A Midsummer Bride (14 page)

“Come now,” barked the dowager sharply. “We must go down to tea now or we will be late.”

Penelope looked up from her dressing table in surprise. She was struggling into a spencer coat so skintight it was difficult to pull on. “Late? Since when have you cared for that? Have you not always told me tea will begin when you arrive?”

Antonia waved off the comment. “Perhaps I am hungry. Have you no compassion such that you would make me wait?”

“Is something the matter?” Penelope knew the dowager well enough by now to know when she was out of sorts.

“It’s all Lord Langley’s fault. He emerged from his sickroom today and wished to play cards. So the Comtesse de Marseille, Sir Antony, and I obliged him.”

“Lost, did you?”

The dowager’s face scrunched, making her look old, for once. “Lost my pearls to Langley. Pearls that had been in my family for years. They had been my mother’s and had sentimental value.”

“Whatever made you bet them on a card game?”

The dowager cast upon Penelope a look that could spoil milk. “The cards were good. I should not have lost! I blame Langley. Or perhaps the comtesse cheated when she dealt.”

“Of her, I would believe anything,” agreed Penelope. The comtesse may have been one of the dowager’s closest friends, but to those she deemed socially inferior, which was most people, she could be vicious. A noted gossip with a wicked sense of humor, the comtesse was dangerous, yet everyone accepted her opinion on music, art, and fashion as authoritative.

“I shall be forced to wear the rubies tonight,” said the dowager with a sigh as she opened her jewelry box. “Oh no! Oh goodness no!”

“What is it?” Penelope rushed to her side. “Has something been stolen?”

“Paste! Oh, I’m ruined!” The dowager sat down hard on a chair.

“Paste? What is wrong?” Penelope asked.

“I was getting the necklace and I remembered.” Antonia closed her eyes and shook her head. “I had forgotten about the pearls. How could I have forgot?”

“What about the pearls?” Penelope was lost in the conversation.

The dowager sighed again, long and mournful. “Several months ago, after Marchford had cut off my funds and before we had been blessed by Madame X and the matchmaking scheme, I needed sustenance to survive.”

“You needed sustenance?” asked Penelope doubtfully. The dowager certainly never lacked for any basic need or comfort that she saw.

“There was a bonnet so divine, I had to claim it.”

“I see.” What Penelope saw was that the dowager’s opinion of sustenance fell under a very different definition than hers.

“I could not go to Marchford, clearly, so I devised a scheme to pawn the pearls and have fake ones made so no one would know. Marchford found out. The idiot pawnbroker sent a receipt to the house and James went and collected the pearls.” The dowager shook her head. “If Lord Langley finds out I have given him fake pearls, I shall be utterly ruined.”

“Surely it is not so bad as that,” soothed Penelope. “You have been on friendly terms with him lately. Why not go to him and explain what happened and offer the real pearls?”

“No! No, he must never know. If he discovers I needed to pawn my pearls for money, I shall die of mortification. I have been embarrassed enough because of him. To admit such a thing? No, no, life would be unbearable.”

Penelope sat on a chair next to the dowager. She had to concede that this situation would indeed cast the dowager in an unfavorable light. Society could be cruel, often celebrating a person one day and ridiculing them the next. Passing off fake pearls as real ones in a card game would be seen as a breach of the societal codes of conduct, to which all members were rigorously held. The dowager was indeed in a difficult situation, and as her companion, Penelope felt the duty to help make it right.

“Where are the real pearls?” asked Penelope.

“I believe James has them. I asked him to bring them with us so I could wear the real ones, not the fakes. I meant to get the real string from him this morning, but I forgot.”

“So let us ask Marchford—”

“No! He must not know either. He would be furious if he found out I had lost the pearls. He attempted to give me a lecture when he found out I had pawned them in the first place. As if he had any right to comment on my conduct.”

“Fine. You go down to tea and say I have a megrim. I will find the pearls in the duke’s room and then replace them with the fake ones in Langley’s room.” It was not her best plan, but if everyone was at tea, Penelope should be able to set the situation to rights within a few minutes and then it would be over.

Antonia sat straighter and the light in her blue eyes danced once more. “Thank you, Penelope. I knew you would know what to do. I shall come back up to the room directly if they are not both in the tearoom. If I do not return, then please proceed. You are such a dear.”

Penelope gave her a half smile. “You must promise me to send up tea and cakes. And if I get caught, I expect you to intercede on my behalf.”

