A Winter Wedding (14 page)

Miles the Peruvian jungle house cat was a sopping mop when wet and a huge fluff ball when dry. After an evening sitting by the fire and then sleeping on her pillow, Penelope woke up sputtering on fur and found Miles had fluffed up to a truly impressive stature, even by Peruvian standards.

The animal was nothing if not appreciative for his rescue and took to following her about the house, pawing her gently with a large fluffy mitt if he felt she was not paying him due homage. Penelope tried putting him back in her room several times, but then she would reach for a book and he would be sitting on it, or she would grab her stitching and he would be tangled up in it.

“Can we ship the dog back to Peru?” grumbled the dowager.

“Doubtful,” replied Penelope.

Of Marchford, she saw little during the day. He had gone once more in search of the missing safe. She spent most of the day absently poking a needle at a sampler, though her mind was definitely on other matters and she had to rip out more stitches than she put in. He had kissed her. She had kissed him. They had
kissed
.

It had been friendly—very, very friendly. But was it anything more? She waited impatiently for his return. When he finally did, his grim face told her that his efforts had been unsuccessful. Still, it was the day of the engagement ball for Sir Gareth and Lady Jane, to be held at Lord Felton’s house, so there were still opportunities for discovering the culprits.

As Marchford predicted, a ball held at the home of Lord Felton, who had not entertained in twenty years, was something not to be missed. None who were lucky enough to be invited would ever consider declining the invitation, with the exception of Grant and his wife. She was feeling the ill effects of being heavy with child and decided to forgo the celebration, and naturally Grant would not stray out of doors without her.

Penelope was pleased, since the evening marked a success for Madame X, but even more excited, looking forward to the ability to look for clues as to Lord Felton’s guilt or innocence. The fact that she could do so with Marchford only heightened her anticipation.

She was still trying to untangle her thoughts and emotions regarding the “friendly” kiss. She had gotten the merest crumb of what a man such as Marchford could offer; she wanted more. Yet she must take care to guard her heart, to avoid any discomfort when he chose another as a marriage partner.

The fact that she was theoretically employed in trying to find Marchford a marriage partner only made it that much more important that she not engage her heart in any matter that involved the handsome duke.

Call
me
James.

Penelope shook her head to banish the treacherous thoughts. It was a hopeless case. She needed to focus on the plan to search the house for anything suspicious.

Marchford made his way toward her, her heart beating with every step he drew nearer. “Find a way to check the kitchen and servants’ areas,” said Marchford in passing, adopting the cool reserve he showed in public. He caught her hand for a moment and whispered one more instruction in her ear. “Do not put yourself in danger. Anything suspicious, you come to me.”

His breath was warm in her ear and sent a shiver down her spine. “I shall try not to be a witness to murder,” she whispered back and moved on before he could reply. It would not do to be seenin conversation.

Penelope proceeded downstairs under the guise once more of preparing the dowager her particular blend of tea. Pen saw no need to change such an effective story, and if she was consistent, it only lent credence to the story. Even the dowager was beginning to appreciate tea in the evenings.

Downstairs, the passage on the right clearly led to the kitchens, but she purposely turned to the left. If caught, she could claim she got lost and in the meantime she would poke around to see what she might find.

The corridor was dark, probably leading to storage rooms or servants’ quarters, and she was just about to turn around when she saw a light burning in the gloom. She proceeded slowly, catching a piece of intriguing conversation.

“How much longer must we wait ’ere?” asked a man with a heavy cockney accent.

“Not long now,” said a smoother voice of a young man. “I am considering making myself known.”

“Ought not to do that. Make a fuss. She’d not like it.”

“Perhaps not. But it is my right after all.”

Penelope strained to hear more of the conversation that was happening in a small room with the door slightly ajar. She stepped closer, but her slipper scuffed against something on the floor.

The men instantly stopped their conversation. “What’s that?” asked the cockney accent.

Seeing there was no way to escape notice in the small passage way Penelope instantly stepped forward, calling out, “Hello? Is anyone there?”

The door opened and a young, attractive gentleman stepped out, candle in hand. He frowned at her, taking her measure in one sweeping glance. Her mind raced to come up with a plausible story that made her appear inconsequential and not a threat. “I was looking for the kitchens,” she explained. “The Duchess of Marchford sent me down to make her tea.”

