A Winter Wedding (23 page)

“Well…” Penelope hesitated. This belonged in the family. Marchford’s family. Only his bride should carry this knife. “All right,” she conceded. If they did not wed, she would return it.

She planned to keep it.

***

Marchford smiled in anticipation as he and Penelope crept down the dimly lit hallway to the appropriate guest room. Either there was a spy waiting on the other side of the door and he would finally reveal the traitor, or, and more likely, the message was old and the guest room would be empty—perfect to continue what he started with Penelope in the study. Either way he was a winner!

“Stay back in the shadows,” Marchford whispered to Penelope. He felt in his breast pocket for his small pistol. He had learned to be prepared, just in case. He glanced at Penelope and considered telling her to return to the ballroom, but that would defeat his object if the room were empty, which it most likely was. Besides, he recognized that look in her eye. Determination. Anticipation. She was as invested in this chase as he was, both for the spies and each other.

Marchford put his hand to the doorknob and opened the door slowly.

“Come in,” said a woman’s voice, one that was vaguely familiar.

Marchford put a hand on his pistol and hoped Penelope would have the good sense to stay hidden. The room was lit only by the fire in the grate and a single candle, casting a warm glow to the rich furnishings. Dark woodwork and a velvet couch gave the room an opulent feel. A woman reclined on that couch, shrouded in darkness until she leaned forward into the candlelight.

His breath froze. His heart stopped. It was her. Of all the people in the world, it was her. He would have known her in an instant. After all the years, she had not changed. She was still the same—still exotic and beautiful and dangerous.

She stared at him, her eyes round and beautiful. “You are not who I expected.”

He could not find his voice to answer her. After everything that had happened, that was all she could say? He bowed to her.

“Good evening, Mother.”

Mother?

Penelope entered the room without waiting for an invitation. A lady reclined on a burgundy velvet couch, her black hair loose and falling over her shoulders in wild curls. Her bosom was high and her gown low. Shockingly so. Her skin, much of which was on display, was a deep olive complexion. Her lips were red as roses, her eyes dark and seductive. She wore a gown of a delicate, almost sheer material, with some sort of gauzy wrap giving her the strong resemblance of the goddess Venus emerging from a frothy surf. She was a great beauty; there could be no denying.

Despite being caught in a rather compromising situation, her eyes betrayed no discomfort and her manner was one of confidence, a small smile showing she found the situation mildly amusing.

Marchford, on the other hand, looked as though he may be stricken by apoplexy. His jaw was clenched so tight, Penelope feared he might break a tooth. He turned rather white, his lips a thin line. Penelope’s heart went out to him. He deserved better than to discover his mother was alive by finding her reclining in a spy’s lair.

“Good evening,” said Penelope, entering the room more fully.

“Good evening to you.” Marchford’s mother motioned to chairs before her. “Do sit. Be comfortable.”

There was little chance of that, but Marchford sat as if in a trance and Penelope followed suit. Now, what conversation would be best? How long have you been a foreign spy? Which member of the aristocracy did you intend to seduce tonight? Why was it that you abandoned your son at a tender age and allowed him to think you were dead all these years?

“I believe it might snow,” said Penelope, rejecting all manner of conversation topics before landing on the weather.

“
Sí
. Your English winters are quite cold, though the snow is quite beautiful. A pristine white blanket—it can cover a multitude of sins.”

“And yet they are still there, seething under the pretty package.” Marchford joined the conversation—and killed it.

“It is good to see you, James. You look well.” His mother smiled at him, radiant and all the more beautiful with tears in her eyes.

Marchford spoke dully. “You look exactly as I remember you.” It was spoken with dark solemnity.

“Oh! You are too kind.” His mother fluttered a delicate hand to her chest.

Penelope could only agree with that statement. Trying to find fault with the woman who had hurt Marchford, Pen examined his mother, looking for a flaw, but was disappointed to find none. It only irritated her more. No woman of her age should look so well.

“Will you introduce me to your companion?” asked his mother, whom Penelope realized would also hold the title of Dowager Duchess of Marchford.

“May I present Miss Penelope Rose. My mother…” Marchford paused and surveyed her with what could only be sorrow in his eyes. “I do not suppose you are known anymore as the Duchess of Marchford.”

“No, I have not been called that in a long time. I am the Marchioness d’Anjou.”

“And is the marquis in Town?” asked Penelope.

“Oh no, he is quite dead.”

