Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. Foolish,foolishman.
She did not, however, regret their brief affair and whirlwind marriage. The experience had been transformative and grand—to the extent her sixteen-year-old mind could comprehend grand—a rush that had taken her from the threshold of womanhood to the full blossom of her feminine power. And what followed, though unpleasant, had been the gauntlet that formed her character.
She sighed.
Thirteen years had passed since she’d seen her husband, six since he disappeared off the coast of France, though she hadn’t known the gut-wrenching details of his final hours until the recent trial to prove his death.
Cheverley’s ship had left the Channel Fleet on orders to capture a French privateer. Soon after the privateer was won, Chev ordered his first mate to sail home the prize. Then, a sudden storm parted the ships, pushing theHMS Defianceoff her reckoning by three degrees. But three mere degrees had altered the ship’s course enough for the naval gunner to meet a gruesome, rocky end.
In the horrible hours it took the hull to break to pieces, Chev sent part of his crew in a cutter, hopeful they’d find harbor. He remained with his ship...exactly what Penelope would expect of her husband—always certain he could find or forge a way, always driven to display mythic heroism, even at the expense of those he held dear.
In this case, Chev failed. The cutter capsized. The few survivors drifted for days before being rescued. As for Cheverley, after reviewing the evidence, a judge declared him dead. No man, he said, could have survived the wreck.
Then again, her husband had not been just any man.
A burst of low, male laughter rose up from the lawn.
“They laugh while they drain the duchy dry,” Mrs. Renton murmured. “They wouldn’t have dared to set foot in the house in the first place if...if...”
“...If Lord Cheverley were here,” Pen finished quietly.
Yes, she was weary. Yes, she could not spare the expense.
But could she truly turn her back on this part of her husband’s past, forever denying skeletons that were not so much in a cupboard as atop a neighboring hill?
“Perhaps,” Mrs. Renton whispered, “Lord Cheverley will yet return.”
Penelope’s neck prickled.
If she were honest, on nights when the moon’s glow brightened the sheets of her marriage bed, loneliness pierced her heart like one of her husband’s hand-crafted arrows, and she sometimes allowed herself to imagine Cheverley would return.
“Mrs. Renton”—she squelched irrational hope—“we must be careful what we wish. If Cheverley survived, a terrible fate must have befallen him. If he is alive, he is suffering.”
She turned away from the portrait.
What would Chev have wanted her to do? If he were here, he would have wanted her to remain tucked up in the proper little jewel casing he’d prepared whileheforged forth to set everything to rights in a spectacular show.
But he wasn’t here. He hadn’t been here for thirteen years.
The better question was—what did she wish to do? How much of what she’d built in Cheverley’s name could she risk?
She turned about, taking in the ducal library and considering the stern faces of her husband’s ancestors glaring down from centuries past.
If Mr. Anthony and Lord Thomas were corrupt, what would she be teaching Thaddeus if she remained ensconced in comfort while corruption flourished?
Corruption bred fear. Fear bred distrust, anger, divisions and even—if left unchecked—bloodshed.
Shedidhave a responsibility, loath as she was to admit it. Whatever the cost now, it would pale in comparison to the future cost if these men succeeded in fully usurping the duchy’s power. She must find a way to root out and remove the corruption. Not only for Thaddeus’s sake, but for the sake of those, like Mrs. Renton, whose livelihoods depended on Ithwick.
“Mrs. Renton, I concede.” Lord help her. “Thaddeus and I will take up residence at Ithwick, care for the duke and keep a close eye on Mr. Anthony and Lord Thomas. Having the heir and his mother present should gentle the worst of their conduct.”
“And if they ask why?”
“I will tell them I intend to weave a shroud for Cheverley on the medieval loom upstairs.”
“Bless you, my lady.” Mrs. Renton’s brows knit. “But is it wise to bring Master Thaddeus? As Master Thaddeus’s guardian, Lord Thomas could make trouble.”
Let him try.
