A Winter Wedding (11 page)

Penelope shifted from foot to foot, waiting anxiously for the duke and duchess to complete dressing for the gala and meet her in the drawing room. To appease the duchess, she wore an emerald gown with a champagne overdress of the most gauzy material, giving her the impression of floating in a cloud. The neckline plunged and the new stays cinched up her bosoms such that she was literally spilling out the top. She even let the maid curl her hair in a more becoming style, all in an attempt to compensate for the festive desecration of the orderly drawing room.

Marchford was the first to arrive. He entered the drawing room and came to a full stop. His jaw dropped, his eyes only for her.

“Do you like it?” asked Penelope a little too anxiously.

He stared at her in silence a moment more before finally responding. “Yes, quite. Indeed. Capital.” His voice was stilted.

Penelope was gratified. “Let me be the first to wish you a happy Christmas Eve,” said Penelope quickly, shoving a cup of wassail into his hand. She was certain her decorating would be better appreciated with a warm drink. Marchford must have agreed because he took a generous draught.

“Try these as well.” Penelope nearly forced a rum butter tart down his throat. The tarts alone were so filled with rum-soaked fruit that it was a heady mouthful.

“Delicious.” Marchford’s voice was soft and low.

“What the blazes!” The dowager stopped at the open doorway and wandered in slowly, turning around in a full circle to note the full extent of Penelope’s handiwork. Holly branches graced the chandeliers, tied on with red-and-gold bows. Ribbons of red velvet and sparkly gold decorated the room. Evergreen boughs with red holly berries and thick gold bows hung over the windows and doors. An abundance of candles had been brought into the room, making it unusually bright and cheery. Her eyes narrowed at Marchford. “James! What have you done?”

“I fear I am responsible.” Penelope offered wassail and tarts, but the dowager refused. “I wanted to show you how we used to decorate our house every Christmas Eve. It is a present for you,” Penelope added nervously.

The dowager looked around at the glittering candles and the festive ribbons. Her face was stern.

“It is a going-away present since you will soon be married and I will need to leave,” Penelope added, hoping that if she reminded the dowager she was leaving, this indiscretion might be forgiven.

“I never took to decorating for Christmas,” said the dowager with disdain.

“I do hope you like it. I am sure if you had done the decorating, it would be improved.” Penelope added in a little flattery, hoping to soothe the dowager’s ruffled sensibilities.

“Yes, well. You did very well for your first attempt,” said the dowager. She accepted a rum butter tart and could not help but smile. Antonia had been in a good mood ever since returning with the news that she had convinced Lord Felton to host the engagement party. “I am pleased to see you finally dressed respectably.”

With so much of her décolletage on view, Penelope hardly felt respectable. She shuddered to think of what her father would say, who preferred his daughters to wear high necklines. He was, after all, a clergyman and their father.

The butler arrived cautiously but was instantly reassured by the dowager, who invited him to note some improvements to the festive decor she wished him to make. He ushered them to the carriage with the duchess leading the way.

“I think she might have actually liked how I decorated the drawing room,” whispered Penelope.

Marchford’s eyes had been fixed on her since he entered the room. “You decorated the drawing room?”

***

The Devine Christmas gala was an annual event for those hardy few in society who remained in London for the holiday. With the early opening of Parliament, more of society was present than ever before, making the Devine gala quite the event. The gala was designed to be a glittering festival of the season and it succeeded in every way.

Glass icicles hung down from the chandeliers with small candles inside, lighting the wondrous orbs. Fresh holly was festively displayed with red velvet ribbons tying the bundles. Marchford had not lied about the tree—a huge evergreen was prominently located, lit with multiple candles, and festooned with red bows. The effect was enchanting and slightly scary, but most dangerous of all was the numerous sprays of mistletoe hanging in different locations, waiting to catch unsuspecting guests in romantic encounters.

The dowager had declared her the height of fashion, but Penelope felt she was the height of something else entirely. She preferred her more conservative frocks, in which she was nearly invisible. However, she knew enough about society to understand the smallest sign of insecurity or doubt would be pounced upon, magnified and exploited, so she held her head high. She would not show weakness, even if she did look like a highly paid courtesan.

The dowager and Marchford were instantly engaged in conversations when they arrived, so Penelope walked across to the refreshments, noting that heads turned. Odd. Were they mocking? She was sure she did not wish to know. She still had a job to do as the infamous Madame X. Penelope smiled to herself. What would all these highbrow members of society’s
haut
ton
do if they discovered the exclusive matchmaker to society’s elite was none other than a lowly companion?