“Companion, are you?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m afraid I’ve never been in this house before and I’ve gotten lost.”

The man’s face relaxed into a smile. “Wouldn’t doubt you have never been here. The house has not been used to entertain for twenty years.”

“Long time,” she said, edging back, prepared to run if need be.

“I’m afraid we are both where we shouldn’t be. I’m Justin Strader, Lord Felton’s heir.”

“Oh,” said Penelope, now unsure how to proceed.

“You must be wondering why I am here in one of the servants’ rooms.”

“Well, I…it is none of my business, of course.”

The man shrugged in a friendly manner. “I fear I am not on speaking terms with Lord Felton.”

“I have heard there was bad blood between you,” prompted Pen, hoping he would take her intohis confidence.

“Not on my side, I assure you. I am Lord Felton’s nephew, but he does not feel the man his sister, my mother, married is worthy of the title. He considers me rather low, I fear, and I don’t doubt he somehow blames me for the sin of inheriting his estate.”

“Not quite fair,” agreed Penelope.

“I must confess, I have always been of that opinion,” he said with a charming smile. “His animosity extends so far that I have never been inside this house. In truth, I have met the man only rarely. When I heard the house was finally opening up for a ball, I allowed curiosity to rule me and I convinced his groom to allow me to at least see the bottom parts of the house. There can be no chance of running into Lord Felton down here, and with all the bustle of the party, I am hardly noticed. You must think my presence an impertinence.”

“Not at all,” said Penelope frankly. “I find it rather shocking that Lord Felton would dismiss his own nephew.”

“While he throws a party for distant cousins.” His voice held an edge, but he smiled again the next moment. “Of course, they are wellborn. My mother ran off with the groundskeeper,” he said ominously.

“Oh, well in that case, I understand,” said Penelope with a laugh, and Strader joined in. “It is nice to meet you, Mr. Strader. I am Penelope Rose, companion to the Dowager Duchess of Marchford.”

They bowed to each other and he offered to show her the kitchens, which she accepted. He was a nice man, surprisingly without malice, which she might have felt had she been so neglected by a relative. “I do hope you are able to take your proper place in society,” said Penelope as they reached the door to the kitchens.

“I have no doubt that I will,” said Mr. Strader. “Good night, Miss Rose.” He bowed over her hand and disappeared back down the corridor.

Penelope considered him carefully as he walked away. He was simply dressed but neat and clean, well-spoken, and a pleasant sort of man. And he was young and would inherit an earldom. Mr. Strader was definitely going to have an entry in her matchmaking book tonight.

Now it was time to investigate the kitchens and see how easy it would be to bribe the staff into revealing something helpful.

***

Marchford gave an obligatory look of feigned interest to a matron who was attempting to engage him in conversation with her young daughter. The daughter was pretty enough, but he could not imagine having to tolerate meaningless conversations on a daily basis. He kept an eye out for Penelope. She was always finding something of importance, and while he may not always agree with her, she never once made him consider faking a fit of apoplexy just to avoid a dull conversation.

Marchford broke away as soon as was socially possible and searched the ballroom for Penelope. Not only did he wish to hear her report, but also he needed to ensure her safety. Truth was he wanted to see her again. Of course the kitchens should be perfectly safe, but then again, he would have bet money the kitchens at the Grant house would have been safe too.

He found her delivering tea to his grandmother. Penelope threw him a glance, one that said there was something to say but nothing immediate. He wondered for a moment how it was that she could so readily communicate without words. And yet he knew her looks. Every twitch of an eyebrow meant something. It was a language he seemed to naturally understand. It was of course important in his line of work to have an accomplice with whom he could so easily communicate.

She was looking very lovely tonight in ice blue. Once again her décolletage was on display, and though it was not lower than any other fashionably attired lady in the room, she captured his full attention. Her brown hair was swept up into a bun, with a few ringlets of hair framing her face, a contrast to her pale skin. He did not have words to express how much he wished to thread his fingers through her hair and touch her ample bosom.

“I wonder what will become of her,” said an elderly woman’s voice.

Marchford turned to find the Comtesse de Marseille, dressed to kill in burgundy silk with enough gold and jewels to beggar a king. “I beg your pardon?” asked Marchford.

