Chapter Two, A Rogue by Any Other Name

Dear M—

You absolutely must come home. It’s dreadfully boring without you; neither Victoria nor Valerie makes for a sound lakeside companion.

Are you very sure that you must attend school? My governess seems fairly intelligent. I’m sure she can teach you anything you need know.

Yrs—P

Needham Manor, September 1813

* * *

 

Dear P—

I’m afraid you’re in for dreadful boredom until Christmas. If it is any consolation, I don’t even have access to a lake. May I suggest teaching the twins to fish?

I’m sure I must attend school . . . your governess is not fond of me.

—M Eton

College, September 1813

 

Late January 1831

Surrey

Lady Penelope Marbury, being highborn and well-bred, knew that she should be very grateful indeed when, on a frigid January afternoon well into her twenty-eighth year, she received her fifth (and likely final) proposal of marriage.

She knew that half of London would think her not entirely out of bounds if she were to join The Honorable Mr. Thomas Alles on one knee and thank him and her maker for the very kind and exceedingly generous offer. After all, the gentleman in question was handsome, friendly, and had all his teeth and a full head of hair—a rare combination of traits for a not-so-young woman with a broken engagement and only a handful of suitors in her past.

She also knew that her father, who had no doubt blessed the match at some point prior to this moment—as she stared down at the top of Thomas’s well-appointed head—liked him. The Marquess of Needham and Dolby had liked “That Tommy Alles” since the day, twenty-some-odd years ago, when the boy had rolled up his sleeves, hunkered down in the stables of her childhood home, and assisted in the whelping of one of the marquess’s favorite hunting dogs.

From that day on, Tommy was a good lad.

The kind of lad that Penelope had always thought her father would have liked for his own son. If, of course, he’d had a son, instead of five daughters.

And then there was the fact that Tommy would someday be a viscount—a wealthy one, at that. As Penelope’s mother was no doubt saying from her place beyond the drawing-room door, where she was no doubt watching the scene unfold in quiet desperation:

Beggars cannot be choosers, Penelope.

Penelope knew all this.

Which was why, when she met the warm brown gaze of this boy-turned-man she’d known all her life, this dear friend, she realized that this was absolutely the most generous offer of marriage she would ever receive, and she should say yes. Resoundingly.

Except she didn’t.

Instead, she said, “Why?”

The silence that followed the words was punctuated by a dramatic “What does she think she is doing?” from beyond the drawing-room door, and Tommy’s gaze filled with amusement and not a little bit of surprise as he came to his feet.

“Why not?” he replied, companionably, adding after a moment, “We’ve been friends for an age; we enjoy each other’s company; I’ve need of a wife; you’ve need of a husband.”

As reasons for marrying went, they weren’t terrible ones. Nevertheless, “I’ve been out for nine years, Tommy. You’ve had all that time to offer for me.”

Tommy had the grace to look chagrined before he smiled, looking not a small bit like a Water Dog. “That’s true. And I haven’t a good excuse for waiting except . . . well, I’m happy to say I’ve come to my senses, Pen.”

She smiled back at him. “Nonsense. You’ll never come to your senses. Why me, Tommy?” she pressed. “Why now, Tommy?”

When he laughed at the question, it wasn’t his great, booming, friendly laugh. It was a nervous laugh. The one he always laughed when he did not wish to answer the question. “It’s time to settle down,” he said, before cocking his head to one side, smiling broadly, and continuing, “Come on, Pen. Let’s make a go of it, shall we?”

Penelope had received four previous offers of marriage and imagined countless other proposals in a myriad of fashions, from the glorious, dramatic interruption of a ball to the private, wonderful proposal in a secluded gazebo in the middle of a Surrey summer. She’d imagined professions of love and undying passion, profusions of her favorite flower (the peony), blankets spread lovingly across a field of wild daisies, the crisp taste of champagne on her tongue as all of London raised their glasses to her happiness. The feel of her fiancé’s arms around her as she tossed herself into his embrace and sighed, Yes . . . Yes!

They were all fantasy—each more unlikely than the last—she knew. After all, a twenty-eight-year-old spinster was not exactly fighting off suitors.

But surely she was not out of line to hope for something more than, Let’s make a go of it, shall we?

She let out a little sigh, not wanting to upset Tommy, who was very clearly doing his best. But they’d been friends for an age, and Penelope wasn’t about to introduce lies to their friendship now. “You’re taking pity on me, aren’t you?”

His eyes went wide. “What? No! Why would you say such a thing?”

She smiled. “Because it’s true. You pity your poor, spinster friend. And you’re willing to sacrifice your own happiness to be certain that I marry.”

He gave her an exasperated look—the kind of look that only one very dear friend could give another—and he lifted her hands in his, kissing her knuckles. “Nonsense. It’s time I marry, Pen. You’re a good friend.” He paused, chagrin flashing in a friendly way that made it impossible to be annoyed with him. “I’ve made a hash of it, haven’t I?”

She couldn’t help herself. She smiled. “A bit of one, yes. You’re supposed to profess undying love.”

He looked skeptical. “Hand to brow and all that?”

The smile became a grin. “Precisely. And perhaps write me a sonnet.”

“O, fair Lady Penelop-e . . . Do please consider marrying me?”

