A Winter Wedding

by Amanda Forester

  “Oh, thank you for coming!” Genie rushed to Penelope and held both her hands.

  “I was not sure if you were seeing visitors.”

  “Oh, I’m not. But you are my friend.” Genie gave her a smile that was truly lovely. She was a stunning girl with blond hair and blue eyes, a great beauty, but so unconscious of her looks that her disposition remained sweet. She was a rare creature, beautiful both within and without.

  Penelope smiled in return. She was no great beauty and knew it perfectly well, but Genie was so kind Pen could not begrudge Genie her looks.

  “Come. Sit. I’ll ring for tea and cakes. What a dreadful business with the footman. I cannot imagine why anyone would want to kill him. He seemed such a likable fellow.” Genie motioned for Pen to sit next to her on the settee.

  “I fear he may have been connected with some underhanded doings,” said Penelope.

  Genie shook her head and clasped her hands over her enlarging midsection. A happy event for the Grant household was clearly in the works. “So sad. I have heard there are spies among us, but why would anyone target this household? Surely they know Grant is not privy to any information they could want.”

  “I don’t know either. Grant is a friend of Marchford’s. It may be enough to put him under suspicion. I suppose the agents from the Foreign Office were here to ask questions.”

  “Yes, they spoke with the housekeeper and the butler. Can you imagine, they believe the references he provided were forged?” Genie spoke as if faking a reference were the worst thing she could imagine.

  “Shocking,” agreed Pen, though she could imagine things far worse. “I was hoping you might be able to shed some light on your footman so we may untangle this mystery.”

  “Indeed, we must find who killed him. I shudder to think there was a murderer wandering about just outside my kitchen door.”

  “There was possibly a murderer wandering about your drawing rooms.”

  “No!”

  “Only someone at the party would have known we came into possession of the decanter that had the hidden message.”

  “Oh, yes.” Genie grew pale. “I had not thought of that.”

  “Of course, it might not have been that at all, just someone passing by,” added Penelope hastily, wishing she had kept her own counsel. One thing she had learned about expecting mothers was that they were not to be upset.

  “You are very kind,” said Genie in a voice that told Penelope she saw through her good intentions. “There is someone who may be able to help give us insight into the nature of the footman.” Genie rang the bell and asked to have Jem called to the salon.

  “You still have Jemmy?” Pen asked doubtfully.

  “But of course!” replied Genie with a tense smile. Jem was a street urchin whom Genie, with her overly kind heart, had rescued and brought into service. The girl was quite unsuitable for service, but once Genie got it in her head to do a thing or save a person, she could be quite tenacious. Just ask Mr. Grant, whose intended desire to remain a bachelor for life was put to shambles within weeks of meeting her. Genie was like that—so very sweet but a force of nature few could stand against.

  Jemima Price entered the salon with a skip in her step and a tear in the sleeve of her maid’s costume. “Hallo!” The child ran up to Genie in a manner much too familiar for a maid.

  “Miss Jemmy,” said Genie with a look to remind Jem of her manners before company. Penelope had the distinct impression the girl was not being treated as a servant but rather a distant relative or a loved pet. “You know that poor Jonathan was killed last night. Can you tell us anything about him that might help us understand why?”

  “He was a lout for sure. Worst kind. Sweet words but dark on the inside. Do anything for a bit o’ blunt.” Jem’s accent was so clearly from the rookery slums of London she was always a challenge to understand.

  “What makes you say that?” asked Pen.

  “He was a cunning shaver, t’be sure.”

  Pen looked at Genie for translation but she was no help. “What do you mean, Jemmy? And please use words I might have a chance of understanding.”

  “Oh, right. Sorry. I forget myself. I am trying to improve, honest.”

  “Yes, yes, you are doing well,” soothed Genie. “Now tell us why you had a low opinion of him.”

  “He’d make himself scarce when there’s work to be done and always be back afore he could get caught. Canny cove he was.”

  “Did you ever see any friends of the footman? Did you know any of his associates?” asked Pen.

  Jem thought a moment but shook her head. “None never came for him that I know. He may come from seafaring folk—always whistling a shanty.”

  “Did he ever speak of any family?” asked Genie. “We should send his things somewhere.”

  “Nah. But check under the grate in his room. I saw him hide something there once.”

  “Thank you, Jemmy. You have been very helpful.”

  Jemima gave a broad smile and ran from the room, ran back in, gave a sweeping curtsy, and ran back out.

  Genie sighed. “I know you are thinking I should not have her as a maid, and I know you are right, for she is not quite acceptable.”

  “No, but she is an observant little scamp, and that alone is worth her wages,” reassured Penelope.

  Genie smiled faintly. “I suppose now you want to see this grate.”

  “How did you guess?” Penelope returned the smile.

  Soon the two ladies were in the footman’s room. It was a small space at the bottom of the house, though like everything in Genie’s household, the furniture and bedding was comfortable and generous. No servant of hers could claim deprivation from the creature comforts.

  Under the bed was a small grate. It did not look clean and both ladies hesitated, with Pen finally deciding to sacrifice a handkerchief to pull the thing up. She did so with surprising ease and found a leather pouch. Penelope poured the contents into her hand and gasped.

