Page 81 of An Offer By the Beastly Duke

Penelope looked back toward the dark windows, where the sky was bruising into a deep, ominous purple. “Your papa could simply return indoors if he wished to speak to us, Nicholas. It is freezing outside.”

“Maybe it is a surprise! Maybe he found something in the woods.”

Penelope hesitated. A faint, persistent tug of nerves twisted in her stomach, an old instinct honed by years of surviving cruelty. But Malcolm a man of action, not poetry. And the historic glasshouse did overlook the main road leading back toward the courtyard. It was perfectly reasonable that he might want to intercept them there to show Nicholas a stray puppy or a specimen from the woods.

Nicholas was already reaching eagerly for his small wool coat by the door.

“Very well,” Penelope said at last, suppressing her unease. “But you must put on your heavy riding boots first. It rained heavily this morning, and the gravel paths will be thoroughly soaked.”

Nicholas cheered loudly, throwing his coat over his shoulders.

The glasshouse sat at the isolated, neglected edge of the estate grounds, deep beyond the formal south gardens. Built by a previous generation of Balfours, it was an imposing labyrinth of weathered ironwork and hundreds of towering panes of glass.

Most of the Duke’s exotic summer plants had long since been moved into the indoor conservatories for the winter, leaving the vast structure half-empty, echoing, and shadows-drenched beneath the gray sky.

Nicholas ran wildly ahead down the gravel path, his small boots crunching loudly while Hector tore after him in a chaotic blur of white-and-chestnut fur.

A biting autumn wind stirred her skirts as she approached the heavy double doors of the glasshouse. Overhead, the massive iron frame creaked softly in the gale. Long, dead vines curled like skeletal fingers along the outer walls, their brittle leaves scratching rhythmically against the glass panes like someone begging to be let in.

Nicholas pushed the heavy iron-framed doors open first, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. “Papa?”

There was no answer. Only the hollow, metallic sound of the rain beginning to tap softly against the glass roof overhead.

Penelope stepped inside, her slippers clicking against the stone floor. The air inside smelled strongly of damp earth, stagnant water, and decaying winter moss. Rows upon rows of empty terracotta planters lined the long central path, stretching into the dim recesses of the greenhouse.

“Malcolm?” she called out, her voice tight.

Still, nothing but the escalating drumming of the rain.

Nicholas frowned, his excitement instantly dimming as he looked around the desolate space. “Perhaps he is playing a game. Perhaps he is hiding from us.”

“Hector would have found him by now if he were here,” Penelope reasoned, her voice dropping an octave.

The hound was sniffing around the base of an empty iron table enthusiastically, before becoming thoroughly distracted by a discarded, rotting gardening glove.

The faint tug of unease in Penelope’s stomach suddenly sharpened into a terrifying, icy blade. It was too quiet.

“Nicholas,” Penelope said softly, her heart beginning to hammer against her ribs. “We are leaving. Right now.”

She turned sharply back toward the entrance and the heavy iron doors slammed shut with a deafening, violent crash.

Nicholas jumped, letting out a small gasp. Penelope spun around, her breath completely catching in her throat, her blood turning to pure ice in her veins.

Charles stood there.

Rain dotted the shoulders of his dark wool coat, making the fabric look black. The wide brim of his damp hat cast deep, sinister shadows across his aristocratic features, but it was not enough to hide the ugly, triumphant satisfaction burning in his dark eyes. He looked unhinged, his lips parted in a cruel, jagged smile.

Every single ounce of warmth drained from Penelope’s body. The nightmare she thought she had escaped had followed her into the dark.

Nicholas moved instantly to her side, his small hand gripping her skirts. “Uncle Charles,” her son said, his voice wary.

Charles didn’t answer. Slow and deliberate, he reached out and slid the iron bolt completely across the double doors. The harsh, metallic scrape of metal against metal echoed through the hollow glasshouse like the locking of a tomb.

Penelope’s pulse lurched violently, a cold sweat breaking out across the nape of her neck. “What are you doing here, Charles?”

Charles ignored her question, taking his time as he peeled his leather gloves off his fingers, one by one. “You truly thought Malcolm summoned you for a romantic little tryst in a rotting greenhouse, Penelope?”

Her stomach turned violently, a wave of profound nausea washing over her. The note. The hurried handwriting that looked just close enough to the Duke’s.