A Winter Wedding

by Amanda Forester

  “Your Grace,” cried Penelope with what she hoped was a convincing sob. “Please help me!” Pen stumbled forward toward Antonia, who stood among the covered statutes.

  “Whatever has happened? Oh, my dear girl, are you hurt?” asked Antonia.

  “They are trying to kill me, oh help.” Pen staggered to Antonia, who directed her to a bench in alarm.

  “My gracious, sit here. Don’t move. I will get help. Whatever could have happened?” Antonia rushed from the room, encountering the comtesse on the way out. “Oh, my dear Miss Rose has been injured. I do not know how. Please stay with her while I get help.”

  “Of course, what a horrible thing. You can be sure I will know what to do.” The comtesse smiled, waited for the dowager to leave the room, then locked the door behind her with a dreadful click.

  “Who is it?” called Penelope. “Have you brought help?”

  The comtesse swished in between the statuary. “Penelope Rose. You are causing much toomuch trouble.”

  “No!” cried Penelope. “Why do you wish to kill me? Isn’t it enough that you have killed the duke?”

  “But, my dear, you are so much in love with him. You should like to join him in the afterlife, no?” She shrugged her slight shoulders. “Whether you do or not, you shall be seeing him shortly.” The comtesse reached down and pulled a long, thin knife from her stocking, approaching her steadily.

  Penelope’s heart was pounding, but the comtesse did not appear to be the least fazed by the events.

  “You mean to kill me with your own hand?” Penelope stood and backed away, remembering to feign injury. She needed to keep as much space as possible between her and the knife.

  “I will do what needs to be done. I always have.”

  “This is not your first kill.”

  “No, indeed. I have made a bit of an art of it. In truth, the ‘man’ who bumped into you after killing the stupid footman, it was me.”

  “You killed the footman!” Pen was surprised.

  “Now this will be easier if you sit still. Running about won’t help you. I will do it quickly and then it will all be over.” The soothing seduction of the comtesse’s voice made Penelope shudder.

  “Why must you kill me?” She needed no acting to make her voice waver. “I swear to you I will leave town. I will never say a word.”

  “You know I had my men kill Marchford. You know too much of our plans for tonight. No, my dear, you must die.” The comtesse lunged at her, and Penelope ducked around a statue with a shriek. She was running out of room. The comtesse was slowly boxing her into a corner. From it, there would be no escape.

  “But you can change your mind,” pleaded Penelope. “You can call this all off. Tell whoever you are working for that—”

  “Me, working for someone? Do you think there is anyone else? No! It is I who am the spymaster here. It is I who give the orders. The men, they work for me. What I do, I do as a favor for Napoleon himself. He has promised to restore my lands, my home, and more money than I could spend in a thousand lifetimes as a reward should I deliver him a weakened England, vulnerable to attack.”

  “You are doing this just to win back your house?” Pen carefully backed around the covered statues.

  “It is mine! Mine, you understand! Ah, but you understand nothing, with your countrified mother and your clergyman father. You are but poor quality. Unworthy of notice. I don’t know what Marchford ever saw in you, since you did not even share your bed with him. Who should care if you die? I am the Comtesse de Marseille. I may kill any who offend me.”

  “You are mad! You plan to kill members of Parliament for your own profit? I tell you the truth, I would rather choke on ashes than eat a fine meal with a snake like you! You are a traitor, a murderess, and a vile human being,” cried Penelope.

  “And you, my dear, have spoken quite enough. Time to die.” The comtesse lunged again, with shocking speed for one her age. Penelope turned to run but tripped on her skirts and fell hard on her knee. This was not part of the plan. She was supposed to appear injured, not actually be injured.

  “Help!” she cried as the snarling comtesse bore down on her, knife raised, the candlelight glinting off the blade. Remembering her own knife, she pulled it now, causing the comtesse to stop short. The comtesse narrowed her eyes and raised her knife as if to throw it.

