Conspicuously left out of her design for Cheverley’s shroud? Herself and Thaddeus.
The young bride he’d left. The son he’d never met.
Yes, Chev’s father—the duke—had given him an impossible choice. But, had Cheverley chosen to stay, they might have prevailed by working together, either in the courts or through the duchess’s influence.
Even the amendment to Cheverley’s will had hurt almost as much as it had helped. Certainly, the will had placed Pensteague in her possession, thus ensuring her and Thaddeus a home whether or not their marriage was challenged.
But the amended will had been witnessed by Ashbey and Hurtheven and dated just a few months before Cheverley went missing—which meant he arranged to see his friends when he hadn’t taken the time to meet his son.
She pursed her lips and tucked her anger back inside as neatly as she tucked away her tightly knotted hair.
She’d had far too much time to think these past few weeks—too much time to splash fruitlessly in puddles of regret.
She missed Pensteague. She missed bearing witness to the camaraderie between the former navy men who’d taken refuge in her home. Without them she felt Chev’s loss more keenly—something she had not anticipated.
Just like she hadn’t anticipated how ardently Mr. Anthony, Lord Thomas, and their guests would compete for her attention. They had never shown the least bit of interest in her before, but now they showered her with praise. Their unwelcome advances left her little choice but to retreat to the loom whenever the duke rested.
Carefully, she moved her shuttle between strings and began another row of black thread—not for the first time, either.
During the day, Penelope cared for the duke or wove, but, by night, she searched for the estate records Mr. Anthony had hidden while Mrs. Renton removed half of Penelope’s knots. She hoped the delay would give her more time to find something that could oust Anthony and Thomas from the estate, some proof of ill intent.
Unfortunately, Penelope had yet to uncover any evidence that would convince a solicitor—let alone a judge—that Mr. Anthony and Lord Thomas were willfully attempting to usurp the duchy. However, she’d noticed enough oddities to convinceherthey were not merely self-indulgent libertines, consuming what they could until Thaddeus came of age.
First, there was the matter of the missing books. And, suspiciously, the duke improved under Penelope’s care. She couldn’t yet make sense of His Grace’s words, but just yesterday, with Thaddeus’s assistance, the duke had been strong enough to take a full turn about the library.
The only change she’d made had been to prepare the duke’s medicines and food and provide daily encouragement and exercise. She suspected His Grace’s illness had not been the sole result of accidental misfortune but had been magnified by neglect and malevolence. And, if her suspicions were correct, Mr. Anthony and Lord Thomas were far more dangerous than even Mrs. Renton believed.
She checked her progress in the mirror, startled to see Mr. Anthony’s reflection.
Though cousins, Anthony bore little resemblance to Cheverley. Where Chev’s features had been angular, Anthony’s were round. Where Chev’s eyes had been light and his gaze penetrating, Anthony’s were dark, and they peered, mouse-like, from beneath a carefully greased fringe of hair.
She shifted her leg, reassured by the presence of her knife.
A woman alone could never be too careful.
“Ah, Penelope.” Anthony strode into the room without permission. “I knew you would eventually sense my presence.”
“Mr. Anthony”—she might be obliged to endure his familiarity. She was not obliged to reciprocate—“is something amiss?”
She turned but did not stand.
“Amiss? No.” He smiled. “I came to check on your progress. You’ve been working on this morbid project for how long—eight weeks?” Anthony glanced over her shoulder. “Shouldn’t you be farther along?”
“Good work takes time,” she said. “A tapestry of this quality would take a weaver far more talented than I months to create. And certainly, you would not wish me to memorialize my husband with anything less than my best work.”
Anthony’s gaze traveled over her features, lingered on her lips, and then returned to her eyes.
“Pray do continue.” He seated himself on a bench against the wall. “I will observe.”
She blinked. How was she to concentrate with his cloying presence? “I prefer solitude.”
“That is unfortunate.Iprefer to stay.”
His intentional provocation snaked through her like a living creature. She held his gaze for a long moment, allowing the disturbance to settle.
Petulant and selfish, Anthony used provocations like arrows, weakening his opponents with repeated dings meant to induce outrage. She polished the nick to her dignity and turned to resume her work. Outrage was an effective weapon.
A weapon she intended to hold in reserve.
