Amanda Forester

by A Wedding in Springtime

  “But why would Neville ask me to steal it for him?”

  “There are two possibilities. The first is that he is doing exactly what he says—he is trying to get the code so he can protect it and testing persons in my household to see if they are susceptible to bribes. The second option is that he is the traitor himself and trying to get the codes, so he can pass them on to his contacts in France.”

  “Mr. Neville a traitor?” The skin on her arms prickled with goose bumps as with a chill. “Which do you think more likely?”

  “I’d like to think he is the traitor, but that is only because I do not care for the man. However, I have found that the spies among us are generally those you do not expect, rather than those you do.”

  Penelope took a long breath and leaned back in her chair. “So I may have been conversing with a traitor? What would have happened if I had given him the code?”

  “If he is the traitor, he would have taken the codes and given them to France. If he is what he purports to be, the codes would have been hidden away and neither of us would have ever seen them again.”

  “And the ten thousand? I am only wondering, you understand.”

  “It is understandable. If he is not the traitor, he most likely would have had you arrested for theft and sent you to Newgate. If he is the traitor, he would have more than likely taken the codes and given you a bullet through the brain.”

  “Oh!” Penelope covered her mouth.

  “Forgive me. I am not accustomed to speaking of these things with ladies. I have said too much.”

  “Nonsense, I appreciate your candor. I would rather deal with whatever business is at hand in a straightforward manner.” Penelope smoothed her skirts as if brushing away the disturbing revelations.

  Marchford smiled. “You are not what I expected, and I rarely am surprised by people.”

  Penelope took this as a compliment. “Thank you, I am glad I exceeded your expectations.” Though she guessed they were dreadfully low from the start.

  “So why not take the money? Ten thousand pounds would be a fortune to you.”

  “There are few for whom it would not be a fortune.”

  “True. So why not take it?” asked Marchford.

  “My grandmama told me, if something was too good to be true, find another way to get what you want.”

  “I have heard that saying a little differently.”

  “My grandmother would not be considered good ton, but she was always amusing. And educational.”

  Marchford stood and poured himself a drink of some amber liquid from a carafe on a side table. “I think I’m going to need a drink. Shall I call for some Madeira for you?”

  “No, thank you. I generally limit myself to tea and lemonade.”

  “Another piece of grandmama’s advice?”

  Penelope smiled. “Grandma Moira drank naught but whiskey.”

  Marchford raised his eyebrows.

  “She was a Scot.”

  “Say no more. So let me see, where were we? Oh yes, you were about to tell me what it is you want.”

  “Was I?” asked Pen. She knew what she wanted, but it would only work if he came to the conclusion himself.

  “I am almost certain of it. Perhaps you have passed up one opportunity with the eye to another?” Marchford took a sip without breaking his gaze on her.

  “Would another opportunity be forthcoming? I seem to be at liberty to hear proposals today.” Penelope folded her hands in her lap.

  “I appreciate the information you provided today. I do, at times, employ people to keep their eyes and ears open and tell me what they see and hear.”

  “I do pride myself on being observant; however, I work for your grandmother. I would not like to have any conflicts with my loyalty to her.”

  “Perhaps my interest in your observations is limited to situations that do not involve my grandmother. I doubt I would like to know what schemes she is concocting; in fact, I know I do not.”

  “I feel sure you are right.”

  “So she is plotting revenge?” Marchford’s tone revealed more anxiety at that prospect than he had shown all day.

  “I defer to your better knowledge in regards to your relations,” said Pen, dodging the question.

  Marchford chuckled and took a sip of his drink. “You are a worthy adversary, Miss Rose. I shall see to it that your wages will reflect our new arrangement. Now, all that is left is to settle on the price.”

  “Oh no, sir,” said Pen, rising from her seat. “A lady never haggles with a gentleman over price. Quite unseemly. You decide what you think is appropriate, and I will know how greatly you value my contribution to your work by the amount of your decision.”

