“Yes, poor Frederick was never strong. He had scarlet fever as a boy and never entirely recovered. He died about three years ago.”
“I am sorry for your loss.”
Marchford stared at the portrait of his brother. “He had been close to death so many times, I never thought he would actually die.”
Despite her resolve to dislike this man, a lump developed in her throat. She remembered all too well the pain of losing her parents. “I felt the same when my parents passed away. They both contracted the fever and were gravely ill. Even after the doctor said there was no hope, I still thought they would recover.”
Silence again filled the hall. Pen expected Marchford to resume his rapid tour of the house, but he remained gazing at the portrait of his brother, his expression unreadable.
“Does your mother’s portrait hang here?” asked Pen, trying to move beyond the somber mood.
“No.” Instead of lightening the mood, Marchford’s face grew more solemn. “Grandmother would never allow it.”
Pen stared at him, surprised. “Your grandmother has chosen a more suitable place?”
Marchford glanced at her, a wry smile on his lips. “According to my grandmother, the most suitable place would have been the burn pile.”
Pen opened her mouth and closed it again. What could she possibly say to that pronouncement?
“If you are to best serve my grandmother, you should understand my father had two wives. One favored”—Marchford motioned toward the pretty picture of Sophia—“one not.” He motioned to himself.
“After his first wife died bringing Frederick into the world,” Marchford continued, “my father married again. Unlike his first marriage, it was not arranged by my grandmother, it was indeed a love match.” He whispered the words, as if revealing a shameful family secret. “My father died in a fire at his hunting box when I was five. My mother and grandmother…” Marchford’s voice trailed off and he exhaled slowly. “My mother’s portrait will never be hung as long as my grandmother lives under this roof.”
“I am sorry,” said Pen weakly. She had been convinced Marchford was heartless for his treatment of his grandmother, but she could see there was considerable family history driving his decisions.
“The billiard room is this way in case you have the desire to play.” Marchford abruptly changed the subject and led her down a side stairwell. The notion of Pen playing billiards was absurd, but she followed along, trying to arrange her thoughts enough to form words.
“The billiard room,” said Marchford, entering an unlit room with rich mahogany woodwork and burgundy velvet curtains. Compared to the airy, white gallery it was a warm, intimate space.
“I believe in love matches,” blurted Pen.
Marchford raised an eyebrow. “Do you now?”
“Yes. I ensured my sisters all made good matches with men who would not only be able to give them a comfortable life, but also where there was mutual affection.”
Marchford took a step toward her, his eyes dark in the dimly lit room. His features were handsome but strong with a decided nose and chiseled jawline. “The Duke of Marchford is engaged to Lady Louisa. It was intended to be my brother, but with the peerage, I also inherited a bride.”
“Perhaps love can grow. Affection can develop between two people who are often in each other’s company.”
Marchford’s eyes never left hers. “Perhaps you are right.”
Pen looked away, wondering why the room had suddenly grown so hot. What could she be thinking, speaking of love matches with the duke? “Thank you for the tour, Your Grace. It was most informative.”
“It seems, Miss Rose, we have a problem,” he drawled in a low tone.
“A-a problem?” she stammered.
“We have lost Miss Talbot.”
Seven
William Grant bounded up the stairs to the front door of the Duke of Marchford’s grand house. “Where’s Marchford?” he asked the dignified butler who answered the bell.
“I believe His Grace is conducting a tour of the house. If you would wait in the drawing room, Mr. Grant, I shall inform His Grace that you have arrived.”
“No need, no need, I shall find him myself. Must dash. Already kept my horse waiting too long. Fine stepper. Not the thing to let him get chilled.”
“But, Mr. Grant,” called the butler, but Grant had already bounded up the marble stairs to the gallery. It is where people generally lingered on tours of the house. He recognized some of the statuary was quite fine, but not as fine as the handsome bit of horseflesh he had recently purchased at Tatt’s, waiting for him outside.
Grant paused for a moment but heard and saw no one. He walked through the gallery at a quick pace, looking for Marchford and wondering if he had gone down to the billiard room. Grant strode past the statues until arrested by a compelling sight. Miss Talbot stood looking up at a marble of Athena drawing her bow.
In the sunlight, her blond curls shimmered. Gowned in all white, had it not been for her golden hair, he might have mistaken her for another marble statue of the female form in perfection. He smiled at her, unable to stop himself.
“Hallo, we meet again.” Grant walked up to Genie, all thoughts of horses forgot.
Genie noted his presence but returned his smile with a frown. “Oh no, not you again.”
“You wound me!” Grant clutched his heart. “Whatever have I done to win such censure?”
“What have you done?” cried Genie. “Why, I have had to endure hours of lecture about you from my aunt. She was quite disapproving of me ‘whispering in the corner of the drawing room’ with you.”
“Your aunt has lectured you about me? You intrigue me. Whatever did she say?”
“For a woman who holds you in such low esteem, she certainly knows a great deal about you.” Genie sat down on a marble bench, her arms crossed before her. She pursed her lips in a manner that showed she was quite put out, but all Grant could see was how kissable those naturally pink lips must be.