In a flash, Penelope realized that she knew something precious few others were privy to: She was Madame X. And yes, Madame X would definitely wear this type of gown to a Christmas Eve ball. Her self-assurance rose within her, and by the time she had crossed the ballroom, she was no longer pretending the confidence she portrayed.

“Miss Rose.” Lord Darington approached and bowed before her, his sister by his side. “I believe you are acquainted with my sister, Lady Katherine.”

The young woman accordingly curtsied. “Call me Kate,” she said without a smile.

“And you must call me Penelope. I understand you are new to London. How are you enjoying your visit?”

Kate raised one eyebrow. “Delightful.” But her tone and manner gave Penelope the impression that it was anything but. “Would you excuse us, Robby?” Kate turned to her brother, who was standing mutely beside her. He bowed and disappeared into the crowd without a word. “I understand my brother has contacted you regarding my matrimonial prospects,” said Kate bluntly, her tone accusing.

Pen was not unaccustomed to having the object of the matchmaking scheme be quite out of sorts when the truth was discovered, so her tone was not surprising, though her blunt manner in the middle of a crowded ballroom was a surprise. “Perhaps we should find a quiet corner? I believe the balcony boasts a fine view of Town,” suggested Penelope.

“I am agreed.”

Penelope led Kate to a side balcony. It was not snowing at the moment, but the snow on the ground lightened the entire view of the streets before them. Though the chill air was refreshing after the heat of the crowded ballroom, it was soon going to be uncomfortably cold. “Your brother did make an inquiry with Madame X to find you a suitable match,” began Penelope.

“I do not mean any offense, but I have absolutely no inclination to marry. In truth, I am quite set against it,” said Kate.

“Is there something in the institution that offends you?”

“The prospect of handing over my money, my future, my very freedom to a man of any sort makes me ill. No, I shall never marry; on this fact I am entirely resigned.”

“I shall relay your feelings to Madame X.” Penelope was used to people denying they wanted to be found a spouse, but never had anyone declared such an adamant intention to never wed.

“I thought you were Madame X.”

Penelope was caught off guard. No one had ever considered her to be the mastermind behind the operation. “Whyever did you think such a thing?”

Kate shrugged. “Truly, it makes no difference to me. Either you are Madame X or you are in her employ; either way I would like to redirect your efforts.”

“In what way?”

“I have no need or inclination to wed, but my brother must marry. He has a title and no other living family to take his place. If he dies, the title dies with him.”

“I see. So you would like Madame X to find your brother a wife instead of you a husband.”

“Yes. I am glad you are of a quick understanding.”

Penelope paused at Kate’s blunt statement, unsure if it was praise or insult. She hoped Lord Darington would prove a more willing subject for matrimonial schemes. “Any particular guidelines in terms of the type of young lady your brother would be most suited for?”

Kate gazed up, thinking over the question. “She must be of a serious nature, not vibrant or chatty. She must be able to bear children, though I suppose it may be difficult to determine this beforehand. Perhaps a young widow with children, though Robert would not care to have children underfoot, particularly if they were not his. Perhaps a lady who had conceived children but they had died, but not died through illness; we do not need sickly brats.”

“So the perfect wife for your brother would be a silent, serious woman who had not only lost her husband but her children as well?”

“Yes! Perfect!”

Penelope opened her mouth and closed it again. Her attempt at sarcasm had been entirely lost on this cheerless lady. Not usually at a loss for things to say, she was unaccustomed to her present speechless condition. What a description for a prospective wife! With the two taciturn siblings, an aggrieved wife might make their household the grimmest place in Town.

“I shall pass this on, but you must understand, there may not be many young widows whose children have also passed away.”

“Yes, well, tell Madame X to do her best. If you cannot find these characteristics, just go for someone pretty. But no one who will speak insistently, I beg you, or I may be forced to cut out her tongue myself.”

Penelope smiled at what she assumed must be a jest, but Kate’s face was somber, leaving Penelope with the distinct impression Kate was being sincere. “Perhaps we should return to the party so we do not freeze,” suggested Penelope, though the cold she now felt had little to do with the outside temperature.

They both returned to the celebrations, with Kate’s expression outright hostile any time a man dared to set foot within three yards of her for any reason. Penelope made her apologies and left Kate to find some warmth from the chill that pervaded her very soul. Good thing Madame X was fired from finding Lady Katherine a husband. That was one lady who Pen would have to agree was not suited for marriage vows.

