Chapter Text
Clyvedon, 1808
Simon Basset was nearly finished with his studies at Oxford when the letter arrived.
The dark red wax seal left no room for doubt. It bore the crest of the Dukedom of Hastings.
The mere sight of it sent a shiver down his spine, one far closer to revulsion than reverence.
His father.
After years of silence, of deliberate absence, he now summoned him.
There was no trace of affection in the message, only a command: cold, terse, impatient.
Simon could not have expected anything more. In truth, he was surprised the letter had arrived at all.
He might have ignored it, as many young men in his position would have, gone on with their lives, pretending no such missive had ever reached their hands.
But Simon did not. Not this time.
He had never been summoned before. And that alone stirred a measure of curiosity within him.
Within a day, he left Oxford behind and set out for Clyvedon.
The journey passed without incident, and in a few days’ time, he found himself before his ancestral home.
Clyvedon House.
For the first time in his memory, he was welcomed with full honours.
“Welcome home, Lord Clyvedon,” said the man who was unmistakably the butler, and who proceeded to introduce himself.
Simon barely heard the name. The title had struck him like a blow. And more than that, the manner in which it had been spoken, as if it were customary, as if Simon had always belonged to that house, rather than been hidden away like some shameful secret, as if his late mother had been the Duchess of Hastings.
Lord Clyvedon
Two word that held within it the identity that had always been denied him, because he had failed to meet the expectations of the man he was unfortunate enough to call his father.
After a moment’s disorientation, he gave a silent nod to the man whose name he had not caught, and stepped across the threshold.
A footman approached him swiftly, halting him mid-step.
“I have been instructed to escort you to your rooms, my lord. His Grace expects your presence at dinner. There will be guests.”
“Guests?” Simon arched a brow.
The young footman flushed slightly, but replied at once. “Yes, my lord. A formal dinner. His Grace wishes you to be… presentable.”
Presentable . Of course the Duke thought he wasn’t presentable.
Simon understood with absolute certainty, then, that this was no visit of courtesy.
And he wondered whether even for the Duke, it was a matter of duty more than desire.
Still, the footman bore no blame, and Simon allowed himself to be led.
As they walked, he could not help but wonder about the nature of these guests.
Business? A partnership? An alliance? A marriage?
The last thought made him scoff. If Simon had any say in the matter, he would be the last Duke of Hastings.
Could it be that his father knew that, and had found some young bride to give him another heir? A better one?
The idea was not so far-fetched.
And as he finished dressing, Simon could not help but hope that the future Duchess of Hastings was not waiting for him downstairs.
***
While his son prepared himself upstairs, the Duke of Hastings pondered the events that had led to this evening.
Though he had kept his distance for much of Simon’s life, he had never truly ceased to watch him.
With the aid of discreet secretaries and well-placed contacts at Oxford, he tracked his academic progress, his acquaintances, and above all, his future plans.
And he knew, with a chilling certainty, that Simon intended to leave for the Continent upon completing his studies.
A Grand Tour, yes, but with no intention of returning.
He could not allow it. Not now. Not before the succession was secured.
Time was running short. He was no longer young, and the thought of dying without ensuring a firm heir tormented him every night.
He decided that the surest way to bind Simon to England was to bind him to a stronger tie: marriage.
The ideal wife? A young lady of good family — meek, malleable — perfect to be shaped into a future Duchess who would safeguard the Basset name without causing trouble.
Yet, even with such a coveted title, the prospects were surprisingly few. Simon was young — perhaps too young at only twenty-four, — and his reputation as a rake as well as a cold, distant, almost hostile man had already dissuaded many ambitious mothers.
The solution came, as it so often does, from scandal.
A few weeks before the summons, Hastings had been present at a private card game among nobles and parvenus.
Lord Archibald Featherington, already notorious for his excesses, lost a considerable sum.
The man teetered on the brink of ruin, yet he had three daughters — whom he was, regrettably, willing to sacrifice the dowries of to finance his vices, confident that luck would turn and he would win enough.
The girls were young, years away from their debut.
It was then that Hastings began to ask questions.
He hired a detective and had the profiles of the three Featherington sisters thoroughly examined.
The eldest was far too headstrong; the second appeared altogether too foolish — but the third — Miss Penelope Featherington — seemed perfect, despite her youth.
She was young — too young, barely twelve — but her attributes were plain to see.
Her broad hips would allow her to carry a pregnancy to term, and her ample bosom promised to sustain her children; the years ahead would only serve to mature her further.
And if her appearance were not enough, her character was.
Every report described her as quiet, well-mannered, and inclined to obedience — perfectly suited to be shaped.