Penelope was not at all surprised.

“What are you doing here? What game is this?” asked Marchford in a low voice. He had recovered from his shock and was back in control.

“I am certain you must have so many questions. You always were such a bright boy,” said Lady d’Anjou.

“I am a lad no longer. And now I want answers.” Marchford’s voice was low and commanding.

“Yes, I am sure you must, but I must leave you now. Let us get together some other time, yes? Very soon. So good to see you.” She rose majestically and glided to a side door.

Penelope eyed Marchford, wondering if he would allow her to leave.

“Mother.” The word skittered across the room and lay dead at her feet.

She stopped and turned, waiting for her son’s pronouncement. Silence fell heavy between them. Penelope held her breath.

“Tomorrow,” he said.

His mother nodded and disappeared through a side door. Marchford turned and exited through the door he had entered. Penelope followed him down the corridor and into the main foyer. Coats and carriage were demanded, the cousins and aunts were left with a made-up excuse, and Penelope and Marchford were alone in the carriage in a matter of minutes.

Unlike the night before, Marchford barely looked at her, focusing his attention outside the carriage. The weather had changed to sleet, wet and cold, mixing in the dirty streets to form piles of muck and slick ruts in the road. The only sound was the rattle and crunch of the carriage wheels along the slushy cobblestone road.

Penelope wanted to comfort him, but she suspected that any offerings that smacked of pity would be instantly rebuffed. He sat silent as death and about as cheerful.

“Eventful evening,” said Penelope.

No answer.

“How clever of you to have found your mother.”

No response. Not even a grunt.

“I wonder if we should invite her to tea. I’m sure your grandmother would delight in seeing her.” It was an impossible situation, and Penelope was attempting to draw him out with ridiculous conversation.

He looked up at her finally. “Yes, let’s. I have always enjoyed watching blood sport in my drawing rooms.”

“Perhaps we should lock them in and see which one survives.”

His lips twitched. “What does it say about me that I am actually considering the idea?”

Penelope tried to give a small laugh, but it crept away on soft feet. “I am very sorry we found your mother in that room. It must have been a shock.”

Marchford said nothing.

“Do you think she is involved?”

“I fear there is no other explanation for her to be in the room.”

The carriage rocked slightly, and Penelope allowed her shoulder to rest against his as they sat beside each other. Strange how last night they were so close, and tonight even the smallest touch seemed awkward.

Pen found his hand with hers and gave it a soft squeeze. He held her hand for a moment and then threaded his fingers through hers. It was intimate, even though they both wore gloves.

Penelope could not think of a thing to say to make anything better, so she simply sat beside him in the dark carriage, holding his hand.

“I thought her dead,” began Marchford. “I searched for her at her last-known residence. I searched for her in every place society might visit. She had disappeared. No trace.”

“She must not have wanted to be found.”

Marchford leaned his head back against the squabs of the carriage seat in an uncharacteristic slouch. “Not only did she never return to me, but she did her best to never be found by me.”

Pen wished she could debate his logic, but it did appear that his mother had wished to never have anything to do with her son and must have taken pains to prevent herself from being discovered.

“Perhaps there is a reasonable explanation, once we uncover all the information,” suggested Penelope without much conviction.

Marchford shook his head. “My mother has made her choice, but I must always do my duty.” The cold carriage grew even more chilled.

“And what is your duty now?”

“I will contact Mortimer Sprot and let him know we have found the spy.”

Penelope took a deep breath, struggling against the heaviness in her chest. Better his mother to be dead than a spy. She kept that last reflection to herself.

Marchford squeezed her hand and released it. Penelope instantly felt him slip away and did not know how to reach him. He focused his gaze out the dark window.

“James.” She did not know what else to say.

“I can take comfort in the fact that you have options. You can marry another and will not be trapped into an unwise alliance.” His voice was like gravel.

“James, no,” she breathed, her heart aching.

“You were right. You were always right. You do not wish to be connected to a man who can never love you.”

“You don’t mean that. You have had a shock.”

Marchford turned to her, his face a cold mask. “You deserve better than to be mixed with us. Things are going to get ugly, far beyond any idle gossip. Get out while you can.”

“No. I am not going anywhere.”

“Your service to my grandmother is concluded and I release you from any bond of engagement you may feel toward me, as you have requested.”

“My mind has changed.” Penelope was desperate to get him to stop, and she wished she had married him while the chance was hers. She had been foolish to let him get away.

