A Winter Wedding (27 page)

“Would you now?” said Strader in an oily tone. “How very interesting to know.” He half threatened, half carried Penelope into a seat of the wagon. “Don’t follow or she gets it!”

Watching for her chance, Penelope lunged off the other side of the wagon, but the man Marchford had flattened had apparently recovered and snuck around behind, preventing her from escaping. Marchford ran to the wagon, but Strader held the knife to Penelope’s ribs while the other man flicked the reins and the wagon lurched forward, speeding off into the fog.

Marchford retrieved the pistol and his knife, and set off on foot, running after the sound of the carriage rattling down the cobblestones. He had one chance to shoot Strader before he could stab Penelope.

Penelope
.

The shock of seeing her still coursed through his veins. He had no idea how she had come to be there, but there was no doubt she had saved him.
Saved
him. Time to repay the favor.

The fog was thick and the horses swift, even in narrow lanes. Marchford’s feet, legs, and lungs cried out for him to stop, but he would not. Surely some traffic would slow them down. He would catch them, and he would save her. He ran out to a crossroads and listened for the wagon wheels beyond the heaving of his own chest. He heard nothing.

He had lost her.

Things were not going well for Penelope, but despite having a knifepoint stuck between two ribs by the duplicitous Mr. Strader, she never wavered in her knowledge that Marchford would come for her. It was just a matter of time. She only hoped she had enough of it left.

The streets were unfortunately light of commerce, it being a cold day and dense with fog. It was also later in the day than she realized, and the light was beginning to fail. Even if there were others out on the street, the fog was so dense she could barely see a few feet beyond her own nose. Her hope that someone would see her plight or that she could call for help of a passerby, or better yet a constable, waned as they progressed through the streets shrouded in the impenetrable murk.

“Don’t cry out. Don’t move,” growled Strader as if he could read her mind. “I killed the last loudmouth I met. I will kill you too.”

Penelope was effectively silenced. She was not surprised when the cart stopped before the town house of the comtesse. She was shoved to the ground roughly with Strader never letting go of her arm.

“You know where to go,” Strader told the driver, and the cart disappeared into the foggy gloom.

Penelope was hustled inside by Strader, who proved to have a firm grip. She glanced around but still saw nobody from whom to implore help. “Why are you doing this?” asked Penelope. “What can you possibly have to gain?”

“You must be daft,” insulted Strader, his face she had once found attractive twisted into something repugnant. “Felton treated me as if I was nothing but refuse. He will get his, he will.” Strader led her to the side door and up a flight of stairs.

She was pushed into a room of exorbitant beauty. Everything was of the best quality, luxurious, and very dear. The room was fashioned in rich tones, and even the drapes and bed curtains appeared to have jewels woven into the fabric, twinkling in the candlelight. She was in the private boudoir of the Comtesse de Marseille attended by a large bodyguard.

“You?” Penelope had never harbored a favorable impression of the comtesse, but her working as a spy for Napoleon was lower than she had thought possible. “You are working for Mr. Strader?”

“Of course not!” she retorted. “He works for me!”

Penelope’s blood chilled at such an easy admission. The comtesse could never allow such knowledge to become known. It meant she had no intention of letting Penelope go. Ever.

“Why are you here?” Marseille demanded of Strader. “I told you never to come here.”

“Couldn’t wait,” said Strader, finally releasing Penelope’s arm and shoving her forward. “This chit interfered and Marchford got away.”

The comtesse rose majestically, her eyes blazing. “You let him get away?
Imbécile!
”

“Not my fault. He wants her though. He will come for her,” said Strader. “I don’t know where to hide her.”

“Hide her? No, we must not do that.” The comtesse gave Penelope a dark smile. “You may have a use yet. Prepare him a welcome.”

Strader bowed and left the room. Penelope thought for a moment this might be an ideal time to escape, but the large guard walked forward and stood behind her in an ominous manner.

“Why are you aiding spies and traitors? Why turn your back on your adopted country?” Penelope asked, wanting to distract the comtesse from whatever plans she may be concocting for Marchford.

“England is nothing to me.” The eyes of the comtesse flashed. “When the Terror came, we wrote to our English brethren for assistance, but no, none would come. My home was attacked by the mob and put to the torch. I was forced to sneak out in a cart of hay with naught but the clothes on my back. Those wretched peasants stole everything from me. Everything! And what did England do? Nothing!”

“But why work for Napoleon? Why support your enemy?” Penelope took a step toward the comtesse, but a large, firm hand grabbed her shoulder and pushed her down into a chair. The comtesse certainly had strong assistants.

