A Wedding in Springtime (8 page)

“So you mean to run away back home.”

“I am not running—oh, you are odious.” Genie shook her head with an imperious frown. “You mean to quarrel with me. Well, I’ll not have it. I am not the least bit quarrelsome.”

Grant laughed out loud. “No indeed, you are not!” He gazed into her deep blue eyes and suddenly felt himself at sea. He should swim for the shore and let her go, but he leaned closer instead. It was of critical importance—he came to the quick realization—that Miss Genie Talbot remain in London. “But do not leave London without enjoying the season. There are many amusements to be had.”

“I confess I have wanted to see the Tower and the cathedrals. Oh, and I hear the British Museum is not to be missed.”

Grant’s idea of London amusements did not include touring the town with a guidebook, but he sagely kept these musings to himself. “Indeed. And of course, you must not consider leaving Town without a visit to the theater or your first ball.”

“I doubt I will have any invitations to balls.” Genie’s shoulders sagged a little.

“But of course you will. Did I not tell you not to worry yourself on that score? I expect when you arrive home today, you will find an invitation to the coming-out ball for Miss Cassandra Devine.”

“Who is she? And why would you think anyone would invite me to a ball?”

“Cassie is my niece and I have spoken to my aunt to ensure your invitation is secure.”

The corners of Genie’s mouth twitched up until she gave Grant a tentative smile. “How did you arrange that?”

“By promising the most gruesome thing in the world.” Grant’s shoulders sagged at the mere thought of his penance. “I must dance with all the debutantes.”

“No!” Genie covered her mouth with her hand in shock.

“I fear it is true. So now that you know the lengths I will go to secure you an invitation, you cannot possibly be so disobliging as to leave London before the ball.”

“No, indeed, of course I shall come.” Her eyes shone for a moment and then a cloud passed over them once more. “But afterward, I must go home. I cannot be responsible for causing my aunt to spend such a vast amount for a matchmaker.”

“But she would only have to pay anything if you entered into the married state. This seems an easy thing to avoid.”

Genie graced him with a brilliant smile. “You would know best.”

Grant returned her smile. “I can tutor you in the ways of avoiding matrimony.”

“I would be most obliged. Does the work of a match-breaker have a fee associated with it?”

“My fee is only the pleasure I have in protecting my friends from wedded bliss.”

“Is that what happened between the duke and Lady Louisa? You worked your dark arts to wither away any affection for the match?”

Grant shook his head. “Theirs is an arranged match, and you are right about a general lack of enthusiasm from either partner for the match.”

“It seems a shame that two people should be bound together for life without any affection from either party.”

“I should be happy if I could inspire even a decent conversation between the two,” remarked Grant without thought.

“Oh yes, do let’s help them!”

Grant could not recall making any such suggestion, but the angel before him lit up with excitement, and any thought to the contrary was vanquished. “Yes, let us see what we can do.”

“Good, what an excellent idea. We should try to get them together, try to encourage them to make conversation.”

Grant, who never once interfered with the romantic interests, or lack of interest, of his friends, found himself nodding in agreement despite himself. Genie beamed in return and Grant decided it was all worth it. Poor Marchford would have to fend for himself.

“So I am to defend you against suitors while trying to inspire romance in the duke.”

“Yes! A lovely plan I think.”

Grant could think of a few other words for it but said nothing. “Whatever else we do, please recall you owe me the first dance. I have paid for it dearly and I shall have it.”

“Indeed, you shall,” conceded Genie.

Grant took her gloved hand in his and kissed it at the edge of the glove, his lips brushing momentarily over her skin. “Until we meet on the morrow.”

“Miss Talbot!” Another young woman, brunette, not at all as pretty as the lovely bundle he was sitting beside, strode down the gallery hall with purpose, Marchford trailing in her wake. He had seen that look in a matron’s eye before and knew it was time to abandon his new prize.

Grant rose and greeted his friend. “Marchford. Came to find you. Kept me waiting outside.”

“I do apologize,” said Marchford, strolling behind the determined female. “Miss Rose, may I present Mr. William Grant. Miss Talbot, I believe you are already acquainted.”