“I was speaking of Miss Rose, who has had a very surprising change in wardrobe lately.”

“My grandmother insisted.” Marchford was suspicious. The comtesse rarely initiated conversation with him, which could only mean she was pursuing some sort of society gossip.

“I wonder what will happen to her when Antonia marries. She must also be looking for a new situation.” She gave him a condescending smile and glided away, taking her suspicious mind with her.

He went back to staring at Penelope. The comtesse was right about one thing: Penelope’s situation was tenuous. She would need to move out when the dowager left.

And that was the one thing he could not allow.

“The housekeeper and the cook were beyond reproach, but the scullery maid was not above a monetary incentive to provide information,” whispered Penelope.

“I am not sure I approve of your methods,” said Marchford. It seemed the appropriate thing to say, although he was far from finding fault. They had met by design in a little-used corridor between the ballroom and the card room.

“Shall I go to a lonely corner to repent?” Penelope arched an eyebrow in a teasing gesture that made him want to reciprocate in a manner that would not be appropriate. Ever since those blasted “friendly” kisses, he had wanted more from her. And he only had himself and the mistletoe to blame.

“What else did you learn?” He needed to focus on the task at hand.

“First of all, I ran into an uninvited guest, Justin Strader, Lord Felton’s heir.”

“I thought they were estranged.”

“They are. Mr. Strader apparently bribed one of the grooms to allow him access to the house. Said he was curious to see it, since he will inherit.”

“That is interesting.” Marchford rubbed his jaw but could not think of any connection between Felton’s poor family relations and the missing safe.

“Also, Lord Felton has been receiving some packages of late. He is a mite anxious about them, only wants the butler to receive them and then bring them into the study. Do you think it significant?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Suppose I should inspect his study.”

Penelope nodded. “What shall I do?”

“You will do nothing. You’ve done enough.”

Penelope’s face fell, and he was himself disappointed not to include her in the adventure, but his conscience would not allow him to put her at risk. It was better this way, though he was certain she would not share his conviction.

“As you wish.” She spun on her heel and gave him her back, her posture rigid. She walked away without another word, giving him ample opportunity to admire her pleasing figure with her trim waist and the promise of a delightful swell at her derrière.

Marchford sighed. He was trying to protect her. She was having none of it, but still, it was for the best. Marchford casually wandered about the ballroom, making polite conversation and avoiding every member of the female species. He tossed back several drinks and shared some loud laughs with some of the highbred, ill-behaved members of the young male aristocracy. It was enough to convince his acquaintance that he was a bit bosky. If he should be caught where he shouldn’t be, he needed an excuse for poor directional sense.

Despite his need to appear carefree, his eyes continued to find the figure of Penelope in her ice-blue gown. She made conversation with a few people and briefly attended his grandmother, who was radiant on the arm of the Earl of Langley. Penelope then sat down by the wall with the other matrons. He was sorry for her, alone in a ballroom.

He wished to go speak to her, to at least provide some company, but it would not serve. He should keep his distance. It was, of course, for the best.

“I see your grandmother’s got herself a new companion,” said one of the young bucks with Marchford.

“Miss Rose has been with my grandmother almost a year now,” said Marchford.

“No, can’t be. I’d have noticed her,” said another with a look in his eye Marchford instantly disliked.

“Think I’ll ask her to dance,” said another, and without further comment or even asking Marchford’s leave, he did just that.

“She’s got a nice set on her. Just want to get my hands on her,” said another man, too drunk to notice the flash of warning in Marchford’s eyes.

“You will not insult her.” Marchford’s voice was low, but his hands burned to strangle the young inebriate. To further add to Marchford’s fury, Penelope rose to greet the young man who approached and actually accepted his offer to dance. Wrong. It was just plain wrong. His Penelope did not dance. And yet, apparently, she did.

“Now don’t get your back up. She’s only a bit a muslin after all,” said his drunk former friend.

Marchford grabbed the man’s pinky finger and bent it back, pushing him outside the ballroom, into an empty corridor even as the man gasped in pain. “You will never insult Miss Rose. Are we clear?” Marchford hissed.

“Ow! Let go! What’s got into you? Yeah, all right, sorry to insult. My mistake entirely.”