“My enemy?” The comtesse’s voice cracked with laughter. “I care nothing for politics. My enemy is not a man. My enemy is poverty. I escaped the guillotine without a sou to my name. And I would be there still had I not changed my fate. No, I see very easily how this game is played. You may be born the better of those around you, but without the blunt, you are nothing. I am the comtesse. Shall I be counting every last farthing? No! It is an indignity.”

“So you became a spy for Napoleon for the money?”

“I have done many a worse thing for the money,
mais
oui
. And you shall not sit in judgment against me. You who trapped the Duke of Marchford into marriage.”

“I did not!” The words escaped Pen before she could remember not to rise to the bait.

The comtesse gave her an unfriendly smile. “Ah yes, you have looked to your own interests. I would say you shall never live down the gossip, but I fear you shall not be bothered by any further unpleasantness. Truly, I am doing you a favor, no?”

Penelope’s pulse began to pound in her ears. She needed to get away or she would have no future. “So you assist Napoleon and his spies, and use the information you learn from your ladies as blackmail…or maybe even to sell to France.”

“
Oui
. Some information, it brings a worthy price. It is too bad you had to be so much trouble. You could have been very useful.”

Light dawned for Penelope. “That is why you wanted me to become a courtesan, so I could spy for you against Marchford.”

“Ah, you are too clever. I had plans for you with Marchford. Though I do not know what he sees in you. I have tempted him with ladies of much greater beauty.” The comtesse focused on her reflection in the mirror, putting on a glittering diamond necklace.

Penelope didn’t know whether to be insulted at being called plain or pleased to know, of all his feminine options, Marchford chose her. She chose the latter. “You also arranged for him to meet his mother.”

The comtesse gave her another devious smile. “
Oui
. I learned she was working for Sprot and arranged for your little meeting. You and the duke were getting too close. I thought the rumors I started would be enough to prevent your union, but I realized I needed to do more to disrupt you. You are simply too dangerous to me, working as a team. I only regret not being there to see his shocked face when he saw his mother.”

A bang at the door and a muffled scuffle got her attention. To her joy and relief, Marchford suddenly broke through the locked door. “Comtesse de Marseille,” he greeted her as if walking into a drawing room. “Do forgive me, but Miss Rose is needed downstairs.”

Penelope immediately rose along with her spirits. Marchford was here; he would fix everything. The sound of a shotgun being loaded and primed brought her attention back to the unfortunate situation. A man emerged from behind a curtain, pointing the loaded weapon directly at Penelope. Marchford slowly raised his hands. The large bodyguard searched his waistcoat for weapons and removed the pistol and knife. Satisfied he was unarmed, he nodded to the comtesse.

“How lovely of you to join us. We were waiting for you,” said the comtesse as if Marchford was an errant schoolboy. “Now that everyone has finally arrived, we may continue the evening’s festivities.” Her eyes narrowed into hard slits, and she directed her attention to the man with the shotgun. “Take them to the cellar and kill them.”

Penelope glanced at Marchford, but his face was a cool mask. Was this how it was going to end?

“You cannot possibly kill a peer of the realm, a duke no less, in a cellar, like you would dispose of a rat,” cried Pen.

“I have seen all forms of aristocracy fall before the guillotine or ripped to bits at the hands of a mob,” the comtesse snapped. “I assure you, no matter how blue his blood, and there is some debate about that, he can and will die same as all the rest.”

“But we shall be missed. Many people know the last place Marchford went was to your house. How will you explain us being found dead in your cellar?”

“But you will not be found dead in the cellar. When you are no longer a bother to us, we can carry your bodies anywhere we like. I shall say the duke came to me desirous of escaping a lowering marriage. Perhaps seeing his mother again stiffened his resolve to avoid such low connections.”

Marchford’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing.

“He wanted to break it off, but you pursued him. You caught him, he repulsed you, and you shot him for it, then took your own life. Ah, what a romantic tale it shall be.” The comtesse gave her a sickening smile and then turned to her lackeys. “Shoot her in the chest at point-blank, make it look like suicide.”

“You cannot do this,” said Penelope firmly. “Even you cannot be so cruel, so utterly devoid of human feeling. Every fiber in your being must cry out against such inhuman cruelty.”

“Ah, how sweet. Even at the end, you cherish antiquated notions of how a world should be. Well, I’ll tell you the truth—all your honorable intentions don’t mean a thing. I shall always win because I am not afraid to do whatever is necessary to win.”