“How do you do?” said Miss Rose evenly. “I am already acquainted with Mr. Grant.”

Grant merely smiled and made his bow. He did remember Miss Rose, but he would have preferred to forget. “You are to be the dowager’s new companion, I understand.”

“Yes, you are correct,” said Miss Rose, moving between him and the lovely Miss Talbot. Not only was she utterly immune to any flirtation, but she also appeared determined to protect Miss Talbot from the same.

“Let me show you back to the drawing room, ladies,” said Marchford. “I fear I must away, as I have kept Mr. Grant waiting.”

“I can escort Miss Talbot back to the drawing room, Your Grace. I fear we have kept you from your appointment.” Miss Rose curtsied efficiently and, linking arms with Miss Talbot, turned to leave.

“Do not forget, Miss Talbot, the first dance is mine!” declared Grant.

Miss Talbot turned back to him. “I would be most obliged,” she said before she was tugged back by the militant Miss Rose.

Grant watched the retreating figures of the women, his eyes roving with pleasure over the flawless form of Miss Talbot.

“Why do I feel compelled to remind you,” drawled Marchford when the ladies were out of hearing range, “that Miss Talbot is the cousin to my intended bride?”

“Merely admiring the view,” said Grant.

***

When Marchford returned from his ride with Grant, he was informed there was a Mr. Neville waiting for him in his library. Marchford frowned. He did not recall having any business with a Mr. Neville, and curiosity getting the best of him, he decided to speak with the man before changing his clothes.

Mr. Neville was a small man with a receding hairline. What hair he had was combed forward over the barren spots in a rather futile attempt to hide what he had lost. Marchford could have no respect for the tailor who had cut the shoulders of Neville’s brown coat too wide in a vain attempt to make his client appear larger. The effect, unfortunately, made the man appear not fully grown. Despite these flaws in appearance, the man surveyed him with the utmost confidence, holding a leather case to his chest with pride.

“Do I have the pleasure of addressing the Duke of Marchford?”

“Yes,” replied Marchford, unaccustomed to being addressed so directly in his own home. “And I believe you are Mr. Neville? What can I do for you, sir?”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Your Grace,” said the man. “I have been sent by the Foreign Office to give you this.” The man handed him a sealed envelope. “Please read it, Your Grace.”

Marchford noted the seal with displeasure. He had served the Foreign Office for the past eight years. Some of his service he could discuss; other operations would remain forever in secret. No one understood why he had returned to Spain after his brother died. Everyone assumed he was avoiding marriage or did not wish the responsibility of the title, but those reasons would not have kept him from doing his duty.

The truth was Marchford had been in the middle of a sensitive mission and had made important contacts with the enemy. If he had not returned, the mission would have failed. It took him three years, but they finally tracked the spy back to its source and foiled an attempt to seize the city of Cadiz. Marchford turned the sealed letter over in his hands. He thought he had made it clear he was done working as a spy.

Marchford broke the seal with a small sigh and quickly read the contents. The letter contained a warning that the Foreign Office feared French agents had infiltrated London society. Marchford was warned he himself might be the target of spies trying to gain information regarding his covert work by any means possible.

“Any number of French agents know you have been working for the Foreign Office,” said Mr. Neville. “I am to take any sensitive information you have and store it for safe keeping.”

“If I had any such information, I assure you it is quite safe.”

Mr. Neville’s brows collapsed together. “I need not tell you the war with Napoleon and his coalition goes poorly. Most of Europe has already fallen under his power. It is of vital importance any information you have does not fall into enemy hands.”

“It will not.”

Mr. Neville chewed on his bottom lip, clearly displeased with the duke’s answer. “You must be wary of those around you. Anyone could be in league with Napoleon. He pays his spies well. You have been seen in the company of a Mr. Grant and Lord Thornton.”

“Friends from my days at Eton. Not spies.”

“And you live with your grandmother.”

Marchford cut off the man with a laugh. “My grandmother may have her faults, but I doubt being a secret French spy is one of them.”

