A Winter Wedding Page 5

  Marchford led Penelope up through the servants’ stairs to avoid company. Penelope noted he put his arm around her once more. She was not about to protest. Marchford led her deftly to the private sitting room.

  “I am quite well,” insisted Penelope, but she did not resist when a glass of brandy was placed in her hand.

  “Of course you are,” said Marchford mildly, and he poured himself a glass.

  Not generally one for hard spirits, as befitted a young lady raised by a country parson, Penelope decided that, considering the shocking events of the evening, it may be permissible to have a few sips. The brandy seared a hot trail down the back of her throat. She was not sure if it was considered restorative, but the unpleasant sensation did shock her back into the present, so she supposed the object of the libation had been met.

  Within minutes, Grant strolled into the sitting room, followed by his young bride, the renowned beauty Eugenia Grant, who entered with a hand protectively over her growing midsection.

  “Marchford, what have you done now?” asked Grant. “I knew when they said you had a situation there must be something dreadfully wrong.”

  “Now, perhaps, it may not be as bad as all that,” said Genie with a kind smile that lit her deep blue eyes.

  “The footman has been murdered,” said Marchford.

  The Grants shared a look between them.

  “Then again, my dear, you may well be right,” said Genie sincerely.

  Grant smiled at his new wife, then shook his head at Marchford. “I told Genie you were a bad risk to invite. Always intrigue with you. Why, a body’s not safe within fifty feet of you.”

  “I cannot believe such a thing would happen,” exclaimed Genie.

  “Now don’t upset yourself,” soothed Grant, leading his wife to a high-backed chair by a warm fire. He had her comfortably settled with her feet propped up on a little footstool in seconds. “Wanted the ball to be memorable, didn’t you? When word gets out you hosted a real murder, no one will ever forget!”

  “I do not think Mrs. Grant wishes to be remembered as being the hostess to a murder,” said Penelope, reading the horrified look on Genie’s face.

  Grant shrugged. “No one will miss the next party. Too interesting.”

  “You are rather taking this in stride,” commented Marchford, taking a seat on the settee next to Penelope.

  “No reason to get upset,” said Grant in his affable manner. “Knew something was smoky when I saw those shoes. Man up to no good, I’m sure.”

  “Shoes?” asked Genie.

  “Too nice by half,” said Grant. “Custom pair by David and Clark. Now how would an honest footman be able to pay for those? He wouldn’t. So he must be a dishonest one.”

  “So that is why you had me follow the footman,” said Penelope, feeling the need to hazard another sip of brandy. Only Grant, with his impeccable knowledge of all things fashion, could have noted such a detail.

  The butler entered and presented the Watch. The constable’s eyes bulged at the glittering array of honored personages present. Pen felt sorry for the man to have to interview the duke. The Duke of Marchford could be an imposing man when he had the mind, and he quickly took control of the interview, answering the questions of his own posing, which he felt most relevant. The constable then turned to Penelope, but Marchford interceded.

  “I have already told you what you need to know about her involvement. You needn’t involve the lady who is clearly overwrought with the proceedings of the night.” Marchford shifted closer to her on the seat and leaned forward so that he was partially blocking her view of the constable—or the constable’s view of her.

  “No, no, I can answer a few questions,” said Penelope, needled by the suggestion her precious nerves were at risk.

  “This person who hit you, Miss Rose. Did you get a look at him?” asked the constable.

  “No, I fear I did not. He was wearing a dark cloak and cowl. I saw nothing of his face. It all happened so fast.”

  “Lucky to be alive, miss,” commented the constable.

  Penelope stilled. He was right; she could have been killed. No wonder Marchford had been so concerned with her welfare.

  “Enough questions,” demanded Marchford, putting his arm around her and resting it on the back of the settee in a protective gesture. Though his arm was not touching her—that would be insupportable—Penelope was keenly aware of his arm’s presence near her shoulders. “You know where to find me if you should require any further information,” continued Marchford.

  The constable bowed and left them in silence.

  “Do you know who killed the footman?” asked Grant when the four of them were alone in the sitting room.

  “No, but I know he was assisting in some clandestine communications.” Marchford related to the Grants their findings about the brandy decanter. “Can you tell me where the decanters came from?”

  Grant shook his head slowly. “No, can’t quite place it. Got a lot of presents for the wedding. Genie, you know?”

  Genie also shook her head. “No, and I wrote notes for all the gifts. I do not recall this one. I do not believe we have had it long. Isn’t it strange? I saw it before, but I thought it something you had acquired, my dear.”

  “And I thought it a wedding gift,” said Grant.

  “It may have been added to your household without your knowledge,” suggested Penelope.

  “Oh dear.” Genie put a hand to her cheek. “Truly, I must run a more competent household.”

  “No, no, I would forbid you change a thing.” Grant rushed to her side. “Are you tired? Do you wish to rest, my love?”

  “I confess, with all the festivities and the dreadful news about the footman, I do feel a mite worn.” Genie stifled a yawn.

  “To bed!” cried Grant, helping his growing wife out of the chair. “I shall put the solving of this mystery in your capable hands, Marchford. Good night, my friends!” Grant ushered the sleepy Genie out of the room.

