The relatives were placed in the guest wing of Marchford House and would stay with Marchford a few days, which allowed Penelope to remain in the home, given the ample number of chaperones. After which, her plan had been to go live with one of her sisters until she could set up her own modest residence outside of Town. Except now, she was considering Marchford’s alternative proposal of becoming his wife.
His wife!
Penelope had been concerned that she would face opposition in Marchford’s relatives, but Antonia introduced her as James’s fiancée, and none of the relatives dared to second-guess her. If the duchess accepted her, it was good enough for them.
The wedding ball was a crush, as everyone who was anyone attended the glittering event to begin the new year. They had been obliged to go in two coaches, with Penelope and the young cousins in one, and Marchford and the harried aunts in the other. Antonia was the only one who arrived comfortably, sharing Langley’s town coach.
Penelope searched for Marchford’s tall form and dark head in the crowd but was unsuccessful. She gave up after a while and hoped he could find her.
“Meet me in Langley’s study,” whispered his voice behind her. He had found her.
Happy tingles shot though her in anticipation as she worked her way through the crowd. She had not seen Marchford but knew he would proceed by a different route and meet her in the study, where they could be alone. She was waylaid briefly by well-wishers, but was able to push through, slipping into the study unnoticed.
He was there. She had barely closed the door before he was upon her, kissing his hello. Yes, it was time to listen to his actions. It was a most satisfactory greeting.
“I’ve missed you,” he said in a seductive tone when they finally parted lips to breathe.
“I have missed you as well,” answered Penelope, her arms around his neck, her head on his shoulder.
“I see my nefarious plot is working. I shall continue to press my suit in a manner most indecent.” He picked her up and swung her around to drop her without ceremony on the desk. He hiked up her gown without regard to the lace, his focus elsewhere. He pushed her knees apart and stepped between them, kissing away any protest. Penelope was aware he intended to ruin her right there on the desk, and despite a slight concern for the gown (it was truly beautiful), she could not care less.
Marchford impatiently swept aside a tray of decanters so he could lean her back and Penelope glimpsed a familiar glass bottle.
“Wait, stop!” she cried.
“No, no, please, no stopping,” said Marchford, his voice muffled from between her breasts.
“Look, this is important,” said Penelope, though she honestly had rather let him continue.
“You best have a good reason to stop me.” He stood up and glared at her.
She pointed at the glassware. “The decanters. Look. It’s another set.”
Marchford groaned. “Dammit. It is a good reason. You have a keen eye, and someday I’ll thank you for it.”
“Do you think Langley is involved?” asked Penelope.
“More likely he is another innocent on whom these were planted.” He found the one with the hidden compartment and held it up to examine the bottom.
“You don’t think they would still be using these to pass messages?”
“One way to find out.” Marchford carefully twisted open the stopper and pulled out a tiny scroll of paper.
Tonight. Midnight. Third guest room on the right.
“It is probably an old message,” said Penelope slowly.
“Most likely,” agreed Marchford. He glanced at his pocket watch and gave her a smile. “Shall we inspect?”
Penelope jumped off the desk and nodded. “Yes, let’s go!”
“Ah, if only you were as eager for me as you are for catching spies.” James shook his head with a rueful grin.
“I cannot help it. You have drawn me into this intriguing life.”
“I am very sorry to hear it. Since I have corrupted you, I should give you this.” Marchford pulled something from an inner pocket of his coat and handed her a long, thin knife in an exquisitely wrought gold sheath.
“What is this?” Penelope turned the beautiful object over in her hand. It was smooth to the touch and heavy with gold. It was an old piece. Instinctively, she held it tighter.
“It was the knife belonging to my great-great-great—I actually am uncertain exactly how many greats—grandfather who gave it to his bride for protection. Or, depending on who is telling the story, it is the blade taken from my great-great-, you get the idea, grandfather by said bride who held him hostage for a brief while.”
Penelope blinked. “Hostage?”
“The story differs depending on who tells it. One version has my grandfather saving his future bride, Gwyn Campbell, from hordes of marauding Scots. Another has this enterprising Campbell miss holding him hostage to secure a peace between the barons.”
“Which story do you believe?”
Marchford shrugged. “She was a Scot and a Campbell, so anything is possible.”
“And you remember her name even after so many years.”
“Not too hard, considering.” He pointed at the knife and she realized that engraved on the sheath in elaborate script was the name Gwyn Campbell on one side and Lady Lockton on the other.
“This is beautiful, but I could not possibly—”
“Tradition. Take it.”
“But I—”
“For heaven’s sake, you walk about with stickpins in your bodice. You can certainly add a small knife to your garter. Hope you never have call to use it, but it will do me good to know it is there for you if you do.” Marchford crossed his arms before him in a manner that forbid discussion.
“Well…” Penelope hesitated. This belonged in the family. Marchford’s family. Only his bride should carry this knife. “All right,” she conceded. If they did not wed, she would return it.
She planned to keep it.
