He smiled. “I’m here to steal you away, of course.”

  It should have been a jest, but there was an edge to the words that she did not like, and it was in that moment that she realized Tommy should not be there—that Michael would be furious if he discovered Tommy Alles in his receiving room, with his wife. It would not matter that Tommy and Penelope had been friends for an age. “You shouldn’t be here,” she said as he turned to her, taking her hands and lifting them to his lips. “He shall be livid.”

  “You and I are friends still, are we not?”

  She did not hesitate, her guilt over their last meeting still fresh. “Of course we are.”

  “And as a good friend, I’m here to make sure that you are all right. Hang him.”

  After the last interaction she had with her husband, she should have supported the Hang him strategy, but she couldn’t. For some reason, the very idea of standing here in this room with Tommy made Penelope feel as though she was betraying her husband and their marriage.

  She shook her head. “It is not a good idea for you to be here, Tommy.”

  Tommy looked down at her, uncommon seriousness in his gaze. “Tell me one thing. Are you all right?”

  The words were soft with concern, and she wasn’t expecting the emotion that crashed through her at them, the tears that sprang instantly to her eyes. It had been a week she’d been married in a tiny, rushed ceremony in Surrey, and no one had thought to ask after her. Not even her husband. “I—” she stopped, emotion closing her throat.

  Tommy’s normally friendly blue eyes darkened. “You’re miserable. I’ll kill him.”

  “No! No.” She put one hand out, resting it on his arm. “I’m not miserable. I’m not. I’m just . . . I’m . . .” she took a deep breath, finally settling for, “It’s not easy.”

  “Has he hurt you?”

  “No!” She leapt to defend Michael before considering the question. “Not . . . no.” Not in the way he meant.

  He did not believe her. He crossed his arms. “Do not protect him. Has he hurt you?”

  “No.”

  “What then?”

  “I don’t see him much.”

  “That is not a surprise,” he said, and she heard the sting in his words. The emotion that came with friendship lost. She had felt it when Michael had left. When he’d stopped writing. When he’d stopped caring. Tommy was quiet for a long time before he said, “Do you wish to see him more?”

  It was a question without an easy answer. She wanted nothing to do with one-half of Michael, with the cold, distant man who had married her for land. But the other half—the man who held her and cared for her comfort and did delicious, wonderful things to her mind and body—she wouldn’t mind seeing him again.

  Of course, she could not say that to Tommy. Could not explain that Michael was two men and that she was at once furious with and fascinated by him.

  She could not say it because she barely wanted to admit it to herself.

  “Pen?”

  She sighed. “Marriage is a strange thing.”

  “Indeed it is. Doubly so if one is married to Michael, I’m guessing. I knew he’d come for you. Knew he’d be cold and heartless and devise a way to marry you quickly—for Falconwell.” Belatedly, Penelope realized she should be protesting the words and telling Tommy their well-spun tale, but he was moving on, and it was too late. “I tried to marry you first . . . to spare you marriage to him.”

  Tommy’s words from the morning of his proposal echoed in her mind. “That’s what you meant. You wanted to protect me from Michael.”

  “He’s not the same as he was.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that?”

  He tilted his head. “Would you have believed me?”

  “Yes.” No.

  He smiled, smaller than usual. More serious. “Penny, if you’d known he was coming for you, you would have waited.” He paused. “It was always him.”

  Penelope’s brow furrowed. It wasn’t true. Was it?

  A vision flashed—a warm spring day, the three of them inside the old Norman tower that stood on Falconwell lands. As they had explored, a staircase had given way beneath Penelope, and she’d been trapped a level above Michael and Tommy. It hadn’t been far, a yard or two, but far enough for her to be afraid of jumping. She’d called for help, and Tommy had been the first to find her. He’d urged her to jump, promised to catch her. But she’d been frozen in fear.

  And then Michael had come. Calm, fearless Michael, who had looked up into her eyes and given her strength. Jump, Sixpence. I shall be your net.

  She’d believed him.

  She took a deep breath at the memory, at the reminder of her time with Michael, of the way he had always made her safe. She looked to Tommy. “He’s not that boy any longer.”

  “No. He’s not. Langford made sure of that.” He paused, then said, “I wish I could have prevented it, Pen. I’m sorry.”

  She shook her head. “No apologies. He’s cold and infuriating when he wishes to be, but he’s built so much for himself—proven his worth tenfold. The marriage may be challenging, but I imagine most of them are, don’t you?”

  “Ours would not have been.”

  “Ours would have been a challenge in a different way, Tommy. You know that.” She smiled. “Your poetry . . . it is abhorrent.”

  “There is that.” His smile was there, then gone. He changed the conversation. “I’ve been thinking of India. They say there is a world of opportunity there.”

  “You would leave England? Why?”

  He drank deep at the words, placing his empty glass on a nearby table. “Your husband plans to ruin me.”

  It took a moment for her to comprehend the words. “I’m sure that’s not true.”

  “It is. He told me.”

  Confusion flared. “When?”

  “On the day of your wedding. I came to Needham House to find you, to convince you to marry me, only to find that I was too late and that you’d already left for London with him. I followed you. Went straight to his club.”