  Suddenly, one of the statues came rushing forward and grabbed the comtesse, pulling her off the ground.

  The comtesse shrieked in surprise, the knife falling to the floor. Penelope quickly crawled forward and grabbed the knife, avoiding the comtesse’s kicking feet.

  “Enough!” demanded the statue. He put down the comtesse and whipped off the sheet. It was Marchford.

  “But you are dead,” stammered the comtesse. “I sent them to kill you.”

  “I am sorry to disappoint, but I am not quite dead yet.”

  “Then you will die soon,” cried the comtesse.

  “Perhaps you should consider just how many people you need to kill,” said Marchford.

  A nearby statue also pulled off the sheet, revealing Mr. Grant. “Best performance I ever heard, Miss Rose.”

  “I commend your courage,” said the grim-faced Lady Katherine, tossing aside her sheet.

  “Indeed. This has been quite illuminating,” said Lady Devine, revealing herself. “Comtesse, you may consider yourself uninvited to my little soiree next week.” It was perhaps the most unkind thing she had ever uttered.

  “But…how…” gasped the comtesse. More sheets were removed, revealing more members of the ton, Mortimer Sprot, the local magistrate, and two large Bow Street Runners, who took command of the prisoner without ceremony. Last of all, in the corner of the room, closest to the door, stood the two Dowager Duchesses of Marchford.

  “Very clever, locking the door, Cosette,” said Antonia. “But of course, we had already gotten a key from the housekeeper.”

  “No,” whispered the comtesse. “No! How could you? How did you possibly know?”

  “For that, we have three people to thank,” said Antonia, stepping forward so all could hear. “My grandson, the Duke of Marchford, is responsible for the capture of many a spy including this detestable spymaster, with the help, as you all have witnessed, of our lovely Penelope Rose. I look forward to the day when I may call her my own granddaughter. But they would not have succeeded without the help of my dear daughter-in-law, Bella, the Marchioness d’Anjou, who has been working for our king and country these past many years. To these three I shall drink a toast, for it is them we can thank for our safety from tyranny.”

  Penelope stared at her. James stared at her. The comtesse and everyone in the room stared at her. Much to the utter amazement of the crowd, Antonia and Bella gave each other the regal embrace of a duchess and linked arms together, facing their loyal subjects with beneficent smiles.

  “Are they now on friendly terms?” Penelope whispered to James.

  “Can’t say. Still in shock. Perhaps the end of the world is nigh,” said James, who appeared more shaken than at any time when his life was being threatened.

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” Penelope said to Antonia. “You also were essential to this plot. You played your part well.”

  “Naturally,” retorted Antonia. “What else would you expect?”

  Marchford chuckled and nodded to the Runners and the magistrate to take the prisoner out to wherever they put aristocratic traitors, most likely the Tower of London. To Mortimer Sprot, he simply said, “Thank you.”

  Mortimer nodded his head and disappeared among the statuary.

  “Never a dull evening with you about,” said Grant in his droll manner. “You are forever leaving dead bodies and treacherous spies in your wake. I merely popped over to announce the birth of my son and got caught up in all this.”

  “Oh, congratulations!” cried Penelope. “How i
s Genie?”

  “Very well. She made it through the ordeal the best of all of us. For myself, it was touch and go there for a while.”

  “Congratulations, old friend!” said Marchford, giving his friend a hearty slap on the back. “You deserve to announce your good news. Where are Lord Admiral Devine, Wynbrook, and the others?” Marchford asked, looking around.

  “Emergency meeting at the house of Lord Felton. They are negotiating the final agreement for the regency for the king. They expect a vote soon in Parliament,” said Grant with an amused tone. “The lords have all abandoned you at the hour of your greatest triumph.”

  “Members of Parliament!” cried Penelope. “Strader had a wagon of crates.”

  “The comtesse spoke of her plans for tonight. They were targeting meetings in houses, not Parliament itself!” Marchford bolted for the door with Penelope running after.

