A Winter Wedding (5 page)

An elderly man with a sloped back entered the room and gave a quick bow. “’Ere to move the barrels, gov’ner?”

“No, we have changed plans. No deliveries tonight.”

“Right then,” said the old man, and he shuffled away.

The man in the Carrick coat sank onto the crates in relief. He was in time. The mission had not been compromised. He pulled out a pipe from his large coat pocket but suddenly jumped off the crate in horror.

Light a pipe? What could he be thinking of? He eyed the crate with suspicion.

He was a smuggler, but his cargo was rather more dangerous than wine.

The comfortable town carriage lumbered slowly along the streets of London. Considering the momentous events of the evening, Penelope gave herself leave to lean back against the velvet squabs and rest her feet upon the foot warmer. She reveled in the warmth, gradually bringing her frozen toes back to life. Marchford, sitting across from her, remained somber and his posture rigid.

“What an eventful evening,” commented Penelope, not knowing where to start. The entire day had been a series of emotional flips centered on the forbidding man sitting across from her. She wondered what put such grim tightness about his mouth.

“Yes. I appreciate your help. Though had I known such danger was nigh, I would never have requested your assistance.” Marchford frowned more severely.

Now she understood what was irritating the man; he was reprimanding himself for unwittingly putting her in danger. It was actually quite kind that he was so disturbed. “You had no way of knowing a murderer was about.”

“No, I did not.” He spoke the words as a curse upon his ignorance.

“Surely you cannot blame yourself.”

“I most certainly do.”

“Nonsense. Besides, I was never in any real danger.” She glanced at Marchford to judge his reaction to that statement. He remained impassive. “It was the poor footman who was the only target. He had not the kindest of hearts, but I do feel sorry for him.”

“Do not waste your sympathy. He was a traitor to the Crown and got nothing more than he deserved. Though I wish he had revealed the identities of the conspirators before he died.”

“He must have known something of importance,” agreed Penelope. “What do you make of the note?”

Marchford shook his head slowly. “I am unsure. Since our enemy clearly suspects we are in possession of the note, whatever was going to happen at four bells has almost certainly been changed.”

“So where do we go from here?” Tracking down spies was only part of the question. The word
we
reverberated within her chest. Was there any form of
we
?

“I would like to review everyone you can remember with whom the footman spoke, everyone to whom he gave a drink. Tomorrow we can have the servants interviewed, see if they know anything. Perhaps Grant can be of service in our inquiries.” Marchford was all business.

“I believe Jonathan had only worked there a short time. I should ask Genie to speak to her housekeeper and get the references he provided. Perhaps they can be of assistance,” Penelope responded in kind. Ironic that discussing traitors against the Crown was the safest topic of conversation.

“A capital idea,” said Marchford, leaning back on the squabs, his body more relaxed. It was good to see him let go of self-recrimination.

“I am glad you approve.” Pen smiled and let her eyes half close under the gentle rocking of the carriage. It had been quite an exciting evening, and she was more than ready to find her bed. Memories flooded back of what happened earlier when they were in her bedroom. What would have happened if…

Pen forced her eyes open and sat up straight. The Duke of Marchford had become an amiable acquaintance and had trusted her to assist with his investigations for the Foreign Office. He also had hired her to help him
find
a bride, not
be
his bride. He was a duke, after all, and she was, in the end, nothing more than his grandmother’s companion. She must not let her imagination carry her into unrealistic flights of fancy.

She cleared her throat. After his kindness to her, she repented her mischievous suggestions for a mate. “I regret we were not able to find you a suitable bride tonight, but do not lose heart. We shall continue the search.”

“For some reason, your words only bring a sense of doom to my poor heart.”

“I am certain your heart will recover,” Penelope clipped in return. She had the wretched realization that she owed him an apology. “I do apologize if some of my suggestions were not suitable, but the season is starting early since Parliament is in session. I am sure there will be some new—”

“No debutantes.” The duke was firm.

