Marchford scanned the area for potential dangers, but none were readily apparent. Even the pickpockets had decided to stay indoors on such a frosty morning. He jumped down and helped Penelope to do the same, his hands around her small waist for the briefest of moments before he set her down. Why the simple act distracted him he could not say.
He opened the rickety wooden door and stepped inside. The workshop was shockingly hot compared to the cold outside. The ovens were working in the back, and the smell of coal and the sweltering heat was almost unbearable. A man in rolled up shirtsleeves and a red, sweaty face walked up to them.
“I have business with Master McDoogle, but I hear he passed,” said Marchford.
“Aye,” answered the muscular man. He wiped his hands on a gray apron and came forward. “I’m his brother. What’s your business, gov’ner?”
“I would like to know about one of his last jobs. He made a special decanter I believe.”
The man’s face darkened. “Don’t know nothing about that. I was in the country, see? I only came to Town after he was killed. I came to take care of the shop, that’s all.”
“I understand there is some question of how your brother died.”
“Nah, there ain’t no question. He was killed. Don’t care what no magistrate says. My brother was killed, but he’s dead now, so just leave it at that and get out of this here shop.”
They were being kicked out and he needed to think of something fast before the interview was over. The heat, such a contrast to the cold outside, was making him almost dizzy. He glanced at Penelope only to have her roll up her eyes and fall in a dead faint directly into his arms.
“Penelope!” Marchford would wonder about that later. When she fell into his arms, he called her Penelope, not Miss Rose. He had no right to use her name with such familiarity, and yet when she fainted, she was his Penelope.
He scooped her up in an instant. She was surprisingly light. For some reason, he thought such a formidable lady would be heavy with the weight of her own practicality. She was not. She was just a young woman, one who felt nice in his arms. One who also was unconscious. His heart pounded with true concern. “Quick, fetch some smelling salts or a restorative. Go man!”
“Penelope!” he shouted. “Penelope?” he whispered.
She opened her eyes a sliver, gave him a sly wink and closed them again, allowing her head to loll against his shoulder. Relief swept over him, so powerful he had to cough to hide the smile that came over his face when the man ran back in.
“Got no smelling salts, but I found gin.”
“Widow,” hissed Penelope through her teeth.
“She needs a woman’s touch,” said Marchford, taking the hint. He held her closer.
“Aye, come follow me. Molly will set her right.” He led them through to the back of the workshop, past giant gaping ovens of molten heat. He opened a door and went up a rickety wooden staircase to a small apartment above. The home was cramped and dingy. Marchford was reluctant to touch anything in the small room, but he lay Penelope on the couch, which had probably seen its best days before the first Duke of Marchford had cut his teeth.
“What’s happened? Another accident?” A thin woman with gray hair pulled back in a loose bun rushed in from a back room separated by a blanket.
“Naw, just a woman fainted is all,” said the brother. “This is my brother’s wife, Molly.”
“Probably the heat, or possibly the cold,” said Marchford with purposeful vagueness. The key to getting good information was to distract your opponent as long as possible so as to sneak the questions in the back door. “I do hope there has not been a fit of apoplexy.”
“Shoo!” said Molly, sending Marchford aside and her brother-in-law downstairs. She assessed the nature of Penelope’s ailments by the time-tested manner of feeling the forehead and taking the pulse.
Penelope must have decided it was time to make a recovery and did so with such a fluttering of the eyes and soft mewling that Marchford was tempted to kneel beside her and hold her hand against what must be death throes. Molly, however, was made of sterner stuff and stood once more, muttering something about the sensibilities of some ladies. Penelope raised herself gracefully from the couch and put a hand to her forehead.
“I do apologize. I do not know what has gotten into me,” said Pen weakly.
“Fainted. There now don’t you worry none. I have something that will fix you fast.” Molly turned to the corner of the apartment that served as the kitchen. Behind her back, Penelope shot Marchford a glance.
“No need. Here, I have everything she needs.” He drew from his coat pocket a flask of whiskey belonging to the original owner of the garment.
Penelope frowned at him and Marchford merely shrugged. It must be better than whatever Molly was preparing. Yet their hostess was not easily dissuaded from her mission.
“Here smell this.” The quick-moving Molly brought a wadded-up piece of linen on a stick.
Before Pen could back away, she took a whiff and her face contorted into a facial expression Marchford had not thought humanly possible. Tears sprung to Penelope’s eyes and she started to cough. A morbid curiosity made Marchford want to sniff the offending rag to determine for himself just how bad the aroma must be. Penelope began to gag and Marchford decided against it.
“Thank you for your help,” croaked Penelope when she could find words once more. “That is quite powerful.”
Molly placed the rag back into a glass bottle with a stopper. “I used it whenever my kids told me they were feeling poorly. I had well children as a result.”
Marchford did not doubt it.
“Good thinking,” said Penelope, taking the lead. Marchford felt certain Molly would be more comfortable speaking to a woman, and retreated toward the door to give the women some space.
“How many children do you have?” asked Penelope politely.
