A Wedding in Springtime (19 page)

Eighteen

“Too late for Tatt’s,” grumbled Marchford once he and Grant left Bremerton house. “You want to tell me where you were all this time?”

“Found an urchin and gave it a bath.”

Marchford gave his friend a glare. “If you do not wish to tell me, just say so. I don’t want to tax your intellect by devising such a fantasy.”

“Was that an insult on my limited intellectual prowess and my tenuous grasp on reality?” laughed Grant. “How did things go with Louisa?”

“Wretched. If she spoke more than five times in the entire visit, I should be surprised, and now I have to play host to them for dinner.”

“I do not envy you, my friend.”

“Where can I drop you?” asked Marchford, climbing onto his curricle.

Grant put his hand on the door of the curricle but paused and stepped back. “Not going far. Think I’ll walk.”

Marchford turned and yanked the reins so that the horses pranced and whinnied in protest. “Did you say you were going to walk?”

“Yes, yes I did. It’s not far. Think I can do it if I apply myself.”

“Are you well? I should hate to leave you unprotected if you are febrile or concussed.”

“Am I well? Attempting to walk the streets of London!” To his friend’s, and perhaps his own, astonishment, Grant strolled down the street, walking around the block back home.

The walk itself was not long, yet he was feeling ridiculously pleased with himself for making the effort when he walked in the front door. He was greeted by his butler and his housekeeper. Armed with a comb in one hand and a hairbrush in the other, the housekeeper disappeared into the parlor to tame the wild head of Jem the urchin.

As Grant handed off his greatcoat, which this time he had managed to retrieve, a knock came at the door.

“Mr. Saunders,” said Grant in greeting.

“Good day, Mr. Grant,” said the man of business. “I have come to collect some papers from your father’s study. He wrote to me to take care of a few things.”

“Yes, of course,” said Grant and ushered him into his father’s study. As his father’s man of business, Mr. Saunders was a not uncommon visitor, yet Grant knew very little of his activities. Instead of heading to the billiard room as usual, Grant turned and followed Mr. Saunders into the study.

“Mr. Grant, is there something I can help you with?” asked the thin man with an efficient clip to his tone.

“Wondering what you did. Maybe you could enlighten me.”

Mr. Saunders opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. Grant waited for the first wave of shock to pass.

Mr. Saunders sat heavily in the oak chair behind the desk. “What would you like to know?”

“Everything!” Grant took a seat across from the befuddled man. “Why you’re here to start.”

“Ah, well,” said Saunders, shuffling about some papers. “We need to find new tenants for one of the estates.” Several thumps from somewhere inside the house caused the man to look up.

“Nothing to be concerned about.” Grant waved off the man’s worried expression. “New tenants? How do we do that?”

“We put out a notice with the land agent. Of course, we must first evict the present tenants. It might be a bit awkward since they have written me repeatedly asking for their lease to be extended.”

“Why not extend it?”

“They are more than six months behind on the rent. Apparently, they have taken on several orphan boys and the expenses were more than they expected.”

“An orphanage?”

“No, not quite if the letters are to be believed. They are a bit odd. Quakers, you understand, though we were not aware of it at the time of rental. They apparently feel the boys must be raised in a homelike setting.”

A crash came from the parlor and Mr. Saunders again looked up, alarmed.

“Think nothing of it,” said Grant calmly.

“But it sounds like something broke.” Mr. Saunders’s frown intensified when a howl erupted from the parlor.

“The orange cat figurine I can only hope,” said Grant wistfully. “Dreadful thing. Now tell me about this home for boys. I assure you nothing you could say could be of greater interest to me.”

“Well, I’m not sure what more there is to say, other than I am charged with writing to them to let them know we expect them to vacate the premises.”

“Oh no, we can’t have that,” declared Grant. “Their lease must be renewed.”

“But the rent—good heavens, sir, what is that noise?” A scream shot through the house.

“Hairbrush,” said Grant sagely. “Please do write these lovely Quakers and tell them we support their efforts, want to make a contribution. Christian duty and all that.”

“Hairbrush? Christian duty? Mr. Grant, is this some sort of joke?”