“I beg your pardon?”

“No doe-eyed teenagers with fribble in their heads and spots on their faces.”

“They don’t all have spots,” protested Penelope. “Besides, the most beautiful young ladies are generally engaged before the end of their first season. You need to consider those just entering society.”

The duke shook his head. “I would rather have a wife with something in her head worth saying than a chit with a beautiful face and not one intelligent thought. And what on earth made you think Devine’s infant niece would make me a suitable match?”

Penelope looked away and straightened her skirts. Silence fell within the carriage. Though she could not meet his eye, Penelope could feel the heat of his intense glare in the dim light of the carriage lantern.

“You knew she would make a poor match.” The duke spoke in a low voice. “You did that on purpose.” He leaned forward.

“It…it was a suitable match. You are on quite friendly terms with the Lord Admiral,” Pen defended weakly, still unable to look at him directly. She hated that she was not a better liar.

Marchford moved across the carriage and sat next to her, causing her heart rate to jump. “You purposely attempted to connect me with the most unsuitable matches possible!”

“No…yes!” Penelope turned to him, tired of trying to maintain the facade.

“Why?” Marchford’s voice raised and he leaned closer to her. “Why would you do such a thing?”

“Because you said my mother’s gown was horrible.” Penelope’s voice also rose.

“I intended no insult to your mother. I’m sure she looked very well in this gown,
fifty
years
ago
when it was first made.” He gestured down her body.

“Well! This gown is hardly fifty years old,” she defended, her mind doing a quick calculation and coming up with a shockingly high number. “And even if it is a bit mature, it is still very serviceable.” She leaned closer to the infuriating duke.

“Serviceable? The style is utterly outmoded, no matter how much you have attempted to have it redone. Why, the flounces are practically falling off.” He slid closer and touched a flounce at her knee. The traitorous fabric fell off in his hand.

“You tore my gown!” She shouted in outrage, leaning still closer.

“I barely touched it!” The air crackled around them.

“You said this horrible gown was
good
enough
for
Miss
Rose
!” Penelope’s voice caught, betraying the hurt she had felt at his thoughtless comment.

Marchford stilled. Only then did Penelope realize they were so close. Her heart pounded but whether with anger or something else she did not know.

“Did I truly say that?” Marchford’s voice was soft, his eyes wide and black in the dim light. “I meant only to support you. I apologize for my hurtful words.” He put his gloved hand over hers.

They leaned toward each other, their faces mere inches apart. Time seemed to still, to stretch on slowly. He moved closer, ever so slowly, as if in a dream. Penelope closed her eyes.

A sudden bump in the road jostled them apart, breaking the trance.

Marchford removed his hand and cleared his throat. “Yes. Quite. Very sorry if I offended.” The cool exterior returned.

“And I apologize for my petty revenge.”

Marchford pressed his lips together, but the mirth could not be contained. “I can’t believe you paired me with that poor child—or that vicious princess.” He leaned back and chuckled.

Penelope joined him. She was relieved he was taking it in a humorous light. She laughed partly because of her disastrous attempts at matchmaking and partly because she was nervous at what had almost happened between them. Or perhaps it was only in her own mind?

“I shall make a more honest attempt at trying to find you a bride,” promised Penelope, unsure how she felt about this.

“It is important to find someone quickly,” replied Marchford with an equal lack of enthusiasm. “I do not care to be stalked at the next ball as I was tonight.”

“I shall put my mind to it after I see to your grandmother’s nighttime routine,” said Penelope.

They rattled along in the carriage for another full minute before they both realized something.

“The dowager!” gasped Penelope.

“We left her at the house,” groaned Marchford, and rapped on the top of the carriage with his cane to give directions to the coachman to return to the assembly.

“I cannot believe we forgot her,” said Penelope.

“I cannot believe you did not remind me,” chastised Marchford. “You know I am quite dependent on you to remind me to collect my grandmother.”