“Five. Most are grown now, though one came late in life, still underfoot.”
“I am sorry to hear of your recent loss.”
Molly nodded. “They killed my Jimmy they did.”
“What makes you so sure it wasn’t an accident?”
“’Cause it weren’t no accident. He worked by the oven his whole life, never once got more than a tiny burn. He was real careful, always. Not right what they did to him.”
“We are trying to find the men who might be responsible. Can you tell us anything about who may have killed him or the last project he worked on, a decanter?”
Molly shook her head. “He was never one to talk about his work. ’Cept he said it was quality he was working for.”
“Did he say anything else?”
Molly shook her head. “His last project was difficult. Not your standard fare. He worked late to get it done before the man returned. Made three sets, very fine work.”
“Three sets? Are you sure?”
“Sure I am. Saw them myself before that bastard in the Carrick coat claimed them. Oh, he must have thought he was very fine with all them capes onthe back.”
“Did you see what he looked like?”
“Nah, I was going out as he was going in. Never looked up to see me. Wrapped in a muffler and stocking cap. He shorted us too. Took them pretty works and ran.”
A young boy darted out from underneath a tablecloth and ran across the room and down the steps. Penelope and Marchford were surprised, but Molly took it in stride.
“My son,” said Molly in a straightforward tone. “He is always underfoot, getting in the way. Now if you got what you came for, I should go back to trying to make gruel into something that resembles a Christmas pudding.”
“Thank you. You have been helpful.” Penelope stood and walked to the door.
Marchford reached out to shake Molly’s hand and pressed a crown into her palm. “For your troubles.”
She removed
her hand with suspicion and stared at the coin, her bottom lip trembling. “Well now, I prayed for a Christmas pudding and the Good Lord done answered my prayers.”
Marchford handed her another coin. “The Good Lord would like you to have a Christmas goose too.”
Penelope gave him a smile that he could have basked in for days. The warmth radiating from her eyes surged heat through him, even thawing his numb toes.
Back in the wagon, he returned Penelope’s smile. “Very well done, Miss Rose. You have a certain knack for deception.” He meant to compliment, but Penelope’s frown told him he had missed the mark. He was generally adept at conversation, but with Penelope he was just as adept at making gaffes.
“Thank you, Your Grace. How delightful you find me an accomplished liar.”
“I meant it as a compliment.”
“Try insulting me then. You might have better luck.”
“At any rate, we now know more than we did before.” Marchford retreated back to the business at hand. “Several sets were made, that is important. We will need to go look for them. I wish they could have identified the man in the Carrick coat.”
Penelope turned to him with a face of a cat who had caught a mouse. “I bet I know who would know his identity.”
“Who?”
“The boy. I bet you anything he would have seen quality coming and hid somewhere in the room to hear what happened.”
“Good idea! Shall we interview the lad?” Marchford slapped the reins in a vain attempt to make the horse move faster.
“I doubt he will talk to us.”
“So if we can’t talk to him, how does this help us?”
“We cannot talk to him, but I know somebody who can!”
Twelve
When they returned to Marchford House, the duke went about seeing to the return of the dubious curricle and Penelope went into the house. Despite the cold, she had enjoyed the adventure, though whether it was because she wished to serve king and country or because she simply enjoyed being near a certain duke, she thought best not to examine too closely.
In her room, she found a maid once again removing her older gowns from the closet.
“Sorry, miss. Orders of the duchess. She weren’t happy to find you bought back them gowns and asked me to burn them.”
Pen was hardly surprised. The duchess was adamant in her abhorrence of the old gowns. Penelope handed the maid a coin from her reticule. “I will give you something to burn but leave the rest. I will ensure the duchess never sees them again.”
It was not that Penelope was afraid of the dowager, but she had learned long ago that avoiding unnecessary conflict could only lead to her general peace and contentment. So it was with such felicitous musings that Penelope traipsed up the rickety stairs with an armload of unsuitable garments past the housemaid’s quarters to the attic.
It was as attic-y an attic as could be and had she been a younger girl it would have been the sort of place she would have loved to explore. It was lit only from a few dormer windows and was filled with trunks and bags and bandboxes and mysterious crates. Old furnishings were covered with white sheets against the dust, which along with the cobwebs gave the place a deliciously spooky feel.
Penelope looked around for a suitable place to store her undesirable frocks. It was perhaps recalcitrant to hang on to her old wardrobe, resisting the new ones purchased by the dowager, though with Penelope’s own share of one of Madame X’s triumphs. Trouble was the new garments were so much more stylish, so fashionable, that it was a dramatic shift from her usual drab ensembles.
In her old gowns she could hide, recede into the background. In her new gowns…she was not even sure what she could do. What she did know was that the dowager was serious about sending her gowns to the poorhouse or the burn pile, and if she wanted to keep them, they must be hid.
Besides, the ones she kept had been her mother’s gowns. They still smelled faintly of her perfume. When she wore them, she felt close to her mum, almost as if she had become her mother. Penelope leaned against a trunk, turning over a new thought.