  “Oh my stars!” exclaimed Genie, staring at the gold coins in Penelope’s hand.

  “What are you paying your help?”

  Genie could not suppress a laugh. “Not this! Look, twenty franc pieces with Napoleon on the front.”

  “And pieces of eight as well.”

  “He was involved in something.” Genie straightened with a hand to her back and a slight grimace.

  “Indeed. And I have kept you too long. May I take this to Marchford?”

  “Please do. However Jonathan acquired it, I fear it was not by respectable means.”

  “Of that, dear Genie, we may be sure!”

  ***

  Marchford rustled papers about in an irritated manner. He must find the persons responsible for passing messages and killing the footman. He flung maps and notes and letters across his desk in some vain hope something would make sense. Surely nothing else in his life did.

  He was in need of a wife, and yet there was none in whom he had the slightest interest. He must admit that Miss Rose had done a perfectly adequate job of supplying him with potential candidates—the second time at least—but absolutely none would do. Unfortunately, whenever he attempted to consider a perfect bride, the only image that came to mind was a picture of Penelope with her hair down. The vision came to him at the most inopportune times. He tried to keep her at an emotional distance, but it failed more often than it worked. It was enough to put any man in a foul temper.

  To make matters worse, his grandmother had taken complete leave of her senses. Married? Impossible! It was unseemly for a woman her age. Unseemly, irresponsible, incomprehensible, and worse yet, utterly beyond his control. Total control of himself and his surroundings was the only thing that had ever kept him alive.

  “Good morning.”

  Marchford jumped back and reached for his pistol, pointing it in the direction of the vo
ice. A small figure stepped forward out of the shadows. He knew this figure. Marchford took a moment to collect himself before answering. “Good morning, Mr. Sprot.”

  The old man stepped forward slowly and made his way to a wingback chair by the fire. Marchford pocketed the pistol and sat next to him in a matching chair. Mr. Sprot graced him with a paternal smile.

  Mortimer Sprot had been an old, thin man when Marchford had first met him. The passing years had not been kind, making Mortimer thinner and more decrepit. The wrinkles of his face were deeply etched, his clothes loose over his wasted frame. He appeared frail and very much as if he would need assistance simply to rise from the chair. Yet here he was, sitting in Marchford’s private study without being announced. His presence in the house was undoubtedly unknown to anyone besides the one to whom he wished to speak.

  “I thought you had retired,” said Marchford.

  “Troubled times, Your Grace,” said Sprot.

  “I believe that is what you said to me when we first met,” remembered Marchford. He had been assigned a post with the British consulate in Cádiz, the type of position they created for unwanted brothers of dukes. It was sufficiently prestigious but conveniently out of the way. Sprot had recruited him for the Foreign Office. It had given him purpose. Sprot had made Marchford a spy catcher. Marchford would have been content to live out his days working for the Foreign Office on the Continent had he not been called back to London when his brother, the previous Duke of Marchford, was on his deathbed.

  “I am sure you are correct,” said Sprot in his calm voice.

  Marchford reclined back in his chair with a sigh. “I thought I had retired.”

  Sprot shook his head. “Apparently not possible in this game. Thought I could myself until my replacement turned up a traitor. Can’t trust anyone but myself.” He gazed at Marchford with intense black eyes. “And you.”

  “What is it you would have me do?”

  “We have gained disturbing information that Napoleon is planning a large invasion to take London,” said Sprot in his soft-spoken manner.

  “Here? Impossible.”

  “Our enemy sees us as weak, vulnerable. Our current crisis in leadership is having a toll on our overall effectiveness.”

  “I am doing what I can with Parliament. Unfortunately our options…” Marchford did not have to express the well-known truth that King George’s irresponsible son was not of the same caliber as his father.

  “Yes. That is why our enemy is emboldened. There appears to be something brewing, some sort of attack or sabotage. Intercepted correspondence refers to ‘the event,’ something that will happen here I believe.”

  “What is their plan?” asked Marchford.

  “That is what I hope I can rely on you to discover. We need to find those involved in this. The stakes are too high. We need to find the London spymaster.”

  “I understand.”

  He understood he would need Miss Rose’s help, and that could prove difficult. He needed to focus on the task at hand—and not Penelope.

  Nine

  Penelope returned to Marchford House with some trepidation. The disagreements between the Duke and Dowager Duchess of Marchford were legendary. Not that either party would express their anger in a verbal manner; there would not be any disagreeable scenes at Marchford House. No, their cold anger seeped through every word until the entire house was frozen solid.

  Relations had improved of late between Marchford and his grandmother, but Penelope judged it would not take much to return to the frozen wasteland she initially endured when she first came to serve as the dowager’s companion.

  Penelope was thus pleased to learn that the dowager duchess was entertaining when she returned; it was always safer to be with the dowager in company. The Earl of Wynbrook had come to thank the dowager for connecting him with the elusive Madame X.

  “I am pleased to tell you that Sir Gareth proposed to Janie last night,” Wynbrook was telling Antonia when Penelope entered the sitting room. “The engagement will be published in the papers tomorrow!”

