A Wedding in Springtime (34 page)

“Jem, can you squeeze out and go warn the Duke of Marchford not to go to Hyde Park and to come here to help us instead?”

Jem’s eyes widened. “They’ll have watchers on the house. They’ll know if I go in. ’Sides, why would the duke believe me?”

“Tell him I said…” Grant thought for a moment for something Marchford would recognize only Grant would know. Grant motioned to Jem and the lad came close. Grant whispered something in his ear.

“What’s that?” asked Jem.

“A very important name.”

“Is it secret?”

“Very!”

Thirty-five

“Your grandmother requests your presence to discuss canceling the ball tonight,” said Penelope. She entered Marchford’s library, which had taken a militant turn, with boards across the windows and various weaponry within easy reach.

“What is our excuse?” asked Marchford.

“Apparently, I have taken ill.”

“Contagious?”

“Dreadfully. Something with spots.”

“I hope you will soon recover.”

“Me too. Have you gotten word from the thieves?”

“Yes. This was delivered.” Marchford held up a missive with a red seal. “Clever—they sent back my seal, so I’d know they were in possession of Miss Talbot. They would like to trade her for the letter code at dusk in Hyde Park.”

“A trap?”

“Naturally.”

Yelling and a loud bang interrupted their conversation. Marchford pulled a pistol from his coat and pushed Penelope behind him on his way to the door. He cracked the door from his study and looked out, then opened it all the way. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Your Grace! An urchin boy has invaded!” yelled the butler, giving chase to a small boy, with two footmen and a scullery maid in tow. “Came in the kitchen window. We’ll soon be rid of him.”

The small boy in question ran up the stairwell, then confounded his pursuers by jumping over the railing onto a small table, which broke under his weight, shattering an expensive vase. He found his feet quickly but not fast enough to avoid the strong hand of the Duke of Marchford on his shoulder.

“You the duke?” asked the lad, glancing nervously from the duke’s face to the hand holding the pistol.

“Yes.”

“I gots a message from Mr. Grant.”

“Do you?” The duke surveyed the young boy. “Thank you, Peters,” he said to his butler. “You have earned a bonus for your efforts, and you three as well.” He nodded to his staff. The duke marched the boy into the study, his hand never leaving the boy’s shoulder.

Penelope followed them. She was not invited, but she could not possibly miss the excitement now that she was a part of it.

“I know this lad,” said Penelope. “He is the boy who attempted to steal my bandbox outside your house.”

“Is that true?” asked the duke.

“Aye, sir,” said the boy, his eyes never leaving the gun.

“I believe he is also the lad Miss Talbot rescued and Mr. Grant has been housing. Goes by the name Jem.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Jem.

“So what brings you to visit my home, Master Jem?” asked the duke in a mild tone.

“Mr. Grant sent me. He wants me to tell you not to go to Hyde. They means to snabble you.”

“Snabble?” asked Penelope.

“To rob and murder, have I got that right?” asked Marchford in a lazy tone as if the plot was of little consequence.

“Yessir.”

“And why can the illustrious Mr. Grant not tell me this himself?”

“He and milady are pitch-kettled in a cellar.”

“And I suppose you would like me to follow you to this cellar?” asked Marchford.

“Aye!”

A knock on the door revealed a heavily laden Lord Thornton. He carried a rope, shovel, rifle, bucket, lantern, and a brace of pistols.

“Good heavens, Lord Thornton,” exclaimed Penelope. “You look quite the adventurer.”

“Aye! James requested my assistance. I have learned to come prepared,” said Thornton.

“Good show!” said Marchford approvingly.

“What are we doing today?” asked Thornton.

“Trying to rescue a damsel in distress without getting killed ourselves,” answered Marchford.

“Always a good plan. Especially that last part,” said Thornton with feeling.

“Young Jem here was just going to tell us why I would put my life in his hands by following him into a cellar.”

“Mr. Grant told me to tells you something.” Jem eyed Penelope and Thornton suspiciously and motioned Marchford to lean down so he could whisper in his ear.

“Ah!” exclaimed Marchford. “There is little you could have said that would have enticed me to believe you, but I know Grant would not, even under pain of torture, ever reveal that name. Lead on, Master Jem!”

“What name?” asked Penelope and Thornton together.

“Grant’s tailor!”