She laughed. Tommy always made her laugh. It was a good quality, that. “A shabby attempt indeed, my lord.”

He feigned a grimace. “I don’t suppose I could breed you a new kind of dog? Name it the Lady P?”

“Romantic indeed,” she said, “but it would take rather a long time, don’t you think?”

There was a pause as they enjoyed each other’s company before he said, suddenly very serious, “Please, Pen. Let me protect you.”

It was an odd thing to say, but he’d failed at all the other parts of the marriage proposal process, so she did not linger on the words.

Instead, she considered the offer. Seriously.

He was her oldest friend. One of them, at least.

The one who hadn’t left her.

He made her laugh, and she was very, very fond of him. He was the only man who hadn’t utterly deserted her after her disastrous broken engagement. Surely that alone recommended him.

She should say yes.

Say it, Penelope.

She should become Lady Thomas Alles, twenty-eight years old and rescued, in the nick of time, from an eternity of spinsterhood.

Say it: Yes, Tommy. I’ll marry you. How lovely of you to ask.

She should.

But she didn’t.

 

* * *

 

Dear M—

My governess is not fond of  eels . Surely she’s cultured enough to see that simply because you arrived bearing one does not make you a bad person. Loathe the sin, not the sinner.

Yrs—P

post script—Tommy was home for a visit last week, and we went fishing. He is officially my favorite friend.

Needham Manor, September 1813

 

* * *

 

Dear P—

That sounds suspiciously like a sermon from Vicar Compton. You’ve been paying attention in church. I’m disappointed.

—M

post script—He is not.

Eton College, September 1813

 

The sound of the great oak door closing behind Thomas was still echoing through the entryway of Needham Manor when Penelope’s mother appeared on the first-floor landing, one flight up from where Penelope stood.

“Penelope! What have you done?” Lady Needham came tearing down the wide central staircase of the house, followed by Penelope’s sisters, Olivia and Philippa, and three of her father’s hunting dogs.

Penelope took a deep breath and turned to face her mother. “It’s been a quiet day, really,” she said, casually, heading for the dining room, knowing her mother would follow. “I did write a letter to cousin Catherine; did you know she continues to suffer from that terrible cold she developed before Christmas?”

Pippa chuckled. Lady Needham did not.

“I don’t care a bit about your cousin Catherine!” the marchioness said, the pitch of her voice rising in tune with her anxiety.

“That’s rather unkind; no one likes a cold.” Penelope pushed open the door to the dining room to discover her father already seated at the table, still wearing his hunting clothes, quietly reading the Post as he waited for the feminine contingent of the household. “Good evening, Father. Did you have a good day?”

“Deuced cold out there,” the Marquess of Needham and Dolby said, not looking up from his newspaper. “I find I’m ready for supper. Something warm.”

Penelope thought perhaps her father wasn’t at all ready for what was to come during this particular meal, but instead, she pushed a waiting beagle from her chair and assumed her appointed seat, to the left of the marquess, and across from her sisters, both wide-eyed and curious about what was to come next. She feigned innocence, unfolding her napkin.

“Penelope!” Lady Needham stood just inside the door to the dining room, stick straight, her hands clenched in little fists, confusing the footmen, frozen in uncertainty, wondering if dinner should be served or not. “Thomas proposed!”

“Yes. I was present for that bit,” Penelope said.

This time, Pippa lifted her water goblet to hide her smirk.

“Needham!” Lady Needham decided she required additional support. “Thomas proposed to Penelope!”

Lord Needham lowered his paper. “Did he? I always liked that Tommy Alles.” Turning his attention to his eldest daughter, he said, “All right, Penelope?”

Penelope took a deep breath. “Not precisely, Father.”

“She did not accept!” The pitch at which her mother spoke was appropriate only for the most heartbreaking of mourning or a Greek chorus. Though it apparently had the additional purpose of setting dogs to barking.

After she and the dogs had completed their wails, Lady Needham approached the table, her skin terribly mottled, as though she had walked through a patch of itching ivy. “Penelope! Marriage proposals from wealthy, eligible young men do not blossom on trees!”

Particularly not in January, I wouldn’t think. Penelope knew better than to say what she was thinking.

When a footman came forward to serve the soup that was to begin their evening meal, Lady Needham collapsed into her chair, and said, “Take it away! Who can eat at a time like this?”

“I am quite hungry, actually,” Olivia pointed out, and Penelope swallowed back a smile.

“Needham!”

The marquess sighed and turned to Penelope. “You refused him?”

“Not exactly,” Penelope hedged.

“She did not accept him!” Lady Needham cried.“Why not?”

It was a fair question. Certainly one that everyone at the table would have liked to have answered. Even Penelope.

Except, she did not have an answer. Not a good one. “I wanted to consider the offer.”

“Don’t be daft. Accept the offer,” Lord Needham said, as though it were as easy as that, and waved the footman over for soup.

“Perhaps Penny doesn’t wish to accept Tommy’s offer,” Pippa pointed out, and Penelope could have kissed her logical younger sister.

“It’s not about wishing or otherwise,” Lady Needham said. “It’s about selling when one can.”

“What a very charming sentiment,” Penelope said dryly, trying her very best to keep her spirits up.

