A Winter Wedding

by Amanda Forester

  “Do not fear. I shall move in and provide the appropriate supervision,” said Bella.

  Marchford laughed, a cold and heartless sound. “I can only assume you speak in jest. Good day to you both.”

  He walked out the door, toward the stables, demanding his horse be saddled.

  “James!” Penelope called after him.

  He did not turn around.

  Thirty-three

  Penelope did not appreciate feeling helpless. She could not heal the rift between herself and Marchford nor the rift between him and his mother—nor the one between his mother and grandmother. She retreated to her room. What was she to do now?

  Answer the first time when the Good Lord taps on the door of yer heart. He gets louder every time He knocks. Grandma Moira’s words came back to her. Had she been ignoring God and trying to take care of things on her own?

  Penelope went down on her knees in prayer. She did not know exactly what to say, so she simply poured out her heart, asked for help, and tried to cast her fears aside and trust in the Lord. It was an endeavor for which she was going to need some practice.

  Miles batted her hand, insisting she pet him. He seemed to sense she needed comfort, so she sat on the floor and cuddled the fluffy cat. Her conversation with the comtesse floated back to her. Would it be worth exploring?

  James had insisted she stay away from the comtesse, but Penelope was in a unique position to try to gain information. Besides, if she could find something of interest, she knew James would have to listen to what she had to say. It was a way to stay connected even if she was going against his wishes. Besides, since James had repudiated any bond of engagement between them, he could have nothing to say about the matter.

  Penelope got dressed and called for a carriage, with Miles following her about wherever she went. Once in the carriage, she petted Miles, who had curled up on her lap for the carriage ride. He was warm and furry and…there.

  “Miles,” she chastised. “Did you sneak into the carriage?” She cuddled closer to him, and he gave her a thunderous purr. Perhaps he knew she needed cheering.

  The carriage pulled up to a sharp town house in the best neighborhood. Inside was exquisite, the best of everything without being ostentatious. Though Penelope could not appreciate Marseille’s cruel wit, she had to admit the woman did have an eye for fine things.

  A surprisingly young and handsome butler showed her into the gallery, a long hall with paintings along both sides and numerous marble statues. The Comtesse de Marseille was directing workmen who were taking down the paintings and covering the statuary with white sheets.

  “Miss Rose.” The comtesse gave her a sweeping glance with a critical eye. “What a pleasure. You find me at work this morning.”

  “You are doing some redecorating?”

  “Oui. Poor timing, for it will not be finished before my Twelfth Night Eve ball, but I met the most talented painter—his ceilings are exquisite—and I simply must have it now.” The comtesse came toward her in a gorgeous gown of burgundy silk. If these were her “work” clothes, her wardrobe must truly be substantial.

  “It will be lovely, I’m sure.”

  “I have heard a shocking rumor. I hope you have come to confirm it for me,” said the comtesse with glittering eyes. Nothing was more delicious to her than gossip.

  “What rumor is that?” asked Penelope. It was dangerous to assume.

  The comtesse linked arms with her and they walked majestically out of the hall. “Come now, do not be coy. I heard it from a reliable source that Marchford’s relations left the house because his mother has returned from beyond the grave.”

  “Yes, I can confirm it is true.” There was no point in denying it.

  Her eyes flashed with malicious delight. “And how did poor Marchford react to the news?”

  “Poorly,” admitted Penelope.

  “And what of Antonia?”

  “They have yet to meet.”

  “Oh, if only I could be witness to their meeting!” The comtesse clasped her hands together at the rapturous thought. “Bella was a delightful girl, very beautiful, but oh, there was never such an inappropriate choice for a duchess as Bella.”

  Penelope found herself nodding her head. As much as she wished to be contrary, she agreed with the comtesse. Bella was not a good fit to be the Duchess of Marchford.

  Entering an opulent sitting room, the comtesse motioned for them both to take seats and inclined her head to Penelope. “And how has this impacted you, my dear?” Her tone was understanding.

  “The duke has decided it might be best for us not to wed.” She clenched her hands together against the wave of unexpected emotion. It was the first time saying it out loud, and she almost choked on the words. Ironic that she had been so resistant to the one thing she now mourned as a great loss.

  The comtesse surprised her by standing up and condescending to sit beside her on the settee. The comtesse put her hand on Penelope’s clenched fingers. “I understand. When your engagement was announced, I knew it could never be, but I also felt it was an injustice to you.”

  “Why is that?” Pen was wary.

  “Because I can see plainly two things. The first is that you are in love with Marchford. And the second is that you had not intended to marry him. I cannot abide social climbers, but you are not one. No, you come to love most unwillingly.”

  Penelope swallowed the lump in her throat. It was true. Everything the comtesse said was true. To find understanding in such an unlikely source brought tears to Penelope’s eyes. She had come prepared for censure and criticism. Kindness struck home.

  The comtesse offered Penelope an impractical lace handkerchief, but Penelope preferred a linen one of her own. “I had not intended to marry him.” Penelope blotted her eyes. “But now that he is gone, I miss him so horribly.” Penelope blew her nose.

  “Yes, of course you do,” said the comtesse. “But that does not mean you must be alone.”

