A Winter Wedding

by Amanda Forester

  “Romance?” He shook his head and folded his arms across his chest. “Utter rubbish.”

  Penelope’s heart crashed to the floor with his dismissal. She knew not why, but she desperately needed him to believe in the possibility of true love. “But you must allow that true love is a possibility.” Penelope pressed her point. “There are many cases of people doing remarkable things all for the power of love.”

  Marchford’s cool reserve stiffened into something more like cold disdain. “Yes, people do the most remarkable, irrational, unsupportable things all for an ounce of lust, easily enflamed and just as quickly extinguished.”

  Penelope jumped up from the chair, her heart pounding. “I think it perfectly odious for you to disregard the most pure, most important of human experiences into something so trivial—and to assign such shallow motivations to your grandmother,” she added, almost forgetting the topic of the discussion.

  Marchford stood as well, forcing Penelope to look up at him. “Think what you like, but I have only known this ‘most important of human experiences’ to cause pain to all involved, and as for my grandmother, I can only say that I have known her much longer than you. I have no intention of allowing such a distraction now when I need to focus on the important work at hand.”

  “On what grounds would you stop this union?” asked Penelope, trying to redirect her thoughts toward Antonia and not her own disappointment at his words. “There can be no grounds for denying her your blessing to marry a peer of the realm. Besides, have you not considered how beneficial this marriage would be for you?”

  “For me? How so?”

  “She would naturally move to Langley Hall, leaving your household open for your potential bride. Have you not tried to force your grandmother to decamp for the Dower House in the country ever since your return from Cádiz? You wished to free your household from her influence so you could bring in a wife who could take over command of the household management without her interference.”

  “Which could never happen in her presence.” Marchford was pensive.

  “Quite so.” Penelope was not so blind to her mistress’s faults that she did not recognize that Antonia would never hand over the reins of control to what she considered her household. She hoped this new perspective would prevent war from breaking out once again between grandmother and grandson.

  Marchford frowned from the effort the consideration of this new perspective brought him. “Perhaps,” he said slowly.

  “Besides, can you not consider for a moment that perhaps she has fallen in love?”

  “Love is not an emotion she knows anything about,” said Marchford more coldly than either expected.

  Penelope could think of no reply. Gone was the amusement in his eyes; only pain rested there now. Her anger receded, leaving only sorrow for whatever had occurred in his life to turn him so violently against love.

  “Forgive me.” Marchford shuffled the papers on his desk in a businesslike manner. He grabbed hold of the leather pouch of coins and bounced it in his hand. “We need to find out more about these coins.” He changed the subject so fast Penelope was almost dizzy from the sudden turn. “If we cannot determine where he got them, perhaps we can learn something from where he exchanged them. He certainly could not have spent a gold franc in London without raising suspicion. You said something about a naval connection with the footman?”

  Penelope nodded, keeping the discussion on safe topics. “Perhaps Wynbrook’s friend, Lord Darington, whom we met yesterday, could help. He is a sea captain and would presumably know where to exchange money.”

  “Good thinking. We shall ask for his assistance.” Marchford spoke in a clipped tone. “Second, we need to find who was using that decanter at the ball to pass messages. The decanter itself must have been a special order. I have already gone around to a few glassmakers in Town, but when I asked questions, they appeared nervous and stopped talking. All I gleaned was that the maker had died. Don’t like it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Something has them spooked, and they don’t want to tell me. I did discover the name of a glassmaker who died recently, but I doubt going to his widow myself would garner the information I want.” Marchford met her eyes in a manner that raised her pulse. “I need you.”

  Penelope took a sharp breath. She wished to remain aloof and rejected the thought that she too had fallen under the spell of the handsome duke. And yet she knew if he asked, there would be little she would not do for him.

  “What would you have me do?”

  Ten

  “Are you going like that?” asked Penelope.

  “You find fault in my appearance?” Marchford held himself at a rigid hauteur.

  Penelope had woken early and met Marchford at the prescribed time. The plan was to appear to be common folk to induce the widow of the glassmaker to talk. Marchford felt Penelope would be more successful in securing this audience, hence his request for her presence. However, if Marchford was attempting to appear as one of the masses, or even shabby gentry, he was far from the mark.

  “You look perfectly acceptable if you are going to White’s, but for trying to get real people to talk to us, it is a bit much.” In truth, Penelope enjoyed the image of the superbly attired Duke of Marchford a bit too much.

  “You are suggesting I am not a real person?” Marchford inspected his bright-blue coat of superfine with disapproval. “This is of inferior quality. Besides, I will wear my greatcoat over it.”

  Penelope rolled her eyes. “No, you are not a real person.” She shook her head and muttered, “Inferior quality indeed.”

  “You suggest I further degrade my appearance?”

  “It would be helpful.”

  “I live to please you.”

  Penelope’s breath caught, and she let it out slowly, turning away. She wished there were more behind his idle words than just talk.

  “We cannot all have garments such as the one you wear.” He looked her up and down in a manner that raised her temperature. “I thought Grandmother gave away all your old gowns.”

