After arriving from the ball, the kitchen was dark save for a single candle Penelope had lit upon entering. The rest of the household had retired for the evening, and even the servants had been dismissed to their quarters. It was just her and Anthony, and the conversation she had been demanding all day.
"So?" Penelope poured herself a glass of milk from the pitcher left on the counter. "You said you would tell me."
Anthony sighed, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. In the flickering candlelight, he looked older than his twenty-eight years, tired in a way she rarely saw.
"Pen—"
"You promised to tell me," she interrupted, taking a sip. "When we got home, you said. Well, we're home now."
Another sigh came, deeper this time. Anthony moved into the kitchen proper, pulling out a chair and gesturing for her to sit. When they were both seated across from each other at the servants' table, he finally spoke.
"Very well. The Viscount Ashmore..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "He scammed Father. Stole money from him."
Penelope gasped, nearly choking on her milk. "He did?"
Anthony nodded grimly. "He did. It was a lot of money, Pen. A business venture that turned out to be completely fraudulent. Father wanted him arrested, thrown in prison. It caused quite the scandal, though we managed to keep most of it quiet."
"Most of it?" Penelope's mind was racing. Lord Ashmore, Dorian, had stolen from her father? The man who had been so brutally honest with her, who had rescued her from Duke Pembroke's tedious conversation, who had looked at her like she was actually interesting... was a thief?
"He returned it all eventually," Anthony continued. "Every penny, with interest. Apologized profusely, claimed it had been a mistake, a misunderstanding. Father accepted the money back but..." He shook his head. "It still made him quite upset. Betrayal like that, from someone Father had considered a friend, a business partner.….It's not something easily forgiven."
Penelope sat in stunned silence, her milk forgotten. Lord Ashmore was a thief. A criminal. Someone who had taken advantage of her father's trust and stolen from their family.
"That is why we don't want you associating with him," Anthony said gently. "The man is charming, I'll grant you that. He's handsome, well-spoken, knows exactly what to say to make people like him. But underneath all that charm is someone who cannot be trusted."
"I... I understand," Penelope managed.
"Lord Ellington, on the other hand," Anthony's expression brightened slightly, "is quite the match, do you not think? Good family, respectable title, excellent character. Father would approve."
Penelope downed the rest of her milk in one long gulp, feeling it sit heavy in her stomach. "Of course," she said, her voice sounding strange to her own ears. She cleared her throat. "Yes, he is. Thank you for telling me the truth about Lord Ashmore. Goodnight, brother."
"Goodnight, sister."
Penelope made her way upstairs in a daze, Anthony's words echoing in her mind. A thief. A con artist. Someone who had stolen from her own father.
She couldn't believe it.
Or rather, she didn't want to believe it.
But why would Anthony lie? What possible reason could he have?
She climbed into bed, pulled the covers up to her chin, and stared at the ceiling for a very long time before exhaustion finally claimed her.
~
"Are you betting on Thunderstrike or Midnight Runner?"
The question came from a portly gentleman in a top hat who was consulting what appeared to be a very detailed chart of horse statistics. Around him, the crowd at Ascot Racecourse swarmed like bees, everyone talking, laughing, placing bets, and generally behaving as though the fate of England itself depended on which horse crossed the finish line first.
The Carrington family had claimed their usual box seats, prime viewing position with an excellent vantage point of both the track and the other attendees. Raphael and Edmund were engaged in heated debate about which horse would win the first race.
"Thunderstrike has better form," Edmund insisted.
"But Midnight Runner has the better jockey," Raphael countered. "Henshaw's won the last three races."
"Henshaw's also been known to accept bribes."
"That's a vicious rumor with no proof whatsoever."
Calliope, who had recovered miraculously from her illness and looked as vibrant as ever in a gown of buttercup yellow, leaned close to Penelope. "Tell me everything," she whispered urgently. "I want to hear about the ball, the dancing, the gentlemen, everything I missed."
"Cordelia was there," Penelope said with a grimace.
Calliope rolled her eyes dramatically. "Of course she was. That girl appears wherever there's attention to be had. Tell me you didn't let her ruin your evening."
"She tried," Penelope admitted. But her smile felt forced, her attention scattered. She kept scanning the crowd, looking for.….what? Or rather, whom?
A thief. He's a thief who stole from Father.
"You seem distracted," Calliope observed, studying her cousin's face with concern. "Are you quite alright?"
"No. Yes. Of course," Penelope said quickly. Then, desperate for a distraction from her own spiraling thoughts: "Look! There's a tent selling books. Let's go."
"Books? Now?" Calliope looked bewildered. "The race is about to start."
"We have time," Penelope said, already standing and yanking her cousin by the hand. "Come on, Callie. You know how I adore books."
They slipped away from the family box, weaving through the crowd toward a large tent at the edge of the grounds. Inside, tables were laden with volumes of every size and subject, novels, poetry collections, travel journals, even a few scientific texts that looked fascinatingly complex.
Penelope felt herself relax for the first time all morning. Books had always been her escape, her way of traveling to places she had never been, experiencing lives she had never lived. When she read, she could be anyone, anywhere. Not the Duke's daughter with all her attendant responsibilities, just.….herself.
She was examining a particularly lovely edition of Shakespeare's sonnets, running her fingers over the embossed leather cover, when a voice spoke behind her.
"Hello, Lady Carrington."
Penelope froze. She knew that voice, would have recognized it anywhere after only two previous encounters.
She turned slowly to find Lord Dorian Ashmore standing a few feet away, his gray eyes fixed on her with an expression she couldn't quite read. He bowed his head in greeting, his dark hair falling forward slightly.
"You indeed came to the races," he said, and there was something almost relieved in his tone. "I wasn't certain you would, given how our last meeting ended."
Calliope gasped audibly. "My word," she breathed. "Who is this? He is handsome."
He was. Devastatingly so. In the bright daylight of the races, Penelope could see him more clearly than she had in the shadows of the terrace or the chaos of Hyde Park. The sharp lines of his face, the intensity in those storm-gray eyes, the way he held himself with that confidence she had noticed before.
But all she could think was: Thief.
"He is a thief," Penelope said, her voice coming out cold and hard.
Lord Ashmore's expression shifted to confusion. "I beg your pardon?"
Penelope's hand moved before her mind could catch up, and she slapped him. Hard. The crack of palm against cheek echoed through the tent, and suddenly everyone was staring.