She had considered it a useless garment, except tonight it would serve an important purpose. She was going to seduce the Duke of Marchford and trap him into marrying her. Not her best moment, but she would own her mistakes, and if this was one, so be it.
She donned slippers and covered herself with a warm robe; it was freezing in the hallways. She waited until everyone returned from the ball and retired to their rooms, and then a while longer to ensure everyone slept. Now was her moment.
She crept down the hall to Marchford’s door and lifted her hand to knock. Was she truly going to do this? What strange circumstance had led her, sensible, pragmatic Penelope, to be knocking on the door of a duke, with the express purpose of bedding him and wedding him? Apparently in that order.
Her father, the country parson, would not be pleased.
She rapped lightly on the door. It was not exactly the right thing to do, but she could think of no better plan. Seduction and guilt would have to do. She rapped a little harder on the door. No answer. Perhaps he was asleep.
She turned the doorknob, her heart pounding. The door swung open. She tiptoed into the room, holding her candle aloft. Her small light flickered against the walls. The bed was empty. The room was empty.
He was gone.
How long she stood there in the empty room she could not say. Eventually, she crept back to her room and returned a minute later, placing the ancient knife he had given her on his dresser. She had no right to it now. She had no right to him. She shuffled back to her bed, tears running down her cheeks. This was a problem she could not fix. She was not in control. She doubted she ever had been.
***
Snow can be treacherous but beautiful. Raise the temperature a few degrees and you have freezing rain, a weather condition none could enjoy. Yet Marchford spent the better part of the night standing outside the house of Mortimer Sprot in the cold, dark, and wet.
He knew he should report what he found—whom he found—but he could not. Sometime in the gray hour before dawn, he returned to his house. He needed sleep to clear his mind so he could think. Instead, he found himself standing outside Penelope’s door. What he wanted was her.
He put his hand on the doorknob. He should not, could not go in, yet there was no one else he needed to see. Everything had gone so terribly wrong; he wanted to talk to his friend, tell her what had happened. Of course, she already knew because it had happened to her too.
He cringed remembering the things he had said to her. The shock of pain in her eyes was more than he could bear. But there was no other choice. He loved her too much to allow her to be caught up in the nightmare that was his life.
The thought stilled him. Did he truly love Penelope? He shook his head. What did he know of love? He was trapped, but she could walk away. Her freedom was the only true gift he could give.
Marchford forced himself to pull away from the door and staggered back down to his study, to put distance between himself and temptation. He collapsed onto a dark leather couch. He could not think what to do. He had learned the importance of taking command of any situation, but this night was utterly outside anything he had anticipated or experienced.
There was nothing left to be done. And so he prayed, as he had not prayed in years, until he fell into a heavy, dreamless sleep.
***
No matter how dark the night, the sun always rises. After days of snow and rain, Penelope was shocked by bright sunlight on a crisp winter morning. She wrapped herself in a robe and sat in the window seat, her face to the rising sun.
Pen searched for a solution to the situation before her, but this was one problem she did not know how to fix. She recalled a similar empty feeling in her gut when her parents died of the fever. She tried to figure out how to bring them back to her, but of course, there was nothing she could do. Her father’s teaching floated back. He would suggest prayers. But what should she say?
Her musings were suddenly interrupted by a loud rat-a-tat-tat banging. She jumped up and scurried out of her room. She began to fly down the stairs to the source of the noise but stopped short. Before her were nine drummers, drumming.
The aunts, cousins, and a gray-haired uncle emerged from the upstairs bedrooms drawn in wonder to the source of the syncopated beat. The drummers were military, all in their red coat regimentals with shining brass buttons. The younger boy cousins raced down the stairs and began marching about to the beat of the drum.
All Penelope could think was that James had changed his mind and this was his way of apologizing and wanting her back. She was more than willing to accept his apology and looked around to find him, hoping to see him smiling at her in his casual manner that befitted a duke.
Finally, Marchford stumbled out of the study in the same clothes he had worn to the wedding the night before. “Go! Not needed,” he barked at the infantrymen.
Penelope’s heart sank. The rhythm of the drums ceased, and everyone watched in silence as the drummers filed out of the house. Marchford strode up the stairs, his unshaven face of such cold disregard that no one dared to ask him anything.
“Well, I never,” said one of the aunts when Marchford had returned to his room. The entire extended family turned to Penelope as if she were going to explain the strange happenings, but Pen simply returned to her room. There was nothing she could say.
It was an unusually quiet breakfast. The younger members of the family had been banished elsewhere—Pen had not the energy to bother to inquire where—and the aunts, cousins, and great uncle all ate in silence, looking between her and Marchford. For his part, Marchford chose a suit of dark gray. He looked appropriate for a funeral.
Penelope wanted to speak to him but dared not with the eyes of his family on her—suspicious, resentful, curious, and haughty in different measures. There was nothing she could say under such scrutiny, so she focused on her eggs, determined to eat quickly and leave the awkward gathering. As the minutes dragged on, she could not stand to eat in silence any longer, and so she broached a subject she knew would be dear to the finer sensibilities of the aunts.
