A Winter Wedding (4 page)

Another
delivery
tonight. Four bells.

“It appears people were using this decanter to pass messages,” said Marchford. “Ingenious really.”

“It is a clever contraption. But why not just pass a note hand to hand or even just talk briefly at the ball?” She leaned closer to inspect the note.

“It would be beyond my capability to pretend to know what passes for rational thought in the minds of my enemy,” muttered Marchford, also leaning toward the note—and her. “But there is always a chance of being overheard or seen. This way, information can be passed between them or to the footman, without them ever being seen together.”

“What do you think the footman knows?”

The footman! “Don’t know, but I’m going to find out.” Marchford was already heading to the door. His long stride outstripped Penelope as he approached the ballroom. A quick glance told them the footman was not present. He quickly inspected the card room and the dining areas. Jonathan was not to be found. Once again he needed assistance from Miss Rose. “Fastest way to the kitchens,” Marchford demanded of her.

“Follow me,” said Penelope, guiding him to a small side door that led to a servants’ passage down to the kitchens.

He paused only a moment. He had hardly ever entered his own kitchens, let alone those of a friend. He burst out into the heat and bustle of the kitchens, which came to a complete halt at the presence of a duke in their midst. Jaws dropped; a dish hit the floor; a scullery maid squeaked in surprise.

“Jonathan the footman,” Marchford commanded.

“He went outside,” faltered the cook, pointing to the side kitchen door.

Marchford ran out the door, up the steps, and out to the alley behind the house, hoping Penelope would have the sense to not follow. She did not.

“Stay here,” he commanded her, pulling a small pistol from his coat. Nothing could happen to her. Nothing.

He heard the scuffing of boots on gravel ahead and proceeded into the darkness of the alley.

Penelope waited in the freezing cold for Marchford to return. As demanded, she went no farther than the kitchen steps and stared into the darkness where Marchford had disappeared. Despite the apparent danger that led Marchford to pull out his pistol, the prominent thought in her head was: Just where did he hide said pistol? His coat was formfitting enough one would think there would be a bulge somewhere, and yet he appeared the very figure of a gentleman in a perfectly cut coat. He must have had his coat cut with the express purpose of concealing weaponry. Did he always carry it? Shocking.

Pen waited for a moment, squinting into the dark and listening past the soft musical strains of the orchestra that floated beyond the walls of the ballroom. It seemed impossible that any true danger would lurk here, by the walls of the Grant home. Yet Marchford was always wary of foreign agents, and he had been right to suspect the footman.

A sudden shout pierced the night followed by a gagging cry. She was running into the dark alley before she could think. Marchford! Was he hurt?

She ran forward into the blackness. The winter air was cold and damp. She breathed hard and her lungs complained. Where was he? She stilled and listened in the dark. Footsteps, grating on the rocks and gravel, echoed off the alley’s walls around her. Was someone running away or toward her? She spun around just as a black-caped form knocked into her hard and sent her sprawling to the ground.

She shrieked and rolled over onto her back. A figure loomed over her. It bent closer, reaching out. Penelope shouted for help and grabbed a handful of dirt and gravel, throwing it into the man’s dark face.

“Ow!” The man stood up. “I say, Penelope. Rather unsporting to blind me.”

“Marchford?” Penelope breathed a ragged sigh of relief. “I thought you were trying to kill me. Why did you run into me?”

“I didn’t. Must have been the man I was chasing. Are you hurt?” He reached down and, without warning or preamble, neatly picked her up in his arms.

“Oh!” squeaked Penelope, surprised to find herself in the arms of the duke. She wrapped her arms around his neck in a natural reaction. “I…I’m fine.”

“You sound breathless. Are you sure you areall right?”

Her sudden difficulties in breathing had more to do with his holding her than her being knocked to the ground, but she could hardly express that sentiment. “Just give me a moment to collect myself.”

“You are safe. No need to fear.” His words were soft and tender.

Penelope could not help herself. She rested her head briefly on his shoulder. His coat smelled of fine cloth and gentleman musk. She breathed deep, relaxing into the intoxicating scent, before remembering her place. “I am fine now. I can stand.”

“Are you certain? If anything happened to you…” The sentiment hung in the frosty air unfinished. He had not yet set her down.

“I am well,” she assured, though in no hurry to be released.

Finally he allowed her to regain her feet, but then surprised her by making a cursory inspection of her body, running his hands down her sides. “Does anything hurt? Are you injured in any way?”

Despite the bitter cold, she warmed at his touch. She wished to invite him to continue to search for injuries but censored the comment. “No, just jostled a bit. Was it Jonathan who hit me?”