Penelope waited a while to ensure that the dowager was not going to return to inform her that one of her targets was not at tea. Fortune was on her side it seemed, for both the Duke of Marchford and Lord Langley were making England proud by participating in a proper tea. Penelope slipped out the door and walked down the hallway to the stairs to where the men had their rooms. She resisted the urge to tiptoe.

Going to retrieve the necklace sounded sensible when she was talking to the dowager, but now when it came to act, her confidence lagged. She feared she would run into someone. She felt guilty already and thus far she had done nothing more than walk down a hall. She balled her fists at her sides and commanded her courage to proceed. This is what comes of being raised by a straightforward clergyman—an overactive sense of guilt.

Fortunately for the cause, Penelope also possessed a strong sense of duty and continued on to help protect her patroness’s reputation. It would not take more than a few minutes and it would be done, she reassured herself.

The gentlemen were housed on one of the top floors of the manor house. As she walked up the stairs she found herself walking back in time. The bottom floors had been remolded in a modern style, but on the top floors, she found stone walls and solid oak doors, most likely original to the manor house built during Queen Elizabeth’s reign. The long hallway of oak doors stretched out before her. A problem. Which one was Marchford’s?

“Can I help ye, miss?”

Penelope swirled around to find a maid holding a mop.

“I—I was looking at the architecture,” said Penelope in a rush.

The maid raised an eyebrow and nodded. “Aye, the architecture is verra fine, t’be sure. There be many young ladies who’ve been appreciating the architecture. Particularly in the Duke o’ Marchford’s room there.” She pointed to the second door on the right.

“Thank you, but I believe I’ve seen enough.” Penelope turned to walk down the stairs while the maid disappeared into the servant’s passage.

When the maid was out of sight, Penelope slipped back up the stairs and into Marchford’s room, shutting the door softly behind her. She needed to find those pearls and fast, before someone found her, or her heart would explode from pounding so hard.

Marchford’s room was neat, with nothing out of place. In fact, nothing was out at all. She wondered if the maid had been having fun with her and had directed her to the wrong room, for this one had no evidence anyone was staying in it. She walked to the wardrobe and opened the ornately carved doors. Marchford’s clothes were arranged neatly. These were his jackets; she knew them by sight. She knew them by smell. Marchford’s clothes were neat, orderly, pressed to perfection, dignified, well built, strong…

Penelope shook her head to get back at the task at hand. She needed to find the pearls and escape. She rummaged quickly through the wardrobe but did not find anything. She opened a chest at the foot of the bed. She was surprised by a stack of neatly folded unmentionables. She paused for a moment, wondering what to do. Could she possibly touch a man’s undergarments?

She took a deep breath and put her hand on the top of the neatly folded underthings. They were soft. She ran her hand across them and caught herself. She had entered a single man’s room and was stroking his unmentionables. Very wrong.

She quickly moved the stack to the floor and searched through the trunk, being careful to remember how it had been packed. Toward the bottom, she found an old box that had clearly been used often and showed the marks of age. She opened the box and found the string of pearls. Yes! This had not been too bad. She took the pearls from the box and placed the string in her pocket. As she began to place the items back into the trunk she heard male voices.

Her heart leaped into her throat and pounded so loud she feared they would hear her. There could be no recovery, no plausible excuse for being found in Marchford’s bedchamber. She hoped they were going into a different room. Forcing herself to concentrate, she worked at returning the trunk to its original form even as the voices got louder.
Do
not
come
in!

She was almost done, but the door began to swing open. There was no time to finish. She closed the lid and dove under the bed a heartbeat before Marchford entered the room.

“Your Grace, I must insist that you allow me to guard these plans,” said a male voice Penelope recognized as Mr. Neville. “I swear I would protect them with my life.”

“How very gallant of you, Mr. Neville, but I fear I have no plans for you to hold, and before you go about pestering my friends for the same, I would ask that you refrain. Think of it as a personal favor to me.”

“Your Grace, surely I do not need to remind you of the very real danger of spies in our midst.”

Penelope lay flat against the floor, praying she would not be found. She could see only a few inches of each man’s boots from under the dust ruffle around the bed. On the floor, stacked neatly on the far side of the trunk, were the duke’s unmentionables.

“You must be aware of the danger. You must. I would like to work with you, not against.” Mr. Neville sounded earnest.

