Silence ensued, though it carried a thousand unspoken words.
Penelope blinked and a single tear landed on her cheek. “It’s been forty years. Not once have I seen you in London.”
Forsyth wiped away the tear with the pad of his thumb. “It’s been forty-one years and three months, Penelope, and you know how I despise the hypocrisy of polite society. Besides, a man might be prone to call out those gentlemen who tore his life to shreds.”
The lady swallowed deeply. She appeared remorseful, not at all a woman ruined by a rake and forced to marry an earl with ice for a heart. “It was so long ago I cannot recall the last time we met.”
“Can you not?” Forsyth’s tone carried more than a hint of mischief. “It was the night you crept out of your parents’ house and met me at the lake. We strolled around the garden for an hour until you suggested we take a dip. You must remember.”
Excitement sparked in the lady’s eyes, but it faded quickly as if the dark cloud of a bitter memory obscured the lovely vision. “Of course I don’t remember. You must be speaking of one of the many women you courted after I’d wed.” Jealousy infused her tone now, and she sounded much like the matron again. “A lady of quality does not strip off her clothes and indulge in a midnight swim.”
Forsyth snorted. “Penelope, I said nothing about removing our clothes, gave no indication of the time, yet you are correct on both counts.”
A blush stained the lady’s cheeks. A blush of all things. Who’d have thought? She looked beyond the gentleman’s shoulder and slipped on her haughty mask. The sour expression returned. “This is hardly an appropriate conversation to have in front of my son, or your granddaughter for that matter. Did they tell you a man is dead?”
Lord Forsyth shook his head and came to his feet. “Yes, footpads attacked Bellham’s nephew at the gate, though one must question why they didn’t rob him at a more secluded point along the lane.” He offered Penelope his hand.
She looked at it as if one touch might scald her skin. But after a brief hesitation, she grasped his fingers and permitted him to help her stand.
“One must assume the villain isn’t native to the a
rea. The locals know the roads.” The lady brushed her skirts and patted the sides of her hair.
“Speaking of roads,” Hugo began, keen to question the lord about his miraculous journey. “Did you travel the twenty miles from Chippenham on horseback? And what prompted you to call here?”
A man might be suspicious of the coincidence. There must be a hundred houses where Miss Bennett might claim assistance while en route from London.
“I’ve not come from Chippenham but from Netheravon. With the first flurry of snow, I decided to ride out and meet my granddaughter but got as far as Amesbury before turning back.” He looked upon Miss Bennett as if she were a precious jewel—and he was not wrong. “Somehow, we missed each other on the road, though the innkeeper in Netheravon remembered seeing a beautiful woman wearing a red cloak like the one I bought her for her birthday. Noting numerous horseless carriages lined along the hedgerow no more than a mile from here, this seemed like the place a woman in distress would call.” Forsyth arched a brow. “Does that answer your questions, Lord Denham?”
While the gentleman’s confidence and captivating character would give credence to any story, something didn’t feel quite right.
“Now,” Forsyth continued, adjusting the cuffs of his coat, “while you’ve afforded my granddaughter every kindness, we have inconvenienced you enough.”
Hugo’s blood ran cold. “You intend to leave? In this godforsaken weather?” Panic rose in his chest. “I’m told the roads are impassable between here and Cherhill. Even if travel were possible, the coroner and Sir Ellis will want to question Miss Bennett as a witness to the death of Mr Bellham.” Relief coursed through his veins upon finding a plausible excuse for them to stay. And while he had delivered his speech with the usual aplomb, suspicion passed over Lord Forsyth’s noble features.
“Obviously, you must stay,” Hugo’s mother said. One could not help but notice the sudden spark of excitement in her eyes, or the slight hint of desperation clinging to every syllable. “Only a fool would risk his neck riding in this abominable weather.”
The second clang of the dinner gong rang through the hall, bringing the hungry guests out of the private sitting room.
“At least dine with us and stay the night,” Hugo said, dragging Forsyth out of his contemplative mood. The lord seemed to find staring at the countess preferable to accepting the invitation. “Tomorrow, you may reassess the situation.”
Hugo wasn’t just acting out of selfish interests. Penelope de Wold looked markedly different since the lord’s arrival—brighter, more vivacious. Forsyth had managed to achieve something in three minutes which Hugo had failed to do in thirty years.
“Well, Forsyth?” he prompted. “Do you wish to stay?”
“As you rightly said, only a fool would attempt to leave.” The lord bowed. “We graciously accept your hospitality. If it pleases Lady Denham, I would like to escort her into dinner this evening.”
“Of course you must be my escort.” Penelope shivered visibly, and the faint beginnings of a smile played on her lips. “After such a perilous journey, you must be famished.”
Lord Forsyth arched a brow. “I’m ravenous, Lady Denham.”
Chapter Eight
Lara couldn’t sleep. She hated lying to Lord Denham, hated the fact Montague had only told a variation of the truth. When she had played the scenarios out in her head, she imagined her grandfather would confess to pining for a lost love, confess that he could not leave this world without knowing if he’d been wrong about Penelope all those years ago.
In Lara’s fantasy, Penelope had embraced him and explained the terrible twist of fate that had kept them apart. Lord Denham understood that sometimes it was impossible to tell the truth, and the whole issue of deceit was forgiven and forgotten.
Yet it hadn’t gone quite to plan.