Chapter 9

9

VisitingPenelope and Preston’s new house was the last thing Spencer wanted to do.

It didn’t make it easier that Newdale Place was stunning, very much a home he’d hoped he’d have one day with his own wife. It was a Georgian town house in a row of similar grand homes of rich and aristocratic neighbors.

But he had only three days until he could win his bet against little Miss Joanna Digby. And despite his bravado in front of her yesterday, truth be told, he was not sure he would win. Something about his fierce opponent told him she wouldn’t give up so easily.

He had craved a woman, yes. After several months of celibacy, the desire for a physical connection was heavy and aching in his body. But it wasn’t just about lust. There was something about her that gave him a thrill he hadn’t felt for a long time.

So he had to make sure he had a head start—by going directly into the lion’s den. Ashton’s wife must know something about her husband’s business. He needed to find any clue, any piece of information—insignificant for the duchess, perhaps—but something that could give Spencer insight into what Ashton could be doing in Whitechapel.

The only problem was, he had never been introduced to the duchess, and social protocol didn’t allow him to barge into her home uninvited. He barely knew Ashton, only from the House of Lords, where, with their age difference and divergent interests, they had naturally gravitated towards distinct social circles.

Since the duchess was the patroness of Penelope’s art, that made his now-sister-in-law the ideal candidate to facilitate an introduction.

As he took the elegant brass lion door knocker in his hand and banged it, he released a quick breath. The wind brought the rich scent of flowers and greenery from the little park across the road where Carl had parked the carriage and where well-dressed ladies and gentlemen took strolls.

As he stood on the grand stairs waiting for the butler to open the door, his chest became tight. This could have been his house, where he would spend his days and nights with a beautiful, pregnant wife.

Instead, he was an intruder. A visitor witnessing someone else’s happiness while life was passing him by.

For months he was on that ship, not knowing when or if he’d ever return home. Never knowing if his family was safe.

Now he was home, and his family were fine.

Why did he not feel like he’d finally arrived? That he was home? That he could let go and allow his family to be close to him like they had been before?

Because all he felt inside was emptiness and loss.

The door swung open, and Porter, his butler from Chalworth, stood before him. His dignified face stretched in surprise under his always immaculately combed thick white hair. For years, ever since Papa had died and Spencer had become the eleventh Duke of Grandhampton, Porter had served him in the grand medieval house that had burned shortly after Preston and Penelope got married.

“Your Grace—” Porter started, then must have realized his mistake. He cleared his throat and cocked his head in self-reproach. “I meant Lord Seaton, of course. Please forgive my insolence. I forget myself.”

Spencer smiled, his chest warming and aching at the same time. “Please, do not apologize, Porter. I should have written to inform you. It has been…quite a lot…ever since last September.”

Porter nodded, his eyes slightly watery. “I, of course, had prayed for your safe return, but have not dared to write you directly or visit you to inquire after your health and well-being. I did, however, take the liberty of asking your brother about your condition daily.”

“Thank you,” said Spencer. Porter was another reminder of the life Spencer would never have back. Of the self he’d lost somewhere in the dark, stormy waters of the Atlantic. And yet, he held no malice towards Porter for remaining in Preston’s employ despite his return. On the contrary, Spencer had always been very fond of his butler and wanted only the best for him. “Are my brother and his wife at home?”

“They are. Allow me—”

“If you will show me where they are, I’d like to come in. I have hasty business, I’m afraid.”

Porter nodded. “Of course, my lord, please, come in. And if I may express my personal sentiment, I am truly overjoyed at your return.”

“Thank you,” said Spencer, an emotion he hadn’t felt for a long time warming his ribs.

He followed Porter through a beautiful modern hallway with gorgeous paintings he momentarily stopped to admire. They reminded him of his and Penelope’s discussions of art. He’d always known she painted and had encouraged her to pursue her talent despite her papa’s forbidding her. He wondered if the pure, raw talent he saw in the composition and brushstrokes were hers. If they were, pride and joy for her filled his being.

Part of him wished he could be free enough to be Penelope’s friend again. To not feel constant pain at the very thought of her. To truly be happy for her and for his brother.

But, as Porter opened the door into the drawing room and he saw the two of them huddled together on a sofa, the gaping emptiness in his chest made him freeze to the floor like a hollow ice statue. Preston’s hand was on Penelope’s stomach, his face in the crease of her neck, his other hand wrapped around her. Spencer didn’t remember the last time he saw his brother so happy, so carefree.

