Lady Farrington was quite possibly the most beautiful woman Beckett had ever seen. She was also demure. And kind. And everything that her husband was not.

Beckett understood that marriages in the ton did not often involve well-paired couples, and he assumed that was the case here, being that Lady Farrington was everything that her husband was not.

But then he watched them as they rode together in their carriage, with its decorative gold trimmings and plump cushions. And it quickly became apparent that Lord and Lady Farrington's marriage was not one of convenience. Beckett thought surely when Lord Farrington wrapped his arm around his wife that she would stiffen, especially considering their company—him.

But she did not. Rather she leaned into the man, smiling contently.

Beckett, on the other hand, frowned, unsure of what to make of the situation he'd found himself in.

"Colonel Ash."

Beckett sighed. He had really been hoping that they could make it all the way to Southampton without having to exchange words. But Beckett had learned that Lord Farrington was rather fond of words. The man's mouth rarely ceased spewing them.

"Yes, my lord?"

He did not even try to keep the irritation from his voice. But Farrington did not seem to care. Instead, a sly smile crept onto his face.

"When we arrive, you are to stay in Lord Hutton's chambers."

Beckett nearly choked on his own tongue. Of all the goddamn words that this man could have sputtered.

"Excuse me?"

"The marquess, Lord Hutton. You shall stay in his chambers as they are vacant," Farrington said, rearranging the words he'd already said as if that would help Beckett to understand what the devil was going on.

"I do not know much of the ton's finer etiquette," he said, "but I am quite certain that is in breach of several unspoken rules."

Farrington waved off his concerns. "Spoken ones, as well. However, Addie was quite insistent on it. She wishes for you to remain close to Penelope to ensure her safety."

No, he could not be serious. Beckett felt his scowl visibly deepen. Which was good—he had no reservations in letting Farrington know just how ridiculous he sounded. "Surely," Beckett said, "the marchioness isn't any more at risk than any other party-goers."

Farrington took pause at that, rubbing his chin in thought. "It is merely that Penelope is...."

Lady Farrington lightly laughed, and the earl turned to face his wife with a knowing smile. Beckett was certain that there was a joke that he was not privy to.

"She is quite smart," the countess filled in for her husband. "Precocious, one might say."

Beckett did not understand what that had to do with anything.

Lord Farrington nodded in agreement. "And it is that particular quality which has gotten her into quite a bit of trouble."

A snort nearly slipped out of Beckett at that. "She is a full-grown woman, is she not?"

Farrington's features scrunched up as if he did not comprehend the correlation in Beckett's question. "Most certainly," he said, sounding affronted.

But then Lady Farrington's smooth voice cut in, an understanding tilt on her lips. "A full-grown woman who would stare down the barrel of a gun without pause, stubbornly goading the threat as if she herself were immortal." Her smile grew. "It is likely Penelope will determine the nature of Lord Lawton's smuggling operation before you, Colonel Ash. And then she shall land in all sorts of trouble."

The earl nodded. "She is a menace to herself. Honestly, that woman."

"I do not see how that is my concern," Beckett grumbled.

Farrington—the more annoying one—shrugged. "It is your concern because Addie says it is your concern."

Beckett bristled at the continual familiarity in which the earl spoke of the queen. "Why the hell do you keep referring to Her Majesty like she is your sister?"

"My sister?"

"As Addie," Beckett grumbled.

Farrington smiled, unbothered. "Because when I met her, that was her name. And she wasn't the queen. She was Kingfield's maid."

Beckett's mouth popped open. He certainly hadn't expected that response.

"I committed treason for the woman," Farrington continued. "Helped her get onto the throne. And therefore, she does not give a fig what I call her. And I wouldn't say that the queen is like a sister, per se." He tapped his chin again, thinking. "Perhaps a very close cousin. But Penelope...if I could claim her as my younger sister, I would. For her sake, that is. Her family is wretched."

Beckett couldn't help but wonder why Farrington wasn't the one watching Lady Hutton's back if he felt so strongly about her.

But he did not say that. Instead, he asked the only sensible question that he could think of, forgetting that there was absolutely nothing sensible about the man in front of him. "And how did you meet her?"

"I nearly married her."

