Marcus normally dreaded social gatherings composed of strangers, but to his own surprise he found himself enjoying the dinner party and his role as host. It helped that most of the guests were not strangers. Penelope had taken great care in the guest list, ensuring he would have someone to talk with by inviting two of his friends, Samuel Curran and Josiah Barrett, along with their wives. And he had met most of the rest of the guests at one social function or another. Indeed it could be said that the Lawton women ran tame in his house, as Penelope did in theirs. There were only two persons present whom he had never met before, the amiable and utterly forgettable Miss Boyle, and the poet Stephen Wolcott.
Mr. Wolcott’s name had cropped up frequently in Penelope’s letters, and so Marcus had taken the opportunity to study him carefully. But after several hours in the gentleman’s company he could not understand what Penelope saw in this man. And indeed she did not seem to be alone in her admiration, for many of the ladies present seemed enraptured by the poet, who preened under their attentions.
Could they not see that this man was nothing but a vain poseur? He had no conversation save flattery and the telling of self-aggrandizing stories. And as for his poetry, Marcus wagered it was as shallow as the man himself. No doubt Penelope had realized his lack of worth herself, and this explained her seeming indifference to her guest.
Obscurely comforted by this revelation, he conversed animatedly with Lord Whilton about the upcoming shooting season, pleased to find a fellow sportsman among this company. But a part of his attention was fixed on Penelope, and he noticed when a footman came to speak with her, and she followed him from the drawing room.
His eyes narrowed as a few moments later Mr. Wolcott left the room as well. As the minutes passed, and neither Penelope nor Mr. Wolcott returned, his concern began to grow. It looked less and less like a coincidence and more as if his wife was keeping an assignation. And yet that was impossible. She had two dozen guests who could be expected to notice her absence at any moment.
He waited another five minutes, until his patience snapped. Making his excuses to Lord Whilton, he made his way through the crowd, pausing to answer a question raised by Josiah Barrett. It would not do for anyone to suspect that he was upset. As he neared the door, it opened, and Mr. Wolcott entered. Alone. His eyes caught Marcus’s and he gave an affable nod. There was nothing in his dress or demeanor to indicate that anything illicit or untoward had happened. But instead of reassuring Marcus, this only deepened his uneasy fears.
He left the drawing room, and found Penelope standing in the hallway outside the small parlor. She appeared lost in thought, and as he approached he saw that her face was pale and drawn.
“Is there anything wrong?” he asked.
“No, why would there be?”
“The footman John came to get you,” Marcus said. “You left the room, and when you did not return I grew concerned.”
“Of course. Mr. Campbell had a question about the wine. It was no great matter,” Penelope said.
“And that was all?”
“Yes,” Penelope said.
He felt his stomach clench. He knew she was lying. If Mr. Campbell had truly summoned her, she would have been gone only a moment or two, not the more than quarter hour that had passed. And there was nothing in such a request that would have upset her.
Nor would there have been any reason for Mr. Wolcott to follow her.
“Was there some reason you sought me out? Is there something you wanted?” Penelope asked.
Yes, he thought. I want the truth. I want to know what is between you and Stephen Wolcott. I want to know who has hurt you and why you feel compelled to lie to me about it. I want to make you my wife in truth, and not just in name. But now he wondered if that would ever be possible.
All these thoughts and more flashed through his mind in an instant. A part of him wanted to take her aside and demand that she answer his questions. But another part of him, the part that had been raised to do his duty as a gentleman, knew that this was neither the time nor the place for such a confrontation. They had a roomful of guests to attend to. There would be time later to sort this matter out.
“I was looking for you,” he said. “Come now, our guests are waiting.”
Penelope pasted a smile on her face, and he wondered if anyone beside himself could tell how false it was. And then she took his arm and allowed him to lead her back to the party.