  “You’ll never get there in time. It’s too late!” cried the comtesse as she was being led away. She cackled in the very image of personified evil.

  Marchford ignored her. She was no longer of any importance. “Grant, men, to me!”

  Moments later, they were piled into carriages, racing to Lord Felton’s house.

  “When you met Strader at Lord Felton’s house, where was he?” Marchford asked Penelope.

  “In the servants’ quarters, down the hallway leading opposite the kitchen,” replied Penelope, gripping Marchford’s arm to keep from sliding off the seat as the carriage took a turn a little too fast for her liking. When Marchford told the groom to “spring ’em,” the man obviously took it to heart.

  “Hiding bombs in wine crates, capital idea,” said Grant. “If you are a traitor planning to bring down the government,” he added to the shocked faces in the carriage.

  “But why would Strader blow up his own inheritance?” asked Penelope. “Isn’t he Felton’s heir? It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Didn’t you hear?” said Grant. “Felton won the lawsuit. Got Strader declared a bastard, effectively excluding him from any inheritance.”

  “I thought Strader’s mother married the groundskeeper.”

  “She did,” said Grant with a conspiratorial grin. “But not until after she bore the son.”

  “Which would explain the hostility,” said Marchford dryly. “Probably thought he would get a better deal from Napoleon.”

  The carriage rolled up to the drive of Lord Felton’s house and came to an unceremonious, jolting stop.

  “Grant, you stay here in the carriage with Miss Rose,” commanded Marchford, jumping out.

  “Is the man daft?” asked Pen, hopping out of the carriage.

  “Always has been,” replied Grant, jumping out after them. “Let’s get the people out of the house.”

  Penelope and Grant ran to the front door to warn the residents while Marchford and a few men ran around to the side. Two men were sitting on the now-empty wagon parked beside the house. The men ran at the sight of Marchford.

  “Follow them!” Marchford yelled to the men with him. “Don’t let them get away.”

  Penelope and Grant ran into the house without waiting at the door.

  “Get everyone out of this house,” Grant commanded the butler. “Everyone!”

  Penelope ran ahead to the dining room and found Prime Minister Spencer Perceval and many other members of Parliament discussing the regency papers over dinner. “Get out!” she cried. “Everyone must leave. Now!”

  “Miss Rose, whatever is wrong?” The Earl of Darington stood.

  Penelope realized with blood and gore down her gown, she must look a horrible sight. “You are all in danger here. You must leave!”

  The men stared at her, no one moving. Darington narrowed his eyes and stared at her as if he was reading her mind.

  “You heard her. Everyone out!” Darington shouted, and suddenly everyone was in movement, heading for the door.

  Within a matter of minutes, Penelope and Grant were standing on the grounds before the house with the entire household, down to the last housemaid, outside.

  “Now tell us what this is all about,” demanded an elderly lord.

  A huge explosion ripped through the house, followed by another one, then another, blowing out all the windows, fire and smoke billowing from the gaping holes.

  The shock of the blast caused the party to cover their heads as shattered glass and rubble were thrown everywhere. A few of the older men fell to the ground, and Penelope was steadied by Grant to keep her feet. She desperately looked around and grabbed Grant’s arm. “Where is Marchford?”

  Forty

  Marchford ran into the side door and barged into the kitchen. “I am the Duke of Marchford. You are in danger. Everyone, outside!”

  He ran on down the hall as the kitchen staff fled, though from their shrieks, they may have been more afraid of him than anything. So be it. He ran down the hall, opening doors. The first three were empty servants’ quarters. The last was locked. He put his shoulder to it and broke open the door.

  Strader stood up, a candle in hand. His look of surprise twisted into a sneer. “You’re too late. The fuses have been lit.”

  Marchford put a fist to the man’s nose, sending him flying backward. He grabbed the fuse from the bottle of gunpowder, throwing it down. “You’re done.”

