A Winter Wedding (26 page)

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.”

Penelope glanced out the carriage window. 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.

The door opened a crack and a suspicious eye looked out. “Who you be and what’s yer business?”

“I have come on urgent matters to speak with Lady Bunny,” said Pen.

“Who you be is what matters. You ain’t from here.”

“I am,” spoke up Jem. “Come on now. Bloody cold. Grim Reaper at our heels.”

“Not my concern!”

“Shut the door!” called a voice from within. “Ye’re letting in the draft.”

“Indeed,” said Penelope, putting her shoulder to the door. “How could you be so senseless?” She gave a firm push and forced her way inside, past the elderly man at the door. Jem squeezed in and the door shut behind them. “Lady Bunny if you please.”

The man glared at them from under heavy eyelids. Finally he grunted and led them down a tight, dark hall to a room, revealing a poor tableau of domesticity. The room was cramped and small, particularly after Pen’s standards had been elevated from living with the duchess. The only light came from a small coal fire in the grate, surrounded by grimy children. Adults sat around in chairs and were wrapped in blankets, for even inside the temperature was barely above freezing and Penelope could see her breath when she spoke. All eyes were on her.

“I am here to see Lady Bunny,” she said in a calm, businesslike tone that was in discord with the worried chaos within her.

“Who are ye and what do ye want?” asked a woman from the corner. Instead of a blanket, she wore a wool coat and had a lace cap that marked her as the leader of this ragtag bunch. Her face was thin and her eyes sharp. She leaned forward into the paltry light, revealing two buckteeth that did remind one forcibly of a rabbit.

“I have come to call,” said Penelope, recognizing this to be an absurdity. “I have brought these for your hearth and table.” She reached into her workbag and produced a small bundle of coal and a wrapper of bread. She handed her gifts to the old man, who was still standing at the door and took them readily.

“What do ye want in return?” The woman’s voice was wary.

“I come to ask for your help.”

The woman shook her head. “Do ye ken ye can prance in here and demand help from us for a loaf of bread? I do not know what brought ye here, but it is a fool’s errand. Go home. Ye’re not one of us. Ye’re in danger here.”

Penelope took a breath, her mind spinning. She needed this woman’s help. The room was packed and smelled of wet wool and mold. Everyone was silent, staring at her as if waiting for her to do something remarkable. “Are you not curious what would bring a woman such as myself to your door?” asked Penelope, stepping farther into the room.

One side of Lady Bunny’s mouth turned up. “We have lost our storyteller. Ye may stay and tell yer story. If we like it, we may escort ye out of St. Giles alive. If not…” She raised a thin shoulder.

“Well then,” said Penelope, swallowing her fear. A man in a thick wrapper who was picking at his fingernails with a long knife vacated a wooden chair with a snarl, and she sat down. “My mother married for love and ended up with a country clergyman. Her sister married for money and ended up in Mayfair. I will leave it to you to decide who made the wiser choice.” Penelope decided her best chance of securing the assistance of these suspicious folk was to tell a long version of her story. A very long version.

Jemima crept into the room, disappearing into the shadows with the other youngsters as Pen rambled through the story, telling first of her parents’ death, then how five sisters came to London and how she had helped each one find love and marriage. All romances have their ups and downs, and Penelope made the most of them, giving the stories as dramatic a turn as she could.

When she came to her involvement with the Duke of Marchford, French spies, and English traitors, she was pleased to note her audience leaned forward. One woman even handed her a glass of something for her throat that was beginning to sound with a rasp. Penelope took a sip and tried not to gasp as liquid fire ran down her throat. Whatever it was, it did the trick, numbing her throat and warming her insides.

Now she was getting to the important part—the disappearance of the duke. She paused, wondering how much to reveal. She was not at all certain whether those around her could be trusted. It was time to take a chance.

Penelope told as much of the story as she could and withheld the names as appropriate. “So when I returned to the cellar, the duke was nowhere to be found and all I found was this.” She held up the yellow wrapper from the cheroot.

“We ne’er did nothing to no duke,” cried a man in the room.

“Of course not. But you may know of someone who did,” said Penelope.

“Ye tell a diverting story, I grant ye,” said Lady Bunny. “But we don’t rat out anyone. Wouldn’t be neighborly. Besides, what did this here duke ever do but look down on us and bar his carriage door as he rode by?”

“He gave you Christmas dinner, that’s what.” Jemima’s voice rang out from the gloom.

Bunny’s head cocked to one side. “That was him, was it?”

Penelope nodded. “I do not know exactly what has happened to him, but I hope someone here can help.”

“Ne’er let it be said that we in St. Giles are less loyal subjects to the Crown than any who walk wi’ privilege.” Bunny narrowed her eyes in a shrewd manner. “There will be compensation for time and effort?” she asked Penelope in an undertone.

“Of course.”

Lady Bunny nodded to a few men, and they left with a grumble and a grunt. “Ye best make yerself comfortable,” she said to Penelope. “The lads will let us know if they find anything.”

Penelope resigned herself to accept the hospitality of Lady Bunny and spent an uncomfortable night attempting to sleep in a wooden chair. It was a long, cold night and, throughout the ordeal, her mind continued to return to James. Where was he? Was he safe? Since she could not hold him in person, she held him in prayer.

