She made her way across the room, iron in her gaze, steel in her fixed smile.
“My dear Lady Cheverley”—Mr. Anthony clasped her fingers—“how good of you to join us.”
“But of course,” she replied, grateful for gloves.
“You have deceived me.” He did not return her smile. “I thought you above such petty concerns as fashion.”
“Petty?” She blinked. “I thought you would be pleased. Fashion appears to be among you and your guests’ chief concerns. Did you not insist I make a good impression?”
“I’m pleased, of course.”
His grip tightened. She nearly stumbled as he yanked her close and kissed her cheeks. His lips lingered next to her ear a moment longer than proper—a warning that did not have to be spoken.
“Lady Cheverley,” Sir Jerold greeted, “you look like a duchess.”
“Thank you,” she replied, though reprimand threaded through Sir Jerold’s voice. “Have your patrols been successful?”
“Not a Frenchman to be found”—Sir Jerold rocked back on his heels—“I’m proud to say.”
“I sleep soundly, sir”—she opened her fan—“knowing your militia is patrolling the shoreline.”
“Yes, well,” Sir Jerold replied. “We do our best.”
Anthony sent Sir Jerold a not-so-subtle glance and tilted his head.
Sir Jerold cleared his throat. “If you would excuse me.”
“Of course.” She curtseyed to his bow before he disappeared into the crush.
“I always marvel”—Mr. Anthony spoke low—“how closely you can approximate a person of noble birth.”
“I have many talents which would surprise you.”
He faced her with lifted brow. “I wonder what your sartorial talents”—his eyes fell to the pearls—“are attempting to convey.”
“I should think that is obvious.” She fluttered her fan, forcing an inviting glance. “I wish to retain my place in this household.”
He studied her intentionally inscrutable expression. “Does that mean you are accepting my proposal?”
“Not yet.” She looked away. “However, I am, as you so helpfully pointed out, a widow in need of protection. I must consider which man can make the best offer.”
He grasped her arm.
She could not do this. As much as she needed to deceive, she could not feign affection. Not with a naval braid circling her waist and the duchess’s pearls around her throat. She hadn’t felt as much like Cheverley’s wife in years.
“I do believe, Mr. Anthony,” She smiled, apologetic, “that the musicians seek an audience with you. You have my sympathies. There are so many things to consider when one is in charge.”
His gaze, heated, lingered on hers. He glanced to the musicians and sighed. “If you will excuse me.”
“Do go on,” she replied. “We all must do our part.”
He moved across the room.
Placing a hand to her stomach, she suppressed a wave of nausea. What had made her believe she could prevail?
Her determined stride for the door was stopped by the vicar and his wife.
She forced a smile and exchanged greetings. Then, Mr. Rowe returned to his favorite topic—the improvements Pen had made at Pensteague. No one else ever took as much interest.
“...I must say, Lady Cheverley, you put the men of the county to shame,” the vicar finished.
“Mr. Rowe,” the vicar’s wife said playfully, “am I to deduce that you admit a woman’s management can be superior to a man’s?”
“I must give credit where credit is due, Mrs. Rowe.” His eyes twinkled with good cheer. “In an age when many seek quick profit that sacrifices land quality, our Lady Cheverley has proven that it is possible to invest in good cultivation practices, take measures to ensure health of those in one’s employ, and still earn generous return.”
“From your blush, Lady Cheverley,” Mrs. Rowe laughed, “I gather such praise is rare.”
“Rare, indeed,” Pen replied. “I cannot, however, claim all credit. When first married, Lord Cheverley and I spent a great deal of time talking about our vision for Pensteague.”
Though dreaming was, perhaps, more apt. In truth, neither of them had known much about estate management. “I’ve employed Lord Cheverley’s approach—never saying ‘it cannot be done’ before exhausting all possible methods.”
“Lord Cheverley’s memory is important to you,” Mr. Rowe spoke with a vicar’s practiced cadence—and too-observant eye for the truth.
“I have heard, of course, of your husband’s daring,” Mrs. Rowe added. “I’m delighted to know his substance was equally impressive.”