***
Marchford smiled in anticipation as he and Penelope crept down the dimly lit hallway to the appropriate guest room. Either there was a spy waiting on the other side of the door and he would finally reveal the traitor, or, and more likely, the message was old and the guest room would be empty—perfect to continue what he started with Penelope in the study. Either way he was a winner!
“Stay back in the shadows,” Marchford whispered to Penelope. He felt in his breast pocket for his small pistol. He had learned to be prepared, just in case. He glanced at Penelope and considered telling her to return to the ballroom, but that would defeat his object if the room were empty, which it most likely was. Besides, he recognized that look in her eye. Determination. Anticipation. She was as invested in this chase as he was, both for the spies and each other.
Marchford put his hand to the doorknob and opened the door slowly.
“Come in,” said a woman’s voice, one that was vaguely familiar.
Marchford put a hand on his pistol and hoped Penelope would have the good sense to stay hidden. The room was lit only by the fire in the grate and a single candle, casting a warm glow to the rich furnishings. Dark woodwork and a velvet couch gave the room an opulent feel. A woman reclined on that couch, shrouded in darkness until she leaned forward into the candlelight.
His breath froze. His heart stopped. It was her. Of all the people in the world, it was her. He would have known her in an instant. After all the years, she had not changed. She was still the same—still exotic and beautiful and dangerous.
She stared at him, her eyes round and beautiful. “You are not who I expected.”
He could not find his voice to answer her. After everything that had happened, that was all she could say? He bowed to her.
“Good evening, Mother.”
Thirty-one
Mother?
Penelope e
ntered the room without waiting for an invitation. A lady reclined on a burgundy velvet couch, her black hair loose and falling over her shoulders in wild curls. Her bosom was high and her gown low. Shockingly so. Her skin, much of which was on display, was a deep olive complexion. Her lips were red as roses, her eyes dark and seductive. She wore a gown of a delicate, almost sheer material, with some sort of gauzy wrap giving her the strong resemblance of the goddess Venus emerging from a frothy surf. She was a great beauty; there could be no denying.
Despite being caught in a rather compromising situation, her eyes betrayed no discomfort and her manner was one of confidence, a small smile showing she found the situation mildly amusing.
Marchford, on the other hand, looked as though he may be stricken by apoplexy. His jaw was clenched so tight, Penelope feared he might break a tooth. He turned rather white, his lips a thin line. Penelope’s heart went out to him. He deserved better than to discover his mother was alive by finding her reclining in a spy’s lair.
“Good evening,” said Penelope, entering the room more fully.
“Good evening to you.” Marchford’s mother motioned to chairs before her. “Do sit. Be comfortable.”
There was little chance of that, but Marchford sat as if in a trance and Penelope followed suit. Now, what conversation would be best? How long have you been a foreign spy? Which member of the aristocracy did you intend to seduce tonight? Why was it that you abandoned your son at a tender age and allowed him to think you were dead all these years?
“I believe it might snow,” said Penelope, rejecting all manner of conversation topics before landing on the weather.
“Sí. Your English winters are quite cold, though the snow is quite beautiful. A pristine white blanket—it can cover a multitude of sins.”
“And yet they are still there, seething under the pretty package.” Marchford joined the conversation—and killed it.
“It is good to see you, James. You look well.” His mother smiled at him, radiant and all the more beautiful with tears in her eyes.
Marchford spoke dully. “You look exactly as I remember you.” It was spoken with dark solemnity.
“Oh! You are too kind.” His mother fluttered a delicate hand to her chest.
Penelope could only agree with that statement. Trying to find fault with the woman who had hurt Marchford, Pen examined his mother, looking for a flaw, but was disappointed to find none. It only irritated her more. No woman of her age should look so well.
“Will you introduce me to your companion?” asked his mother, whom Penelope realized would also hold the title of Dowager Duchess of Marchford.
“May I present Miss Penelope Rose. My mother…” Marchford paused and surveyed her with what could only be sorrow in his eyes. “I do not suppose you are known anymore as the Duchess of Marchford.”
“No, I have not been called that in a long time. I am the Marchioness d’Anjou.”
“And is the marquis in Town?” asked Penelope.
“Oh no, he is quite dead.”
Penelope was not at all surprised.
“What are you doing here? What game is this?” asked Marchford in a low voice. He had recovered from his shock and was back in control.
“I am certain you must have so many questions. You always were such a bright boy,” said Lady d’Anjou.
“I am a lad no longer. And now I want answers.” Marchford’s voice was low and commanding.
“Yes, I am sure you must, but I must leave you now. Let us get together some other time, yes? Very soon. So good to see you.” She rose majestically and glided to a side door.
Penelope eyed Marchford, wondering if he would allow her to leave.
“Mother.” The word skittered across the room and lay dead at her feet.
She stopped and turned, waiting for her son’s pronouncement. Silence fell heavy between them. Penelope held her breath.
“Tomorrow,” he said.
