A Winter Wedding Read online

  Penelope was shamelessly delighted. Marchford less so.

  “May I have the honor of leading you into the ballroom?” asked Marchford politely.

  Frances giggled and clapped her hands. She stepped away momentarily to give her wrap to one of the footmen.

  “I fear I am robbing the nursery of its brightest ornament,” Marchford hissed in Pen’s ear.

  Pen stifled a laugh.

  “Since I will be occupied for the near future in unavoidable conversation, do keep your eye on Jonathan, that footman.”

  “Why?” asked Penelope.

  “Something shady about his footwear. Do not forget the only reason I returned to London at all is to discover the spymaster.”

  Marchford’s request was a serious one. He had been engaged in flushing out French spies from society for the past several years, both abroad and at home. The fact that he trusted Penelope with such work made a happy thrill run down her spine.

  “Which one is he?” she asked, keeping herself from giggling and clapping her hands in excitement in the manner of a certain youthful debutante.

  “He is taking the child’s wrap now.”

  Frances returned and Marchford led her into the ballroom with the look of a long-suffering saint. Penelope refused to feel guilty.

  Penelope loitered for a few minutes, watching the footman take coats as guests arrived. He was not doing anything of any particular suspicion. Soon, however, he handed over his duties to another footman and disappeared through a side door, which Pen guessed led to the servants’ passages.

  Penelope followed her quarry down a servants’ stairwell at a discreet distance. No member of society could do the same. That was the nice thing about being a companion; one could go almost anywhere and nobody would notice. Or if it wasn’t nice, at least it was helpful.

  The footman, an attractive man of at least six feet tall, walked down the corridor with a swagger of confidence he would not have dared show in the drawing rooms upstairs. He entered the kitchen and Pen followed, the heat warming her face even before she entered the room.

  He selected a tray that held three decanters of hard spirits and began to refill them. It was winter, and the cold put the guests in mind to drink.

  Penelope found the harried cook to give the impression she had some business below stairs. “My mistress, the Duchess of Marchford, requests tea to aid her digestion,” Penelope said to the cook. “I have brought her special blend.” Pen reached into her reticule and handed a pouch of tea to the cook.

  “Yes, miss,” said the cook without a second look at Penelope.

  Penelope busied herself with the teacups while watching the footman out of the corner of her eye. He filled two of the decanters but not the third. The only odd thing she noted was one bottle was labeled “Whiskey” and two were “Brandy.” Perhaps he was offering two types of brandy?

  He headed back upstairs with his tray. She decided to test his disposition and turned quickly to step out in front of him, causing him to nearly lose his balance.

  “Watch it, you careless, little…” He stopped short when he realized she was not a member of the kitchen staff, but the look of venom he bestowed upon her revealed that beneath the cheerful disposition beat a calculating heart. He knew just how much he could get away with. As a guest, he could not verbally berate her, but as a lowly companion, he could certainly attempt to make her feel her place with a demeaning look.

  “So sorry,” said Penelope.

  “I’m sure you are,” he said with all impudence. He turned and swaggered his way back up the stairs. He straightened his shoulders when he reached the ballroom door and entered the ballroom the very picture of poise. She watched him until her own tray became heavy, and she went in search of the dowager.

  The regal Duchess of Marchford was playing whist and, by the devious glint in her eye, winning most atrociously. Her partner, Lord Langley, was smiling in a genial sort of way. Penelope placed the tea beside the dowager, who glared at it as if Penelope had offered her hemlock.

  “And what is that?” asked the dowager.

  Penelope knew she would not be pleased, but she needed to keep up the act. Working with the duke for the better part of nine months had taught her as much. “Your tea, Your Grace. I know how you like tea in the evenings.”

  “At home.” The dowager’s voice was like ice.

  “Yes, of course,” said Penelope. “I will ask a footman to take away the tray.”

