“Lord Wynbrook has a friend, the Earl of Darington, who is staying with them.”
“Let me guess, Lord Darington has a sister.”
“Yes! I have yet to meet her—”
“No.”
“Now, how bad can she be?” It was a rhetorical question. If Darington’s sister was half as bad as her reputation, this would be perfect. “Besides, I am running out of suitable potential brides. You are a duke, you know. Your bride must be the daughter of an earl at the very least. You cannot marry a commoner.”
“Can I not?” Despite their light banter, his question seemed surprisingly honest.
They reached Lord Wynbrook, who greeted them with a warm smile. “Marchford, Miss Rose, you are well met. Allow me to present Robert Ashton, the Earl of Darington, and his sister, Lady Katherine.”
The young Earl of Wynbrook was a handsome man with chestnut hair and flashing, bright eyes. Lord Darington, on the other hand, was a tall man with dark hair and brown, sunken eyes, dressed all in black. Katherine wore a shabby white muslin gown and had brown hair pulled back into a severe bun with sharp features and intelligent eyes. Both she and her brother were quite thin, making Penelope wonder if they were naturally that way or if they had recently survived some sort of deprivation. With him in black and her in white, they appeared solemnly monochrome in a sea of festive color.
The appropriate bows were made, with neither Darington nor his sister saying a word.
“Darington has just returned from years at sea, commanding the Lady Kate. Came back plumper in the pocket than he left,” said Wynbrook with a smile.
“You served in the Royal Navy?” asked Penelope, attempting to start the conversation.
“Yes” was his monosyllabic reply. Unlike his more amiable friend, there was no smile in Darington’s eyes. Theirs must have been a sad life, but still, they were titled, in London, and with a bit of blunt about them, so they were definitely marriable potentials—once you got past the icy stares.
“Admirable,” commented Marchford, joining the conversation with his own brief reply.
“And will you begin a London season this year?” Pen asked Lady Katherine.
“No. I do not wish to enter society. And I certainly I do not wish to be married. You will excuse me.” Lady Katherine turned on her heel and left.
Penelope was forced to hide her smile behind her fan. Marchford’s face was a perfect mix of horror and insult. She gloried in her revenge for a moment before the words of her grandma Moira came to mind. Revenge is as sweet as a sheep turd. Those who delight in it end up with a face full of sh— This is where Penelope’s mother would cut off her Scottish grandmother’s colorful adage. Perhaps it was time to stop this game.
“It was nice to meet you, Lord Darington. Forgive us, but I believe we must see to my grandmother,” said Marchford, extricating them from the awkward situation. His placid countenance had returned, though with the aristocratic veil of injured pride.
“I believe we should give up finding you a bride for the evening.” Penelope sighed in defeat.
“Thank heaven!” cried Marchford with considerable animation, quick to recover from his matrimonial setbacks.
“You are horrid.”
“Indeed, I am. I’m glad you have finally noticed. Now we can get back to more serious matters. Where is that footman?”
“The card room, I believe. Oh bother. I forgot to ask someone to collect the tea tray from your grandmother. She will no doubt be cross at me. And I have not found anything suspicious about the footman, other than he is arrogant and serving two decanters of brandy.”
“Perhaps we should investigate?” He gave her a sly smile.
Penelope could not help but smile in return. “I have a plan.”
Marchford offered his arm. “Lead on!”
***
Marchford reluctantly released Penelope’s arm when they reached the card room, careful not to make eye contact with anyone in a dress. Unlike Penelope, with whom he enjoyed a certain feeling of safety, many other young ladies would pounce upon the slightest encouragement. Thus, a ducal aura of detachment must be maintained.
He stayed behind while she moved forward toward the tea tray. He had been relieved to see her dressed much the same as always, in her worn-out gown and simple bun. Yet he could not help but continue to imagine her with her hair down—and maybe her dress down too.
He stifled a growl. He must get control of himself. Miss Rose was his grandmother’s companion and his hired assistant in his important work for the Foreign Office. Their relationship was purely business and contractual. Nothing more.
Penelope picked up the tea tray and walked up to the footman, who was pouring golden liquid from one of his carafes for an elderly gentleman. “Jonathan,” she accosted him. “Her Grace, the duchess, is not inclined for tea tonight. Could you take this tray down for me?”
“Not likely,” the footman hissed in a manner he would never take with any other guests of the party. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and do it yourself?” The footman sidestepped Penelope, but she stepped in front of him, stopping him with her tray.
“It is getting heavy. Can you take it? I don’t want it to spill.”
“Can’t. Got my own hands full. You blind?”
“What seems to be the difficulty?” Marchford had seen enough. Penelope was right; the footman was at least rude if nothing else. “Here, I will take your tray, and you can take the lady’s tea service.”
Marchford reached for the decanters, but the footman was not going to relinquish his prize readily. “No, Your Grace. You don’t need to do that. I will call for some assistance for the lady.” He glanced around, but Penelope had already told two other footman they were needed in the kitchens. It would take them a few minutes before they returned.
“Thank you so much.” Penelope all but tossed her tray at the footman, and Marchford held out a hand for the tray of liquor, but Jonathan held on.
