“So you became a spy for Napoleon for the money?”
“I have done many a worse thing for the money, mais oui. And you shall not sit in judgment against me. You who trapped the Duke of Marchford into marriage.”
“I did not!” The words escaped Pen before she could remember not to rise to the bait.
The comtesse gave her an unfriendly smile. “Ah yes, you have looked to your own interests. I would say you shall never live down the gossip, but I fear you shall not be bothered by any further unpleasantness. Truly, I am doing you a favor, no?”
Penelope’s pulse began to pound in her ears. She needed to get away or she would have no future. “So you assist Napoleon and his spies, and use the information you learn from your ladies as blackmail…or maybe even to sell to France.”
“Oui. Some information, it brings a worthy price. It is too bad you had to be so much trouble. You could have been very useful.”
Light dawned for Penelope. “That is why you wanted me to become a courtesan, so I could spy for you against Marchford.”
“Ah, you are too clever. I had plans for you with Marchford. Though I do not know what he sees in you. I have tempted him with ladies of much greater beauty.” The comtesse focused on her reflection in the mirror, putting on a glittering diamond necklace.
Penelope didn’t know whether to be insulted at being called plain or pleased to know, of all his feminine options, Marchford chose her. She chose the latter. “You also arranged for him to meet his mother.”
The comtesse gave her another devious smile. “Oui. I learned she was working for Sprot and arranged for your little meeting. You and the duke were getting too close. I thought the rumors I started would be enough to prevent your union, but I realized I needed to do more to disrupt you. You are simply too dangerous to me, working as a team. I only regret not being there to see his shocked face when he saw his mother.”
A bang at the door and a muffled scuffle got her attention. To her joy and relief, Marchford suddenly broke through the locked door. “Comtesse de Marseille,” he greeted her as if walking into a drawing room. “Do forgive me, but Miss Rose is needed downstairs.”
Penelope immediately rose along with her spirits. Marchford was here; he would fix everything. The sound of a shotgun being loaded and primed brought her attention back to the unfortunate situation. A man emerged from behind a curtain, pointing the loaded weapon directly at Penelope. Marchford slowly raised his hands. The large bodyguard searched his waistcoat for weapons and removed the pistol and knife. Satisfied he was unarmed, he nodded to the comtesse.
“How lovely of you to join us. We were waiting for you,” said the comtesse as if Marchford was an errant schoolboy. “Now that everyone has finally arrived, we may continue the evening’s festivities.” Her eyes narrowed into hard slits, and she directed her attention to the man with the shotgun. “Take them to the cellar and kill them.”
Penelope glanced at Marchford, but his face was a cool mask. Was this how it was going to end?
“You cannot possibly kill a peer of the realm, a duke no less, in a cellar, like you would dispose of a rat,” cried Pen.
“I have seen all forms of aristocracy fall before the guillotine or ripped to bits at the hands of a mob,” the comtesse snapped. “I assure you, no matter how blue his blood, and there is some debate about that, he can and will die same as all the rest.”
“But we shall be missed. Many people know the last place Marchford went was to your house. How will you explain us being found dead in your cellar?”
“But you will not be found dead in the cellar. When you are no longer a bother to us, we can carry your bodies anywhere we like. I shall say the duke came to me desirous of escaping a lowering marriage. Perhaps seeing his mother again stiffened his resolve to avoid such low connections.”
Marchford’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing.
“He wanted to break it off, but you pursued him. You caught him, he repulsed you, and you shot him for it, then took your own life. Ah, what a romantic tale it shall be.” The comtesse gave her a sickening smile and then turned to her lackeys. “Shoot her in the chest at point-blank, make it look like suicide.”
“You cannot do this,” said Penelope firmly. “Even you cannot be so cruel, so utterly devoid of human feeling. Every fiber in your being must cry out against such inhuman cruelty.”
“Ah, how sweet. Even at the end, you cherish antiquated notions of how a world should be. Well, I’ll tell you the truth—all your honorable intentions don’t mean a thing. I shall always win because I am not afraid to do whatever is necessary to win.”
“And what is necessary to win?” asked Marchford with a detached air. “What is your plan?”
The comtesse raised an eyebrow. “Ah, you would like to know, but how desperate will you go to your death knowing that you came so close to stopping our plans but fell short. Members of Parliament have been meeting to declare your king utterly insane and put his idiot son on the throne. They shall die before the deed can be done, leaving behind only a feeble, mad king and chaos.”
“Napoleon will invade.” Marchford spoke without emotion.
The comtesse shrugged a delicate shoulder. “It was only a matter of time before England fell. You see, I know which side to choose. And to the victor, the spoils will fall.”
Penelope stared at the vicious thing before her, so warped with hatred and pride. Of all the emotions sweeping through her, the one that came to the fore was pity. “I am sorry for you then. You may keep yourself alive for a little longer on this earth, but you have squandered your soul, and thus lost everything.”
The comtesse stared at her and swallowed hard. “Take them.” Her voice did not waver. She rose and swept her hands over her golden silk gown. “I must greet my guests.”