  “And Sir Gareth is speaking to the wrong chit. Fix it,” demanded the dowager with a wave of her hand. Marchford was not the only client of Madame X that evening, though Penelope was more inclined to offer actual help when it came to her other clients.

  Penelope followed the dowager’s line of sight and noted Sir Gareth speaking with a young lady, which unbeknownst to him was not the one she intended him to marry. Sir Gareth moved away from the object of his attention, presumably to acquire refreshments, and Penelope intercepted.

  “Good evening, Sir Gareth,” said Penelope. “I see you have made the acquaintance of Miss Reeves.”

  “Yes, charming girl.” He gave an interested smile.

  “Quite. I do not think I have ever seen a girl quite so beautiful. And so much admired. I do not envy her future husband.” Since Miss Reeves had the moral compass of a serpent, Penelope felt the interference was justified.

  “Why is that?” Sir Gareth was startled at the comment.

  “Why, with a bride as young and beautiful as she, one would always have the need to guard the roost.”

  “I see. Yes, you have a point.” From Gareth’s tone, it was clear her shaft had hit home. He had recently been appointed to an important post overseas and was facing extended trips abroad.

  “Ah, I see Lady Jane across the way. I have been looking for her, poor dear,” said Penelope, thinking quickly to set her plan in motion.

  “Has something happened to Janie?” Sir Gareth coughed and corrected himself. “Lady Jane.”

  Penelope smiled. Sir Gareth and Lady Jane had been friends since childhood. “It is not common knowledge, since she certainly does not wish for a scandal, but Lady Jane is no longer engaged.”

  “Truly?” Gareth sounded hopeful, a good sign.

  “Yes, but I must ask for your confidence. I understand the groom was found wanting.” Since the man had lost his fortune at cards and slept with half of London, Penelope considered him very wanting indeed. Lady Jane had called off the engagement but feared societal retribution.

  “Indeed, the man was utterly unworthy of her,” he said with a shake of his head.

  “Quite. Still the whole affair has been lowering. She has been remembering happier times. She speaks of you a great deal when she talks of her childhood.”

  “Does she speak of me?” Gareth turned to her and gave Pen his full attention.

  Penelope smiled. “Quite positively.”

  “How kind,” said Gareth, gazing in the direction of Lady Jane. The music started again and brought Gareth back to his senses. “Oh, I am engaged to dance with Miss Reeves.” And with that he walked away.

  Penelope sighed. The matters of the heart were most difficult to manage.

  Which reminded her, she needed to find the duke. He was nowhere in sight, a sure sign he had run away, and Pen had an idea where.

  She walked down an empty corridor to Grant’s study. She heard voices behind the closed door, knocked, received silence, so she opened the door herself. “If you are attempting to hide from your company, you should lower your voice,” she chastised.

  “Miss Rose!” Marchford stood at her entrance. “You abandoned me with an infant!”

  Grant laughed and beckoned her inside, shutting the door behind her. “Marchford was regaling me with horror stories of the life of a bachelor.” Grant was a remarkably handsome man, perfectly attired in a coat of dark
burgundy superfine, with the blond curly hair and blue eyes of a Nordic god. When the ton looked to fashion, they looked to him.

  “Was it so terribly bad?” Penelope asked innocently, trying to hide a smile.

  Marchford stepped closer, his eyes a mixture of amusement and outrage. “I see you are enjoying my discomfort. I thought you were supposed to be of help, but you left me when I was most needful.”

  “I was following the footman as requested.” Penelope had to turn away from those light gray eyes before she could be drawn once more under his spell. A change of subject was needed, and she knew she could speak openly to only a few—the spy hunters of London. Mr. Grant, though resistant at times, was one of them.

  “Ah, all cloak and dagger, mystery and intrigue,” Grant accused Marchford. “You cannot go anywhere without running afoul of a traitor or two. I begin to rethink our acquaintance.”

  “Difficult times, my friend,” said Marchford. He sat on an upholstered settee and motioned for Penelope to sit next to him.