Marchford sighed. The short man in a tragic coat with too much shoulder padding was something akin to a pebble in Marchford’s shoe, but he did have a way of being right about things. Regarding spies, no one could doubt Mr. Neville’s dedication to duty. He was tireless in his pursuit of traitors and had even killed in the line of duty, something Marchford appreciated, particularly since the traitor Neville killed was attempting to kill Marchford’s best friend at the time.

“I do understand, Mr. Neville, and I will keep you informed. I agree with you in principle that we need to work together, not against one another, if we are to draw out traitors and protect information.”

“James!” The Dowager Duchess of Marchford burst through the door, gasping for breath.

“What is wrong?” Marchford was immediately at his grandmother’s side.

“I… I wanted to know why you left tea so soon.” The duchess scanned the room with a nervous eye.

“I had things to discuss. You walked up all those stairs to inquire after my teatime habits?” Something was not right. His grandmother would hardly run up stairs to meet the queen let alone himself.

“Thank you, Mr. Neville,” Marchford said to the government agent. He wanted to talk to his grandmother without an audience. She was up to something, and he did not wish the British Foreign Office to know about it.

Mr. Neville bowed to them both and left. His grandmother sank into a chair. He handed her a handkerchief and she used it to blot her forehead.

“What is all this about?” asked Marchford. “Why a sudden interest in my teatime habits?”

“You left early and I know you are partial to a light repast. I wanted to make sure you were in adequate health,” said the dowager.

“I am in good health.”

“Good! Well!” The dowager stood and took another quick glance around the room. “I see you are not in need of me, so I shall leave you.”

He considered calling her back and demanding he know what was wrong, but he knew from experience, vast experience, that it would be a pointless excursion. He closed his door and walked back inside toward the window. Out of the corner of his eye he noted the small stack of his unmentionables by the chest. Someone had been in his room, and if his grandmother’s presence was any indication, he knew exactly who. He drew his small pistol from his jacket, just in case he was wrong.

“Penelope Rose,” he called. “Come out now!”

Nothing stirred. Still, he had a feeling he was not alone, and he always listened to his gut. It kept him alive when he was working missions in Cadiz. He trusted it to keep him alive now.

“Miss Rose, I would appreciate it if you would come out. It would save me the trouble of coming after you and potentially ruining my clothes.”

A scrape and a scuffle came from under the bed and slowly Penelope emerged into the light of the room. She did not meet his eye but focused instead on smoothing her skirts.

“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” said Penelope as if they had met in the tearoom and she had not just crawled out from under his bed.

“Miss Rose, I fear I am going to have to demand an explanation.”

“Yes, yes, by all means, you have every right to demand one.”

“And am I to hear this explanation?”

“Of course, just as soon as I think of one you will be the first to know.”

“Miss Rose.” The words came out low. He wanted answers. “Why were you rummaging through my chest?”

“How did you know it was me?” Penelope looked up with large brown eyes.

“I am remarkable. Now answer my question.”

“Or you plan to shoot me?”

Marchford pocketed the gun. It had been bad form to have it still in hand. “I hope it will not come to that.”

“I see.” Penelope sat down on a wooden chair and folded her hands in her lap. She looked much too comfortable to have just been found under his bed. What on earth was she doing here? He knew better than to assume she was interested in him. This eminently efficient person had no interest in him or any man. Of that he was certain. Why he needed to remind himself of this fact was less clear.

“This would be the time to tell me why you were under the bed, Miss Rose.”

“I can only agree with you.”

Marchford waited again, but Penelope sat still, prim, and proper.

“Miss Rose,” he said with a growl.

“Nothing would be easier than to tell you why I was, or shall I say am, in your room, but I am not at liberty to say.”

“Because of my grandmother?”

“Yes.”

“Naturally I need to ask if there is any other reason why you are here. These are dangerous times, Miss Rose.”

“The only reason I am here is to run an errand for your grandmother.”

“Under my bed.”

Penelope at least had the good sense to shift in her chair. He assumed she was less comfortable than she appeared.

“That was not exactly part of the plan,” she admitted.

“And what was the plan?”

“I am not at liberty to say.”

Marchford pulled a chair from the other side of the room and sat down in it across from her, so close their knees almost touched. She said nothing but her eyes grew wider. Good. He wanted her off balance, unsure. He wanted to know what was going on here. And she was going to tell him.

“An explanation if you please,” he said.

“Perhaps I was looking at the architecture.” Penelope glanced around the room as if noting it for the first time. “The maid said many young ladies seemed fascinated by this room and had asked directions to it. I can only assume there is some architectural interest here.”