Penelope realized with a start that tonight was the eve of Twelfth Night and the annual ball of the Comtesse de Marseille. She could not possibly be killed in a house with people dancing above. Her legs wobbled and her hands shook.
“Miss Rose.” Marchford held out his arm and Pen took it. It was a comforting gesture. Whether Marchford had a plan of how to get them out of this situation or not, at the very least, they would leave this earth bravely, with dignity, and together. He patted her hand, and Penelope took courage. He was a calming presence, but the comtesse was right. He might be a peer of the realm, but he was not immortal.
They were led down the back stairs, the sounds of music a mockery in their ears. Penelope could feel the cold, hard edge of the shotgun in her back. She doubted whether the surly man behind her cared whether he shot her in the heart in the cellar or in the back on the stairs. If she called for help, no one would hear. If she bolted and ran, she would be shot. Nothing to do but proceed to the cellar and accept her fate with the resolve of an Englishwoman.
“How did you find me?” Pen whispered to Marchford.
“Went to the last place I knew spies had been,” replied Marchford. “Thought to enlist the help of the comtesse. Didn’t expect to find her the spymaster.”
They walked down the servants’ stairs and then on down rickety, wooden ones. It was going to be difficult for someone to hoist their bodies back out. Penelope shuddered at the macabre turn of her mind.
She stepped gingerly into the cellar, the freezing cold seeping through her wool coat, into her bones. The two men, one holding the shotgun, the other a lantern, followed into the space that had once housed the safe. Had it been two or three days ago? The time all ran together. The light of the lantern danced angrily on the stone walls of the cellar. The sounds of the ball above had been completely silenced. None would hear them scream; none would hear the shots. Once dead, the comtesse could arrange her little scene anywhere and anytime she wanted.
Marchford led her to the back of the cellar, near where the safe had been, and turned to face his killers, his face perfectly calm. He
moved her slightly behind him, which she thought was kind, albeit utterly useless to protect her from bullets. Penelope wondered how he could remain so much at his ease. Her own heart was banging so hard against her rib cage she feared she might break one.
“Sorry, Your Grace, that it come to this,” said the bodyguard with the lantern. “But I needs to do as I’m ordered, you understand.”
Marchford gave him a short nod. “I would ask for your indulgence for a moment so I may address the lady.”
“No talking. Time’s up.” The burly man with the shotgun took aim, but the other put his hand on the barrel, lowering it.
“Last request. What’s right is right,” said the bodyguard with the lantern. “All right, gov’ner, have your say.”
To Penelope’s surprise, Marchford went down to one knee on the ground before her.
“Penelope Rose.” Marchford bowed his head before her. “Allow me to beg your forgiveness for bringing you into this adventure. I should never have let you get involved.”
“I do forgive you if there was anything to forgive,” said Penelope with fervor. “You always did what you thought was right in the service of your king and country. Besides, you would have had difficulty preventing me from becoming involved.”
“True.” Marchford met her eyes and took her hand with his left hand. Pen thought this a trifle unusual, but then again, she had a duke on his knees before her and two men wanting to kill her, so it was an unusual day all around.
“Penelope, I have one more confession to make. I told you that I proposed because you were useful, because we were caught, and because I wanted your continued assistance in this mission. Those considerations were all true, but not the reason I proposed.” He paused and let his free hand fall to the ground, as if needing additional support. “I told you I could never love you, and that also was a lie. The real reason I proposed, the real reason I attempted to trap you into marriage, is because I love you.”
Penelope had thought it was impossible to have her heart beat any faster or harder than it was, but she was wrong. He loved her. He loved her. Her heart beat so wildly she feared it might break free.
“I confess I hid this from you because I did not wish to be hurt. I feared marrying for love as my father did, so I convinced myself it was for other more rational motives. But now, as we face this night, I realize nothing else matters but to confess my love for you in the most ardent manner possible with the hope that someday you may grow to share my affection.”
“I love you too!” blurted Penelope. There was no need to wait; indeed, they were out of time for all of Marchford’s pretending. “I have loved you since the moment I saw you, or very nearly after, but I knew, or rather, I never dreamed that my affection could ever be returned. Our difference in position…”
“Enough talk of that nonsense.” Marchford squeezed her hand. “I may have a title, but I also have relations who…well, you have met my mother. I declare you to be my equal in rank and my better in propriety and understanding.”
“Not at all. You are the most intelligent man I know.”
“And yet I am here in cellar with a gun to me,” sighed Marchford.
Penelope shrugged. “Nobody’s perfect.”
“Enough talk,” growled the man with the gun.
“Quiet, you!” chastised the man with the lantern. “Let them have their moment. Go on now.”
Marchford gave the man with the lantern a slight nod and turned back to Penelope, giving her hand a slight squeeze. “Miss Rose, I fear I have not much to recommend myself to you, for you see what an abysmal office I have performed at either keeping you or my country safe. And yet I love you. I wish to have no one by my side but you. All that I have I give to you. You are my true companion, my friend, and the one woman my heart desires. Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
Penelope blinked, but the tears fell anyway. “Yes,” she answered simply. “Yes, I would love to be your wife.”