“You were right. I only asked you to marry me because we were caught in an awkward position, and I thought it would enable me to keep you as my assistant. I do thank you for your service to the Crown. In truth, your sharp eyes have led to the revelation of the traitor.”

Penelope winced, regretting with painful intensity ever pointing out the spy’s decanter. “I do not wish for your thanks. I only wish for you.”

“Charitable of you. But you will see in time that this is best. I am only grateful that things between us never got so far as to require marriage.”

“I can only disagree.”

The carriage rolled to a stop. They were home, except she could no longer call it that.

Marchford met her eyes. “Forgive me, Miss Rose, for ever toying with your emotions. I do not love you. I can never love you. You are worth so much more than I can offer. I wish you health and happiness, and feel sure you will find these easier without me.”

Tears sprang to her eyes as she bit her lip to keep from crying out. He had timed his declaration well, just as the groom opened the door to the carriage so she could not reply.

“Good-bye, Miss Rose.”

These were desperate times. It was her only excuse. Penelope found the utterly inappropriate night rail her maid had brought a few days ago and laid it out on the bed. It was still a shocking confection of see-through gauze and expensive lace. She put it on carefully so as not to rip the thing to pieces.

She had considered it a useless garment, except tonight it would serve an important purpose. She was going to seduce the Duke of Marchford and trap him into marrying her. Not her best moment, but she would own her mistakes, and if this was one, so be it.

She donned slippers and covered herself with a warm robe; it was freezing in the hallways. She waited until everyone returned from the ball and retired to their rooms, and then a while longer to ensure everyone slept. Now was her moment.

She crept down the hall to Marchford’s door and lifted her hand to knock. Was she truly going to do this? What strange circumstance had led her, sensible, pragmatic Penelope, to be knocking on the door of a duke, with the express purpose of bedding him and wedding him? Apparently in that order.

Her father, the country parson, would not be pleased.

She rapped lightly on the door. It was not exactly the right thing to do, but she could think of no better plan. Seduction and guilt would have to do. She rapped a little harder on the door. No answer. Perhaps he was asleep.

She turned the doorknob, her heart pounding. The door swung open. She tiptoed into the room, holding her candle aloft. Her small light flickered against the walls. The bed was empty. The room was empty.

He was gone.

How long she stood there in the empty room she could not say. Eventually, she crept back to her room and returned a minute later, placing the ancient knife he had given her on his dresser. She had no right to it now. She had no right to him. She shuffled back to her bed, tears running down her cheeks. This was a problem she could not fix. She was not in control. She doubted she ever had been.

***

Snow can be treacherous but beautiful. Raise the temperature a few degrees and you have freezing rain, a weather condition none could enjoy. Yet Marchford spent the better part of the night standing outside the house of Mortimer Sprot in the cold, dark, and wet.

He knew he should report what he found—
whom
he found—but he could not. Sometime in the gray hour before dawn, he returned to his house. He needed sleep to clear his mind so he could think. Instead, he found himself standing outside Penelope’s door. What he wanted was her.

He put his hand on the doorknob. He should not, could not go in, yet there was no one else he needed to see. Everything had gone so terribly wrong; he wanted to talk to his friend, tell her what had happened. Of course, she already knew because it had happened to her too.

He cringed remembering the things he had said to her. The shock of pain in her eyes was more than he could bear. But there was no other choice. He loved her too much to allow her to be caught up in the nightmare that was his life.

The thought stilled him. Did he truly love Penelope? He shook his head. What did he know of love? He was trapped, but she could walk away. Her freedom was the only true gift he could give.

Marchford forced himself to pull away from the door and staggered back down to his study, to put distance between himself and temptation. He collapsed onto a dark leather couch. He could not think what to do. He had learned the importance of taking command of any situation, but this night was utterly outside anything he had anticipated or experienced.

There was nothing left to be done. And so he prayed, as he had not prayed in years, until he fell into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

***

No matter how dark the night, the sun always rises. After days of snow and rain, Penelope was shocked by bright sunlight on a crisp winter morning. She wrapped herself in a robe and sat in the window seat, her face to the rising sun.

Pen searched for a solution to the situation before her, but this was one problem she did not know how to fix. She recalled a similar empty feeling in her gut when her parents died of the fever. She tried to figure out how to bring them back to her, but of course, there was nothing she could do. Her father’s teaching floated back. He would suggest prayers. But what should she say?