Penelope smiled, remembering how she first met the duke and his grandmother. It had been less than a year ago when she found the Dowager Duchess of Marchford had been left behind in church, sleeping in the ladies’ retiring room. Penelope had waited with the dowager until the duke arrived and berated him severely for leaving his grandmother behind. The dowager duchess was impressed by her pluck and offered Penelope the position as her companion on the spot.

“Yes, I suppose I am quite good at reminding you of your responsibilities to your grandmother. I thought perhaps my example would influence you to take more responsibility, but instead I fear I become more like you.”

“Dreadful,” said Marchford with a delicious smile.

Penelope was glad the darkness of the carriage hid the heat in her cheeks. “I can think of nothing worse.”

It did not take long to return to the home of Mr. and Mrs. Grant. By unspoken agreement, they had no intention of telling the dowager they had mistakenly left her behind. They found her sitting at a game of whist, her blue eyes shining, a clear sign she was winning. Lord Langley, also a shrewd card player, sat across from her; together they made an astute team.

The dowager duchess played a card with a smile, her white hair gleaming in the candlelight only adding to her beauty. She had been lauded as the most ravishing lady of her day and through the refining of the years had emerged quite elegant, with the glint of fire still burning in her eyes. She took the trump, winning the last rubber of the game. The dejected couple forfeited their prize, forcing Marchford to look away so as to maintain the illusion that he did not know the amounts (shocking indeed!) that were laid down on the dowager’s whist table.

“Are you ready to retire for the evening?” the duke asked his grandmother in a manner most solicitous.

“Did you remember me at last?” she asked with a malicious smile. “I wondered how far you both would go before you remembered to return for me.”

Marchford and Penelope shared a glance. They were in for a scolding now.

“I would have been pleased to see her home in any case,” said Lord Langley. He smiled in such a way at the dowager that Penelope almost felt inclined to blush. The pair of them were acting more like young lovers than the elderly grandparents they were. With a great-grandchild on the way for Lord Langley, Penelope felt sure he should not have given the dowager a wink. And as a woman who had buried three successive Dukes of Marchford, the dowager had no business returning it.

Marchford cleared his throat. “Shall we leave?” he intoned, frowning with a distinctively aristocratic air.

His grandmother, queen of the aristocratic set-downs, merely laughed in his face. “Do not take such a tone with me. You must learn to live a little.”

“Children today.” Lord Langley shook his head.

“La, but they would have been shocked by one day in King Louis’s court,” returned the dowager.

The fact that King Louis XVI had lost his life in part due to the excesses of his reign was not something Penelope chose to address. Instead, she and the duke gave the dowager her precedence and followed her and Lord Langley out of the ballroom to the waiting carriage. Here, Lord Langley whispered something to the dowager that made her giggle.

Giggle
.

Penelope was so shocked she could not find words. Marchford’s eyebrows clamped down over his eyes. They glanced at each other, their suspicions shared.

Lord Langley on the other hand smiled broadly at them all. “Marchford, if I could have a word with you.” The two men held back a moment while the ladies entered the carriage.

“Not now. Not now,” said Marchford, briskly ending the audience and striding away from Lord Langley as if the man were a contagion. “Come see me later. Next month, perhaps.”

Penelope wondered at this. Marchford’s glower remained for the ride home. He was silent, but the dowager chatted freely, in a lively mood, until Penelope was inclined to ask if she was febrile, yet in truth she had never seen the dowager looking so well. Nor Marchford so ill.

“What is wrong?” she whispered to him when they finally returned to Marchford House and the duke handed her out of the carriage.

“My grandmother has taken utter leave of her senses.”

Penelope’s day began with the post—four letters from her sisters. Her married sisters. Her beautiful, blond, vivacious, married sisters. Reading the letters brought a new adjective to mind. Not only were they blond, beautiful, vivacious, and married, but they were now all in expectation of a blessed event.