Pen looked away.
Mr. And Mrs. Rowe’s twin expressions of concern were nearly her undoing. After thirteen years, how could grief remain so raw?
Then again, her grief wasn’t only for the young man she’d known, she grieved, too, for the life they’d planned together. A life finally yielding pearls of achievement she could not share.
“Let us speak of other things,” Mrs. Rowe suggested gently. “You’ll be happy to hear we have taken your example to heart.”
“My example?” Pen asked.
“I was a stranger...” Mr. Rowe quoted, “...and you welcomed me.”
Mrs. Rowe’s gaze moved to a veiled woman beside Lord Thomas. “We’ve welcomed into the vicarage a young woman seeking refuge from the war.”
“The lady is French?” Pen asked.
“American,” Mr. Rowe answered, “but of French descent. She lost her husband at Trafalgar, and he was fighting on our side.”
“Extraordinary.” Pen had no idea there were Frenchmen in the Royal Navy, though with all the other nationalities, she shouldn’t be surprised.
“She has no love lost for her ancestral homeland,” Mr. Rowe continued. “Her grandparents were among those lost to the terror.”
“Nor does she have the means to return home,” Mrs. Rowe added.
“We thought, perhaps, when Emmaus is ready to return, he could escort—”
“Emmaus,” Pen interrupted, “has no plans to return to the Americas.” Not ones he would share with a stranger, anyway.
“Ah.” Lord Thomas’s approach saved her from further inquiry. “If it isn’t my charming cousin. Lady Cheverley, may I introduce, Madame LaVoie?”
“Delighted, Madame,” Pen replied.
“And Madame,” Lord Thomas continued, “may I present my cousin’s widow, Lady Cheverley?”
“Your husband was of great renown.” Madame LaVoie spoke in clear English and roughly resonant tones. “I am delighted to meet you, Lady Cheverley.”
“If you’ll pardon us,” Thomas spoke to the vicar, “I’d like to escort my cousin to the refreshment table.”
“How thoughtful of you,” Mrs. Rowe commented.
“Scripture commands attendance on widows,” Lord Thomas answered smoothly. “Is that not correct, Vicar?”
“‘Honor the widows who are widows indeed,’ wrote Timothy.” The vicar smiled. “However, I’m not certain he had ratafia in mind.”
Lord Thomas shrugged. “Well, one must work with what one has.” He held out his arm. “Shall we, cousin?”
Reluctantly, Pen placed her hand on his arm.
“Careful,” Thomas said as they moved beyond the vicar’s hearing, “I detect a root of bitterness in your stance.”
“You interrupted a perfectly pleasant conversation.”
“Are you chastising me for wishing to provide you with refreshment?”
“No,” she replied lightly. “I am reprimanding you for practically dragging me away.”
They stopped at the table. He filled a glass. Her gaze fixed on the almonds floating in the bowl.
“Remember”—he handed her the liquor—“there is little that happens on this estate that I do not know.”
“I imagine,” she said dryly, “having confidants within the staff is most helpful. And, I must refuse. Bitter almonds are not to my tas
te.”
He froze. Then, he laughed. “Oh, you are delightful.”
“You needn’t humor me, Lord Thomas. Mr. Anthony has been honest enough to shed pretense. You may as well.”
“Me?” he said, pointing to himself, but not so closely as to ruffle his cravat. “I only have your best interests at heart. Unlike others.” His gaze moved to Anthony. “Allow me to compliment you on your use of the duchess’s clothes, by the way. Anthony is both incensed and drooling. You have confused the enemy—Chev would be proud. But”—he turned—“Cheverley isn’t here. Is he?”
“Don’t tell me you are about to propose, too?”
“Your look of abhorrence wounds, cousin. And here I thought you wise and kind.” He sipped from her glass. “Tell me, if you were compelled to place your loyalty either with Anthony or with me, which would you choose?”
A Hobson’s choice. “I would choose, as always, my son.”
“I’d also remember, then, that Thaddeus is under my guardianship.”