This could have been him. This man, with a glimmer of wonder in his dark eyes and the rosy color to his cheekbones, could have been him.

And this woman, her stomach slightly rounded, and her face glowing, her cheeks flushed, giggling under his touch, like a little happy bird chirping how wondrous life was…she was supposed to be his pregnant wife, chirping happily under his touch and in his house.

Every little trace of life the competition with Miss Joanna Digby had awoken in him was gone.

Never had Spencer felt as dead as he did now. A mere observer looking at the life that passed by without him. All because of one man…

Ashton.

Bitter, corroding fury started boiling deep within his bone marrow. He was going to make Ashton pay. Clearly, besides having had men attack and press-gang Spencer, the duke was involved in some criminal business in Whitechapel. For maybe the hundredth time, Spencer wondered why Ashton had wanted Spencer gone so badly that he’d sent him off to die in the war. No matter… Once he had evidence of Ashton’s wrongdoings—whatever they were—he’d start a criminal case against him, destroy his good name, leave him forever known in history as a despicable man.

With the hatred bringing him force and power, Spencer moved forward into the bright and beautiful drawing room. Among pastel blue walls, modern furniture stood on light-colored rugs with intricate designs. He wondered if the paintings with sunlit, blooming gardens and spring landscapes were Penelope’s. On sideboards stood Grandhampton ancestral vases and other art pieces that used to be in Chalworth, as had several paintings from the entrance hall and the sitting room.

Spencer used to enjoy them in Chalworth. But they didn’t belong to him anymore. They belonged to the duke—his brother.

They were yet another sign of the life he’d lost and never would have back.

Behind him, he barely noticed Porter retreating when, finally aware of the company, Preston looked up.

Their gazes met.

The next moment, Preston jumped away from Penelope, springing to his feet like a grasshopper, as though caught red-handed with a lady he was not supposed to touch. The glow and happiness were gone from Penelope’s face, as well, as she stood up, immediately anxious.

“Spence!” Preston cried out.

Spencer felt his jaw tighten. “You do not need to look like an adolescent caught with a maid, brother. I am not your parent.”

Penelope cleared her throat, her face filling with an attractive blush. She gestured at the chair across from the sofa. “Please, do come in.”

“Thank you,” said Spencer, closing the door behind him, but not taking a seat. He had needed to see the happy picture of his brother and the woman he used to love to remind the cold, determined part of himself of what really mattered. Miss Joanna was a distraction from his goal. From the only thing left in his life that mattered.

Vengeance.

“I won’t stay long,” he said. “I must ask you a favor, Penelope.”

She was so beautiful it was hard to look at her. But was she prettier than Miss Joanna? Or was his admiration of Penelope simply a longing for the life he’d never have again? For the self-assured, confident man he used to be?

“Oh…” she said. She exchanged a quick glance with Preston that reminded Spencer uncomfortably of parents who didn’t want to spook a suddenly affectionate child. “Of course. What do you need?”

“Introduce me to the Duchess of Ashton. Today. Now…” He glanced at Preston, who studied him with dark but wide eyes. “If you’re not otherwise occupied.”

It was so quiet, Spencer heard a carriage passing by on the street through the closed window.

“Um…” said Penelope, throwing a long, questioning glance at Preston. “I’ll be happy to make the introduction. May I ask why?”

Spencer didn’t flinch. “You may not.”

“Why so suddenly, Spence?” asked Preston quietly.

God almighty, this tiptoeing around him was getting on his nerves. He was not made of porcelain and about to break.

“With all due respect, brother, this is not of your concern.”

“Does it have to do with Miss Joanna Digby?” Preston asked.

Spencer cursed inwardly once again and looked at Penelope. “Will you help me or not? Sebastian and Emma, I believe, would be happy to make the introduction, as well. Grandmama would have been, too, if she had not left yesterday to visit the Kerridges in the country.”

“I will,” said Penelope hastily and then looked at Preston again, who gave her the slightest nod of approval. That infuriated Spencer even more as it meant Preston was not worried about Spencer threatening the happiness of his marriage in the slightest. “Allow me to call for the carriage.”

She went to the servant bell, but before she pulled, Spencer offered, “My carriage is just outside, and Carl is waiting.”

“All right,” Penelope said, laying her hands together on her stomach.