“No, no, I am certain it was not he.”

“Then who ran into me?”

“The man who got away.” Marchford was solemn in his disappointment.

“The footman got away?”

“No. He’s here.”

“Where?” Penelope struggled to see in the almost impenetrable darkness. “Shall we question him? He is the link to whoever was passing messages in the ballroom.”

“Yes, I know. Unfortunately, others in the ballroom also knew that and disposed of a certain problem.”

“How so?” Penelope attempted to walk past Marchford in the dark alley. The duke blocked her path but not before she caught a glimpse of something that stopped her cold. The footman was lying on the ground in an awkward position, a pool of something dark around his throat.

Penelope grew suddenly chilled, which given the freezing wind slicing through her muslin gown, was surprising only because she didn’t think she could get colder than she already was.

She turned away, not wanting to see more. “Is he dead?”

“Quite dead.”

Penelope took a ragged, cold breath. The man was dead. Dead. Her mind reeled and the ground began to tip. He was alive just a few minutes ago. How could such a hale and hearty lad suddenly cease to exist?

Marchford put an arm around her waist and pulled her close to his body, propping her up, which was odd since she hadn’t realized she was starting to fall. Before she had seen the body, she had not known herself to be the fainting type.

Marchford walked her away from the body. “Take a few slow breaths.” Penelope did as he suggested, slowing her breathing, feeling the cold, damp air fill her lungs like a restorative.

“This is not your first corpse,” she whispered.

“No. The first time I found a dead body, I cast up my accounts all over my boots.”

“Waste of good food,” muttered Penelope, trying to keep the contents of her stomach where she’d put it.

“I was more thinking of my boots.”

Penelope could not help but smile. With another breath, she straightened her backbone and attempted to pull away from the duke with a shiver. “I can walk on my own now, thank you.”

“Yes, of course,” he said. He removed his jacket and put it around her shoulders. It was warm with his own heat and smelled intoxicatingly of him. She breathed deep again, and his arm returned to around her waist, as if it belonged there. She could not help herself from leaning into him, accepting his warmth and strength.

Marchford led Penelope down the stone steps, back into the kitchen. “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” said Pen, pulling away and handing him back his jacket. Appearances must be preserved. He nodded in understanding and put his jacket back on, hiding his pistol somewhere in the mysterious coat. Within the kitchen, the air was shockingly hot and pungent with the smells of food in various states of preparation and waste. All were silent again as the duke returned. The butler, having clearly been notified of the strange goings-on, greeted Marchford with a bow.

“Your Grace, how may we assist you?”

“Inform Mr. Grant there is a situation with the footman and rouse a constable. I will meet Grant in his private sitting room.” Marchford leaned toward the butler and whispered something further in his ear.

The generally reserved butler stared in shock, his eyes wide. “At once, Your Grace,” he finally managed and bowed again to take his leave.

Marchford led Penelope up through the servants’ stairs to avoid company. Penelope noted he put his arm around her once more. She was not about to protest. Marchford led her deftly to the private sitting room.

“I am quite well,” insisted Penelope, but she did not resist when a glass of brandy was placed in her hand.

“Of course you are,” said Marchford mildly, and he poured himself a glass.

Not generally one for hard spirits, as befitted a young lady raised by a country parson, Penelope decided that, considering the shocking events of the evening, it may be permissible to have a few sips. The brandy seared a hot trail down the back of her throat. She was not sure if it was considered restorative, but the unpleasant sensation did shock her back into the present, so she supposed the object of the libation had been met.

Within minutes, Grant strolled into the sitting room, followed by his young bride, the renowned beauty Eugenia Grant, who entered with a hand protectively over her growing midsection.

“Marchford, what have you done now?” asked Grant. “I knew when they said you had a situation there must be something dreadfully wrong.”

“Now, perhaps, it may not be as bad as all that,” said Genie with a kind smile that lit her deep blue eyes.

“The footman has been murdered,” said Marchford.

The Grants shared a look between them.

“Then again, my dear, you may well be right,” said Genie sincerely.

Grant smiled at his new wife, then shook his head at Marchford. “I told Genie you were a bad risk to invite. Always intrigue with you. Why, a body’s not safe within fifty feet of you.”

“I cannot believe such a thing would happen,” exclaimed Genie.

“Now don’t upset yourself,” soothed Grant, leading his wife to a high-backed chair by a warm fire. He had her comfortably settled with her feet propped up on a little footstool in seconds. “Wanted the ball to be memorable, didn’t you? When word gets out you hosted a real murder, no one will ever forget!”

“I do not think Mrs. Grant wishes to be remembered as being the hostess to a murder,” said Penelope, reading the horrified look on Genie’s face.

