Discovering the Devil

T w e n t y - s i x

XXVI

"WHAT do you think we should do, ma'am?" the butler asked.

Both he and Penelope stared at a black, velvet box that had arrived early that morning from the Duke of Fordham.

Penelope was afraid to open it. She remembered Harry's withering gaze when she'd unveiled the last portrait that had arrived. "We have to give it to him, Winston."

Winston winced. "Do you remember the last time we followed your advice on that count?"

How could she forget? She'd never seen Harry so cantankerous, and while they'd resolved it, she never wanted to see him so upset again. "We serve the earl, Winston. We cannot just keep it from him."

"This household is not like others, Miss Redwood. We could and we should."

And perhaps they really should. Penelope had a feeling the ring inside, which doubtlessly belonged to Harry's mother, would bring more pain than peace. Still... She could not be responsible for keeping something like this from him. "You can leave it with me."

"Will you also be the one to talk down the butler and the other staff our master scares when he has a tantrum? It was me who did that, you know."

"This household owes you a debt of gratitude, the earl included. But—and I think I can promise this—-there will be no such tantrum this time around."

Winston raised a brow. "What makes you so sure?"

"A feeling. A confidence, actually."

"A deluded confidence and a misplaced feeling." Winston sniffed. "Well, when our household is in uproar, I leave that with you as well."

Winston's words unsettled her. Penelope put off doing anything with the ring for the rest of the day. And the day afterwards. And the day afterwards. The box sat like a coal in her pocket for a fortnight until she finally worked up the nerve one night.

Harry stared at it for several seconds before speaking. "Did it come with a note?"

"No." Penelope was glad for that as well. A note would've been dated and he would've seen her trepidation. "I'm sorry, Harry."

"You have absolutely nothing to feel sorry for her." His face was clouded with pain and restrained anger. "It is my father who should feel shame, though God knows he feels none." Harry carefully opened the box and a square emerald flanked by two diamonds gleamed out.

Penelope recognized it. "I saw this ring in the portrait your father sent."

"It was my mother's engagement ring." He smiled bitterly. "She adored it. My mother used to say that the day he proposed was the third happiest day of her life."

"What was the first?" Penelope asked, partly in an effort to distract him from his grief.

A touch of sweetness flickered in his lips. "When she had me."

"And the second?"

The sweetness left. "When she got married." He sighed. "If only she'd known it was a death sentence."

She covered his palm with hers. "Oh, Harry."

"She literally died from heartbreak. My father's affair was too much for her to handle. She got sick and died." Harry closed the box. "And still he taunts me. He never loved her, never respected her..." He broke off and shook his head.

Penelope pulled him into his embrace then, attempting to soak in a pain too acute to be healed with words. Harry was stiff and aching in her arms. They stayed like this for a few moments before he pulled away.