“Mr. Oliver took over the parsonage from my father,” explained Pen. He was also young, handsome, available, and they were running out of other candidates.
“Whose shoes I can only hope to someday be able to fill,” said Mr. Oliver kindly. “And yet I think we have another connection. I believe the Duke of Marchford’s intended is graced with the family name of Munthgrove. I had the occasion to marry a Miss Munthgrove a few months ago. A family member I believe. I hope to see her at the ball.”
Genie nodded politely, but Penelope froze. It could not be, could it? Surely she would not have done anything so stupid. “I think I heard of the marriage,” said Pen, taking care to keep her tone conversational. “She married a Dr. Roberts?”
“Yes, indeed. Will they be attending the party do you think?”
Pen held her hands tightly in her lap to refrain from jumping up. “I should hope not. That is to say,” Pen amended to Mr. Oliver’s startled face, “I doubt I shall see her, but I would very much like to.”
She needed to excuse herself now. But how to get rid of her guests? Mr. Oliver was obliviously cheerful and Genie looked as though she might cry.
“Mr. Oliver, you must be tired from the road, especially having to rise so early. Let me show you to your room. Genie, would you be able to entertain yourself for a while?”
“Oh yes. I will show myself out. You need not worry on my account.”
Pen hustled Mr. Oliver up to a bedroom, which took longer than she anticipated because he had a habit of stopping at beautiful works of art and wanting to make conversation or ask questions. Since the illustrious home of the Duke of Marchford boasted many extraordinary works of art, this process was lengthy. After answering or deflecting all his questions, she left him in the capable hands of the housekeeper.
Pen hustled off to find the duke. The ball had to be called off!
Thirty-one
The butler stared at him as though he were an apparition.
“Can you tell me where the duke is this morning?” asked Grant.
Instead of answering, Peters removed a watch from his pocket and examined the time, held it to his ear to see if it was still ticking, then inspected it again. “It is 9:42, Mr. Grant.”
Grant took a great breath of air. “Morning. Haven’t seen it in years. Thought I’d give it a go.”
The butler’s eyebrows shot up. “And how are you getting on?”
“Don’t think I’ll make it a habit. A bit early, these mornings, don’t you think?”
“Yes, quite.”
“Although I understand I am not the only one who has paid an early call on the house. Lady Bremerton told me I could find her niece here.”
The butler’s features relaxed, as if the puzzle was suddenly examined. “Yes, of course, Mr. Grant, Miss Talbot is with Miss Rose in the drawing room. The duke is in his dressing room.”
“Suppose I should pop in on Marchford before I surprise the ladies. Propriety and all that.” Grant bounded up the stairs two at a time, not caring if he looked more schoolboy than sophisticate. He needed his friend’s help to gain a private audience with Genie.
“Good heavens, what is wrong?” Marchford stared at Grant as he entered the dressing room.
“Your cravat for one thing. What have you done to it?”
Marchford whipped it off his neck. “You surprised me and I crushed it. What are you doing about at this hour?” He checked his timepiece. “Do you know what time it is?”
“Yes, I do. For some reason, everyone I meet feels compelled to read me the time. Go ahead, I know you want to.”
“It is 9:48 in the morning! Are you well? Your mother, sisters, they are in good health?”
“Everyone is well as far as I know.”
“Then what is it? It must be something extraordinary to bring you out of your bed at this hour.”
Grant flopped into an upholstered chair. “I have been forced into offering marriage.”
Marchford sank into a chair himself. “Give us a moment,” he murmured to the valet who discreetly left the room. “You best tell me what this is about.”
“It is about women, my dear man. They are craftier than we give them credit for. I’ve been caught, ensnared, compromised, by one of those doe-eyed debutantes who looks like they’d melt like butter at a simmering gaze but all the while they are stoking up the heat for themselves.”
“Are you foxed?”
Grant shrugged. “Quite possibly. Drank a lot last night.”
“Could you try again, for I am feebleminded this morning? What exactly happened?”
“Quite right, can’t think straight in the morning. Too early. Facts are simple enough. I’ve been caught by Miss Talbot and I must step forward to press my suit.”
“I thought Miss Talbot was going to marry Mr. Blakely.”
“So did I, but I have it from Lady Bremerton this morning that it is not to be.” Grant grinned like a boy with stolen pudding.
“You do not appear terribly upset by the prospect.”
“That’s how crafty those ladies are. They make you want your prison.”
“So, you actually wish to wed Miss Talbot?”
“Today if possible.” He brandished a folded paper from his jacket pocket. “I’ve been to Doctors’ Commons already.”
Marchford’s jaw dropped. “You got a special license?”
Grant grinned again.
“My dear friend, I am concerned for you. Perhaps I should keep a watch over you until you sober up. You are clearly not in your right mind.”
Grant merely laughed. “Won’t make a difference. I must be wed. I must. I only hope she will give her consent.”
Marchford stood to tie his cravat. “Drunk. Must be.”
Grant was spared a response by a jingling sound.
“Aha!” Marchford leapt to his spyglass.
“Whatever is it?” asked Grant.
