A Wedding in Springtime (6 page)

“Here is your room,” said the dowager, sweeping into a bright room of sky blue and cream. The mahogany poster bed was draped with light blue curtains, which matched the drapes on the window. There was a delicate blue and cream flowered paper on the walls and a dressing table of the same rich mahogany wood. The drapes were pulled back to reveal large windows with a fine view of the garden in the back of the house. It was an elegant room, better than any room Pen had ever had. And it was all hers, not to be shared with one or two of her sisters.

“It is beautiful.” In her excitement over the room, Pen moved her hands around the side of the bandbox, forgetting she had to hold it just so or it would… “Oh!” exclaimed Pen as the bottom ripped out of the box and the contents spilled onto the floor.

“Your box seems to have ripped,” commented the dowager.

Frantically, Pen sank to her knees to snatch her belongings off the floor and pile them next to her on the writing table. Her diary, a stack of letters tied in ribbon, a parcel of her sketches and watercolors even she had to admit were poor, her needlepoint workbag, but where was her book?

Debrett’s Peerage of England
had slid across the floor near the dowager. Pen made a quick grab for it, picking it up by the spine. She placed it on the table with the rest of her belongings, but multiple sheets of thin paper fell from the volume to the floor.

“What is this?” The dowager picked up one of the sheets and began to read.

Pen scrambled to grab the other pages and regained her feet, her brain racing to find some rational explanation. “It is nothing. Nothing of importance.”

“Why, it has the name of Mr. Grant with an entry just like out of the peerage, his date of birth, holdings, family, connects, estimated annual income. That is not part of
Debrett’s
. What is this?” For an elderly lady, she certainly had no difficulty reading the tiny script on the page.

“Please, Your Grace, it is nothing, just a bit of schoolgirl silliness,” said Penelope in an octave a bit higher than her own. She had promised her sisters the precious volumes of
Debrett’s
guide would not fall into enemy hands. Much to her horror the dowager walked to the table and picked up the copy of the
Peerage
.

“Why some of these entries have a good deal of writing in the margins.” The dowager flipped through the pages and Pen resisted the urge to grab the book from the dowager’s hands. “You have listed every man… no, every
bachelor
between here and Hadrian’s Wall.”

“Not every bachelor, just the ones we have met or learned about since coming to London.” Pen winced at her own words. She was not helping her situation. It was unbearably hot in the room.

The duchess gave her a cold look. “I do not know what you are playing at, but we are a respectable household,” said the dowager with a voice like thin ice.

“Oh no, Your Grace, it is nothing like that.”

The duchess’s clear suspicion compelled Penelope to explain herself further lest she be accused of keeping a book of men to arrange a less conventional sort of arrangement. “When we first came to London, my two elder sisters and I entered society first. It was hoped we could find suitable husbands. My eldest sister became quite popular. Within a month, my uncle had received ten offers for her hand. Within two months, men were coming to speak to him almost daily.”

“Yes, I recall your eldest sister was the diamond of the season,” said the dowager.

“My sister was flattered of course, but it all became very confusing. We needed to sort through her suitors and find the ones who were the most eligible.”

“So, you naturally investigated their bank accounts and chose the one with the most blunt to spend,” drawled the duchess.

“The wealthiest suitor was forty years her senior with cold hands and wet eyes. No, ma’am, we did not choose the wealthiest,” said Pen.

“You chose a love match?”

Penelope paused. “My sister came to fancy a very charming man, handsome of face and well established in society. However, further inquiries into his habits revealed that he was also charming to several other ladies… married ladies. Perhaps this is customary in some circles, but it would have made my sister quite unhappy.”

“So you used
Debrett’s Peerage
as a guidebook for eligible marital partners?” The dowager rifled through the pages.

“Yes. Marriage is nothing to be entered lightly. We found that when men are wooing, they rarely share their true nature with their intended. We needed to look at the situation logically, soberly, to help guide affection along its proper course.”

“Well, I can understand your motivations,” conceded the dowager, somewhat mollified. “Look here, what do these letters mean? Is this written in code?”

“We had some abbreviations.” Pen again resisted the urge to snatch her book away from prying eyes.

