A Winter Wedding (7 page)

“Are you going like that?” asked Penelope.

“You find fault in my appearance?” Marchford held himself at a rigid hauteur.

Penelope had woken early and met Marchford at the prescribed time. The plan was to appear to be common folk to induce the widow of the glassmaker to talk. Marchford felt Penelope would be more successful in securing this audience, hence his request for her presence. However, if Marchford was attempting to appear as one of the masses, or even shabby gentry, he was far from the mark.

“You look perfectly acceptable if you are going to White’s, but for trying to get real people to talk to us, it is a bit much.” In truth, Penelope enjoyed the image of the superbly attired Duke of Marchford a bit too much.

“You are suggesting I am not a real person?” Marchford inspected his bright-blue coat of superfine with disapproval. “This is of inferior quality. Besides, I will wear my greatcoat over it.”

Penelope rolled her eyes. “No, you are not a real person.” She shook her head and muttered, “Inferior quality indeed.”

“You suggest I further degrade my appearance?”

“It would be helpful.”

“I live to please you.”

Penelope’s breath caught, and she let it out slowly, turning away. She wished there were more behind his idle words than just talk.

“We cannot all have garments such as the one you wear.” He looked her up and down in a manner that raised her temperature. “I thought Grandmother gave away all your old gowns.”

“I bought them back,” said Penelope.

Marchford stopped and turned toward her, eyebrows raised. “You actually paid money for this…this…thing?” He gestured to her plain muslin frock.

“Are you criticizing my mother’s gown again?” Penelope’s voice raised an octave.

“Never!” The duke held up his hands in surrender. “Not at all. You look very…sensible.”

Sensible
. There it was again. Would she ever do something insensible?

Penelope donned her old wool coat, warm and
sensible
. Marchford led them out the door to the stables.

“Willie, my good man,” Marchford greeted the stable master. “I do appreciate the cut of your coat and that cloak looks quite warm.”

Willie, a sturdy man in his forties, lifted his bushy eyebrows in surprise and paused a moment before replying, “The missus made them for me. I’ll pass along the compliment.”

“Ah, thank you, do that. In fact, if it is not too presumptuous, I should love to own that coat and cloak myself, though I know you could hardly wish to be parted from them since they were made by your dearest wife.”

“Wouldn’t go that far,” said the stable master slowly, as if trying to make sense of the duke’s strange statements.

“Then perhaps I might persuade you to make a trade. My coat was not stitched by hands quite as loving or with as much care, but—”

“Done!” The stable master was already stripping off his brown cloak and his mud-green jacket and handing it to the duke.

Marchford traded his blue superfine and brushed wool greatcoat for the stable master’s attire and turned to Penelope, his eyes demanding approval.

“Some improvement.” She knew better than to let him feast on too much praise. “Now do you have any vehicle of a simple nature?”

The stable master ran down the list of fashionable carriages, and it was clear no such modest vehicle existed in the stables of a duke, so they were for a moment in a quandary.

“You’ll have to hire a hack for us,” the duke told the stable master.

Willie bowed and departed just as the most modest of conveyances rolled slowly into their drive, being pulled by a swaybacked gray horse. The curricle was of such disrepair it more resembled a hay wagon. Penelope assumed it must be a tradesman making a delivery and was therefore shocked when Lord Darington jumped down.

“Lord Darington.” She curtsied. “What a surprise to see you again so soon. Good morn to you.”

“Goodness, my man. Were you robbed?” asked Marchford, surveying his questionable equipagewith alarm.

“No, nothing like that.” The stern expression on Darington’s face gave him the appearance of being older than his age. His clothes would best be described as adequate, plain, sturdy, functional. She could appreciate the sentiment but knew that, among his peers, his attire would be considered woefully insufficient.

“M’sister has a morbid fascination with cost savings,” continued Darington. “This was quite inexpensive.” Considering the condition of the carriage, Penelope thought any amount to be a crime. His cloth also must have suffered from his sister’s “morbid” sense of thrift. With a flash of unwanted insight, she wondered if this was how the dowager felt looking at her older gowns.

“I should say.” Marchford shook his head in disbelief.

“I came to give you a report regarding the question you asked me yesterday.” Darington got directly to the point.

“Yes, thank you. I appreciate your swift attendance to this matter.”

Darington shifted his eyes to Penelope and back to Marchford in a silent request.

“Do speak freely. Miss Rose is my associate in these matters,” said Marchford.

Penelope’s heart soared. His
associate
. It sounded important.

“I took the description of the young footman to several moneylenders along the docks. One knew him, had been changing money for the past four months. Doubloons and francs mostly.”

“Where would a footman get such loot?” asked Marchford to no one in particular.

“Smuggling most likely. We have a blockade, but society wants French wines, and so many look the other way.” Darington’s voice was bitter with disapproval. “Quality gets what quality wants.”