“Well it’s true, Penelope. And Thomas Alles is the only man in society who appears willing to buy.”

“I do wish we could think of a better metaphor than purchase and sale,” Penelope said. “And, truly, I don’t think he wants to marry me any more than I want to marry him. I think he’s just being kind.”

“He isn’t just being kind,” Lord Needham said, but before Penelope could probe on that particular insight, Lady Needham was speaking again.

“It’s hardly about wanting to marry, Penelope. You’re far beyond that. You must marry! And Thomas was willing to marry you! You’ve not had a proposal in four years! Or had you forgotten that?”

“I had forgotten, Mother. Thank you very much for the reminder.”

Lady Needham lifted her nose. “I gather you mean to be amusing?”

Olivia’s brows rose, as though the very idea of her eldest sister being amusing was unbelievable. Penelope resisted the urge to defend her sense of humor, which she liked to think was very much intact.

Of course she hadn’t forgotten it. Indeed, it was a difficult fact to forget, considering how often her mother reminded her of her marital state. Penelope was surprised that the marchioness did not know the number of days and hours that had passed since the proposal in question.

She sighed. “I am not aiming for humor, Mother. I’m simply . . . not certain that I want to marry Thomas. Or anyone else who isn’t certain that he wants to marry me, honestly.”

“Penelope!” her mother barked. “Your wants are not paramount in this situation!”

Of course they weren’t. That wasn’t how marriage operated.

“Really. How very ridiculous!” There was a pause as the marchioness collected herself and attempted to find her words. “Penelope . . . there is no one else! We’ve searched! What will become of you?” She collapsed elegantly back in her chair, one hand to her brow in a dramatic gesture that would have made any one of the actresses on the London stage proud. “Who will have you?”

It was a fair question, and one that Penelope should probably have considered more carefully before she revealed her uncertainty about her marital future. But she hadn’t exactly decided to make such an announcement, at least, not until she’d made it.

And now, it seemed like the best decision she’d made in a very long while.

The thing was, Penelope had had plenty of opportunity to be “had” in the past nine years. There had been a time when she was the talk of the ton—passably attractive, well behaved, well-spoken, well-bred, perfectly . . . perfect.

She’d been betrothed, even. To a similarly perfect counterpart.

Yes, it had been a perfect match, except for the fact that he had been perfectly in love with someone else.

Scandal had made it easy for Penelope to end the engagement without being jilted. Well, at least, not precisely.

She would not describe it as a jilt, exactly. More of a jolt, really.

And not an unwelcome one.

Not that she would tell her mother that.

“Penelope!” The marchioness straightened again, her anguished gaze on her eldest daughter. “Answer me! If not Thomas, then who? Who do you suppose will have you?”

“I shall have myself, it seems.”

Olivia gasped. Pippa paused, her soup spoon halfway to her lips.

“Oh! Oh!” The marchioness collapsed once more. “You cannot mean it! Don’t be ridiculous!” Panic and irritation warred in Lady Needham’s tone. “You are made of stronger stuff than spinsters! Oh! Don’t make me think of it! A spinster!”

Penelope thought that it was in fact the spinsters who were made of stronger stuff than she, but she refrained from saying such a thing to her mother, who looked as though she might topple from her chair in a state of utter desperation.

The marchioness pressed on. “And what of me? I was not born to be a spinster’s mother! What will they think? What will they say?”

Penelope had a very good idea of what they already thought. What they already said.

“There was a time, Penelope, when you were to be the very opposite of what you have become! And I was to be the mother of a duchess!”

And there it was. The specter that loomed between Lady Needham and her eldest daughter.

Duchess.

Penelope wondered if her mother would ever forgive her for the dissolution of the engagement . . . as though it had been Penelope’s fault somehow. She took a deep breath, attempting a reasonable tone. “Mother, the Duke of Leighton was in love with another woman—”

“A walking scandal!”

Whom he loves beyond measure. Even now, eight years later, Penelope felt a twinge of envy . . . not for the duke, but for the emotion. She pushed the feeling aside. “Scandal or no, the lady happens to be the Duchess of Leighton. A title, I might add, that she has held for eight years, during which time she’s birthed the future Duke of Leighton and three additional children for her husband.”

“Who should have been your husband! Your children!”

Penelope sighed. “What would you have me do?”

The marchioness popped up once more. “Well! You could have tried a bit harder! You could have accepted any number of proposals after the duke’s.” She flopped back again. “There were four of them! Two earls,” she recounted, as though proposals of marriage might have slipped Penelope’s mind, “then George Hayes! And now Thomas! A future viscount! I could accept a future viscount!”

“How very magnanimous of you, Mother.”

Penelope sat back in her chair. She supposed that it was true. Lord knew that she had been trained to try very hard to land a husband—well, as hard as one could try without appearing to be trying too hard.

But in the past few years, her heart hadn’t been in it. Not really. For the first year after the broken engagement, it was easy to tell herself that she did not care to marry because she was shrouded in the scandal of a broken engagement, and no one showed much interest in her as a potential bride.

After that, there had been a few proposals, all men with ulterior motives, all eager to marry the daughter of the Marquess of Needham and Dolby, either for their political careers or their financial futures, and the marquess hadn’t minded much at all when Penelope had politely declined those offers.

It hadn’t mattered to him why she’d said no.