  “The war, you mean?” asked Penelope. She hesitated, unsure if she should sit so close, but she did anyway, unable to resist.

  “Oh no, every good Englishman loves a good war. It’s this mad king that’s got us in a twist,” said Grant with his unfailing good humor. He claimed a leather chair next to them.

  “King George?” asked Penelope, trying to focus on the conversation rather than how close her thigh was from touching Marchford’s. Everyone knew their aging monarch, King George III, had taken ill once more and now his sanity had quite left him.

  “Yes,” said Marchford. “This special early session of Parliament has been called to discuss this matter and debate the merits of naming the Prince of Wales as regent.”

  “Love the prince,” said Grant. “Great parties, nothing but the best. Though I fear his household management skills may be slightly lacking.”

  “Indeed,” said Penelope and held her tongue. The Prince of Wales was notorious for living a profligate life. His numerous affairs were legendary and Parliament had already been obliged to bail out his debts to the shocking amount of 161,000 pounds.

  “And some believe the entire discussion is grounds for treason,” continued Marchford, lowering his voice and leaning even closer to Penelope. “So the entire situation must be handled with care.”

  Penelope swallowed hard, willing herself not to react to his closeness nor the warm smell of his coat. She focused on the conversation and had no doubt Marchford was deeply involved in the “handling” of the situation. “But what does all this have to do with enemy agents in London?”

  “Napoleon no doubt views our current crisis as weakness and an opportunity to act. I fear there may be some sort of plot brewing.”

  “What sort of plot?” asked Penelope.

  “If I knew that, I would not have risked coming to London to find out.” Marchford’s tone was grave, but there was a mischievous smile in his eyes when he regarded Penelope.

  “Try not to cause a scene at my party. It is my poor wife’s first ball as hostess,” Grant said with a smile. “Which reminds me, I must return to my duties as host. I shall leave the world of espionage in your capable hands. Evening!” Grant slid from the room with a fluid grace, an easy smile on his lips.

  Marchford turned to her and their knees accidently touched. “Oh!” said Penelope, and they both jumped back to the edges of the settee.

  Penelope coughed and struggled to find a benign topic of conversation. “The footman is an arrogant fellow. Not sure where his lay is, but I think he warrants further observation.”

  “His lay?” Marchford’s eyes were dancing.

  Penelope cleared her throat at being caught using thieves’ cant. “I am only trying to assist your investigations.”

  “Yes, I do appreciate it. I only wonder at what point I corrupted you.” Marchford leaned forward again, a sly smile playing about his lips.

  Of course he was only teasing, but it would take a woman stronger than she not to melt when his voice rumbled with seductive thunder. She took a quick breath. “Not corrupted in the least. I merely wished to do my duty for my country.”

  “If you have a plan, Miss Rose, I am willing to do anything you wish.”

  Penelope stilled a sigh. How many young ladies of the ton would give anything to hear those words from the duke? Anything she wished…

  “Miss Rose?”

  Penelope was startled out of a happy revelry to find the object of her distraction staring at her intently. “Yes. Right.” She cleared her throat. “We should continue to watch the footman, but we also must return to the business of finding you a bride.”

  Marchford’s shoulders slumped. “A bride. What bother.”

  Four

  Penelope walked out of the study with Marchford, her emotions swirling around like the couples dancing the quadrille. She was not certain whether she was still irritated at the duke or not. Should she help him find true love?

  His fingertips brushed across her back as he led her down the corridor toward the ballroom. Heat radiated from the place of his touch. Perhaps it was important to see him married as soon as may be for her own sanity.

  “I think you will like this next one,” said Penelope, adopting her most businesslike tone and trying to squelch any physical reaction she might have to him. “You are acquainted with Lady Jane, the sister of Lord Wynbrook?”

  “She is engaged,” said Marchford without a shred of interest.