“So what does ‘EOF’ next to the Earl of Wentworth stand for?”

Another rush of heat crawled up Pen’s neck. Could this first day get any worse? “It means ‘embarrassed of funds.’”

“I declare! Wentworth is hardly at a standstill.”

“If you say so, Your Grace,” demurred Pen.

“Wait, no, I did hear just last night that he was quite in dun territory.” The dowager looked her over as if weighing her worth. “I congratulate your ingenuity.”

“These few notes were only intended to help secure the happiness of my sisters,” murmured Pen. She was not sure if the dowager’s comments were praise or censure.

“You ought not show this to anyone. Find a suitable place here where it will not be found by a curious housemaid.”

“Yes, indeed. So… you are still interested in having me serve as a companion?” asked Pen.

“Quite, my dear.” She gave Pen a wicked smile. “It will take more than an index of bachelors to shock me.” The dowager’s eyes flashed lightning blue. “He thinks he has won, but I shall show him. I shall support myself. I will not be put out of my own home!”

“Your Grace?”

The dowager gave her a sweet smile that made Pen wary. “I propose we assist Lady Bremerton with her errant niece.”

“I should like to help her,” said Pen with sincerity.

“You may have overheard me earlier,” said the dowager, her head held high, as if daring Pen to find fault. “I had just received a letter from my grandson, informing me that he intends to cut me off. I can hardly believe he could be so hateful, but it is quite true.”

“Why, that is terrible!” Penelope gasped. Her low opinion of the Duke of Marchford was now sealed.

“Yes, yes, quite,” said the dowager, pleased to have someone agree with her. “Such a hateful thing to do to one’s own grandmother.” She reclined morosely yet gracefully into a chair, her hand smoothing her white, precisely coiffed hair.

“I am shocked! But can he do this? I do not mean to pry into your affairs, but surely you have your own funds.”

“Yes, of course, I have my pin money, but the duke, four subsequent dukes to be exact, have always supplemented my allowance. Why, without this support, I would have only fifty pounds a week. Fifty! How am I to live on such a paltry amount?”

Penelope held her tongue. Fifty pounds a week was to her a small fortune.

“If nothing can be done to increase the allowance, we shall be forced from London.”

“Could it be, I mean with the strictest economy, that you could manage on fifty pounds?” asked Penelope, careful to add just a hint of anxiety to her tone, as if she truly had concern that fifty pounds would be inadequate to meet her needs.

The dowager shook her head. “No, no, it is not possible. Unless…” She paused, giving Pen a steely glance with glittering eyes. “Unless we can do something to raise our fortunes.”

“But what could we do?”

“I have an idea.” She rose majestically from the chair, her back as straight as a lance. “Come, Penelope, we must not keep our company waiting.”

Pen followed the dowager back downstairs to the drawing room, wondering what sort of scheme the dowager was plotting. At the dowager’s request, Pen rang the bell for tea.

“Cora,” said the dowager in a voice smooth as silk, “I have been thinking and I believe I may know someone who can help.”

“Truly? You are my only hope.”

“What if I knew a discreet lady who creates eligible matches for those in society whose prospects are few?” asked the dowager.

“A matchmaker?” asked Lady Bremerton.

“A discreet purveyor of eligible unions.” The dowager gave Pen a knowing smile that made Pen quite nervous about the direction the dowager was heading. “The lady is very discreet, very exclusive, with a proven record for finding the most eligible of matches.”

“Oh, that is exactly what I need. Who is this lady?”

“I cannot say, for her identity is a closely guarded secret. Please do not repeat this to anyone.”

“No, of course not.” Lady Bremerton lowered her voice and leaned forward.

“She has a written ledger of eligible bachelors,” said the dowager in hushed tones. “Their worth, their connections and proclivities, it is all written in her secret book. She is an expert in marriage and how to extricate damsels from difficult situations.”

Lady Bremerton’s eyes were wide. Genie’s were likewise afflicted. Pen was alarmed that the dowager was speaking about her annotated version of
Debrett’s
and tried in vain to catch the dowager’s eye.

“Antonia, please, you must tell me how I can contact this lady. She is precisely the miracle I have hoped for.”