Hadn’t occurred to him that she might have said no because she’d had a glimpse of what marriage could be—because she’d seen the way the Duke of Leighton had gazed, lovingly, into the eyes of his duchess. She’d seen that there might be something more to come from a marriage if she only had enough time to find it.

But somehow, during that time when she told herself she was waiting for more, she’d lost her chance. She’d become too old, too plain, too tarnished.

And today, as she’d watched Tommy—a dear friend, but not much else—offer to spend the rest of his life with her, despite his own utter disinterest in their marriage . . . she simply couldn’t say yes.

She couldn’t ruin his chances at something more.No matter how disastrous her own were.

“Oh!” The keening began once more. “Think of your sisters! What of them?”

Penelope looked to her sisters, who were watching the conversation as though it were a badminton match. Her sisters would be fine. “Society shall have to make do with the younger, prettier Marbury daughters. Considering the fact that the two married Marbury daughters are a countess and a baroness, I should think all will be well.”

“And thank goodness for the twins’ excellent matches.”

Excellent was not precisely the description Penelope would use to describe either Victoria or Valerie’s matches—made for title and dowry and little else—but their husbands were relatively innocuous and at least discreet with their activities outside the marriage bed, so Penelope did not argue the point.

No matter. Her mother was plunging onward.

“And what of your poor father? It’s as though you have forgotten that he was plagued with a houseful of girls! It would be different if you’d been a boy, Penelope. But he is positively sick with worry over you!”

Penelope turned to look at her father, who dipped a piece of bread in his bisque and fed it to the large black water dog seated at his left hand, staring up at him, long pink tongue lolling out of the side of her mouth. Neither man nor beast seemed particularly sick with worry. “Mother, I . . .”

“And Philippa! Lord Castleton has shown interest in her. What of Philippa?”

Now Penelope was confused. “What of Philippa?”

“Precisely!” Lady Needham waved a white linen napkin in a dramatic way. “What of Philippa?”

Penelope sighed and turned to her sister. “Pippa, do you feel that my refusing Tommy will impact your suit from Lord Castleton?”

Pippa shook her head, eyes wide. “I can’t imagine it would. And if it did, I honestly wouldn’t be devastated. Castleton’s a bit . . . well, uninteresting.”

Penelope would have used the word unintelligent, but she allowed Pippa her politeness.

“Don’t be so silly, Philippa,” the marchioness said, “Lord Castleton is an earl. Beggars cannot be choosers.”

Penelope gritted her teeth at the adage, her mother’s favorite when discussing her unmarried daughters’ prospects. Pippa turned her blue gaze on her mother. “I was not aware that I was begging.”

“Of course you are. You all do. Even Victoria and Valerie had to beg. Scandal does not simply disappear.”

Penelope heard the meaning of the words even if it wasn’t articulated. Penelope’s ruined it for all of you.

A pang of guilt thrummed through her, and she tried to ignore it, knowing that she shouldn’t feel guilty. Knowing that it wasn’t her fault.

Except, it might have been.

She pushed the thought away. It wasn’t. He’d loved another.

But why hadn’t he loved her?

It was a question she’d asked herself over and over during that long-ago winter, when she’d been holed up here, in the country, reading the scandal sheets and knowing that he’d chosen someone more beautiful, more charming, more exciting than she. Knowing that he was happy, and she was . . . unwanted.

She hadn’t loved him. She hadn’t thought much at all about him.

But it smarted nonetheless.“I’ve no intention of begging,” Olivia entered the conversation. “It’s my second season, I’m beautiful and charming, and I’ve a very large dowry. Larger than any man can overlook.”

“Oh, yes. Very charming,” Pippa said, and Penelope looked down at her plate to hide her smile.

Olivia caught the sarcasm. “Laugh all you like, but I know what my value is. I’m not going to let what happened to Penelope happen to me. I’m landing myself a true aristocrat.”

“A fine plan, darling.” Lady Needham beamed with pride.Olivia smiled. “Thank goodness I’ve learned my lessons from you, Penny.”

Penelope could not help defending herself. “It’s not as though I chased him away, Olivia. Father ended the engagement because of Leighton’s sister’s scandal.”

“Nonsense. If Leighton had wanted you, he would have fought for you, scandal be damned,” her youngest sister said, lips pursed, a born ingénue. “But he didn’t. Want you, that is. Though I suppose he didn’t fight for you, either. And I can only imagine that he didn’t do those things because you didn’t work hard enough to keep his attention.”

Being the youngest, Olivia had never had to think much about the way her words, always a touch too forthright, might sting. Now was no exception. Penelope bit the inside of her cheek, resisting the urge to scream, He loved another! But she knew an exercise in futility when she found one. Broken engagements were the woman’s fault, always. Even when the woman in question was your older sister, apparently.

“Yes! Oh, Olivia, only one season out and already you are so astute, darling,” Lady Needham chirped, before moaning, “And don’t forget the others.”

They had all appeared to have forgotten that she didn’t wish to marry the others. But Penelope still felt she should defend herself. “I received a proposal of marriage this afternoon if you’ll recall.”

Olivia waved one hand dismissively. “A proposal from Tommy. That’s not a good proposal. Only a henwit would think he asked because he wanted to marry you.”

