“Yes, ma’am. Told him the flam about breaking the bottle, and I could tells he weren’t buying it. Nothing to it, so I started to blubber and say I was an orphan and I needed to find another bottle or they would kicks me out of the house and I gots nowheres to go.”
“So what happened?” asked Penelope her attention on the girl, ignoring Marchford.
“Well, Georgie, that’s the glassmaker’s son, he tells me he’s half an orphan too cause of this man that ordered the bottles and he says his father was killed for it.”
“Did he know who killed his father?” asked Marchford, attempting to focus back on his work.
“Well, yes and no. When the man came to pick up the bottles, his father wasn’t quite done. The man was terrible angry. Said they made a deal. Threw a fit, so Georgie says. His father gave the man the sets he had, and then delivered the last set the next day when he was done. Georgie delivered them himself.”
“Where?” Marchford and Penelope asked together, leaning forward.
“Didn’t want to tell me.”
Marchford and Penelope both leaned back in disappointment.
“So I said it was probably where I worked anyways and asked what address he took it, and he says I should know where I work for the heaven’s own sake. And I says I knows where I butter my bread, but does he. And we went round until he said that if I don’t know the address of Lord Felton then I deserve whatever I got for being nothing but a buffled-headed mopsqueezer. Then I told him—”
“Enough,” commanded Marchford, but he gave the girl a smile. “Without resorting to telling us the full extent of the insults exchanged, was there anything else he told you about the person who commissioned the glassware?”
“No. We got too loud and his mum came down and run me out with a broom. Here’s your crown, ma’am. Didn’t need it.”
Penelope took the crown from Jem’s hands with a smile, throwing Marchford a triumphant look. “Thank you, Jemima. You have done very well indeed.”
Jemima’s smile brightened the coach.
“Might I even say surprisingly well?” Penelope glanced again at Marchford.
He nodded in assent. She deserved to win this round. “I concede defeat and admit surprise.”
Penelope handed him the coin. “To remind you that there are people out there who may surprise you yet.”
“But I have you for that,” he said in a low voice. He turned to Jem and handed her the crown, her eyes growing as wide as the coin. “For services rendered. A grateful nation thanks you. And a merry Christmas,” he added as an afterthought.
Jem snatched the coin and was utterly absorbed by her newfound wealth. “Thank you,” she said in a reverent voice.
“Thank you,” whispered Marchford in Penelope’s ear, delighting in the blush that pinked her cheeks. How he could ever have thought her plain he could not say. She may not be a striking beauty, but she was handsome in a way he quite preferred.
“Do you mind if we stop somewhere?” asked Jemima. “It ain’t far.”
“Certainly,” said Marchford, happy to drop her anywhere if that meant he was alone once more with Penelope. He jumped out to retrieve the coachman and soon they were rolling along. Following Jemima’s directions, the coach drove them nearer to St. Giles. A modest bakeshop stood next to a humble butcher.
Jemima hopped down into the slush and looked from one to the next, but finally decided on the butcher and walked inside.
“What can she be buying?” asked Penelope. “Surely she knows she will have plenty of food at Grant’s table.”
“I confess some curiosity,” admitted Marchford. So they both stepped down from the coach, Marchford lifting her briefly down and over a freezing puddle.
“Thank you,” she murmured, turning the brim of her bonnet from him to conceal what may have been another blush.
Inside the shop, Jemima was arguing with the shopkeeper about how much the crown would buy. She had her eye on a large goose, but the shopkeeper was holding out for more.
“Jemima, what do you want with a goose?”asked Penelope.
“Oh, it isn’t for me. I just know how many St. Giles folk will be hungry this Christmas, and I wanted to fill their stomachs with goose and pudding.”
Penelope put her hand to her mouth to stop a gasp. Tears sprung to her eyes. She glanced at Marchford, who was admittedly surprised by Jemima’s generosity but delighted with Penelope’s reaction. He knew what Penelope wished, and he would deny her nothing.
“I see you are taking this surprise thing to heart,” he commented dryly. In a manner of moments, Marchford had financially arranged with the butcher and the baker to send to the address provided by Jemima a veritable Christmas feast, though he did not doubt he was feeding persons of dubious repute.
The smile Penelope graced him with was well worth the price. When they walked out of the shop, the sleet turned to soft, gentle snow, fluttering gracefully down.
Jemima shrieked with joy and stuck out her tongue to catch the flakes, racing around them as if moving faster would help her get snowflakes.
Marchford reached out a gloved hand and took Penelope’s hand in his. She smiled, snowflakes gracing on her long, black eyelashes like tiny crystals. She was beautiful. Simply beautiful.
He must beware.
Fourteen
After they dropped off a happy Jemima Price at Grant’s town house, they drove slowly back to Marchford House. The snow was beginning to fall in earnest, and Penelope could not help but stare at the beautiful white flakes out the carriage window. The coal-dusted London streets were brightened with a white blanket of snow, lifting Penelope’s spirits.