She was just the perfect duchess. Manners, class, beauty. The remarkable sensibility and understanding of the heart. Had she been Spencer’s, he’d be as proud to parade with her around social events as his brother no doubt was.

“Should I accompany you?” asked Preston carefully.

“If you wish,” said Spencer. “I am only interested in the proper introduction to the duchess. That is all.”

Preston nodded, his posture as tense as a rock. He reminded Spencer of a roughly carved stone, harsh edges and odd angles.

“Perhaps,” said Penelope, looking intently at her husband, “it is best I make the introduction myself, darling.”

Preston frowned at her—not angrily or maliciously, but as though he was trying to understand her gist and couldn’t quite.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, brother,” she said, meeting Spencer’s gaze again. Brother…that was who he was to her now. “But it sounds like your issue is quite delicate…is it not?”

He wasn’t looking forward to riding in the same carriage as Penelope. But it would be even worse having to watch his brother and Penelope together all the way to Ashton’s mansion.

“All I need is an introduction,” he said and then added with a throat full of gravel, “sister.”

“Right,” said Preston, the wrinkles on his forehead smoothing as though he finally understood. “No, of course it’s delicate. I must devote time to perusing the latest dispatches for the House of Lords. Just remember to return her in one piece,” said Preston, the joke showing how strange and uncomfortable he felt.

Spencer wasn’t used to Preston feeling guilty, trying to please him.

“I will,” he said and nodded in goodbye to his brother.

He waited in the entrance hall while Penelope got her bonnet and her spencer, then Preston said a chaste goodbye, clearly tense and awkward.

Spencer had every intention to keep silent on the way to the Ashtons’, but he should have known better. When they descended the tall stairs, Spencer in the lead, Penelope called, “Spencer…”

It was the voice he’d thought he heard for months calling his name as he held on to the railing of the ship and as he lay delirious from the infection that had torn at his flesh, doing its best to kill him.

It was his name spoken by her that had helped him hold on to hope as if it were a rope that could pull him back to the world of the living.

He stopped and turned, praying to God she didn’t know how much it cost him to look into her eyes every time. Because it meant looking at the past self he would never be again.

And he didn’t know who he was anymore.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I just…” She fingered with her gloved hands. “I hope you don’t find me too forward…” She’d climbed down a few steps and was now on the same level as he, looking up at him, so gentle and so tender and so much like the woman he’d loved…his first love. “I missed you. I miss you still. I just wondered if we can be friends again. Discuss art like we used to. And talk of anything…like before.”

Before everything. Before he had been press-ganged. Before Preston had married her. Before she had fallen in love with his brother.

Spencer’s throat clenched. His first love…only she wasn’t the woman he’d known, the woman he’d fallen for.

She’d changed. From the young lady he used to know who was shy and reserved, unsure of her own capabilities, she had grown into a woman who knew her own mind and her own worth. It was a transformation he was glad to see…one to which her love for his brother had, undoubtedly, contributed.

She used to be his friend. Someone with whom he had shared more of his thoughts than he had anyone else. Though nothing he had said was exceptionally personal nor plumbed the depths of his soul. He’d always preferred to keep things light and cheerful. Now he could barely remember that man.

“I don’t know,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I don’t know if I can.”

He didn’t know if he had anything to give to anyone anymore…as a friend or as anything else. The war and Ashton had robbed him of many physical things—had left him with a wounded leg, and other scars he couldn’t count.

But they had also robbed him of something else he couldn’t touch. Perhaps a piece of his soul.

He didn’t say this out loud, and she probably misunderstood his meaning. “I never meant to hurt you, Spencer. I am so sorry. For everything.”

His throat tightened, and he had to clear it to be able to force words out. He softened. He knew it wasn’t her fault. He was still angry, but it wasn’t with her, even though it was hard to talk to her.

“No, please, Penelope, you don’t have to explain yourself—”

“I need to say this, Spencer. You need to know my side of this. I never knew you had feelings for me. The whole time, I thought we were friends… That you were only interested in pursuing the skirts that fluttered so temptingly all around you, not serious about one person—and certainly not the shy girl who only cared about art. Had I known it was more for you than for me, I would have stopped our conversations.”

Rejection stung him. She would have stopped seeing him, being his friend had she known of his feelings… Had he proposed, she would have said no. This revelation was like a slap to his already bruised ego. It was always meant to be Preston for her. Not him. All his hopes had been futile. What did she see in his brother that she never saw in him?