His mother nodded and disappeared through a side door. Marchford turned and exited through the door he had entered. Penelope followed him down the corridor and into the main foyer. Coats and carriage were demanded, the cousins and aunts were left with a made-up excuse, and Penelope and Marchford were alone in the carriage in a matter of minutes.
Unlike the night before, Marchford barely looked at her, focusing his attention outside the carriage. The weather had changed to sleet, wet and cold, mixing in the dirty streets to form piles of muck and slick ruts in the road. The only sound was the rattle and crunch of the carriage wheels along the slushy cobblestone road.
Penelope wanted to comfort him, but she suspected that any offerings that smacked of pity would be instantly rebuffed. He sat silent as death and about as cheerful.
“Eventful evening,” said Penelope.
No answer.
“How clever of you to have found your mother.”
No response. Not even a grunt.
“I wonder if we should invite her to tea. I’m sure your grandmother would delight in seeing her.” It was an impossible situation, and Penelope was attempting to draw him out with ridiculous conversation.
He looked up at her finally. “Yes, let’s. I have always enjoyed watching blood sport in my drawing rooms.”
“Perhaps we should lock them in and see which one survives.”
His lips twitched. “What does it say about me that I am actually considering the idea?”
Penelope tried to give a small laugh, but it crept away on soft feet. “I am very sorry we found your mother in that room. It must have been a shock.”
Marchford said nothing.
“Do you think she is involved?”
“I fear there is no other explanation for her to be in the room.”
The carriage rocked slightly, and Penelope allowed her shoulder to rest against his as they sat beside each other. Strange how last night they were so close, and tonight even the smallest touch seemed awkward.
Pen found his hand with hers and gave it a soft squeeze. He held her hand for a moment and then threaded his fingers through hers. It was intimate, even though they both wore gloves.
Penelope could not think of a thing to say to make anything better, so she simply sat beside him in the dark carriage, holding his hand.
“I thought her dead,” began Marchford. “I searched for her at her last-known residence. I searched for her in every place society might visit. She had disappeared. No trace.”
“She must not have wanted to be found.”
Marchford leaned his head back against the squabs of the carriage seat in an uncharacteristic slouch. “Not only did she never return to me, but she did her best to never be found by me.”
Pen wished she could debate his logic, but it did appear that his mother had wished to never have anything to do with her son and must have taken pains to prevent herself from being discovered.
“Perhaps there is a reasonable explanation, once we uncover all the information,” suggested Penelope without much conviction.
Marchford shook his head. “My mother has made her choice, but I must always do my duty.” The cold carriage grew even more chilled.
“And what is your duty now?”
“I will contact Mortimer Sprot and let him know we have found the spy.”
Penelope took a deep breath, struggling against the heaviness in her chest. Better his mother to be dead than a spy. She kept that last reflection to herself.
Marchford squeezed her hand and released it. Penelope instantly felt him slip away and did not know how to reach him. He focused his gaze out the dark window.
“James.” She did not know what else to say.
“I can take comfort in the fact that you have options. You can marry another and will not be trapped into an unwise alliance.” His voice was like gravel.
“James, no,” she breathed, her heart a
ching.
“You were right. You were always right. You do not wish to be connected to a man who can never love you.”
“You don’t mean that. You have had a shock.”
Marchford turned to her, his face a cold mask. “You deserve better than to be mixed with us. Things are going to get ugly, far beyond any idle gossip. Get out while you can.”
“No. I am not going anywhere.”
“Your service to my grandmother is concluded and I release you from any bond of engagement you may feel toward me, as you have requested.”
“My mind has changed.” Penelope was desperate to get him to stop, and she wished she had married him while the chance was hers. She had been foolish to let him get away.
“You were right. I only asked you to marry me because we were caught in an awkward position, and I thought it would enable me to keep you as my assistant. I do thank you for your service to the Crown. In truth, your sharp eyes have led to the revelation of the traitor.”
Penelope winced, regretting with painful intensity ever pointing out the spy’s decanter. “I do not wish for your thanks. I only wish for you.”
“Charitable of you. But you will see in time that this is best. I am only grateful that things between us never got so far as to require marriage.”
“I can only disagree.”
The carriage rolled to a stop. They were home, except she could no longer call it that.
Marchford met her eyes. “Forgive me, Miss Rose, for ever toying with your emotions. I do not love you. I can never love you. You are worth so much more than I can offer. I wish you health and happiness, and feel sure you will find these easier without me.”
Tears sprang to her eyes as she bit her lip to keep from crying out. He had timed his declaration well, just as the groom opened the door to the carriage so she could not reply.
“Good-bye, Miss Rose.”
Thirty-two
These were desperate times. It was her only excuse. Penelope found the utterly inappropriate night rail her maid had brought a few days ago and laid it out on the bed. It was still a shocking confection of see-through gauze and expensive lace. She put it on carefully so as not to rip the thing to pieces.
A Winter Wedding Page 24
