“What kind of gifts?” Anthony asked.
She thought of those men. Of the cargo they secreted up the side of the mountain. “A lady loves lace.” Belgian in particular. “Perfume.” Say, from Cologne. “And, of course”—she sipped from her glass—“a fine, red burgundy.” From France.
All of which, given the war, would be impossible to obtain without smuggling.
“Laces, perfumes, wine,” Thomas replied. “Seems reasonable enough.”
“Reasonable?” Anthony replied. “We’ll plie her with gifts, and she will still seek to delay?”
“It’s not as if you can force her to say vows, Anthony,” Thomas argued. “The vicar wouldn’t stand for that. We have her word she’ll finally choose, don’t we, Lady Chev?”
“On one condition.” She cast her gaze to the hidden door that led to the servants’ stair and prayed that Cheverley would hear and would understand. “You both seem to enjoy outdoor games.” She turned back to Anthony. “After I have received your gifts, I’ll hold a competition.”
“What kind of competition?” Thomas asked.
“You cannot expect me to wed a lesser man than my first husband, can you? You will compete by attempting to string Lord Cheverley’s bow and shoot an arrow through twelve axe handles. And if you can do as he did, I swear on the deed to Pensteague I will wed the winner.”
Thomas’s laughter started as a snort and ended in a full-belly chuckle.
“That’s absurd,” Anthony said.
Thomas stopped laughing and wiped his eyes. “Are you afraid you won’t be able to win?”
Anthony bristled. “Of course not.”
“Then it’s settled,” Penelope said. “I suggest you begin collecting your gifts at once.”
She only hoped Chev would understand the reason behind the gifts she’d requested and see that the gauntlet she’d set up was one only he could win.
~~~
“Can you believe that?” Cheverley asked.
Emmaus continued cleaning the barrel of the largest of his four flintlocks. He’d finished with the musket before Cheverley had returned.
“What was she thinking?”
“I don’t know,” Emmaus glanced up. “Why don’t you go back and ask her?”
Cheverley lifted his brows. “She begged me not to confront Anthony and then, and then she invites him to compete for her hand in marriage?! I don’t think she was thinking at all.”
“And if you don’t think she was thinking,” Emmaus snorted, “I don’t believe you know your wife very well.”
Chev folded his arms and scowled into the fire. The very idea of a competition was absurd, even if shooting through twelve axes was something that only he had ever been able to do.
And he wasn’t completely certain he could do it again.
Was she?
“You didn’t say what kind of gifts she requested,” Emmaus said.
“She asked for gifts she doesn’t even like. Laces, perfu—” He stopped abruptly. Tingles raised the hair on the back of his neck.
Emmaus cocked a brow. “And, let me guess, wine?”
Chev closed his eyes and exhaled. “Proof of smuggling.”
“When’s the competition?” Emmaus asked.
“Tomorrow.”
“I hope to be back by then.”
Cheverley eyed Emmaus with unease. “I should go with you.”
“No, you should not. Your place is here.”
His place was here, wasn’t it?
In Chev’s heart he knew it was. But when she’d told him he wasn’t ready, something slick and twisted had snaked up from the tar of his worst nightmares. And a taste he could not spit out lingered.
“This is almost over,” Emmaus said. “I’ve gathered enough men to take the ship. And, if I’m successful, we’ll have further proof the ship is tied to Anthony. Trust me.” Emmaus set aside his gun. “And trust your wife.”
Chev held Emmaus’s gaze—which flickered with the fire of a man about to go into battle.
“Are you certain tonight is your night?”
“The ship has been emptied of cargo. Half the crew are in Penzance. I’ve two men from Pensteague, and a member of the crew,” his gaze slid away, “I convinced to help me. With luck and the right incentives to the rest of the crew, I might not have to fire a shot. What are you going to do about this competition?”
“Go back to Ithwick and have Lord Thaddeus collect the weapons.”