The emotional slap cleared his mind, which immediately returned to Miss Digby, the thought of whom ignited a spark within him like nothing else did. Had Penelope ever had a similar pull for him? Was it possible that he’d not only deluded himself about her feelings but about his own? If so, why did it still hurt so much?

“I hope we can,” he said. “I mean it. One day, I hope we can be friends like before. But I have to be honest, I can’t see that day now.”

Penelope’s eyes moistened, and his chest tightened at seeing her sadness. He wished he had a better response, but this was all the hollow emptiness in the middle of his chest could offer.

With an arm that felt like it weighed two stone, he gestured towards his carriage, where Carl stood holding the open door.

They got into the carriage. When Carl began driving, Penelope tried to fill the way to the Ashtons’ with a polite, awkward conversation. This felt particularly strained, especially in contrast to the hours of easy back-and-forth they used to share…

But how could he tell her about the things that happened to him? About who he truly was now, the hunger and the strict discipline on the ship, the fear that had lived in the pit of his stomach like a fifth limb. Part of that fear came from being trapped on the seemingly fragile wooden vessel in the vastness of the ocean, part of it came from knowing enemy cannonballs would soon be flying through the air at them at an unimaginable speed. Once again, he felt the shower of splinters pierce his flesh, inhaled acrid smell of gunpowder that could mean death for him or his friends.

While he had been held prisoner in the first few days, he had met a young man, Sam Holter, from Whitechapel—the only man who had believed he was a duke. They had sat in the bowels of the ship together and talked. Spencer had developed great respect for the young man who had learned healing from his grandmother. Once they were released to do work around the ship and learn to sail and fight, aim and fire cannons, they became true friends, always there to help each other and provide moral support.

When Spencer’s thigh was injured, Sam was there for him through the darkest times. If Spencer had succumbed to infection, he wouldn’t have faced death in solitude. Sam had been next to him, holding his hand and offering comfort with calming words and a steady gaze.

How could a gentlewoman like Penelope ever understand that experience?

Like a proper duchess, she guided the conversation. She asked him questions, and he gave polite, meaningless replies when what he really wanted was to run away from all this unpleasantness. To distract himself, he thought about all the ways he’d outsmart Miss Joanna in their wager…and once he won their bet, how he’d stretch out the pleasure and savor the night when he’d make her his.

He needed only to get through this introduction, and he’d be much closer to his goal. Once he had the evidence and more information about Ashton’s activities, he would finally destroy the duke as he deserved.

Half an hour later, they stopped before Neverton Place, and his gut clenched at the memory of chasing his Persephone within these walls… The first time he’d seen her, he couldn’t look at anyone else.

She was the Persephone to his Hades.

Just when he needed her.

And now that he knew who she really was—delicious little Miss Joanna Digby—he wanted her even more.

The hunger to see her was an unsettling need in the middle of his body. He wanted to win their bet. To keep her out of danger and get his revenge against Ashton. Being her first would be the ultimate prize. Perhaps he should feel guilty about his plan. It could put her future in jeopardy. But he would take special care that she wasn’t found out…and there were ways for a lady to make a husband believe he was her first. And he needed her in a way that would not be denied…

In speaking with Ashton’s wife, he hoped to learn something that would get him ahead of the game, give him some clue about Ashton’s connection to Whitechapel. Perhaps he could discover more about the man who went to Petticoat Street on Sundays.

He climbed out of the carriage and helped Penelope down.

He was surprised to see several footmen standing on the stairs, talking and watching him. Something about them didn’t fit with his image of footmen, though: they had disheveled hair, unshaven jaws, and a bruise or two showed on some of their faces. They looked far too similar to the men who had press-ganged him…and the one he’d seen watching him and Joanna in Whitechapel.

He couldn’t help feeling a shiver of unease. For what unholy reason could Ashton have his goons lurking close by and right out in the open?

They knocked, and Penelope announced to the butler that she wanted to visit the Duchess of Ashton and that she had her brother-in-law, Lord Seaton, with her. The butler disappeared to check with his mistress and came back in a few minutes, inviting them to come with him.

They passed through the grand entrance hall and the hallway behind the exquisite mahogany doors.

The butler opened the doors to the drawing room and announced them, and Penelope and he entered. The duchess sat on the settee, regal and elegant with her perfectly straight back, her hair in a fashionable chignon.

Across the tea table from her, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, her confused and angry gaze flickering between Spencer and Penelope, was Joanna.