“I found him in the cellar. Along with a safe.”
James looked up. “A what?”
“A safe. It looked a lot like the picture from Lord Admiral Devine.”
He bit his tongue to keep from cursing her. Why must she tell him now? “Penelope. I may appreciate you later, but now I wish that you would become a little less observant.”
“Do you think it could be the one that was stolen?”
James groaned again. He did not want to think about this. Not now. “I don’t know. Surely Devine is not the only person to buy such a safe. Or it could be planted there, just like everything else we seem to find is staged to confuse us.”
“What should we do?” asked Penelope, her hands still clutching him tight.
James rolled off of her with a primal growl from that part of him that was in violent opposition to his decision to leave. “Don’t leave. Don’t get dressed. Stay here!” he commanded as he pulled on trousers. “It is most likely nothing. As awful as Marseille is, I find it hard to believe that a displaced comtesse would be in league with Napoleon.”
“True,” said Penelope thoughtfully, a lock of hair falling seductively over a breast.
James whimpered in pain and shoved on a jacket, forcing himself to look away. Leaving this bed must be the single greatest sacrifice he had ever made to the kingdom, and no one but him would ever know it.
He saw the ancient knife on his dresser and picked it up, showing it to Penelope. “I will take this tonight for luck, but it is yours. Stay here,” he repeated. “You promised to entrap me into marriage, and I’m holding you to it!”
He couldn’t believe he had left Penelope warm in his bed. He must be insane. But he knew what was kept in that safe: the codes would reveal much. Many lives of agents loyal to the Crown would be forfeit if the documents were discovered. While he wished nothing more than to stay and continue what they started, he would not, could not, do so at the risk of others’ lives.
He rode through the dark streets, cold and damp, with a dense layer of fog thickened by coal smoke. When he got to the town house of the comtesse, he tied up his mount down the block and crept around to the side entrance Penelope described.
It was locked, but Marchford took two thin strips of metal from his breast pocket and deftly picked the lock. Inside, he found a series of doors, and going from Penelope’s description, he chose the door leading to the cellar.
He held only a small lantern, so as not to alert anyone to his presence. He needed to see if the safe was the same one that had been stolen or perhaps was a similar design that the comtesse had commissioned herself. Lord Devine could not be the only person to have a safe in his house.
Marchford listened a moment, but there was no noise. He crept down the stairs to the cellar. The small lantern had difficulty piercing the darkness, and Marchford had to steel himself against black corners. He pulled out his small pistol, ready for attack, but all was quiet. On the far side of the cellar was a large object covered by a sheet. He shuffled through the debris, goodness only knew what was on the dirt floor. He pulled off the sheet and the safe was revealed.
He inspected it quickly. It had marks on it revealing that it had been opened by force, but the secret compartments appeared to be intact. He heard a noise behind him and spun around. Two men rushed at him. Marchford raised his arm to shoot, but he was struck from behind.
The gun fell from his hand. A gray haze clouded his vision, the room tilted, he stumbled forward, and he fell to the ground.
Thirty-six
Penelope stayed in Marchford’s bed as long as she dared, then was forced to sneak back to her own quarters before being discovered by his valet. Morning came, and she dressed in one of her nicest morning gowns and hurried down to breakfast, certain that Marchford had been delayed and would meet her there.
Marchford was not present, nor Bella either, whom Penelope guessed would be a late riser. Penelope was forced to wait in the sitting room alone, sure that Marchford would come for her when he awoke.
Most concerning was the absence of ten pipers piping, which Penelope felt sure would arrive if Marchford had anything to say about it. By midmorning, she was emboldened to ask the butler for Marchford’s whereabouts and her worst fears were realized; he was not in the house. He had never returned.
Cold dread seeped through her at the news. She had prayed before for herself. Now she prayed for Marchford. She sensed he was in danger, and though she knew not what she could do about it, she knew she needed to act.
