s perfidy, he would never have had had a chance to inveigle himself into her life again. But it was not really her father’s fault. He had been trying to protect her. Perhaps he would have told her when she was older, but he had died without ever having told her what he had done. And so she had spent five years cherishing the illusion of her one great love, only to now discover that it had been just that. An illusion. Mr. Wolcott had never loved her. He had never loved anyone but himself.
And she? She had realized some days ago that she was not in love with Mr. Wolcott. Indeed his constant attentions and flatteries had begun to feel oppressive and cloying. Not to mention that his behavior of late had made her uncomfortable. While he had continued to behave with propriety, there was something in his glances, in his sighs, in the way he always seemed to be standing so close that she could hardly breathe.
In fact, the more she grew to know Mr. Wolcott, the more she realized that she had never really known him at all. Her feelings for him were nothing but the echo of the infatuation that a young woman had felt toward the first man who had paid her court. Her vanity, wounded by Marcus’s desertion to the countryside, had taken great pleasure in having such a devoted follower. Here was a man who had loved her, a man who had gone into exile simply because he could not have her. What more proof could she need that here was the romantic hero that she had long desired?
But it had all been a delusion. She had been in love with the idea of being in love. Mr. Wolcott was simply the object she had fixed upon, projecting all her hopes and fancies upon him.
If not for Marcus, she might never have known what it was to love a flesh-and-blood man, rather than a dream image she had created in her mind. Only then had she been able to see how shallow her feelings for Mr. Wolcott were.
But even then, knowing that she did not love Mr. Wolcott, she had still taken pity on him, believing that he was in love with her. She had worried over how he would take the news that they could not be friends. Never could she have imagined his perfidy.
Now she had to face the fact that she had been a fool. By encouraging Mr. Wolcott, she had given the gossips new fuel for scandal. And since she had no intention of giving in to Mr. Wolcott’s demands, she would have to face the consequences. She no longer doubted that Mr. Wolcott would do exactly as he promised, and try to blacken her name.
Penelope gave a mirthless laugh. To think that she had once considered herself a fine judge of character. And yet she had completely misjudged both her brother and Mr. Wolcott.
She hoped that she was better at reading Marcus’s character. If there was any hope for them to build a true marriage, she would have to go to him, and tell him everything. And then hope that he could find it in his heart to forgive her.
Fifteen
Marcus normally dreaded social gatherings composed of strangers, but to his own surprise he found himself enjoying the dinner party and his role as host. It helped that most of the guests were not strangers. Penelope had taken great care in the guest list, ensuring he would have someone to talk with by inviting two of his friends, Samuel Curran and Josiah Barrett, along with their wives. And he had met most of the rest of the guests at one social function or another. Indeed it could be said that the Lawton women ran tame in his house, as Penelope did in theirs. There were only two persons present whom he had never met before, the amiable and utterly forgettable Miss Boyle, and the poet Stephen Wolcott.
Mr. Wolcott’s name had cropped up frequently in Penelope’s letters, and so Marcus had taken the opportunity to study him carefully. But after several hours in the gentleman’s company he could not understand what Penelope saw in this man. And indeed she did not seem to be alone in her admiration, for many of the ladies present seemed enraptured by the poet, who preened under their attentions.
Could they not see that this man was nothing but a vain poseur? He had no conversation save flattery and the telling of self-aggrandizing stories. And as for his poetry, Marcus wagered it was as shallow as the man himself. No doubt Penelope had realized his lack of worth herself, and this explained her seeming indifference to her guest.
Obscurely comforted by this revelation, he conversed animatedly with Lord Whilton about the upcoming shooting season, pleased to find a fellow sportsman among this company. But a part of his attention was fixed on Penelope, and he noticed when a footman came to speak with her, and she followed him from the drawing room.
His eyes narrowed as a few moments later Mr. Wolcott left the room as well. As the minutes passed, and neither Penelope nor Mr. Wolcott returned, his concern began to grow. It looked less and less like a coincidence and more as if his wife was keeping an assignation. And yet that was impossible. She had two dozen guests who could be expected to notice her absence at any moment.
