A Winter Wedding (28 page)

Penelope had thought it was impossible to have her heart beat any faster or harder than it was, but she was wrong. He loved her. He
loved
her. Her heart beat so wildly she feared it might break free.

“I confess I hid this from you because I did not wish to be hurt. I feared marrying for love as my father did, so I convinced myself it was for other more rational motives. But now, as we face this night, I realize nothing else matters but to confess my love for you in the most ardent manner possible with the hope that someday you may grow to share my affection.”

“I love you too!” blurted Penelope. There was no need to wait; indeed, they were out of time for all of Marchford’s pretending. “I have loved you since the moment I saw you, or very nearly after, but I knew, or rather, I never dreamed that my affection could ever be returned. Our difference in position…”

“Enough talk of that nonsense.” Marchford squeezed her hand. “I may have a title, but I also have relations who…well, you have met my mother. I declare you to be my equal in rank and my better in propriety and understanding.”

“Not at all. You are the most intelligent man I know.”

“And yet I am here in cellar with a gun to me,” sighed Marchford.

Penelope shrugged. “Nobody’s perfect.”

“Enough talk,” growled the man with the gun.

“Quiet, you!” chastised the man with the lantern. “Let them have their moment. Go on now.”

Marchford gave the man with the lantern a slight nod and turned back to Penelope, giving her hand a slight squeeze. “Miss Rose, I fear I have not much to recommend myself to you, for you see what an abysmal office I have performed at either keeping you or my country safe. And yet I love you. I wish to have no one by my side but you. All that I have I give to you. You are my true companion, my friend, and the one woman my heart desires. Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Penelope blinked, but the tears fell anyway. “Yes,” she answered simply. “Yes, I would love to be your wife.”

“Truly?” Marchford looked up at her, his eyes wide and vulnerable.

“Truly,” she said firmly.

He was on his feet and his mouth on hers before another happy tear could fall. She was loved by the man she adored. She could face her death beside him with a smile.

Suddenly he pushed her hard to the ground and a loud crack echoed off the walls of the cellar.

“James!” she screamed, but it was not he who fell. The man with the shotgun lay dead on the ground, a smoking pistol in Marchford’s hand.

“But how?” cried Penelope, stunned on the ground.

Marchford and the man with the lantern dove for the shotgun in the dead man’s hand. In an instant, she flung herself at the feet of the large bodyguard, tangling him for a moment and allowing Marchford to retrieve the shotgun.

James rolled on the ground and came up standing, shotgun in one hand, pistol in the other. The man stood slowly as Penelope backed away, and Marchford put himself between the man and Penelope with two long strides. He stood before her protectively and Penelope’s heart soared.

“Now I’m going to give you the same courtesy you extended me,” said Marchford to the man. “I give you the chance to surrender or be shot now.”

The man put his hands up. “Sorry, Your Grace. I knowed I done wrong. Just following orders,” said the large man.

“When those orders are unjust, immoral, and illegal, you are honor bound not to follow them,” said Penelope with feeling, picking up the lantern.

“Right you are, miss. I sees my mistake, I do,” said the man, humble now that he was caught.

“Ordinarily I would not care as to your rehabilitation,” said Marchford coolly. “But you may be of some use to us, which if done properly, could be used to mitigate your sentence and might just save your neck. Tell me everything you know.”

“Nuthing. Not I. I was just hired for some muscle when it was required. I gots a family to feed, you see. I does what she says and asks no questions. That’s the lay of it.”

“So you can tell me nothing that could be used to help you? How disappointing for you. Since you allowed some charity, I was hoping to show you some in return,” said Marchford.

“I knowed they had me move the safe that was here. Heavy too.”

“Where to?” demanded Marchford.

“Just upstairs, to one of them velvet rooms.”

Marchford shot Penelope a triumphant glance. “Now what of the attack of Parliament?”

“Nobody said nuthing about Parliament,” insisted the bodyguard. “Why should I be in anyone’s confidence, I ask? All I done is move wine crates, heavy ones, from the dock to a warehouse in St. Giles and from there to a house.”

“Do you know whose house?” asked Penelope.

The man shrugged. “Took some wine to Lord Admiral Devine’s house.”

“Where there was the explosion.” Penelope met Marchford’s eye.

“Maybe there was more than wine in those bottles. Perhaps Devine was merely practice,” said Marchford.