“You and His Grace,” she pointed out.
“We both know that the duke cannot tell a cat from a dog.”
“He improves.”
“Yes.” He downed the rest of the glass. “But will he improve in time?”
“In time for what?” she asked.
“A storm is coming, cousin. You’d be wise to batten down the hatches.” He bowed slightly. “My offer stands.”
~~~
Had Cheverley thought himself in pain when he’d dreamed of Penelope?
His dreams and memories were watercolor and canvas—a pale copy of her vividness in flesh and blood.
Excruciating heat seeped from his wrung-out heart.
Physically, the years had altered her little. Her face was, perhaps, more rounded. Her skin, however, remained unlined. And what he could see of her blonde tresses—sadly twisted into a tight knot—showed no hint of grey.
Yet, a hardness he did not recognize effused her presence. A hardness transferred into the molten mess of his own sentiments, floating like crusted flakes of metal—little, doomed ships on an inward, storm-battered sea.
He could reach her in little more than ten steps, though he was no longer as close as he’d been when he’d heard her speak to Anthony with calculated invitation, a spider, confident in her web’s allure.
I am, as you so helpfully pointed out, a widow in need of protection. I must consider which man can make the best offer.
He should leave. Go back to sea. Forever silence the pirate—a mission, unlike his time here, with a distinct beginning and end, a clear measure of achievement.
But Thaddeus—
He inhaled in silence.
But Thaddeus wanted to learn to shoot.
Lord Thomas bowed, turned and walked away, his triumphant smile growing wider as he strode.
Penelope touched her forehead. All traces of her earlier confidence vanished. She moved toward Cheverley—or, at least, toward the doorway to the courtyard. She reached for the door—
Anthony called the room to attention.
With a grimace, she turned, and then rested against a pillar in the shadow of a potted palm.
Anthony spoke, but Cheverley could not understand his words over the rushing in his ears, the over-loud thudding drum inside his chest.
Then, the music began again. The words ran together, but their tone resonated. A mournful song. Anger. Longing. Grief. He couldn’t stop the flood any more than he could tear away his gaze.
Penelope.
Her body tensed—she shoved away from the pillar.
He caught the words—The HMS Defiance—and turned his attention to the stage. In shock, he listened as his terrors were folded into softly spoken rhymes.
A sob that could have been his own wrenched from his wife’s lips.
“Stop,” she whispered. Then louder, “Stop!”
The music came to a jagged end in domino succession, a cacophony that intensified his chill. All eyes turned to Penelope. She gripped her pearls, and for a moment, Chev expected her to rip the strand from her throat.
“I—I can hardly bear my grief.” She appeared lost. Hunted. “I miss him. I miss him.” She sobbed again. “All the time.”
Anthony moved back to the front of the room.
“The music will continue,” he said to the crowd. Then, to Penelope, “do you think you are the only one who has lost anyone?”
Penelope placed the back of her gloved hand to her lips.
Go to her. The command was instant, undeniable.
Then, Chev saw his son.
“Her ladyship said to stop the music,” Thaddeus spoke in a low, controlled rage.
“What I’ve said is true,” Anthony replied. “You and your mother are not the only ones here who have suffered a loss.” Anthony raised a brow. “Do you seek to challenge me?”
“I seek,” Thaddeus said with quiet authority, “to rule my house.”
Thaddeus placed his arm around his mother’s shoulders and then led her from the room.
Chev gazed after them, an unexpected stinging in his long-dry eyes.
“Please disregard my cousins.” Anthony broke the silence. “The trial has placed Lady Cheverley at wit’s end, and young Thaddeus is quite at a loss. However, let us not allow her frailty to dampen this excellent tribute to the bravery of his lordship and the many others who have sacrificed so that we may someday live in peace.”
For a heartbeat, the room remained silent. Then, Sir Jerold pounded his cane upon the ground.
“Hear, Hear,” he said.
“Hear, Hear.” A smattering of guests replied.
There hadn’t been an ounce of surprise in Anthony’s reaction. No doubt, Anthony had anticipated Penelope’s tears.