  Michael hadn’t said anything. “And you saw him?”

  “Long enough for him to explain that he had plans for revenge against my father. Against me. When he’s through, I shall have no choice but to leave Britain.”

  The words did not surprise her. Of course Falconwell would not be enough for her immovable husband. Of course he would want vengeance against Langford. But Tommy? “He wouldn’t do that, Tommy. You have a past. A history. The three of us do.”

  Tommy smiled a small wry smile. “Our past does not weigh so heavily as revenge, I’m afraid.”

  She shook her head. “What could he possibly plan—”

  “I am not . . .” He took a deep breath. “He knows . . .” Paused. Looked away. Tried again. “I am not Langford’s son.”

  Her jaw dropped, along with her voice. “You cannot mean it.”

  He laughed a small, self-deprecating laugh. “I certainly would not lie about it, Pen.”

  He was right, of course. This was not the sort of thing one lied about. “You are not—”

  “No.”

  “Who—”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t know I was a bastard until a few years ago, when my—when Langford told me the truth.”

  She watched him carefully, registering the quiet sadness behind his eyes. “You never said anything.”

  “It’s not something one says, really.” He paused. “You do what you can to keep it a secret . . . and hope no one discovers.”

  But someone had discovered.

  Penelope swallowed, turning her attention to a large oil painting on the wall—another landscape—this one in a wilderness too rugged and untouched to be anything but the North Country. She fixed her stare on a large boulder to one side of the artwork as understanding dawned. “It would ruin your father.”

  “His only child, a bastard.”

  Her gaze returned to his. “Don’t call yourself that.”

  “Everyone else will, soon enough.”

  Silence. And in it, the keen awareness that Tommy was right. That Michael’s plans included his ruin. A means to an end. He saw the moment she recognized the truth and took a step toward her. “Come with me, Penny. We can leave this place and this life and start fresh. India. The Americas. Greece. Spain. The Orient. Anywhere you choose.”

  Her eyes went wide. He was serious. “I’m married, Tommy.”

  One side of his mouth crooked up. “To Michael. You require escape as much as I do. Maybe more—at least my ruin at his hands will come swiftly.”

  “Be that as it may, I’m married. And you . . .” She trailed off.

  “I am nothing. Not when he’s through with me.”

  She thought of her husband, to whom she had vowed fidelity and loyalty, who had fought for so long to rebuild his fortunes without his name. He knew the importance of a name. Of an identity. She couldn’t believe he’d do this.

  She shook her head. “You’re wrong. He wouldn’t . . .” But even as she said the words, she knew they weren’t true.

  He would do anything for his revenge.

  Even ruin his friends.

  Tommy’s jaw set, and she was suddenly nervous. She’d never seen him so serious. So driven. “I’m not wrong. He has proof. He’s willing to use it. He’s ruthless, Pen . . . no longer the friend we once knew.” He was close, and he took one of her hands in both of his. “He doesn’t deserve you. Come with me. Come with me, and we neither of us shall be lonely.”

  She was quiet for a long moment before she said softly, “He is my husband.”

  “He is using you.”

  The words, however true, stung. She met his gaze. “Of course he is. Just as every other man in my life has done. My father, the Duke of Leighton, the other suitors . . . you.” When he opened his mouth to deny it, she shook her head and raised one finger. “Don’t, Tommy. Don’t try to make fools of us both. You might not be using me for land or money or reputation, but you are afraid of your life once the truth is out, and you think I will make a friendly companion—someone to keep the loneliness at bay.”

  “Is that so bad?” Tommy asked, desperation creeping into his voice. “What of our friendship? What of our past? What of me?”

  She did not pretend to misunderstand the words and the ultimatum in them, born of distress. He was asking her to make a choice. Her longest-standing friend—the one who had never left, or her husband, her family, her life. It was no choice. Not really. “He’s my husband!” she said. “Perhaps I would not have written this tale, but this is the tale, nonetheless.”

  She stopped, irritation and frustration taking her breath. Tommy watched her for a long moment, her words hanging between them. “And that is that.” He smiled, sad. “I confess, I am not surprised. You always liked him best.”

  She shook her head. “That’s not true.”

  “Of course it is. One day, you’ll realize it.” He lifted one hand to her chin in a brotherly gesture. That was the problem, of course, Tommy had always been more brother than beau. Not like Michael. There was nothing brotherly about Michael.

  There was nothing kind about him, either. And while she might have chosen him in this strange, sad war, she would not stand by as he tore down Tommy. “I shan’t let him ruin you,” she vowed. “I swear it.”

  Tommy sliced one hand through the air, his disbelief palpable. “Oh, Penny . . . as though you could stop it.”

  The words should have made her sad. She should have heard the truth in them.

  But instead, they made her angry.

  Michael had taken her from her family, changed her life in a hundred ways, forced this farce upon her, and threatened her dearest friend. And he’d done it all while keeping her at a safe distance, as though she were an insignificant thing about which he need not worry.

  Well, he had better begin to worry.

