A Winter Wedding (3 page)

“Difficult times, my friend,” said Marchford. He sat on an upholstered settee and motioned for Penelope to sit next to him.

“The war, you mean?” asked Penelope. She hesitated, unsure if she should sit so close, but she did anyway, unable to resist.

“Oh no, every good Englishman loves a good war. It’s this mad king that’s got us in a twist,” said Grant with his unfailing good humor. He claimed a leather chair next to them.

“King George?” asked Penelope, trying to focus on the conversation rather than how close her thigh was from touching Marchford’s. Everyone knew their aging monarch, King George III, had taken ill once more and now his sanity had quite left him.

“Yes,” said Marchford. “This special early session of Parliament has been called to discuss this matter and debate the merits of naming the Prince of Wales as regent.”

“Love the prince,” said Grant. “Great parties, nothing but the best. Though I fear his household management skills may be slightly lacking.”

“Indeed,” said Penelope and held her tongue. The Prince of Wales was notorious for living a profligate life. His numerous affairs were legendary and Parliament had already been obliged to bail out his debts to the shocking amount of 161,000 pounds.

“And some believe the entire discussion is grounds for treason,” continued Marchford, lowering his voice and leaning even closer to Penelope. “So the entire situation must be handled with care.”

Penelope swallowed hard, willing herself not to react to his closeness nor the warm smell of his coat. She focused on the conversation and had no doubt Marchford was deeply involved in the “handling” of the situation. “But what does all this have to do with enemy agents in London?”

“Napoleon no doubt views our current crisis as weakness and an opportunity to act. I fear there may be some sort of plot brewing.”

“What sort of plot?” asked Penelope.

“If I knew that, I would not have risked coming to London to find out.” Marchford’s tone was grave, but there was a mischievous smile in his eyes when he regarded Penelope.

“Try not to cause a scene at my party. It is my poor wife’s first ball as hostess,” Grant said with a smile. “Which reminds me, I must return to my duties as host. I shall leave the world of espionage in your capable hands. Evening!” Grant slid from the room with a fluid grace, an easy smile on his lips.

Marchford turned to her and their knees accidently touched. “Oh!” said Penelope, and they both jumped back to the edges of the settee.

Penelope coughed and struggled to find a benign topic of conversation. “The footman is an arrogant fellow. Not sure where his lay is, but I think he warrants further observation.”

“His lay?” Marchford’s eyes were dancing.

Penelope cleared her throat at being caught using thieves’ cant. “I am only trying to assist your investigations.”

“Yes, I do appreciate it. I only wonder at what point I corrupted you.” Marchford leaned forward again, a sly smile playing about his lips.

Of course he was only teasing, but it would take a woman stronger than she not to melt when his voice rumbled with seductive thunder. She took a quick breath. “Not corrupted in the least. I merely wished to do my duty for my country.”

“If you have a plan, Miss Rose, I am willing to do anything you wish.”

Penelope stilled a sigh. How many young ladies of the
ton
would give anything to hear those words from the duke?
Anything
she
wished
…

“Miss Rose?”

Penelope was startled out of a happy revelry to find the object of her distraction staring at her intently. “Yes. Right.” She cleared her throat. “We should continue to watch the footman, but we also must return to the business of finding you a bride.”

Marchford’s shoulders slumped. “A bride. What bother.”

Penelope walked out of the study with Marchford, her emotions swirling around like the couples dancing the quadrille. She was not certain whether she was still irritated at the duke or not. Should she help him find true love?

His fingertips brushed across her back as he led her down the corridor toward the ballroom. Heat radiated from the place of his touch. Perhaps it was important to see him married as soon as may be for her own sanity.

“I think you will like this next one,” said Penelope, adopting her most businesslike tone and trying to squelch any physical reaction she might have to him. “You are acquainted with Lady Jane, the sister of Lord Wynbrook?”

“She is engaged,” said Marchford without a shred of interest.

