Page 58 of All Duke and Bothered

When Preston and Penelope were left alone in his old bedchamber, he lay back on the pillows. Mrs. Girdwood sent a maid with hot tea, a decanter of wine, and a platter of bread, cheese, cold meat, and raisins.

Tea soothed Preston’s throat as he sipped from the cup, sitting upright in the bed. Penelope cuddled into his shoulder, and the feel of her, warm and heavy, was divine. She smelled of smoke, a dark reminder that they both could have died there.

“I didn’t want to say in front of Richard and Calliope,” said Penelope, “but Sam said it was a short man in a powdered wig. He was stout and ran slowly like he was old…or older.”

Preston put his teacup on the bedside table and cleared his throat. The soothing feeling evaporated. Anger and resentment hit him like a thousand knives.

“The fire started in my study,” he said slowly. “Where I keep the red folder your father asked you to get for him. And then Sam saw a man in a powdered wig running away. Penelope, there’s only a handful of men in London that still wear wigs.”

Penelope sat up. “It cannot be him,” she said, her eyes filling with tears. “I can’t believe he’d set fire to our home.”

Oh, but Preston could. He could believe it so easily. Because he knew the truth—Lord Neville Beckett was very much capable of harming people to get what he wanted and to save his own skin. He had already caused Spencer’s death.

And now he’d almost killed Penelope?

No. That was it.

Preston threw the blanket off his legs and stood up. His head still spun, but he went to the bell handle and pulled it. He needed clothes and he needed a carriage.

“What are you doing?” asked Penelope, standing up.

“Making sure something like this will never happen again.”

* * *

“Lord Beckett!” Preston banged the brass lion’s head knocker on the door on Vine Street. “Lord Beckett!”

He coughed, painful, dry spasms making him double over. He hadn’t waited until the physician arrived. He was so furious and so terrified, he couldn’t see straight.

Just a few more minutes, and he could have lost Penelope.

He was less terrified of his own death than he was of hers.

He kept banging on the door while Carl, Sumhall’s coachman, waited, sitting at the front of the carriage, throwing sideways glances at him. What could have possessed a duke to bang on the door of another peer at three in the morning? The street behind him was quiet and dark, just the wind rustling the crowns of blooming acacia trees.

“Lord Beckett!” he yelled with the remnants of his voice, his chest and throat bursting with pain.

Finally, there were shuffling steps behind the door, and it was unlocked. Lord Beckett’s wigless head of sparse gray hair protruded from the opening. Dressed in a yellowish nightgown, he peered at Preston over the candle in his hand, and his eyes widened in fear.

“Your Grace…” he mumbled. “What is the matter?”

“You know what is the matter,” said Preston, straining his dying voice to sound loud and clear. It refused, the rasp making it almost incomprehensible. “Did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Did you commit arson in my home?”

Lord Beckett’s face fell. “Arson?”

“Yes. Arson. Chalworth Place is in flames. The fire started in my study. Did you steal the red leather folder and set my home on fire, almost killing your own daughter?”

Lord Neville’s eyes widened in real fear, the whites bluish in the night against his pale skin. “Is Penelope all right?”

“She is.”

Lord Beckett quickly shook his head. “No. I’d never do that to her.”

Preston narrowed his eyes. “I don’t believe you. Penelope told you she wouldn’t help you anymore, and I think that is strong enough motivation. You wanted the proof of your crime gone, and you wanted revenge.”