The Rose sisters had taken London by storm three years ago. After their parents died, their aunt brought them out in London. The Rose sisters soon made heads turn, all blond-haired, blue-eyed beauties…all except Penelope. She had supported her sisters, first her two elder, then her two younger, as they all found husbands, no one happier than her that they found true love. It was getting left behind that was less appealing.

Penelope was pleased, she reminded herself firmly. Very pleased. She would be an auntie again. Her elder sisters, Amelia and Sophie, were expecting their seconds; for her younger sisters, Mariah and Julia, it would be their firsts.

And for Penelope, there would be no babies at all.

Pen recalled once again Marchford’s joke proposal of yesterday. It was her only proposal and it was only in jest. Even if he had been serious, she would certainly never enter into a marriage of convenience. She may be on the shelf at age twenty-six, but she still had standards.

She pulled out her copy of Debrett’s
Peerage
of
England
and flipped through the annotated pages. She and her sisters had used the volume as a sort of shopping guide for finding titled husbands. Penelope had made meticulous notes, adding sections for the respected landed gentry, and had used the volume with great success in finding brilliant marriages for all her sisters. She continued to use the volume to make matches in her new occupation as Madame X, society’s most exclusive matchmaker.

The only person Penelope had not been able to find a match for was herself.

Dressed in sensible attire, her hair pulled back in a sensible knot, Penelope walked down to breakfast with every intention of having a sensible day. All aspirations toward sensibility were lost, however, when she entered the breakfast room.

He
was there.

They were hardly alone, with the footman standing at attention on the side of the wall, but she was keenly aware of Marchford’s presence in the room. Nothing between them had changed, and yet after their experience last night, she had difficulty looking at him in the same way again.

She had barely entered the room before the barrage began. “The Devine ball is fewer than three days away,” Marchford accused over his eggs. It was barely nine in the morning, and he was still in a foul temper from the night before.

“Should I apologize?” Penelope selected some breakfast items for herself. She would not allow his ill temper to distract her from her meal. It would be insensible, and she was never that.

“Yes. Quite. I am obliged to go,” said Marchford glumly. “I cannot insult Lord Admiral Devine by not attending his wife’s Christmas gala.”

“Dreadful. I can clearly see why you blame me.” Penelope took a long sip of hot chocolate to avoid Marchford’s cold stare.

“I do not blame you for the invitation,” he began.

“Am I responsible for the Christmas holiday, then? All that merrymaking and jolly times—what rot. How astute of you to lay the blame at my doorstep.”

“That will be all, Charles,” said Marchford, dismissing the footman who had begun to snicker. “The Devine Christmas gala is something of a tradition. She is German aristocracy, you know, which somehow requires a tree to be carted inside and set ablaze.”

Penelope put down her fork in surprise. “They set a whole tree on fire inside the house?”

“Not intentionally—except for the Christmas of 1804, though I rather think that was a mistake. The point is to attach candles all over the limbs ofan evergreen.”

Pen frowned. “What has burning a tree to do with Christmas?”

“How the blast do I know?” Marchford gave her an irritated scowl. He was certainly in an ill temper. “The point is I must attend, and now with the early start of the season, the gala will be a crush. Everyone is in a frolicking, blasted good mood.”

“Appalling.”

“The truly appalling thing is that I remain unwed, unengaged, and utterly unattached.” He spoke each word as a crisp indictment against her.

“Utterly insupportable,” agreed Penelope.

Marchford’s frown deepened. “Truth is I need to find a wife in order to avoid the machinations of marriage-minded females and their utterly vicious mamas. All this holiday joviality and matchmaking nonsense—it’s plain gone to her head. It can be the only explanation.”

“Explanation for what?” Penelope was confused.

“Nothing, nothing at all. I can only hope it comes to nothing,” he added in a mutter. “But more to the point, you cannot possibly throw me to the wolves without feeling the slightest bit of remorse.”