“But where will the next target be? Parliament itself?” asked Penelope.

“Difficult to do. After the Guy Fawkes incident, security of the building has been a priority.”

“Then where?” asked Pen.

“I do not know, but I know who does.” Marchford gave her a troubled glance. “I hate to ask you, but do you feel equal to some more excitement tonight?”

Penelope shook out her skirts and met his gaze with a smile. “Always.”

The trap was set; it had to work. Otherwise, well, there could be no otherwise.

“I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit,” said Marchford, pacing in the cellar. It was the one place they knew they would not be disturbed.

“It is the only way,” said Penelope, holding a dish of animal blood procured from the kitchen and splattering some on her gown. It was gruesome, but it was intended to be that way.

“If you are hurt, I will never forgive myself. Never.”

“Then see to it that I am not hurt,” said Pen, a bit distracted. She should be thinking of their next move, but instead James’s proposal still rang in her ears. “I do have a question though.”

“Yes?”

“Your proposal, was that a distraction tactic so you could find the pistol you dropped?”

“Yes. And I meant every word.” He stopped pacing and came to her holding both her hands in his. “Did you only accept because we had witnesses?”

“No, I do wish to marry you.” Penelope squeezed his hands.

“And…and you love me?” Marchford’s voice was strangely tentative.

“And I love you,” said Penelope with a smile. Strange how she had demanded to be loved and now it was him seeking reassurance in that regard.

“Good.” James breathed a sigh. “Good. Because I cannot do this again, trying to convince you to marry me.”

“All I needed to hear was that you loved me.”

“I do.” Marchford shook his head. “Probably be the end of me, but I do.”

“Go now. We need to do this. I trust you.” It was true; she did. And now they needed to take care of a certain comtesse.

“Keep this. For luck.” He handed her back the ancient knife, which he had retrieved from the comtesse’s boudoir while she was entertaining. Despite her unpleasant appearance, he pulled her close and hugged her, simply holding her for a moment. Penelope relaxed into him and breathed deep of his intoxicating scent and his calming strength. Even unshaven and with ruined clothes, he was attractive to her. Together they could do anything.

Marchford left and Penelope waited for the signal. Waiting was the worst part. She was primarily concerned something would happen to Marchford. In time, she was given the signal, and she crept up to the portrait hall, a long hall of statuary covered in white sheets. It was time to try her hand at an acting career.

“Your Grace,” cried Penelope with what she hoped was a convincing sob. “Please help me!” Pen stumbled forward toward Antonia, who stood among the covered statutes.

“Whatever has happened? Oh, my dear girl, are you hurt?” asked Antonia.

“They are trying to kill me, oh help.” Pen staggered to Antonia, who directed her to a bench in alarm.

“My gracious, sit here. Don’t move. I will get help. Whatever could have happened?” Antonia rushed from the room, encountering the comtesse on the way out. “Oh, my dear Miss Rose has been injured. I do not know how. Please stay with her while I get help.”

“Of course, what a horrible thing. You can be sure I will know what to do.” The comtesse smiled, waited for the dowager to leave the room, then locked the door behind her with a dreadful click.

“Who is it?” called Penelope. “Have you brought help?”

The comtesse swished in between the statuary. “Penelope Rose. You are causing much toomuch trouble.”

“No!” cried Penelope. “Why do you wish to kill me? Isn’t it enough that you have killed the duke?”

“But, my dear, you are so much in love with him. You should like to join him in the afterlife, no?” She shrugged her slight shoulders. “Whether you do or not, you shall be seeing him shortly.” The comtesse reached down and pulled a long, thin knife from her stocking, approaching her steadily.

Penelope’s heart was pounding, but the comtesse did not appear to be the least fazed by the events.

“You mean to kill me with your own hand?” Penelope stood and backed away, remembering to feign injury. She needed to keep as much space as possible between her and the knife.

“I will do what needs to be done. I always have.”

“This is not your first kill.”

“No, indeed. I have made a bit of an art of it. In truth, the ‘man’ who bumped into you after killing the stupid footman, it was me.”

“You killed the footman!” Pen was surprised.

“Now this will be easier if you sit still. Running about won’t help you. I will do it quickly and then it will all be over.” The soothing seduction of the comtesse’s voice made Penelope shudder.