Grant shrugged. “No one will miss the next party. Too interesting.”

“You are rather taking this in stride,” commented Marchford, taking a seat on the settee next to Penelope.

“No reason to get upset,” said Grant in his affable manner. “Knew something was smoky when I saw those shoes. Man up to no good, I’m sure.”

“Shoes?” asked Genie.

“Too nice by half,” said Grant. “Custom pair by David and Clark. Now how would an honest footman be able to pay for those? He wouldn’t. So he must be a dishonest one.”

“So that is why you had me follow the footman,” said Penelope, feeling the need to hazard another sip of brandy. Only Grant, with his impeccable knowledge of all things fashion, could have noted such a detail.

The butler entered and presented the Watch. The constable’s eyes bulged at the glittering array of honored personages present. Pen felt sorry for the man to have to interview the duke. The Duke of Marchford could be an imposing man when he had the mind, and he quickly took control of the interview, answering the questions of his own posing, which he felt most relevant. The constable then turned to Penelope, but Marchford interceded.

“I have already told you what you need to know about her involvement. You needn’t involve the lady who is clearly overwrought with the proceedings of the night.” Marchford shifted closer to her on the seat and leaned forward so that he was partially blocking her view of the constable—or the constable’s view of her.

“No, no, I can answer a few questions,” said Penelope, needled by the suggestion her precious nerves were at risk.

“This person who hit you, Miss Rose. Did you get a look at him?” asked the constable.

“No, I fear I did not. He was wearing a dark cloak and cowl. I saw nothing of his face. It all happened so fast.”

“Lucky to be alive, miss,” commented the constable.

Penelope stilled. He was right; she could have been killed. No wonder Marchford had been so concerned with her welfare.

“Enough questions,” demanded Marchford, putting his arm around her and resting it on the back of the settee in a protective gesture. Though his arm was not touching her—that would be insupportable—Penelope was keenly aware of his arm’s presence near her shoulders. “You know where to find me if you should require any further information,” continued Marchford.

The constable bowed and left them in silence.

“Do you know who killed the footman?” asked Grant when the four of them were alone in the sitting room.

“No, but I know he was assisting in some clandestine communications.” Marchford related to the Grants their findings about the brandy decanter. “Can you tell me where the decanters came from?”

Grant shook his head slowly. “No, can’t quite place it. Got a lot of presents for the wedding. Genie, you know?”

Genie also shook her head. “No, and I wrote notes for all the gifts. I do not recall this one. I do not believe we have had it long. Isn’t it strange? I saw it before, but I thought it something you had acquired, my dear.”

“And I thought it a wedding gift,” said Grant.

“It may have been added to your household without your knowledge,” suggested Penelope.

“Oh dear.” Genie put a hand to her cheek. “Truly, I must run a more competent household.”

“No, no, I would forbid you change a thing.” Grant rushed to her side. “Are you tired? Do you wish to rest, my love?”

“I confess, with all the festivities and the dreadful news about the footman, I do feel a mite worn.” Genie stifled a yawn.

“To bed!” cried Grant, helping his growing wife out of the chair. “I shall put the solving of this mystery in your capable hands, Marchford. Good night, my friends!” Grant ushered the sleepy Genie out of the room.

“We must also get you home,” said Marchford, offering Penelope his arm.

Penelope typically resisted all attempts at coddling, but she owned the prospects of a warm bath and a soft bed were inviting. She took the arm of the duke with a soft sigh. He would take her home. He would keep her safe. She should be comforted, but deep within she knew…

She wanted more.

***

The man in the thick Carrick coat raced down the cobblestone streets, whipping his horse to keep up the pace. What did he care if the beast broke a leg on the uneven ground? The nag wasn’t his anyway, and his need was pressing. He must get to the men before four bells or all would be lost.

He turned down narrow, muddy streets and into the rookery of St. Giles. It was shocking how little distance there actually was between the spacious town houses of the landed gentry and the crowded slums of London. They were practically neighbors, but no resident of St. Giles would dare to trespass on the pristine streets of Mayfair, nor would any Town gentleman dare to step into the narrow, crooked streets of St. Giles.

The man in the Carrick coat soon gave up on the horse and continued on by foot, navigating the narrow paths, slogging through rancid filth. Most men in such a coat as his would avoid coming into the rookery for fear of robbery. This man, however, was known to the local thieves, and they wisely let him be.

This was the perfect hiding place for anything you wanted to have disappear. He entered the small warehouse where the crates smuggled in from France were stacked under a large amount of debris. The man sighed in relief; the crates were still there.