Chapter Fourteen

P ENELOPE RETURNED WITH Chev—as the captain—late the night before. On the way, they'd discussed everything they'd seen and heard.

Smuggling had returned to Ithwick, with the cellars beneath the castle ruins being used to store the goods.

Pen and Chev had come to the same conclusion—there was only one way smuggling could have resumed, and that was with Anthony's express permission.

The smugglers had also unwittingly provided the answer that had been troubling her for some time—the reason for Anthony's courtship.

If Anthony gained control of both Pensteague and Ithwick, he could reopen the tunnels the duke had destroyed. Concealed within the earth, they could smuggle even more. More goods. More people.

Hundreds of French naval officers were held in parole towns, under curfew but mostly by their honor. A smuggler who successfully transported an officer out of England could charge three hundred guineas or more. Suddenly Anthony and Thomas's trip to the prison hulks made a great deal more sense.

Avoiding a tax on goods was one thing, abetting Napoleon was quite another.

The captain—Chev—had left her with a kiss to the brow and a promise he would do everything he could to protect her and Thaddeus.

That kiss had left a brand—a stamp that had comforted as she had drifted off into a restless slumber.

Last night she'd trusted Cheverley.

She'd been dazed by his presence, the very fact he existed. She'd absorbed the horrible blow of his suffering and then opened to his tentative care.

In his embrace, the heavens cracked, and she'd caught a glimpse of a vastly reordered world. Beneath the stars, in the romance and magic of night, she had trusted Chev would, eventually, reveal the truth.

What if she'd been wrong? What if he'd never intended to reclaim his place?

How had he answered when she'd asked him if he intended to return to his love?

I have not decided.

As Ithwick emptied of suitors for an excursion to Penzance, even dawn's rosy fingers could not pierce her heavy gloom.

And then, the duke began to thrash. His turn seemed a bitter omen.

She stood with Mrs. Renton in His Grace's bedchamber, worrying her lip with the edge of her thumbnail.

"His Grace is worse," Mrs. Renton said. "He'd been doing so well. Yesterday, he called me by name and even told me to go to the devil like he used to and now, he's confused again..."

He was more than confused. He was flushed, sweating. And he looked so very small in the middle of his massive, golden bed.

"He's vomited up everything I've tried to feed him," Mrs. Renton finished.

"You prepared the meals yourself?"

"I prepared them," Mrs. Renton chewed her lower lip. "But with Thaddeus ill—and you gone most of the evening, there were times he was alone. Do you think—?"

Penelope went to the side of the bed, placing her palm against the duke's forehead.

"You cannot be everywhere," she said to Mrs. Renton. "And I confess I've been...distracted."

"Piers!" the duke cried out suddenly. "Cheverley!"

"Please, your Grace," Penelope murmured. "Rest."

His fevered eyes met hers. "You," he said. " You. "

The accusation was present in his tone, his gaze. The accusation had always been present. Even when he couldn't speak at all, he'd gazed at her as if she were something he did not trust.

Like a sorceress or a witch.

He held her responsible for every curse brought down on the house of Ithwick because she'd disrupted his plan for Cheverley.

But why should she accept sole responsibility? Here at Ithwick, His Grace had been king-like in his power.

"You, too," she replied, with equal accusation.

If Ithwick had been cursed with death, dissipation, violence and greed—His Grace had played more than a small part.

In creating a world devoid of anything that resembled true affection, he had made his elder son a devotee of drink and his younger, a man chasing some illusion of male perfection.

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."

He winced as if in terrible pain and sunk back into his bed. "Piers." His chest rose and fell with uneven breath. He lifted his hand to his forehead. "Dead."

"Yes, Your Grace," she replied.

"Cheverley?"

She hesitated. "Lord Cheverley is your second son."

The duke scowled, eyes still closed. "Daft!"

"Cheverley was lost at sea six years ago," she answered carefully.

His lids flew opened. For a startling moment, he appeared shrewd as ever. He gripped her arm. "Dead?"

How could she lie to a dying man? "I have reason to hope he survived."