“Any talk on who killed the footman?” asked Marchford.

“Talk yes, but nothing definite. Most figured he was involved in something shady, and got killed for his troubles.”

“Thank you, Lord Darington, you have been most helpful,” said Marchford. “Please do forgive me, but I wonder if I might borrow your…err…carriage for a few hours at most. We should be very glad to have my groom drive you home.”

Darington lowered his eyebrows in an intelligent glower. “In disguise are you? Very well.”

“You do not wish to know why we are traveling together in such a manner?” asked Penelope. Darington lacked a natural level of curiosity.

“I can think of only two reasons why you would travel in disguise. First, you are proceeding in some sort of romantic adventure in which you do not wish your identities to be known until the elopementis finalized.”

Penelope’s mouth dropped open and she struggled to find an appropriate response.

“Second,” continued Darington, “you are proceeding to search for the murderer of the footman and feel you should be more successful appearing as a common man than a duke. Either way I will not interfere. If the first, I ought not, and if the second, I should not.”

“Well said, my friend.” Marchford gave him a smile. Penelope wished he would clarify any confusion regarding an elopement, but Marchford went on along a different train of thought. “I shall confer with the stable master and let him know the change of plans.”

Marchford strode off into the damp, early morning fog, leaving Darington and Penelope alone in the dark gray mist.

“There is no elopement.” Penelope felt the need for a quick clarification. “No romantic adventure.”
More’s the pity
.

“If you say so,” said Darington without emotion. “Speaking of romantic adventure, is the dowager duchess available for visitors this morning?”

Penelope could only smile. The dowager would not be ready to receive guests any time before noon. “I fear she does not receive anyone so early.”

“I understand she helped Wynbrook by serving as an intermediary between him and a matchmaker.”

“Yes, we do know a matchmaker, but she remains quite elusive and does not want her identity known.”

“I see. Do you know how she may be contacted on a matter of business?”

“I can assist you and take your request to her. Are you looking for a wife, my lord?”

“No!” he exclaimed with more power than was necessary. “Looking for a husband for my twin sister.”

“The sister who chose this conveyance as a Town coach?” asked Penelope, hoping for a negative response.

“Yes. Lady Katherine.”

Penelope swallowed dashed hopes. “I believe she indicated at the ball her desire never to wed.”

“Precisely why I have come,” he said as if the conclusion was obvious. “Kate does not wish to wed. But it is time. She should marry.”

“Indeed, all women should be married.” Except, of course, her own spinster self.

“How much does it cost?” Darington was clearly a blunt man, quick to get to the heart of business. A sea captain too long she guessed. So Penelope told him, assuming he could not afford the going rate. He did not even blink. “I accept your terms.”

“So do you have a particular man or type of man in mind for your sister?”

“Breathing.”

Penelope smiled, but Darington’s face was so impassive she hardly knew if he was attempting humor. “I shall guarantee that all of Madame X’s grooms are in the land of the living. Have you any other attributes you would like to mention?”

“Whatever the standard kit is will do for my sister.”

“Standard kit?”

Darington shifted on his feet. “Acceptable society, plump in the pocket, modest in vice.” He crossed his arms before himself. “In truth, it would be good if her intended groom were of modest habits. She has no tolerance for men who suffer from moral failings.”

“You want a young, rich, English gentleman who does not chase women or drink in excess?”

“Or smoke or take snuff,” Darington added, utterly missing the sarcasm in her voice.

“And where would you think such bastions of society would congregate?”

“Honestly, I have no idea. If I did, I shouldn’t need to call the matchmaker, would I?”

Penelope could hardly argue with his logic. “I shall relay the message to Madame X.”

“Thank you for taking this case,” said Darington. “I understand my sister can be…challenging. Has her own mind about her is all. Good gal.”

“Yes, of course.” From their brief introduction, Penelope would have to say she would make a most difficult case.

Marchford reappeared out of the thick, cold fog along with the stable master, happy and warm in his new greatcoat. “We are all arranged,” said Marchford. “Willie here will take you back home in the town coach if that is acceptable.”

“Quite. I fear you will not be as comfortable in this contraption,” said Darington with utter candor.

“You have a wonderful sense of understatement, Lord Darington. I wish you a pleasant day.”

Darington bowed and followed the stable master into the mist, leaving Penelope and Marchford and the broken-backed horse.

“Adventure calls,” said Marchford with a gleam in his eye.

It was a frigid morning. The roads were slick, and Marchford could see his breath in the frosty morning air. His horse and buggy were hardly fit for the icy cobblestones. He should have been freezing in his insufficient coat, and yet, sitting next to Penelope Rose, Marchford felt inexplicably warm.

