The duke held her gaze for a long, horrified moment. Then, he stilled.
He closed his eyes and moaned. Many of his words she could not understand, but one name stood out.
Cheverley.
“Bring me my son!” The duke’s sob echoed through the cavernous chamber, melding fury, frustration, and pain.
“Piers is dead,” Mrs. Renton said, calm as ever. “You remember. He stepped into a nest of adders last year.”
The duke shook his head no. “Cheverley. Bring Cheverley.”
Mrs. Renton sent Penelope a pleading glance.
“Cheverley is not here,” Penelope replied.
The duke inhaled—an awful, gasping sound.
Mrs. Renton glanced to Penelope. “Please,” she said. “Please allow me to administer the doctor’s tonic. He said—”
“The doctor,” Pen replied, “was paid by Mr. Anthony.” She picked up the bottle of Fowler’s solution. “And I don’t trust this—not for a second.”
“But it’s the same one he prescribed Her Grace.”
“It contains arsenic in trace amounts,” Penelope replied. “But if improperly mixed...”
She glanced down at the bottle.
The doctor insisted the tonic was safe. But the duke had sunk back into the state he’d been when she first arrived—confusion, red skin, cramps, vomiting. She strode to the window, and then tossed out the contents.
“Mine!” The duke roared.
Mrs. Renton lifted a pewter mug from the bedside table and leaned over the duke. “How about a nice bit of broth—”
The duke threw the cup across the room, spattering the dark brown liquid across the wall. The empty pewter mug made a clanging sound as it hit the dresser and then the floor. His gaze shifted to Penelope—an unspoken challenge.
“That’s enough, Your Grace,” Penelope said. “Leave us, Mrs. Renton.”
Mrs. Renton frowned. “Will you be all right?”
Pen nodded. Mrs. Renton left the room and quietly closed the door.
Penelope sat down by the duke’s side. He shrank back into his pillows.
He’d always been so large, so invincible.
He glanced at her in horror. His hands shook as he held them against his face.
She imagined suffering his confusion—a prisoner in his own aching body, in his own over-large bed. She laid a hand against his arm.
“No more medicine,” she said. “You are, in fact, much improved. You could barely speak when I first came to Ithwick, do you remember?”
“No,” he replied, stubborn.
“Do you know me, Your Grace?”
He put down his hands. He stared for a long time, her name shivering on the edge of his lips. “P-Penelope.”
She sat straight. “Yes,” she replied. “I am Penelope, Lady Cheverley.”