  “I bought them back,” said Penelope.

  Marchford stopped and turned toward her, eyebrows raised. “You actually paid money for this…this…thing?” He gestured to her plain muslin frock.

  “Are you criticizing my mother’s gown again?” Penelope’s voice raised an octave.

  “Never!” The duke held up his hands in surrender. “Not at all. You look very…sensible.”

  Sensible. There it was again. Would she ever do something insensible?

  Penelope donned her old wool coat, warm and sensible. Marchford led them out the door to the stables.

  “Willie, my good man,” Marchford greeted the stable master. “I do appreciate the cut of your coat and that cloak looks quite warm.”

  Willie, a sturdy man in his forties, lifted his bushy eyebrows in surprise and paused a moment before replying, “The missus made them for me. I’ll pass along the compliment.”

  “Ah, thank you, do that. In fact, if it is not too presumptuous, I should love to own that coat and cloak myself, though I know you could hardly wish to be parted from them since they were made by your dearest wife.”

  “Wouldn’t go that far,” said the stable master slowly, as if trying to make sense of the duke’s strange statements.

  “Then perhaps I might persuade you to make a trade. My coat was not stitched by hands quite as loving or with as much care, but—”

  “Done!” The stable master was already stripping off his brown cloak and his mud-green jacket and handing it to the duke.

  Marchford traded his blue superfine and brushed wool greatcoat for the stable master’s attire and turned to Penelope, his eyes demanding approval.

  “Some improvement.” She knew better than to let him feast on too much praise. “Now do you have any vehicle of a simple nature?”
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  The stable master ran down the list of fashionable carriages, and it was clear no such modest vehicle existed in the stables of a duke, so they were for a moment in a quandary.

  “You’ll have to hire a hack for us,” the duke told the stable master.

  Willie bowed and departed just as the most modest of conveyances rolled slowly into their drive, being pulled by a swaybacked gray horse. The curricle was of such disrepair it more resembled a hay wagon. Penelope assumed it must be a tradesman making a delivery and was therefore shocked when Lord Darington jumped down.

  “Lord Darington.” She curtsied. “What a surprise to see you again so soon. Good morn to you.”

  “Goodness, my man. Were you robbed?” asked Marchford, surveying his questionable equipagewith alarm.

  “No, nothing like that.” The stern expression on Darington’s face gave him the appearance of being older than his age. His clothes would best be described as adequate, plain, sturdy, functional. She could appreciate the sentiment but knew that, among his peers, his attire would be considered woefully insufficient.

  “M’sister has a morbid fascination with cost savings,” continued Darington. “This was quite inexpensive.” Considering the condition of the carriage, Penelope thought any amount to be a crime. His cloth also must have suffered from his sister’s “morbid” sense of thrift. With a flash of unwanted insight, she wondered if this was how the dowager felt looking at her older gowns.

  “I should say.” Marchford shook his head in disbelief.

  “I came to give you a report regarding the question you asked me yesterday.” Darington got directly to the point.

  “Yes, thank you. I appreciate your swift attendance to this matter.”

  Darington shifted his eyes to Penelope and back to Marchford in a silent request.

  “Do speak freely. Miss Rose is my associate in these matters,” said Marchford.

  Penelope’s heart soared. His associate. It sounded important.

  “I took the description of the young footman to several moneylenders along the docks. One knew him, had been changing money for the past four months. Doubloons and francs mostly.”

  “Where would a footman get such loot?” asked Marchford to no one in particular.

  “Smuggling most likely. We have a blockade, but society wants French wines, and so many look the other way.” Darington’s voice was bitter with disapproval. “Quality gets what quality wants.”

  “Any talk on who killed the footman?” asked Marchford.

  “Talk yes, but nothing definite. Most figured he was involved in something shady, and got killed for his troubles.”

  “Thank you, Lord Darington, you have been most helpful,” said Marchford. “Please do forgive me, but I wonder if I might borrow your…err…carriage for a few hours at most. We should be very glad to have my groom drive you home.”

  Darington lowered his eyebrows in an intelligent glower. “In disguise are you? Very well.”

  “You do not wish to know why we are traveling together in such a manner?” asked Penelope. Darington lacked a natural level of curiosity.

  “I can think of only two reasons why you would travel in disguise. First, you are proceeding in some sort of romantic adventure in which you do not wish your identities to be known until the elopementis finalized.”

  Penelope’s mouth dropped open and she struggled to find an appropriate response.

  “Second,” continued Darington, “you are proceeding to search for the murderer of the footman and feel you should be more successful appearing as a common man than a duke. Either way I will not interfere. If the first, I ought not, and if the second, I should not.”

  “Well said, my friend.” Marchford gave him a smile. Penelope wished he would clarify any confusion regarding an elopement, but Marchford went on along a different train of thought. “I shall confer with the stable master and let him know the change of plans.”

  Marchford strode off into the damp, early morning fog, leaving Darington and Penelope alone in the dark gray mist.