Her musings were suddenly interrupted by a loud rat-a-tat-tat banging. She jumped up and scurried out of her room. She began to fly down the stairs to the source of the noise but stopped short. Before her were nine drummers, drumming.

The aunts, cousins, and a gray-haired uncle emerged from the upstairs bedrooms drawn in wonder to the source of the syncopated beat. The drummers were military, all in their red coat regimentals with shining brass buttons. The younger boy cousins raced down the stairs and began marching about to the beat of the drum.

All Penelope could think was that James had changed his mind and this was his way of apologizing and wanting her back. She was more than willing to accept his apology and looked around to find him, hoping to see him smiling at her in his casual manner that befitted a duke.

Finally, Marchford stumbled out of the study in the same clothes he had worn to the wedding the night before. “Go! Not needed,” he barked at the infantrymen.

Penelope’s heart sank. The rhythm of the drums ceased, and everyone watched in silence as the drummers filed out of the house. Marchford strode up the stairs, his unshaven face of such cold disregard that no one dared to ask him anything.

“Well, I never,” said one of the aunts when Marchford had returned to his room. The entire extended family turned to Penelope as if she were going to explain the strange happenings, but Pen simply returned to her room. There was nothing she could say.

It was an unusually quiet breakfast. The younger members of the family had been banished elsewhere—Pen had not the energy to bother to inquire where—and the aunts, cousins, and great uncle all ate in silence, looking between her and Marchford. For his part, Marchford chose a suit of dark gray. He looked appropriate for a funeral.

Penelope wanted to speak to him but dared not with the eyes of his family on her—suspicious, resentful, curious, and haughty in different measures. There was nothing she could say under such scrutiny, so she focused on her eggs, determined to eat quickly and leave the awkward gathering. As the minutes dragged on, she could not stand to eat in silence any longer, and so she broached a subject she knew would be dear to the finer sensibilities of the aunts.

“The wedding ball was a great success, do you not think? Except some young thing wore emerald,” said Penelope, throwing out the bait. “Thought she was too young for it. Caused a bit of a stir.”

“As well it should. I despise seeing any young thing in anything but white muslin,” cried one of the aunts, unable to remain silent. “Who was it? Someone should speak to her mama.”

“I am not certain, but I believe the mother had taken ill before the event, so the young miss dressed herself,” said another aunt.

“But who served as chaperone?” asked the first.

“Her brother,” said a cousin in a scandalized tone.

The aunts shook their heads. “Clearly not up to the challenge.”

“Quite,” said Penelope, feeling more relaxed for breaking the awkward silence. Marchford, however, remained beyond approach.

“You can never be too careful with the raising of girls. You must have a firm hand or they may turn out very wild,” said one aunt.

“So true.” Lady d’Anjou swirled into the room in a sweeping champagne morning dress of nothing less than silk, followed by a harried butler.

“Ah…err,” stammered the usually unflappable butler. “The Dowager Duchess of Marchford?”

The aunts gasped; one shrieked, as if witnessing the dead rising, which in a sense she was. The uncle leaped to his feet, his mouth gaping open. The butler remained in the room for a moment, as if waiting to see if there would be blood, then turned on his heel and left. Marchford slowly rose, his eyes focused on his errant mother, his mouth grim.

“I am Lady d’Anjou now,” said the black-haired beauty with a dazzling white smile. “Duchess of Marchford never quite seemed to fit.”

One of the aunts snorted and another collapsed forward onto the table, where several cousins began fanning her furiously to revive her delicate sensibilities.

“Well, bless me,” stammered the uncle with delight. “So lovely to see you, Bella. So lovely indeed! How have you been—ow!” He looked down at his sharp-faced wife, and Penelope had no doubt he had just received a correctional kick in the shin. So chastised, the uncle sank back to his seat.

“Would you care to join us for breakfast?” said Penelope to break the icy silence that had fallen.

“Yes, that would be delightful,” said James’s mother, accepting a seat near him. “I know it is a tad early to call, but I thought since we were family…”

“I cannot, will not share a breakfast table or anything else with this…this…woman!” declared one of the aunts, rising to her feet as if to avoid sullying herself by breaking bread with the radiant creature before her.

The other aunts, cousins, and the reluctant uncle all stood as well. “If you will allow this woman into your house, I think it past time we bid you farewell,” said another aunt, casting not only Marchford’s mother but also Marchford himself a look of utter contempt.