Marchford released the man’s finger, not sure whether or not he had broken it. He was certain he did not care. “Go back to your drink.”

The man stumbled back to the ballroom. Marchford did not care to join him only to watch Penelope dance with another man. Could she not tell that man was beneath her? Why, the man had the intellect of wallpaper paste and the conversation of a fishmonger.

Marchford leaned on the wall, trying to regain his perspective and objectivity. He had other concerns that night beyond the dance partners of his grandmother’s companion. He guessed one of the closed doors in the corridor led to Felton’s study.

He stumbled, just in case there were unseen eyes, into the door he thought was most likely. He was in luck; it was the man’s study. He closed the door as far as he could and still provide some light from the hallway lanterns to allow a search. He attacked the desk first, swiftly going through the papers on top and then the drawers. He wished he had someone to act as lookout. If caught, he might have difficulty explaining why he not only stumbled into the man’s study but also into the man’s desk drawers.

In the third drawer down, he found a false bottom and papers within. A wave of anticipation passed over him. This would hold answers, he knew it. The letters were not correspondence, but rather ledgers. Marchford held more than a passing understanding of ledger sheets and quickly ascertained that these were not related to his household or even business accounts. Instead, they seemed to be tracking deliveries from different sources. But why?

He returned the papers to their original location and continued his search through the room. In a corner, he found brown paper stuffed into a trash bin. On it was a post label, possibly one of the packages the scullery maid had mentioned. But what had been in it? He attempted to reconstruct the image from the folds and so was kneeling on the floor when the door opened and Lord Felton himself entered the room.

Concealed by the desk, Marchford crouched closer to the floor. He stilled his breathing and hoped for the best. If he was discovered, he would begin to snore and pretend drunken stupor, but it was his preference not to be known as a stumbling drunk who could not hold his liquor at an engagement party of all the benign things.

Lord Felton walked in and stopped before the desk. “Brown! Mr. Brown, I am in need of you!” he called out the door and soon was joined by the butler. “Where is the package that arrived today?”

“You had asked it be moved to your bedchamber considering this evening’s activities.”

“Oh yes, must be foxed myself. Last thing I need is some snooping fool. Can’t trust them.” Lord Felton left and Marchford exhaled a long breath. Now he needed to search the man’s bedchamber, and for that he needed Penelope.

He would drag her off the dance floor if need be, and he was quite determined the need would indeed be great. All for king and country, naturally.

***

Penelope was having a curious evening. Things had started normally enough. She considered her matchmaking clients, but here she was at an impasse. She could not find a widowed and bereaved woman for Lord Darington, and there was not a gentleman she knew upon whom she would inflict his sister. As for finding a spouse for Marchford, she had given up. He would need to marry, true, but she could hardly bring herself to find him a wife.

Since she had no further business to attend, she sat in a chair by the wall to pass the time, watching the dancing couples until she was needed again. She did not mind it particularly, since it was how she had passed many a ball. Soon she would need to leave London and these soirees would be but a memory.

A well-dressed man interrupted her slightly maudlin train of thought. She stood, thinking he must have come in search of a chair. Instead, he boldly introduced himself and asked her to dance.

A man. A real live man had actually come up to her and asked her to dance. Penelope was stunned into accepting and glanced around to determine if she was to be the object of some joke. All she noted was the glare of Marchford and a knowing wink from the dowager. Something was definitely amiss.

But she still danced. She had not been asked in ages, and only then as a token in regard for her sisters. Penelope actually enjoyed dancing, but was a bit rusty from neglect of the art. It all came back to her soon enough, and she enjoyed herself. It was quickly apparent that the man with whom she was dancing, although easy on the eyes and a fine dancer, would not be accounted among intellectual giants. Still, it was an opportunity to dance, and the fact that Marchford was so clearly displeased by it made her ridiculously happy.

Marchford disappeared for a while but returned at the end of the set. His approach was somewhat amusing. A few ladies attempted to divert his attention, but his eyes were fixed on Penelope, and none could turn his head. The unlikely coup won her a few looks of contempt, which Penelope could only cherish. She had never before been the object of jealousy, and she was determined to enjoy it.