She turned back to Marchford, sitting silently beside her. She wondered if he would initiate any more of what had passed between them earlier, but he was looking at nothing in particular, a frown marring his otherwise pleasant countenance. He was no doubt thinking about the problem of tracking down foreign spies, while the beautiful landscape passed by his window unnoticed.
A lump of emotion caught in her throat at the thought of his generosity to provide a happy Christmas for others though he, with all his riches, had never experienced one. How difficult it must have been to feel the brunt of the feud between his mother and grandmother. If there was one thing she was determined to do, it was to provide this man with some happy memory of the Christmas season.
Her eyes were drawn to his lips. They appeared soft yet firm, and she could not stop herself from wondering what it might be like to kiss those lips.
“What do you make of Lord Felton being named?” asked Penelope in a fluster, trying to change the focus of her own traitorous mind.
“Not sure. I am thinking on that. He could be a co-conspirator. And yet the decanters were found in Grant’s house too, so Felton could be yet another innocent.”
“How do we determine whether he is involved or not?” She tried to look at something other than how his lips moved when he spoke. She must not reveal her damning curiosity.
“I would like to get into his house, look around.” He glanced at her briefly, then turned back slowly and caught her eyes, holding the gaze.
Penelope was very much aware that they were alone in a large, plush town carriage. Pull the curtains and they could have complete privacy. Despite the cold, her temperature rose. “Little chance of that,” replied Penelope, fighting to keep on the topic of conversation. “He has not entertained for years, as far as I am aware.”
“No, he swore he would never host another ball after the last debutante ball for his daughters. Had seven of them. None too pleased about it. Now his estate will be entailed off to a nephew whom he apparently loathes.”
“Sounds charming. I don’t suppose he is in possession of a Carrick coat?” asked Penelope.
“Half of London is in possession of a Carrick coat. Even me.” Marchford drew her attention to his c
oat, which she had not noticed until then. It was indeed a black Carrick coat with multiple capes. He held up an arm to invite investigation, then placed it down on the top of the plush carriage seat, his arm now resting on the squabs above her shoulders. He was not touching her, but she felt drawn to him just the same.
“Could you call on Lord Felton?” asked Penelope, trying to pretend she was utterly unaffected by sitting so close to him.
“Unlikely. He is a prickly man, never had much to do with him. Can’t think of any reason why I should pay him a visit.”
She slowly leaned back against the squabs, his arm now touching her shoulders. She thought he would pull away. He did not. His green eyes sizzled with intensity.
“I do not see a way forward. Do you?” he asked.
Penelope stammered in response. Was he talking about trying to get into Felton’s house or something else entirely?
The carriage rolled to a stop and before Penelope could think of a response, the door opened and the coachman announced that they had arrived. Penelope sprung out the door, gulping the frigid air to clear her head.
The dowager duchess was in a bit of a state when they returned from their expedition.
“It will all be ruined, nothing else that can be done. We shall have to cancel their engagement ball,” declared Antonia, accepting a glass of something strong from a sympathetic butler.
“What is ruined?” asked Penelope as she and Marchford joined Antonia in the sitting room. She glanced at Marchford, but he accepted his paper from the butler without comment. If they had shared anything in the coach, it was now gone.
“The engagement ball for Sir Gareth and Lady Jane,” said Antonia dismissively, irritated at having to explain herself in what, apparently to her mind, should be obvious.
“What has happened?” exclaimed Pen. “Surely they have not decided to call off the wedding.”
“No, of course not.”
“Then what is the problem?”
“The snow! Have you not seen it?”
“Forgive me, but how does the snow prevent there from being an engagement ball?” Penelope was lost. She glanced at Marchford, but he had disappeared behind his paper.
“Lord Wynbrook lives on top of a large hill. Lovely views, but in winter, if the roads freeze, which they are sure to do, the road becomes impassible by horse and carriage.”
“Oh.” Slow realization dawned on Penelope. “That is a problem.”
“Indeed it is. And do not think we’ll be seeing a pound of our fee until the engagement ball has formalized the deal.”
“Surely we can move the location, rather than cancel it.”
“But where? It should be a relative to host, and they have none in Town besides Lord Felton, and he has sworn never to host another ball as long as he draws breath.”
“Of what relation is Lord Felton?” asked Marchford, taking sudden interest in a conversation that until then had no claim on his attention.
“He is a second cousin to Lord Wynbrook and his sisters,” said the dowager.
Marchford and Penelope exchanged a glance.
“Too bad Lord Felton has sworn never to host again. I remember his ballroom as being quite fine,” said Marchford, casually turning the page of his paper.
“Yes,” said the dowager absently. “His drawing rooms are superb.”
“Too bad it is not possible,” said Penelope with a sigh.
The dowager narrowed her eyes. “I wonder,” she said.
“Now don’t you go bothering the man,” chastised Marchford.
“I would not consider it a bother. I would consider it an opportunity to be of service to his niece,” defended the dowager.
Marchford looked up over his paper. “Only you would even consider asking such a thing.”
“It would be quite the social coup if you could obtain Lord Felton’s consent. No one has seen the house in years,” commented Penelope.
“Everyone would come,” added Marchford from behind the paper.
“Penelope, ring the bell. I’m going out.”