“Why must you kill me?” She needed no acting to make her voice waver. “I swear to you I will leave town. I will never say a word.”

“You know I had my men kill Marchford. You know too much of our plans for tonight. No, my dear, you must die.” The comtesse lunged at her, and Penelope ducked around a statue with a shriek. She was running out of room. The comtesse was slowly boxing her into a corner. From it, there would be no escape.

“But you can change your mind,” pleaded Penelope. “You can call this all off. Tell whoever you are working for that—”

“Me, working for someone? Do you think there is anyone else? No! It is I who am the spymaster here. It is I who give the orders. The men, they work for me. What I do, I do as a favor for Napoleon himself. He has promised to restore my lands, my home, and more money than I could spend in a thousand lifetimes as a reward should I deliver him a weakened England, vulnerable to attack.”

“You are doing this just to win back your house?” Pen carefully backed around the covered statues.

“It is mine! Mine, you understand! Ah, but you understand nothing, with your countrified mother and your clergyman father. You are but poor quality. Unworthy of notice. I don’t know what Marchford ever saw in you, since you did not even share your bed with him. Who should care if you die? I am the Comtesse de Marseille. I may kill any who offend me.”

“You are mad! You plan to kill members of Parliament for your own profit? I tell you the truth, I would rather choke on ashes than eat a fine meal with a snake like you! You are a traitor, a murderess, and a vile human being,” cried Penelope.

“And you, my dear, have spoken quite enough. Time to die.” The comtesse lunged again, with shocking speed for one her age. Penelope turned to run but tripped on her skirts and fell hard on her knee. This was not part of the plan. She was supposed to appear injured, not actually be injured.

“Help!” she cried as the snarling comtesse bore down on her, knife raised, the candlelight glinting off the blade. Remembering her own knife, she pulled it now, causing the comtesse to stop short. The comtesse narrowed her eyes and raised her knife as if to throw it.

Suddenly, one of the statues came rushing forward and grabbed the comtesse, pulling her off the ground.

The comtesse shrieked in surprise, the knife falling to the floor. Penelope quickly crawled forward and grabbed the knife, avoiding the comtesse’s kicking feet.

“Enough!” demanded the statue. He put down the comtesse and whipped off the sheet. It was Marchford.

“But you are dead,” stammered the comtesse. “I sent them to kill you.”

“I am sorry to disappoint, but I am not quite dead yet.”

“Then you will die soon,” cried the comtesse.

“Perhaps you should consider just how many people you need to kill,” said Marchford.

A nearby statue also pulled off the sheet, revealing Mr. Grant. “Best performance I ever heard, Miss Rose.”

“I commend your courage,” said the grim-faced Lady Katherine, tossing aside her sheet.

“Indeed. This has been quite illuminating,” said Lady Devine, revealing herself. “Comtesse, you may consider yourself uninvited to my little soiree next week.” It was perhaps the most unkind thing she had ever uttered.

“But…how…” gasped the comtesse. More sheets were removed, revealing more members of the
ton
, Mortimer Sprot, the local magistrate, and two large Bow Street Runners, who took command of the prisoner without ceremony. Last of all, in the corner of the room, closest to the door, stood the two Dowager Duchesses of Marchford.

“Very clever, locking the door, Cosette,” said Antonia. “But of course, we had already gotten a key from the housekeeper.”

“No,” whispered the comtesse. “No! How could you? How did you possibly know?”

“For that, we have three people to thank,” said Antonia, stepping forward so all could hear. “My grandson, the Duke of Marchford, is responsible for the capture of many a spy including this detestable spymaster, with the help, as you all have witnessed, of our lovely Penelope Rose. I look forward to the day when I may call her my own granddaughter. But they would not have succeeded without the help of my dear daughter-in-law, Bella, the Marchioness d’Anjou, who has been working for our king and country these past many years. To these three I shall drink a toast, for it is them we can thank for our safety from tyranny.”

Penelope stared at her. James stared at her. The comtesse and everyone in the room stared at her. Much to the utter amazement of the crowd, Antonia and Bella gave each other the regal embrace of a duchess and linked arms together, facing their loyal subjects with beneficent smiles.

“Are they now on friendly terms?” Penelope whispered to James.

“Can’t say. Still in shock. Perhaps the end of the world is nigh,” said James, who appeared more shaken than at any time when his life was being threatened.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Penelope said to Antonia. “You also were essential to this plot. You played your part well.”