  “We must also get you home,” said Marchford, offering Penelope his arm.

  Penelope typically resisted all attempts at coddling, but she owned the prospects of a warm bath and a soft bed were inviting. She took the arm of the duke with a soft sigh. He would take her home. He would keep her safe. She should be comforted, but deep within she knew…

  She wanted more.

  ***

  The man in the thick Carrick coat raced down the cobblestone streets, whipping his horse to keep up the pace. What did he care if the beast broke a leg on the uneven ground? The nag wasn’t his anyway, and his need was pressing. He must get to the men before four bells or all would be lost.

  He turned down narrow, muddy streets and into the rookery of St. Giles. It was shocking how little distance there actually was between the spacious town houses of the landed gentry and the crowded slums of London. They were practically neighbors, but no resident of St. Giles would dare to trespass on the pristine streets of Mayfair, nor would any Town gentleman dare to step into the narrow, crooked streets of St. Giles.

  The man in the Carrick coat soon gave up on the horse and continued on by foot, navigating the narrow paths, slogging through rancid filth. Most men in such a coat as his would avoid coming into the rookery for fear of robbery. This man, however, was known to the local thieves, and they wisely let him be.

  This was the perfect hiding place for anything you wanted to have disappear. He entered the small warehouse where the crates smuggled in from France were stacked under a large amount of debris. The man sighed in relief; the crates were still there.

  An elderly man with a sloped back entered the room and gave a quick bow. “’Ere to move the barrels, gov’ner?”

  “No, we have changed plans. No deliveries tonight.”

  “Right then,” said the old man, and he shuffled away.

  The man in the Car
rick coat sank onto the crates in relief. He was in time. The mission had not been compromised. He pulled out a pipe from his large coat pocket but suddenly jumped off the crate in horror.

  Light a pipe? What could he be thinking of? He eyed the crate with suspicion.

  He was a smuggler, but his cargo was rather more dangerous than wine.

  Six

  The comfortable town carriage lumbered slowly along the streets of London. Considering the momentous events of the evening, Penelope gave herself leave to lean back against the velvet squabs and rest her feet upon the foot warmer. She reveled in the warmth, gradually bringing her frozen toes back to life. Marchford, sitting across from her, remained somber and his posture rigid.

  “What an eventful evening,” commented Penelope, not knowing where to start. The entire day had been a series of emotional flips centered on the forbidding man sitting across from her. She wondered what put such grim tightness about his mouth.

  “Yes. I appreciate your help. Though had I known such danger was nigh, I would never have requested your assistance.” Marchford frowned more severely.

  Now she understood what was irritating the man; he was reprimanding himself for unwittingly putting her in danger. It was actually quite kind that he was so disturbed. “You had no way of knowing a murderer was about.”

  “No, I did not.” He spoke the words as a curse upon his ignorance.

  “Surely you cannot blame yourself.”

  “I most certainly do.”

  “Nonsense. Besides, I was never in any real danger.” She glanced at Marchford to judge his reaction to that statement. He remained impassive. “It was the poor footman who was the only target. He had not the kindest of hearts, but I do feel sorry for him.”

  “Do not waste your sympathy. He was a traitor to the Crown and got nothing more than he deserved. Though I wish he had revealed the identities of the conspirators before he died.”

  “He must have known something of importance,” agreed Penelope. “What do you make of the note?”

  Marchford shook his head slowly. “I am unsure. Since our enemy clearly suspects we are in possession of the note, whatever was going to happen at four bells has almost certainly been changed.”

  “So where do we go from here?” Tracking down spies was only part of the question. The word we reverberated within her chest. Was there any form of we?

  “I would like to review everyone you can remember with whom the footman spoke, everyone to whom he gave a drink. Tomorrow we can have the servants interviewed, see if they know anything. Perhaps Grant can be of service in our inquiries.” Marchford was all business.

  “I believe Jonathan had only worked there a short time. I should ask Genie to speak to her housekeeper and get the references he provided. Perhaps they can be of assistance,” Penelope responded in kind. Ironic that discussing traitors against the Crown was the safest topic of conversation.

  “A capital idea,” said Marchford, leaning back on the squabs, his body more relaxed. It was good to see him let go of self-recrimination.

  “I am glad you approve.” Pen smiled and let her eyes half close under the gentle rocking of the carriage. It had been quite an exciting evening, and she was more than ready to find her bed. Memories flooded back of what happened earlier when they were in her bedroom. What would have happened if…

  Pen forced her eyes open and sat up straight. The Duke of Marchford had become an amiable acquaintance and had trusted her to assist with his investigations for the Foreign Office. He also had hired her to help him find a bride, not be his bride. He was a duke, after all, and she was, in the end, nothing more than his grandmother’s companion. She must not let her imagination carry her into unrealistic flights of fancy.

  She cleared her throat. After his kindness to her, she repented her mischievous suggestions for a mate. “I regret we were not able to find you a suitable bride tonight, but do not lose heart. We shall continue the search.”

  “For some reason, your words only bring a sense of doom to my poor heart.”