“Of course not.” Penelope revealed a packet of papers she had prepared for him. She should, perhaps, have shown him earlier but had been nettled by his accusatory tone. “Allow me to present six potential brides, all of the highest character and from some of the most established families.”

“Oh. Well then.” Marchford accepted the papers with a look Pen found unreadable. If he was not pleased by her efforts, she could do nothing more for him. She had stayed up late the night before, the excitement of the events at the ball making sleep impossible. Instead, she reviewed her annotated copy of Debrett’s and created profiles of potential brides for Marchford. She had found the work calming after the unsettling events of the evening. She made practical checklists, rated numerous young ladies on essential qualities, and prepared a report of her top candidates.

She enjoyed bringing something as messy and confusing as falling in love into rational control. Turning the affairs of the heart into something tangible and quantifiable was comforting. Though when it came to making selections for Marchford, none seemed to quite fit. Beyond checklists and calculated evaluation, she had difficulty with the notion that any of these ladies would find themselves the wife of the scowling man before her.

“No. None of these are suitable.” Marchford tossed the papers down on the table after only the briefest examination.

“What?” asked Penelope, her eggs wiggling on her fork halfway to her mouth. She had expected at least to be able to finish her breakfast while he selected a bride—and yet she could not deny a wave of relief.

“They are simply not suitable.” He picked up her papers and began to thumb through them, tossing them down once more with each rejection. “Too young, too old, too empty-headed, too many freckles, too well dowered, and too, too…oh I don’t know, but this one has too much of it at any rate.”

“Too many freckles? Too well dowered?” Penelope had never heard of such a thing.

“I have no need for a well-dowered bride, should leave her to my friends who do. As for spots, I believe that speaks for itself.”

“Well!” Penelope paused to collect her speech into something more refined than telling the duke to go to perdition. “I regret to tell you that you have rejected the most eligible ladies in London.” And she was mighty pleased he had.

“Then perhaps you need to start looking at those
ineligible
, for none of these will do. In the meantime, I am still stuck attending the gala as a marked man. I have a most pressing need for a wife, and you have failed to provide a suitable candidate.” His gray-green eyes pierced into hers. He wanted something from her, but what, she could not name.

“Your idea of suitable is rather elusive,” defended Penelope, though in truth she only felt relief that he had not selected any of the potential brides. He was correct that none of them would do, though she would never admit to it.

“I am the Duke of Marchford,” he said in a grave tone, accepting from the butler the newspaper that had just been ironed to prevent the ink from staining his precious hands.

“Yes, yes, quite.” Penelope took another sip of cocoa. She returned to the comforting feeling of finding him odious to think so highly of himself. Of course half of London—particularly the female half—all seemed to agree with his self-aggrandizing assessment. The man was literally being stalked by eligible females, but Penelope had not the least amount of sympathy for him.

“For the price you are charging me for your dubious services, I expect nothing less than a suitable bride.” Marchford unfolded his newspaper.

“I just presented you with six choices, and you refused them all. And one without even giving me a hint of why she was unacceptable.”

“That last one snorts when she laughs.”

“Does she really? Had I but known, I would have never have suggested her.” Though her words dripped with sarcasm, it seemed to pass by Marchford unnoticed.

“The point is, I cannot attend the Devine gala unmarried still.”

“If you wish to be married within three days, you may have to settle for the chit who snorts.”

“I do not believe you are treating this situation with the gravity it deserves.” He looked over his paper at her.

“I would never contradict you,” Penelope said sweetly. She was quite enjoying herself.

Marchford folded his paper with a great rustle. “This is not simply a matter of my own personal interest. I cannot conduct the investigations necessary in the service to my king if I am constantly being hounded by females wishing to become the next Duchess of Marchford.”

Penelope was forced to concede he had a point. “I shall redouble my efforts, though it might help if you could…”

“Lower my standards? Marry the next female who walks into the room?”