***

“Can you pry off the board?” asked Genie.

Grant had stripped off his coat and was now standing precariously on several stacked crates, attempting to remove the boards from the small window. “Could if I had something to pry it with.”

“Could we squeeze out if you got the boards off?”

“Doubt I could, but you might.” Grant jumped down and inspected the crates but rejected them as too flimsy to provide a pry bar.

“What about the chair?” asked Genie, reading his mind.

“Good thought!” Grant took the chair and swung it over his head bashing it on the ground. Genie jumped at the noise but thrilled at watching Grant do something physically rigorous, an activity not generally in his repertoire.

He slammed the chair down again and it broke apart. A few wrenches more and he had one of the chair legs free, a turned piece of solid oak. He tested its weight in his hand. “This may do it.” He scrambled up the crates again, but before he could attempt prying off the boards, voices were heard in the alley.

“Hide!” hissed Grant as he jumped down. “And if you see an opportunity to run, do it!”

Genie crouched in a dark corner and Grant hid behind the wooden stairs leading up to the alley entrance. The door opened, bathing the cellar in light. Genie retreated further into the gloom.

“I do not care to hear your complaints,” said Mr. Blakely, or the Candyman, or whatever he was calling himself today. “You made a convincing wench.”

“Yessir,” moped a lad wearing Genie’s long coat and bonnet.

“They will have their sights on me, but they will not suspect you. That’s why you will fire the fatal shot. Wait until you are close enough to put a bullet through his brain.”

“Yessir,” said the lad in the bonnet.

“Now remember, Marchford will no doubt bring friends, so we must be prepared to take them out as well. Of course, not all his friends will be present, will they Mr. Grant?” Blakely strode down the steps into the cellar and peered into the gloom at the cage where Grant… wasn’t.

Grant jumped at Blakely from behind, knocking him to the ground. Blakely cursed brutally, kicking Grant off and drawing a pistol. Grant lunged for the gun. With an orange flash and a blast, the shot went high, the gunpowder smoke burning Grant’s lungs.

Using the stock of the gun as a weapon, Blakely struck Grant hard across the jaw, but Grant would not be taken down. Grant returned the favor with a facer to Blakely’s nose. Blood spurted and Grant used the distraction to knock the pistol from Blakely’s hand and put him in a headlock, wrestling him to the ground.

“Stop!” cried the boy in the bonnet, pulling his own flintlock pistol from his coat. “Let ’im up,” he said, aiming the gun at Grant.

Behind the boy Genie stepped out of the shadows, her face as white as her gown. All the boys were in a circle looking at him, the door to the alley still open. This was her chance to get away. Grant looked at her and slid his gaze to the cellar door, hoping she would run for it.

“Hallo there, m’lad,” said Grant in a bright tone, not letting go of Blakely. “You look a bright boy. Why have you taken up with this Frenchie?”

“Didn’t know he was French, did I?” defended the lad.

“You do now,” retorted Grant. “I’ve got no quarrel with you, lad, put down the gun.”

“Shoot him,” gasped Blakely, but Grant pressed harder, silencing any commentary from the French spy.

“Sorry, guv’nor, but I gots to do as he says.”

“But that would spoil my surprise, dear lad.”

“What’s that?” asked the lad suspiciously.

“Something you won’t get if I’m dead I assure you.”

“What is it?”

“A home!” conjured Grant. Genie was edging slowly to the door. He just needed to keep them distracted long enough for Genie to make it outside.

“I ain’t going to no workhouse.”

“No, not a workhouse,” said Grant. “A real home in the country.”

“Jus’ for ’im or me too?” asked a small boy.

“For you all,” said Grant.

“Sorry, guv’nor, that horse won’t run. I knows when some flash cull is trying to gammon me.” The boy with the pistol cocked it and aimed for Grant.

“Forgive me for intruding,” said Genie as if she had walked into her aunt’s drawing room.

Grant’s heart sank; she had almost made it out. The boys all turned their attention now to her.

“Do you know whom you are addressing?” asked Genie. “Why, this is Mr. William Grant. If he says something is so, then you can trust his word. I know I do,” she added, capturing his attention with large blue eyes. She was, to be sure, the most beautiful woman ever created.

“Is it really true?” asked the small boy.