“Someone has entered the study. Perhaps we shall catch a spy today.” Marchford looked for a long while into the spyglass, then turned his gaze to Grant, his face solemn.
“What is it?” asked Grant.
Marchford stepped back to allow Grant a turn with the spyglass. Grant pressed an eye to the glass. He could see the room in a rounded fishbowl view. In the corner of the room was the spy, looking behind pictures for the wall safe. Grant stepped back and closed his eyes. He had been sucker punched again.
“I am sorry,” said Marchford.
Grant looked again to make sure.
It was Genie.
“She was feigning affection to get close to me. To you. To steal the spy code.” Grant’s mouth was suddenly coated in sand, and the words were harsh and painful to speak.
“It does appear that way.” Marchford peered into the spyglass again. “She has found the safe. Now she is opening it with the key the opera singer stole.”
Grant sat back down in a chair and stared unseeing at the far wall.
“Cheer up, old friend. Now you shall be excused from marrying the little spy. Consider it a near miss.”
Grant shook his head. “It was a direct hit.”
This is what it felt like to have a heart broken. It hurt. He had thought it was a metaphor. It wasn’t. It actually hurt. “What do we do now?” he asked Marchford.
“Wait until she takes the letter, then catch her in the act.”
“What will happen to her?”
Marchford gave another look like he ate bad fish.
“That bad?”
“Treason. It’s not good.”
Grant’s stomach tightened such that he feared he might cast up his accounts. “This is what I get for trying the morning. Won’t happen again.”
Marchford looked again in the spyglass.
“What is she doing now?” asked Grant.
“Nothing. Folding paper. What is she doing?”
“Did she take the letter?”
“Not yet. But the safe is opened.”
“Maybe she is not a traitor,” said Gr
ant hopefully. “Maybe there is an explanation.”
“An explanation for sneaking into my study, opening a hidden safe with a key stolen from me by a paramour?”
“Do you need to put it that way?”
“And how would you describe it?”
“She is obviously being used. You cannot believe that a young girl from Sussex is a master spy.”
“No, of course she is being used, though whether it is with her will or against it may make very little difference in the eyes of the law. After she grabs the letter, we get her and then convey to her the importance of telling us who she is working for.”
“But if she is innocent?”
“She is rifling through my study, old friend. She is not innocent.”
“What is she doing now?” asked Grant.
Marchford looked again with the spyglass. He moved it from side to side. “She’s gone!”
Both men ran down the spiral staircase and opened the hidden panel door to the study. The room was vacant.
“Dammit! She has replaced the picture over the case. Why did the bell not ring?” asked Marchford.
“Did she take the letter?”
“I’ll check. Go find her!”
Grant ran out the door to the hall. No Genie. “Peters!” he called for the butler.
“Yes, sir?”
“Genie, Miss Talbot. Where is she?”
“I did not see her leave. I thought she was still with Miss Rose in the drawing room.”
“No, she is not with me.” Pen walked quickly down the central stairs. “Where is the duke? I need a word with him.”
“Not now, Miss Rose.” The duke strode from the study. “The letter is still there, but she has carefully removed the seal.”
“We need to find her.” Grant ran out of the house, his chest pounding. For a broken heart, it certainly made quite a racket. He looked up and down the street but could see no trace of her. It was as if she had vanished. He ran back inside the house where Marchford was giving quick instructions to the staff to search the house for her. After an agonizing few minutes, it was clear she was not there.
“Where could she be?” Grant ran his hand through his hair. He ran back outside and looked up and down the street.
“You know her better than I,” accused Marchford. “Where would she go?”
Grant took a slow breath and forced himself to think rationally. He would find Genie. He did not know why she had pretended to take the letter, but he did recognize that it had done nothing to reduce her hold over him.
“Let us go back to her house, search her room, look for clues, ask the servants. We must find something that can lead us to her,” said Grant.
Marchford nodded in agreement.
“Wait, Your Grace, I need to speak to you,” called Penelope.
“Not now, Miss Rose.”
“But I would suggest most strongly that we speak immediately,” said Pen.
“Not now.” The duke waved off his mother’s companion.
“But the letter.” Grant dropped his voice. “Can we leave it in the house?”
“We cannot,” replied Marchford in the same undertone. “So I will take it with us.” He patted his breast coat pocket.
Since Grant’s phaeton was hitched and waiting for him, they jumped into it to go to Bremerton house.
“I am going with you,” declared Penelope, who appeared wearing a sensible blue wool coat.
“Get back in the house,” demanded Marchford, but Penelope swung herself up beside him onto the seat of the phaeton, squishing herself next to him. Short of pushing her off, there was little Marchford could do about it.
“Can’t wait for you two to fight it out,” muttered Grant, and he snapped the reins, encouraging his bays to move at a fast clip.
“I really do need to speak to you alone,” pressed Penelope.
“Then you will have to wait,” quelled Marchford.
“As you wish,” replied Penelope, and said no more.
To say that Lady Bremerton was surprised to see the three of them was an understatement. “Marchford! Your Grace! How… how did you know she had gone?” Lady Bremerton put a delicate lace handkerchief to her eyes.
“Do you know where she has gone?” asked Marchford.