One could always count on Olivia to speak the truth.

“To that end, why did he ask?” Pippa interjected, not meaning for the question to be cruel, Penelope was certain. After all, she’d asked herself—and Tommy—that very question not an hour earlier.

She would like to say, Because he loves me.

Well, that wasn’t precisely true. She’d like to say the words. But not about Tommy.

Which was why she hadn’t said yes.

In all her years, she’d never once imagined marrying Tommy.

He’d never been the one of whom she dreamed.

“It’s not important why he asked,” Lady Needham interjected. “What’s important is that he was willing to take in Penelope! That he was willing to give her a home and a name and care for her as your father has for all these years!” She leveled Penelope with a look. “Penelope, you must think, darling! When your father dies! What then?”

Lord Needham looked up from his pheasant. “I beg your pardon?”

Lady Needham waved one hand in the air as though she hadn’t time to think about her husband’s feelings, instead prodding, “He shan’t live forever, Penelope! What then?”

Penelope could not think of why this was in any way relevant. “Well, that shall be very sad, I imagine.”

Lady Needham shook her head in frustration. “Penelope!”“Mother, I honestly have no idea what you are implying.”

“Who will take care of you? When your father dies?”

“Is Father planning to die soon?”

“No,” her father said.

“One never knows!” Tears were welling in the marchioness’s eyes.

“Oh, for God’s—” Lord Needham had had enough. “I’m not dying. And I take no small amount of offense in the fact that the thought simply rolled off your tongue.” He turned to Penelope. “And as for you, you’ll marry.”

Penelope straightened her shoulders. “This is not the Middle Ages, Father. You cannot force me to marry someone I do not wish to marry.”

Lord Needham had little interest in the rights of women. “I’ve five daughters and no sons, and I’ll be damned if I leave a single one of you unmarried and fending for yourself while that idiot nephew of mine runs my estate into the ground.” He shook his head. “I will see you married, Penelope, and married well. And it’s time you stop dickering around and accept yourself a suit.”

Penelope’s eyes went wide. “You think I’ve been dickering around?”

“Penelope, language. Please.”

“To be fair, Mother, he did say it first,” Pippa pointed out.

“Irrelevant! I didn’t raise you girls to speak like common . . . common . . . oh, you know.”

“Of course you’ve been dickering around. It’s been eight years since the Leighton debacle. You’re the daughter of a double marquess with the money of Midas.”

“Needham! How crass!”

Lord Needham looked to the ceiling for patience. “I don’t know what you’ve been waiting for, but I do know I’ve coddled you too long, ignoring the fact that the Leighton debacle cast a pall over the lot of you.” Penelope looked to her sisters, who were both staring down at their laps. Guilt whispered through her as her father continued, “I’m through with it. You’ll marry this season, Penny.”

Penelope’s throat was working like mad, struggling to swallow against the knot of sawdust that appeared to have become lodged there. “But . . . no one but Tommy has proposed to me in four years.”

“Tommy’s just the beginning. They’ll propose now.” She’d seen the look of complete certainty in her father’s eyes enough times in her life to know that he was right.

She looked her father straight in the eye. “Why?”

“Because I’ve added Falconwell to your dowry.”

He said it in the manner in which one would say things like, It’s a bit cold. Or, This fish needs more salt. As though everyone at the table would simply accept the words as truth. As though four heads would not turn to him, eyes wide, jaws dropped.

“Oh! Needham!” Lady Needham was off again.

Penelope did not take her gaze from her father. “I beg your pardon?”

A memory flashed. A laughing, dark-haired boy, clinging to a low branch of a massive willow tree, reaching down and urging Penelope to join him in his hiding place.

The third of the trio.

Falconwell was Michael’s.

Even if it hadn’t belonged to him in a decade, she’d always think of it that way. It did not feel right that it was somehow, strangely, hers now. All that beautiful, lush land, everything but the house and immediate grounds—the entail.

Michael’s birthright.

Now hers.

“How did you get Falconwell?”

“How is not relevant,” the marquess said, not looking up from his meal. “I can’t have you risking your sisters’ successes on the marriage mart any longer. You need to get yourself married. You shan’t be a spinster for the rest of your days; Falconwell will ensure it. Already has, it looks like. If you don’t like Tommy, I’ve already a half dozen letters of interest from men across Britain.”

Men who wanted Falconwell.

Let me protect you.

Tommy’s strange words from earlier made sense now. He’d proposed to keep her from the mess of proposals that would come for her dowry. He’d proposed because he was her friend.

And he’d proposed for Falconwell. There was a small parcel of land belonging to Viscount Langford on the far side of Falconwell. Someday, it would be Tommy’s and, if she married him, he’d have Falconwell to add to it.

“Of course!” Olivia interjected. “That explains it!”

He hadn’t told her.Penelope had known he wasn’t really interested in marrying her, but the proof of it wasn’t exactly a pleasant discovery. She remained focused on her father. “The dowry. It is public?”

“Of course it’s public. What good is it tripling the value of your daughter’s dowry if you don’t make it public?” Penelope ran a fork through her turnip mash, wishing she were anywhere but at that table, at that moment, when her father said, “Don’t look so miserable. Thank your stars you’ll finally have yourself a husband. With Falconwell in your dowry, you could win yourself a prince.”