“Of course it is!” declared Genie. “He told me of a place in the country with a nice couple to take care of you, horses to ride, streams to play in, and all the food you can eat.”

“Don’t care for horses. Never been to the country none.” The lad in the bonnet looked from Grant to Genie, unsure.

“I’ve never even crossed the Thames,” said one boy.

“Me neither,” added another.

“Better to live in the country than work for a French spy who makes you dress like a girl and shoot men in cellars,” persisted Genie.

“Aye, milady. I s’pose you’re right.” The boy uncocked the pistol and handed it to Genie.

“You are a very good lad,” said Genie soothingly. She cocked the pistol and leveled it at Blakely. “You will stand in my presence, Mr. Blakely.

Grant stared at his Genie in disbelief. She stood tall, chin raised, gun cocked and steady. He let go of Blakely and moved out of the line of fire. Blakely slowly got to his feet, his hands raised.

“Now, Mr. Blakely,” said Genie in a calm tone. “My brother owes you a great deal of money. However, I have it on good authority that I may shoot you with impunity since you are a traitor to the Crown. Unless you would like to test my resolve, I suggest you remain perfectly still.”

Blakely paled but did not move. “I thought you a biddable wench.”

“You are speaking to the future Mrs. Grant, so I suggest you change your tone,” declared Grant. “Darling, shall I tie him up for you?”

“That would be delightful, dearest,” said Genie in an airy tone, never once taking her eyes from Blakely. “Run along now, children, and go outside. It is too nice a day to be indoors.”

The urchins, wide eyed and slack jawed, filed out of the cellar with a few bows and “aye, miladys.” Grant searched the floor where he had broken up the chair for the bonds that had been used to tie Genie.

Grant glanced at his future bride with a sizzle of excitement. She was brave and strong, and he could not picture one moment of his life without her. He bent down to collect the ropes.

“Drop the gun!” A figure stood in the doorway, a large pistol in hand. It was a man unknown to Grant. Had Blakely’s friends come at the wrong time?

Genie turned to the intruder and Blakely pounced, slamming her to the ground and wrenching the gun from her hand. Grant lunged, but Blakely regained his feet and lowered the gun at Genie. Grant fell on her, protecting her with his body.

“Grant!” called Marchford.

A flash and a pop, and the room filled with gun smoke.

“Genie! Genie, are you all right?” called Grant.

“Yes,” coughed Genie. “Slightly crushed. What happened? Are you hurt?”

Was he? Grant stood and helped Genie to her feet. Nothing in particular was ailing him. Marchford, Thornton, and the unknown man stood in the doorway, all with pistols in hand. Blakely lay crumpled on the floor.

“You shot him?” Grant asked Marchford, even as he drew Genie into his arms to hide her face from the corpse.

“No,” answered Marchford.

“I did,” said the man. “Mr. Neville, servant of the Crown.”

“Pleasure, Mr. Neville,” said Grant.

“Yes, indeed,” said Genie.

“You must have got my message and brought the cavalry,” Grant commented to Marchford.

“Indeed I did come, but I cannot account for Mr. Neville’s presence.”

“We have had the Candyman under surveillance for a while,” said Neville. “Some of my operatives thought he was acting shady, so I determined to check it out for myself.”

“Well, I for one am glad you did!” declared Grant. “Come, Genie, let’s get you out of here.”

They walked up the steps, blinking in the sunlight of the afternoon.

“Milady!” shouted Jem. The lad ran and put his arms around Genie.

“I am happy to see you! You brought Marchford and everyone is safe. Well, except the Candyman, but he was a villain,” reasoned Genie.

The children all grouped around Grant. “Does we still get to go to the country?” asked the lad, taking off Genie’s bonnet and coat and returning them. Genie smiled but doubted she would wear either again.

“Yes, of course. I can drive you out soon, but I will need to find a place for you until then,” said Grant.

“I shall detain the urchins,” said Neville.

“They saved us; they should be cared for. Some are in dreadful condition. They need to be cleaned and fed,” said Genie.

“They should go to an infirmary for care,” said Thornton. Despite some protests from Neville that the lads should by all rights go to a workhouse, Thornton offered to see the boys safely to the infirmary, with the promise from both Grant and Marchford not to worry about the expense.

“But what of the letter that caused this entire problem?” asked Neville. “Your Grace, surely you must see that you cannot keep sensitive documents.”