“Now I know why you wanted to leave so early this morning,” commented Penelope with a flash of humor in her eyes. “Mortifying if anyone saw you driving this curricle.”

Marchford realized he should have been appalled at driving such a contraption down the London streets, but his only thoughts were of Penelope. At a bump in the road, Penelope was jostled closer to him, her arm touching his. She did not move away, leaving him to guess why. Was she cold and merely seeking warmth, or did she enjoy his company?

“So tell me where we are going,” said Penelope in a most nonchalant tone. Perhaps she had not even noticed she was touching him. He rejected that notion as dreadfully lowering and decided she must be seeking heat. An understandable motive.

“We are going to find the widow of a certain Jimmy McDoogle. Whether he is the man who made the decanters I do not know. Everyone I spoke to, however, was dreadfully suspicious of society, hence the disguise.” It was good to focus on facts and not the faint smell of lavender that clung to her.

“We certainly have succeeded in being unrecognizable,” said Penelope with a smile hovering around her lips.

The curricle jostled and slipped on the cobblestones, and Marchford wrapped an arm around her to ensure she did not slide off the questionable vehicle. They continued going at a slow pace, but Marchford’s arm remained around her waist, holding her close to him, protecting her from harm. Penelope said nothing and stared straight ahead into the gray London fog. He considered removing his arm, but it stayed there of its own accord.

They arrived at the home of the widow of Jimmy McDoogle in an area of Town that might generously have been considered working poor. The sign outside was old and hanging sideways by one hook. Unlike other glassworks, there was no shop outside; this was purely a work site of sand and glass and heat.

Marchford scanned the area for potential dangers, but none were readily apparent. Even the pickpockets had decided to stay indoors on such a frosty morning. He jumped down and helped Penelope to do the same, his hands around her small waist for the briefest of moments before he set her down. Why the simple act distracted him he could not say.

He opened the rickety wooden door and stepped inside. The workshop was shockingly hot compared to the cold outside. The ovens were working in the back, and the smell of coal and the sweltering heat was almost unbearable. A man in rolled up shirtsleeves and a red, sweaty face walked up to them.

“I have business with Master McDoogle, but I hear he passed,” said Marchford.

“Aye,” answered the muscular man. He wiped his hands on a gray apron and came forward. “I’m his brother. What’s your business, gov’ner?”

“I would like to know about one of his last jobs. He made a special decanter I believe.”

The man’s face darkened. “Don’t know nothing about that. I was in the country, see? I only came to Town after he was killed. I came to take care of the shop, that’s all.”

“I understand there is some question of how your brother died.”

“Nah, there ain’t no question. He was killed. Don’t care what no magistrate says. My brother was killed, but he’s dead now, so just leave it at that and get out of this here shop.”

They were being kicked out and he needed to think of something fast before the interview was over. The heat, such a contrast to the cold outside, was making him almost dizzy. He glanced at Penelope only to have her roll up her eyes and fall in a dead faint directly into his arms.

“Penelope!” Marchford would wonder about that later. When she fell into his arms, he called her Penelope, not Miss Rose. He had no right to use her name with such familiarity, and yet when she fainted, she was his Penelope.

He scooped her up in an instant. She was surprisingly light. For some reason, he thought such a formidable lady would be heavy with the weight of her own practicality. She was not. She was just a young woman, one who felt nice in his arms. One who also was unconscious. His heart pounded with true concern. “Quick, fetch some smelling salts or a restorative. Go man!”

“Penelope!” he shouted. “Penelope?” he whispered.

She opened her eyes a sliver, gave him a sly wink and closed them again, allowing her head to loll against his shoulder. Relief swept over him, so powerful he had to cough to hide the smile that came over his face when the man ran back in.

“Got no smelling salts, but I found gin.”

“Widow,” hissed Penelope through her teeth.

“She needs a woman’s touch,” said Marchford, taking the hint. He held her closer.

“Aye, come follow me. Molly will set her right.” He led them through to the back of the workshop, past giant gaping ovens of molten heat. He opened a door and went up a rickety wooden staircase to a small apartment above. The home was cramped and dingy. Marchford was reluctant to touch anything in the small room, but he lay Penelope on the couch, which had probably seen its best days before the first Duke of Marchford had cut his teeth.

“What’s happened? Another accident?” A thin woman with gray hair pulled back in a loose bun rushed in from a back room separated by a blanket.

“Naw, just a woman fainted is all,” said the brother. “This is my brother’s wife, Molly.”

“Probably the heat, or possibly the cold,” said Marchford with purposeful vagueness. The key to getting good information was to distract your opponent as long as possible so as to sneak the questions in the back door. “I do hope there has not been a fit of apoplexy.”

“Shoo!” said Molly, sending Marchford aside and her brother-in-law downstairs. She assessed the nature of Penelope’s ailments by the time-tested manner of feeling the forehead and taking the pulse.

