Page 65 of This Laird of Mine

His enthusiastic tone made Jules smile all the more. “You seem to enjoy these forays into investigation.”

Kirkwood nodded. “After a lifetime of papers and law, your queries have lent some spice to my rather mundane existence, milord.”

“Thank you, Kirkwood,” Jules said with a nod of his head. “Your efforts have been extraordinary.”

Now it was up to him to do something with that information.

Later that afternoon, Jules finally found the nerve to walk the short distance from the manor house to the family crypt where his father, mother, and brother were buried.

Jules entered the chamber. He held his lantern in front of him. The light cast leaping shadows on the pinkish-gray marble walls and shimmered off the effigies of his kin. His mother’s grave was dusty. With his hand he cleaned it off, revealing the image of the woman he remembered—a heart-shaped face, high cheekbones, and kind eyes. Even set in stone, her eyes still held that softness he had once felt gaze upon him in life.

Beside her was the image of his father. His father’s likeness stared up at him. His face had held an expression of pride and a warmth Jules never witnessed again after his mother’s death. Had death brought him the peace he had searched for all those years? Jules hoped so. As he continued to study his father’s features, other questions crowded his thoughts. Had his father truly loved him? Had he kept Jules in gaol as a means of protecting him from the monster who had latched herself to their family? Had his father really known Agatha was still alive?

Jules’s thumb caressed his father’s brow. “For whatever happened between us, for all the unspoken words, and the words that were spoken in anger, I apologize. I had no idea what kind of monster had entered our lives. I should have talked to you. I should have trusted you. I should have done so many things. For that, and for your untimely death, I apologize.”

His own spirit lightened at the admission of his own failings. His father might never hear the words, but at least Jules knew he had finally said them.

He would never know the truth about his father’s actions or inaction toward the end of his life, but he wanted to believe that the man had actually loved him and tried to protect him instead of shutting him out and leaving him in that hellhole for dead.

Jules slid his gaze to the right, to the effigy next to his father’s. The heavy lid sat slightly askew, as though it had been moved then shifted back into place. She’d tricked them all, staging her own death and then having assistance in her resurrection from her tomb and this crypt.

For a heartbeat he wondered if that kind of evil could ever die. She was still out there, still a threat. She had robbed him of his freedom for over a year, and now she was robbing him of his happiness.

It was then that the realization hit him. That was exactly what Agatha wanted. She wanted him to be miserable without Claire. She had ruined the lives of his father and brother, and now he was allowing her to do the same to him. Jules’s eyes ached with unshed tears while his chest filled with hope. He had turned his own home into a prison, instead of rotting away in one.

But what was he to do about it? He returned his gaze to the images of his mother and father. “What do I do?” he asked, not really expecting an answer, but hoping that one would be provided all the same.

Encouraged and defeated at the same time, Jules returned to the manor, where he prowled the hallways and paced the drawing room, searching for an answer. It wasn’t until late afternoon that an answer was provided in the form of another visitor.

“Milord.” Fin cleared his throat as he entered the drawing room, stopping Jules’s trek across the newly restored carpet for the hundredth time. “There is someone to see you.”

Jules’s heart hammered with a mixture of hope and dread as Fin stepped back and Penelope entered the room.

She bowed. “Lord Kildare.”

“Penelope, what a surprise,” Jules said coming forward and taking her uninjured hand in his. “How did you get here?”

“’Tis only a short walk from where I am staying.”

“The exercise agrees with you. You look well.” Color had returned to her cheeks. She wore a pink glove on her injured hand that matched the color of her dress.

She blushed and pulled her hand from his. “’Tis the country air.”

He studied her face, then lower, his gaze moving to her missing finger. “Does it still pain you?” he asked.

She shrugged and looked away. “At times. Sometimes I feel as though my finger is still there, even though I know it is not. I feel sensations. I know it sounds strange . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“Not at all,” Jules said, bringing his gaze back to hers. “I have heard it said from others who lost limbs in battle. The phenomenon is quite normal.”

Penelope gripped her hand, held it gently against her chest. “I was not in a battle.”

“Yes,” he said tenderly, “you were. A battle of the worst kind because it doesn’t make sense at all what happened to you.”

She gave him a partial smile. “Thank you for saying so. I often wonder if this is just punishment for some horrible sin I commit—”

“You did nothing wrong. Do you hear me?” Jules interrupted, his anger rising that the young woman even considered that she was at fault for Agatha’s maniacal actions. “You were innocent. And I hope you will realize that someday soon.”

“I am trying.”