Wedding In Springtime(23)

"I'd like to think he is the traitor, but that is only because I do not  care for the man. However, I have found that the spies among us are  generally those you do not expect, rather than those you do."

Penelope took a long breath and leaned back in her chair. "So I may have  been conversing with a traitor? What would have happened if I had given  him the code?"

"If he is the traitor, he would have taken the codes and given them to  France. If he is what he purports to be, the codes would have been  hidden away and neither of us would have ever seen them again."

"And the ten thousand? I am only wondering, you understand."

"It is understandable. If he is not the traitor, he most likely would  have had you arrested for theft and sent you to Newgate. If he is the  traitor, he would have more than likely taken the codes and given you a  bullet through the brain."

"Oh!" Penelope covered her mouth.

"Forgive me. I am not accustomed to speaking of these things with ladies. I have said too much."

"Nonsense, I appreciate your candor. I would rather deal with whatever  business is at hand in a straightforward manner." Penelope smoothed her  skirts as if brushing away the disturbing revelations.

Marchford smiled. "You are not what I expected, and I rarely am surprised by people."

Penelope took this as a compliment. "Thank you, I am glad I exceeded  your expectations." Though she guessed they were dreadfully low from the  start.

"So why not take the money? Ten thousand pounds would be a fortune to you."

"There are few for whom it would not be a fortune."

"True. So why not take it?" asked Marchford.

"My grandmama told me, if something was too good to be true, find another way to get what you want."

"I have heard that saying a little differently."

"My grandmother would not be considered good ton, but she was always amusing. And educational."

Marchford stood and poured himself a drink of some amber liquid from a  carafe on a side table. "I think I'm going to need a drink. Shall I call  for some Madeira for you?"

"No, thank you. I generally limit myself to tea and lemonade."

"Another piece of grandmama's advice?"

Penelope smiled. "Grandma Moira drank naught but whiskey."

Marchford raised his eyebrows.

"She was a Scot."

"Say no more. So let me see, where were we? Oh yes, you were about to tell me what it is you want."

"Was I?" asked Pen. She knew what she wanted, but it would only work if he came to the conclusion himself.

"I am almost certain of it. Perhaps you have passed up one opportunity  with the eye to another?" Marchford took a sip without breaking his gaze  on her.

"Would another opportunity be forthcoming? I seem to be at liberty to  hear proposals today." Penelope folded her hands in her lap.

"I appreciate the information you provided today. I do, at times, employ  people to keep their eyes and ears open and tell me what they see and  hear."

"I do pride myself on being observant; however, I work for your  grandmother. I would not like to have any conflicts with my loyalty to  her."

"Perhaps my interest in your observations is limited to situations that  do not involve my grandmother. I doubt I would like to know what schemes  she is concocting; in fact, I know I do not."

"I feel sure you are right."

"So she is plotting revenge?" Marchford's tone revealed more anxiety at that prospect than he had shown all day.

"I defer to your better knowledge in regards to your relations," said Pen, dodging the question.

Marchford chuckled and took a sip of his drink. "You are a worthy  adversary, Miss Rose. I shall see to it that your wages will reflect our  new arrangement. Now, all that is left is to settle on the price."

"Oh no, sir," said Pen, rising from her seat. "A lady never haggles with  a gentleman over price. Quite unseemly. You decide what you think is  appropriate, and I will know how greatly you value my contribution to  your work by the amount of your decision."

Marchford rose and gave her a small bow. "Please do not take this the  wrong way, but if you were a man, I'd hire you as my personal secretary  immediately."

"Alas, there is nothing I can do about the disappointment of my gender, but I will try to serve you in some small way."

"Miss Rose, there is nothing about you that I find a disappointment." He gazed at her intently, his dark eyes unreadable.         

     



 

Up until this moment, Penelope had felt perfectly comfortable, but now  heat slithered up the back of her neck and she swallowed compulsively.  She acknowledged his comment with a quick curtsy and fled the room for  safer ground.





Fifteen


Genie could not stop smiling. She had worn a smile since she returned  home from her walk. She had smiled through her bath, smiled through  dinner, smiled through cards, and even when her aunt chastised her for  smiling, she smiled back her apology. She awoke to a sunny spring day  with the smile still on her face.

Everything around her was like a dream; the only thing real was Grant.  He liked her. He held her. He kissed her. He really did-he kissed her.  She had dreamed of being kissed someday. She did not count Ernie  Walters, a precocious ten-year-old who caught her under the mistletoe.

Mr. Grant definitely counted. The way he held her, caressing her back,  shot strange sensations through her. He was strong; she could feel the  muscles beneath his perfectly tailored coat. But the best part about him  was the way he smelled. It was like nothing she had ever experienced  before. It drew her to him-she wanted him, needed him. He smelled like  pine and musk mixed with cheroot and whiskey, which Genie recognized  sounded wretched, but on him was intoxicating.

Genie floated to the sitting room, where she was expected to keep her  aunt and cousin company. She chose a comfortable chair and sighed,  sitting back into the cushions. Mr. Grant. Mrs. Grant. Mrs. Eugenia  Grant.

"Genie!"

Genie snapped back to the room and sat straight. Her aunt was frowning  at her again, nothing new there, but Louisa was looking at her with a  curious expression.

"Are you acquainted with a Mrs. Grant?" asked Louisa, giving Genie a pointed look.

Had she spoken the name out loud? Heat rose to her cheeks as she faced  her aunt. "Y-yes. Mrs. Grant, an old friend I was just thinking of her.  What shall we be eating tonight, Aunt Cora?"

Lady Bremerton, who prided herself on her table, could not resist  launching into a detailed description of the dinner, and so the topic  was changed. Halfway through the description of the lobster pâté, Genie  heard a slight tapping on the window behind her. She turned and glimpsed  a figure in the window before it ducked from sight.

"What was that, Genie?" asked her aunt.

"I am not sure," said Genie, but something told her the rapping at the  window was for her. Her aunt launched into details of braised ham, and  Genie once again heard the furtive rapping. She did not turn around this  time. She knew someone was trying to get her attention.

Her heart raced. Was it Grant? Perhaps he had returned to continue where  they had left off under the tree? Genie politely excused herself and  walked to the front door. She felt odd in doing so and realized she had  actually never opened the front door herself.

She opened the door slowly, her heart pounding hard. Who was it? There on the front stoop was …  no one.

"Can I help you, Miss Talbot?"

Genie turned with a start, putting her hand over her chest as if to keep her heart inside her rib cage. "You startled me."

The butler said nothing, his polished, smooth exterior revealing nothing of his true emotions. "Did you wish to go out?"

"No, I thought I heard someone at the door." It was the wrong thing to say, she knew it as soon as the words left her mouth.

The butler stood very tall and very straight, the very picture of pained  pride. "I do expect I can answer the door, Miss Talbot."

"Yes, of course you can. My mistake." Genie hurried past the offended  butler and headed back to her room. She needed to get herself under  control. What was the matter with her? Mr. Grant was very diverting, and  he might steal a kiss under a willow tree, but he had no intentions  toward marriage. She needed to push him from her mind.

A tapping sound startled her out of her revelry, particularly since her  bedroom was on the third floor. She peeked through the curtains  cautiously and was relieved not to find someone hanging onto the window  ledge.

Plink! A small rock bounced off her window. She flung back her curtains.  Perhaps Mr. Grant had come to see her after all. Opening the window,  she saw a small figure cloaked in shadows.

"Oi! Milady!" called the figure, a shape much too small to be Grant. "Dub the jigger fer me!"

"Jem?" asked Genie. Was it the young boy who had tried to steal Pen's bandbox? "Whatever are you doing?"