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“The right thing. For my country and my family and myself. I may consult Castlereagh in person.”
“A waste of time,” muttered Wendell. “He will only tell you what we’ve already said.”
“And in the meantime?” asked the other man.
“I’ll take great care.”
“As you have so far,” sneered Wendell. “Handing them over to a traitorous—”
“I have nothing more to say to you,” Daniel interrupted. Jaw set, he loomed over his unwelcome callers.
“I’ll see you out,” said Macklin, herding them.
Playing the footman to keep him from exploding? Daniel wondered. In other circumstances, it might have been amusing.
Under the unyielding gaze of two peers of the realm and practically being pushed out by the more impressive, the men went.
“I shouldn’t have mentioned the butterflies,” Daniel said when Macklin returned. “I hope I didn’t put Tom in jeopardy.”
“We may need to call him off, now that they know we’ve been watching.”
Daniel nodded.
“Are you really going to speak to Castlereagh?”
“Perhaps.” He wanted to do what was best for the much-maligned Miss Pendleton. As soon as he figured out what that was.
* * *
Penelope could bear it no longer. She had to discover what was happening. She’d spent far too much time, over the last year, sitting and waiting for doom to descend. She’d become oversensitive to the idea of events proceeding outside her knowledge, dictated by strangers. She left the estate office and made her way quietly along the corridor to the front of the house. She wouldn’t intrude on Lord Whitfield’s meeting, but she was determined to catch a glimpse of his visitors.
Slipping into a small parlor near the entry, she waited by the window. A few minutes later, two men walked out, settling their hats and pulling on gloves. They stood on the graveled drive, heads together, anger in the lines of their bodies. When a groom brought their horses around, they turned, and Penelope at last saw their faces.
She gripped the windowsill. She knew one of them. He’d been among her interrogators in Manchester, a cold-eyed man who’d questioned her a number of times without showing a shred of emotion. Any word she uttered he twisted. Any fact she offered he dismissed. He’d denied comforts and then doled out physical relief with contempt, as if her humanity was a sign of moral decay. He’d encouraged others to do the same. Seeing him brought back a time when she’d been alone and helpless and afraid.
Mounted, he looked at the house. Penelope pulled back behind the curtain.
What was he doing here? Had he come looking for her? She’d been cleared of any role in her brother’s folly and released. But that very man had told her that an investigation was never over, that the eyes of the government would always be on her.
She dared a look. The two were riding away from Frithgerd. Why had they called on Lord Whitfield? Were they headed for her small cottage refuge now? Would she encounter them on the road as she drove home?
Penelope went back to the records room. She sat at the desk and shivered and despised herself for doing so. That man had told her that they could find her wherever she went, that they could seize her at any moment if she put a foot wrong. And as the badgering continued and no one stood by her, it had become more and more difficult to scoff at his distortions and threats. Rising, Penelope made certain the windows were latched. She closed the draperies. She braced a chair under the doorknob. Then she sat again and fought with the memories that wanted to vanquish her.
A flurry of sound called her back. Someone was pounding on the door. The inquisitors had come. Penelope straightened, ready for battle.
“Miss Pendleton?”
It was Lord Whitfield’s voice. And his house, where she’d spent so many happy hours.
“Miss Pendleton?” he called, louder.
Penelope stood, went to remove the chair, and opened the door.
Her handsome neighbor strode in. “What’s happening? Why is it so dim in here?” He looked at the chair in her hands.
She put down the chair. Turning away, she went to open the draperies.
“Miss Pendleton?”