“No, it’s no trouble. Please, Your Grace, I can carry both.”
To Marchford’s surprise, the footman managed to take her tray in one hand and balance it on one shoulder, while the other tray he likewise carried on the other shoulder. One had to admire the footman’s determination and ingenuity, but his clear desire to retain possession of the decanters only raised Marchford’s suspicion.
Penelope glanced at him with large eyes, a clear appeal to do something. He could not resist her silent plea—he could hardly resist her at all. Hoping Grant would forgive him, he grabbed the edge of the tea tray and shoved it up, spilling the contents with a crash of broken china.
Penelope’s mouth dropped open. People stopped their games and turned to stare. Marchford grabbed the tray of decanters from the footman’s grasp, and they left the footman thin-lipped in the middle of shattered china and a puddle of tea. With the focus of the assembly momentarily diverted by the cracked crockery, Marchford was able to discreetly slip Penelope back to the private study, alone now save the tray and three bottles of spirit.
He placed the tray on a small round table. The decanters were a fine set of cut leaded crystal with ornately engraved gold inlays. Even the bottoms were of gold, engraved with intricate patterns. Nothing seemed out of place, except two were labeled “Brandy.”
“Why two of the same liquor?” Pen asked, her focus on the bottles.
Marchford was more interested in watching her intelligent face as she worked over the puzzle of the decanters. Forcing himself to focus on the task at hand, he found a glass. “I am agreeable to a test.” He poured himself a splash of one and sampled it carefully in his mouth before swallowing. “Good. Very fine. Expect nothing less from Grant.”
“And the other?” asked Pen.
Marchford poured the liquid, but Penelope stopped him.
“Look. When you pour, there is something I can see in the bottle,�
� exclaimed Pen, her eyes alight with the delight of discovery.
Marchford was enchanted. She was not dressed to entice; in a plain muslin gown and a requisite old-maid lace cap, her appearance was utterly lamentable. Yet her wide-eyed excitement made him momentarily forget the task at hand.
“You are not even looking at it,” protested Penelope.
“Decanters…right,” sputtered Marchford. He turned the bottle slowly and squinted through the faceted glass. There appeared to be an inner tube also made of glass. He looked over the decanter at her with a growing smile. She returned it with a grin of eager anticipation.
Forcing himself to get back to business, Marchford made a further inspection of the bottle. On the bottom, he found a small, round stopper within the engraved gold. Carefully removing it, he discovered a glass chamber inside the decanter and within a small twist of a note.
“Penelope, you are lovely tonight. Absolutely brilliant.” Marchford meant every word. Carefully, he opened the note and spread it flat. Penelope leaned in, her brown head close to his. He caught a whiff of her perfume—or more likely the lavender soap she used. It was more intriguing to him than any exotic fragrance. He had to remind himself to read the note.
Another delivery tonight. Four bells.
“It appears people were using this decanter to pass messages,” said Marchford. “Ingenious really.”
“It is a clever contraption. But why not just pass a note hand to hand or even just talk briefly at the ball?” She leaned closer to inspect the note.
“It would be beyond my capability to pretend to know what passes for rational thought in the minds of my enemy,” muttered Marchford, also leaning toward the note—and her. “But there is always a chance of being overheard or seen. This way, information can be passed between them or to the footman, without them ever being seen together.”
“What do you think the footman knows?”
The footman! “Don’t know, but I’m going to find out.” Marchford was already heading to the door. His long stride outstripped Penelope as he approached the ballroom. A quick glance told them the footman was not present. He quickly inspected the card room and the dining areas. Jonathan was not to be found. Once again he needed assistance from Miss Rose. “Fastest way to the kitchens,” Marchford demanded of her.
“Follow me,” said Penelope, guiding him to a small side door that led to a servants’ passage down to the kitchens.
He paused only a moment. He had hardly ever entered his own kitchens, let alone those of a friend. He burst out into the heat and bustle of the kitchens, which came to a complete halt at the presence of a duke in their midst. Jaws dropped; a dish hit the floor; a scullery maid squeaked in surprise.
“Jonathan the footman,” Marchford commanded.
“He went outside,” faltered the cook, pointing to the side kitchen door.
Marchford ran out the door, up the steps, and out to the alley behind the house, hoping Penelope would have the sense to not follow. She did not.
“Stay here,” he commanded her, pulling a small pistol from his coat. Nothing could happen to her. Nothing.
He heard the scuffing of boots on gravel ahead and proceeded into the darkness of the alley.
Five
Penelope waited in the freezing cold for Marchford to return. As demanded, she went no farther than the kitchen steps and stared into the darkness where Marchford had disappeared. Despite the apparent danger that led Marchford to pull out his pistol, the prominent thought in her head was: Just where did he hide said pistol? His coat was formfitting enough one would think there would be a bulge somewhere, and yet he appeared the very figure of a gentleman in a perfectly cut coat. He must have had his coat cut with the express purpose of concealing weaponry. Did he always carry it? Shocking.
Pen waited for a moment, squinting into the dark and listening past the soft musical strains of the orchestra that floated beyond the walls of the ballroom. It seemed impossible that any true danger would lurk here, by the walls of the Grant home. Yet Marchford was always wary of foreign agents, and he had been right to suspect the footman.
