met her?"
"More than my good breeding allows," Marcus responded dryly.
Penworthy's eyes grew distracted as he gazed into the fire, his glass forgotten in his hand. His posture was lax, and the lines of strain eased from his face as he spoke.
"She came here in the dead of winter. I had just come home from a session at Parliament and 'ill-tempered' is the kindest term that could apply to my mood."
Marcus leaned forward, his thoughts already leaping ahead in Penworthy's story. "You cannot mean to say she came here to this house? How was she dressed? I cannot think that your staff would allow her entrance."
Penworthy grinned. "She did not come in by the door." He glanced up, and his eyes were actually twinkling. "She climbed in my bedroom window and waited for me there."
Marcus felt his mouth grow slack. "In your bedchamber!"
"I did not notice her at first. You know how she can hide in shadows." He lifted his brandy and took a sip. "I did, however, notice an odor, but I could not locate it."
"When did she finally show herself?"
"Just as I sat down before the fire. She introduced herself with her knife applied directly to my throat."
Marcus swallowed, his own throat constricting at the thought. "She did not hurt you." It was as much a question as a statement.
"No. She said she wished to speak with me privately, and this was the only way to get my full attention and cooperation." Penworthy grinned as he set his brandy aside. "I assure you, she received that in full measure."
"I do not doubt it for a second."
"Understand, I could not see her. I merely felt her knife and had a vague impression of her height... and odor. I thought she was a street boy come to steal what he could." He took a deep breath. "So you see, you are not the only one to experience Fantine's somewhat violent side." Penworthy lapsed into silence, apparently content to end the conversation there.
Marcus nodded, knowing that good breeding demanded that he not press his friend for more details. But he could not let it rest. "Did she steal anything? How much did you offer her to spare your life?"
Penworthy started, as if woken from a reverie. "Hmmm? Oh! I offered her fifty pounds, my pocket watch, and a silver tray I had in the room."
"I wonder that she did not demand you summon tea so that she could take the service," Marcus commented dryly.
"Well." Penworthy chuckled. "Money has never been Fantine's primary motivation." Then he lapsed once again into his memories while Marcus tried not to give in to his frustration.
"Penworthy!" he cried. "What happened? What did she want?" Then he stopped. Bedroom. Night. Could Fantine have been looking for a rich protector? The very thought made his gut tighten painfully. It could not be possible. She had been too young to become Penworthy's mistress.
"You should see your face, old boy. I swear I have never seen you so anxious for information. Especially as it is about a woman you have vowed to hate until your dying day."
Marcus frowned, then shifted grumpily in his seat. "All right, I confess. I am acting particularly vulgar today. Now tell me what she wanted of you!"
"Why, certainly my dear boy," chortled Penworthy, apparently enjoying Marcus's discomfort. "It was quite odd really, or so I thought at the time. She wanted to know about me. Who were my parents, what did I do during my days, who graced my bed chambers—"
"No." It was more of a groan than a statement.
"Oh, yes," countered Penworthy. "She was barely twelve, but quite aware of the lascivious details of a gentleman's life. It took quite some time before she accepted that I did not spend my nights in debauchery. To this day, I thank God in heaven that I had no mistress."
Marcus stood and paced to the fire, using the time and motion to think. "But why would she be interested in all that?" he pressed. "In you in particular?"
"Because she is my daughter."
Not by a single flinch or flicker of an eye did Marcus betray the shock that reverberated
"More than my good breeding allows," Marcus responded dryly.
Penworthy's eyes grew distracted as he gazed into the fire, his glass forgotten in his hand. His posture was lax, and the lines of strain eased from his face as he spoke.
"She came here in the dead of winter. I had just come home from a session at Parliament and 'ill-tempered' is the kindest term that could apply to my mood."
Marcus leaned forward, his thoughts already leaping ahead in Penworthy's story. "You cannot mean to say she came here to this house? How was she dressed? I cannot think that your staff would allow her entrance."
Penworthy grinned. "She did not come in by the door." He glanced up, and his eyes were actually twinkling. "She climbed in my bedroom window and waited for me there."
Marcus felt his mouth grow slack. "In your bedchamber!"
"I did not notice her at first. You know how she can hide in shadows." He lifted his brandy and took a sip. "I did, however, notice an odor, but I could not locate it."
"When did she finally show herself?"
"Just as I sat down before the fire. She introduced herself with her knife applied directly to my throat."
Marcus swallowed, his own throat constricting at the thought. "She did not hurt you." It was as much a question as a statement.
"No. She said she wished to speak with me privately, and this was the only way to get my full attention and cooperation." Penworthy grinned as he set his brandy aside. "I assure you, she received that in full measure."
"I do not doubt it for a second."
"Understand, I could not see her. I merely felt her knife and had a vague impression of her height... and odor. I thought she was a street boy come to steal what he could." He took a deep breath. "So you see, you are not the only one to experience Fantine's somewhat violent side." Penworthy lapsed into silence, apparently content to end the conversation there.
Marcus nodded, knowing that good breeding demanded that he not press his friend for more details. But he could not let it rest. "Did she steal anything? How much did you offer her to spare your life?"
Penworthy started, as if woken from a reverie. "Hmmm? Oh! I offered her fifty pounds, my pocket watch, and a silver tray I had in the room."
"I wonder that she did not demand you summon tea so that she could take the service," Marcus commented dryly.
"Well." Penworthy chuckled. "Money has never been Fantine's primary motivation." Then he lapsed once again into his memories while Marcus tried not to give in to his frustration.
"Penworthy!" he cried. "What happened? What did she want?" Then he stopped. Bedroom. Night. Could Fantine have been looking for a rich protector? The very thought made his gut tighten painfully. It could not be possible. She had been too young to become Penworthy's mistress.
"You should see your face, old boy. I swear I have never seen you so anxious for information. Especially as it is about a woman you have vowed to hate until your dying day."
Marcus frowned, then shifted grumpily in his seat. "All right, I confess. I am acting particularly vulgar today. Now tell me what she wanted of you!"
"Why, certainly my dear boy," chortled Penworthy, apparently enjoying Marcus's discomfort. "It was quite odd really, or so I thought at the time. She wanted to know about me. Who were my parents, what did I do during my days, who graced my bed chambers—"
"No." It was more of a groan than a statement.
"Oh, yes," countered Penworthy. "She was barely twelve, but quite aware of the lascivious details of a gentleman's life. It took quite some time before she accepted that I did not spend my nights in debauchery. To this day, I thank God in heaven that I had no mistress."
Marcus stood and paced to the fire, using the time and motion to think. "But why would she be interested in all that?" he pressed. "In you in particular?"
"Because she is my daughter."
Not by a single flinch or flicker of an eye did Marcus betray the shock that reverberated
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