“Bad run in cards?”
“Horrid. Now go talk to that bride of yours and leave me to my whiskey.”
Marchford stood in a calm, fluid motion. He was like that, always thinking and revealing nothing. It was one reason Grant reasoned Marchford needed him. Who else would give him the nudge into breaking that impenetrable shell and doing something relatively human? Marchford had been a spy too long. Not that Marchford had ever told Grant the nature of his work for the Foreign Office, but Grant knew. He just did.
“Perhaps you should see that pretty face you were dancing with earlier this evening.”
“Was I? Which one?” Grant asked with utter nonchalance, but he knew exactly who Marchford meant.
“Deception does not become you. Especially when you do it so poorly,” Marchford observed without emotion.
Another man might be offended, but Grant merely laughed. Marchford was right as usual, but Grant was much too practiced a bachelor to fall for easy bait. He had met many a charming, pretty face. It would take more than that to catch him.
And yet, as he forced himself back to the ballroom to dance with more simpering females, he easily recognized that no woman had ever inspired him to do something so undignified. If he was a wise man, he would take care to avoid Genie in the future. Yes, indeed, his flirtation with Miss Eugenia Talbot was officially at an end.
At least, if he had any sense, it would be.
Eleven
Lady Louisa Munthgrove, esteemed only daughter of Lord and Lady Bremerton, was surprisingly difficult to find. Despite having ignored her completely for the past three years of their official engagement, Marchford somehow expected her to be standing patiently along the wall of the ballroom, waiting for him. She was not. Nor was she eating a brief repast or playing at cards or walking in the garden. It occurred to him that he actually knew very little about Lady Louisa, except that she was a demure girl who was challenging to find. What did she do with her time? Where did she go? Where was she now?
Marchford strolled out into the garden, a rush of cool air pleasant after the heat of the ballroom. Grant was right; he needed to at least be on speaking terms with her. They were going to be married after all, no way around that. He had looked into the contract and spoken to Louisa’s father. His plan to quietly end the contract after his brother’s death had been met with fierce opposition. The Earl of Bremerton wanted his only heir to marry a duke, and it really did not matter which one.
Marchford knew what he must do. He would not force the matter and bring scandal to his house and to that of Lady Louisa. Love may not be in his future, but a marriage certainly was.
Instead of returning to the ballroom, Marchford sat on a stone bench in the garden, appreciating the stillness of the moonless night. Light poured from the door of the house, dimly lighting the garden in shades of gray. Tall bushes formed walls to create different rooms in the garden, some in sight, others hidden from view. It would be a pleasant place to stroll with an interest of fancy, not that he was at leave to indulge in that sort of activity. Marchford closed his eyes and breathed in the aroma of gardenia with a hint of lilac.
His mother had been a lover of flowers and had cultivated a wild jungle of color in their garden. After his mother was gone, his grandmother ordered the flowers to be ripped from the earth and replaced with sensible hedges. Now the Marchford house garden held nothing but well-mannered bushes trimmed at neat right angles. Nothing dared look unkempt in his grandmother’s garden—his garden. Perhaps it was time to bring back the flowers.
It is remarkable how the soft swish of a woman’s skirts can capture the attention of a man. Marchford turned toward the sound, waiting to see who might appear. Was it a couple hiding in the garden for a few moments alone? Was it a seductress come to help him forget his marital woes? The figure that appeared was definitely female, shapely, and alone.
“Good evening,” said Marchford.
The woman gave a small shriek and put her hand over her mouth. “Marchford?”
“At your service.” Marchford stood and bowed.
She stepped forward into the light, revealing Miss Penelope Rose. “What are you doing here in the dark?” she asked in an accusing manner. “You gave me a fright.”
“I might ask the same of you,” replied Marchford. “Why would my grandmother’s companion abandon her during the party and walk alone in the garden?”
“I hardly abandoned your grandmother. She is playing whist with her friends and has no current need for me. As for walking in the garden, I find the cool air a relief after the hot ballroom. Why are you here? Shall I leave before I interrupt a lovers’ tryst?”
Marchford coughed slightly at her brusque, straightforward manner. It was clear why she remained unmarried. She was all social awkwardness and sharp edges. “Nothing so scandalous, I assure you.”
“Yes, yes, of course not, I beg your pardon.” Penelope turned slightly toward the door to the house, as if wishing to leave but not exactly sure how to extricate herself from the conversation. Marchford was not inclined to help.
“And you? Am I interrupting a lovers’ tryst?”
“Me? A tryst? Certainly not!”
“And yet, you are alone in the garden. It would be a natural assumption, an assumption you in fact made.”
“Did I? Yes, well, you are you and I am, well, me.”
“A true statement.” Marchford smothered a smile. He should not enjoy needling her as much as he did, but her abruptness brought out a little used tendency to tease.
“So you see, there is no…” Penelope broke off and narrowed her eyes. “You are teasing me.”
“Perhaps.”
“That is unkind.”
And at once, Marchford felt it had been unkind. The power differential between them made his words appear not to be the work of a tease but of a bully. And that he could not abide. He opened his mouth to offer his apology, but Penelope spoke before he got the chance.