A sudden shout pierced the night followed by a gagging cry. She was running into the dark alley before she could think. Marchford! Was he hurt?
She ran forward into the blackness. The winter air was cold and damp. She breathed hard and her lungs complained. Where was he? She stilled and listened in the dark. Footsteps, grating on the rocks and gravel, echoed off the alley’s walls around her. Was someone running away or toward her? She spun around just as a black-caped form knocked into her hard and sent her sprawling to the ground.
She shrieked and rolled over onto her back. A figure loomed over her. It bent closer, reaching out. Penelope shouted for help and grabbed a handful of dirt and gravel, throwing it into the man’s dark face.
“Ow!” The man stood up. “I say, Penelope. Rather unsporting to blind me.”
“Marchford?” Penelope breathed a ragged sigh of relief. “I thought you were trying to kill me. Why did you run into me?”
“I didn’t. Must have been the man I was chasing. Are you hurt?” He reached down and, without warning or preamble, neatly picked her up in his arms.
“Oh!” squeaked Penelope, surprised to find herself in the arms of the duke. She wrapped her arms around his neck in a natural reaction. “I…I’m fine.”
“You sound breathless. Are you sure you areall right?”
Her sudden difficulties in breathing had more to do with his holding her than her being knocked to the ground, but she could hardly express that sentiment. “Just give me a moment to collect myself.”
“You are safe. No need to fear.” His words were soft and tender.
Penelope could not help herself. She rested her head briefly on his shoulder. His coat smelled of fine cloth and gentleman musk. She breathed deep, relaxing into the intoxicating scent, before remembering her place. “I am fine now. I can stand.”
“Are you certain? If anything happened to you…” The sentiment hung in the frosty air unfinished. He had not yet set her down.
“I am well,” she assured, though in no hurry to be released.
Finally he allowed her to regain her feet, but then surprised her by making a cursory inspection of her body, running his hands down her sides. “Does anything hurt? Are you injured in any way?”
Despite the bitter cold, she warmed at his touch. She wished to invite him to continue to search for injuries but censored the comment. “No, just jostled a bit. Was it Jonathan who hit me?”
“No, no, I am certain it was not he.”
“Then who ran into me?”
“The man who got away.” Marchford was solemn in his disappointment.
“The footman got away?”
“No. He’s here.”
“Where?” Penelope struggled to see in the almost impenetrable darkness. “Shall we question him? He is the link to whoever was passing messages in the ballroom.”
“Yes, I know. Unfortunately, others in the ballroom also knew that and disposed of a certain problem.”
“How so?” Penelope attempted to walk past Marchford in the dark alley. The duke blocked her path but not before she caught a glimpse of something that stopped her cold. The footman was lying on the ground in an awkward position, a pool of something dark around his throat.
Penelope grew suddenly chilled, which given the freezing wind slicing through her muslin gown, was surprising only because she didn’t think she could get colder than she already was.
She turned away, not wanting to see more. “Is he dead?”
“Quite dead.”
Penelope took a ragged, cold breath. The man was dead. Dead. Her mind reeled and the ground began to tip. He was alive just a few minutes ago. How could such a hale and hearty lad suddenly cease to exist?
Marchford put an arm around her waist and p
ulled her close to his body, propping her up, which was odd since she hadn’t realized she was starting to fall. Before she had seen the body, she had not known herself to be the fainting type.
Marchford walked her away from the body. “Take a few slow breaths.” Penelope did as he suggested, slowing her breathing, feeling the cold, damp air fill her lungs like a restorative.
“This is not your first corpse,” she whispered.
“No. The first time I found a dead body, I cast up my accounts all over my boots.”
“Waste of good food,” muttered Penelope, trying to keep the contents of her stomach where she’d put it.
“I was more thinking of my boots.”
Penelope could not help but smile. With another breath, she straightened her backbone and attempted to pull away from the duke with a shiver. “I can walk on my own now, thank you.”
“Yes, of course,” he said. He removed his jacket and put it around her shoulders. It was warm with his own heat and smelled intoxicatingly of him. She breathed deep again, and his arm returned to around her waist, as if it belonged there. She could not help herself from leaning into him, accepting his warmth and strength.
Marchford led Penelope down the stone steps, back into the kitchen. “Are you ready?”
“Yes,” said Pen, pulling away and handing him back his jacket. Appearances must be preserved. He nodded in understanding and put his jacket back on, hiding his pistol somewhere in the mysterious coat. Within the kitchen, the air was shockingly hot and pungent with the smells of food in various states of preparation and waste. All were silent again as the duke returned. The butler, having clearly been notified of the strange goings-on, greeted Marchford with a bow.
“Your Grace, how may we assist you?”
“Inform Mr. Grant there is a situation with the footman and rouse a constable. I will meet Grant in his private sitting room.” Marchford leaned toward the butler and whispered something further in his ear.
The generally reserved butler stared in shock, his eyes wide. “At once, Your Grace,” he finally managed and bowed again to take his leave.
A Winter Wedding Page 4