“Do tell. I am aquiver with anticipation.”
“Did you know you are the enemy of every decent young woman?”
“No!” Grant sat beside her, his face a picture of mock horror.
“Yes, quite. You are a mother’s worst nightmare, a handsome, well-breeched, pleasant-mannered young gentleman who has sworn off ever entering the married state. Apparently, you have caused the decline of many a foolish miss who has set her cap at you, and you are the bane of your mother’s existence. Do you deny it?”
“I am well chastised indeed.”
“You accept the judgment against you?”
“Well now, I’m not sure I could ever boast of putting a young miss in decline, and as for my mother…” Grant paused and pulled out an elegant snuffbox, rolling it in his fingers a few times before returning it to his pocket. “Come to think of it, I rather think I am the bane of her existence. Or must be, to hear her talk. Mothers do take it as a personal affront if their sons don’t choose to marry.”
“Only son,” corrected Genie.
“Guilty as charged, only I had no choice about the only part. Would that my parents had produced a half dozen strapping lads.”
“So no one would be bothered by your determination not to wed?”
Grant merely smiled. Truth was, if he had been blessed with brothers, he would not have felt such pressure to wed. He might have even been married now had circumstances been different. He liked ladies as a general rule. He particularly liked the one sitting beside him. “I suppose they warned you against me.”
“I am not to be within a stone’s throw, and then only if etiquette does not allow me to run screaming from the room when you enter.”
Grant smiled, a slow, lazy smile that generally had the effect of making women melt. “Then why are you sitting beside me?” He leaned a little closer, waiting for the swooning to commence.
Genie raised one eyebrow. “You, sir, are an incorrigible flirt.”
Not exactly a swoon—he must
be having an off day. “True, true. And yet you are still here beside me.”
Genie waved a hand like she was swatting away a fly. “It can make very little difference at this point. I shall be leaving soon to go back home. I was raised in the country and there I shall return.”
“Do not let this minor incident ruin your entire London season. Come now, you must have more spirit than that.”
“It is not just that. You can have no idea, but my aunt is actually thinking of paying a matchmaker to find me a husband. A shocking amount too, I cannot fathom it.”
“So you mean to run away back home.”
“I am not running—oh, you are odious.” Genie shook her head with an imperious frown. “You mean to quarrel with me. Well, I’ll not have it. I am not the least bit quarrelsome.”
Grant laughed out loud. “No indeed, you are not!” He gazed into her deep blue eyes and suddenly felt himself at sea. He should swim for the shore and let her go, but he leaned closer instead. It was of critical importance—he came to the quick realization—that Miss Genie Talbot remain in London. “But do not leave London without enjoying the season. There are many amusements to be had.”
“I confess I have wanted to see the Tower and the cathedrals. Oh, and I hear the British Museum is not to be missed.”
Grant’s idea of London amusements did not include touring the town with a guidebook, but he sagely kept these musings to himself. “Indeed. And of course, you must not consider leaving Town without a visit to the theater or your first ball.”
“I doubt I will have any invitations to balls.” Genie’s shoulders sagged a little.
“But of course you will. Did I not tell you not to worry yourself on that score? I expect when you arrive home today, you will find an invitation to the coming-out ball for Miss Cassandra Devine.”
“Who is she? And why would you think anyone would invite me to a ball?”
“Cassie is my niece and I have spoken to my aunt to ensure your invitation is secure.”
The corners of Genie’s mouth twitched up until she gave Grant a tentative smile. “How did you arrange that?”
“By promising the most gruesome thing in the world.” Grant’s shoulders sagged at the mere thought of his penance. “I must dance with all the debutantes.”
“No!” Genie covered her mouth with her hand in shock.
“I fear it is true. So now that you know the lengths I will go to secure you an invitation, you cannot possibly be so disobliging as to leave London before the ball.”
“No, indeed, of course I shall come.” Her eyes shone for a moment and then a cloud passed over them once more. “But afterward, I must go home. I cannot be responsible for causing my aunt to spend such a vast amount for a matchmaker.”
“But she would only have to pay anything if you entered into the married state. This seems an easy thing to avoid.”
Genie graced him with a brilliant smile. “You would know best.”
Grant returned her smile. “I can tutor you in the ways of avoiding matrimony.”
“I would be most obliged. Does the work of a match-breaker have a fee associated with it?”
“My fee is only the pleasure I have in protecting my friends from wedded bliss.”
“Is that what happened between the duke and Lady Louisa? You worked your dark arts to wither away any affection for the match?”
Grant shook his head. “Theirs is an arranged match, and you are right about a general lack of enthusiasm from either partner for the match.”
“It seems a shame that two people should be bound together for life without any affection from either party.”
“I should be happy if I could inspire even a decent conversation between the two,” remarked Grant without thought.
“Oh yes, do let’s help them!”
Grant could not recall making any such suggestion, but the angel before him lit up with excitement, and any thought to the contrary was vanquished. “Yes, let us see what we can do.”
“Good, what an excellent idea. We should try to get them together, try to encourage them to make conversation.”