Penelope decided it was time to take her concerns to Bella. She would know how best to contact Mr. Sprot, who might be able to help or possibly even know where he was. She enjoyed tracking down spies when she was with Marchford, but without him, the cloak-and-dagger exploits had lost their luster.
“Good morning, my dear,” said Bella when Penelope entered her room. She was surrounded by at least half a dozen maids, most of whom Penelope had never before seen. All were consumed with the process of making Bella suitable for presentation, which apparently was a lengthy process. The room also had been transformed, as if by magic, with lavender throws and pale pink satin pillows.
Penelope stopped short, taking it all in. “Good morning,” she said, hesitating. She was beginning to feel some sympathy for Antonia, who must have been shocked to have her house turned upside down so rapidly.
“This”—Bella motioned down the length of her—“doesn’t happen without expert help.” She smiled slyly. “There was a time…ah, but those days are gone.”
“Not at all,” said Penelope honestly. “But I wished to speak with you privately, regarding a matter most urgent.”
A small pucker formed between Bella’s finely shaped eyebrows, and she dismissed her maids with an indulgent wave of the hand.
Penelope sat beside Bella, unsure exactly how much to say. “I found something in the home of the Comtesse de Marseille, and last night Marchford went to take a look. He has not returned and I grow concerned. I wonder if you could alert the Foreign Office to see if they can help.”
Bella leaned forward, her eyes bright. “What did you find?”
“I…I’d rather not say.”
Bella leaned back with a delicate sigh. “Very well. Bring my traveling writing desk and I shall write to Mortimer.”
Penelope did so, and Bella scratched out a short note and addressed it. “The trouble is, the comtesse is above the touch of most of the law.”
“Surely not!” exclaimed Pen. “Even a duke must follow the laws of the land.”
Bella raised a sculpted eyebrow.
“Most of them anyway,” amended Penelope. “At least some of them,” she further muttered.
“The law is the law, but who to enforce it?” asked Bella sweetly. “You need someone of higher social class to give the authority. That is why James is so helpful.”
“So he can enforce the law among the aristocracy, you mean.” Penelope was starting to understand. “I do wish I knew where he was. Perhaps Mr. Grant will know his whereabouts. Thank you, Bella.”
Penelope called for a carriage, and this time made sure Miles was shut securely in her room before she left. No more rampaging kitty cats.
She was surprised to see Bella standing in the entryway, dressed in a long, fur-lined pelisse with a huge fur muff and a white fur hat. Bella gave her a wide smile. “I have decided to go with you.”
“You have?” asked Penelope, not sure if the inclusion would be a help or a hindrance.
“Indeed I have. I have been a poor mother and some would say it is too late to start now, but I feel I must make some little push as amends.”
Penelope accepted the company. It would take more than this to make amends, but she held her tongue. The ride to the Grant household was not far, and they arrived swiftly.
“I shall call on Mrs. Grant and ask her to inform her husband
of the situation,” said Penelope, hesitating. She was certain that wherever Bella went, a scene must follow, and she did not want to waste time on the astonishment of others at the resurrection of Bella d’Anjou.
Bella gave her a knowing smile. “I suppose that is my cue to wait in the carriage.”
“Thank you. Ever so gracious of you.” Penelope hopped out before Bella could change her mind.
Inside the Grant house, she found nothing but turmoil: maids rushing about, footmen racing up and down the stairs, and Jemima Price sitting on the lowest step.
“My goodness,” said Penelope to the young maid, as there was no one else who would stand still long enough to ask. “What on earth is going on?”
“The good lady, Mrs. Grant, is having a baby,” said Jemima.
“And she requires great assistance?”
“No, miss. Mrs. Grant is only having a baby. ’Tis the rest o’ them is having the vapors. And Mr. Grant is the worst o’ the lot, shouting and hollering, asking for this, demanding that. I hope the tot comes soon, or Mr. Grant might die of apoplexy.”
Penelope gave Jem a smile. “I’m sure it will not come to that. But I suppose he will not be of much help to me today.”