Was this why she was holding on to the gowns? Trying to fill the gaping hole left by the death of her mother by trying to become like her? Even dress like her? She must admit she had taken a rather mothering role with her sisters. Somebody had to be the sensible one to set everything to rights. Just like Mum.
Oh Lord, I do not know who I am anymore. She had always been one to take care of people—her sisters, the dowager—but now with them all joining the ranks of matrimony, she was hardly needed. Who was she now?
Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. Proverbs 3:5. It was one of her father’s favorite verses and was quoted often in her home. Followed by her grandma Moira’s addition, It may no’ work out the way ye plan, but it may just work out the way He planned.
Penelope brushed past old chairs and furnishings covered in white sheets to an old forgotten trunk in the corner. By the layer of cobwebs, it was clear the trunk held nothing of current use and should be a successful storage place. Opening the trunk, Penelope found a lovely gown in an older style, complete with an old-fashioned long corset and side panniers folded underneath. Penelope wondered if it had been the dowager’s gown from a bygone era. It was a fancy one, with more ribbons and frills than Penelope would have expected, and in a most shocking color of deep rose pink. How would the dowager have appeared in such a gown?
Penelope continued to explore the contents of the trunk and found another gown of emerald silk. Underneath was an exquisitely painted fan, a bottle of perfume, and an ivory-handled brush and comb. Penelope wondered at these items and decided these things must not have been Antonia’s but from some lady who had died. Why else would one pack away a half-used bottle of perfume?
In a corner of the trunk, Penelope found a little velvet box. Inside was a darling miniature of a young woman. Penelope mentally reviewed the long line of family portraits in the gallery, but she was certain she had never seen her before. The young woman was a raven-haired beauty with large, dark eyes and an olive complexion. Her mouth was alluring with a half smile and full rose lips, as if she wished to share a secret. Her dark eyes held a come-hither look that must have conquered the heart of any young man with the ability to draw breath. She was exquisite.
But who was she? And why was she hidden away in a trunk in the Marchford home?
At the bottom of the trunk was a large rectangular object wrapped in brown paper. Penelope doubted she could remove the package without ripping the paper, so she left it be, curious as she was.
Getting back to the business at hand, she repacked the trunk. She laid out her own gowns, folding them and carefully adding them to the trunk. Fortunately, there was room for her own things, but now her interest was focused on this new mystery.
Penelope flung a white sheet over the trunk and slipped the velvet box in her pocket. She never thought twice about taking the miniature. If pressed, she would be forced to confess she had a shocking propensity toward curiosity. The adage of what had happened to certain cats of similar disposition had been reviewed for her in her younger years on multiple occasions. However, her natural inclination toward solving mysteries and generally poking about in other people’s business had not yet killed her.
But the day was still young.
***
Penelope had just finished changing clothes into something the dowager would consider “suitable” when she received an urgent summons to join the dowager in her sitting room. The carriage of the Comtesse de Marseille had been spotted outside.
The Comtesse de Marseille, notorious society gossip, could ruin almost anyone with the raise of an eyebrow. Penelope could not find a single person who did not secretly loathe and fear the comtesse, yet her word on fashion, art, music, theatre—anything of any substance—was considered authoritative. It was said that when t
he patronesses of Almack’s disagreed whether or not to grant a particular person a voucher, they inquired of the comtesse.
“Thank goodness you look presentable,” exclaimed Antonia when Penelope entered the room. “Sit there.” The dowager pointed to a wingback chair. “No, no, sit over here on the settee.”
Penelope had not seen the dowager in such a state since Marchford had cut off her extra pocket money. Though the announcement had only just been published, Penelope had no doubt that news of the dowager’s engagement had spread to the outer banks of the Thames before noon and then scurried throughout the countryside by teatime. By the end of a week, the news would no doubt spread to the outer reaches of Scotland and even to Napoleon himself, who if the rumors were to be believed, enjoyed reading a bit of gossip as much as any society matron.
Despite her reassuring words, Penelope was not certain how the ton would react. The Dowager Duchess of Marchford herself held much sway in society, though she had been a widow for longer than many had been alive. Marriages in the mature years did happen, but not often. The question on everyone’s mind was why. Why now?
The comtesse was coming for a story. She was looking for gossip. Whether the impending nuptials of the dowager’s would be met with praise or censure depended largely on the opinion of the comtesse. And that depended on the story they were about to tell.
“Forgive me, Antonia,” said Penelope in a soft voice. “But everyone will want to know why you are getting married. Why are you?”
“Do you not know?” Antonia’s sharp, blue eyes softened and she spoke in a whisper. “Because I love him. I always have.”
“The Comtesse de Marseille,” the butler intoned.
“Antonia!” A tall, thin woman swished into the room with an air of elegance. Beneath a stylish hat with a wild plume of ostrich feathers, her silver hair was coiffed so elaborately it reminded Pen of an earlier time, when monstrous wigs were the fashion.
A Winter Wedding Page 9