  “She was, but she found the groom lacking and broke off the engagement. Lord Wynbrook has contracted with Madame X to find her another groom before the scandal hits.”

  Marchford stopped at the end of the corridor, raising an aristocratic eyebrow. “So if I was to make an offer to Lady Jane, you would collect quite a windfall.”

  “Yes, quite.” Penelope knew better than to meet his gaze. If she had to find a match for Marchford, at least it could benefit her as well.

  “Well then, I shall propose to her as soon as may be”—he lowered his voice—“to please you.”

  Heat ran up the back of her neck in a most disturbing manner. “Yes, well, that would be quite obliging.”

  “Your humble servant.” Marchford offered her his arm, and she once again entered the ballroom on the arm of a duke.

  They were quick to find Lady Jane sitting by the wall on the edge of the ballroom.

  “I should like the carriage,” Lady Jane was telling her sister when they approached. “Let us find our brother and leave at once.”

  “Lady Jane!” said Penelope. “You look lovely this evening.”

  Lady Jane looked nothing of the sort. It had been a severe disappointment, discovering her fiancé was less than worthy. The disreputable man had not taken well to the dissolution of their engagement for, as the sister of the Earl of Wynbrook, Lady Jane was well-dowered. He had made an ugly scene, threatening scandal. Lady Jane’s brother had hired Madame X to find a replacement groom—and fast.

  “You are acquainted with the Duke of Marchford?”

  Lady Jane rose and gazed at them through dreary, half-closed eyes. “Yes, of course. Good evening, Your Grace.”

  “Good evening, Lady Jane.”

  They stood in awkward silence for a moment, staring at each other with equal looks of polite disinterest.

  “Good evening, Lady Jane.” Sir Gareth chose that moment to arrive with a wide, eager smile. “Forgive the interruption, but would you care to dance?”

  “Oh!” Lady Jane’s eyes flew open and she gave Sir Gareth her most becoming smile. “Yes, indeed, I would truly love to dance.”

  “Now he takes the bait,” muttered Penelope.

  Penelope and Marchford watched them dance away.

  “Do you think I should wait for them to complete the set before I propose?” Marchford whispered in her ear. His breath warm on her skin.<
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  Penelope’s treacherous body responded immediately. Their eyes met and she had to force herself to look away. “Forgive me my error. But I have others in mind, do not despair.”

  “Too late for that. Perhaps your matchmaking skills are not up to the task.” His tone was aloof, but his eyes were dancing. Was he sharing a joke or laughing at her?

  Now she could name this emotion he incited within her: Irritation. Frustration. Exasperation tinged with malicious rage. “I have the perfect lady for you.” She smiled sweetly at the duke. “The Princess Alexandra of Austria. Of course, I could never count her among my acquaintance, being only a lowly companion. She would only deign to speak to an illustrious person such as yourself.”

  Marchford gave her a suspicious glance, as well he should. They approached the princess from the side. She was wearing an enormous golden turban adorned with jewels and a giant purple plume.

  “Did you ever see such gaudy decorations?” the princess was commenting to the elegant person of the Comtesse de Marseille.

  “Simply dreadful,” intoned the comtesse, society maven and vicious gossip.

  “I cannot understand why the Grants are held in such high society. After all, he married only some countrified thing with some scandal attached to her mother. Clearly, she was beneath him. No telling the oddities of English society,” said the princess with haughty disdain.

  Marchford shook his head, and they walked past the princess and the comtesse without a second look.

  “Are you trying to make me a match or convince me to join a monastery?” growled Marchford.

  “Thinking of taking a vow of celibacy?”

  “Are you taking an interest in my carnal habits, Miss Rose?”

  “No!” She turned away from him and plucked a fan out of her reticule to cool her flushed skin. Dratted man, he had done it to her again.

  “I have just the lady for you.” Penelope attempted to keep the sarcasm at bay.

  Marchford gave her a false smile. “Joy and rapture.”