For that reason, her engagement this week was particularly important. The motive was to secure a suitable prospect, like Lord Ashbourne, as her match. The engagement could close the growing rift in their finances, perhaps even restore a fragment of their lost dignity.
Her mind flickered back to the earlier encounter of the day, replaying every word, every glance, and every pause. Indeed, he was a quiet and calculating man.
After disclosing her genuine motive, Penelope didn't expect any good reaction or response. She predicted a clear rejection. After all, any gentleman required time before proposing courtship.
But she was desperate, obviously. And he needed an heir, which made him desperate too, which made them suitable for each other. He had not rejected her, but neither had he accepted, which meant… the game was still in motion.
A slow breath left her lips. This was what she wanted. This was what she predicted afterwards, but the cost of it took her off guard.
She'd never imagined how bad society tainted her name, and the consequences that followed. How terrible it was for such demand to be made. Yet at the same time, the outcome was reasonable.
"Six days," she said softly, the remainder becoming her new mantra.
Six days to secure a proposal. Six days to outmaneuver expectation, society… and men who believed themselves in control. All she had was six days left.
Her fingers rested lightly against the glass. The pitter-patter of raindrops echoed faintly in the dimly lit room. Burning logs from the hearth crackled, the sound slightly reducing the tension in the atmosphere.
Penelope remained still in silence, absorbing the comfort alone. For a moment, nothing else mattered more than the weight of her unspoken thoughts. Until quite suddenly, a thought surfaced at once, and her expression shifted.
The stranger in the lake.
Penelope's fingers curled as her mind betrayed her again, replaying those eyes, that voice, and that infuriating composure. If it wasn't for the strong scent of bergamot, she wouldn't have embarrassed herself earlier.
To think she for once assumed him with someone related to Lord Philip earlier today. And come to think of it, there was no resemblance of any sort. No deep raven eyes that told of dangerous intentions, lips that spoke truly of preposterous promises, a mind that retained dark thoughts, and a structure that deceived the eyes as to what the soul was truly made of.
Penelope has never once encountered such a man as that. Every gentleman of the ton was prideful and mannered—vice versa—decency their utmost appearance, but he… he was infuriatingly calm and spoke ill intentions without the slightest care in the world.
Her chest heated in rage as the memory from yesterday rushed into her mind, changing the mood from somber to irritated, concluding solely at the coat.
Slowly and deliberately, Penelope turned away from the window. Her gaze traveled across the room until it fell upon it, still lying where she had left it.
For a long moment, she said nothing. Neither did she move. Just an unspoken thought spiraling in her mind, until it finalized into one dangerous idea.
"No," she whispered, shaken by the direction of that thought. But when her body began to move—totally against her will—she walked towards the corner where the material hung still.
Penelope reached out for it. The strong intoxicating smell of wood smoke and bergamot filled her nostrils, and her eyes closed for the briefest moment.
The texture was rich and soft, a black elegant coat possessed only by the wealthiest gentlemen. Any ordinary person wouldn't just hand over such an expensive item to a total stranger without getting it back.
And with the look of things, he wasn't just an ordinary nobleman. Penelope clearly doubted his denial of being a gentleman, but then, what exactly did he mean?
She searched the pockets, only to realize how empty it was. Perhaps he was an imposter. Perhaps not. She withdrew from the right pocket, only to brush against something solid at the left.
Penelope frowned.
Slowly, she reached out for the similar side, grabbing onto whatever she could find. What stared right back at her was a fine signet ring with a raven crest.
"Hmm," she murmured in surprise, inspecting it closely. Not only did the coat look expensive, but even his signet ring screamed of wealth and elegance.
Of all the men she'd investigated, all the men familiar to her, this was the very first time Penelope witnessed such a signet ring. And throughout that night, it left her wondering who exactly that stranger was.
***
The next morning arrived far too quickly. The rain had cleared, leaving behind a crisp, washed stillness that clung to the estate grounds.
Penelope did not wait for Mary or her other handmaidens this time, and by the time Mary entered, she was already dressed, although this time, not in silks or pearls, but something far simpler. It was likely more practical, indicating anywhere but balls or soirees.
Mary blinked in surprise. "Miss…?"
"I'll be going out," Penelope said, fastening the last clasp at her wrist.
"So early?"
"Yes."
Mary hesitated. "Shall I prepare the carriage?"
Penelope paused and then shook her head. "No carriage," She said. "And if my mother asks…you must not reveal where I've gone,"
Mary's lips parted in protest, unease flashing across her face until realization dawned. "But, miss—"
"I promise, Mary. Just this once," Penelope cut in gently, not giving her the chance to argue further.
The maid hesitated, clearly torn by her mistress's request. Disapproval lingered in her eyes, but so did resignation. And from the look on her face, one would tell it was not an unfamiliar territory.
It wasn't the first time her mistress had slipped away unnoticed, leaving no trace behind but worry, and each time, it was Mary who bore the weight of it. She had been fortunate to avoid a serious consequence before—resulting in losing her job—but luck was a fragile thing, and positions like hers, even more so.
Penelope saw the conflict plainly. She never intended to drag Mary into it, never wanted her to share in the risk, but now she was here, caught in between, she had no choice.
Stepping closer, she reached for her hands, folding them gently between her own. "Just this once," she repeated softly.
Mary looked at her for a long moment, caught between fear and loyalty. In the end, loyalty won, though not without reluctance. "…Very well, miss," she murmured at last with a small nod. "But we must be careful. I'll take you through the back passage, the one that leads into the garden." She lowered her voice slightly. "Mrs. Hargrove has grown stricter with the staff. Nothing escapes her notice these days."
Penelope smiled, obviously grateful. "Thank you, Mary," She said, and her gaze flickered briefly toward the coat. "I won't be long."