Somehow he managed to endure the remaining hours until the last of the guests took their leave. Unaccustomed to city hours, he was nearly stumbling with fatigue when he and Penelope sought their beds, and too exhausted to make more than a token protest when Penelope retired to her own bedchamber. It was for the best, he tried to tell himself, as he crawled into his cold and solitary bed. He was too tired for tact, and if Penelope had joined him, he would not have been able to hold back the accusations that had simmered in the back of his mind all evening. Far better to face her when they both had their wits about them.
But the next morning Penelope sent word through a maid that she was too unwell to join him at breakfast. He suspected her of trying to avoid him, but when he scratched at her bedroom door and entered, he found that she did indeed look unwell, her brow dotted with fatigue, and her hazel eyes appearing huge in her pale visage. Ashamed of his suspicions, Marcus simply bade her rest and wished her a speedy recovery. He spent the day quietly about his own pursuits.
Penelope did not join him for dinner that evening. Nor did he see her the next morning, although when he stopped by to check on her, he found that she had been well enough to dress and leave the house, although no one seemed to know her destination or when she would return.
It could mean nothing. Penelope could have left the house for any number of reasons. A trip to the library, a fitting at the dressmaker’s, or even to call on one of her many friends. There were a hundred innocent reasons why she might have gone out.
But if her destination had been innocent, then there was no reason why she wouldn’t have told him, or left word with the servants when to expect her return. Especially not when she had spent the last two days avoiding his company, claiming she was too unwell to see him.
There was one other explanation that came to mind. Penelope was avoiding him out of guilt. Even now, his wife might be dallying with her lover. One part of him rejected the idea immediately, but another part, the part that had wondered what she could possibly see in him, that part found all too much evidence to support his conjecture. He felt physically ill at the thought that Penelope might have allowed another man to touch her. He was furious. He was hurt beyond all measure. He wanted to yell. He wanted to break something. He wanted to be gone from here and never see her again except on formal occasions. He wanted it not to be true. He wanted to turn back the clock, and start all over again.
He did not know what he wanted. What he needed was the truth. And that only Penelope could provide.
Marcus sent for her personal maid, but Jenna was nowhere to be found. One footman thought that the maid might have accompanied Penelope, while another seemed to remember that Jenna had left on her own errand, sometime before her mistress. In either case, he would have to wait until either Penelope or her maid returned to learn more.
An hour passed, and then another. It was after noon when Marcus found at least some of the answers he sought, in the person of Mr. Stephen Wolcott.
Marcus had been surprised when Mr. Campbell informed him of the identity of his caller. After a moment’s consideration he directed that Mr. Wolcott be shown into the small library, and there Marcus joined him.
“Your Grace, I hope you will forgive my presumption in coming here unannounced. I promise I will only take a moment of your time,” Mr. Wolcott said.
Marcus found himself at a loss. He had spent the past hours trying not to imagine Penelope lost in another gentleman’s embrace, only to be confronted by the very man he suspected of seducing his wife. Looking at Mr. Wolcott, whose immaculate grooming could not hide his thinning hair or growing paunch, it was impossible to imagine him seducing anyone. Nor would he credit him with having the gall to bed a duchess in the morning and then call upon her husband in the afternoon.
Perhaps it had all been a product of his jealousy. Perhaps there was an innocent explanation, and when Penelope returned she would be able to set his mind at rest. Someday he would laugh at how he had allowed himself to be carried away by foolish imaginings. For the first time in hours he found himself beginning to hope.
“I can spare a few moments,” Marcus said. “Although I am at a loss to know why you would want to see me. My wife is the scholar of our house, and she is presently not at home.”
“I know Penelope is not here,” Mr. Wolcott said. “For she is the reason I have come.”
Marcus’s world came crashing down. And perhaps the simplest explanation was the truth.
“Yes?” Marcus asked, affecting a bored tone. He leaned back in his seat, stretching his legs out in front of him.
“You may have noticed that Penelope and I have a rather…warm friendship,” Mr. Wolcott insinuated.
It made his skin crawl to hear this worm use Penelope’s name.
