“They will when I show them proof.”
Tommy’s brows knitted together. “There is no proof.”
“You are welcome to test that theory.”
Tommy’s jaw clenched and he took a step forward, anger propelling him toward Bourne, who dodged the blow before Bruno came out of the darkness to stay the inevitable brawl. The men stared down the bodyguard’s massive arms at each other. “What do you want from me?” Tommy asked.
“There is nothing you have that I want.” Bourne paused, letting the silence taunt his foe. “I’ve Falconwell and revenge and Penelope. And you’ve nothing.”
“She was mine before she was yours,” Tommy said, anger in his tone. “All those years without you . . . she still had me. And when she sees who you are . . . what you’ve become . . . she will turn to me again.”
Bourne loathed the idea that Tommy and Penelope had remained friends, even after Bourne had lost everything, even after he’d been unable to return to Surrey and resume his place—the third point of their triangle. “You’re a brave man to threaten me.” He looked to Bruno. “See him out.”
Tommy pulled out of the large man’s grasp. “I can see myself out.” He crossed to the exterior door, hovering there for the briefest of seconds before turning back to meet Bourne’s gaze. “Return her to Surrey, Michael. Leave her alone. Before you destroy her with your anger and your vengeance.”
He wanted to reject the premise. But he was not a fool. He would destroy her, of course. He would, because it was what he did. “If I were you, I would worry less about protecting my wife and more about protecting your name. Because when I am through with your father, you won’t be able to show your face in London.”
When Tommy replied, there was steel in his tone—conviction that Michael did not recognize from the boy he’d once known. “I don’t fool myself into believing that I can protect myself from the scandal you plan to unleash, but I shall do everything I can to fight you—everything I can to protect Penelope. To remind her that there was a time when her friends would have done anything to keep her from harm.”
Bourne raised a brow. “It appears you failed in that, didn’t you?”
Regret flashed quick and unguarded on Tommy’s face. “I did. But it was never supposed to be my role.”
If he’d allowed it, the words would have stung. Instead, he mocked, “Take comfort, Tom, at least she will not have to deal with your scandal when I release it to the papers.”
Tommy turned back, his knowing gaze finding Bourne’s in the darkness before he spoke his parting words. “No, she won’t have the scandal on her head . . . but she will have the regret of marrying you. Do not doubt that.”
He did not doubt it in the slightest.
The heavy door closed behind Tommy, and Bourne turned away from the sound, anger and irritation and something else—something he did not wish to define—coursing through him.
Chapter Nine
Dear M—
I am writing to you from a carriage, where I have spent the last six days with all four of my sisters and my mother trundling through the North Country to visit Aunt Hester (whom you will remember from my last letter). I cannot imagine what would have possessed the Romans to continue their march north to build Hadrian’s Wall. They must not have had sisters, or they would not have made it through Tuscany.
Yrs, persevering—P
Somewhere on the Great North Road, June 1816
No reply
He’d left her.
It had taken a quarter of an hour for Penelope to come to her senses, standing there in the entryway of Michael’s London home, along with several piles of her belongings.
He’d left her, summarily, with a simple, “Good-bye.”
She stared at the massive oak door through which he had departed for longer than she cared to admit, struggling with several key truths.
He had left her.
On her first night at his London home.
Without even introducing her to the staff before leaving.
On their wedding night.
She did not want to think too carefully about that bit.
Instead, she focused on the fact that she was standing like a fool in the foyer of her husband’s town house, with no companions but two very young-looking footmen who seemed uncertain of their exact role in such an event. Penelope wasn’t certain if she should take comfort in the idea that they were not often met with solitary females in this town house, or if she should be offended that they had not thought to put her in a receiving room while they devised a plan for her.
She forced a smile and addressed the older of the two—who could not have been more than fifteen—desperate to soldier on. “I assume the house has a housekeeper?”
She watched a wave of relief flood the young man and felt a bit envious. She wished she knew how to behave in this situation. “Yes, m’lady.”
“Excellent. Perhaps you could fetch her?”
The footman bowed once, then again, obviously eager to do his best. “Yes, m’lady. As you wish, m’lady.” He was off like a flash, his counterpart growing more and more uncomfortable by the minute.
She knew the feeling.
But just because she was in a state of complete uncertainty did not mean the poor boy standing in front of her was required to suffer as well. “You needn’t remain here,” she said with a little, encouraging smile, “I’m sure the housekeeper will be along presently.”
The footman—far too young to be a footman, frankly—mumbled an agreement and disappeared, nearly instantly.
Penelope let out a long breath and considered the entryway of the town house, all marble and gilt, the height of fashion and expense—a touch too extravagant for her tastes, but she instantly understood the décor.
Michael might have lost everything in a now-infamous game of chance, but he’d earned it back twentyfold; anyone entering his home would see that.
Something clenched in her chest at the thought of the young marquess working so hard to restore his fortunes. What strength it must have taken . . . what commitment.
It was a shame he did not have the same commitment to his wife.
She pushed the thought aside, confronting the massive trunk that had arrived along with their carriage that evening. Well, if she wasn’t to be put in a room, she might as well make herself comfortable. She unbuttoned her traveling cloak and sat on the luggage, wondering if, perhaps, she was to live here . . . in the foyer.
A commotion began at the back of the house . . . a smattering of fevered whispers punctuated by the clattering of footsteps, and Penelope could not help but smile at the sound. It seemed that none of the servants had been apprised of their master’s taking a bride. She supposed she should not be surprised, as she herself had not expected such a thing until two days prior.
But she could not help but be slightly annoyed at her husband.
He could have at least taken a moment to introduce her to the housekeeper before heading off to whatever important business called to him at this point in the day.
On the day of his marriage.
She sighed, hearing the impatience and the irritation in the sound. Knowing that ladies did not display irritation.
She could only hope that the rule was not so steadfast if one was married to a fallen aristocrat.