  Penelope wiped her eyes and blinked at the comtesse.

  “I can only assume you are here to talk of my proposal to you the other night. Even if you cannot be with your love, you still may find comfort in another.”

  Penelope instinctively shook her head.

  “Your morals do you credit, but think of how you will live. You cannot marry Marchford even if he took you back. I may see your true nature, but everyone else will only believe you trapped him in a scandalous manner. You cannot remain in society as Marchford’s discard. If you wish to retain any standing at all, your only recourse is through me.”

  “What would I need to do?” Penelope told herself she was just pretending to draw the comtesse out, but the comtesse was right about many things.

  The comtesse smiled. “You needn’t look so grim, my dear. This can be the beginning of a long career.”

  “I doubt it. Honestly, I cannot say why you would wish me to be a…a…”

  “Courtesan.”

  “Yes, that. I do not have the beauty. I certainly do not have the requisite ability to flirt. I am a poor choice.”

  “My dear, you have cast yourself in a most unfavorable light. I have seen women much uglier than you make a nice living.”

  “Thank you.” Penelope blew her nose at the backhanded insult.

  “There now, don’t take a pet. Women are as beautiful as they believe themselves to be. You already have enviable confidence in your abilities, if not your visage. You are not cowed by rank or prestige. You did manage to convince the duke to make a rash offer, which none have done before you. And I think with a little training, you could pleasure a man competently in the bedroom. Are you a virgin, dear?”

  “Err…yes,” whispered Penelope, her face aflame for discussing such topics so openly.

  “That is good. We can charge a higher price for your first lover.”

  “Price?”


  “Oh yes. I prefer to have everything negotiated in advance. You must be spoiled, pampered, cared for in luxury.”

  “Until he tires of me and I must move on to the next.”

  “But of course. You acquire more this way. The man, he gives only at the beginning of his infatuation. Once he feels your affection is assured, the gifts stop. It is an intelligent lady who knows when to move on to the next.”

  “How industrious.”

  “Indeed.” The comtesse gave her a sly smile.

  “And what is your role in this?”

  “I am like that infamous Madame X, the matchmaker. I find men across Europe—rich men, lords, princes—who desire only quality and unite them with the highest paid, most sought-after courtesans in all of Europe.”

  “For a fee,” added Penelope. Ironic that she, the true Madame X, would be sitting next to a much different sort of madam. And yet their work was not altogether different. “Business must be good.”

  The comtesse leaned forward with a Machiavellian glint in her eye. “Thriving.”

  “So you simply connect me with a man looking for a mistress?”

  “No, of course not. We must first train you. I would never send out an untrained girl. It would be a disaster.”

  “Training?” Penelope could not help but ask. “And how much would this cost me?”

  “My services are a gift to you, and in return you may repay me by doing small favors now and then if I should ask.”

  “You mentioned that before but failed to say what sort of favors.”

  “Sometimes I should request you entertain me with stories of conversations, such as you might hear from your lover.”

  “I see,” Penelope said. Marchford was right; the comtesse was a madam for courtesans and brokered a little blackmail on the side. She did not say as much, but for what other purpose would the comtesse need information? It was good business for someone without a moral compass. Penelope was naturally horrified but a little impressed.

  “I would like to think on it,” hedged Pen. It was time to go.

  “But what is there to think on? Come, let us begin your training.”

  “No, no, I really do not think I am ready.”

  “Do not be missish. Come with me.” The comtesse stood and Penelope reluctantly followed. Truth was, she was curious. And wary. And more curious.

  The comtesse led her down two flights of stairs. In the lower level, where most houses had servants’ quarters, the comtesse had created additional and, Penelope guessed, secret living spaces. Pen followed her down a corridor of rich mahogany paneling and velvet. Penelope trailed her fingers along the wine-colored velvet wall.

  The comtesse opened a door and escorted Penelope into a dimly lit room. “Another student for you, Mistress Lace.” The comtesse left at once, leaving Penelope in a dark, intimate room of rich earth tones.

  Mistress Lace, who was dressed in a provocative negligee, pointed to a leather chair with the riding crop in her hand. As her eyes adjusted to the light, Penelope noted that four other young women in provocative attire were sitting around a table. On the table was a naked man, face downward.

  Penelope stifled a gasp and sat where she was directed.

  “Our men come to us because they need to relax. They come to us because they have needs their wives cannot fulfill,” said Mistress Lace. “Does everyone have their implements?”

  The girls all held up an ostrich feather in one hand and a riding crop in the other. Penelope was supplied with the same, taking hold of each everyday item as if she were touching something illicit. What would she need these for?

  “First we must soothe the man.” Mistress Lace trailed her feather slowly up and down the man’s body. “Then we must make sure we have his full attention.” She gave the man a playful smack on the buttocks with her riding crop. The man flinched but relaxed again under the ministrations of the feather.

  “Now it is your turn to try. You need to soothe him, excite him, so that when he finally comes to you, he releases all his cares and worries.”

  The girls all took turns teasing with the feather and then slapping the man on his reddening derriere. Penelope was both intrigued and repulsed, and she did not care for the fact that she was definitely more one than the other. Who knew she harbored the heart of a wanton? When it came to her turn, she decided it was time to make her escape.