Emmaus rose and clamped Chev on the shoulder with a firm hand. “I expect to see you on the morrow.”
“I look forward to calling you Captain.” Chev swallowed. “God speed—from both my wife and me.”
Chapter Eighteen
Cheverley paced the length of the secret storeroom beneath Ithwick Manor, waiting for Thaddeus to return with every weapon in the house he could find. He’d thought for certain Anthony would have discovered the room by now, but Thaddeus had produced the single key saying his mother had bid him to keep it safe.
Penelope. Always a step ahead.
The duke had built this chamber separate from the other cellars in order to store the best of his wine. Casks for which, of course, he had not paid customs.
Unlike the cellars beneath Ithwick Castle’s ruins, this never connected to the tunnels, and unlike Ithwick Manor’s other storerooms, this one could only be entered through a hidden door.
Cheverley had used the room, too. It was where he’d stored his bows. His axes. Nothing he’d constructed at Pensteague before he left had been quite as secure.
So strange to see his bows and other treasures just has he’d left them. Like some sort of Viking hoard dug up centuries after it had been buried.
And, like a Viking hoard, his possessions would have been left here to rot if he had never returned from sea.
Sobering.
And terrifying.
Almost as terrifying as Penelope and Thaddeus remaining in harm’s way.
He’d been wrong to suggest she leave. Wrong to believe he had any other duty more essential than his duty to his wife, his son, and his home. Yes, hunting down the pirate may have brought a measure of relief, but he’d leave her to the Admiralty.
He was not willing to leave Penelope and Thaddeus any more than Penelope and Thaddeus would have been willing to leave him. He’d prove that to her when he won the competition.
He’d tell her, too—he’d been wrong, and she’d been right—just as soon as she returned from the vicar’s, where she’d gone to cancel the banns and spread the word about the competition.
He arrested his turn as the cool metal of a pistol barrel pressed into his throat.
“Very good, Thaddeus,” he said. “I did not hear you approach. I am impressed.”
“Just practice.” Thaddeus withdrew the pistol. “However, if you trespass on my mother’s trust, you will pay.”
He smiled. “I’d be unwise to cross any lady who throws a knife like that, don’t you think?”
“She throws brilliantly. Always catches me off-guard.”
“Oh?” Chev replied. “Like you just did me?”
“I did, didn’t I?” Thaddeus grinned. “And you were the one who told me never to turn my back to a person with a weapon.”
“Yes,” he replied. “But next time, remember to cock the pistol before issuing the threat.”
“Oh that,” he answered cheerfully. “I’d have done so, only I didn’t actually wish to hurt you, you see.”
Something very much like pride filled his chest.
“We had better get to work.”
They moved the guns into the room, carefully stacking them behind the casks.
“I’m not so sure about any of this,” Thaddeus said. “What was she thinking?”
Cheverley smiled to himself. “The better question is, how was she thinking?” And the answer was brilliantly.
“I don’t understand.”
“The gifts she requested—none of them can be obtained by legal means, not without
an exorbitant price.”
“She means to prove Anthony is in league with the smugglers?”
“Yes.”
“What of the competition? I’ve been thinking,” Thaddeus lifted one of Chev’s more intricate creations. “If I join in the competition and I win, she will not have to wed either of them, would she?”
His gaze softened.
“Valiant,” he said. “But unnecessary.”
He joined his son and ran his finger over the carving. He’d spent so much time on that bow—making sure it was just right.
“Fancy, no?” Thaddeus frowned. “I don’t understand why anyone would put such effort into a weapon.”
“Don’t you?” Chev replied. “Then let me tell you this—exercise crafts the body, while artistry crafts the mind.”
“Is that why you spent so much time on the detail?”
Awareness skimmed Chev’s senses, though Thaddeus had asked the question so quietly, Chev almost hadn’t heard.
He turned, facing the unspoken plea in the lad’s eyes.
He was the only answer to that plea.
“Yes,” he said slowly. “It is why I spent so much time on the detail.”