“My wife has many friends,” Marcus observed.
“But only one with whom she has become intimate. One who shares her special passions, as it were.”
A red haze covered his vision. Marcus’s fists clenched, giving lie to his pretense of unconcern. He wanted nothing more than to wipe the leering smirk from Stephen Wolcott’s face with his fists. But he held his temper, waiting to see what else Mr. Wolcott would say.
“Others have noticed our closeness, as well,” Stephen Wolcott continued. “It is only a matter of time before our connection is common knowledge. And then there will be no avoiding scandal.”
“I do not believe you,” Marcus said reflexively, clinging to the hope that Penelope had not betrayed him.
“What else did you expect?” Stephen asked. “Your wife is a beautiful woman, left on her own in the city. Of course it was only a matter of time before she took a lover. You are fortunate that I have been so discreet. And that I am willing to be accommodating.”
Discreet? Accommodating? Was this man insane, implying that he had somehow been noble in his treatment of Penelope? Did he not realize that even now Marcus was holding on to his temper by only the barest of margins?
“Accommodating how?”
“For a small consideration, I would be willing to leave Scotland, and return to my travels. Say ten thousand pounds? A gift of patronage, as it were. With such a sum I could support myself for several years.”
“Ten thousand pounds seems a high price to pay to avoid scandal,” Marcus said. “You must think highly of yourself.”
“On the contrary, it is quite cheap. Think of it as an investment in your family’s future. After all, you don’t want there to be any doubt about the legitimacy of your heir, do you?” He gave a knowing leer. “Truly I am being quite considerate. Penelope is so besotted with me that I am certain she would give me far more than ten thousand pounds in gifts, were I to stay in Edinburgh and enjoy her friendship.”
“She would do no such thing,” Marcus countered, for the sake of arguing.
“I see you know little of her character,” Stephen said. “Really, what else did you expect? Only a lightskirt would have answered that lunatic advertisement of yours. She always had her eye on the main chance. If it was not me, it would have been someone else.”
Marcus’s restless hands stilled, and he looked down at the floor. Mr. Wolcott’s words echoed in his mind. He looked up, feeling a smile break across his face.
“On the contrary, it is you who have demonstrated your ignorance of my wife,” Marcus said. “In every way.”
Mr. Wolcott had made a fatal error. He had been halfway to convincing Marcus of Penelope’s guilt, his sly insinuations fed on by Marcus’s own guilty suspicions. But there was one thing that Mr. Wolcott did not know. Penelope had not written in answer to the advertisement. Indeed, Marcus had been the one to persuade her into this marriage.
He did not know what Mr. Wolcott’s game was, but he was damned if he was going to play along.
“I believe our business is concluded,” Marcus said, rising to his feet.
Mr. Wolcott rose as well. “And our arrangement?”
“There is no arrangement,” Marcus said. “I will not dignify your slander. You may count yourself lucky that I allow you to take your leave. Should you ever call on this house again, poet or not, I will call you out.”
“You will regret this,” Mr. Wolcott said. “I will cause such a scandal that it will ruin you and your wife.”
Marcus shook his head. “I advise you to think very carefully before you do anything rash,” he said, allowing all of his pent-up anger to seep into his tone. “Do not mistake me for one of your literary set. I am a man of deeds, not of words. Threaten me or my wife again, and I will make you suffer. Is that understood?”
Mr. Wolcott paled as Marcus stepped closer, allowing his sheer physical bulk to intimidate the smaller man. It gave a brief satisfaction. Beating Mr. Wolcott to a bloody pulp would be more satisfying, but doing so in his own library would undoubtedly lead to just the sort of scandal that Marcus was trying to avoid.
“Is that understood?” Marcus repeated.
“Yes,” Mr. Wolcott hissed, turning on his heel and stalking from the room.
Marcus watched him go with a sense of satisfaction. He owed Penelope the chance to make her own explanations for her behavior. He would trust in her to tell him the truth.