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“Not quite so far.” Whitfield looked like a man who’d sustained a stunning blow and was struggling to recover.
“Miss Pendleton is not here?”
“She went home some time ago.” He checked the mantel clock as if calculating the interval.
Arthur surveyed the scattered letters and notebooks before him. “Are you making progress?”
“Ha, we’ve wandered into the realm of fantasy. Further in, I should say.”
“What do you mean?”
Whitfield sat straighter, visibly gathered his faculties, and tapped the notebooks. “It seems that my mother was a spy.”
“What?”
Arthur’s host launched into a tangled story of codes and correspondence. “So we’ve solved the mystery of the Rose Cottage legacy,” he finished. “But we’ve uncovered another.” He frowned down at the desk. “Or a fairy-tale adventure. There seems little mystery about it.”
“May I see this key?” Arthur asked. Whitfield handed it over. Arthur ran his eye down the page, compared phrases in one of the notebooks, then another. He was puzzled, then astounded, then concerned. “I think you should put these in your strong room until we can make some inquiries.” He examined the younger man’s blunt features. “If you will allow me? I have a trusted friend who would know if there’s anything in these speculations.”
“Castlereagh?”
“An associate. Better able to keep things quiet.”
Whitfield hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, I would like the truth. As soon as possible.”
“I’ll draft a discreet inquiry. We can send a messenger tomorrow.”
“Thank you.”
Arthur waited for more. When none came, he added, “Miss Pendleton is very clever.”
“Not as clever as she thinks, perhaps.”
“What do you mean?”
“A pair of fools,” Whitfield muttered.
“You and I?” Arthur knew he hadn’t meant this, but he wanted to hear more. Whitfield was obviously laboring under a weight of emotion.
“What? No.”
“You and Miss Pendleton then?”
“What are you suggesting?” The younger man’s tone had gone belligerent.
“Suggesting? Nothing. Wondering? A good deal.”
Whitfield glared at him for a fiery instant. Then he looked down, his jaw tight, fists closed. “Damn it all,” he said. He pushed his chair back so hard it nearly toppled over, then sprang up and strode from the room.
He’d forgotten his mother’s notebooks and their revelatory code. Arthur gathered up the pile and carried it to his bedchamber, where he made use of the key in the writing desk there to lock all away until they could be transferred to the estate strong room. Sitting down to write the promised letter of inquiry, he wondered uneasily about the prospects for a truculent viscount and the ruined daughter of a baronet.
* * *
Penelope didn’t return to Frithgerd the following day, nor for several days after that. She received Henry Carson at Rose Cottage and conferred with him on the progress of work on the bath. She attended to her own affairs, baked an apple tart with Kitty and Mrs. Hart, joined the dogs on their patrols of her property. And through it all, she tried not to think of her beguiling neighbor. Without the least vestige of success.
Her mind was full of him—bent over estate records, chasing goats, cutting pastry with boyish concentration. And kissing her, of course. Caressing her until her senses swam. And lastly, refusing heradvances.
That word burdened her when she thought of their most recent encounter. It made her cheeks burn. What did he think of her now? That last was terribly important, because—left alone to reflect—she’d realized that she cared very much about his good opinion. About him. The stark truth was, she’d fallen in love with her unexpected viscount. And she wanted much more than stolen passion.