“Shall I go with you?” asked Penelope rising.
“No, no, stay here with James. I think I shall do better alone.” Antonia bustled out of the room with a determined look.
Marchford lowered his paper, revealing a smile. “Well played.”
“I shall not be surprised if the ball is rescheduled for Lord Felton’s drawing rooms by the end of the day.”
“The notice of the change in venue shall be delivered within the hour, you can depend on it,” said Marchford with a wink.
Pen smiled and wished she would not flush every time he looked at her. It was most disconcerting and might give the duke the wrong impression. Or worse, he might get the right impression that, despite all efforts to the contrary, she found the man irritatingly attractive. And then he would be insufferable. “We can inform people at the gala tonight.”
Marchford’s eyebrows fell over his eyes. “I had forgotten the ball is tonight. I thought you were going to provide me with a wife.”
“You rejected my proposed candidates,” defended Penelope.
“A poor excuse for leaving me to the machinations of marriage-minded females.”
“Someone has been distracting me with trivial matters, such as saving the kingdom from foreign threats.”
“Ignore the bastard.” The corners of his mouth twitched up.
“I shall remind you of that comment in the future,” returned Penelope, trying to suppress a grin. She did enjoy sparring with the duke—more than she should. In truth, it was time to discuss not only his future but hers.
“If that is all, Miss Rose.” Marchford rose to quit the room.
“Actually, I wished to ask a favor.” Penelope shifted uncomfortably in her chair. She did not wish to raise this topic but felt she must.
“Odd timing for it.”
“Perhaps you would like this one, since it involves my removal from your presence.”
Marchford raised an eyebrow.
“Your grandmother’s wedding will be soon. I shall stay for the wedding, naturally, since she has family coming to visit, but after that, I thought to decamp in Bath. I was wondering if I might be allowed to take the coach to Bath and have the groom return it.”
Marchford stared at her as if she had turned into a changeling before his eyes. “Bath? Why on earth would you be going to Bath?”
“Well, I should think I need someplace to live. London rents are a bit steep, but I have some money on my own to live with some independence in a place with more reasonable accommodations. I have been in correspondence with a man in Bath who has a small apartment that I believe shall fit me nicely.”
“But why would you abandon the duchess? Surely you would not leave my grandmother alone!” Marchford glared at her.
“Your grandmother is getting married.” She emphasized the word as if that would help him understand. “She will have company enough without me underfoot.”
“Fine then, stay here. No need to move to Bath.”
“Surely you understand I cannot do that.”
“No, I certainly do not.” Marchford’s voice took on a growl of displeasure.
“You are an unmarried man. I am an unmarried woman. We are not related to each other. Without my service to the duchess, there is no reason for me to stay and every reason for me to leave.”
Marchford crossed his arms. “No. It won’t work for me. I need you here. Your insights have proven invaluable. Do you forget that a spy is still among us? You need to stay at your post until this crisis is averted.”
Penelope sighed. She wished there was a way for her to continue to stay with the duke, but what this ill-advised attraction needed was a dose of reality to bring it to ground. “I am sorry to disappoint, but I cannot stay. I am certain you understand what the rumors
would be if we continued to live under one roof.”
“Yes, well, I suppose if you put it that way,” grumbled Marchford. He folded and refolded his paper with emphasis. “But if there was a relationship between us, then the need for propriety would be met.”
“What are you saying? You cannot suddenly decide I am your long-lost cousin.”
“Will think of something. Must!” Marchford protested. “I am to White’s. I shall return to escort you ladies to the Devine ball.” He stood and strode out of the room, the newspaper tucked under his arm.
Penelope leaned back in her chair. What was the man going to do? And why was she so hopeful he would somehow find a way for her to stay? Pen took a long breath and let it out. As much as she may wish to stay with the duke just the way things were, it was not to be. The dowager was leaving, along with Penelope’s reason to be in the house, and Marchford needed to find a society lady to wed.
It was all for the best—though she knew no matter how many times she told herself those words, she would never fully believe it. Penelope looked idly around the room, committing the beautiful furnishings to memory. Wherever she lived next, it would not be so opulent. The room was quite elegant, but it was also Christmas Eve and not one single sprig of holly or festive ribbon could be found in the entire house. It seemed a shame not to acknowledge the Lord’s greatest gift.
Penelope once again felt sorry for the young future duke, whose Christmases had been so cheerless. Of course, it was never too late to have a merry Christmas. If the angels could surprise the shepherds with the joyful good news, perhaps she also could herald the great event? Penelope stood and surveyed the room with devious intent.
Did she dare?
Fifteen
Penelope shifted from foot to foot, waiting anxiously for the duke and duchess to complete dressing for the gala and meet her in the drawing room. To appease the duchess, she wore an emerald gown with a champagne overdress of the most gauzy material, giving her the impression of floating in a cloud. The neckline plunged and the new stays cinched up her bosoms such that she was literally spilling out the top. She even let the maid curl her hair in a more becoming style, all in an attempt to compensate for the festive desecration of the orderly drawing room.
A Winter Wedding Page 11