Thaddeus launched without warning, crushing Chev with his arms, burying his face in Chev’s chest.
He hooked his son close, with both arms, wounded and not.
After a heart-swelling moment, Thaddeus broke away.
They shared the same eyes. They shared the same heart. And they might have shared the same flaws, but Thaddeus had not been raised by the duke.
Thaddeus had been raised by a smarter, kinder, wiser parent.
“I am sorry I deceived you,” Chev said.
“Deceived me?” Thaddeus asked.
“By pretending I am someone who I am not.”
“Oh.” Thaddeus considered. “You are doing so to protect us—my mother and I—are you not?”
“Yes,” he said. Although it was only part of the truth.
“Do you intend to reveal yourself to her?”
Chev sent his son a crooked smile.
“Ah,” Thaddeus nodded. “Mother knows already. The competition.”
He gripped the boy’s shoulder. “We are counting on you to be very brave.”
“Always,” Thaddeus replied.
Thaddeus carried the axes Chev could not hold and, together, they made their way out of the cellars back into the early evening light.
“Are you coming back inside?” Thaddeus asked.
“In a moment,” Chev answered. “You head back—and stay out of the woods.”
Thaddeus, walking backward, saluted, and then turned, skipping down the pathway toward the house.
The ruined towers of Ithwick Castle cast a long shadow across the lawn.
Chev envisioned the lives that had come before him—not just his rich and mighty ancestors—but those who toiled in the fields. The blacksmiths that fashioned both plow and sword.
He imagined the need that had pushed them all forward though good times and bad.
Need that joined with observation and led to innovation that created change.
It was the fearful, the haters, the hoarders that held everyone back.
He’d hated. He’d hoarded.
But he could choose another way.
Only, he couldn’t choose another way while keeping everything he treasured buried, nor while hiding behind a false name.
He must claim his place and his duchess.
Together, they’d make their mark...and permanently change Ithwick forever.
~~~
Penelope leaned against the carriage door as it rattled up the drive.
Plans for the competition were fully in motion. The vicar had cancelled the banns. He and his wife were to attend with Sir Jerold. She’d even extended an invitation to Madame LaVoie, who’d lingered on the stairs until Penelope had invited her to join them.
If all went well, most of the county would bear witness to Cheverley’s win.
And Anthony—the emperor without clothes—would have nowhere to run.
What had Cheverley quoted earlier?
Nothing could be better in this world than when two minds, husband and wife, are united in harmony and spirit, they bring grief to their enemies and happiness to their friends.
Not knowing if Chev had fully understood her intent, she could hardly wait to return to Ithwick and speak with him.
The carriage came to a stop, but when the door opened, it wasn’t the coachman that waited for her in the dusk, but Lord Thomas.
“Forget this competition,” Thomas said. “Marry me. We’ll take a ship tonight and then, once safely abroad, we’ll wed.”
“No.” Penelope avoided his hand and stepped down out of the carriage on her own.
The coachman drove the carriage toward the stables.
“I mean you no harm,” Thomas argued.
“Is that so?” She re-wrapped her shawl around her shoulders. “Anthony was the one who convinced you not to take Thaddeus away and send me to an asylum.”
“Did Anthony tell you that?” Thomas sucked in air through his teeth. “I had to tell him something when I found out about the smuggling. I wouldn’t have actually sent you to Bedlam, just far enough beyond his reach to frustrate his plans. What kind of monster do you think I am?”
She frowned.
Should she believe Thomas?
Lord Thomas is a bad boy. He tells bad lies.
But Thomas didn’t look as if he was lying. He looked like a man at the very end of a short rope.
“What is Anthony planning? What is going on, Thomas?”
Thomas eyed her doubtfully. “It’s not just Anthony that has me concerned.”
“Then who?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you...which I won’t, and don’t ask, because I have good reason not to say.”
“For heaven’s sake, Thomas! What are you talking about?”
“Penelope, please.” He caught her. “You must marry me.”