"Hope?" His grey eyes—so much like Cheverley's and her son's—pierced. He slurred through a sentence, his tone all condemnation.

"I don't understand—"

"You've learned nothing!" He said clearly.

Oh, she'd learned. She'd learned that power corrupted. That privilege did not lead to appreciation. That love could hurt and confuse as much as love could inspire.

"Was there something you intended to teach me?" she asked.

"Foolish." His breath cracked in his lungs. "Both." He tapped his chest. " My rules. Mine. "

The duke blinked, confused again. And then he hung his head.

Yes. Yes, they'd been foolish. The duke had laid down rules, Cheverley had seen only impediments.

"We thought," she said gently, "we were in love."

His Grace made a dismissive sound. Then, he turned his mournful gaze to the door. "Duchess."

He heaved a wracking sigh, he placed his hands back over his face and then the most fearsome man she'd ever encountered in her life began to cry.

"The duchess warned—." The duke's shoulders shook. "But—but I knew best. " He spat the word. "Cheverley is dead."

His shaking sob alarmed. If not calmed, she feared his fevered frustration could strangle out his last breath.

"Please, Your Grace," she said. "I just told you there was reason to hope—"

The duke fixed her with an uncomprehending stare. Then he glanced about the room, surprised, lost. He closed his eyes. "I ache."

"I know, Your Grace," she said soothingly. "Food would help. Mrs. Renton can bring up more broth."

She rose to ring the bell. He reached out and grasped her arm.

She looked down at his hand. She doubted the duke had ever voluntarily touched her before.

"Stay," he said, urgently.

She removed his hand from her arm and covered it in both of hers.

"I won't go," she replied.

"You didn't go, did you?" Regret laced his voice. "I wanted," he winced, "you to give up. Leave."

She might have dropped the cold hand within hers, had it not been feather-light. She might have told the duke to go to the devil, if it were not so clear he was already there.

"I killed him." He resumed weeping. "I killed my son."

She did not like the sound of his breath. She may be running out of time, but the duke was nearly out.

"He is alive," she said quietly. "You don't deserve a decent end, but you will have one. Cheverley is alive."

He dropped his hands. In his expression she read the mirror image of the hope she'd carried for so long.