“I find myself tiring of princes, Father.”

“Penelope! No one tires of princes!” her mother interjected.

“I should like to meet a prince,” Olivia interjected, chewing thoughtfully. “If Penelope doesn’t want Falconwell, I should happily have it as part of my dowry.”

Penelope slid her gaze to her youngest sister. “Yes, I imagine you would, Olivia. But I doubt you will need it.” Olivia had the same pale hair and pale skin and pale blue eyes that Penelope had, but instead of making her look as Penelope did—like tepid dishwater—Olivia was breathtakingly beautiful and the kind of woman who could snap her fingers and bring men to her side.

Worse, she knew it.

“You do need it. Especially now,” Lord Needham said pragmatically before turning back to Penny. “There was a time when you were young enough to capture the attention of a decent man, but you’re well past that.”

Penelope wished that one of her sisters would enter into the fray to defend her. To protest their father’s words. To say, perhaps, Penelope doesn’t need it. Someone wonderful will come along and stumble into love with her. At first sight. Obviously.

She ignored the pang of sadness that flared at the silent acceptance of the words. Penelope saw the truth in her father’s gaze. The certainty. And she knew, without a doubt, that she would be married as her father willed, as though it were the Middle Ages, and he was carving off a little piece of his fiefdom.

Except he wasn’t carving off anything. “How is it possible that Falconwell now belongs to the Marquess of Needham and Dolby?”

“That shouldn’t worry you.”

“But it does,” Penelope pressed. “Where did you get it? Does Michael know?”

“Don’t know,” the marquess said, lifting his wineglass. “Imagine it’s only a matter of time before he does.”

“Who knows what Michael knows,” her mother scoffed. “No one in polite society has seen the Marquess of Bourne for years.”

Not since he disappeared in scandal. Not since he’d lost everything to Tommy’s father.

Penelope shook her head. “Did you try to return it to him?”

“Penelope! Don’t be ungrateful!” the marchioness trilled. “The addition of Falconwell to your dowry is a shining example of your father’s generosity!”

An example of her father’s desire to rid himself of his troublesome daughter.

“I don’t want it.”

She knew the words were a lie even as she said them. Of course she wanted it. The lands attached to Falconwell were lush and vibrant and filled with memories of her childhood.

With memories of Michael.

It had been years since she’d seen him—she’d been a child when he’d left Falconwell, and barely out when his scandal had been the talk of London aristocrats and Surrey servants. Now, if she heard of him at all, it was in snippets of gossip from more experienced women of the ton. He was in London running a gaming hell, she’d once heard from a particularly chatty group of women in a ladies’ salon, but she’d never asked where, seeming to know instinctively that ladies like herself did not frequent the place where Michael had landed when he’d fallen from grace.

“You don’t have a choice, Penelope. It’s mine. And soon it will be your husband’s. Men from across Britain will come for a chance to win it. Marry Tommy now or one of them later, if you like. But you’ll marry this season.” He leaned back in his chair, spreading his hands over his wide girth. “One day, you’ll thank me.”

You’ll marry this season.

“Why didn’t you return it to Michael?”

Needham sighed, throwing down his napkin and rising from the table, through with the conversation. “He was careless with it in the first place,” he said simply before quitting the room, Lady Needham fast on his heels.

It might have been sixteen years since she’d seen him last, but a part of her still considered Michael Lawler, Marquess of Bourne, a dear friend, and she did not like the way her father spoke of him, as though he were of little value and less import.

But then, she really didn’t know Michael—not the man. When she allowed herself to think of him, more often than she’d like to admit, he was not a twenty-one-year-old who had lost everything in a silly game of chance.

No, in her thoughts, Michael remained her childhood friend—the first she’d ever made—twelve years old, leading her across the muddy landscape on one adventure or another, laughing at inopportune moments until she could not resist laughing with him, muddying his knees in the damp fields that stretched between their houses and throwing pebbles at her window on summer mornings before he headed off to fish in the lake that straddled Needham and Bourne lands.

She supposed the lake was part of her dowry, now.

Michael would have to ask permission to fish there.

He would have to ask her husband permission to fish there.

The idea would be laughable if it weren’t so . . . wrong.

And no one seemed to notice.

Penelope looked up, meeting first Pippa’s gaze across the table, wide blue eyes blinking behind her spectacles, then Olivia’s, filled with . . . relief?

At Penelope’s questioning glance, Olivia said, “I confess I did not like the idea of a sister who had failed at the marriage mart. It’s much better this way for me.”

“I’m happy someone can be satisfied with the events of the day,” Penelope said.

“Well, really, Penny,” Olivia pressed on, “you have to admit, your marrying will help us all. You were a significant reason for Victoria’s and Valerie’s settling for their boring old husbands.”

It was not as though she’d planned it that way.

“Olivia!” Pippa said quietly, “that’s not very nice.”

“Oh, tosh. Penny knows it’s true.”

Did she?She looked to Pippa. “Have I made it difficult for you?”

Pippa hedged. “Not at all. Castleton sent news to Father just last week that he was planning to court me in earnest, and it’s not as though I’m the most ordinary of debutantes.”