The duke was taller than most men. In a dark blue frock coat and a golden waistcoat cut to perfection, he was the very image of a gentleman. Even more, his manner, his look, his address—he was a duke in every sense. And he was coming for her.

“I have need of you,” whispered Marchford when she was parted from her partner for a moment in the dance.

“Perhaps I am dancing,” said Penelope, which surprised herself even more than Marchford.

“Demands of king and country. I fear you must forgo the pleasures of your new beau’s company.” The words came almost as a growl. People turned their heads.

Penelope raised an eyebrow.

“My grandmother has need of your assistance,” he said in a lazy manner, loud enough to be heard by the gossips.

Penelope made her apologies to her dance partner and followed Marchford to the side of the ballroom. She stifled a grin. The only thing better than being asked to dance, was having Marchford intercede to drag her away. “What would you have me do?” Her voice quivered in anticipation.

“I need a lookout,” whispered Marchford, leaning toward her so none could hear, his breath hot on her cheek. “Meet me upstairs near the main bedrooms in ten minutes.”

Penelope nodded, her heart pounding. He had said he needed her and directed her to the bedrooms. Nothing else mattered.

Getting up the main stairs unnoticed proved more difficult than she originally thought. The novelty of seeing a house open that had been shut for years made the evening’s event a mad crush. People were everywhere and there was no chance of walking up the stairs without someone noticing. Out of habit, she had watched not only the guests but the servants as well, and noted the hidden doorway leading to the back stairs and servants’ passages.

Penelope chose a moment when the future bride’s brother announced a toast to slip up the side stairs. Upstairs, she found Marchford with a single candle in hand, most likely pilfered from a wall sconce.

“What are we looking for?” asked Penelope in a voice barely above a whisper.

“Not sure,” Marchford answered in kind. “Felton talked about moving something up to his bedchamber. I need to search and I would like you to serve as my eyes while I do it.” He paused and cleared his throat. “If, that is, you are willing to become involved. I need not tell you this is highly irregular.”

“I understand. We should be quick then.”

Marchford nodded in approval. “You stand by the door. It will be dark, but that way you can see a candle coming and move out of the way before you are seen. The main stairs are here; the servants’ back stairs are at the end of the hall. If someone comes, knock once if it is the main stairs, twice if the servants to warn me, then move down the opposite direction.”

“What shall you do?”

“What I do best. Do not wait for me; just leave and return to the ball.”

It was simple enough and Penelope was a little disappointed her role in the scheme was to remain outside without Marchford. “I understand. Good luck.”

Marchford nodded and opened a few doors before finding the one he sought. He disappeared into the room, shutting the door behind himself. Penelope was instantly thrown into darkness. There was barely enough light from below to make out the gray outlines of the hall.

Waiting was an excruciating mix of nervous fear, lest she be caught, and boredom. She wished to know if Marchford had any success and steeled herself against the urge to poke her head in the room and ask him herself. The time stretched on, yet with her senses so alive, she could not tell if it was seconds, minutes, or hours. She was just about to give up her resistance and call to Marchford to see what he had found, when she heard someone coming up the main stairs.

They were not being particularly quiet, with slurred speech and silly giggles. Penelope paused a moment. Was it one for the main stairs and two for the servants, or the other way around? Her mind spun as the light grew closer.

She knocked once and turned to flee to the side stairs. She was almost to the servants’ stairs when she heard the unmistakable clanging of a maid carrying up a coal shuttle. Heart pounding, Penelope ran on tiptoes toward the inebriated couple still climbing the main stairs. No time to think. She must escape.

She slipped into the room, but Marchford was nowhere to be seen. She closed the door behind her and was immediately engulfed in darkness. “Marchford?” she whispered.

“Penelope?” hissed the voice of Marchford from across the room.

“Yes,” she whispered back, walking in the direction of his voice.

“What are you doing here?” his voice was barely audible, but his disapproval was clear.

“Ow!” Penelope ran into some sort of table. “Drunk couple coming up the main stairs, maid coming up the back.”

Marchford had her by the hand and moved her around something. How he saw in the dark she did not know, but she trusted him to guide her. “In here,” he whispered and she felt the door of a large wardrobe. Nothing to do but climb inside with Marchford squishing in behind her. The wardrobe was much too small for this purpose and they were tangled up with each other, trying to squeeze inside.