The door opened a crack and a suspicious eye looked out. “Who you be and what’s yer business?”
“I have come on urgent matters to speak with Lady Bunny,” said Pen.
“Who you be is what matters. You ain’t from here.”
“I am,” spoke up Jem. “Come on now. Bloody cold. Grim Reaper at our heels.”
“Not my concern!”
“Shut the door!” called a voice from within. “Ye’re letting in the draft.”
“Indeed,” said Penelope, putting her shoulder to the door. “How could you be so senseless?” She gave a firm push and forced her way inside, past the elderly man at the door. Jem squeezed in and the door shut behind them. “Lady Bunny if you please.”
The man glared at them from under heavy eyelids. Finally he grunted and led them down a tight, dark hall to a room, revealing a poor tableau of domesticity. The room was cramped and small, particularly after Pen’s standards had been elevated from living with the duchess. The only light came from a small coal fire in the grate, surrounded by grimy children. Adults sat around in chairs and were wrapped in blankets, for even inside the temperature was barely above freezing and Penelope could see her breath when she spoke. All eyes were on her.
“I am here to see Lady Bunny,” she said in a calm, businesslike tone that was in discord with the worried chaos within her.
“Who are ye and what do ye want?” asked a woman from the corner. Instead of a blanket, she wore a wool coat and had a lace cap that marked her as the leader of this ragtag bunch. Her face was thin and her eyes sharp. She leaned forward into the paltry light, revealing two buckteeth that did remind one forcibly of a rabbit.
“I have come to call,” said Penelope, recognizing this to be an absurdity. “I have brought these for your hearth and table.” She reached into her workbag and produced a small bundle of coal and a wrapper of bread. She handed her gifts to the old man, who was still standing at the door and took them readily.
“What do ye want in return?” The woman’s voice was wary.
“I come to ask for your help.”
The woman shook her head. “Do ye ken ye can prance in here and demand help from us for a loaf of bread? I do not know what brought ye here, but it is a fool’s errand. Go home. Ye’re not one of us. Ye’re in danger here.”
Penelope took a breath, her mind spinning. She needed this woman’s help. The room was packed and smelled of wet wool and mold. Everyone was silent, staring at her as if waiting for her to do something remarkable. “Are you not curious what would bring a woman such as myself to your door?” asked Penelope, stepping farther into the room.
One side of Lady Bunny’s mouth turned up. “We have lost our storyteller. Ye may stay and tell yer story. If we like it, we may escort ye out of St. Giles alive. If not…” She raised a thin shoulder.
“Well then,” said Penelope, swallowing her fear. A man in a thick wrapper who was picking at his fingernails with a long knife vacated a wooden chair with a snarl, and she sat down. “My mother married for love and ended up with a country clergyman. Her sister married for money and ended up in Mayfair. I will leave it to you to decide who made the wiser choice.” Penelope decided her best chance of securing the assistance of these suspicious folk was to tell a long version of her story. A very long version.
Jemima crept into the room, disappearing into the shadows with the other youngsters as Pen rambled through the story, telling first of her parents’ death, then how five sisters came to London and how she had helped each one find love and marriage. All romances have their ups and downs, and Penelope made the most of them, giving the stories as dramatic a turn as she could.
When she came to her involvement with the Duke of Marchford, French spies, and English traitors, she was pleased to note her audience leaned forward. One woman even handed her a glass of something for her throat that was beginning to sound with a rasp. Penelope took a sip and tried not to gasp as liquid fire ran down her throat. Whatever it was, it did the trick, numbing her throat and warming her insides.
Now she was getting to the important part—the disappearance of the duke. She paused, wondering how much to reveal. She was not at all certain whether those around her could be trusted. It was time to take a chance.
Penelope told as much of the story as she could and withheld the names as appropriate. “So when I returned to the cellar, the duke was nowhere to be found and all I found was this.” She held up the yellow wrapper from the cheroot.
“We ne’er did nothing to no duke,” cried a man in the room.
“Of course not. But you may know of someone who did,” said Penelope.
“Ye tell a diverting story, I grant ye,” said Lady Bunny. “But we don’t rat out anyone. Wouldn’t be neighborly. Besides, what did this here duke ever do but look down on us and bar his carriage door as he rode by?”
“He gave you Christmas dinner, that’s what.” Jemima’s voice rang out from the gloom.
Bunny’s head cocked to one side. “That was him, was it?”
Penelope nodded. “I do not know exactly what has happened to him, but I hope someone here can help.”
“Ne’er let it be said that we in St. Giles are less loyal subjects to the Crown than any who walk wi’ privilege.” Bunny narrowed her eyes in a shrewd manner. “There will be compensation for time and effort?” she asked Penelope in an undertone.
“Of course.”
Lady Bunny nodded to a few men, and they left with a grumble and a grunt. “Ye best make yerself comfortable,” she said to Penelope. “The lads will let us know if they find anything.”
Penelope resigned herself to accept the hospitality of Lady Bunny and spent an uncomfortable night attempting to sleep in a wooden chair. It was a long, cold night and, throughout the ordeal, her mind continued to return to James. Where was he? Was he safe? Since she could not hold him in person, she held him in prayer.
