Penelope had spent most of the evening trying to figure out why Beckett was scowling.

She had seen him scowl many times before, but unless she was mistaken, Penelope thought that had been changing lately. It had been warming to watch him smile more.

But she did not feel warm now. Because when she approached Beckett on his way to their chambers for the night, he was awfully short in responding to her.

"Have you thought more about how we shall catch Lawton in his treason?" she asked, struggling to keep up with him as he took quick strides through the hallway. She could still hear the laughter of guests downstairs; the night was still young, and Beckett did not usually leave until she did. But this evening was different.

Beckett did not slow down. "Yes."

"And?" she pressed.

"And the most obvious approach would be to tail him." He sighed. "However, I am not certain I want to sacrifice time waiting for him to incriminate himself."

Her stomach sank at the implication that came with his statement. He did not want to waste time, did he? She could not help but wonder why that was. Why was he suddenly so intent on finishing something they had let drag on?

"We'll likely want to lure him out there, " he continued. "Perhaps we could fabricate a note or something of the sort. And then Griff and I shall await his arrival at the shed."

"And me?" Penelope asked.

"And you will undoubtedly be busy caring for your guests," he replied sharply. "The ones who are not smuggling goods on your estate."

Beckett stalked into his chambers, and Penelope stopped in her tracks, just inside the door. Fire roared in the grate, and the crackling was all that could be heard throughout the room.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked, keeping her voice low when she would have preferred to yell.

Beckett stared out the window, not turning around. "What?"

"Why are you shutting me out when just earlier you told me that we were in this together?"

When Beckett replied, his voice was equally low. Barely a murmur. "That was before I realized there will never be a we."

Penelope shut the door behind her, closing them into the room filled with shadows. "Beckett..." she started. "What are you talking about?"

He finally turned, and Penelope nearly gasped at how torn his expression was. Her anger melted away, and concern took its place.

"You are married," he said, his jaw ticking.

She blinked twice before frowning. "Yes."

Beckett nodded, but something she could not name passed over his face.

"I did not realize," he said eventually.

Penelope hadn't a clue what to say, but she felt something deep inside her crack open. It felt like a chasm, never-ending in its sorrow. Loneliness suddenly struck her. "We have spoken about my husband on more than one occasion," she managed to mutter.

"And in all those occasions, I was led to believe that he was gone." Beckett's tone remained soft, but a storm brewed just beneath his features, and Penelope noticed how his hands were clasped tightly at his sides.

"He is gone," she emphasized. "He ran away from this estate with his mistress and never returned."

"Dead, Penelope." Beckett's muscles flexed as he punched the words out. "I believed him dead. Perhaps I should have asked more questions, but I simply did not think that if he were alive he would remain absent after so many years—"

He clamped his mouth shut when his volume began to rise.

Penelope shook her head, lost for words. She wished Lord Hutton was dead. Hell, he might have been dead. Because Beckett was right: it had been so many years. Her husband would rather spend years abroad than return home.

"I—I do not know what to say." She frowned. "But this changes nothing, Beckett."

She closed the distance between them until she stood merely a pace before him. But he didn't reach out to her like she had grown accustomed to, and the chasm grew deeper. Lonelier.

"This changes everything, Penelope."

She did not understand. "How?"

Mock laughter slipped through his lips. "I suppose you did not think beyond next week, did you? I suppose you only wanted someone to warm your bed until it was time for me to leave."

Penelope drew straighter, feeling anger begin to course within her. "Don't do that, Beckett. Do not put words into my mouth."

"Then what?" he challenged. "What did you want me for if not that?"

"I—I—" She stuttered, not having the words yet to describe how she wanted him but knowing it had always been more than that. Beckett rolled his eyes up, hurt lingering there, and Penelope stomped her foot on the ground. "I care for you. Stop acting like I do not. Stop acting as if you planned beyond next week, and it is only I who—"

"I planned," he cut in succinctly.

"You—what?"

"I planned, Penelope." He took a step forward, his expression painful as he cupped her cheek with his rough palm. "I planned to keep you in any way that I could. So yes, this does change everything." He gripped her chin between two fingers, tipping it up. "Because I wanted you to be mine."

She sucked in, not used to hearing such possession come from any man. The chasm within her closed...but only slightly.

"Did you really think I would step aside and let another man take my place?" Beckett leaned closer, his warm breath fanning her skin. "Did you expect that I would leave you when I can barely stand not seeing you for a bloody hour? I stay up at night memorizing the way you goddamn feel, Penelope."

