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And so he returned home, trying not to think about what he had seen or what she had done to him and made his way directly to his study, ignoring Mr Cartwright, who met him in the hallway. He barged right past the butler, too infuriated to even be able to think of anything he could say, even when he heard the butler ask if something was the matter.
At that moment, everything was the matter. Nothing felt right from what he had just witnessed right down to his fine clothing, and he would have liked to forget that the last few months had even occurred.
Knowing he did not own a means of turning back the clock, he instead turned his attention to fixing the problems he had allowed to happen beneath his roof.
Yet when he stepped into his study, he quickly realised that several things had changed. The cupboard was open where he had hidden the package only the night before. That was not exactly unexpected.
What was unexpected was the bottle of ink that had been spilled upon the rug. It almost entirely distracted him from the envelope beside it, the corner just beginning to soak up the puddle of ink that had begun to creep towards it.
Hurrying forth, he realised that his name was written on the front. With some sickness, he realised who had been likely to leave it for him. Other than Mr And Mrs Cartwright, none of the servants could write comprehensively, and Anthony was certain that neither the butler nor his wife needed to leave a note for him when they lived under the very same roof.
A knocking on the door announced that the butler had followed him down the hall, but Anthony yelled, "Leave me be!" and tore open the envelope, relieved to see that save for the corners, the letter had been untouched by the spilled ink.
My dearest husband,
Please forgive me for leaving in such a manner. I do so hope you will be able to though I understand if you do not.
I wish you to know that our time together has been the happiest of my life, though I have realised now that it can never be. Truly, I knew all along, though I could not see a way around it.
Please continue reading if you still hold me in any regard or in enough to at least allow me to explain before you send the authorities in search of me.
What I have done I have committed out of sheer need to survive for in truth I am not Lady Clara St Clair nor have I ever been a noble lady of any kind. I am in fact merely Penelope Dupont, daughter of the late Rose Dupont who was once employed as lady's maid to the late Comte's wife.
When my mother died, I was left alone save for the Comte and his great kindness. He took me in as if I were one of his own. He fed me, clothed me and educated me, even giving me a job as a maid myself to ensure that I would always have a place in his household. But he died, and his brother became Comte, where my troubles began.
I know not why, but the late Comte's wife and daughter turned on me almost the very day that he died. They made my life a living hell, abusing me both verbally and physically, and when the new Comte arrived and began to show romantic and yet unrequited feelings towards me, promising that once yourself and the Lady Clara were married that he and I would be alone to do as we pleased. I could not stand another moment beneath their roof.
So you see, I stole Clara's identity and fearing for my life, boarded a ship to England. It was only Mrs Cartwright's being on the dock the morning I arrived that set all this in motion. Had she not been, I might have slipped away, and the true Lady Clara might have arrived with you none the wiser.
I tried several times to leave, but after having met you, I found I could not. And having been forced by the Comte to do things I wish I had never had to do, I wish to warn you, Your Grace, do not trust the St Clairs. The Comte has learned of my being here and has tried to use me to gain information that the French can use against England.
He believes I am aiding him, but you should know I will never do anything that could cause you to come to harm. That is why after having seen the package you brought back with you from London, I have forged false documents of similar nature and have taken them to the Comte. He shall not get his hands on the real documents, at least, not via me. And that is why you shall never see me again.
I also wish to tell you that anything I said to you towards my feelings for you while in your presence was true. I may not deserve to, and I may not deserve to feel it in return, but I do love you, Anthony, and I hope you can forgive me, though I accept any wish you may have to have our marriage annulled, and I shall not stand in your way.
All my love,
Always
Penelope Dupont or as you know me, Lady Rose
P.S. the Comte is in residence at the Blue Dolphin Inn
Reading the words over and over again until they even started to make sense, Anthony felt his stomach churning.How did I not see this?he thought, thinking back for a moment on the woman he had shared his bed with. He had seen that her skin was not flawless.
He had seen the remnants of wounds left upon her body, the burn scarring on her forearm and hand, a scar along her spine as if she had been stuck by something thin and hard that had hit her so hard it had left a scarred welt.
Bile rose in the back of his throat as he read the letter again, trying to make sense of it and trying desperately to put the pieces together in his mind.
Penelope Dupont,he read the name over and over, his heart skipping a beat as he realised that the name fit. It was a beautiful name for a truly angelic woman who had done nothing but help him in the time she had been with him, in the time she had shared his bed.
Her shame and regret, her desperation and even her affection. They were all written on the page as if she had woven them into the fabric of the paper with every stroke of the quill, pouring them into the thick black ink she had used to write the words.
Oh, Penelope,he thought, breathing what could only be described as relief. Suddenly, so many things made sense, why she had not wanted to consummate their marriage, why at first she had tried so desperately to avoid him, why she had been so easily able to help the common folk with their problems and why she was so sympathetic to their plights.
As he read the last few sentences over again, he felt sick at the thought of her being used against him, that she had ever felt like she could not come to him with any of this.
All those nights we shared together, and she didn't feel she could tell me the truth,he thought, slamming his fist down on the table, though at that moment, he realised he was not angry with her but with himself. Maybe if he had not been so desperate to get himself out of his own mess, he might have been able to see the truth.