She was attempting to divert the question, but he was not going to rise to the bait. “And you thought the best vantage point to appreciate the architecture would be from under the bed.”

Penelope’s lips twitched up and she clenched her jaw as if to avoid smiling. “Yes, quite.”

“Penelope, I can stay here all day, all
night
if I have to.”

“Perhaps I have fallen prey to whatever afflicted those other women who invaded your privacy.”

“I did not realize I should count you among my admirers, Miss Rose.”

Penelope’s cheeks flushed a pretty pink. “And what if I was?”

Her answer surprised him. Mousy young things should run and hide if he said anything suggestive. “Perhaps this is why you were rifling through my undergarments?”

Her eyes flashed and her cheeks grew pinker. “The undergarments were incidental to my plan—an unexpected pleasure.”

Pleasure? Had she called touching his unmentionables a pleasure? Now his cheeks were growing warm. This was not how it was supposed to happen. He intended to flirt with her to keep her off guard. Now it was he who was scrambling to put her back in her place, or at least figure out which place she belonged. “I did not realize you held such a
tendre
for me, Miss Rose.”

“Neither did I,” murmured Penelope. Was she speaking the truth?

He looked at her, really looked. He had to admit her appearance had undergone a radical improvement of late. He understood his grandmother had replaced all her clothes with ones in the latest mode. His grandmother may have many deficits, but a lack of fashion sense did not rank among them. Penelope now appeared much more to her best advantage and Marchford would be lying if he said he had not noticed. It was amazing how clothes that actually fit properly revealed her figure. A strikingly good one he must admit.

He was too close. Much too close. He jumped out of the chair and opened the chest, forcing himself to focus back on his investigation. He rifled through the contents until he found the pearl box. It was empty. “The pearls, Miss Rose?”

“In my pocket,” admitted Penelope with surprising poise.

“And this was why your mistress sent you?”

“The reason I am here is to run an errand for your grandmother.”

“Then I should speak with her.” Marchford shook his head. “She had best not be gambling.”

“You would have to ask her, naturally,” said Penelope.

“She is not the one I found under the bed. There is also the matter of what I was speaking about to Mr. Neville.”

“I am familiar with Mr. Neville and his nervous nature.”

“I wish it was just needless worry, but I fear Mr. Neville may have the right of it. There is most likely a traitor in our midst.”

“I am very sorry to hear it.”

“This is not a game, Miss Rose. I need to know whose side you are on.” Marchford began to pace like one of the caged lions they kept at the Tower of London. “The stakes are too high. I cannot possibly allow access to sensitive information by anyone working for Napoleon. The war does not go well. We know the emperor is looking to England as practically the only country in Europe he has not yet conquered. He is coming; I feel it. It is only a matter of time.”

“That much I have read in the papers.”

“Read the papers, do you? Odd sort of habit for a lady.”

“I am an odd sort of lady,” retorted Penelope.

“No,” said Marchford slowly. “I think you quite normal. You have lived in society for years and yet managed to keep yourself the same as when you entered it. You are not swayed by a pretty compliment or a pretty gown. In that, I find you extraordinary.”

“A compliment?”

“No, simply stating the facts.”

Penelope raised an eyebrow and a slight upturn in the corner of the right side of her mouth was the only evidence that he had amused her. Her reaction, muted as it was, pleased him.

He sat on the trunk and ran his fingers through his hair. “I hate this job. Always wondering whom you can trust.” He spoke more to himself than to her.

“I came to retrieve an item for your grandmother that belongs to her,” said Penelope with a reassuring calm. “I am not a spy or a traitor or a foreign agent. I am simply the companion to your grandmother. Despite being found under your bed, I hope you know you can trust me. I would be very sad indeed to think you did not feel you could rely on me. I hope you know I would tell you if I felt any of this had anything to do with a traitor to the Crown.”

He did know and did trust her. He only hoped that trust was not misplaced. “I do trust you, Miss Rose.” He spoke the words before he remembered this could be a fatal admission. He shook his head. Either he was going daft from being on missions too long, or he was growing soft from coming back home. Betwixt and between was not a good place for an agent. One always needed to know where he was and what he was about. With Penelope, things were different.

Penelope held out the pearls. “Would you like these returned?”

Marchford handed her the box instead. “These belong to my grandmother and her mother before her. She may do with them as she will.”