She stood by the wall as she usually did in these glittering ballrooms. Yet this time, her eyes searched the crowd looking for no one but Marchford. When she found him, he was in conversation with Mr. Grant.

But his eyes were on her.

“Why don’t you ask her to dance?”

Marchford was startled back to present awareness. Grant had caught him staring at Miss Rose. Again.

“Ask whom to dance?” Marchford’s only defense was to play innocent.

“Miss Rose. The bosom you’ve been gawking at all night. Got a pocket handkerchief if you feel the need to drool.” Grant gave him a wicked grin.

“I am not staring.”

“I said gawking and I’ll stand by it. Not that I blame you. She does look quite different in those Town togs. Grandmama pick them?”

“Yes, I believe so.” Marchford started to look around the room at anything but the infernal figure of Miss Rose, now shown to perfection. It was hardly his fault. He had seen Miss Rose almost every day for the past nine months, but he had never seen anything like this.

Where
had
she
been
hiding
that
cleavage?

“So go over and ask her to dance. Quick, before all her dances are claimed.”

“No, no, if I dance with her, I would have to dance with all the debutantes here.”

“Dreadful!”

“You mock, but I know for a fact you were set against marriage not long ago.”

“And now I am happily caught in the web of matrimony!” Grant gave one of his mad grins. “So are you set against finding a wife and producing bouncing little heirs?”

“Not at all. I’m trying to get married, if only to stop being stalked by ladies determined to be the next duchess.”

“So why not ask
mademoiselle
décolletage
to marry you?”

“What?” Marchford turned to address his friend. “How much rum punch have you had?”

“Why not ask for her hand?” Grant persisted.

Marchford sputtered. “She is the companion to my grandmother. It is simply not done.”

“Well, if being a duke doesn’t give you the right to marry where you will, what does? Did not your father marry for love the second time around?”

Grant’s arrow of mischief sunk home, but perhaps not in the manner he expected. Marchford was reminded of the fighting between his mother and his grandmother. No one should have to endure that, especially not a child. No, he had learned from his father’s mistake. He was determined to enter into a marriage in which no love was required.

“Being a duke means I must be responsible. I cannot do as I like. I must serve the greater good.”

“What rot!” exclaimed Grant with a laugh. “You are only trying to avoid heartache.”

Marchford was spared having to make a reply by the arrival of their host, Lord Admiral Devine.

“Happy Christmas, my fine friends!” The admiral joined them with a merry twinkle in his eye. “What a crush! My wife will be so pleased.” Nothing was more important to a hostess than the number of guests.

“Did you receive my warnings?” asked Marchford, taking command and changing the subject. He needed to focus back on his mission and forget the mysterious case of the growing bosom.

“Yes, indeed. Come, let us talk.” Devine motioned to a side door and they all entered a small, private study, closing the door behind them. “I think we can all rest well tonight. I have commissioned a safe in which to place all documents of a sensitive nature.”

“A safe? Intriguing!” said Grant in a manner that suggested he was not taking it as seriously as Marchford thought the moment required.

“Indeed! Not only is it impossible to open without the key, but it also has a secret compartment that can only be opened by…well, there is a trick to it that I shall not share to anyone. In that compartment are the codes for our spies abroad.”

Marchford was impressed. “I am pleased you are taking caution.”

“Quite so, quite so. After the last time I hosted a ball, I have learned to be cautious.” At the last Devine ball, coded letters containing information about the foreign spy service had been stolen out of his desk. “See, here is a drawing of the safe. She is a beauty.”

Marchford looked over the detailed drawing and was impressed. The diagram indicated the safe was three feet high by two feet in width, with an ornate steel-and-iron case around it. “Looks secure.”

“I shall boast and say that it is.”

“Good.” Marchford shook the admiral’s hand and walked back into the ballroom with Grant at his side. He knew Grant was grinning mischievously and attempted to avoid eye contact. It was no use.

“Now then,” began Grant, not taking the hint. “Your information is secure. You can have no more worry tonight. Time for a little fun.”

Marchford said nothing, but he had little hope it would deter Grant.

“I wonder where our ravishing Miss Rose has got to.”

Marchford already knew. Without conscious intention, he scanned the ballroom until the lithe form of Miss Rose was found. She was speaking with Mrs. Grant, which was a shame, because Grant was sure to notice.

“Here we are, come along.” Grant began to move toward his wife, dragging Marchford along with him.

“I cannot simply indulge myself. Somewhere even in our midst a traitor lurks. I must remain awares,” Marchford protested.

