Penelope touched one of the pins in her tightly knotted hair and then rested her hand against the neckline of her outdated muslin. Unexpected discomfort blossomed in her chest. Hot, outsized discomfort.
Had Mr. Anthony, Lord Thomas, and their friends no shame? Even now, beyond the restless channel, young men were sacrificing their lives defending these craggy shores in a war that had already cost Penelope her husband.
“It appears to me”—Penelope’s voice tinged with bitterness—“Mr. Anthony and Lord Thomas’s only aspiration is a perpetual, decadent house party.”
“It is worse than decadence! It is unnatural ambition.”
Unnatural ambition?Pen knew them to be irresponsible, certainly, but to accuse them of intentionally usurping the duchy’s power?
“Don’t you see?” Mrs. Renton asked. “Mr. Anthony brought suit to have your husband declared dead—you need look no further for evidence.”
Penelope turned. “Mr. Anthony claimed the suit was necessary in order to free funds for Thaddeus.” That was, however, before they’d discovered the surprise codicil to Cheverley’s will granting Penelope full possession of Pensteague.
“Mr. Anthony,” Mrs. Renton replied, “also claims His Grace is in complete accord with every decision he makes. But, you’ve seen for yourself—His Grace’s words are unintelligible. As for Lord Thomas, he often returns late”—Mrs. Renton lowered her voice—“smelling of tipple and perfume.”
Penelope frowned. The amorous exploits of her husband’s cousin weren’t any of her concern.
On the other hand, she could not deny His Grace’s troubling condition. The duke’s blank stare had sent shivers through her spine. For the first time, she’d felt a measure of compassion toward the tyrant.
But compassion for the duke and a willingness to intercede on his behalf were two very different positions.
“Ifthoseactions weren’t awful enough,” Mrs. Renton continued, “several women have left our employ so distressed they did not request references. The remaining women serve as mistresses and little else.”
Penelope’s flush spread to her cheeks. A manhadto be vile-hearted to take advantage of anyone in their employ in such a way. “If you would, Mrs. Renton, supply the names and direction of those who left. I will provide references for them from Pensteague.”
“Thank you, Lady Cheverley.” Mrs. Renton bobbed a short curtsey. “But what of Mr. Anthony and Lord Thomas?”
Penelope gazed back out to the lawn. Were they merely reckless libertines as she’d long assumed, or were they greedy, dangerous men emboldened by the duke’s illness, Thaddeus’s youth, and his mother’s perceived lack of connections?
Anthony had come to Ithwick following the duke’s sudden illness at Piers’s request and had taken over the duties of steward. After Piers’s death, Lord Thomas had arrived. They’d been indifferent to Penelope and only cursorily interested in Thaddeus, and she was happy enough to allow things to remain as they were.
But what if they were intentionally robbing Ithwick? What remedy could she bring? She’d need solicitors, barristers, and witnesses to bring suit.
Though Pensteague thrived, she returned every sixpence earned to the estate...the only way she could care for the wounded seamen who regularly appeared on Pensteague’s doorstep.
She’d taken the land her husband, Cheverley, had been granted as part of his mother’s marriage settlement—a small cottage with surrounding forests and wastes—and transformed it into a thriving estate with choice livestock, crops, fallows, and coppiced wood. She’d raised Thaddeus without assistance from his ducal grandparents. She’d remained dutiful and loyal to Cheverley—and, by extension the duchy—all while striving to provide the wounded seamen Pensteague sheltered the dignity of a generous livelihood. And now, Pensteague was hers and hers alone.
Why should she place all she protected and all she’d built at risk?
“Mrs. Renton,” she began, “you’ve always shown me kindness—”
“You were devoted to young Lord Cheverley,” Mrs. Renton interrupted, sniffling. “I had hoped—”
“Allow me to speak plain.” Penelope’s own dashed hopes were difficult enough to bear, thank you. “To Lord Cheverley’s family—everyone but the late duchess—I have always been an interloper. It is not my place to interfere.”
“But there is no one else,” Mrs. Renton replied. “Mr. Anthony acts as if he is master of Ithwick. You are the only one who can stop him.”
“Mr. Anthony has been inclined to be pompous for as long as I have known him.” But pompous and criminal did not negate one another, did they?
Pen attempted to rationalize again. “Isn’t it natural Mr. Anthony take an interest in running the estate? He is, after Thaddeus, the next in line to inherit.”
“Mr. Anthony and his coterie are draining the coffers. They are depleting the livestock. Their mismanagement is so severe, long-time tenants are choosing not to renew their leases. Please help us, Lady Cheverley. Ifyoudo not protect Ithwick, I fear there will be nothing left for young Master Thaddeus to inherit.” Mrs. Renton paced the length of the rug, paused, then glanced up at a painting. “If Lord Cheverley were here now, it’s what he would wish you to do.”
Pen’s lips flattened at the invocation of her husband’s name. Reluctantly, she turned her gaze to the painting she’d avoided since entering the room—a portrait of Cheverley and his older brother as boys.
Though in the portrait, Cheverley’s pale blonde hair had yet to darken, his stance already hinted at future swagger. His sheepish half-smile acknowledged worlds he had yet to understand, let alone conquer, but his pale blue eyes alit with a sickle-sharp cunning and an insatiable thirst for adventure.
A thirst that would rob her of a husband and Thaddeus of a father.