  “I am certain your heart will recover,” Penelope clipped in return. She had the wretched realization that she owed him an apology. “I do apologize if some of my suggestions were not suitable, but the season is starting early since Parliament is in session. I am sure there will be some new—”

  “No debutantes.” The duke was firm.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “No doe-eyed teenagers with fribble in their heads and spots on their faces.”

  “They don’t all have spots,” protested Penelope. “Besides, the most beautiful young ladies are generally engaged before the end of their first season. You need to consider those just entering society.”

  The duke shook his head. “I would rather have a wife with something in her head worth saying than a chit with a beautiful face and not one intelligent thought. And what on earth made you think Devine’s infant niece would make me a suitable match?”

  Penelope looked away and straightened her skirts. Silence fell within the carriage. Though she could not meet his eye, Penelope could feel the heat of his intense glare in the dim light of the carriage lantern.

  “You knew she would make a poor match.” The duke spoke in a low voice. “You did that on purpose.” He leaned forward.

  “It…it was a suitable match. You are on quite friendly terms with the Lord Admiral,” Pen defended weakly, still unable to look at him directly. She hated that she was not a better liar.

  Marchford moved across the carriage and sat next to her, causing her heart rate to jump. “You purposely attempted to connect me with the most unsuitable matches possible!”

  “No…yes!” Penelope turned to him, tired of trying to maintain the facade.

  “Why?” Marchford’s voice raised and he leaned closer to her. “Why would you do such a thing?”

  “Because you said my mother’s gown was horrible.” Penelope’s voice also rose.

  “I intended no insult to your mother. I’m sure she looked very well in this gown, fifty years ago when it was first made.” He gestured down her body.

  “Well! This gown is hardly fifty years old,” she defended, her mind doing a quick calculation and coming up with a shockingly high number. “And even if it is a bit mature, it is still very serviceable.” She leaned closer to the infuriating duke.

  “Serviceable? The style is utterly outmoded, no matter how much you have attempted to have it redone. Why, the flounces are practically falling off.” He slid closer and touched a flounce at her knee. The traitorous fabric fell off in his hand.

  “You tore my gown!” She shouted in outrage, leaning still closer.

  “I barely touched it!” The air crackled around them.

  “You said this horrible gown was good enough for Miss Rose!” Penelope’s voice caught, betraying the hurt she had felt at his thoughtless comment.

  Marchford stilled. Only then did Penelope realize they were so close. Her heart pounded but whether with anger or something else she did not know.

  “Did I truly say that?” Marchford’s voice was soft, his eyes wide and black in the dim light. “I meant only to support you. I apologize for my hurtful words.” He put his gloved hand over hers.

  They leaned toward each other, their faces mere inches apart. Time seemed to still, to stretch on slowly. He moved closer, ever so slowly, as if in a dream. Penelope closed her eyes.

  A sudden bump in the road jostled them apart, breaking the trance.

  Marchford removed his hand and cleared his throat. “Yes. Quite. Very sorry if I offended.” The cool exterior returned.

  “And I apologize for my petty revenge.”

  Marchford pressed his lips together, but the mirth could not be contained. “I can’t believe you paired me with that poor child—or that vicious princess.” He leaned back and chuckled.

  Penelope joi
ned him. She was relieved he was taking it in a humorous light. She laughed partly because of her disastrous attempts at matchmaking and partly because she was nervous at what had almost happened between them. Or perhaps it was only in her own mind?

  “I shall make a more honest attempt at trying to find you a bride,” promised Penelope, unsure how she felt about this.

  “It is important to find someone quickly,” replied Marchford with an equal lack of enthusiasm. “I do not care to be stalked at the next ball as I was tonight.”

  “I shall put my mind to it after I see to your grandmother’s nighttime routine,” said Penelope.

  They rattled along in the carriage for another full minute before they both realized something.

  “The dowager!” gasped Penelope.

  “We left her at the house,” groaned Marchford, and rapped on the top of the carriage with his cane to give directions to the coachman to return to the assembly.

  “I cannot believe we forgot her,” said Penelope.

  “I cannot believe you did not remind me,” chastised Marchford. “You know I am quite dependent on you to remind me to collect my grandmother.”

  Penelope smiled, remembering how she first met the duke and his grandmother. It had been less than a year ago when she found the Dowager Duchess of Marchford had been left behind in church, sleeping in the ladies’ retiring room. Penelope had waited with the dowager until the duke arrived and berated him severely for leaving his grandmother behind. The dowager duchess was impressed by her pluck and offered Penelope the position as her companion on the spot.

  “Yes, I suppose I am quite good at reminding you of your responsibilities to your grandmother. I thought perhaps my example would influence you to take more responsibility, but instead I fear I become more like you.”

  “Dreadful,” said Marchford with a delicious smile.

  Penelope was glad the darkness of the carriage hid the heat in her cheeks. “I can think of nothing worse.”

  It did not take long to return to the home of Mr. and Mrs. Grant. By unspoken agreement, they had no intention of telling the dowager they had mistakenly left her behind. They found her sitting at a game of whist, her blue eyes shining, a clear sign she was winning. Lord Langley, also a shrewd card player, sat across from her; together they made an astute team.