“No, no, I am so sorry, I do not know. Please believe me, I had no idea that she would do this. Oh, where is she?” Lady Bremerton began to openly weep.
Grant was startled. He had not counted Lady Bremerton among those who would mourn the loss of Genie.
“You must have some idea of where she might be,” pressed Marchford. “Did she speak to you of anything? Go anywhere in the past few days that was unusual?”
Lady Bremerton shook her head. “Lord Bremerton has gone after them, but I cannot trust that he will discover them in time!”
“Them?” demanded Grant. He felt a sick twisting in his stomach that was becoming all too familiar. “Who is she with?”
Lady Bremerton grew still and pursed her lips together. “No one. I do not know. I do not know where she is!”
“Did she leave a letter? Anything that might give us a hint?” asked Marchford.
Lady Bremerton tightened her grasp on a crumpled piece of paper and shook her head.
“What about her cousin? Does she have any ideas of where she is?” asked Grant.
“Oh that stupid gel,” Lady Bremerton blurted. “As if I did not have enough to deal with, now Genie has gone missing too. She is not with her, for I saw Genie early this morning after Louisa had already left.”
Silence filled the drawing room. Marchford sat down hard on a chair.
“Am I to understand that my fiancée is missing?” asked Marchford in a low, calm voice.
Lady Bremerton froze. “Did you not know?”
“Lady Louisa. The lady to whom I am betrothed. A lady for whom tonight I am holding a ball in her honor has run away? Is that correct?” asked Marchford in a businesslike tone.
“I thought you knew.”
Marchford glanced at Penelope. “I’m guessing I should have listened to you.”
“I can only agree with you, Your Grace,” said Pen.
“We came to find Miss Talbot,” explained Grant, finding his own chair. What he wanted right now was a stiff drink, but he refrained. Considering what drink had done to him lately, he had sworn off the bottle. No matter how much he might wish to fade off into inebriated oblivion, he was determined to stay in the game.
“You had best let me see that letter you are holding,” said Marchford calmly. “Do not fear, Lady Bremerton. I am certain things will work out for the best. The letter please.”
Lady Bremerton relinquished the letter with a bit of a moan and Marchford scanned it quickly.
“Well?” asked Grant.
“She has run off with another man,” stated Marchford in a flat tone, which nonetheless started Lady Bremerton crying once more.
“Is Genie with her?” asked Grant.
“No, how can she be? She was at Marchford house not a half hour ago,” said Marchford. “Did you know she had left?” he asked Penelope.
“No. But I am not surprised,” Pen answered.
“Lady Bremerton, I know this is difficult, but may we have permission to search the rooms of Lady Louisa and Miss Talbot?” asked Marchford. “We may be able to find clues as to where they have both gone.”
“Yes, yes, of course. We have already looked, but you may as well if you think it will help. I know I can rely on your discretion?” Her chin trembled.
“Of course, Lady Bremerton,” stated Marchford. “I only wish she had come to me. We might have dispensed with this unpleasantness.”
The search of the ladies’ rooms revealed nothing. They took their leave of the inconsolable Lady Bremerton and stood for a moment outside the house.
“I’ll check with the groom to see if he knows anything,” said Grant.
“But Lady Bremerton already told us Genie had not gone anywhere but Marchford house,” said the
duke.
“Lady Bremerton does not appear to know all that goes on in her house,” commented Pen.
Grant spoke with Sammy the groom and found Genie had gone yesterday to a chocolate shop in Piccadilly, but otherwise, there were no secret travels. When Grant returned, Marchford had taken on a greenish hue.
“You all right?” asked Grant.
“I have been speaking with Miss Rose and now I have a pressing matter to attend to.”
“She knows the man your bride ran off with?” guessed Grant.
“Yes. Apparently, Louisa ran off with her… husband.”
Thirty-two
Think, think, think.
It was not the time to panic and become foolish, as was common in gothic novels. It was the time to think clearly if she wished her brother, and herself, to emerge from this tangle alive.
Genie clutched her reticule tightly. Inside was the letter she had created. She had carefully removed the seal from the letter she found in the safe with the duke’s own penknife and reattached the seal with sealing wax onto a blank parchment. She wanted to help her brother, but she was not about to steal secret documents to do it.
She exited the house by the front door and quickly turned along the side, cutting through the gardens to the opposite side of the block. Her conscience pricked her. She should not have sneaked into the duke’s study to steal anything. Yet, her brother’s life hung in the balance. Surely that gave her just cause for some license in propriety? Did it not?
She was not sure, but she was committed to the path now. She would save her brother and then return home to become a maiden aunt. After all she had been through, the prospect was more appealing than ever before. The thing she would not consider was Grant. What they shared, how he acted in the morning. Rejected.
Genie stopped short, took a deep breath against the surging tide of emotion, and struck out walking again. She would not be defeated. She could not change what had happened or how far she had fallen, but she could try to make things right for her brother.
The shops she passed were open for business; people passed her on the street, giving her second glances and raised eyebrows. She was walking alone on the streets of London. Not good. She would have preferred to hire a hack, but short of a few farthings, she had given every coin she had to her brother, leaving her without enough for the fare.
Amanda Forester Page 24