  Marchford rose and gave her a small bow. “Please do not take this the wrong way, but if you were a man, I’d hire you as my personal secretary immediately.”

  “Alas, there is nothing I can do about the disappointment of my gender, but I will try to serve you in some small way.”

  “Miss Rose, there is nothing about you that I find a disappointment.” He gazed at her intently, his dark eyes unreadable.

  Up until this moment, Penelope had felt perfectly comfortable, but now heat slithered up the back of her neck and she swallowed compulsively. She acknowledged his comment with a quick curtsy and fled the room for safer ground.

  Fifteen

  Genie could not stop smiling. She had worn a smile since she returned home from her walk. She had smiled through her bath, smiled through dinner, smiled through cards, and even when her aunt chastised her for smiling, she smiled back her apology. She awoke to a sunny spring day with the smile still on her face.

  Everything around her was like a dream; the only thing real was Grant. He liked her. He held her. He kissed her. He really did—he kissed her. She had dreamed of being kissed someday. She did not count Ernie Walters, a precocious ten-year-old who caught her under the mistletoe.

  Mr. Grant definitely counted. The way he held her, caressing her back, shot strange sensations through her. He was strong; she could feel the muscles beneath his perfectly tailored coat. But the best part about him was the way he smelled. It was like nothing she had ever experienced before. It drew her to him—she wanted him, needed him. He smelled like pine and musk mixed with cheroot and whiskey, which Genie recognized sounded wretched, but on him was intoxicating.

  Genie floated to the sitting room, where she was expected to keep her aunt and cousin company. She chose a comfortable chair and sighed, sitting back into the cushions. Mr. Grant. Mrs. Grant. Mrs. Eugenia Grant.

  “Genie!”

  Genie snapped back to the room and sat straight. Her aunt was frowning at her again, nothing new there, but Louisa was looking at her with a curious expression.

  “Are you acquainted with a Mrs. Grant?” asked Louisa, giving Genie a pointed look.

  Had she spoken the name out loud? Heat rose to her cheeks as she faced her aunt. “Y-yes. Mrs. Grant, an old friend I was just thinking of her. What shall we be eating tonight, Aunt Cora?”

  Lady Bremerton, who prided herself on her table, could not resist launching into a detailed description of the dinner, and so the topic was changed. Halfway through the description of the lobster pâté, Genie heard a slight tapping on the window behind her. She turned and glimpsed a figure in the window before it ducked from sight.

  “What was that, Genie?” asked her aunt.

  “I am not sure,” said Genie, but something told her the rapping at the window was for her. Her aunt launched into details of braised ham, and Genie once again heard the furtive rapping. She did not turn around this time. She knew someone was trying to get her attention.

  Her heart raced. Was it Grant? Perhaps he had returned to continue where they had left off under the tree? Genie politely excused herself and walked to the front door. She felt odd in doing so and realized she had actually never opened the front door herself.

  She opened the door slowly, her heart pounding hard. Who was it? There on the front
stoop was… no one.

  “Can I help you, Miss Talbot?”

  Genie turned with a start, putting her hand over her chest as if to keep her heart inside her rib cage. “You startled me.”

  The butler said nothing, his polished, smooth exterior revealing nothing of his true emotions. “Did you wish to go out?”

  “No, I thought I heard someone at the door.” It was the wrong thing to say, she knew it as soon as the words left her mouth.

  The butler stood very tall and very straight, the very picture of pained pride. “I do expect I can answer the door, Miss Talbot.”

  “Yes, of course you can. My mistake.” Genie hurried past the offended butler and headed back to her room. She needed to get herself under control. What was the matter with her? Mr. Grant was very diverting, and he might steal a kiss under a willow tree, but he had no intentions toward marriage. She needed to push him from her mind.

  A tapping sound startled her out of her revelry, particularly since her bedroom was on the third floor. She peeked through the curtains cautiously and was relieved not to find someone hanging onto the window ledge.

  Plink! A small rock bounced off her window. She flung back her curtains. Perhaps Mr. Grant had come to see her after all. Opening the window, she saw a small figure cloaked in shadows.