There was more here than he understood. And he must stay until his questions were answered.
Melting back into the garden wall, Cheverley spit the foulness from his mouth.
Chapter Seven
Cheverley thrust the stick he carried ahead of him and limped forward with shoulders hunched. The path to the village widened at the end of Pensteague land. Fields of low grass stretched out on either side, sloping down toward the hollow that sheltered fishermen’s cottages from the worst ravages of the sea.
With rough-spun dirty clothes that covered his muscle tone, he’d appear little different from the other men left in the village.
“I must hand it to you,” Emmaus’s well-worn boots dug into the gravel with a rhythm matching his sailor’s gait.
“Hand what to me?”
Emmaus flashed a sideways glance. “You look every inch a beggar, Captain.”
“Captain Smith,” Chev corrected. “I’m not your captain.”
Emmaus stopped walking. “Not anymore you’re not.”
Chev stopped as well, not truly surprised. “How long have you known?”
“Since you turned a shade of violet when first I mentioned Anthony’s intention to wed your wife.”
Chev looked out to the horizon, leaning heavily on his stick. “Emmaus.”
The name was neither a request nor a reproach, but an invocation, as if Chev could somehow reach certainty on his friend’s integrity alone.
“I cannot tolerate your deception indefinitely. I expect you, at least, to pay me the courtesy of revealing your intent.”
“I should not have deceived you.” Chev squinted. “Trust I have my reasons, will you?”
“Do you think I would have gone along this far if I did not trust you?”
Chev shook his head no. Not Emmaus. Emmaus always did as conscience, not man, directed.
“Do you think they’ll recognize me in the village?” Chev asked.
“I don’t know,” Emmaus replied. “You were already weathered when we met. I assume you looked quite different before your years at sea.”
Chev nodded. “Right.”
So, possibly he’d be recognized. But possibly not.
And every additional day he spent the risk he’d be r
evealed increased.
“You went to Ithwick last evening,” Emmaus said.
Chev swallowed. “I delivered Thaddeus home.”
“She saw you, you know.”
Chev stopped breathing.
“That is to say she saw a man with Lord Thaddeus crossing into the gardens.”
He exhaled.
“Did she ask pointed questions?”
“Just the usual,” Emmaus replied. “But she will. She misses little.”
Chev bristled. “How well do you know my wife?”
“Well enough.” Emmaus raised his brows. “Better than you, if you believe either of us would betray you—or if you truly believed Anthony’s assertion she wishes to wed.”
“I apologize to you,” Chev replied. “As for Anthony—I heard her court my cousin with my own ears.”
Emmaus snorted. “He that hath ears let him hear.”
“I wish you wouldn’t do that.”
“Quote scripture?”
Chev had meant see through him, actually. He nodded anyway.
“It’s how I learned to read.” Emmaus shrugged. “Now that you’re here—”
“I am not here.”
“Which brings us back to your intent, does it not? Why exactly are you here and not here?”
“I don’t yet know if I can stay, even if I wished to.” Chev sighed roughly. Not only was he a different man, he wasn’t certain he’d ever be able silence the pirate’s whispers. Not without hunting her down. “I—I have unsettled debts. But”—he fixed Emmaus with an even gaze—“something is wrong, here. And I don’t intend to leave until I am sure Penelope and Thaddeus will be safe.”
“I’ve felt something was wrong since I first met Lady Cheverley at the trial.” Emmaus nodded slowly. “Later, she told me Anthony had gone white when he found out about your amended will.”
“It’s Pensteague he wants? Why? It’s worth a fraction of Ithwick, barely self-sustaining.”
“Perhaps,” Emmaus replied, “he just wants Lady Cheverley.”
Chev considered, and then shook his head. “He values his bloodlines too much. He wants something more—something worth the sacrifice of marrying a farmer’s daughter.”
“A farmer’s daughter whose son will one day be a duke.”
His Duchess at Eventide: A Legend to Love (Mythic Dukes Book 2) Page 7
