Chapter 5
Though a full day passed, Penelope was no nearer to the truth than she had been the previous day. She had fallen asleep with great difficulty and far too soon the sun was rising, light flickering through her curtains.
“Penelope. Dearest. You must wake up.”
The voice filtered through layers of exhausted sleep like water seeping through stone. Penelope’s eyes refused to open properly, weighted by the handful of hours she’d managed after returning home near dawn. Her mother’s hand on her shoulder felt too heavy, too insistent.
“Mama?” The word left her lips, thick with confusion. Sunlight pressed against her closed eyelids, too bright, too demanding. “What time is it?”
“Nearly eleven.” Her mother’s voice was worried. “Your father is downstairs. We need to speak with you. Immediately.”
The last word struck like a hammer against glass.
Penelope forced her eyes open. Her mother stood beside the bed, still in her morning dress, her face arranged into an expression Penelope had rarely seen—the careful blankness that preceded particularly unpleasant news.
Behind her, Annie hovered near the doorway, wringing her hands with such violence that Penelope wondered the poor girl hadn’t damaged something vital.
“What’s happened?” Penelope pushed herself upright, her heart beginning a slow, sickening acceleration. The events of the previous night crashed back with brutal clarity—the baby’s cry, the letter, Alastair’s eyes across his study. “Is something wrong?”
Her mother’s lips pursed. “Get dressed. Quickly, please. We shall explain downstairs.”
The journey from bedroom to morning room passed in a blur of hastily fastened buttons and Annie’s trembling fingers. Penelope’s mind raced through possibilities, each more catastrophic than the last. Perhaps someone had died. Perhaps her father’s investments had failed.
Perhaps—
She stopped in the doorway of the morning room.
Her father stood by the window, his back rigid, his hands clasped behind him in a posture she recognized from childhood as the physical manifestation of barely contained fury. Her mother entered behind her, closing the door with a soft click that somehow felt like the sealing of a tomb.
“Papa?” Penelope’s voice was smaller than she’d intended. “What’s—”
“Sit down, Penelope.”
She sat.
Her father turned from the window. His face held that terrible controlled expression men employed when they wished to strike something but had been raised never to display such impulses. In his hand, he held several pages of what appeared to be newsprint.
Scandal sheets. Oh Heavens. Scandal sheets.
“I assume,” her father said with devastating calm, “that you can explain this.”
He crossed the room and placed the papers before her on the small table. Penelope looked down.
The words swam before her eyes at first, refusing to coalesce into meaning. Then they sharpened with hideous clarity:
...observed in the early hours entering the residence of His Grace, the Duke of Blackmere... unaccompanied save for a maid... remained within for a considerable duration... one can only imagine what manner of business requires such clandestine nocturnal visits...
The ground didn’t vanish beneath her feet. That would have been a mercy. Instead, it simply ceased to exist, leaving her suspended in a void where breath refused to come and her heart beat so violently she thought it might crack her ribs from within.
“I can—” She stopped. Started again. Failed again. Her throat had sealed itself shut.
“You visited the Duke of Blackmere.” Her father’s voice remained terrifyingly steady. “At night. Alone. Have I understood the situation correctly?”
“I wasn’t alone,” Penelope managed. The defence sounded pathetic even to her own ears.
“Annie was with me.”
“Oh, well then.” Her father’s laugh held no humour whatsoever. “That makes everything perfectly proper. Your maid’s presence undoubtedly preserved your reputation entirely.”
“Wait.” Her mother’s hand found her husband’s arm. “Please. Let her explain.”
Explain. Yes. She could explain. Except how did one explain a midnight visit to London’s most notorious rake without making everything infinitely worse?
How did one mention an abandoned infant without raising questions she couldn’t possibly answer?
How did one convey the desperate urgency that had driven her from her bed and into a carriage bound for scandal?
“He asked me to meet him.” The words tumbled out in a graceless rush. “He said it was urgent. A serious matter. I thought—”
“You thought what, precisely?” Her father’s control was beginning to fracture at the edges. “That visiting a man of his reputation at such an hour would result in anything other than complete social ruin? That the gossips who track every movement of unmarried young ladies somehow wouldn’t notice?”