  “Oi! Milady!” called the figure, a shape much too small to be Grant. “Dub the jigger fer me!”

  “Jem?” asked Genie. Was it the young boy who had tried to steal Pen’s bandbox? “Whatever are you doing?”

  “Open the side door fer me, miss!”

  Genie hustled down to the servants’ entrance, being careful to stay out of sight. She opened the door and let in the errant Jem, his long hair a tangled mess, his feet still without shoes.

  “I gots a message fer ya.” The lad puffed out his chest.

  “Who is this from and how have you come to be a messenger?”

  “I don’t know the swell. But he found me watching the house fer ya and tipped me a crown to give you this.” The urchin handed Genie a folded letter.

  “Watching for me? Whatever for?”

  “Yous was right nice to me,” said the lad with simple admiration in his eyes.

  Genie’s heart was softened instantly to the child. Had he never known kindness? She gave him a smile and turned to the letter. The note was brief and won a smile from Genie.

  “Does ya have a reply? I’m supposed to wait fer a reply.”

  “Yes, tell your gentleman friend I shall meet him tomorrow. Now tell me Jem, have you eaten supper tonight?”

  Jem’s eyes got large and he licked his lips. “No, milady,” he whispered.

  “Let us do something about that, shall we?”

  Jem followed Genie into the kitchen. At once, Genie knew she did not belong downstairs. This was the servants’ territory. Yet she knew she must feed the child, so she walked bravely into the heart of the servants’ domain.

  The servants were sitting around the table having tea and biscuits. A fire burned cheerfully in the fireplace and a groomsman played a jaunty tune on a fiddle. Everything stopped when she walked into the room. The servants all stood swiftly to their feet.

  “Please, continue, do not stand on my account,” said Genie, heat rising in her cheeks.

  “What can we help you with, Miss Talbot?” asked the butler with polite disregard.

  “I merely wished to ask for some supper for this boy who…” Genie was about to say he had given her a message but swallowed it back down. No one was supposed to know about that, hence the importance of using a small child instead of delivering it through the post.

  “He has been a help to me. Is there some supper we could provide?” asked Genie.

  No one moved, but everyone eyed the filthy creature with suspicion. “This is a Christian household, Miss Talbot,” said Mrs. Grady, the housekeeper. “That boy does not belong in a respectable house.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you are right. Jem here is hardly respectable. But since this is a Christian household, should we not do our duty to feed the hungry and clothe the needful?”

  “You want us to clothe him too? It won’t do no good wi’ him so filthy.”

  “It would be nice to provide him with clothes too, thank you for that suggestion. Would there be anything that could be used for that purpose while we get him something to eat?”

  Despite the looks of reproach sent her from the various members of the household staff, Genie stood firm. Eventually, the housekeeper relented and barked out succinct orders to have the miscreant fed and clothed. Genie insisted the boy wash his hands and face before being fed, and he surprised the company by being covered in freckles, which had been concealed by the general grime. His arms and legs were scrawny and hung loosely from his body like a limp marionette.

  Jem was excited about the prospect of cold ham, bread, biscuits, and tea, eating more than Genie thought a young boy could inhale. He was less excited about putting on a pair of old children’s shoes one of the housemaids found in the attic, but quickly accepted an old coat.

  “Now what are you going to do with the little heathen?” asked the housekeeper, voicing the question Genie had rattling around in her mind.

  “Do you have a place to stay, Jemmy?” asked Genie.

  Jem nodded his head, then shook it, then shrugged and reached for another fistful of ham.

  “Well, do you or don’t you?” asked the housekeeper.

  “I stay wi’ Mr. Master, if’n he don’t beat me. If’n he’s in a drubbn’ mind, I sleeps in a doorway.”

  “You poor dear,” said Genie.

  “Naught but a street urchin,” muttered the housekeeper, less inclined toward sympathy.

  “But could we not keep him?” asked Genie.