Any words of reconciliation died in Penelope’s throat. “I am so sorry you must be going. I do hope you have a pleasant journey home.”

The aunts gasped again at not gaining preference and marched out of the room, the uncle giving a little apologetic wave. Bella gave Penelope a smile and a nod of approval. Marchford, however, had turned to marble, a frozen, impenetrable mask. With a wave, he dismissed the footmen so they were alone.

“I am sorry to cause a stir, darling,” said Bella.

“You were always causing a stir,” said Marchford with frost in his tone.

Bella smiled. “I suppose you are right. You have grown up so well. And have chosen a fine bride.” Bella smiled at Penelope, and Pen could not help but feel gratified at her acceptance, followed by a grinding emptiness of knowing it was all for nothing.

“Miss Rose and I have come to an amicable dissolution of any claim I may have imposed upon her.” Marchford’s voice was without emotion.

“The engagement is off?” Bella’s dainty eyebrows rose.

“Yes,” said Marchford.

“No,” said Penelope.

“Oh dear. There seems to be a difference of opinion,” said Bella.

“Miss Rose, I believe we settled this last night,” Marchford ground out.

“No, I fear it is far from settled,” said Pen, choosing this moment to be bold. She could hardly lose anything more than she already had.

“Miss Rose, you need to return to your sisters.” Marchford adopted a businesslike tone. “I asked you to marry me. You refused. The situation has been concluded for the best.”

“I’ve changed my mind. I will accept you now.”

“I understand your terms and cannot meet them. Besides, this is not the time or place to discuss the matter,” said Marchford sharply.

“Oh, do not stop on my account. I cannot wait to see what happens next,” said Bella with a darling smile.

“Mother.” James turned on her. “I need to speak with you. Alone.”

Penelope had to respect the request and rose from the table.

“But, my dear, if you will marry this girl, she should stay and hear this too,” said Bella.

Penelope sat back down. She did not need much encouragement to remain.

James glowered at them both but apparently did not choose to continue the fight. “Fine. Mother, I have decided not to turn you over as a traitor. But I need you to tell me whom you are working for and then I need you to leave. And this time never return.”

Instead of being insulted, Bella merely smiled. “And this is what you think of me? That I would abandon any loyalties to my late husband and aid the enemies of King George?”

“Abandoning is what you do best.” Marchford’s voice was like ice.

“I see.” Bella blinked her large eyes innocently, but Marchford was unmoved. “I suppose you might be right, as always,” said Bella in a light tone, dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief. “I do not know where to begin.”

“I need names, any information you have. Then leave. If you need money, it will be provided for you.” Marchford folded his arms across his chest.

“It is a fair offer. It warms my heart that you would consider my welfare after all these years. The bonds between mother and son—”

“Are gone.” Marchford stood up. “You relinquished any right to call me that years ago. Now, I need names, dates, information. Anything more is irrelevant. Please do not insult me by wasting my time.”

Bella’s eyes shone. “Yes, you shall make a fine duke.”

“He
is
a fine duke,” said Penelope softly.

“Indeed. Very true.” Bella’s smile was dazzling. “You have grown up so well, I am convinced I made the right decision.”

“And what decision was that?” asked Marchford.

“To leave you.” Bella blotted her eyes again. “Forgive me for contradicting you, for I have my faults, but treason is not among them.”

“I am not interested in listening to your denials.” Marchford stated, “I am only interested in the truth.”

“Then perhaps you will listen to me.” To everyone’s surprise, Mortimer Sprot appeared at the table.

Marchford sat down hard. “How do you do that?”

Mortimer merely gave a melancholy smile. “Forgive the interruption, but Lady d’Anjou invited me to share some information.”

“You deserve to know the truth,” said Bella. “I did leave you, but it was not of my desire.” Bella looked up at the ceiling, as if reliving the events. “I was sixteen when I met your father—such a dashing duke. I fell madly in love. He is, to this day, the only man I ever truly loved, besides you, my dear one.” Bella smiled at James, who only once more folded his arms across his chest.

“I had no idea what to expect when we returned to England and was shocked by the fierce opposition I encountered from the duchess.” Bella’s eyes gleamed. “I was not one to back down I fear, and I fought back. She always thought me very wild, and I expect it was true. I was faithful to the duke, though, while he lived. Afterward, I felt I had lost my only friend in the world. So I went in search of new friends.”