“And what is necessary to win?” asked Marchford with a detached air. “What is your plan?”

The comtesse raised an eyebrow. “Ah, you would like to know, but how desperate will you go to your death knowing that you came so close to stopping our plans but fell short. Members of Parliament have been meeting to declare your king utterly insane and put his idiot son on the throne. They shall die before the deed can be done, leaving behind only a feeble, mad king and chaos.”

“Napoleon will invade.” Marchford spoke without emotion.

The comtesse shrugged a delicate shoulder. “It was only a matter of time before England fell. You see, I know which side to choose. And to the victor, the spoils will fall.”

Penelope stared at the vicious thing before her, so warped with hatred and pride. Of all the emotions sweeping through her, the one that came to the fore was pity. “I am sorry for you then. You may keep yourself alive for a little longer on this earth, but you have squandered your soul, and thus lost everything.”

The comtesse stared at her and swallowed hard. “Take them.” Her voice did not waver. She rose and swept her hands over her golden silk gown. “I must greet my guests.”

Penelope realized with a start that tonight was the eve of Twelfth Night and the annual ball of the Comtesse de Marseille. She could not possibly be killed in a house with people dancing above. Her legs wobbled and her hands shook.

“Miss Rose.” Marchford held out his arm and Pen took it. It was a comforting gesture. Whether Marchford had a plan of how to get them out of this situation or not, at the very least, they would leave this earth bravely, with dignity, and together. He patted her hand, and Penelope took courage. He was a calming presence, but the comtesse was right. He might be a peer of the realm, but he was not immortal.

They were led down the back stairs, the sounds of music a mockery in their ears. Penelope could feel the cold, hard edge of the shotgun in her back. She doubted whether the surly man behind her cared whether he shot her in the heart in the cellar or in the back on the stairs. If she called for help, no one would hear. If she bolted and ran, she would be shot. Nothing to do but proceed to the cellar and accept her fate with the resolve of an Englishwoman.

“How did you find me?” Pen whispered to Marchford.

“Went to the last place I knew spies had been,” replied Marchford. “Thought to enlist the help of the comtesse. Didn’t expect to find her the spymaster.”

They walked down the servants’ stairs and then on down rickety, wooden ones. It was going to be difficult for someone to hoist their bodies back out. Penelope shuddered at the macabre turn of her mind.

She stepped gingerly into the cellar, the freezing cold seeping through her wool coat, into her bones. The two men, one holding the shotgun, the other a lantern, followed into the space that had once housed the safe. Had it been two or three days ago? The time all ran together. The light of the lantern danced angrily on the stone walls of the cellar. The sounds of the ball above had been completely silenced. None would hear them scream; none would hear the shots. Once dead, the comtesse could arrange her little scene anywhere and anytime she wanted.

Marchford led her to the back of the cellar, near where the safe had been, and turned to face his killers, his face perfectly calm. He moved her slightly behind him, which she thought was kind, albeit utterly useless to protect her from bullets. Penelope wondered how he could remain so much at his ease. Her own heart was banging so hard against her rib cage she feared she might break one.

“Sorry, Your Grace, that it come to this,” said the bodyguard with the lantern. “But I needs to do as I’m ordered, you understand.”

Marchford gave him a short nod. “I would ask for your indulgence for a moment so I may address the lady.”

“No talking. Time’s up.” The burly man with the shotgun took aim, but the other put his hand on the barrel, lowering it.

“Last request. What’s right is right,” said the bodyguard with the lantern. “All right, gov’ner, have your say.”

To Penelope’s surprise, Marchford went down to one knee on the ground before her.

“Penelope Rose.” Marchford bowed his head before her. “Allow me to beg your forgiveness for bringing you into this adventure. I should never have let you get involved.”

“I do forgive you if there was anything to forgive,” said Penelope with fervor. “You always did what you thought was right in the service of your king and country. Besides, you would have had difficulty preventing me from becoming involved.”

“True.” Marchford met her eyes and took her hand with his left hand. Pen thought this a trifle unusual, but then again, she had a duke on his knees before her and two men wanting to kill her, so it was an unusual day all around.

“Penelope, I have one more confession to make. I told you that I proposed because you were useful, because we were caught, and because I wanted your continued assistance in this mission. Those considerations were all true, but not the reason I proposed.” He paused and let his free hand fall to the ground, as if needing additional support. “I told you I could never love you, and that also was a lie. The real reason I proposed, the real reason I attempted to trap you into marriage, is because I love you.”