“Can I help you? Like I did before? This house done gone mad.”
“No, there is nothing…” Penelope paused, an idea, rather mad itself, formed in her mind. “Actually, Jem, do you know how to pick a lock?”
Jem shrugged and chewed on her lip. “I ken the black art.”
“Come with me.” Penelope left the house with the young former thief turned chambermaid in tow. Back in the carriage, Penelope introduced the young miscreant and explained the plan.
“Oh yes,” said Bella, her eyes gleaming with a devious glint, “I can cause a commotion for you. It was the comtesse who attempted to blackmail me years ago, after my indiscreet behavior. I refused, and she told the duchess, causing me to be banished. I do believe I owe her a visit.”
Bella entered the town house of the comtesse, while Penelope and Jem waited in the carriage. At first, all was silent. They lowered the window, letting in the frigid breeze, waiting.
“How do we know when it’s time?” asked Jem.
“I have a feeling we’ll know.”
Suddenly, an urn crashed through an upper-story window and shattered on the cobblestones below. Screaming could be heard from above.
“That’s our cue,” said Penelope and briskly hopped from the carriage. She and Jem crept toward the side door. They paused, listening to the commotion as the whole of the kitchen staff and downstairs’ servants raced upstairs to attend to the crisis. Penelope and Jem slipped through the open side door and crept to the door to the cellar. It was locked.
Jem stepped forward and pulled a hairpin from the bonnet covering her red locks. Before Penelope had time to wonder how she was going to do it, the lock was open.
“Well done,” whispered Pen.
“I practice on the liquor cabinet to keep up my skills,” said Jem proudly.
Penelope chose to ignore that comment, and they both crept down the stairs. She had no lantern, so Pen once again relied on the light of a small cellar window to see. Her heart pounding, she held up her hand to make Jem stop on the stairs. She did not wish to put the child in danger.
She tiptoed down the remaining stairs into the cellar. Everything was much as she left it. Except that the safe was gone. She went to where it was, but it was most certainly gone. It was as if it had never been there.
“What are you looking fer?” whispered a voice behind her that made Penelope jump.
“I thought I told you to wait on the stairs,” whispered Pen to the errant Jem.
Jem shrugged and skipped around the room. Pen did a cursory search, but there was nothing and, more importantly, nobody to see. Wherever Marchford was, he was not in the cellar.
“Let’s go,” said Penelope in a hushed tone.
“Lookee here,” said Jem, picking something off the wooden stairs in a tone too loud for Penelope’s liking.
“Hush, child!”
They quietly mounted the stairs, Jemima slipping around her and going first. The child was silent when she wanted to be. They reached the top and realized things upstairs had grown quiet. The staff would be returning any second. They needed to hurry.
“Let’s just go,” whispered Penelope, heading for the door.
Jem shook her red head and reached for the lock. “Leave ’em how you found ’em.” Fortunately, she was faster locking the door than unlocking it, and the job was done in a trice.
They exited the side door and walked with haste back to the carriage. Bella arrived a moment later, her black hair tousled, her fur cap gone.
“Drive on!” she commanded, and the carriage rolled away as the butler and footman chased after her. She leaned back onto the velvet squabs of the town carriage and laughed. “Oh my word, I have not had so much fun in an age! Serves her right, the old—” She cut short whatever she was going to say with a glance at young Jemima. “Did you find James?” she asked Penelope.
“No. The cellar was empty. Even the thing I found in it before was gone.”
“So you have no idea where he might be?” Bella’s excitement waned.
“No,” moaned Penelope. “Can you think of where he might be, or what could have happened to him?”
Penelope and Bella began to discuss options but were interrupted by Jemima, who was bouncing on the cushions in the coach. “Wanna see what I found?”
“Not now, Jem. We are busy with something important,” chided Penelope. She talked more to Bella, but they were out of ideas. Remembering herself, she quieted herself to pray and realized she had not listened to Jemima.