It did not take long to reach an agreement. Hastings agreed to settle Lord Featherington’s debts, a sum so extravagant it would have shamed even another Duke, in exchange for young Penelope’s hand in marriage.
And if Lord Featherington hesitated at first, the promise of an annual allowance for the next six years was all it took to seal their pact.
No one would ever know.
The marriage would take place, and his son would not be able to dissolve it years later. His wife would carry on the Hastings legacy, and if children were to arrive sooner than expected, well, it would not be Hastings who questioned their paternity. Nor their appearance.
***
Penelope Featherington could not recall the last time her father had taken her anywhere.
And yet, there she was. Seated beside him in the carriage as it glided along the muddy roads toward the elegant estate of the Duke of Hastings.
He had told her it was an important dinner, and that he wanted her to be perfect.
His words, spoken in an uncharacteristically gentle tone, had left her bewildered.
For the past month, he had been different: more present, more affectionate, even considerate.
Penelope had clung to those moments with the fierce hope of a daughter starved for affection.
Even though the more sensible voice within her whispered that something was amiss, her heart silenced it with longing.
For the first time, her father seemed to truly see her, not as the daughter who had disappointed him by not being a son, not as the unnecessary child who had come after the others.
Though her mother often reminded her that she was only twelve and had time yet to grow taller, slimmer, livelier, Penelope knew the truth: she was always too much, and becoming even more so.
She had noticed how her mother disapproved of how much she read, how much time she spent with the Bridgertons, how often she dreamt of love.
Her mother always said that love was a fantasy.
Penelope was certain she believed it.
But she knew love was real. She had seen it, felt it, in the way Lady Bridgerton had looked at her husband, in the warmth that still lingered in that household.
So unlike her own.
Penelope was twelve years old, and she was hungry for love.
So when her father had told her he wished to take her to the Duke’s house, and that she must be on her very best behaviour, she had resolved to do everything just right.
She would sit properly, speak only when spoken to, and laugh with grace if prompted.
Perhaps then, he would not stop loving her.
With these thoughts swirling in her mind, Penelope Featherington stepped down from the carriage like a young lady with a purpose.
Still, she could not help but feel a quiet thrill at the grandeur of the estate.
She had never seen anything so magnificent.
Too young to accompany her mother to court, this was the most splendid house she had ever entered.
Once they were shown into the dining room, Penelope found herself standing before the Duke himself.
She curtsied with all the grace she could summon.
The old man seemed pleased, stepping forward to kiss her knuckles and addressing her as Lady Penelope.
She flushed deeply.
The gesture made her uncomfortable, though she told herself it was only because she was unaccustomed to such attention.
Not long after, the Duke’s heir joined them.
He was tall, remarkably tall, and carried himself with a kind of effortless authority.
Her father had mentioned him during their journey, saying he was close in age to Lord Bridgerton, and, as far as he knew, a friend of his.
Penelope had clung to that detail, hoping it would make the evening feel less strange.
After all, Lord Anthony Bridgerton was their neighbour in Mayfair and the older brother of Eloise, her best friend.
If this Lord Clyvedon was indeed his friend, surely he must be a good man.
Bolstered by that thought, she curtsied once again, this time to the younger gentleman.
But unlike the Duke, he barely acknowledged her, offering the briefest nod and a glance that made her heart sink.
He looked… displeased. Perhaps even disgusted.
Penelope blinked hard and forced herself to smile.
She had promised to behave well tonight.
A lady, her mother often said, does not flinch at cold looks. She simply carries on.
Dinner unfolded slowly, or so it seemed to Penelope. She was quite certain the Duke’s son would have agreed with her.
Her father, on the other hand, was beaming.
He laughed too loudly, praised his “well-mannered daughter,” and exchanged far too many knowing looks with the Duke across the table.
Penelope felt like an animal on display, something rare and curious, to be observed and admired.
No one had ever shown her off like this before.
She didn’t know whether to be proud or frightened.
She only knew she had to keep smiling, to make no mistakes.
Then dessert was served.
A lemon pudding, garnished with cream and raspberries.
As the footman placed the dish before her, her father leaned in with a conspiratorial smile and held out his wine glass.
“A sip, my dear. Just a sip, to celebrate.”
Penelope hesitated.
She had never tasted wine before.
It wasn’t meant for girls her age, and more than that, she knew all too well what wine did to her father. The sharp smell. The slurred speech. The heavy, unfocused gaze.
But tonight, he was looking at her with such softness.
The same softness that had made her believe, just recently, that perhaps she truly mattered to him.
“It’ll be our little secret,” he whispered. “A toast between partners.”
Her fingers trembled as she took the glass.
The wine was bitter. It burned her throat. She tried to smile as she set it back down, though her cheeks were warm and her eyes suddenly damp.