“I didn’t think they would be watching his house at that hour!” The protest burst from her before she could contain it. “I thought—I was trying to help—there was a situation that required—”
The knock at the front door cut through her stumbling explanation like a blade through silk.
All three of them froze. In the sudden silence, Penelope could hear her own pulse thundering in her ears, could feel her hands trembling against her skirts.
Footsteps in the hall. The murmur of voices.
Then Davies, their butler, appeared in the doorway with an expression suggesting he’d rather be literally anywhere else.
“I apologize for the interruption, sir.” Davies directed his words toward Mr Hartwell with careful precision. “But His Grace, the Duke of Blackmere, has called. He insists it is a matter of some urgency and requests an audience with Miss Hartwell.”
The silence that followed possessed a quality Penelope had never experienced before—dense and suffocating and absolutely terrible.
“Does he.” Her father’s voice had gone very quiet. “How convenient.”
“Robert.” Her mother’s fingers tightened on his arm. “Perhaps we should—”
“Show him in.” The words were clipped and precise. “And remain in the room, Davies. As an additional witness to whatever the Duke wishes to discuss so urgently.”
Penelope watched the butler disappear with mounting dread. This was happening. This was actually happening. Alastair was here, now, in her parents’ house, about to—what? Apologize? Defend her reputation? Make everything catastrophically worse?
He appeared in the doorway, and Penelope’s breath caught despite everything.
He looked immaculate. Perfectly dressed, perfectly composed, every inch the wealthy duke. But she could see the tension in his shoulders, the careful control in his expression. His eyes found hers for a fraction of a second before moving to her father.
“Mr Hartwell.” He executed a bow that somehow managed to be both impeccably proper and completely unreadable. “Mrs Hartwell. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice. I realize the hour is irregular, but the circumstances demand immediate discussion.”
“Do they.” Her father’s tone could have frozen water. “How fascinating. My daughter’s reputation has been destroyed, and you appear at our door with demands for discussion. I confess my curiosity is positively overwhelming.”
“I am not here to make demands, sir.” Alastair’s voice remained steady, but Penelope caught something beneath the surface—and it looked suspiciously like guilt. “I am here to accept responsibility for what has occurred and to propose a solution.”
“A solution.” Her father laughed without humour. “Do enlighten us, Your Grace. What solution could possibly remedy the fact that my youngest daughter visited your residence in the middle of the night?”
“Marriage.”
Penelope felt her vision narrow, her breath stutter. Surely she had misheard. Surely he hadn’t just—
“I beg your pardon?” Her father’s voice had gone dangerously soft.
“I am asking permission to marry your daughter.” Alastair’s gaze remained fixed on her father, his
expression giving away absolutely nothing. “As soon as possible. A special licence can be obtained within days. The marriage will restore Miss Hartwell’s reputation and put an end to the scandal before it can spread further.”
“Marriage.” Her father repeated the word as though testing its weight. “You wish to marry my daughter. The same daughter whose reputation you destroyed by luring her to your residence at night?”
“I did not lure—” Alastair stopped. Drew a breath.
“I sent Miss Hartwell a note requesting her presence for a matter of genuine urgency. I did not anticipate that we would be observed, nor that the scandal sheets would seize upon the incident with such enthusiasm. Nevertheless, the fault lies with me. I should have found another way. I didn’t. ”
“And what,” her mother interjected quietly, “was this matter of such urgency that it required my daughter’s presence at your residence in the middle of the night?”
Alastair’s jaw tightened . His eyes shifted to Penelope, asking a silent question she didn’t know how to answer.
“It concerned a child,” he said finally. “A baby, to be precise, who was left on my doorstep with a note indicating that both Miss Hartwell and I had been entrusted with its care.”
The silence that followed possessed a different quality now—shocked rather than merely furious.
“A baby?” Her mother’s voice had gone faint. “You have a child?”
“Not mine, Mrs Hartwell. I give you my word.” Alastair’s composure never wavered, but Penelope could see the effort it required.
“The infant’s mother left a letter naming both myself and your daughter as guardians.
I summoned Miss Hartwell because she had as much right to know about this situation as I did.
Because we are apparently meant to share responsibility for this child. ”
Penelope watched her parents exchange a look laden with unspoken communication. Her father’s fury had increased significantly, and it sent shivers of worry down her spine.