“She was, but she found the groom lacking and broke off the engagement. Lord Wynbrook has contracted with Madame X to find her another groom before the scandal hits.”

Marchford stopped at the end of the corridor, raising an aristocratic eyebrow. “So if I was to make an offer to Lady Jane, you would collect quite a windfall.”

“Yes, quite.” Penelope knew better than to meet his gaze. If she had to find a match for Marchford, at least it could benefit her as well.

“Well then, I shall propose to her as soon as may be”—he lowered his voice—“to please you.”

Heat ran up the back of her neck in a most disturbing manner. “Yes, well, that would be quite obliging.”

“Your humble servant.” Marchford offered her his arm, and she once again entered the ballroom on the arm of a duke.

They were quick to find Lady Jane sitting by the wall on the edge of the ballroom.

“I should like the carriage,” Lady Jane was telling her sister when they approached. “Let us find our brother and leave at once.”

“Lady Jane!” said Penelope. “You look lovely this evening.”

Lady Jane looked nothing of the sort. It had been a severe disappointment, discovering her fiancé was less than worthy. The disreputable man had not taken well to the dissolution of their engagement for, as the sister of the Earl of Wynbrook, Lady Jane was well-dowered. He had made an ugly scene, threatening scandal. Lady Jane’s brother had hired Madame X to find a replacement groom—and fast.

“You are acquainted with the Duke of Marchford?”

Lady Jane rose and gazed at them through dreary, half-closed eyes. “Yes, of course. Good evening, Your Grace.”

“Good evening, Lady Jane.”

They stood in awkward silence for a moment, staring at each other with equal looks of polite disinterest.

“Good evening, Lady Jane.” Sir Gareth chose that moment to arrive with a wide, eager smile. “Forgive the interruption, but would you care to dance?”

“Oh!” Lady Jane’s eyes flew open and she gave Sir Gareth her most becoming smile. “Yes, indeed, I would truly love to dance.”

“Now he takes the bait,” muttered Penelope.

Penelope and Marchford watched them dance away.

“Do you think I should wait for them to complete the set before I propose?” Marchford whispered in her ear. His breath warm on her skin.

Penelope’s treacherous body responded immediately. Their eyes met and she had to force herself to look away. “Forgive me my error. But I have others in mind, do not despair.”

“Too late for that. Perhaps your matchmaking skills are not up to the task.” His tone was aloof, but his eyes were dancing. Was he sharing a joke or laughing at her?

Now she could name this emotion he incited within her: Irritation. Frustration. Exasperation tinged with malicious rage. “I have the perfect lady for you.” She smiled sweetly at the duke. “The Princess Alexandra of Austria. Of course, I could never count her among my acquaintance, being only a lowly companion. She would only deign to speak to an illustrious person such as yourself.”

Marchford gave her a suspicious glance, as well he should. They approached the princess from the side. She was wearing an enormous golden turban adorned with jewels and a giant purple plume.

“Did you ever see such gaudy decorations?” the princess was commenting to the elegant person of the Comtesse de Marseille.

“Simply dreadful,” intoned the comtesse, society maven and vicious gossip.

“I cannot understand why the Grants are held in such high society. After all, he married only some countrified thing with some scandal attached to her mother. Clearly, she was beneath him. No telling the oddities of English society,” said the princess with haughty disdain.

Marchford shook his head, and they walked past the princess and the comtesse without a second look.

“Are you trying to make me a match or convince me to join a monastery?” growled Marchford.

“Thinking of taking a vow of celibacy?”

“Are you taking an interest in my carnal habits, Miss Rose?”

“No!” She turned away from him and plucked a fan out of her reticule to cool her flushed skin. Dratted man, he had done it to her again.

“I have just the lady for you.” Penelope attempted to keep the sarcasm at bay.

Marchford gave her a false smile. “Joy and rapture.”

“Lord Wynbrook has a friend, the Earl of Darington, who is staying with them.”

“Let me guess, Lord Darington has a sister.”