“It would make my job easier.”

The Dowager Duchess of Marchford glided into the room with a radiant smile.

Penelope and Marchford exchanged a glance and a smile. “On second thought, perhaps not,” murmured Penelope.

If the dowager heard her, she gave no hint of it and instead sat down to her coffee and crumpet with clotted cream, with a gleam in her blue eyes that signaled she was up to mischief. “Good morning, children. Lovely day, is it not?”

Marchford’s eyes narrowed and he disappeared behind his newspaper again. Penelope was suspicious. In all the time she had lived with the dowager, she had always taken breakfast in her room. The dowager’s presence here in the breakfast room was greatly suspect. Adding to her alarm, Penelope had never seen the dowager in such a fine mood without it heralding some discomfort for either her or Marchford.

“Yes. Lovely day,” came Marchford’s detached voice from behind the paper. “Anything in particular that makes it admirable to you, Grandmother? Perhaps the cold or the damp or maybe even the ice?”

The dowager’s good humor never faded. “Yes, and the snow. Do not forget it looks like snow.”

“You despise snow,” reminded Marchford.

“Me despise snow? Whatever gave you such a notion?” Antonia stirred her coffee and attempted to look innocent.

“Because you have told me so every winter that I have been alive.” Marchford glanced over his paper.

The dowager waved an elegant hand at him like she was batting a fly. “Bah! What do you know of it? I used to race sleighs down country lanes before your father was even a twinkle in my eye. Ah, the times we had.” She smiled and savored her crumpet as if she were eating ambrosia.

Penelope was truly concerned. Anything that had the dowager this pleased could only spell trouble. Marchford refused to look beyond his paper, and she suspected his bad humor was directly related to the dowager’s good one. Whatever had Antonia so pleased was clearly putting the duke in an ill temper.

“Anything new happen to put you in a good mood this morning?” asked Penelope.

Antonia smiled radiantly. “Yes, I suppose you could say so.”

“Please do not hold me in suspense,” said Penelope. “Will you not share your good news?”

“I was going to wait, but if you must know…” Antonia gave them both a wide, gracious smile and waited for Marchford to slowly lower his paper. “I am going to be married!”

“Married?” Penelope set her cocoa down with a clank, almost spilling it on her lap. Married? Of all the things she thought she might hear from the dowager’s lips, marriage was not one of them.

Marchford was silent. His features hardened into stone, but it was evident he was not entirely caught unawares. No wonder he had been so irritable this morning.

“Forgive me,” said Penelope, “but who is to be the groom?”

The dowager looked at Pen as if she were daft. “Why, Lord Langley of course.”

“But you and he are always fighting,” observed Penelope.

“So true. You see we are already acting like a married couple.”

“Marriage, Grandmother? Why marriage?” Marchford’s voice was strained.

“The thing to do,” said Antonia lightly.

“At your age, I think it would be the thing
not
to do,” accused Marchford.

Antonia’s eyes flashed. “Are you insinuating you think me old?”

“No, not at all.” He wisely disappeared behind his newspaper with an irritated shuffle.

“So you are going to marry the Earl of Langley?” Penelope was still struggling to make herself clear on the facts. “The same Lord Langley who broke your engagement so many years ago?”

Antonia looked down her regal nose. The remembrance was not appreciated. “Yes, indeed. He may be unworthy of me, but I will have him just the same.” There was something definitely malicious twinkling in her eye. “Now I must dash. Langley will be coming by to take me riding in Hyde Park.”

“Riding in this weather?” asked Penelope.

“Oh yes, for I have it on good authority that the Comtesse de Marseille does a morning constitutional in the park in her curricle.” She glanced down at a rather large emerald surrounded with smaller diamonds on her finger. “A shame I cannot wear this outside my glove. Ah, well, can’t be helped. No need to come with me Penelope.” She paused as if seeing Pen for the first time. “What
are
you wearing?”