“Truly?” Marchford looked up at her, his eyes wide and vulnerable.
“Truly,” she said firmly.
He was on his feet and his mouth on hers before another happy tear could fall. She was loved by the man she adored. She could face her death beside him with a smile.
Suddenly he pushed her hard to the ground and a loud crack echoed off the walls of the cellar.
“James!” she screamed, but it was not he who fell. The man with the shotgun lay dead on the ground, a smoking pistol in Marchford’s hand.
“But how?” cried Penelope, stunned on the ground.
Marchford and the man with the lantern dove for the shotgun in the dead man’s hand. In an instant, she flung herself at the feet of the large bodyguard, tangling him for a moment and allowing Marchford to retrieve the shotgun.
James rolled on the ground and came up standing, shotgun in one hand, pistol in the other. The man stood slowly as Penelope backed away, and Marchford put himself between the man and Penelope with two long strides. He stood before her protectively and Penelope’s heart soared.
“Now I’m going to give you the same courtesy you extended me,” said Marchford to the man. “I give you the chance to surrender or be shot now.”
The man put his hands up. “Sorry, Your Grace. I knowed I done wrong. Just following orders,” said the large man.
“When those orders are unjust, immoral, and illegal, you are honor bound not to follow them,” said Penelope with feeling, picking up the lantern.
“Right you are, miss. I sees my mistake, I do,” said the man, humble now that he was caught.
“Ordinarily I would not care as to your rehabilitation,” said Marchford coolly. “But you may be of some use to us, which if done properly, could be used to mitigate your sentence and might just save your neck. Tell me everything you know.”
“Nuthing. Not I. I was just hired for some muscle when it was required. I gots a family to feed, you see. I does what she says and asks no questions. That’s the lay of it.”
“So you can tell me nothing that could be used to help you? How disappointing for you. Since you allowed some charity, I was hoping to show you some in return,” said Marchford.
“I knowed they had me move the safe that was here. Heavy too.”
“Where to?” demanded Marchford.
“Just upstairs, to one of them velvet rooms.”
Marchford shot Penelope a triumphant glance. “Now what of the attack of Parliament?”
“Nobody said nuthing about Parliament,” insisted the bodyguard. “Why should I be in anyone’s confidence, I ask? All I done is move wine crates, heavy ones, from the dock to a warehouse in St. Giles and from there to a house.”
“Do you know whose house?” asked Penelope.
The man shrugged. “Took some wine to Lord Admiral Devine’s house.”
“Where there was the explosion.” Penelope met Marchford’s eye.
“Maybe there was more than wine in those bottles. Perhaps Devine was merely practice,” said Marchford.
“But where will the next target be? Parliament itself?” asked Penelope.
“Difficult to do. After the Guy Fawkes incident, security of the building has been a priority.”
“Then where?” asked Pen.
“I do not know, but I know who does.” Marchford gave her a troubled glance. “I hate to ask you, but do you feel equal to some more excitement tonight?”
Penelope shook out her skirts and met his gaze with a smile. “Always.”
Thirty-nine
The trap was set; it had to work. Otherwise, well, there could be no otherwise.
“I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit,” said Marchford, pacing in the cellar. It was the one place they knew they would not be disturbed.
“It is the only way,” said Penelope, holding a dish of animal blood procured from the kitchen and splatte
ring some on her gown. It was gruesome, but it was intended to be that way.
“If you are hurt, I will never forgive myself. Never.”
“Then see to it that I am not hurt,” said Pen, a bit distracted. She should be thinking of their next move, but instead James’s proposal still rang in her ears. “I do have a question though.”
“Yes?”
“Your proposal, was that a distraction tactic so you could find the pistol you dropped?”
“Yes. And I meant every word.” He stopped pacing and came to her holding both her hands in his. “Did you only accept because we had witnesses?”
“No, I do wish to marry you.” Penelope squeezed his hands.
“And…and you love me?” Marchford’s voice was strangely tentative.
“And I love you,” said Penelope with a smile. Strange how she had demanded to be loved and now it was him seeking reassurance in that regard.
“Good.” James breathed a sigh. “Good. Because I cannot do this again, trying to convince you to marry me.”
“All I needed to hear was that you loved me.”
“I do.” Marchford shook his head. “Probably be the end of me, but I do.”
“Go now. We need to do this. I trust you.” It was true; she did. And now they needed to take care of a certain comtesse.
“Keep this. For luck.” He handed her back the ancient knife, which he had retrieved from the comtesse’s boudoir while she was entertaining. Despite her unpleasant appearance, he pulled her close and hugged her, simply holding her for a moment. Penelope relaxed into him and breathed deep of his intoxicating scent and his calming strength. Even unshaven and with ruined clothes, he was attractive to her. Together they could do anything.
Marchford left and Penelope waited for the signal. Waiting was the worst part. She was primarily concerned something would happen to Marchford. In time, she was given the signal, and she crept up to the portrait hall, a long hall of statuary covered in white sheets. It was time to try her hand at an acting career.
A Winter Wedding Page 30