Grant, who never once interfered with the romantic interests, or lack of interest, of his friends, found himself nodding in agreement despite himself. Genie beamed in return and Grant decided it was all worth it. Poor Marchford would have to fend for himself.
“So I am to defend you against suitors while trying to inspire romance in the duke.”
“Yes! A lovely plan I think.”
Grant could think of a few other words for it but said nothing. “Whatever else we do, please recall you owe me the first dance. I have paid for it dearly and I shall have it.”
“Indeed, you shall,” conceded Genie.
Grant took her gloved hand in his and kissed it at the edge of the glove, his lips brushing momentarily over her skin. “Until we meet on the morrow.”
“Miss Talbot!” Another young woman, brunette, not at all as pretty as the lovely bundle he was sitting beside, strode down the gallery hall with purpose, Marchford trailing in her wake. He had seen that look in a matron’s eye before and knew it was time to abandon his new prize.
Grant rose and greeted his friend. “Marchford. Came to find you. Kept me waiting outside.”
“I do apologize,” said Marchford, strolling behind the determined female. “Miss Rose, may I present Mr. William Grant. Miss Talbot, I believe you are already acquainted.”
“How do you do?” said Miss Rose evenly. “I am already acquainted with Mr. Grant.”
Grant merely smiled and made his bow. He did remember Miss Rose, but he would have preferred to forget. “You are to be the dowager’s new companion, I understand.”
“Yes, you are correct,” said Miss Rose, moving between him and the lovely Miss Talbot. Not only was she utterly immune to any flirtation, but she also appeared determined to protect Miss Talbot from the same.
“Let me show you back to the drawing room, ladies,” said Marchford. “I fear I must away, as I have kept Mr. Grant waiting.”
“I can escort Miss Talbot back to the drawing room, Your Grace. I fear we have kept you from your appointment.” Miss Rose curtsied efficiently and, linking arms with Miss Talbot, turned to leave.
“Do not forget, Miss Talbot, the first dance is mine!” declared Grant.
Miss Talbot turned back to him. “I would be most obliged,” she said before she was tugged back by the militant Miss Rose.
Grant watched the retreating figures of the women, his eyes roving with pleasure over the flawless form of Miss Talbot.
“Why do I feel compelled to remind you,” drawled Marchford when the ladies were out of hearing range, “that Miss Talbot is the cousin to my intended bride?”
“Merely admiring the view,” said Grant.
***
When Marchford returned from his ride with Grant, he was informed there was a Mr. Neville waiting for him in his library. Marchford frowned. He did not recall having any business with a Mr. Neville, and curiosity getting the best of him, he decided to speak with the man before changing his clothes.
Mr. Neville was a small man with a receding hairline. What hair he had was combed forward over the barren spots in a rather futile attempt to hide what he had lost. Marchford could have no respect for the tailor who had cut the shoulders of Neville’s brown coat too wide in a vain attempt to make his client appear larger. The effect, unfortunately, made the man appear not fully grown. Despite these flaws in appearance, the man surveyed him with the utmost confidence, holding a leather case to his chest with pride.
“Do I have the pleasure of addressing the Duke of Marchford?”
“Yes,” replied Marchford, unaccustomed to being addressed so directly in his own home. “And I believe you are Mr. Neville? What can I do for you, sir?”
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Your Grace,” said the man. “I have been sent by the Foreign Office to give you this.” The man handed him a sealed envelope. “Please read it, Your Gra
ce.”
Marchford noted the seal with displeasure. He had served the Foreign Office for the past eight years. Some of his service he could discuss; other operations would remain forever in secret. No one understood why he had returned to Spain after his brother died. Everyone assumed he was avoiding marriage or did not wish the responsibility of the title, but those reasons would not have kept him from doing his duty.
The truth was Marchford had been in the middle of a sensitive mission and had made important contacts with the enemy. If he had not returned, the mission would have failed. It took him three years, but they finally tracked the spy back to its source and foiled an attempt to seize the city of Cadiz. Marchford turned the sealed letter over in his hands. He thought he had made it clear he was done working as a spy.
Marchford broke the seal with a small sigh and quickly read the contents. The letter contained a warning that the Foreign Office feared French agents had infiltrated London society. Marchford was warned he himself might be the target of spies trying to gain information regarding his covert work by any means possible.
“Any number of French agents know you have been working for the Foreign Office,” said Mr. Neville. “I am to take any sensitive information you have and store it for safe keeping.”
“If I had any such information, I assure you it is quite safe.”
Mr. Neville’s brows collapsed together. “I need not tell you the war with Napoleon and his coalition goes poorly. Most of Europe has already fallen under his power. It is of vital importance any information you have does not fall into enemy hands.”
“It will not.”
Mr. Neville chewed on his bottom lip, clearly displeased with the duke’s answer. “You must be wary of those around you. Anyone could be in league with Napoleon. He pays his spies well. You have been seen in the company of a Mr. Grant and Lord Thornton.”
“Friends from my days at Eton. Not spies.”
“And you live with your grandmother.”
Marchford cut off the man with a laugh. “My grandmother may have her faults, but I doubt being a secret French spy is one of them.”
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