  The housekeeper crossed her arms over her generous bosom. “You would have to get permission from his lordship and her ladyship first, and I’d bet a lifetime of Sundays they will not be so inclined. He’s just a street rat. London is full of them. ’Tis sad to be sure, but there is naught we can do for him.”

  Genie was committed to the path of helping her wayward street urchin, but she had to agree that Lady Bremerton was unlikely to look on Jem with anything other than disgust. Yet Genie knew she was in the right, and once she was confident in her principles, she never backed down.

  “Do you have any parents or family?” asked Genie.

  The child shook his head.

  “Who is this Mr. Master you speak of?”

  “He pays us to do things, nick stuff mostly,” said the boy, taking another hearty bite of biscuit while stuffing a few more in his pocket.

  “Well,” said Genie, thinking of what to do. “Well, there is nothing else we can do—we must speak with my aunt.”

  ***

  “Your excursion to see your betrothed has cost me my coat,” accused Grant, swirling his whiskey.

  “Your coat?” asked Marchford, sitting across from him in their accustomed club.

  “Was left on a damp Miss Talbot. Had twelve flaps, made by Brooks. I have a mind to ask for it back.”

  “You wish to see Miss Talbot again?”

  “I’d like to see my coat again.”

  “She is a fine article, Grant.”

  “Yes, but what is she going to do with a man’s coat? Can’t wear it. Look demmed silly on a girl.”

  Marchford shook his head and went back to his newspaper. “You avoid a topic better than any man I know. Go see your Miss Talbot if you like.”

  “By Jove, you’re right. Must get it back before the next storm hits.” With that dubious justification, Grant left Marchford in the club and took his phaeton to the Bremerton town house.

  The Bremerton house was a fine one as houses go. Its placement, grandeur, and distinguished marks of age all heralded an established lineage. The Earl of Bremerton boasted the bluest blood in the neighborhood.

  Mr. Grant, who came from his own long line of established gentry, accepted the trappings of wealth and prestige with
equanimity. He was quite at home in these surroundings, everything in order, everything managed in adherence to a strict code of conduct. It was comfortable, predictable, maybe even mundane at times, but he did not fail to recognize he had a very comfortable life.

  When Grant was admitted into the drawing room, raised voices were a clear sign that something in the ordered life of the respectable Bremerton household had gone seriously awry.

  “Absolutely out of the question,” declared Lord Bremerton in a voice that defied response. He was an older gentleman of few words, so he expected people to heed those words once he troubled himself to utter them.

  “But we cannot turn our backs on him. Why, he is only a child!” cried Miss Talbot.

  Lord Bremerton was so unaccustomed to having anyone talk back to him, he opened and closed his mouth several times without saying a word.

  “Yes, dear, I see that he is only a child, and these things are much too bad, but Lord Bremerton is right. We cannot allow such a creature to live in our house.” Lady Bremerton fluttered a handkerchief in front of her as if to ward away such a noxious thought.

  The object of such consternation was a small, scrawny boy, with a thick crop of red hair that stuck out from his head at odd angles like a flashy porcupine. Far from being disconcerted by the conversation in which he appeared to be the primary subject, the child wandered toward the tea tray and made short work of the cakes and biscuits, eating with two hands at an alarming pace, as if he was trying to stuff as much as possible into his mouth before someone shooed him away from the food.

  “This child is being used by an unscrupulous man to conduct crimes. Jem says if he cannot steal enough each day, he is beaten. Surely you cannot ask me to return this boy to such a situation,” said an impassioned Miss Talbot.

  “If the boy is a thief, he should be locked in Newgate,” growled Lord Bremerton.

  “But it is not his fault. Surely we must show this child Christian charity, as we are commanded in the Bible.”

  At the mention of the Holy Book, Lady Bremerton put her handkerchief to her forehead and sank majestically to her couch. “Oh, Mr. Grant!” Lady Bremerton started with the sudden realization of his presence in the room. “I fear you catch us at an inopportune moment.”