  “Sorry. Just remembered a prior commitment. Do continue without me.” She turned and fled the room. She was a little concerned her exit may be impeded, but she found her way back to the foyer and was given her cloak without comment, though the butler gave her a curious look.

  Back at the carriage, she put out her hand to grab a handle and swing herself into the coach and realized she still held the crop and feather.

  “Oh bother.” She stopped and stood before the open carriage door, wondering if she should return the items. In her confusion, she was vaguely aware of a gray blur leaping from the carriage and running across the courtyard.

  “Oh no, Miles!” Penelope dropped the items into the coach and ran after the cat, who had caught sight of an offending mouse in a doorway and taken chase, as any Peruvian jungle cat would do. The cat raced toward a side door and, despite his fluffiness, squeezed through a crack and was gone.

  “Miles! Here, kitty, kitty!” Penelope stood outside the cellar door, hoping the cat would meander out, without success. She opened the door farther and stepped into the gloom. If she should be caught, she would have difficulty explaining her presence, but she could not very well leave an enormous cat behind.

  She crept down some stairs and was presented with several passages. One led to the velvet hall, another to a door which most likely led to the kitchen, and yet another to a flight of stairs going down. She chose the stairs since it was the most likely to be devoid of people and thus most likely to be the path of the errant cat and mouse.

  She wished she had a lantern as she descended into the gloom. She put a hand on the cold stone wall to descend. This was no lavishly decorated boudoir; this was a standard English cellar. At the bottom of the rickety wooden stairs, she paused to allow her eyes to adjust to the light. One small window near the ceiling provided the only light, seeping through the cracks in the shutters. The room was spare; a table, some crates, a large square object covered in a sheet in the corner, and debris cluttering the floor.

  “Miles,” whispered Penelope.

  Somewhere near the large object, the cat meowed for her. She drew nearer until she found her jungle cat licking his paws. She did not wish to know the fate of the mouse. She picked up the cat and caught a glimpse of something curious just visible at the edge of the sheet.

  She glanced around. She was alone in the room. She crouched by the object and slowly lifted the sheet. Metal legs with an intricate design. She dropped the cat and pulled off the sheet.

  It was the safe!

  She recognized it from the diagram. She stared at it, her heart beating. What was it doing here? With a growing sense of panic, she realized she must get out of the cellar. With haste she tossed the sheet back over the safe and retrieved the cat. She cringed at the squeaky steps, hastening up. Her heart was beating so loudly she feared it might give her away.

  She reached the top of the cellar stairs but heard voices approaching her, coming from the direction of the kitchen. She dashed out of the cellar door and into the velvet hall to hide, her hands full of cat.

  “What is this door doing open?” a cook chastised a scullery maid. “You know this is to remain locked!”

  Penelope peeked out the crack of the velvet door.

  “Sorry, ma’am. I just got the barley from the crate like you told me,” squeaked the scullery maid.

  “And didn’t lock it again like I told you.” The cook locked the door and both women returned to the kitchen.

  Penelope breathed a sig
h to relieve her tension. She had almost been caught—or worse, might have been locked inside the cellar.

  “They using cats now?”

  Penelope spun around to face a young man wearing nothing but a pair of breeches. He was a handsome lad and quite possibly was the naked model she had seen earlier.

  “Some experimentation,” improvised Penelope.

  “Hope it don’t have no claws.” He shook his head and disappeared into a velvet room.

  Penelope clutched Miles and fled out the door. Safe and breathless back in the coach, she returned back to Marchford House with a good deal of information, a cat, a crop, and…now where was that feather?

  ***

  It is a curious thing about feathers, that sometimes they can cling to clothing, particularly a lady’s gown, and deposit themselves in the most peculiar places. The man in the Carrick coat stood in the cellar of the comtesse, ostrich feather in hand.

  He motioned to one of his associates. “Call the lads. We have a problem.”

  Thirty-four

  Penelope rushed home to tell Marchford what she had found, but in this she was disappointed. Marchford had not returned and no one knew where he had gone or when he would return.

  Unsure how to proceed, Penelope wandered into the sitting room, only to find it transformed by Lady Bella d’Anjou. The staid beige drapes had been replaced by ones of bright red. Luxurious throws and thick cushions in vibrant colors of deep red, gold, and evergreen littered the beige furniture.

  “Lady d’Anjou!” exclaimed Penelope. She vaguely remembered Bella saying she was going to move in, but it was all rather a blur. Bella had not only moved in but had also redecorated, all within a few hours. Remarkable.

  “Please, call me Bella.” Marchford’s mother greeted her with a bewitching smile. Penelope could easily see how a man, any man, could fall for this exotic beauty. “I understand you are responsible for the lovely Christmas decor, and I wished to continue where you left off. This room appeared untouched.”

  “I should certainly hope so.” The former Dowager Duchess of Marchford, now the Countess of Langley, entered the room with a sharp rap of her cane on the floor. “No, Peters, do not bother to introduce me.” She waved aside the butler. “But do bring tea.”