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In the following week, Penelope didn’t think she could ever be so happy and so miserable at the same time.

Preston barely looked at her. Barely talked to her. Which was so much worse than if he had kept yelling at her.

Every day, Penelope painted and worked on her craft. William Turner came to tutor her, and it was a dream come true, seeing the great artist at work and having him guide her and help her improve.

She kept dreaming that she was Danaë, entrapped in Preston’s study, waiting for her Prometheus to come and free her. Only, he didn’t come. And with the shower of golden coins, the red folder dropped right into her lap. She held it in her hands, knowing that if she opened it, it would be the end of the shower of gold and the beginning of her freedom. Only, she didn’t want the shower of gold to end. She was so happy in it. She’d never been so happy.

But she opened the red folder. And inside was a dark, bottomless cavity into hell. It began sucking her in, dragging her lower and lower. Every time, she’d wake with a jerk, to see Preston’s side of the bed empty and feel her heart aching for him.

In the back of her mind, she kept wondering what was in the folder. What had her father done that Preston had such power over him? It ate at her while she painted, managed the house, and did her best to please Preston, hoping he might truly forgive her and things could go back to how they’d been before he caught her in the study.

His secret was still a dark cloud that hung over both of their heads. And she knew one day that dark cloud may turn into a devastating storm. All she could do now was enjoy the sunshine she had.

On the third day, she went to see her papa and told him she wouldn’t help him with the red folder, but she gave him the rest of her monthly allowance. For the last time, she vowed, hating that she was going against Preston’s wishes yet again. But her papa was desperate, and the money would mean food on his table. When she asked him, once again, what was in that envelope, he said, “If you won’t help me, you should just burn it.”

At the end of the week, after the family dinner, the Dowager Duchess of Grandhampton, Calliope, and Emma went with Penelope to visit the Duchess of Ashton’s art salon while Preston, Richard, and Sebastian stayed home for port and a game of billiards.

The drive was full of chatter. Penelope rode in the carriage, smiling and laughing with the three women who had become her friends and family so quickly she couldn’t remember a time when they weren’t in her life.

When they stopped before Neverton Place and got out, Penelope’s breath caught. She had thought Chalworth Place was impressive. But Neverton was as grand as a royal palace. A long façade stretched to the left and right, with four grand marble columns shooting up to the roof, three stories above. Several Greek statues of the pantheon lined the roof. The walls were all painted in a brisk cream color that glowed against the darkness of the night. Large fire torches and braziers illuminated the gravel pathway towards the grand stairs, and lights played behind the tall paned windows of the ground floor.

The dowager duchess gave the butler their calling cards, and they proceeded to the salon. There were many ladies and gentlemen in the room already, but Penelope didn’t notice any of them as her eyes went immediately to the many paintings and portraits that occupied every inch of the walls in the richly decorated room. There must have been hundreds of candles, their warm glow illuminating the gilt frames of the artwork.

A large part of one wall held several portraits of one man. He was tall, in his fifties, with a balding head of dark hair showing only a little gray. He was athletic and quite handsome with a straight nose, small, narrowly set eyes under stern eyebrows, and a square jaw. He had a prominent chin with a dimple, a broad mouth, and the piercing gaze of someone who knew what he wanted.

He was portrayed in different poses and against different backgrounds: landscapes, interiors with columns, bright bordeaux-colored drapes. There were portraits of him hunting with hounds, sitting on a proud stallion, standing next to a vase of flowers, and so on.

The man himself stood under the paintings, dressed in a rich dark green waistcoat, his back straight, his head held proudly. The Duchess of Ashton stood next to him, and they were talking to a man of medium height with a large belly who was dressed in a waistcoat with rubies, diamonds, and emeralds sewn into it.

Looking at them, the dowager said, “That is the Duke of Ashton. You know the duchess, of course. And they’re both talking to the prince regent. The duke is His Highness’s right hand in all things.”

They approached the duchess, the duke, and the prince.

The Duchess of Ashton wore a distant, polite smile that didn’t touch her eyes as she listened to the prince and her husband talking. As always, she was striking, wearing a gown of dark green silky muslin that matched her husband’s waistcoat.

When her eyes fell on the dowager and on Penelope, a genuine smile spread her lips.

“My dear,” said the Duchess of Ashton. “How lovely to see you.”

“Your Highness.” The Duchess of Ashton looked at the prince briefly, then at her husband. “Your Grace. You both know the Dowager Duchess of Grandhampton, no doubt. May I introduce the new Duchess of Grandhampton.”

Penelope’s heart sank as the prince looked her over. He was an overweight man, not very handsome, and Penelope supposed that all the rumors about him and all the caricatures of his overeating and excessive drinking were true. He had a puffy face with meaty cheeks, a longish nose, and a very fashionable windswept haircut. He was dressed like a real dandy, with a clawhammer dress coat and long dark trousers, his crisp, high white cravat pushed up his puffy cheeks like a corset did with breasts. His translucent blue eyes studied her with a lewd glimmer as he slowly nodded to her. Penelope wanted to shake off the slimy feel of his gaze.

“And of course, the Duchess of Loxchester,” said the Duchess of Ashton as she nodded at Emma. Emma did a low curtsy. “And the granddaughter of the dowager duchess, Lady Calliope Seaton.”

Calliope did a low curtsy, as well.

“What pleasant company you have gathered here, Your Grace,” said the prince with a quick glance at the Duchess of Ashton. Then his gaze returned to Penelope. “I should attend more art soirées if they attract such pretty ladies.”

“Why, yes,” said the Duchess of Ashton. “Not just pretty ladies. The Duchess of Grandhampton paints.”

“Is that so?” said the Duke of Ashton. “How do you find the exhibition, Your Grace?”

He brought a glass of port to his mouth and drank. Penelope looked over the wall with the paintings. “Her Grace has impeccable taste in art. I look forward to studying the paintings in detail. I’ve heard great things about your collection, Duchess.”

With a bright smile, the duchess opened her mouth to say something, but the duke interrupted her without noticing. “Turner’s paintings are here, too.” On the other side of the wall, Penelope saw Sun Rising through Vapour, his 1807 painting of the River Thames and with the sails of several fishing boats, the early sun rising from behind the violet clouds, spreading its golden light over the calm water of the river and the cerulean skies. On the shore, fishermen weighed the catch from the early morning.