“Impolitic too,” continued Penelope, “for it will only inspire me to answer in kind.”
Marchford closed his mouth. The fact that he was a duke and she his grandmother’s companion did not appear to cow Miss Rose in the least. It was refreshing. Surprising too.
“And how would you respond? Of what have you to accuse me?”
“Much! Where would you like me to start, Your Grace?”
“I had no idea I had so many flaws readily apparent to the casual observer. Pray tell me, do you find my address lacking?”
“No, your manner and address are all what they should be.” Penelope pursed her lips in a way that informed Marchford she was unhappy about this admission.
“You find want with my fashion or form?”
“No, Your Grace.” Despite the chill of the garden, Penelope snapped open her fan and began to wave it in a distracted manner. “Your form is… you dress quite adequately.”
“What, then, do you have to accuse me of?”
“Your character!”
“My character? Do enlighten me on how you find me wanting.”
“You are prone to tease unmarried and unchaperoned ladies in dark gardens at night!”
“Ah, your shaft hits home! I am guilty as charged, Miss Rose. I stand before you a humbled man. May I escort you back to the ballroom?”
“With pleasure, Your Grace.”
Marchford offered his arm to Penelope and they walked into the ballroom. He was not sure who won that round or why it was they were fighting. He had, whatever the score, enjoyed himself.
After returning Miss Rose to his grandmother, Marchford toured the ballroom, dining room, and card room again to no avail. Lady Louisa was not present. He wondered if she might have gone home when suddenly she appeared, walking along the side of the ballroom. Marchford moved for an intercept and met her at the door to the card room.
“Lady Louisa.” He bowed. He came up and noticed not what he thought he would see, the shy Lady Louisa, but someone quite different than he expected. It was
Louisa, but this version was flushed, her hair was styled poorly, and she appeared to be, and there is no kind way to put this, rather sweaty.
Louisa stared at him with horror in her wide eyes. Her mouth was opened slightly and it took a few moments before she uttered, “Marchford.”
Something was wrong. She was a shy creature, but she should not be horrified by him. “Are you quite well?”
“Yes, of course. I mean, no, not well. I was just going to my mother to beg to go home.”
“I was just leaving myself. Please allow me to convey you home.”
“No!”
Marchford blinked at her vehemence.
“I beg your pardon, but I need to return to my house. I am sure my mother will tend me.”
“As you wish. I do hope you will feel better.”
Lady Louisa dropped a quick curtsy and fled through the door to the card room.
***
“I’m not sure she appreciated your attentions,” drawled Grant, coming up from behind. He had completed his dancing obligations and was longing for freedom.
“Your powers of observation amaze me,” returned Marchford in a similar tone.
“Let’s go rescue Thornton and head to the club,” suggested Grant, noting that Lady Bremerton was taking her two charges, the lovely Miss Talbot among them, back home, which left no reason for Grant to tarry.
Their search for their friend was interrupted by a loud, female scream. Marchford and Grant ran toward the source of the sound, out of the ballroom into the main foyer. They were followed by Thornton and half the ballroom of interested guests.
Lady Devine glided down the stairs holding an empty box.
“What is wrong?” asked Grant, running up to her, with Marchford and Thornton not far behind.
“My emerald necklace, it has been stolen!”
“Stolen?” asked Grant.
“Tell me what happened,” said Marchford, quickly adopting a businesslike tone.
“I slipped upstairs to freshen my face and I found this box, which usually contains my emeralds, empty on my boudoir table!”
People streamed in through the surrounding doors, including the large form of Admiral Devine.
“Dearest!” called his wife. He made his way to her side and a moment’s whisper was enough to turn the admiral’s red face to pale.
More people came in from the ballroom, crowding the hall with a throng of society’s best, eager for scandal.
“My dear friends, nothing to worry about,” called the admiral. “A simple case of a misplaced necklace, nothing more. Please return to dancing, enjoy the French wine; it cost me dear and I will not be satisfied until it is gone.”
Some of the crowd ambled back into the ballroom, while the admiral, his wife, Grant, and his friends went up to investigate the scene of the disappearance.
Their hostess showed the men into the room—a more feminine domain of lace, satin, and feathers one could not imagine. The men stood like awkward oafs in the presence of so many frills and pastels, predominated by an unhealthy dose of pink.
“I found the empty box here,” said the lady, standing beside her dressing table. The admiral moved forward to look, but Grant, Marchford, and Thornton remained planted by the door, overcome by the sheer pinkness of it all. “What else was taken?” Marchford stepped forward, the first of the bachelors to venture into the feminine domain.
“Oh! I had not thought of it. Let me see.” The lady opened an ornately carved cabinet and began to pull out box after box, each containing the expected jewel. “No, nothing else was taken, just the emeralds. It’s odd.”
“Why is that?” asked Grant, overcoming the emasculating decor of the room and joining them.
“The emeralds are not my best piece. Why would the thief only steal that?”
“Yes, that is perplexing,” said Marchford, examining the room.