“The wedding ball was a great success, do you not think? Except some young thing wore emerald,” said Penelope, throwing out the bait. “Thought she was too young for it. Caused a bit of a stir.”
“As well it should. I despise seeing any young thing in anything but white muslin,” cried one of the aunts, unable to remain silent. “Who was it? Someone should speak to her mama.”
“I am not certain, but I believe the mother had taken ill before the event, so the young miss dressed herself,” said another aunt.
“But who served as chaperone?” asked the first.
“Her brother,” said a cousin in a scandalized tone.
The aunts shook their heads. “Clearly not up to the challenge.”
“Quite,” said Penelope, feeling more relaxed for breaking the awkward silence. Marchford, however, remained beyond approach.
“You can never be too careful with the raising of girls. You must have a firm hand or they may turn out very wild,” said one aunt.
“So true.” Lady d’Anjou swirled into the room in a sweeping champagne morning dress of nothing less than silk, followed by a harried butler.
“Ah…err,” stammered the usually unflappable butler. “The Dowager Duchess of Marchford?”
The aunts gasped; one shrieked, as if witnessing the dead rising, which in a sense she was. The uncle leaped to his feet, his mouth gaping open. The butler remained in the room for a moment, as if waiting to see if there would be blood, then turned on his heel and left. Marchford slowly rose, his eyes focused on his errant mother, his mouth grim.
“I am Lady d’Anjou now,” said the black-haired beauty with a dazzling white smile. “Duchess of Marchford never quite seemed to fit.”
One of the aunts snorted and another collapsed forward onto the table, where several cousins began fanni
ng her furiously to revive her delicate sensibilities.
“Well, bless me,” stammered the uncle with delight. “So lovely to see you, Bella. So lovely indeed! How have you been—ow!” He looked down at his sharp-faced wife, and Penelope had no doubt he had just received a correctional kick in the shin. So chastised, the uncle sank back to his seat.
“Would you care to join us for breakfast?” said Penelope to break the icy silence that had fallen.
“Yes, that would be delightful,” said James’s mother, accepting a seat near him. “I know it is a tad early to call, but I thought since we were family…”
“I cannot, will not share a breakfast table or anything else with this…this…woman!” declared one of the aunts, rising to her feet as if to avoid sullying herself by breaking bread with the radiant creature before her.
The other aunts, cousins, and the reluctant uncle all stood as well. “If you will allow this woman into your house, I think it past time we bid you farewell,” said another aunt, casting not only Marchford’s mother but also Marchford himself a look of utter contempt.
Any words of reconciliation died in Penelope’s throat. “I am so sorry you must be going. I do hope you have a pleasant journey home.”
The aunts gasped again at not gaining preference and marched out of the room, the uncle giving a little apologetic wave. Bella gave Penelope a smile and a nod of approval. Marchford, however, had turned to marble, a frozen, impenetrable mask. With a wave, he dismissed the footmen so they were alone.
“I am sorry to cause a stir, darling,” said Bella.
“You were always causing a stir,” said Marchford with frost in his tone.
Bella smiled. “I suppose you are right. You have grown up so well. And have chosen a fine bride.” Bella smiled at Penelope, and Pen could not help but feel gratified at her acceptance, followed by a grinding emptiness of knowing it was all for nothing.
“Miss Rose and I have come to an amicable dissolution of any claim I may have imposed upon her.” Marchford’s voice was without emotion.
“The engagement is off?” Bella’s dainty eyebrows rose.
“Yes,” said Marchford.
“No,” said Penelope.
“Oh dear. There seems to be a difference of opinion,” said Bella.
“Miss Rose, I believe we settled this last night,” Marchford ground out.
“No, I fear it is far from settled,” said Pen, choosing this moment to be bold. She could hardly lose anything more than she already had.
“Miss Rose, you need to return to your sisters.” Marchford adopted a businesslike tone. “I asked you to marry me. You refused. The situation has been concluded for the best.”
“I’ve changed my mind. I will accept you now.”
“I understand your terms and cannot meet them. Besides, this is not the time or place to discuss the matter,” said Marchford sharply.
“Oh, do not stop on my account. I cannot wait to see what happens next,” said Bella with a darling smile.
“Mother.” James turned on her. “I need to speak with you. Alone.”
Penelope had to respect the request and rose from the table.
“But, my dear, if you will marry this girl, she should stay and hear this too,” said Bella.
Penelope sat back down. She did not need much encouragement to remain.
James glowered at them both but apparently did not choose to continue the fight. “Fine. Mother, I have decided not to turn you over as a traitor. But I need you to tell me whom you are working for and then I need you to leave. And this time never return.”
Instead of being insulted, Bella merely smiled. “And this is what you think of me? That I would abandon any loyalties to my late husband and aid the enemies of King George?”
“Abandoning is what you do best.” Marchford’s voice was like ice.
“I see.” Bella blinked her large eyes innocently, but Marchford was unmoved. “I suppose you might be right, as always,” said Bella in a light tone, dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief. “I do not know where to begin.”