"Bring him to me," he pled. " Please. "

~~~

Cheverley followed Thaddeus up the servants' stair.

Thaddeus moved through a short corridor off a landing. "This one goes to His Grace's chamber. That one"—he indicated door on the other side—"takes you to the duchess's room. That's where my mother sleeps."

Chev had often used the servants' stair to sneak in and out of the house, but he'd never before entered either the duke or the duchess's chambers. They'd been hallowed places. Forbidden.

Especially for a mere second son.

"Shall I take you inside?" Thaddeus asked, clearly hoping the answer would be no.

"Your mother asked me to come alone."

"Yes, well. You better get on," Thaddeus replied.

Cheverley eased open the servants' entrance to the duke's bed chamber, and then shut the door behind him. Hidden halls and stairwells snaked throughout the manor, built specifically so that the servants would be little seen.

All scions of Ithwick preferred the illusion they existed entirely on their own.

The air within the bedchamber had a heavy feel. The abundance of gold didn't surprise him. Nor did the over-large bed, though he knew for a fact the bed had never been occupied by anyone but the duke. Alone.

An outsized bed for a man with an out-sized sense of his power. Only, the person in the bed did not seem powerful at all. Gone was the commanding force of his presence. All that remained was a withered body, mouth ajar and sheets anxiously clutched at his chin.

Across the room, the doorway to the duke's sitting room stood open. Penelope lay asleep on a chaise. In contrast to the duke's ragged breath, hers was deep and even.

Quietly, Chev closed the door.

She'd given Thaddeus no explanation why Chev should meet her here. Thaddeus's message was only that Pen needed him.

As for why—the answer lay in the horrible rattle in the duke's breath.

She may not have acknowledged Chev as her husband, but she had known. And now, she was giving him this chance—a private moment with the father who he'd feared but not respected, who he'd loved but never admired.

He sat down on the duke's bed. How could someone so fearsome appear frail?

"Your Grace," Chev whispered. "Father."

The duke opened his eyes, his body stilled. His breath stopped. Then, slowly, his pale gaze settled on Chev.

"Cheverley." The syllables of his name broke into distinct peace within the duke's labored breath.

"Yes, Your Grace," Chev acknowledged. Leave it to the duke to be the only one who recognized him at first sight.

Why did words disappear when most needed? Why, when Chev had so much to say, could he only stare into his father's gaze, wrestling with the overwhelming urge to weep?

"Hades." Fear flickered behind the duke's eyes. "Are you here to take me?"

His Grace's voice was halting. Labored. As if it took great pain and thought to say each word.

"No." Cheverley's gaze flicked to the door to the sitting room and back. "I believe I've been summoned to bring you back."

"I sent you away."

Chev inhaled sharply. "You did."

His gaze took in Chev's face, his form. "You've suffered."

"I have." He was not going to lie.

He'd staggered so close to death, he was often surprised to wake from sleep.

He'd danced with oblivion, gazed—shamefully longing—into the emptiness.

He knew humiliation. Desperation.

When banished, he'd resolved to return a hero...

He blinked.

What, exactly, was a hero?

Did strength make a hero? Skill? Cleverness?

At the height of His Grace's power, the duke had embodied all three, and yet there'd been little in him to admire.

His father moaned. He rested his wounded arm against his father's chest and covered the old man's forehead with his other hand. "Cheverley."

"I am here," he said. "Penelope is here."

The duke opened his eyes—fearful again. "She is kind."

Chev lifted a brow. Undeserved kindness had a peculiar burn, did it not?

"She?" Chev queried. The duke had sworn he would never, ever acknowledge Penelope by her title. "Who do you mean by she? "

The duke grunted. "Lady Cheverley. She was not my choice—"

Cheverley snorted. "You made that quite clear."

The duke pinned him with his gaze. "But she was a good choice."

"The best choice I made." Chev swallowed with difficulty. He shook his head no. "If I could—" He stopped before his voice quivered. "If I could go back, I would not have left her, no matter what you threatened. If I could go back, I would make a different choice."

The duke closed his eyes and laid back into the pillow. "As would I."

Had his father just acknowledged his wrong?

Violence rose up within him—urgency that lashed every sinew to readiness. Pain, with the metallic taste of blood, flooded his being.

His breath, deep, even, and heavy, coasted over his father's deadly rattle.

Then, cool pressure settled against his brow—as if his wife were present as an angel, with her hand placed against his head.

Anger had stolen much more from them than his family's greed.

Cheverley lowered his forehead on the duke's right shoulder. He laid his wounded arm across the duke's chest.

Home.

But no. Not quite home, was it?

Home was Pensteague. The great yew bed. Home was Penelope.

And he had yet to reach that shore.

He remained by the duke's side until he was certain the duke slept. Then, he quietly withdrew.

The sitting room beyond had not changed in thirteen years, if he did not count the musty scent in the air. The last time he had been in this room, he'd agreed to take the naval commission.

In return, the duke had signed papers acknowledging his marriage.

He knelt beside his wife. His clever, loyal, intrepid wife. A wife he did not deserve.

He touched her face.

Her lids fluttered open.

"Oh," she said, blinking. She lifted her head, gazing into the duke's bedchamber before sliding her gaze back to Cheverley. "What's happened?"

"You bid me come and speak with the duke."

"And you spoke with him?'

He swallowed. "Yes."

She frowned. "Will you go?"

He hesitated.

"Please don't," she whispered.

Quick calculations flitted behind her eyes.

Always planning, his Pen.

"You've calmed him. The least I can give you in return is a proper bath. You haven't had one, have you? Not since you returned home?"

He shook his head no.

The terrible readiness still clenched in his shoulders. His back. His gut. Her cool hand touched his cheek—matching the sensation he'd had before. He allowed himself to be guided.

"A bath would be welcome." He rubbed his chin. "And, perhaps, a shave."

"It's settled then." She rose. "I will send Mrs. Renton to you."