He waited another five minutes, until his patience snapped. Making his excuses to Lord Whilton, he made his way through the crowd, pausing to answer a question raised by Josiah Barrett. It would not do for anyone to suspect that he was upset. As he neared the door, it opened, and Mr. Wolcott entered. Alone. His eyes caught Marcus’s and he gave an affable nod. There was nothing in his dress or demeanor to indicate that anything illicit or untoward had happened. But instead of reassuring Marcus, this only deepened his uneasy fears.
He left the drawing room, and found Penelope standing in the hallway outside the small parlor. She appeared lost in thought, and as he approached he saw that her face was pale and drawn.
“Is there anything wrong?” he asked.
“No, why would there be?”
“The footman John came to get you,” Marcus said. “You left the room, and when you did not return I grew concerned.”
“Of course. Mr. Campbell had a question about the wine. It was no great matter,” Penelope said.
“And that was all?”
“Yes,” Penelope said.
He felt his stomach clench. He knew she was lying. If Mr. Campbell had truly summoned her, she would have been gone only a moment or two, not the more than quarter hour that had passed. And there was nothing in such a request that would have upset her.
Nor would there have been any reason for Mr. Wolcott to follow her.
“Was there some reason you sought me out? Is there something you wanted?” Penelope asked.
Yes, he thought. I want the truth. I want to know what is between you and Stephen Wolcott. I want to know who has hurt you and why you feel compelled to lie to me about it. I want to make you my wife in truth, and not just in name. But now he wondered if that would ever be possible.
All these thoughts and more flashed through his mind in an instant. A part of him wanted to take her aside and demand that she answer his questions. But another part of him, the part that had been raised to do his duty as a gentleman, knew that this was neither the time nor the place for such a confrontation. They had a roomful of guests to attend to. There would be time later to sort this matter out.
“I was looking for you,” he said. “Come now, our guests are waiting.”
Penelope pasted a smile on her face, and he wondered if anyone beside himself could tell how false it was. And then she took his arm and allowed him to lead her back to the party.
Somehow he managed to endure the remaining hours until the last of the guests took their leave. Unaccustomed to city hours, he was nearly stumbling with fatigue when he and Penelope sought their beds, and too exhausted to make more than a token protest when Penelope retired to her own bedchamber. It was for the best, he tried to tell himself, as he crawled into his cold and solitary bed. He was too tired for tact, and if Penelope had joined him, he would not have been able to hold back the accusations that had simmered in the back of his mind all evening. Far better to face her when they both had their wits about them.
But the next morning Penelope sent word through a maid that she was too unwell to join him at breakfast. He suspected her of trying to avoid him, but when he scratched at her bedroom door and entered, he found that she did indeed look unwell, her brow dotted with f
atigue, and her hazel eyes appearing huge in her pale visage. Ashamed of his suspicions, Marcus simply bade her rest and wished her a speedy recovery. He spent the day quietly about his own pursuits.
Penelope did not join him for dinner that evening. Nor did he see her the next morning, although when he stopped by to check on her, he found that she had been well enough to dress and leave the house, although no one seemed to know her destination or when she would return.
It could mean nothing. Penelope could have left the house for any number of reasons. A trip to the library, a fitting at the dressmaker’s, or even to call on one of her many friends. There were a hundred innocent reasons why she might have gone out.
But if her destination had been innocent, then there was no reason why she wouldn’t have told him, or left word with the servants when to expect her return. Especially not when she had spent the last two days avoiding his company, claiming she was too unwell to see him.
There was one other explanation that came to mind. Penelope was avoiding him out of guilt. Even now, his wife might be dallying with her lover. One part of him rejected the idea immediately, but another part, the part that had wondered what she could possibly see in him, that part found all too much evidence to support his conjecture. He felt physically ill at the thought that Penelope might have allowed another man to touch her. He was furious. He was hurt beyond all measure. He wanted to yell. He wanted to break something. He wanted to be gone from here and never see her again except on formal occasions. He wanted it not to be true. He wanted to turn back the clock, and start all over again.
He did not know what he wanted. What he needed was the truth. And that only Penelope could provide.
Marcus sent for her personal maid, but Jenna was nowhere to be found. One footman thought that the maid might have accompanied Penelope, while another seemed to remember that Jenna had left on her own errand, sometime before her mistress. In either case, he would have to wait until either Penelope or her maid returned to learn more.
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