  Strader shook his head, wiping the blood from his nose. “You think this is all? I have slow fuses everywhere. There’s nothing you can do aboutit now.”

  “Where are they?” demanded Marchford, grabbing the man by his lapels.

  “I will see you in hell!” screamed Strader, the veins of his neck bulging.

  Marchford dropped him. He needed to ensure Penelope was out of the house. He ran from the room with Strader lunging after him, but Strader’s legs tangled in the fuses and he tripped, dropping his candle, lighting the fuse.

  “Marchford! Marchford!” Strader screamed after him.

  Marchford rushed to the door and only got a few steps before the concussive blast sent him flying. He rolled away and took cover behind a short stone wall as successive blasts tore through the house.

  Penelope. It was his only thought. Please, Lord, let her be safe. Nothing else mattered. He got up and staggered to the front, where Lord Felton was staring at his burning house in shock, surrounded by various members of Parliament and house staff in various stages of disbelief and distress.

  “Where is Marchford?” cried Penelope, her back to him.

  She was alive! His heart soared! “Penelope!” He turned her around and pulled her into his arms. He would not let go. He would never let go.

  She said something unintelligible into his collar and her body shook even as she grasped him with a surprisingly strong grip. She also was not letting go.

  The most levelheaded of them all was Grant, who started a bucket brigade to put out the fire in the shell of the house and keep the fire from spreading to the neighbors. People poured into the street to gawk and help put out the fire. The house was most likely a complete loss. The only casualty, it appeared, was Strader himself, whom nobody particularly mourned.

  Marchford suddenly reached for his coat pocket. Was it still there? “Thank goodness,” he sighed.

  “What is it?” asked Penelope, her eyes wide.

  “The special license to marry you. I still have it.” James grinned and held up the tattered paper.

  “Best use it now,” said Grant, joining the conversation.

  “As soon as may be,” said James with a smile.

  “Not soon. Now,” demanded Grant. “I know you both too well. Too much excitement. Too much trouble. Wed now before something else goes wrong.”

  “If it were possible, I would marry you right now.” James gazed down upon Penelope. She was beautiful to him.

  She grinned in return. “I would as well.”

 
“Good,” said Grant. “Come here.”

  James held out an arm for Penelope and they followed Grant down the street, away from the disaster. Grant paused before one of the new gas streetlights as fresh snow began to fall, dancing in the light of the lamp.

  “Are you hurt?” asked a man in a black coat standing under the lamp. “Does someone need me?”

  “Yes, Reverend,” said Grant. “These two souls would like to be married.”

  “Married?” cried the clergyman. “When I came to help, I thought I would care for the injuredand distraught.”

  “They are certainly distraught, hopeless cases,” said Grant with a wide grin.

  “I cannot possibly marry anyone. The banns must be read,” said the reverend.

  James turned to Penelope. “This is not at all how I pictured any wedding I might have.”

  “Nor I,” agreed Penelope. She closed her eyes and looked up, smiling as the snow fell on her face. “But I have entirely given up trying to be the master of my own fate.”

  James’s heart began to beat a little faster. Was she actually going to agree to this mad plan? Was he? He smiled at the picture of Penelope, snowflakes catching in her hair and eyelashes. After all he had gone through, he did not want to risk losing one moment together. And Grant was right; he should marry her before she came to her senses.

  “Reverend, I believe this is what you need.” He handed the special license to the reverend.

  “Most unusual. Most unusual, indeed.” He shook his head, but then he paused and gazed around. “But I cannot think of a more beautiful place to be wed.”

  Penelope threaded her fingers through his and he held her hand against the cold. “I love you.” It was all she needed to say. She was ragged, her head uncovered, her hair a wild mess, her face was dirty, and her gown was splattered with blood. Yet in the halo of light of the streetlamp and the glistening snow, she was his angel.

  “I love you too,” he replied and meant every word.

  “Dearly beloved…” began the reverend.