It was confirmed; every time that Lord Farrington opened his mouth, Beckett became more perplexed. Fearing another odd answer from the man, Beckett refrained from asking anything else on the matter. Instead, he sat back in his seat and watched the countryside go by outside the carriage window.

How he would have much preferred to be riding at the moment. He felt far too confined in this space, despite the roominess of the carriage compared to most others. But Farrington had insisted that they travel in such a way so that he could regale him with details of his assignment.

And now, after hearing that Beckett was being asked to watch over Lady Hutton as though she were a child, he was more confident than ever that he should have ridden to Southampton. Every hour that passed was pure torture. Even more so than when he'd been stranded on that godforsaken island off the coast of France. In that hell-born storm that haunted his dreams.

By the time they arrived at the Hutton estate, Beckett was ready to steal a horse from the stables and ride it straight back to London. It did not matter that rain had begun to fall in thick sheets, turning the roads into treacherous pits of mud. He would have risked it. Damn his honor and loyalty to Adelaide, or else he would have done it.

There was only one thing that Beckett could do. And that was to find this smuggler—the sooner, the better—and most certainly before Lady Penelope did. And then he could go home.

The estate was grand. However, Beckett was not surprised, nor was he impressed. Building estate grounds that practically leached money from pockets simply for the sake of vanity was not something that Beckett thought should be a point of pride. But that was why he did not precisely fit in with the ton, was it not?

He expected to meet the precocious Lady Hutton upon entrance into the great hall, and he could not decide if he was disappointed or relieved to find the marchioness absent upon their arrival. He did not know how she would take to learning that he was meant to stay in her late husband's chambers or if, perhaps, she was already aware.

God, he hoped she was already aware. Or else he would insist that Lord Farrington be the bearer of the queen's wishes.

Pushing those thoughts to the back of his mind, Beckett followed the liveried footman up the sweeping staircase that branched into the home's entryway.

Home. Home to Beckett was a modest two-story in the outskirts of London. This was far more than simply a home. Or a house. Or even a mansion, such as those in Mayfair.

"Your chambers, sir," the footman said, presenting a looming cherry-oak door. "Your trunks should be brought up shortly."

"Trunk," Beckett grumbled.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I've only one trunk."

Beckett did not plan to be here long.

The footman nodded, his expression remaining unchanging, clearly well-trained. And then he walked away, leaving Beckett to stare at the doorway. Reluctantly, he pushed through it.

The decor inside was dark. Dark curtains, dark carpeting, dark bedclothes. It was as though the room itself was in mourning for the late marquess. Although aristocrats did it all the time, Beckett thought it was rather odd to sleep in a dead man's room.

The chambers were dark. But there was a voice spilling through the open door to Beckett's right. And the voice was light. Decidedly feminine. Soft.

"Colette, is that you? I need help—"

Beckett looked over just in time to see the owner of the voice stop abruptly in the doorway, eyes wide. And bodice gaping even wider.

Dear lord.

He was almost certain that the lady before him was Penelope, and she was not even remotely a child. A full-grown woman, indeed. Ample breasts spilled from her falling stays, which she clutched haphazardly to her body. She was half-dressed, her clothes doing an abysmal job of covering her—any part of her—and Beckett forced his eyes up to her face to try to tame the tightening that had begun in his breeches.

It did not help. Luminous blue eyes stared back at him. They were huge, and they sucked Beckett in like a goddamn spell.

Several long moments passed before she seemed to realize that she was not fully clothed, and Beckett spent all of those moments with his hands clenched in his pockets. He reckoned he should do more to avert his eyes or walk away or do something. But his feet were marooned here, on this patch of carpet.

Like his time on that wretched island.

Finally, the lady gasped and popped back behind the wall. Only her head, with its ridiculous display of auburn curls, peeked out past the door frame that clearly led to adjoining chambers.

And then she smiled, and Beckett felt something inside him lurch.

"You," she said.

"Me," he responded, rather lamely. Internally, he cursed himself.

"You must be Colonel Ash."

He sighed. Well, at least she was aware. Aware and apparently unbothered by their arrangement.

"And you must be Lady Hutton."

Her smile only increased—devastatingly bright and wide.

"Please call me Penelope."