“Naturally,” retorted Antonia. “What else would you expect?”

Marchford chuckled and nodded to the Runners and the magistrate to take the prisoner out to wherever they put aristocratic traitors, most likely the Tower of London. To Mortimer Sprot, he simply said, “Thank you.”

Mortimer nodded his head and disappeared among the statuary.

“Never a dull evening with you about,” said Grant in his droll manner. “You are forever leaving dead bodies and treacherous spies in your wake. I merely popped over to announce the birth of my son and got caught up in all this.”

“Oh, congratulations!” cried Penelope. “How is Genie?”

“Very well. She made it through the ordeal the best of all of us. For myself, it was touch and go there for a while.”

“Congratulations, old friend!” said Marchford, giving his friend a hearty slap on the back. “You deserve to announce your good news. Where are Lord Admiral Devine, Wynbrook, and the others?” Marchford asked, looking around.

“Emergency meeting at the house of Lord Felton. They are negotiating the final agreement for the regency for the king. They expect a vote soon in Parliament,” said Grant with an amused tone. “The lords have all abandoned you at the hour of your greatest triumph.”

“Members of Parliament!” cried Penelope. “Strader had a wagon of crates.”

“The comtesse spoke of her plans for tonight. They were targeting meetings in houses, not Parliament itself!” Marchford bolted for the door with Penelope running after.

“You’ll never get there in time. It’s too late!” cried the comtesse as she was being led away. She cackled in the very image of personified evil.

Marchford ignored her. She was no longer of any importance. “Grant, men, to me!”

Moments later, they were piled into carriages, racing to Lord Felton’s house.

“When you met Strader at Lord Felton’s house, where was he?” Marchford asked Penelope.

“In the servants’ quarters, down the hallway leading opposite the kitchen,” replied Penelope, gripping Marchford’s arm to keep from sliding off the seat as the carriage took a turn a little too fast for her liking. When Marchford told the groom to “spring ’em,” the man obviously took it to heart.

“Hiding bombs in wine crates, capital idea,” said Grant. “If you are a traitor planning to bring down the government,” he added to the shocked faces in the carriage.

“But why would Strader blow up his own inheritance?” asked Penelope. “Isn’t he Felton’s heir? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Didn’t you hear?” said Grant. “Felton won the lawsuit. Got Strader declared a bastard, effectively excluding him from any inheritance.”

“I thought Strader’s mother married the groundskeeper.”

“She did,” said Grant with a conspiratorial grin. “But not until after she bore the son.”

“Which would explain the hostility,” said Marchford dryly. “Probably thought he would get a better deal from Napoleon.”

The carriage rolled up to the drive of Lord Felton’s house and came to an unceremonious, jolting stop.

“Grant, you stay here in the carriage with Miss Rose,” commanded Marchford, jumping out.

“Is the man daft?” asked Pen, hopping out of the carriage.

“Always has been,” replied Grant, jumping out after them. “Let’s get the people out of the house.”

Penelope and Grant ran to the front door to warn the residents while Marchford and a few men ran around to the side. Two men were sitting on the now-empty wagon parked beside the house. The men ran at the sight of Marchford.

“Follow them!” Marchford yelled to the men with him. “Don’t let them get away.”

Penelope and Grant ran into the house without waiting at the door.

“Get everyone out of this house,” Grant commanded the butler. “Everyone!”

Penelope ran ahead to the dining room and found Prime Minister Spencer Perceval and many other members of Parliament discussing the regency papers over dinner. “Get out!” she cried. “Everyone must leave. Now!”

“Miss Rose, whatever is wrong?” The Earl of Darington stood.

Penelope realized with blood and gore down her gown, she must look a horrible sight. “You are all in danger here. You must leave!”

The men stared at her, no one moving. Darington narrowed his eyes and stared at her as if he was reading her mind.

“You heard her. Everyone out!” Darington shouted, and suddenly everyone was in movement, heading for the door.

Within a matter of minutes, Penelope and Grant were standing on the grounds before the house with the entire household, down to the last housemaid, outside.

“Now tell us what this is all about,” demanded an elderly lord.

A huge explosion ripped through the house, followed by another one, then another, blowing out all the windows, fire and smoke billowing from the gaping holes.