“Indeed you must! Never let it be said that on this fine, snowy Christmas Eve, you were anything less than gravely miserable, a trial to friend and foe alike. I am only encouraging you to inflict poor Miss Rose with your sour disposition. Not quite charitable I admit, but there you are. Happy Christmas, ladies!”

Mrs. Grant was positively glowing in the candlelight. Miss Rose, in contrast, was not the kind of beautiful that turned men’s heads, yet she was the only lady he wished to see. Her brown eyes sparked with intelligence, and there was something about her mouth that spoke of a secret that rested there. Her figure was flawless and more on display than ever before. His eyes had a terrible inclination to drift down to her ample bosom, and his hands itched for just one touch.

“Your Grace?” Penelope’s eyes were now filled with irritation. Had she been talking to him?

Marchford glanced at Grant, who was merely laughing at him, without making any attempt to hide it. Marchford cleared his throat. “Yes, indeed.”

“Yes, indeed?” asked Penelope. “Most people say ‘happy Christmas’ in return, but I shall have to amuse myself with ‘yes, indeed.’”

“Your decorations were quite a surprise,” he said, trying to change the subject by mentioning the new decor of his house, which in truth he had not noticed in the slightest. He forced his eyes once again from her bosom. “A nice surprise.” Much like her assets now firmly on display.

“I am glad you liked them,” said a mollified Penelope.

“I also want to thank you for all your assistance,” he said in a low voice. “You have been quite useful.”

It was quite a crush and Penelope stepped even closer to avoid being in someone’s way. “You know how delighted I am to be of some use.” Her eyes were laughing at him, and he deserved it.

“I hope…it is my wish that you…” Marchford struggled to find the right words. It was difficult when his focus was constantly being challenged by her plunging neckline and her rose-colored lips. How was a man to think?

BOOM!

A huge explosion rocked the entire house. Marchford grabbed Penelope around the waist with one hand and with the other drew his pistol, shielding her between the wall and his body. Even in this moment of crisis, his body delighted in her soft, feminine curves pressed against him. It was the spark of a beginning, but of what would have to wait. They were under attack.

“What was that?” demanded Penelope, slightly muffled from her face pressed against his coat collar.

“Don’t know,” said Marchford as he scanned the room in an instant, looking for danger. Women screamed; the music stopped; people began running in random directions. He could not see any damage nor the location of the explosion. Admiral Devine ran past, waving his arms, calling for people to remain calm. Marchford darted after him, not letting go of Penelope’s hand for an instant.

“The safe! Where is it?” demanded Marchford, even as smoke began to pour into the ballroom from doors leading downstairs.

“Downstairs, in the cellar. Not again. Not again!” Admiral Devine hustled toward the door leading downstairs as the kitchen staff ran upstairs, away from the choking smoke.

The chaos was causing panic. The footmen ran to dump water on the burning tree. An elderly man was knocked down in the crush. People were going to get hurt. Marchford whistled loudly. It was not the most gentile form of communication, but it was necessary and effective.

People stopped and heads turned in his direction. “Please proceed in an orderly fashion to the exits,” he commanded in a loud voice. “Gentlemen, please assist those who may need it. Once outside, the footmen shall deliver your cloaks and arrange for your carriages as soon as possible.”

His calm words brought order back to chaos, and everyone began to do as he suggested. Despite his outward appearance, he was breathing hard. He had learned long ago to keep his emotions in check, particularly in times of crisis. And yet the black smoke gave him pause. He could face almost any trial, but being stuck in a burning building was something that made even him nervous.

Penelope squeezed his hand and gave him a confident nod. He had almost forgotten he held her hand. She believed in him, and it steadied his nerves.

“My grandmother?” he asked.

“I will see to her. Do not worry.”

He knew she would take care of things. It was what she always did. He squeezed her hand in return and hoped it would express everything he could not say. In a blink, she let go of his hand and disappeared into the crowd.

“Where is the fire? Where is the fire?” Admiral Devine shouted at the kitchen staff as they evacuated up the stairs, coughing and sputtering, their faces blackened. No one could say, except that it had not originated in the kitchens.

“Is there another way down there?” asked Marchford.

“Follow me,” boomed the admiral, and he followed him first outside the main door and then around to the back. They stopped short at what they saw.

A huge hole, low to the ground, had been blasted in the side of the redbrick town house. They ran to it and stared into the gaping hole, squinting into the acrid black smoke.

“My safe!” cried Devine. “It’s gone!”