Chase hesitated. “It has been attached to . . . something else.”
Cold hatred coursed through Bourne. He’d waited a decade for this—for the moment when he would finally reconnect Falconwell Manor with its lands. “Attached to what?”
“To whom, more like.”
“I am in no mood for your riddles.”
“Needham has announced that the former lands of Falconwell are to be included in the dowry of his eldest daughter.”
Shock rocked Bourne back on his heels. “Penelope?”
“You know the lady?”
“It’s been years since I saw her last—nearly twenty of them.”
Sixteen. She had been there on the day he’d left Surrey for the last time, after his parents’ burial, fifteen years old and shipped back to a new world with no family. She’d watched him climb into his carriage, and her serious blue gaze had not wavered in tracking his coach down the long drive away from Falconwell.
She hadn’t looked away until he had turned onto the main road.
He knew because he’d watched her, too.
She’d been his friend.
When he had still believed in friends.
She’d also been the eldest daughter of a double marquess with more money than one man could spend in a lifetime. There was no reason for her to have remained a spinster for so long. She should be married with a brood of young aristocrats to care for.
“Why does Penelope need Falconwell for a dowry?” He paused. “Why isn’t she married already?”
Chase sighed. “It would serve me well if any one of you would take an interest in Society at large rather than our meager membership.”
“Our meager membership is more than five hundred men. Every one of them with a file thick as my thumb, filled with information, thanks to your partners.”
“Nevertheless, I have better things to do with my evenings than educating you on the world into which you were born.”
Bourne’s gaze narrowed. He’d never known Chase to spend evenings in any way other than entirely alone. “What things?”
Chase ignored the question and took another pull of scotch. “Lady Penelope made the match of the season years ago.”
“And?”
“The engagement was overshadowed by her fiancé’s love match.”
It was an old tale, one he’d heard countless times, and still Bourne felt an unfamiliar emotion at the idea that the girl he remembered might have been hurt by her broken engagement. “Love match,” he scoffed. “A prettier or wealthier prospect more like. And that was it?”
“I am told she has been pursued by several suitors in the years since. And yet, she remains unmarried.” Chase appeared to be losing interest in the tale, continuing on a bored sigh. “Though I imagine not for long, with Falconwell to sweeten the honey pot. The temptation will have suitors swarming.”
“They’ll want a chance to lord it over me.”
“Probably. You are not high on the list of favorite peers.”
“I’m nowhere on the list of favorite peers. Nevertheless, I shall have the land.”
“And you are prepared to do what it takes to get it?” Chase looked amused.
Bourne did not miss his partner’s meaning.
A vision flashed of a young, kind Penelope, the opposite of what he was. Of what he’d become.
He pushed it aside. For nine years, he’d been waiting for this moment. For the chance to restore that which had been built for him.
That which had been left to him.
That which he had lost.
It was the closest he would ever get to redemption. And nothing would stand in his way.
“Anything.” Bourne stood and carefully straightened his coat. “If a wife comes with it, so be it.”
The door slammed shut after him.
Chase toasted the sound and spoke to the empty room. “Felicitations.”
Chapter Two
Dear M—
You absolutely must come home. It’s dreadfully boring without you; neither Victoria nor Valerie makes for a sound lakeside companion.
Are you very sure that you must attend school? My governess seems fairly intelligent. I’m sure she can teach you anything you need know.
Yrs—P
Needham Manor, September 1813
*
Dear P—
I’m afraid you’re in for dreadful boredom until Christmas. If it is any consolation, I don’t even have access to a lake. May I suggest teaching the twins to fish?
I’m sure I must attend school . . . your governess is not fond of me.
—M
Eton College, September 1813
Late January 1831
Surrey
Lady Penelope Marbury, being highborn and well-bred, knew that she should be very grateful indeed when, on a frigid January afternoon well into her twenty-eighth year, she received her fifth (and likely final) proposal of marriage.