“I need names, any information you have. Then leave. If you need money, it will be provided for you.” Marchford folded his arms across his chest.
“It is a fair offer. It warms my heart that you would consider my welfare after all these years. The bonds between mother and son—”
“Are gone.” Marchford stood up. “You relinquished any right to call me that years ago. Now, I need names, dates, information. Anything more is irrelevant. Please do not insult me by wasting my time.”
Bella’s eyes shone. “Yes, you shall make a fine duke.”
“He is a fine duke,” said Penelope softly.
“Indeed. Very true.” Bella’s smile was dazzling. “You have grown up so well, I am convinced I made the right decision.”
“And what decision was that?” asked Marchford.
“To leave you.” Bella blotted her eyes again. “Forgive me for contradicting you, for I have my faults, but treason is not among them.”
“I am not interested in listening to your denials.” Marchford stated, “I am only interested in the truth.”
“Then perhaps you will listen to me.” To everyone’s surprise, Mortimer Sprot appeared at the table.
Marchford sat down hard. “How do you do that?”
Mortimer merely gave a melancholy smile. “Forgive the interruption, but Lady d’Anjou invited me to share some information.”
“You deserve to know the truth,” said Bella. “I did leave you, but it was not of my desire.” Bella looked up at the ceiling, as if reliving the events. “I was sixteen when I met your father—such a dashing duke. I fell madly in love. He is, to this day, the only man I ever truly loved, besides you, my dear one.” Bella smiled at James, who only once more folded his arms across his chest.
“I had no idea what to expect when we returned to England and was shocked by the fierce opposition I encountered from the duchess.” Bella’s eyes gleamed. “I was not one to back down I fear, and I fought back. She always thought me very wild, and I expect it was true. I was faithful to the duke, though, while he lived. Afterward, I felt I had lost my only friend in the world. So I went in search of new friends.”
Marchford’s eyebrows fell even farther over his eyes. It was not much encouragement to continue, but she did.
“If I had but known what my indiscretion would cost me…” Bella sighed. “Antonia discovered it and demanded I take you and leave. I pleaded with her on your behalf. Frederick had inherited the title of duke, and she felt very little need of you. In the end, we agreed that I would leave, and she would raise you as she saw fit.”
“And what is your role in this tragedy?” Marchford directed his question to Mortimer Sprot.
“I met Lady d’Anjou many years ago and requested that she provide the Crown with information only she was in a position to acquire,” said Sprot.
It was nicely spoken, but Penelope caught the meaning. Bella used her liaisons with men of rank and power to gain information for the Crown. From Marchford’s cold stare, it was evident he also understood.
“You were a spy for the Foreign Office?” Marchford asked his mother.
“Yes,” said Bella simply.
“And you knew of it this whole time.” Marchford turned on Mortimer. “You knew I was searching for her. Why did you not tell me?”
“It was my decision, darling,” said Bella with sad eyes. “Some of my activities required that I become intimate with certain men, and I believed you would not like it.”
“Like it? Of course I would not like it. Or allow it!” Marchford stood his eyes blazing. “Now I know why I was never able to find her—because you were helping her hide.” He pointed at Sprot.
“Yes, it is true. But the information we received was critical. The invasion plans themselves we would
never have known without her work,” explained Sprot, his sagging wrinkles making him appear like a perpetually sad hound dog.
“Why now?” Marchford began to pace at the head of the table. “Why reveal yourself now?”
“It was not intended,” soothed Bella. “I was in Town only briefly on a mission, and we found a message about meeting in that room at midnight. I was attempting to discover the spy. Instead, it appears we were set up.”
Marchford gave a mirthless chuckle. “I see. We played into their hands. I do hope someone is enjoying this little farce. But as for me, I am done.” He glared at Mortimer. “I trusted you and this is how you repay me? You are no longer welcome in my home. I never wish to see your face again.”
Mortimer Sprot bowed his head in solemn acknowledgment.
“I wish you all good day.” Marchford stormed out of the room followed by Penelope and Bella.
Instead of being able to speak with James privately, they encountered the aunts, cousins, and sheepish uncle coming down the stairs in traveling clothes. The adults were all thin-lipped and silent, but the younger members of the party were not so circumspect, and despite many hushed warnings to be quiet, their little voices rang through the entryway.
“Why do we need to leave now, Mama?”
“But I want to play with Uncle James!”
“Why can’t we stay until tomorrow?”
“What does ‘hoyden’ mean, Mama?”
Marchford stood before the family that was abandoning him with marked equanimity, his hands clasped behind his back. “I wish you a pleasant journey.” He nodded to the aunts and cousins, shook the hand of the uncle, and saw all of them loaded into the carriage out front.
Marchford returned to the entryway, glaring first at Bella then Penelope. Somehow, without being seen, Mortimer Sprot had taken his leave.
“I suppose I should leave too,” said Penelope with reluctance. Now that her chaperones were gone, she could not stay in the house with Marchford.
A Winter Wedding Page 25