“No, no. You think me a heathen?”

“Well… I have not as yet seen any evidence you care to express your faith through action.”

“I do now,” said Grant plainly, even as another crash and a howl gave Mr. Saunders alarm.

“Mr. Grant, something is greatly amiss in your household!”

“Indeed! We must support this boys home at once!”

“Your father is a generous man and supports many causes, but this home is not one of them. I’m afraid the rent must be paid.”

“Take it out of my account.”

Mr. Saunders’s eyebrows rose so high they disappeared into his hairline. “Your
personal
account?”

“Yes, yes,” said Grant. “And write to tell them I have a new member for their family.”

Another crash was followed by a loud thump. “Should check on the crystal,” said Grant. “My mother does like that.”

“But I don’t believe the rental house has any crystal.”

“Should hope not with boys infesting the place,” said Grant over the sound of splintering wood. “Must dash!”

***

The Duke of Marchford arrived home to a different sort of chaos—his grandmother standing on the front step.

“Grandmother?”

“Ah, Marchford, you are home. I was looking to see if the constable had arrived. We best call a surgeon too.”

“What is wrong?” Marchford swept his field of view, looking for danger.

“It is the footman. Hurry!” The dowager led him to the study.

Upon reaching the scene of the crime, Marchford stopped and scanned the room with an efficient mental sweep. A footman lay on the floor, blood covering his head. Penelope knelt beside him, applying pressure to his head wound with a thick, white bandage. One of the windows had been broken and his papers that had been on his desk were scattered across the floor. The butler stood guarding the wall safe, which appeared untouched.

“What is his condition?” asked Marchford.

“He breathes,” said Penelope. “He mumbled he heard the window break and went into the study to investigate and was struck from behind.”

“Send for a surgeon,” Marchford instructed one of the interested staff who had gathered outside the door.

“The document?” Marchford asked the butler.

“It is safe,” he answered. “I heard the commotion and came running. I saw the man leave out the window, but I did not see the face.”

Marchford surveyed the scene around him with cold displeasure. One thing was for certain—the traitor would not stop until the document had been stolen.

It was time to trap a spy.

Nineteen

Genie walked into the drawing room conscious that all eyes were on her. She arrived with her aunt, uncle, and cousin, yet she appeared to be the center of attention. Within the drawing room was the Duke of Marchford, looking, as always, stiff and unapproachable; the dowager; Penelope; and five men of varying ages, all giving her a once-over like she was a prize heifer. She had to resist the urge to turn around slowly and show her teeth.

“Here, dear, have a seat.” The dowager indicated a chair and the young men flocked around her like buzzards to a fresh kill.

All were solicitous. All were attentive. But she was not sure if they were interested in her beauty, her dowry, or whether she would make another social
faux
pas
.

Her aunt had dressed her in virginal white for dinner, a lace sheer layered over silk with a lovely blue silk ribbon at the high waist. It was a beautiful, expensive gown, which made her feel sophisticated, but the neckline was lower than she was accustomed, revealing more décolletage than ever before. It was fortunate her father and brothers were not there to comment, for she feared they would never have let her leave the house.

Her assets, now firmly on display, were causing a minor sensation. Many of her suitors appeared to be addressing her breasts in conversation. It was, of course, everything her aunt could have hoped, but would it be enough to cause one of these lusty lads to lose his head and pop the question? And if he did, what would her answer be?

After dinner, the ladies retired to the drawing room to allow the men time to enjoy their port at the table.

“I do thank you for your efforts to help repair my damaged reputation,” said Genie in a soft tone to Penelope. They sat in a stately drawing room slightly apart from the dowager, Lady Bremerton, and Lady Louisa.

“It is my pleasure to help,” said Penelope. “Did any of the men meet with your approval?”

Genie smiled back the truth. Mr. Grant came unbidden to mind. He met with her definite pleasure, too bad he was considered unsuitable. “I have been introduced to many men of late, but I have not known any long enough to form an opinion. I fear people are still wary to be long in my presence.”

