Chapter 55: Finding Someone New
At the Viremont estate.
By the time the carriage pulled up to the gates, Penelope forced her emotions into a cold, locked chest.
The estate she once lived in was unrecognizable.
The grand, sweeping lawns were crawling with elite knights in gleaming plate armors. Heavy iron chains and padlocks had been slung across the secondary carriage gates, and the very air hung thick with tension.
As Penelope stepped down from the carriage, the commanding knight at the gate immediately snapped his gauntleted fist to his breastplate in a rigid salute.
"My Lady Devereux," the knight announced, his voice booming. "The perimeter is secure. No one has entered or left without documentation."
"Ah... a commendable effort, Captain," Penelope replied, her voice betraying none of the turmoil tearing through her insides. "However, I am not here to audit your ledger."
The Knight’s brow furrowed slightly beneath the lip of his helm. "What brings your Ladyship to this house, then?"
"Take me to Lady Mirabel," she commanded, lifting her chin. "And ensure we are left entirely alone."
The knight lowered his fist, his posture shifting uncomfortably. "That is well within my power, My Lady. However, does His Lordship know of your visit here?"
Penelope fixed him with a frigid stare.
"Does it matter?"
Hearing the faint annoyance in her tone, the knight didn’t question further.
"Forgive me, My Lady. Right this way."
He turned, gesturing for her to follow as he led her through the grand, iron-stubbed double doors of the manor.
Inside, the usual bustling warmth of the estate was dead. The servant had been confined to the lower quarters, leaving the opulent hallways eerie and hollow.
Instead of leading her toward the family drawing rooms, the knight guided her down a narrow, stone staircase toward the estate’s secure subterranean wing. It was a reinforced, windowless vault originally built to protect the family’s ancient archives from fire and siege.
Now, it served as a high-security cell.
Two heavily armored sentries at attention outside the thick, iron-reinforced oak door. At the commander’s silent signal, one of them turned a heavy brass key in the lock with a loud, metallic clank, throwing the door open.
"We shall remain directly outside, My Lady," the commander whispered, stepping back to grant her passage into the gloom.
Penelope stepped into the room, the heavy doors thudding short.
The room was cold, illuminated by only a fitful glow of a few iron wall sconces. Seated at a plain wooden table at the center of the room, entirely stripped of her glittering jewels and noble finery, was Mirabel. The moment the latch clicked, she rose to her feet, her eyes wide with a mix of exhaustion and venom as she glared at the woman responsible for her ruin.
"You came," Mirabel murmured, her lips curling into a cruel smirk, as though she had been certain of Penelope’s arrival. Her eyes raked Penelope from head to toe and then back to her eyes. "You look remarkably well."
"Get to the point," Penelope replied, her voice cutting through the damp chill. She had not risked coming here to exchange hollow pleasantries. "What is it you wish to tell me regarding my mother?"
"What is the hurry?" Mirabel gave a dry, mocking chuckle and sank back down onto the wooden bench. "My dear Penelope... leaving yourself entirely unguarded with a broken, desperate woman like me. Are you not the least bit afraid of what I might do to you?"
Penelope’s gaze remained unwavering, her posture rigid. "You are welcome to try. But considering you managed to smuggle a letter out of a heavily guarded garrison, I doubt you went to such lengths merely to waste my time with empty threats."
Mirabel’s smile faltered, replaced by a cold, calculating gaze that mirrored the chill of the stone vault. She leaned forward, bracing her elbows upon the rough wood of the table, her fingers interlacing where glittering rings used to sit.
"The northern winds must be tempering you a bit too much, don’t you agree?" Mirabel mused, her voice a low purr. "Or perhaps it is the work of that charming husband of yours. His influence is beginning to take root, I see. But tell me, does he even know you are here?"
"My husband’s disposition is no concern of yours," Penelope countered smoothly, refusing to take the bait. "If you requested my presence merely to squander my time, our audience is at an end."
Mirabel let out a soft, theatrical sigh, shaking her head in mock disappointment. "Very well, if you wish to dispense the prelude, let us speak of the dead. It truly is a pity, you know. Your mother was a gentle soul. She bore no ill will and accepted my mother and me into her home, despite the pain we’ve caused her, the pain her husband caused her as well."
She clicked her tongue. "But following the disgrace, she took her own life to escape the ignominy... or at least, that is the tale everyone was led to believe."
Penelope’s eyes widened, the breath catching in her throat, and that infuriating, venomous smirk returned to Mirabel’s lips.
"What... what are you implying?" Penelope demanded, her composure fracturing.
Mirabel’s laughter was sharp and brittle. She surged to her feet, slamming her palms flat against the rough wood of the table, leaning forward until she was staring into Penelope’s face with visible hatred.
"I have never truly brooked your existence, Penelope Viremont," she spat, dropping the familiar childhood moniker like a curse.
"You were the precious, darling daughter of House Viremont until I stepped into the light and supplanted you. The court adored me. The servants doted on me far more than they ever did you.Our father draped me in luxury and paraded me through the capital, while you were relegated to the shadows of the estate like a common slave. No one cared about you, and it brought me so much joy."
Her smirk suddenly vanished, replaced by a twisted, furious sneer. "And as for William? I never loved him. Truth be told, the mere thought of binding myself to that lowborn creature nauseated me. What could a mere count’s son ever offer a woman of my ambition?"
She scoffed. "He lacks even a viscountsy to his name. The sole reason I ensnared William was to strip away every remaining loyalty you possessed. In fact, I was the one who put the idea into his head. He had no interest in you Penelope. My plans were flawless, until you ruined it! You have stripped me of everything!"
Penelope’s eyes stung, a bitter warmth gathering behind her lashes.
It was a cruel irony, considering she had deduced these truths long before Mirabel had spat them in her face, yet it cut deeply no less. Hearing the truth all over again also left her with a sense of relief, because Mirabel’s hatred did not stem from the fact that she had been a bad sister to her.
So no.
She would not grant her rival the satisfaction of a single tear. She would not weep here, in the dark, before her tormentor.
"And what use is this malice to me now?" Penelope asked instead, her voice remarkably steady despite the tempest in her chest. "I doubt you are baring your sins because you have found salvation. If you have not undergone a sudden change of heart, you may keep your pretty grievances to yourself. I care nothing for your trysts with William. He is a closed Chapter in my history, and I would prefer you cease binding my name to his."
"And why is that?" Mirabel’s eyes narrowed, sharp with sudden suspicion. "Don’t tell me– have you already surrendered your heart to the Marquis of Aelgard? I confess, I am entirely at a loss as to what he sees in you. For all the years he spent coveting you from afar, he would have been far wiser to abandon his pursuit and take the Duke’s sister to wife."
She let out a low, mocking chuckle. "After the misery you have inflicted upon him, do you not think you are being a bit selfish yourself, dearest sister?"
Mirabel stepped back from the table, pacing the confines of the stone vault like a caged creature. "The Duke of Belgravia would have gained a powerful ally in a brother-in-law. I am told his sister is exceptionally gentle, a paragon of sweet virtue. Surely she would have made a far better chatelaine for the Marquis. You simply do not deserve him."
"You do not possess the right to decide my worth," Penelope snapped, her icy facade cracking for a fraction of a second.
"Oh, but you know my words ring true," Mirabel pressed, leaning into the vulnerability. "Deep within that wretched heart of yours, you know the Marquis would find a truer happiness in the arms of another. What he harbors for you is mere obsession, not love. Give it time, sister. He will grow weary of you, and then he shall find someone else to latch upon."