“She recently took up a companion, a Miss Penelope Rose.” The man pulled some papers from his case. “The daughter of a country parson, now deceased. She has four sisters, all married. She remains unwed.” The man spoke the last words like an indictment against her.

“I see you have done your best to pry into my affairs. I must remind you that this is my business and none of your concern.” Marchford let his voice drop.

“She has gained access to your house as have others who come to visit you or your grandmother. Any one of them could be a spy. The French can offer enough money for information even my own mother would be tempted to switch allegiances.”

“Then you should be concerned with getting your own house in order and stop meddling in my affairs.”

“Speaking of affairs, you were seen speaking with an opera singer.”

“Thank you for your service to the Crown, Mr. Neville,” said the duke, holding open the door. “Have a good day.”

The dismissal was undeniable. Mr. Neville bowed and quit the room.

Marchford sank into a chair and stared at the dancing flames in the hearth. He had thought he had left this life behind when he returned to London, and yet here he was again, never knowing who to trust. It was ludicrous to think any of his acquaintance could turn against him, and yet the amount of money Napoleon would be willing to give for valuable information might well turn even the most loyal of hearts. That kind of money must be quite tempting to someone of Miss Rose’s circumstances.

As much as he was loathe to admit it, Mr. Neville was right, Marchford needed to keep a wary eye on those around him. It was only a matter of time before he would be the target of a spy.

Eight

After their company departed, Penelope remained in the drawing room, alone with the formidable Dowager Duchess of Marchford. She was uneasy about the conversation regarding the matchmaker and sorely suspicious. Yet the dowager was a daunting woman and Pen’s employer, so she understood she needed to keep her forthright manner reasonably in check.

“I am intrigued by your description of Madame X,” said Pen. “Will I have the opportunity of meeting her?”

The dowager smiled. “Why of course, since you are, naturally, the infamous Madame X.”

“Me?” Pen opened her mouth to say more but nothing emerged. It was not often she was at a loss for words, yet another reason she was still unwed, but now she could do little more than stammer.

“You found husbands for all your sisters. You have notes that will be particularly helpful in finding Miss Talbot a husband.”

“But, Your Grace—”

“Call me Antonia,” said the dowager with a wave of her hand. “If we are going to be partners, we shall need to work together. I shall even arrange for you to receive ten percent of the payment.”

“I do not think—”

“Fine, we’ll split the fee eighty-twenty. With my connections and your book of peers, we can find husbands for anyone.”

“Except myself,” reminded Penelope. “How can I propose to find a match for Miss Talbot when I myself remain unwed?”

Antonia was quiet for a moment, her face unreadable as she studied Penelope. “I will give you twenty-five percent and that is my last offer. We both want to stay in London; this is our chance to raise the blunt we need to do it.”

“But should you be charging your friend money to help?”

The dowager waved a hand. “Bremerton is one of the richest families in England. I shall not be taking bread off her table. Lady Bremerton herself would be most grateful, and it would spare her feelings not to be beholden to me. At the very least, we could give it a try.”

The clock ticked softly in the quiet room as the dowager duchess waited for a reply. Try? Pen had given up trying. All it did was make one wish for something one could never have. Best to face the ugly truth directly and accept it. With a flash of insight, Pen realized she had taken the post of companion to an elderly lady to try to avoid the pressures of the marriage mart and the disappointment it had brought her.

And yet… finding husbands for other people was a skill she apparently possessed. It would be nice to live comfortably for the remainder of her life without the embarrassment of being a burden to anyone. She liked the rationale that they were sparing Lady Bremerton’s feelings by creating a fictional matchmaker, though she suspected there might be a strong dose of convenient thinking. Yet Pen did not doubt Lady Bremerton was desperate to have Genie wed and it might be diverting at least to try. What did she have to lose?

“I suppose it could not hurt to try,” said Pen.

“Good girl! Now, not a word to Lady Bremerton, mind you.”

“Certainly not! And how did you suggest the fee be divided?”

The dowager’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll give you thirty percent, but that is my final offer.”