“I do not wish to disappoint you, but her fees are rather high. I would even call them extravagant.”

“Price is of no concern.”

“What would you be willing to pay?” asked the dowager, her blue eyes gleaming.

“Anything!” said Lady Bremerton recklessly.

The tea cart arrived and Pen made a point of rattling the china to disturb the conversation as much as possible with the hope of shaking the dowager off the topic. Pen could not feel comfortable with what the dowager was proposing.

“I might be willing to contact Madam X if you can tell me what you would be willing to spend to see your niece married before the end of the season,” said the dowager, undeterred by Pen’s clattering teacups.

Lady Bremerton’s eyelids fluttered and she glanced around wildly. “If Eugenia could be married before the end of the season, oh, that would be something. I would… I would match her dowry!”

“Aunt Cora!” exclaimed Genie. “You could not possibly.”

“Hold your tongue, child!” exclaimed Lady Bremerton. “’Tis nothing but a trifle in comparison to having my reputation tarnished.”

“Certainly,” said the dowager evenly, “a wise investment to be sure. I shall be in touch with Madam X and let you know her answer.”

Pen stifled a gasp. The dowager was auctioning off Pen’s questionable services in the marriage mart for a shocking amount. Pen clinked her teacup down on her saucer, trying to get the dowager’s attention but in vain.

“Your Grace—” began Penelope, determined to end this farce, but the dowager interrupted her.

“Marchford? Is that you dearest?” called the duchess.

A rustle from the corridor was silenced. Penelope could imagine the duke judging whether he needed to respond or if he would best make a run for it. At length, he came to the open doorway.

“Yes, Grandmother?”

“Marchford, may I present to you Miss Talbot? She is the cousin of Lady Louisa and is lately come to London.”

“Ah, yes. Louisa’s cousin.” The duke gave Miss Talbot a discerning look. “I have heard of her arrival.” His wry smile was not shared by Lady Bremerton.

“Please be a dear and show the young people a tour of the house,” continued the dowager. “I have a few things I need to discuss with Lady Bremerton. You were not on your way out, were you? You are always so considerate, so obliging, that’s a dear.”

Marchford, wearing a midnight blue, double-breasted, cutaway riding coat over suede breeches and top boots, was almost certainly going out for a ride. He gave a perfunctory smile and spun the riding crop in his hand. “I would be pleased to take the young ladies on a short tour of the house.” He bowed politely and even though he said and acted as he ought, Pen had no question that he was displeased with this turn of events.

Pen and Genie walked toward the door to begin their tour; indeed, they had no other choice. Pen glanced back at the dowager, sure she had found a way to get the dissenting voices out of the room so the dowager could plot more efficiently with Lady Bremerton. She had a nagging suspicion she should not leave poor Lady Bremerton undefended, but there was nothing to do but follow the duke out the door.

Marchford led the two ladies through the house, showing them the briefest glance at the drawing rooms, the salon, and the library. The library appeared extensive and Pen was drawn into the room, admiring his collection. She was roused back to order by the duke standing at the door, watch in hand. She barely made it out of the room before he strode off again, rapidly commenting on fluted moldings and ionic columns.

“I would have liked to explore the library too, but I did not dare,” whispered Genie, falling into step beside Pen.

Pen smiled at her. “You must come back, and we will explore it together.”

Genie gave a tight smile. “Thank you. Though I warrant I will be returning soon to the country. I cannot possibly allow my aunt to pay such an amount and I know there is no way for my father to pay her back.”

“Begging your pardon, but you may have some difficulty controlling what those two old campaigners do.”

“You are very right,” conceded Genie. “Might there be any hope for my reputation?”

“There is always hope. I have seen the most outrageous behavior tolerated by the
haut
ton
from one of their favorites.”

“I doubt I shall be graced with the honor of being a society favorite,” said Genie, her eyes growing bluer.

Pen gave Genie a bracing smile as they followed the duke into the spacious ballroom. “You never can tell. My sisters received considerably more attention than we thought possible. I am learning the Duchess of Marchford holds her own power in society. Do not pack your gowns quite yet.”