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.”