“Yes! I have yet to meet her—”

“No.”

“Now, how bad can she be?” It was a rhetorical question. If Darington’s sister was half as bad as her reputation, this would be perfect. “Besides, I am running out of suitable potential brides. You are a duke, you know. Your bride must be the daughter of an earl at the very least. You cannot marry a commoner.”

“Can I not?” Despite their light banter, his question seemed surprisingly honest.

They reached Lord Wynbrook, who greeted them with a warm smile. “Marchford, Miss Rose, you are well met. Allow me to present Robert Ashton, the Earl of Darington, and his sister, Lady Katherine.”

The young Earl of Wynbrook was a handsome man with chestnut hair and flashing, bright eyes. Lord Darington, on the other hand, was a tall man with dark hair and brown, sunken eyes, dressed all in black. Katherine wore a shabby white muslin gown and had brown hair pulled back into a severe bun with sharp features and intelligent eyes. Both she and her brother were quite thin, making Penelope wonder if they were naturally that way or if they had recently survived some sort of deprivation. With him in black and her in white, they appeared solemnly monochrome in a sea of festive color.

The appropriate bows were made, with neither Darington nor his sister saying a word.

“Darington has just returned from years at sea, commanding the
Lady
Kate
. Came back plumper in the pocket than he left,” said Wynbrook with a smile.

“You served in the Royal Navy?” asked Penelope, attempting to start the conversation.

“Yes” was his monosyllabic reply. Unlike his more amiable friend, there was no smile in Darington’s eyes. Theirs must have been a sad life, but still, they were titled, in London, and with a bit of blunt about them, so they were definitely marriable potentials—once you got past the icy stares.

“Admirable,” commented Marchford, joining the conversation with his own brief reply.

“And will you begin a London season this year?” Pen asked Lady Katherine.

“No. I do not wish to enter society. And I certainly I do not wish to be married. You will excuse me.” Lady Katherine turned on her heel and left.

Penelope was forced to hide her smile behind her fan. Marchford’s face was a perfect mix of horror and insult. She gloried in her revenge for a moment before the words of her grandma Moira came to mind.
Revenge
is
as
sweet
as
a
sheep
turd. Those who delight in it end up with a face full of sh—
This is where Penelope’s mother would cut off her Scottish grandmother’s colorful adage. Perhaps it was time to stop this game.

“It was nice to meet you, Lord Darington. Forgive us, but I believe we must see to my grandmother,” said Marchford, extricating them from the awkward situation. His placid countenance had returned, though with the aristocratic veil of injured pride.

“I believe we should give up finding you a bride for the evening.” Penelope sighed in defeat.

“Thank heaven!” cried Marchford with considerable animation, quick to recover from his matrimonial setbacks.

“You are horrid.”

“Indeed, I am. I’m glad you have finally noticed. Now we can get back to more serious matters. Where is that footman?”

“The card room, I believe. Oh bother. I forgot to ask someone to collect the tea tray from your grandmother. She will no doubt be cross at me. And I have not found anything suspicious about the footman, other than he is arrogant and serving two decanters of brandy.”

“Perhaps we should investigate?” He gave her a sly smile.

Penelope could not help but smile in return. “I have a plan.”

Marchford offered his arm. “Lead on!”

***

Marchford reluctantly released Penelope’s arm when they reached the card room, careful not to make eye contact with anyone in a dress. Unlike Penelope, with whom he enjoyed a certain feeling of safety, many other young ladies would pounce upon the slightest encouragement. Thus, a ducal aura of detachment must be maintained.

He stayed behind while she moved forward toward the tea tray. He had been relieved to see her dressed much the same as always, in her worn-out gown and simple bun. Yet he could not help but continue to imagine her with her hair down—and maybe her dress down too.

He stifled a growl. He must get control of himself. Miss Rose was his grandmother’s companion and his hired assistant in his important work for the Foreign Office. Their relationship was purely business and contractual. Nothing more.