  “There is no elopement.” Penelope felt the need for a quick clarification. “No romantic adventure.” More’s the pity.

  “If you say so,” said Darington without emotion. “Speaking of romantic adventure, is the dowager duchess available for visitors this morning?”

  Penelope could only smile. The dowager would not be ready to receive guests any time before noon. “I fear she does not receive anyone so early.”

  “I understand she helped Wynbrook by serving as an intermediary between him and a matchmaker.”

  “Yes, we do know a matchmaker, but she remains quite elusive and does not want her identity known.”

  “I see. Do you know how she may be contacted on a matter of business?”

  “I can assist you and take your request to her. Are you looking for a wife, my lord?”

  “No!” he exclaimed with more power than was necessary. “Looking for a husband for my twin sister.”

  “The sister who chose this conveyance as a Town coach?” asked Penelope, hoping for a negative response.

  “Yes. Lady Katherine.”

  Penelope swallowed dashed hopes. “I believe she indicated at the ball her desire never to wed.”

  “Precisely why I have come,” he said as if the conclusion was obvious. “Kate does not wish to wed. But it is time. She should marry.”

  “Indeed, all women should be married.” Except, of course, her own spinster self.

  “How much does it cost?” Darington was clearly a blunt man, quick to get to the heart of business. A sea captain too long she guessed. So Penelope told him, assuming he could not afford the going rate. He did not even blink. “I accept your terms.”

  “So do you have a particular man or type of man in mind for your sister?”

  “Breathing.”

  Penelope smiled, but Darington’s face was so impassive she hardly knew if he was attempting humor. “I shall guarantee that all of Madame X’s grooms are in the land of the living. Have you any other attributes you would like to mention?”

  “Whatever the standard kit is will do for my sister.”

  “Standard kit?”

  Darington shifted on his feet. “Acceptable society, plump in the pocket, modest in vice.” He crossed his arms before himself. “In truth, it would be good if her intended groom were of modest habits. She has no tolerance for men who suffer from moral failings.”

  “You want a young, rich, English gentleman who does not chase women or drink in excess?”

  “Or smoke or take snuff,” Darington added, utterly missing the sarcasm in her voice.

  “And where would you think such bastions of society would congregate?”

  “Honestly, I have no idea. If I did, I shouldn’t need to call the matchmaker, would I?”

  Penelope could hardly argue with his logic. “I shall relay the message to Madame X.”

  “Thank you for taking this case,” said Darington. “I understand my sister can be…challenging. Has her own mind about her is all. Good gal.”

  “Yes, of course.” From their brief introduction, Penelope would have to say she would make a most difficult case.

  Marchford reappeared out of the thick, cold fog along with the stable master, happy and warm in his new greatcoat. “We are all arranged,” said Marchford. “Willie here will take you back home in the town coach if that is acceptable.”

  “Quite. I fear you will not be as comfortable in this contraption,” said Darington with utter candor.

  “You have a wonderful sense of understatement, Lord Darington. I wish you a pleasant day.”

  Darington bowed and followed the stable master into the mist, leaving Penelope and Marchford and the broken-backed horse.

  “Adventure calls,” said Marchford with a gleam in his eye.

  Eleven
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  It was a frigid morning. The roads were slick, and Marchford could see his breath in the frosty morning air. His horse and buggy were hardly fit for the icy cobblestones. He should have been freezing in his insufficient coat, and yet, sitting next to Penelope Rose, Marchford felt inexplicably warm.

  “Now I know why you wanted to leave so early this morning,” commented Penelope with a flash of humor in her eyes. “Mortifying if anyone saw you driving this curricle.”

  Marchford realized he should have been appalled at driving such a contraption down the London streets, but his only thoughts were of Penelope. At a bump in the road, Penelope was jostled closer to him, her arm touching his. She did not move away, leaving him to guess why. Was she cold and merely seeking warmth, or did she enjoy his company?

  “So tell me where we are going,” said Penelope in a most nonchalant tone. Perhaps she had not even noticed she was touching him. He rejected that notion as dreadfully lowering and decided she must be seeking heat. An understandable motive.

  “We are going to find the widow of a certain Jimmy McDoogle. Whether he is the man who made the decanters I do not know. Everyone I spoke to, however, was dreadfully suspicious of society, hence the disguise.” It was good to focus on facts and not the faint smell of lavender that clung to her.

  “We certainly have succeeded in being unrecognizable,” said Penelope with a smile hovering around her lips.

  The curricle jostled and slipped on the cobblestones, and Marchford wrapped an arm around her to ensure she did not slide off the questionable vehicle. They continued going at a slow pace, but Marchford’s arm remained around her waist, holding her close to him, protecting her from harm. Penelope said nothing and stared straight ahead into the gray London fog. He considered removing his arm, but it stayed there of its own accord.

  They arrived at the home of the widow of Jimmy McDoogle in an area of Town that might generously have been considered working poor. The sign outside was old and hanging sideways by one hook. Unlike other glassworks, there was no shop outside; this was purely a work site of sand and glass and heat.