It was an understatement. Pippa was something of a bluestocking, very focused on the sciences and fascinated by the insides of living things, from plants to people. She’d once stolen a goose from the kitchens and dissected it in her bedchamber. All had been well until a maid had entered, discovered Pippa up to her elbows in fowl entrails, and screamed as though she’d stumbled upon a Seven Dials murder scene.

Pippa had been scolded profusely, and the maid had been reassigned to the lower floors of the manor house.

“He should be named Lord Simpleton,” Olivia said, frankly.

Pippa chuckled. “Stop. He’s nice enough. He likes dogs.” She looked to Penelope. “As does Tommy.”

“This is what we’ve come to? Choosing our potential husbands because they like dogs?” Olivia asked.

Pippa lifted one shoulder simply. “This is how it’s done. Liking dogs is more than most husbands and wives of the ton have in common.”

She was right.

But it was not as it should be. Young women with the looks and breeding of her sisters should be choosing their husbands based on more than canine companionship. They should be darlings of the ton, with all of society in their hands, waiting to be molded.

But they weren’t, because of Penelope, who, ironically, had been considered the most darling of darlings of the ton when she’d first been out—the chosen bride of the impeccably behaved, impeccably pedigreed Duke of Leighton. After their match had dissolved in a perfect storm of ruined young women, illegitimate children, and a love match for the ages, Penelope—tragically, for her sisters—had lost darling status. Instead, she’d been relegated to good friend of the ton, then welcome acquaintance and, more recently, guest, complete with long-overstayed welcome.

She wasn’t beautiful. She wasn’t clever. She wasn’t very much of anything except the eldest daughter of a very rich, very titled aristocrat. Born and bred to be the wife of an equally rich, equally titled aristocrat.

And she’d almost been just that.

Until everything had changed.

Including her expectations.

Sadly, expectations did not make for good marriages. Not for her, and not for her sisters, either. And, just as it was not fair for her to suffer because of a near-decade-old broken engagement, it was not fair for her sisters to suffer for it either.

“I never intended to make it difficult for you to marry,” she said, quietly.

“You are lucky, then, that you are able to rectify the situation,” Olivia offered, obviously disinterested in her eldest sister’s feelings. “After all, your chances of finding a quality husband may be slim, but mine are very good indeed. Even better if you’re married to a future viscount.”

Guilt flared, and Penelope turned to Pippa, who was watching her carefully. “Do you agree, Pippa?”

Pippa tilted her head, considering her options, finally settling on, “It can’t hurt, Penny.”

Not you, at least, Penelope thought under a wave of melancholy as she realized that she was going to accept Tommy’s suit.

For the good of her sisters.

She could do much worse, after all. Perhaps, in time, she would love him.

 

* * *

 

Dear M—

They burned the Guy tonight in Coldharbour, and the entire Marbury clan headed out for the impressive display. I had to write, as I was quite distressed to discover that not one young man was willing to test his skill at climbing the woodpile to steal Mr. Fawkes’s hat.Perhaps at Christmas, you can teach them a thing or two.

Your loyal friend—P

Needham Manor, November 1813

 

* * *

 

Dear P—

They don’t need me to teach them—not when you’re there and perfectly capable of stealing that shabby cap yourself. Or are you too much of a lady these days?I shall be home for Christmas. If you are very good, I shall bring you a gift.

—M

Eton College, November 1813

 

That night, when all the house was asleep, Penelope donned her warmest cloak, fetched her muff and a lantern from her writing desk, and took a walk on her land.

Well, not precisely her land. The land that was attached to her hand in marriage. The land that Tommy and any number of handsome young suitors would happily accept in exchange for plucking Penelope from her family fold and taking her to wife.

How very romantic.

She’d gone too many years hoping for more. Believing—even as she told herself not to—that she might be that lucky, too. That she might find something more, someone more.

No. She wouldn’t think on it.

Especially not now that she was headed straight for precisely the kind of marriage she’d always hoped to avoid. Now, she had no doubt that her father was committed to marrying off his eldest child this season—to Tommy or someone else. She considered the unmarried men of the ton who were desperate enough to marry a twenty-eight-year-old with a broken engagement in her past. Not a single one seemed like a husband she could care for.

A husband she could love.

So, it was Tommy.

It would be Tommy.

She braced herself against the cold, ducking her face into her cloak and pulling her hood low over her brow. Well-bred ladies did not take walks in the dead of night, she knew, but all of Surrey was asleep, it was miles to the nearest neighbor, and the bitter cold matched her bitter irritation at the events of the day.

It was not fair that a broken engagement from the distant past made for such a challenging present. One would think that eight years would have made London forget the legendary autumn of 1823, but instead, Penelope was plagued with her history. In ballrooms, the whispers remained; in ladies’ salons, the fans still fluttered like hummingbird wings, hiding the quiet conversations of which she caught snippets now and then—hushed speculation about what she’d done to lose the interest of her duke, or about why she thought herself high enough to turn down the other offers.

It wasn’t that she thought highly of herself, of course.

It was that she thought highly of the promise of more.

Of a life filled with more than the husband she’d been trained to expect would be fond of her but not love her, and the child or two who she’d always assumed would love her but not know her.

Was that too much to ask?