When the light dawned the next day, Pen sent Jemima back to Grant’s house and continued to wait. Surely they would find something. She could not imagine a world without the Duke of Marchford. Finally, Bunny called for her. “We found something. Man hired some o’ the lads to haul crates. Probably a smuggler. But one lad said he saw a dead man lying on the floor o’ the warehouse.”

Dead?

***

James Lockton, Duke of Marchford, had never been so irritated. As if it wasn’t bad enough he had been knocked unconscious and dragged into some heinous scum hole, he now had to continue to pretend to be incapacitated in order to work on his bonds. This required him to remain lying on his side on the floor, covered in a substance he did not wish to consider. He was not sure how long he had been unconscious or where he was—he could only guess somewhere south of the rotting pit of hell.

“Move it careful now, careful,” growled a voice.

Through barely opened eyes, Marchford could just make out two men moving barrels out of where he was lying and could hear another giving orders.

“What about ’im?” asked one man.

“You just go on about yer business.”

Marchford did not want to wait to find out what they were going to do with him. Nothing pleasant, considering they left him unconscious on a freezing, filthy floor. He redoubled his efforts to cut his bonds with his ancestor’s knife he fortunately dropped in his coat pocket after Penelope returned it. Trying to cut free while bound was not an easy feat, and Marchford wondered if he was doing more damage to the rope or his wrist.

The men continued to load the barrels, though what was in them Marchford had no way of knowing. There were only a few barrels left. When they were done with the freight, they would be coming for him. The men groaned as they lifted the last one.

“Why do I have to do it?” complained one.

“Because I gave you an order,” said another in a brisk tone.

“Don’t want to. Ain’t right.”

“What’s right is you doing what you’re told or you can go to blazes with him!”

“All right. All right. Just saying he looks mostly dead already.”

“Don’t want him mostly dead. Want him completely dead.”

Marchford’s heart pounded, bringing back circulation to his freezing extremities. Just another minute more and he should be free. Footsteps came near. He didn’t have a minute. Marchford held his breath. The stained, mud-caked boots of the man came slowly nearer. His hands were still bound; the rope would not give. The boots stopped beside him.

Marchford swung his legs around, suddenly knocking the man to the ground and the club from his hand. Marchford tried to stand, but with his hands behind him and his legs and feet numb from the cold and lying motionless, he fell back down, on top of the man’s club. The man scrambled away from him and yelled for help. Marchford tried once more to work on the ropes with his ancient knife.

Two other men came running. “What are you afraid of?” yelled one. “He’s still bound. Just shoot him.”

The other man obligingly took a pistol from his waistband and aimed at Marchford. The rope broke at that moment and Marchford threw the knife, catching the man with the pistol in the throat. He gagged and fell to the floor. Marchford struggled to stand as the first man charged him. Marchford swung and connected, knocking the man to the ground.

The man in the Carrick coat drew a pistol. This was it.

“No!” shouted Penelope, rushing up from behind. The man turned, but she slammed into him before he could get off a shot, throwing the pistol to the side. Penelope, wonderful, glorious Penelope, knocked the man in the Carrick coat to the ground.

“Penelope!” roared Marchford in surprise and fear, charging to protect her. What was she doing here? The man in the Carrick coat rolled to his feet, grabbed Penelope, and put a knife to her throat.

Marchford’s world closed around him. Penelope in danger made him physically ill. He had never known such blinding terror.

“Stop!” commanded the man in the Carrick coat, red-faced and breathing hard. He pulled Penelope close and held the edge of his knife to the tender skin of her neck. The artery pulsed under the blade.

Marchford stopped, desperate for anything that would save her.

“Justin Strader,” said Penelope, whose voice was remarkably calm though her breathing was rapid. “You are the man with the Carrick coat?”

“Shut up!” hissed Strader, and he backed up, dragging her along with him.

“Mr. Strader, Lord Felton’s heir?” asked Marchford, trying to keep his tone conversational. He did not want to give Strader the satisfaction of seeing him panic, and he wanted to give Penelope the hope that only confidence can bring. “What is your business here?”

“None of your concern,” said Strader, continuing to back up, holding Penelope tight.

Marchford took a step closer, keeping the same distance between them. He glanced at the pistol on the ground.

“Don’t even think it,” warned Strader. “I would slit her throat before you could grab it.”

“And I would most assuredly kill you where you stand. But let us have enough of these unpleasantries. Let the young lady go. She can be of no consequence to you.”

The man laughed without humor. “She knows my name.”

“As do I, so the secret will hardly die with her.”

Strader growled at him. “Need to think. Take her with me.”

“No, you can leave, but she stays,” commanded Marchford.

“That’s far enough,” warned Strader. He had backed out of the dank warehouse into a foggy London day, so thick with haze that Marchford could not see the other side of the street. Strader backed up to a horse and a wagon with crates in the bed, covered by a large piece of canvas.

“Let her go,” Marchford commanded again, trying not to let the sheer panic seep into his voice.

Strader shook his head. “Take her for safe passage. Once I get where I need to be, I’ll let her go.”

Marchford doubted it. Once he got away, he would have no need for Penelope and that would mean the end of her. “Miss Rose is of great value to me,” said Marchford, trying to elevate her worth in Strader’s eyes. “I would give anything for her safe return.”