“Do you honestly think I would?” She put her hands on her hips. “Even if I wanted to, you are having an affair with that woman—Madame LaVoie.”
Lord Thomas blushed. “She told you.”
“Yes,” she replied. “And she was gracious enough to tell me you prefer a firm hand.”
Thomas’s blush deepened. “You mustn’t think I had any true feeling for her. I don’t think anyone could.”
“Then why did you court her?”
Thomas remained silent.
“I don’t have time for this,” Penelope brushed passed him. “I know more than you think I know, and I have a plan.”
“Wait. Please, wait.” Thomas caught up to her in the hall. He lowered his voice. “I’ll confirm it if it will make you trust me—I do happen to prefer a lady with a firm hand—not that it’s anyone’s business but my own. Marry me, Lady Chev.”
“No,” she said. And then more gently, “And not because of your preferences, either. I just—” she glanced up the stairs.
“You aren’t considering marry Anthony, are you? Is that your plan?”
“Thomas, I don’t want to marry either of you any more than either of you want to marry me.”
“But I do want to marry you—if only for convenience. Perhaps we’d rub along well enough. I would leave you to your interests.” He swallowed. “And you could leave me to mine. If you marry me—they can’t touch Pensteague.”
They?
“I’m not completely foolish, Thomas. And who do you mean by they?”
Thomas’s shoulders slumped. “You’re not foolish at all. You just have no idea what you are up against.”
“I would know if you told me!”
Thomas shook his head no. “They made me swear.”
“They again? Who comprises this they?”
Thomas did not answer.
“Why were you and the widow arguing, then? Can you tell me at least that much?”
Tomas glanced up. “You really
don’t want to know. It’s part of why I cannot tell you everything. You’ve grieved enough. It wouldn’t be fair.”
Fear painted a wispy-thin line down Penelope’s spine.
“Tell me, Thomas.”
He lowered his head and folded his hands behind his back. “She told me she’d known Cheverley—and that she’d often taken joy from his la verge.”
“Pardon?”
“Manhood.” He sighed. “She was telling the truth. She even described that tattoo on his ankle. I’m sorry, Penelope. Madame LaVoie was Chev’s lover.”
“Madame LaVoie...” The little French widow couldn’t have been Chev’s jailor, could she?
“She says Chev was a traitor, Pen. And she says she has proof. Do you know what that means? You and Thaddeus—the whole family including myself—we’d all be ruined!”
Well, now Thomas’s actions made sense. “How did you meet Madame LaVoie?”
“Anthony introduced us when she came to live with the vicar. And then I found out about the smuggling and I told them both to go to the devil but—”
Penelope grabbed Thomas by his shoulders. “When? When did she come to live with the vicar?”
“December, of course.”
Penelope pushed Thomas away.
What if Madame LaVoie had been Chev’s jailor? What if she’d been waiting for him to return all along?
Penelope stumbled backward.
She’d just told the vicar that the banns were not to be posted. And she’d told Madame LaVoie she should come to the competition because she’d planned a big surprise.
“Dear God.” She took a deep breath. “Thaddeus! Thaddeus!”
Thaddeus’s feet thundered on the stair.
“Where is he?” she asked Thaddeus. “The captain?”
“I don’t know,” Thaddeus replied. “I left him by Ithwick Castle’s ruins. He said he’d return straight away, but he hasn’t.”
Penelope lurched for the door.
“Where are you going?” Thomas caught her.
“I have to find Chev.”
“Penelope!” Thomas shook her. “Have you lost your mind? Chev is dead.”
“He isn’t! Cheverley is alive—and she’s here, which means he’s in danger—just let me go.”
“I can’t let you go out there,” Thomas said. “Not tonight.”
“Why not tonight?”
“Because she’s out there waiting for the ship to signal—the smugglers are to deliver the first freed French captain tonight.”
His Duchess at Eventide: A Legend to Love (Mythic Dukes Book 2) Page 18