When the light dawned the next day, Pen sent Jemima back to Grant’s house and continued to wait. Surely they would find something. She could not imagine a world without the Duke of Marchford. Finally, Bunny called for her. “We found something. Man hired some o’ the lads to haul crates. Probably a smuggler. But one lad said he saw a dead man lying on the floor o’ the warehouse.”
Dead?
***
James Lockton, Duke of Marchford, had never been so irritated. As if it wasn’t bad enough he had been knocked unconscious and dragged into some heinous scum hole, he now had to continue to pretend to be incapacitated in order to work on his bonds. This required him to remain lying on his side on the floor, covered in a substance he did not wish to consider. He was not sure how long he had been unconscious or where he was—he could only guess somewhere south of the rotting pit of hell.
“Move it careful now, careful,” growled a voice.
Through barely opened eyes, Marchford could just make out two men moving barrels out of where he was lying and could hear another giving orders.
“What about ’im?” asked one man.
“You just go on about yer business.”
Marchford did not want to wait to find out what they were going to do with him. Nothing pleasant, considering they left him unconscious on a freezing, filthy floor. He redoubled his efforts to cut his bonds with his ancestor’s knife he fortunately dropped in his coat pocket after Penelope returned it. Trying to cut free while bound was not an easy feat, and Marchford wondered if he was doing more damage to the rope or his wrist.
The men continued to load the barrels, though what was in them Marchford had no way of knowing. There were only a few barrels left. When they were done with the freight, they would be coming for him. The men groaned as they lifted the last one.
“Why do I have to do it?” complained one.
“Because I gave you an order,” said another in a brisk tone.
“Don’t want
to. Ain’t right.”
“What’s right is you doing what you’re told or you can go to blazes with him!”
“All right. All right. Just saying he looks mostly dead already.”
“Don’t want him mostly dead. Want him completely dead.”
Marchford’s heart pounded, bringing back circulation to his freezing extremities. Just another minute more and he should be free. Footsteps came near. He didn’t have a minute. Marchford held his breath. The stained, mud-caked boots of the man came slowly nearer. His hands were still bound; the rope would not give. The boots stopped beside him.
Marchford swung his legs around, suddenly knocking the man to the ground and the club from his hand. Marchford tried to stand, but with his hands behind him and his legs and feet numb from the cold and lying motionless, he fell back down, on top of the man’s club. The man scrambled away from him and yelled for help. Marchford tried once more to work on the ropes with his ancient knife.
Two other men came running. “What are you afraid of?” yelled one. “He’s still bound. Just shoot him.”
The other man obligingly took a pistol from his waistband and aimed at Marchford. The rope broke at that moment and Marchford threw the knife, catching the man with the pistol in the throat. He gagged and fell to the floor. Marchford struggled to stand as the first man charged him. Marchford swung and connected, knocking the man to the ground.
The man in the Carrick coat drew a pistol. This was it.
“No!” shouted Penelope, rushing up from behind. The man turned, but she slammed into him before he could get off a shot, throwing the pistol to the side. Penelope, wonderful, glorious Penelope, knocked the man in the Carrick coat to the ground.
“Penelope!” roared Marchford in surprise and fear, charging to protect her. What was she doing here? The man in the Carrick coat rolled to his feet, grabbed Penelope, and put a knife to her throat.
Marchford’s world closed around him. Penelope in danger made him physically ill. He had never known such blinding terror.
“Stop!” commanded the man in the Carrick coat, red-faced and breathing hard. He pulled Penelope close and held the edge of his knife to the tender skin of her neck. The artery pulsed under the blade.
Marchford stopped, desperate for anything that would save her.
“Justin Strader,” said Penelope, whose voice was remarkably calm though her breathing was rapid. “You are the man with the Carrick coat?”
“Shut up!” hissed Strader, and he backed up, dragging her along with him.
“Mr. Strader, Lord Felton’s heir?” asked Marchford, trying to keep his tone conversational. He did not want to give Strader the satisfaction of seeing him panic, and he wanted to give Penelope the hope that only confidence can bring. “What is your business here?”
“None of your concern,” said Strader, continuing to back up, holding Penelope tight.
Marchford took a step closer, keeping the same distance between them. He glanced at the pistol on the ground.
“Don’t even think it,” warned Strader. “I would slit her throat before you could grab it.”
“And I would most assuredly kill you where you stand. But let us have enough of these unpleasantries. Let the young lady go. She can be of no consequence to you.”
The man laughed without humor. “She knows my name.”
“As do I, so the secret will hardly die with her.”
Strader growled at him. “Need to think. Take her with me.”
“No, you can leave, but she stays,” commanded Marchford.
“That’s far enough,” warned Strader. He had backed out of the dank warehouse into a foggy London day, so thick with haze that Marchford could not see the other side of the street. Strader backed up to a horse and a wagon with crates in the bed, covered by a large piece of canvas.
“Let her go,” Marchford commanded again, trying not to let the sheer panic seep into his voice.
Strader shook his head. “Take her for safe passage. Once I get where I need to be, I’ll let her go.”
Marchford doubted it. Once he got away, he would have no need for Penelope and that would mean the end of her. “Miss Rose is of great value to me,” said Marchford, trying to elevate her worth in Strader’s eyes. “I would give anything for her safe return.”
“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.
Thirty-eight
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 admissi
on. 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.”
A Winter Wedding Page 29