Page 652 of From Rakes to Riches

He shook his head, because he could not quite puzzle it out. “I must ask, Penelope, if you know how my brother died?”

“He was shot to death in Grosvenor Square,” she answered carefully.

“And do you know,” he pressed, “by whom?”

“Yes.” She let out a long sigh before she said, gently, “He was shot by his married lover, poor Viscountess Guilford, for the unforgivable sin of infecting her with the pox.”

“Devil take his soul.” Marcus heaved out his own sigh. “I feared as much, though I assumed he was shot by somebody’s husband. Although I had not seen Caius in ten years, I did know he was a libertine.”

Still, Marcus had some sympathy for his unapologetic ruiner of a brother—bleeding to death in Grosvenor Square was a messy, merciless way to die. “Poor bastard.”

“Yes,” Penelope agreed.

The uneasiness he did not want to believe was jealousy weighed on his chest like a five-pound shot. But she had just called him a hero, so he had to act like one, and face his fears.

“What I still don’t understand is why you went to him? And why then, you later refused him? Please tell meyoudid not know that—that he had the pox—when you went to him. Please.”

“I went to him,” she said carefully, “perhaps because I recognized another wayward soul. But I refused him—or more correctly, I refused my father—because Caius warned me. He told me of his disease himself. I think perhaps he was already dying.”

Marcus was sure he could not have heard her aright. “My brother, Caius Beecham, eighth Duke of Warwick, knownlibertine and despoiler of any number of women—and who knows what else—acted the gentleman and warned you off?”

“Funny, isn’t it?” Her bittersweet smile did not reach her eyes. “And incredibly sad.” She took a deeper breath and turned to face him. “It was meant to be a very great secret—the truth of his death—so, of course, all of society now knows that Caius Beecham, Duke of Warwick, had the clap.”

She did not shy from the vulgar truth. “And now they are also sure that I must have it, too, because I was shut away in a room alone with him for some time. No matter that he never actually even kissed me.”

Something sharp and shameful eased, and then tied itself into a new knot in his chest. “Devil send himself to hell,” Marcus swore. “My dear Pease, you astonish me.”

“Do I?” She tried to muster a shrug. “It was none of my doing, I assure you. I did throw myself at Caius, if you must know, Beech, andheput me off. He saved my life.”

He would not excuse Caius of all responsibility. “But ruined it anyway, by making you a pariah by not speaking up for you,” he insisted.

“Beech. You really are the kindest man.” In the low firelight, her eyes looked dark and liquid and sad.

“Did it never occur to you that I might have known what I was doing—or thought I knew what I was doing—when I went into a closed room with your brother? That I might have had caddish Caius Beecham and his Dukedom of Warwick, in my sights?”

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Penelope felt him draw away from her.

“No,” he answered. And then, “Why?”

His voice was packed tight with hurt, but no accusation, and so she gave him the truth.

“Because I deserved no better. I told you I was no saint, Beech. I liked to dance. I liked to flirt. I loved to kiss. And I got caught. More than once, or even twice.” Now that their passion had cooled, she curled herself into a ball against the chilling draft. “My father told me no decent man would have me, so I decided upon a cad—a cad who might take me as I was. Your brother might have been many things—most of them bad—but he was no hypocrite.”

Beech shook his head as if he didn’t want to believe her.

“If that was so, then why didn’t you marry the blighter when he proposed?”

“Because Caius didn’t propose.” Penelope closed her eyes, as if that might help her sort out the truth from the convenient lies. “But there was my father saying it had all beenarranged, with your mama’s blessing. That I had no choice, and neither did Caius. But of course, I had a choice, awful as they tried to makeit. And I chose to show Caius the same mercy he had shown me: I refused. I insisted nothing had happened, though nobody believed me.”

Beech stared at her as if he were finally seeing her as she was and not as he wished her to be. “How extraordinary.”

“Hardly.” Her own opinion was that she had been rather mercenary—both in going to Caius, and in refusing the proposal. “I had no want to end up dead of the pox.”

“Who would? Very prudent of you,” he agreed on a deep exhalation.

“I’m not prudent,” she insisted. “I’m damaged goods, as they say, Beech. Iamruined—nothing will take that stain away.”

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