Apparently.She marched up a snowy rise, pausing briefly on the crest of the ridge, looking down toward the blackness of the lake below, the lake that marked the edge of Needham and Bourne lands . . . or, former Bourne lands. And, as she stood, staring into the darkness, thinking on her future, she realized just how little she wanted a quiet life of pastel colors and quadrilles and tepid lemonade.

She wanted more.

The word whispered through her thoughts on a wave of sadness.

More.More than she would have, it turned out.More than she ever should have dreamed.

It wasn’t that she was unhappy with her existence. It was luxurious, really. She was well kept and well fed and wanted for very little. She had a family that was, for the most part, tolerable, and friends with whom she could spend an afternoon now and then. And, when it came right down to it, her days weren’t that much different now than they would be if she were married to Tommy.

Why did it make her so sad to think of marrying Tommy, then?

After all, he was kind, generous, had a modicum of good humor and a warm smile. He was not so handsome as to attract attention and not so clever as to intimidate.

Those all seemed like suitable characteristics.

She imagined taking his hand and allowing him to escort her to a ball, to the theatre, to dinner. She imagined dancing with him. Smiling up at him. She imagined the feel of his hand in hers.

It was—

It was clammy.

There was no reason to believe that Tommy would have moist hands, of course, indeed, he likely had warm, perfectly dry hands. Penelope wiped her gloved palm on her skirts nonetheless. Weren’t husbands supposed to have strong, firm hands? Especially in fantasy?

Why didn’t Tommy?He was a good friend. It wasn’t very kind of her to imagine him with clammy hands. He deserved better.She took a deep breath, enjoying the sting of the frigid air, closed her eyes, and tried again . . . tried her very best to imagine being Lady Thomas Alles.

She smiled up at her husband. Lovingly.He smiled down at her. “Let’s make a go of it, shall we?”

She opened her eyes.

Drat.

She trudged down the rise toward the icy lake.

She would marry Tommy.

For her own good.

For the good of her sisters.

Except, it didn’t seem at all good. Not really.Nevertheless. It was what eldest daughters of good breeding did.

They did as they were told.

Even if they absolutely didn’t want to.

Even if they wanted more.

And that was when she saw the light in the distance, in the copse of trees at the far edge of the lake.

She stopped, squinting into the darkness, ignoring the biting wind on her cheeks. Perhaps she’d imagined it. Perhaps it had been the moon glinting off the snow.

A reasonable possibility, if not for the falling snow blocking the moon from view.

The light flickered again, and Penelope gasped, taking one step back, eyes going wide as it moved quickly through the trees.

She squinted into the darkness leaning forward without moving her feet, fixated on the place where a faint yellow light flickered in the woods, as though the inch or two would make it easier to see the source of the light.

“There’s someone . . .” she whispered, the words trailing off in the cold silence.

Someone was there.It could have been a servant, but it seemed unlikely. Needham servants had no reason to be by the lake in the dead of night, and it had been years since the last of the servants had left Falconwell. After they’d gone, the contents of the estate had been collected and the enormous stone structure had been left empty and unloved. No one had been to the house in years.

She had to do something.

It could be anything. A fire. A trespasser. A ghost.

Well, likely not the latter.

But it was quite possible that it was a trespasser—soon to be intruder—ready to lay siege to Falconwell. If it was, someone had to do something. After all, intruders simply could not be allowed to take up residence inside the estate of the Marquess of Bourne.

If the man himself was not going to secure his estate, it seemed the task fell to Penelope. She had an equal investment in Falconwell at this point, did she not? If the manor house was taken over by pirates or brigands, that would certainly impact the value of her dowry, would it not?

Not that she had been excited about the prospect of using her dowry.

Nonetheless, it was a matter of principle.

The light flickered again.

It did not seem that there were very many brigands out there, unless they had come ill equipped with light sources.

Come to think of it, it was unlikely that either pirates or brigands were planning to take up residence in Falconwell, what with the ocean being rather far away.

Nevertheless.

Someone was there.

The question remained as to who.

And why.

But there was one thing of which Penelope was certain. Eldest daughters of good breeding did not inspect strange lights in the middle of the night.

That would be decidedly too adventurous.It would be more.

And that made the decision for her, really.

She’d said she wanted more, and more had come.The universe worked in marvelous ways, did it not?

She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and moved forward, excitement propelling her to a large cluster of holly bushes at the edge of the lake before she registered the stupidity of her actions.

She was outside.

In the middle of the night.

In the bitter cold.

Headed toward any number of nefarious, questionable creatures.

And no one knew where she was.

Suddenly, marriage to Tommy did not seem so very bad.

Not when it was very possible that she was about to be murdered by inland pirates.

She heard the crunch of snow nearby, and she stopped short, lifting her lantern high and peering into the darkness beyond the holly, toward the woods where she’d seen the earlier light.

Now, she saw nothing.

Nothing but falling snow and a shadow that could easily have been that of a rabid bear.

“What nonsense,” she whispered to herself, the sound of her voice in the darkness a comfort. “There are no bears in Surrey.”

She remained unconvinced, and she did not linger to discover if that black shadow was, in fact, a bear. She had things to do back at home. First among them, accepting Tommy’s proposal.

And spending some careful time with her needlepoint.

Except, at the precise moment that she’d decided to turn tail and head back, a man came through the trees, lantern in hand.