“What did you wish to say, Jemmy?” she asked, trying to be kind no matter how distressed she felt.
“I know where the duke is,” said Jemima, still bouncing.
“Where!” demanded Penelope.
“St. Giles,” said Jemima, holding up a small piece of yellow paper.
“St. Giles?” Penelope asked.
Jem nodded. “Found this on the stairs. It’s the wrapper from Lady Bunny’s cheroots.”
Penelope glanced at Bella, wondering if her more worldly experience would lead her to have a more ready understanding of the child, but she appeared just as confused as Penelope. “I’m sorry, Jemima, but I do not quite follow you.”
“Yeah, people say that a lot,” admitted Jem. “Trying to improve myself. Not talk cant and other rubbish.”
“You are doing well. Now tell me about what you found in the cellar,” said Penelope.
“This wrapper. I knowed it. It comes on the cheroots Lady Bunny sells in her store in St. Giles.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Penelope, the light dawning. “So whoever was in the cellar also smoked cheroots from an establishment in the St. Giles neighborhood.”
Jem giggled. “Not establishment really. Just a place they sells stuff we nicked. Rolls their own cheroots out back. Lady Bunny ain’t no lady neither.”
This was of no surprise to Penelope. “Let us see if Marchford has returned home in our absence and then I suppose we can go search St. Giles.”
“Aw, no, miss. You can’t go there. Really, you can’t.”
Penelope turned to Bella. “Do you think Mr. Sprot may be able to help us in this regard?”
Bella gave an adorable little frown. “I doubt whether any of his operatives could pass for residents of St. Giles. They are rather insular there and they know outsiders.”
“Mr. Sprot does seem to be rather limited in his abilities,” said Penelope dryly.
“I can go there. They know me.” Jem was solemn.
“Thank you, Jemima.” Penelope took a deep breath. “I will go with you.”
Thirty-seven
Penelope glanced out the carriage wi
ndow. They were losing the light. Marchford was still missing, Mortimer Sprot had not responded, and Penelope felt she could wait no longer. She wore her oldest gown from the trunk in the attic, which even she had to admit was quite shabby, and her old but still serviceable wool coat. Instead of a bonnet, she wore a more practical knit cap, which Bella had eyed with horror.
Nobody believed Bella would ever be mistaken for a resident of St. Giles, so she was left to communicate the situation to Antonia, a conversation Penelope was glad to miss. In the end, Penelope and Jemima Price, now dressed in her old, boyish clothes, were the ones to pursue the lead into St. Giles.
At Jemima’s suggestion, they stopped the carriage several blocks from St. Giles and walked into that most notorious of neighborhoods. Penelope clutched her workbag, full of the items she hoped would help her find Marchford, and nodded to Jemima to proceed.
It was approaching dusk, and the fog, dense with coal smoke, was so thick they could barely see a few feet before them. The cold seeped through Penelope’s coat into the very marrow of her bones and clung to her no matter how brisk her step.
By the time they turned down a narrow street to the rookery of St. Giles, it was nearly dark, and with flame and candle beyond the touch of many in that poor neighborhood, there was nothing to light their way. Penelope glanced around, wary of attack, but she could see nothing but shadows.
Penelope could not see what she was stepping on or in, but from the damp squish every time she put down a boot and the heavy smell of rancid food and excrement, she was certain she would rather not know. The only comfort in the brutal cold was that few others were on the streets. Even the thieves and pickpockets were retiring early to find shelter from the freezing temperatures.
Finally, after a long slog, they reached their destination. Penelope had expected some sort of shop, but there was nothing of note about the darkened door, the same as a hundred other darkened doors they had passed.
“This is the shop?” asked Penelope doubtfully.
“Aye, miss. But not for any but St. Giles,” said Jem from beneath her muffler. “I sure do hope you know what you’re doing.” She knocked a particular pattern and they waited in the cold.
A Winter Wedding Page 28