  “My best wishes to the happy couple!” exclaimed Penelope. She was pleased Sir Gareth had responded to her gentle push in Lady Jane’s direction.

  “I shall tell Madame X that you are pleased with her efforts for dear Lady Jane,” said the dowager. “I am glad she was able to act quickly to prevent social disaster.” Antonia gave Pen a knowing smile.

  “Indeed, quite so!” exclaimed Wynbrook, who was as animated as any brother would be to see his sister settled and respectably off his hands. “And I hear I am to wish you much happiness too, Your Grace!”

  “You hear correctly,” said the dowager with a broad smile, placing her hand where he could see the large ring.

  “I have come with strict instructions to discover your plans for your wedding date,” said Wynbrook. “Jane does not wish to conflict. They wish to have the engagement ball before the end of the year.”

  “Yes, she really must. Will she be married from home or church?”

  “Home, I believe.”

  “I was married from home, but that was well before any here were born. I thought to grace St. George’s this time, but I fear it is not seemly for a woman of my age to do such a thing.”

  “Nonsense!” roared Wynbrook, which of course was the only appropriate thing to say.

  The duchess smiled as radiantly as any bride. Wynbrook conversed easily about wedding plans, though he left the debate about the best warehouses for the wedding clothes to the ladies.

  Midway through the visit, the butler entered and intoned that Penelope was needed elsewhere. Pen knew exactly why she was being called. Her presence was requested by the Duke of Marchford.

  And the duke waited for no one.

  Penelope walked to the study, her heart an annoying flutter. Why should a simple meeting fluster her so? She decided she must be annoyed with him. When she entered the study, the Duke of Marchford was at his desk, focused on his papers, and did not bother to look up, let alone stand, at her presence, further irritating her.

  “You might have waited until our visit with our guest had concluded,” she chastised.

  “Guest?” Marchford looked up over some notes and a map. “Do you refer to Wynbrook? Nonsense. He came to visit my grandmother anyway.”

  Penelope bristled under the assumption, albeit correct, that her presence was not sufficient to draw such visitors. “If I am of no great import, then I shall retire to my room and work on my correspondence. I am quite delinquent with my sisters.”

  “Now don’t fly into hysterics.”

  “I assure you my uterus is where it ought to be.”

  The comment was assured to break Marchford’s concentration, and he looked up, perplexed.“Your what?”

  “Uterus. You made reference to it with the ill-advised hysterics comment. You are aware that the word hysterical comes from the Latin root word meaning uterus, based on the odd notion that insanity in women is brought on by a wandering uterus.”

  Marchford stared at her and said nothing.

  “A strange idea indeed, for everyone knows insanity in women is clearly caused by men.”

  Marchford raised one dark eyebrow, a smile playing on his lips. “And what of insanity in men?”

  Penelope took a seat in a burgundy-colored leather chair before the desk and examined the papers littering the top. “I can only assume they are born that way.”

  Marchford chuckled. “Your conversation is nothing if not educational.”

  “Is that why you summoned me away from morning callers? To discuss madness?” Penelope smiled in return. She could not help but enjoy sparring with the duke.

  Marchford leaned back in his chair, the smile still on his lips. “Yes, actually—the madness of King George. With Napoleon at our backs, it could not have come at a worse time.”

  “Ho
w can I help?” Penelope was all business.

  “I would like you to speak to Mrs. Grant. I know the Ministry has already been there, but perhaps you can find something of importance they overlooked.”

  “I’ve already done that.” Penelope pulled the leather pouch of coins from her reticule and plunked it on the duke’s desk, explaining how she had come by it. He listened attentively to all she had to say.

  “Very well done, Miss Rose,” said Marchford with genuine warmth in his eyes.

  Penelope smiled at his unmitigated praise. It was rarely bestowed and therefore worth the earning. Something in the intensity of his gaze heated her core.

  Marchford cleared his throat and focused back on his papers. “Now if only you could be as successful in managing my grandmother.”

  Penelope’s smile faded. “Your grandmother is certainly old enough to make up her own mind on the subject.”

  “No one would debate the fact that my grandmother is of age, Miss Rose. What I would like is some enlightenment as to why, after fifty years of living as the dowager duchess, she would suddenly decide to wed again.”

  “I wish I knew, but I was as much surprised as you, though she did seem intent on sharing her good news with the comtesse.”

  Marchford narrowed his eyes. “My grandmother is a proud person. To have been left at the altar by Langley early in life would have been a severe blow.”

  “Though she more than made up for it by marrying a duke afterward,” Penelope reminded him.

  “Perhaps she seeks to redeem the one stain on her otherwise flawless record by showing the world that even the one man who dared to spurn her can be made to come around.”

  Penelope leaned back in her chair. “A rather cynical view of marriage, even for you.”

  Marchford shrugged. “Marriage is nothing but a social contract, generally initiated to increase wealth or status or in this case repair a reputation. How would you explain it?”

  Penelope leaned forward again, trying to find some humor in his eyes to say that this was all in jest, but she could not. “Do you not believe in the awakening of two hearts when they fall in love? Perhaps she has rekindled a love from when she was a young girl. You must concede the possibility of true romance.”