But if his men could uncover this information, then surely others could too. And the good name he had been raised to hold higher than anything else could be sullied by rumours ofunfaithfulness and illegitimacy. What if, off the back of this information, people questioned James’s own legitimacy? People did love to gossip.
An owl hooted in the distance, and James stood up. He could not go to pieces over this information. It was in the past – and the child, the man, was far away in France. He could pretend he knew nothing about him, and his life would continue just as it was.
Could he look at his title in the same way again? That he was not sure of, but it was a struggle for him to deal with internally; no one else needed to know about it.
He needed to rid himself of his mysterious guest, first and foremost. That had been his foolish mistake, just as it seemed Mrs Simmons was his father’s. The girl’s presence here could certainly cause rumour and scandal, and even an unwanted marriage. The doctor needed to be called, and she needed to leave. And then, in the solitude that would follow, he would decide what he was going to do about Mrs Simmons’s son. Whether any action needed to be taken to keep the information secret. And whether, just perhaps, he might wish to meet the man who was his own flesh and blood.
Chapter Seventeen
Penelope noticed that James was rather quiet at supper, but she did not comment. It did not feel her place to say anything – and besides, she was rather preoccupied with her own concerns. She needed to make sure the recovery of her memory was believable if she wished for any goodwill from the Duke to remain once she left Dunloch Castle. After all, her notion of having him invited to dine at Amblewood, and perhaps having a traditional courtship, would not work if he hated her and wished to have nothing more to do with her.
So the two ate in silence, each consumed by their own thoughts, and when the meal was over, Penelope chose to retire early, claiming a headache.
In truth, her anxiety over the conversation she would have to have with him in the morning was getting to her, and she worried that the more time she spent with him – although she did wish to spend that time with him – the more likely it was she would say something to ruin everything. If her nerves became apparent, or if she slipped up and admitted something before the morning and the recovery of her memory, then all of this would have been for naught. She did not wish to leave with a broken heart, but she rather thought she was in danger of doing so.
How strange it was, she thought to herself as she mounted the stairs to bed, that one could not know a person even existed, and less than a week later, feel as though never seeing them again would be the worst thing of all.
She barely slept that night, knowing that she must go to him the following morning and reveal who she was. She had decided she wouldn’t tell him everything, just that she had regained her memory. She considered doing so after supper, but decided it was more realistic – not that she’d ever known anyone to lose their memory and then regain it – to be refurnished with her memories after a night’s sleep.
He was generally in his study most of the morning, and so she went there before going to the dining room, hoping to catch him before the day had begun. As she had expected, he was poring over paperwork before breaking his fast, and he looked up in surprise as she entered, obviously having expected one of his staff.
"Good morning, Your Grace."
"Good morning. I have not sent for the doctor yet, I’m afraid, I thought to do it after breakfast…"
Penelope shook her head. "That’s not why I have come. Well, it is, I suppose."
He frowned, tapping his quill against his desk, and she tried to get to the point.
"I don’t believe sending for the doctor will be necessary."
"I must disagree, miss. You cannot indefinitely–"
"I have regained my memory," she said hurriedly, and his eyes widened.
"I see. Well that is a different matter. Who do you believe yourself to be?"
Penelope took a deep breath. "I am Lady Penelope Strachan."
He leant back in his chair. "And where do you live?"
"Amblewood Castle, in Northumberland."
He blinked and she wondered if she needed to expand, or if he knew of it.
"So…you are the daughter of the Earl and Countess Strachan?"
She nodded, although guilt flooded through her at the thought of her parents. She might not have always agreed with them, but she did love them dearly – and they had surely been worried sick while she’d been enjoying herself living life as someone else at Dunloch Castle.
"I must think," he said, abruptly pushing his wooden chair backwards and stalking from the room.
Penelope stood and watched him leave, hardly breathing. That had not been the reaction she had been expecting…
???
The daughter of an earl and countess.
Why had he not considered such a possibility?