“A good woman is obedient,” the Duke declared not long after, directing the comment to no one in particular, but his gaze was firmly fixed on his son. “And when she is properly trained, she becomes an asset to any house.”
That was the last thing Penelope remembered.
***
Archibald Featherington had never been a virtuous man.
He had squandered fortunes, kept disreputable company, lost the respect of his wife, and perhaps that of God Himself.
But he had never thought himself an evil father.
Neglectful, yes. Selfish, undoubtedly.
But not wicked.
Until that night.
His downfall had begun with the Duke of Hastings’ proposition.
A mutually beneficial arrangement, the Duke had said, his voice cold and sharp as a hunting blade. Our children shall complete one another. You shall resolve my troubles, and I shall settle yours.
And so Archibald had signed.
The promise of an annual allowance, paid until Penelope’s eighteenth year, had been enough to bring him to his knees.
The contract was drawn up with exquisite precision by a seasoned solicitor.
Penelope would become Lady Basset, the wife of the future Duke of Hastings.
A dream match for a girl of her station.
A salvation for him.
But the Duke had not trusted his son. "He is proud. Rebellious. But he will not resist a union that is too convenient to deny, if the moment is well timed."
Archibald had nodded in agreement, though he had not fully grasped the depth of what was being set in motion.
It had not been he who tampered with the drink Penelope was offered during dessert, but he knew.
He knew as she looked at him with such hope in her eyes, like a daughter desperate to make her father proud.
That look struck him in the chest like a poisoned thorn.
But it was too late.
When the draught began to take effect, their children became little more than puppets.
The Duke delivered his instructions with chilling clarity.
It was imperative that they be wed, immediately, and that they repeat the prescribed vows to the clergyman who would arrive within the hour.
It was to be a midnight marriage.
The ceremony was brief, almost unremarkable.
Had Archibald not known the young pair were no longer in full command of themselves, he would never have suspected anything was amiss.
Once the reverend had departed, the Duke returned, his expression fixed with calm certainty.
There were no further commands about the consummation. He seemed to think none were necessary.
He merely turned to his son and said, "Take your wife to bed", and to Penelope, "Obey him".
That vague, ominous command offered Archibald a flicker of hope. Though pressed, he could not have said what for.
All he managed, as the door to the bedchamber closed behind the pair, was a whisper: “May God have mercy on my soul.”
***
When her husband failed to return from dinner at Hastings House, Portia Featherington knew, without the slightest doubt, that something was dreadfully amiss.
And so she did the only thing a woman bereft of official power yet endowed with full moral authority could do: she marched to Hastings House.
Nothing, however, could have prepared her for what she would find.
Archibald had sold Penelope.
Their daughter.
Her child, but twelve years of age, had been handed over like chattel to a man whose nobility was in name alone, for no honourable gentleman would desire a child.
He was a monster. They were monster
Portia did not hesitate. She ascended the stairs, flung open the door to the chamber, and found her daughter asleep.
The relief, upon seeing no blood, was instant, instinctive. Yet it was not enough.
The noise roused Lord Clyvedon.
Portia watched as the man, still thick with drink, turned in horror upon his father the moment he comprehended he lay abed with a mere girl.
As Simon confronted his father, his voice rang through the chamber with fury.
Portia stood in silence, watching the young man with an unreadable expression.
Perhaps he spoke the truth. Perhaps not. She did not care. She did not trust him. He had lain with her daughter, and that alone was enough.
He could have stopped it. He had not.
She would never forgive him.
With a sharp glance, she summoned the valet she had brought with her.
Together, they lifted Penelope, still lost in a deep, unnatural sleep, and began to carry her from the room.
The Duke moved, perhaps to interfere, but Lord Clyvedon stepped between them.
“They will go,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “As will I. Or the Ton shall know everything.”
Portia did not look back.
Penelope still slept, unaware of the shadow that had brushed so close. Portia looked down at her child.
It was a mercy, she thought, this confusion of the mind that granted her a temporary peace.
No one followed them as they made their way to the waiting carriage. And for that, Portia felt a measure of relief.
Several hours later, when Archibald finally returned and revealed that a marriage had been celebrated, Portia regarded him with a cold, unwavering disdain.
“The marriage has not been consummated,” she said, her voice icy and precise. “The son of your precious Lord Hastings has vanished. And if you dare speak another word, if you even so much as whisper about this. I will see to it that all of London knows exactly what you have done.”
Archibald’s face twisted with fury. “You will ruin us all. You will ruin yourself. You will ruin your daughters.”
Portia met his venomous gaze without flinching. “You have already ruined us,” she replied quietly, each word like a blade.
Those were the last words she ever spoke to him on the matter, until the day the Duke of Hastings returned to London.