"I did not know what to think," Penelope confessed. "You are a practical man, and though I wanted you to stay, I knew you—"

"I am a practical man," he cut in. "Unless it involves you."

Penelope could barely handle the pain in his voice. She had no idea. She'd thought it was only her who had grown attached, and she had told herself not to. She had been warning her heart away from this overbearing, handsome man. It would have been too difficult to watch him walk away otherwise.

And here he was...saying that he never wanted to leave her at all.

"Run away," he said then. "Come back to London with me or wherever else."

Tears sprung to Penelope's eyes because she so badly wanted to do that. But...

"I cannot."

"Why?" Beckett's features pulled tight. He dropped her face like she had spurned him. "He did."

There was no confusion about who he was.

"I am not the marquess," Penelope retorted hotly. "I will not abandon the people relying on me here." Some tenants depended on her ability to keep the estate afloat, and it would ruin their lives if she were to walk away forever. "Why can you not stay here?"

Penelope braced herself for an answer surrounding duty, honor, and service to the crown. But that answer did not come. Instead, Beckett strode to the fireplace before striking his fist down on the mantle.

"Because I hate that he could return and simply lay claim to you. He can't do that, Penelope, because you are no other man's to claim."

She sucked in, torn. Absolutely, horrifyingly torn into pieces.

"No, I am yours," she whispered. Because it was the truth. "But I cannot go with you, Beckett. Even if I want to."

Silence lingered between them until Beckett croaked out, "Fine. Then let us solve this damned case."

"And what after?" she asked, unable to stop herself.

The thought of saying goodbye destroyed her.

Beckett did not have an answer, though.

And perhaps that destroyed her even more.

****

Penelope found it challenging to focus on the conversation passing around the parlor when the discussion from yesterday evening bounced through her brain instead.

He wanted her. He wanted to keep her.

No one had ever wanted to keep her.

But now Penelope could not find him, and she worried it was too late.

Beckett had spent weeks hardly leaving her side, sometimes annoyingly so. But tonight he was nowhere to be seen. It had been hours, and worry was making her stomach hurt. He had been short this morning, still angry because he seemed to believe she had purposefully deceived him about her marriage. And now....now he was not even here at all.

Penelope whipped her head around again, searching for any sign of him—that golden hair, perhaps, or those keen eyes. But nothing. Griffin was absent as well, but that wasn't entirely uncommon and—oh, God.

Her eyes quickly scanned the parlor again.

Lord Lawton had been standing in the doorway not moments before, speaking with Lord Barlow. But he was no longer there. Likely he joined the rest of the gentlemen in the study, but Penelope had a gnawing feeling in her gut.

What if he went somewhere entirely different? What if—

"Where is your...good friend tonight, Lady Hutton?"

Penelope twisted back around, wincing slightly at how Lady Bucklebee emphasized good. But mainly because Penelope felt the urge to cringe at anything said with Lady Bucklebee's nasally voice, not because she genuinely cared if speculation circled on her and Beckett.

How come, of all the women and all her guests, this was the woman who lived the closest to Penelope? She had been here before all other guests, and she would likely stay longer. It was simply what Lady Bucklebee did; she clung.

"I...do not know," Penelope said honestly, caught off guard, her mind still lingering on Lawton.

She noticed how Lady Bucklebee's expression changed at her response. She must have been expecting Penelope to at least pretend not to understand her implication. That or to know precisely where the Colonel was. After all, Penelope made it her mission to always be able to answer her guests' questions, especially Lady Bucklebee.

But Lady Bucklebee's face turned a slightly darker shade of red. "Oh?"

Penelope cleaned her voice, attempting to recover. "He is likely with my brother."

Lady Bucklebee nodded slowly as she pulled out her fan and began to swat it over her face. "And your brother...he is also in the royal forces?" she asked.

"Yes." Penelope frowned. "Why do you ask?"

She did not respond. Instead, Lady Bucklebee surged to her feet before slamming her fan shut again. She placed it in her reticle and quickly snapped it closed.

"I am afraid I have grown overtired," Lady Bucklebee drawled. "I shall take my leave for the evening."

Before Penelope could bid her a good night, Bucklebee shuffled from the room. The women around her did not even pause in the chattering, and Penelope found it irritated her senses while she tried to think. Think.

Where was Beckett? Griffin? Was it possible they were with Lawton? Oh, god...was it possible that Beckett had left? Why had Lady Bucklebee acted oddly at the mention of her brother?

Penelope struggled to find answers. Because simply put, there were none. Not in this room, anyway.

So instead of staying put, she followed her gut.