Penelope picked up the tea tray and walked up to the footman, who was pouring golden liquid from one of his carafes for an elderly gentleman. “Jonathan,” she accosted him. “Her Grace, the duchess, is not inclined for tea tonight. Could you take this tray down for me?”

“Not likely,” the footman hissed in a manner he would never take with any other guests of the party. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and do it yourself?” The footman sidestepped Penelope, but she stepped in front of him, stopping him with her tray.

“It is getting heavy. Can you take it? I don’t want it to spill.”

“Can’t. Got my own hands full. You blind?”

“What seems to be the difficulty?” Marchford had seen enough. Penelope was right; the footman was at least rude if nothing else. “Here, I will take your tray, and you can take the lady’s tea service.”

Marchford reached for the decanters, but the footman was not going to relinquish his prize readily. “No, Your Grace. You don’t need to do that. I will call for some assistance for the lady.” He glanced around, but Penelope had already told two other footman they were needed in the kitchens. It would take them a few minutes before they returned.

“Thank you so much.” Penelope all but tossed her tray at the footman, and Marchford held out a hand for the tray of liquor, but Jonathan held on.

“No, it’s no trouble. Please, Your Grace, I can carry both.”

To Marchford’s surprise, the footman managed to take her tray in one hand and balance it on one shoulder, while the other tray he likewise carried on the other shoulder. One had to admire the footman’s determination and ingenuity, but his clear desire to retain possession of the decanters only raised Marchford’s suspicion.

Penelope glanced at him with large eyes, a clear appeal to do something. He could not resist her silent plea—he could hardly resist her at all. Hoping Grant would forgive him, he grabbed the edge of the tea tray and shoved it up, spilling the contents with a crash of broken china.

Penelope’s mouth dropped open. People stopped their games and turned to stare. Marchford grabbed the tray of decanters from the footman’s grasp, and they left the footman thin-lipped in the middle of shattered china and a puddle of tea. With the focus of the assembly momentarily diverted by the cracked crockery, Marchford was able to discreetly slip Penelope back to the private study, alone now save the tray and three bottles of spirit.

He placed the tray on a small round table. The decanters were a fine set of cut leaded crystal with ornately engraved gold inlays. Even the bottoms were of gold, engraved with intricate patterns. Nothing seemed out of place, except two were labeled “Brandy.”

“Why two of the same liquor?” Pen asked, her focus on the bottles.

Marchford was more interested in watching her intelligent face as she worked over the puzzle of the decanters. Forcing himself to focus on the task at hand, he found a glass. “I am agreeable to a test.” He poured himself a splash of one and sampled it carefully in his mouth before swallowing. “Good. Very fine. Expect nothing less from Grant.”

“And the other?” asked Pen.

Marchford poured the liquid, but Penelope stopped him.

“Look. When you pour, there is something I can see in the bottle,” exclaimed Pen, her eyes alight with the delight of discovery.

Marchford was enchanted. She was not dressed to entice; in a plain muslin gown and a requisite old-maid lace cap, her appearance was utterly lamentable. Yet her wide-eyed excitement made him momentarily forget the task at hand.

“You are not even looking at it,” protested Penelope.

“Decanters…right,” sputtered Marchford. He turned the bottle slowly and squinted through the faceted glass. There appeared to be an inner tube also made of glass. He looked over the decanter at her with a growing smile. She returned it with a grin of eager anticipation.

Forcing himself to get back to business, Marchford made a further inspection of the bottle. On the bottom, he found a small, round stopper within the engraved gold. Carefully removing it, he discovered a glass chamber inside the decanter and within a small twist of a note.

“Penelope, you are lovely tonight. Absolutely brilliant.” Marchford meant every word. Carefully, he opened the note and spread it flat. Penelope leaned in, her brown head close to his. He caught a whiff of her perfume—or more likely the lavender soap she used. It was more intriguing to him than any exotic fragrance. He had to remind himself to read the note.