  She lifted her chin, straightened her shoulders. “He is not God,” she said, her voice firm. “He does not have the right to toy with us like little tin soldiers.”

  Tommy recognized her ire. He smiled, sad. “Don’t do this, Pen. I’m not worth it.”

  She raised a brow. “I disagree. And even if you weren’t, I am. And I am through with him.”

  “He will hurt you.”

  One side of her mouth twisted in a wry smile. “He’ll likely hurt me anyway. All the more reason to face him.” She headed for the door to the receiving room, pulling it open to let him exit. As he neared, his shining black Hessians soft on the lush carpet, sadness twisted through her. “I am sorry, Tommy.”

  He took her shoulders in his and pressed a warm kiss to her forehead, before he said, “I do want your happiness, Pen, you know that, don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  “You’ll let me know if you change your mind?”

  She nodded. “I will.”

  He stared at her for a long time before turning away, a shadow crossing his handsome face. “I shall wait for you. Until I can wait no more.”

  She wanted to tell him not to go. She wanted to tell him to stay. But whether from sadness or fear or a keen knowledge that her husband was a ship that would not be turned, instead she said, “Good night, Tommy.”

  He turned and walked through the open door into the foyer, and Penelope followed the line of his shoulders as he made his way to the exit to Hell House. The door closed behind him and she heard the clatter of carriage wheels in the silent space, punctuating her solitude. She was alone.

  Alone in this mausoleum of a house, filled with things that were not hers and people she did not know. Alone in this quiet world.

  There was a movement in the shadows at the far side of the foyer, and Penelope knew immediately that it was Mrs. Worth. She knew, as well, where the housekeeper’s loyalties lay.

  Penelope spoke in the darkness, “How long before he hears that I had a gentleman caller at eleven o’clock?”

  The housekeeper came into the light but did not speak for a long moment. When she did, it was with all calm. “I sent word to the club upon Mr. Alles’s arrival.”

  Penelope watched the beautiful woman, the betrayal—however expected—washing through her, stoking the fires of her ire. “You wasted your paper.”

  She headed for the central staircase of Hell House and began to climb. Halfway up, she turned back to face the housekeeper, standing at the foot of the stairs, watching her with her perfect hair and perfect skin and perfect eyes, as though if she stood sentry, she could prevent Penelope from doing anything else that might irritate her master.

  And that only served to make Penelope more angry.

  Suddenly, she was feeling quite reckless indeed.

  “Where is the club?”

  The housekeeper’s eyes went wide. “I am sure I do not know.”

  “Funny, because I am sure that you do.” She did not lower her voice, letting it call down to the other woman without remorse. “I am sure you know everything that goes on in this house. All the comings and goings. And I am sure that you know that my husband spends his evenings at his club instead of here.”

  For a long moment, Mrs. Worth did not speak, and Penelope wondered, fleetingly, if she had the authority to dismiss the insolent, beautiful woman. Finally, she waved one hand and began her climb once more. “Tell me or don’t. If I must, I shall hire myself a hack and go looking for it.”

  “He would not like that.” The housekeeper was following her now, down the long upper corridor to Penelope’s bedchamber.

  “No. He wouldn’t. But I find I have little interest in his likes or dislikes.” Indeed, her lack of interest in those things was rather freeing, she was discovering. She opened the door to her chamber and crossed the room to her wardrobe, from which she extracted a large cloak. Turning back, she met the lovely housekeeper’s wide-eyed gaze.

  And paused. Perhaps this was Michael’s raven-haired goddess. Perhaps it was Mrs. Worth who held his heart and his mind and his evenings. And as she studied the housekeeper’s porcelain face, measuring the woman’s height, the way she would fit against Michael, the way she would suit him so much better than Penelope suited him, Mrs. Worth smiled. Not just a smile, really. A wide, welcoming grin. “Mr. Alles. He is not your lover.”

  The idea that a servant would say something so utterly inappropriate set Penelope back for a moment before she answered, in all honesty. “No. He is not.” And, as the gloves were off, “And you are not Michael’s mistress.”

  Surprise had the housekeeper speaking without thought. “Dear God, no. I wouldn’t have him if he begged.” She paused. “That is . . . I didn’t mean . . . he’s a good man, my lady.”

  Penelope exchanged her white kidskin gloves for navy blue suede. As she fitted the fingers to her hand, she spoke honestly. “He’s a horse’s bottom. And I am not entirely certain I would have him if he begged either. Except for the fact that I am married to him.”

  “Well, if you’ll beg my pardon, you should absolutely not have him until he begs. He shouldn’t be leaving you so . . .”

  “Regularly?” Penelope filled in the gap, deciding that perhaps she had misjudged the housekeeper. “Unfortunately, Mrs. Worth, I do not believe that begging is in my husband’s repertoire.”

  The housekeeper smiled. “You are welcome to call me Worth. It’s what all the others call me.”

  “The others?”

  “The other partners in The Angel.”

  Penelope’s brows snapped together. “How do you know my husband’s partners?”

  “I used to work at The Angel, scrubbing pots, plucking chickens, whatever needed to be done.”

  Curiosity flared. “How did you end up here?”