Lady Devine wiped a tear from her eye. “Do you think the necklace will be returned soon?”
No one answered her. The emeralds were gone.
“What will they do with them? Everyone knows the setting to be mine.”
“The necklace will probably be ripped apart and the jewels sold separately,” said Marchford without feeling.
“It was my mother’s,” whispered Lady Devine as more tears began to fall. The admiral gave Marchford a glare. Grant just shook his head. For a smart man, Marchford could be thoughtless when it came to women.
Grant motioned to Marchford, who readily followed him outside the lady’s domain to where Thornton was still standing. “There may be a thief downstairs. Shall we call the police?”
“And have them search the guests? I imagine Lady Devine would not care for it,” said Thornton, always practical.
“I do not care for this scene,” muttered the duke. “A thief would have had ample opportunity to come up to her boudoir and steal the lot of jewels. It appears to me this scene was made to look like a failed burglary, but in fact, the thief did not care for jewels or more would be taken.”
“But why?” asked Grant.
“Perhaps it was created as a diversion, so the thief could steal what he really wanted.”
“What could that be?” asked Admiral Devine, joining the party.
“Not sure,” said Marchford. “Have you anything else of value?”
“My wife has several pieces of jewelry, but nothing else has been taken.”
“What about you, Uncle. Anything in the house of particular interest to a thief?” asked Grant.
“Well, there is the silver, some artwork, an extensive, if you do not mind me saying, collection of wine, and some of the finest whiskey handed down from my father.” He looked up to the ceiling in a wistful manner.
“Admiral,” said Marchford, bringing him back to the matter at hand. “Have you anything else in the house. Anything perhaps of interest to a French spy?”
The wistful look vanished and the admiral snapped to attention. “My study!”
Twelve
“The keys to the study!” Admiral Devine called to his butler.
“You keep the study locked?” asked Grant, running after his uncle, Marchford and Thornton in pursuit.
“Yes, as a precaution. I have recently received some letters of a most sensitive nature.”
The keys were produced by the butler and the admiral began to unlock the door.
“Wait!” called a demanding voice. “This is a matter for the Crown to investigate!” Mr. Neville pushed his way forward. “My agents report there has been a theft in this house. Admiral Devine, you received sensitive information recently, did you not?”
“Yes, yes, letters. They are in the top drawer of my desk.”
“Careful now,” said Mr. Neville, taking off his large coat. “Maybe we can catch this thief.”
The door was unlocked and the men carefully edged into the dark room.
“There he is!” shouted Neville, and everyone rushed into the room.
“Where is he?”
“Someone bring a light!”
A loud crash shot through the room just as the butler emerged with a candle. The window curtains were flung back and the window was smashed out.
“He’s made a run for it out the window!” called Marchford.
“After him!” called Neville. “I’ll run around the front and try to head him off.”
Marchford pulled the drapes over the broken glass and jumped through the window after the thief, Grant and Thornton right behind him.
“Which way? Did you see him?” asked Grant. They were in a dark, cramped alley between two large houses in crowded London.
“No, let’s split up and find this bastard,” called Marchford. “You two go toward the front, I’ll check behind.”
“The thief may be dangerous. You should not go alone,” said Thornton.
Marchford drew a small revolver from his waistcoat. “I will not be alone.”
“Remind me to talk to you about the accouterments you bring to a ball,” said
Grant, and he turned to run along the side of the house toward the front, Thornton following him. The passage between the two houses was dark, and the men slowed their step around blind corners and entryways, cautious for any surprise attack. They moved silently, listening for any sound.
At the front gate, they heard a scraping noise. Grant carefully lifted the latch. Taking a slow breath to calm his racing heart, he steeled himself for battle. He burst through the gate, but an alley cat merely screeched and disappeared into the night. Grant and Thornton searched around to the front of the house but found no sign of the thief.
Marchford joined them a few minutes later. He too had not found anyone, so they returned to the study, where the admiral stood before his desk. The top drawer had been wrenched open.
“Did you catch the thief?” asked Neville, joining them a few minutes later, breathless and panting.
“No,” replied Marchford. “You?”
“I thought I might have seen him once, but I could not catch him.” Mr. Neville gasped for breath.
“Sit, man, sit,” demanded the admiral.
“Did he get the papers?” asked Mr. Neville, collapsing into a chair.
“I am afraid he did,” replied the admiral.
“Demmit, man!” yelled Mr. Neville. “This is why sensitive information should not be kept in a private residence. This information should be handed over to the Foreign Office for protection.”
“Not that the Foreign Office provides any more protection,” snapped the admiral.
Grant shut the door against unwanted eavesdroppers and gossips, of which London society were the worst offenders. “What do you mean, Uncle?”
“Sprung a leak, my boy. The Foreign Office has been losing information faster than a leaky rowboat takes water.”
“That is a slanderous untruth!” sputtered Neville.
“How else would you explain it?” asked the admiral. “Documents missing, plans known by our enemy before they are even executed, and our spies—many have been discovered or have disappeared.”
“Is this true?” asked Marchford.
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