Penelope must have decided it was time to make a recovery and did so with such a fluttering of the eyes and soft mewling that Marchford was tempted to kneel beside her and hold her hand against what must be death throes. Molly, however, was made of sterner stuff and stood once more, muttering something about the sensibilities of some ladies. Penelope raised herself gracefully from the couch and put a hand to her forehead.

“I do apologize. I do not know what has gotten into me,” said Pen weakly.

“Fainted. There now don’t you worry none. I have something that will fix you fast.” Molly turned to the corner of the apartment that served as the kitchen. Behind her back, Penelope shot Marchford a glance.

“No need. Here, I have everything she needs.” He drew from his coat pocket a flask of whiskey belonging to the original owner of the garment.

Penelope frowned at him and Marchford merely shrugged. It must be better than whatever Molly was preparing. Yet their hostess was not easily dissuaded from her mission.

“Here smell this.” The quick-moving Molly brought a wadded-up piece of linen on a stick.

Before Pen could back away, she took a whiff and her face contorted into a facial expression Marchford had not thought humanly possible. Tears sprung to Penelope’s eyes and she started to cough. A morbid curiosity made Marchford want to sniff the offending rag to determine for himself just how bad the aroma must be. Penelope began to gag and Marchford decided against it.

“Thank you for your help,” croaked Penelope when she could find words once more. “That is quite powerful.”

Molly placed the rag back into a glass bottle with a stopper. “I used it whenever my kids told me they were feeling poorly. I had well children as a result.”

Marchford did not doubt it.

“Good thinking,” said Penelope, taking the lead. Marchford felt certain Molly would be more comfortable speaking to a woman, and retreated toward the door to give the women some space.

“How many children do you have?” asked Penelope politely.

“Five. Most are grown now, though one came late in life, still underfoot.”

“I am sorry to hear of your recent loss.”

Molly nodded. “They killed my Jimmy they did.”

“What makes you so sure it wasn’t an accident?”

“’Cause it weren’t no accident. He worked by the oven his whole life, never once got more than a tiny burn. He was real careful, always. Not right what they did to him.”

“We are trying to find the men who might be responsible. Can you tell us anything about who may have killed him or the last project he worked on, a decanter?”

Molly shook her head. “He was never one to talk about his work. ’Cept he said it was quality he was working for.”

“Did he say anything else?”

Molly shook her head. “His last project was difficult. Not your standard fare. He worked late to get it done before the man returned. Made three sets, very fine work.”

“Three sets? Are you sure?”

“Sure I am. Saw them myself before that bastard in the Carrick coat claimed them. Oh, he must have thought he was very fine with all them capes onthe back.”

“Did you see what he looked like?”

“Nah, I was going out as he was going in. Never looked up to see me. Wrapped in a muffler and stocking cap. He shorted us too. Took them pretty works and ran.”

A young boy darted out from underneath a tablecloth and ran across the room and down the steps. Penelope and Marchford were surprised, but Molly took it in stride.

“My son,” said Molly in a straightforward tone. “He is always underfoot, getting in the way. Now if you got what you came for, I should go back to trying to make gruel into something that resembles a Christmas pudding.”

“Thank you. You have been helpful.” Penelope stood and walked to the door.

Marchford reached out to shake Molly’s hand and pressed a crown into her palm. “For your troubles.”

She removed her hand with suspicion and stared at the coin, her bottom lip trembling. “Well now, I prayed for a Christmas pudding and the Good Lord done answered my prayers.”

Marchford handed her another coin. “The Good Lord would like you to have a Christmas goose too.”

Penelope gave him a smile that he could have basked in for days. The warmth radiating from her eyes surged heat through him, even thawing his numb toes.

Back in the wagon, he returned Penelope’s smile. “Very well done, Miss Rose. You have a certain knack for deception.” He meant to compliment, but Penelope’s frown told him he had missed the mark. He was generally adept at conversation, but with Penelope he was just as adept at making gaffes.

“Thank you, Your Grace. How delightful you find me an accomplished liar.”

“I meant it as a compliment.”

“Try insulting me then. You might have better luck.”

“At any rate, we now know more than we did before.” Marchford retreated back to the business at hand. “Several sets were made, that is important. We will need to go look for them. I wish they could have identified the man in the Carrick coat.”

Penelope turned to him with a face of a cat who had caught a mouse. “I bet I know who would know his identity.”

“Who?”

“The boy. I bet you anything he would have seen quality coming and hid somewhere in the room to hear what happened.”

“Good idea! Shall we interview the lad?” Marchford slapped the reins in a vain attempt to make the horse move faster.

“I doubt he will talk to us.”

“So if we can’t talk to him, how does this help us?”

“We cannot talk to him, but I know somebody who can!”