“Give them time to forget. Never fear, another topic of gossip will emerge soon. The best way to make people forget one scandal is to have a bigger story come along. As my grandmama said, ‘folks dinna care fer a coon when they can eat veal.’”

“So I need to hope someone else will have an even greater fall from grace?”

“And someone will. By tomorrow there will be a new topic of conversation.”

Genie sighed and wrapped the strings of her reticule around her fingers, a nervous twitch she had never experienced before coming to London. “I know my aunt says it is quite important that I marry soon because of my disaster at my presentation, but—”

“You do not like being pressured into marriage?”

“No, indeed, I do not.”

“And yet, I imagine that you came to London with the idea to find a husband.” Penelope’s straightforward manner of speaking and plain brown eyes peered through the social niceties to get at the heart of the matter.

“Yes, it is true,” admitted Genie. “But there is a difference between being open to falling in love and agreeing to wed the next man who enters the room.”

“I agree, and I must say I am relieved to hear you say it. I know the dowager and your aunt feel differently, but I feel a marriage is not a decision to enter into lightly, nor should you necessarily wed the first man who asks.”

“Yes, thank you for understanding.” Genie let out a big breath in relief. She did want to get married. What unmarried female did not? But to be forced into marriage with the first person who could be coerced into asking, just so she could preserve her aunt’s pride, that was not appealing. “I also am concerned that my aunt has offered to pay this matchmaker a horrendous sum should I somehow manage to become betrothed.”

“Yes, I admit I was surprised by that turn of events too. However, before you decline an offer you would otherwise like just to save your aunt’s pocketbook, you might wish to consider what your aunt would prefer. If the dowager is to be believed, your aunt has the money, so it will not come as a hardship. I believe she would happily part with the blunt if it meant having her protégée respectfully wed.”

Genie considered the argument and nodded slowly. “I know you are right, but still I cannot feel easy with this arrangement.”

“Indeed, I should not like it either, but marrying you off early may be a cost savings to her, what with the cost of gowning you. I understand from the dowager that Lady Bremerton is paying the bills.”

Genie blinked at her friend’s forward comment. Even though she was raised in the country, Genie knew speaking directly of money was not an acceptable topic of conversation, but now that the topic had been raised, she was interested. “Yes, my aunt is supporting me. I had never considered the cost of the gowns. Do you think they are very dear?”

Penelope surveyed the lace and silk beauty Genie wore. “Quite dear, I should say.”

“Oh, I was not aware. Now I do not know what to think.”

“Forget about the pressures. It simply will not help you to dwell upon it. Perhaps you will find a man with whom you will fall in love. If it comes to it, I will support you if you need to decline an offer.”

“Thank you, Pen. Truly, that is very kind.” The weight Genie had carried since her grave error before the queen was lightened. Penelope Rose, in her simple muslin dress, was a friend and ally. One she dearly needed and was grateful to have.

“What of Mr. Grant?” asked Genie, feeling reassured enough in Pen’s friendship to speak of matters that were close to her heart. “He was the only one who was brave enough to speak with me several times at the ball, and I suspect he may have arranged with his aunt to invite me.”

“To be sure he did,” replied Pen. “I heard he garnered that invitation for you by promising to dance with all the young ladies at his aunt’s ball.”

“That was extraordinarily kind of him,” said Genie, her pulse increasing. Mr. Grant had indeed inconvenienced himself on her behalf.

“Mr. Grant is quite capable of making large grand gestures. He is well liked by his friends and critics alike.”

“Why do I have the feeling you are about to tell me something of him that is not good?”

Pen took a sip of her tea and shook her head. “I do not like to revisit the past, particularly in regards to my sisters, but I would not like to see you make the same mistake. It was several years ago when we first came to London. One of my sisters became well-known for her beauty, but our connections were very low, and we were snubbed by more exacting members of the
ton
. Mr. Grant was very attentive, very courteous. He even helped us gain entry into society in a way we could not have done without him, and for that I am thankful. My sister was quite taken with him, and we held hopes that the rumors about him were untrue. Surely such a charming man could not be the rake they described. We hoped for a proposal and at last one did come.”