"May I present Miss Eugenie Talbot?" said Penelope.
Genie gave a tepid smile and Pen could not help wishing her friend did not look quite so fatigued. She had hoped to amaze the young parson with the dazzling beauty of Miss Talbot, but Genie was more frazzle than dazzle at the moment.
"How are you acquainted with the family?" asked Genie absently after the initial pleasantries were uttered.
"Mr. Oliver took over the parsonage from my father," explained Pen. He was also young, handsome, available, and they were running out of other candidates.
"Whose shoes I can only hope to someday be able to fill," said Mr. Oliver kindly. "And yet I think we have another connection. I believe the Duke of Marchford's intended is graced with the family name of Munthgrove. I had the occasion to marry a Miss Munthgrove a few months ago. A family member I believe. I hope to see her at the ball."
Genie nodded politely, but Penelope froze. It could not be, could it? Surely she would not have done anything so stupid. "I think I heard of the marriage," said Pen, taking care to keep her tone conversational. "She married a Dr. Roberts?"
"Yes, indeed. Will they be attending the party do you think?"
Pen held her hands tightly in her lap to refrain from jumping up. "I should hope not. That is to say," Pen amended to Mr. Oliver's startled face, "I doubt I shall see her, but I would very much like to."
She needed to excuse herself now. But how to get rid of her guests? Mr. Oliver was obliviously cheerful and Genie looked as though she might cry.
"Mr. Oliver, you must be tired from the road, especially having to rise so early. Let me show you to your room. Genie, would you be able to entertain yourself for a while?"
"Oh yes. I will show myself out. You need not worry on my account."
Pen hustled Mr. Oliver up to a bedroom, which took longer than she anticipated because he had a habit of stopping at beautiful works of art and wanting to make conversation or ask questions. Since the illustrious home of the Duke of Marchford boasted many extraordinary works of art, this process was lengthy. After answering or deflecting all his questions, she left him in the capable hands of the housekeeper.
Pen hustled off to find the duke. The ball had to be called off!
Thirty-one
The butler stared at him as though he were an apparition.
"Can you tell me where the duke is this morning?" asked Grant.
Instead of answering, Peters removed a watch from his pocket and examined the time, held it to his ear to see if it was still ticking, then inspected it again. "It is 9:42, Mr. Grant."
Grant took a great breath of air. "Morning. Haven't seen it in years. Thought I'd give it a go."
The butler's eyebrows shot up. "And how are you getting on?"
"Don't think I'll make it a habit. A bit early, these mornings, don't you think?"
"Yes, quite."
"Although I understand I am not the only one who has paid an early call on the house. Lady Bremerton told me I could find her niece here."
The butler's features relaxed, as if the puzzle was suddenly examined. "Yes, of course, Mr. Grant, Miss Talbot is with Miss Rose in the drawing room. The duke is in his dressing room."
"Suppose I should pop in on Marchford before I surprise the ladies. Propriety and all that." Grant bounded up the stairs two at a time, not caring if he looked more schoolboy than sophisticate. He needed his friend's help to gain a private audience with Genie.
"Good heavens, what is wrong?" Marchford stared at Grant as he entered the dressing room.
"Your cravat for one thing. What have you done to it?"
Marchford whipped it off his neck. "You surprised me and I crushed it. What are you doing about at this hour?" He checked his timepiece. "Do you know what time it is?"
"Yes, I do. For some reason, everyone I meet feels compelled to read me the time. Go ahead, I know you want to."
"It is 9:48 in the morning! Are you well? Your mother, sisters, they are in good health?"
"Everyone is well as far as I know."
"Then what is it? It must be something extraordinary to bring you out of your bed at this hour."
Grant flopped into an upholstered chair. "I have been forced into offering marriage."
Marchford sank into a chair himself. "Give us a moment," he murmured to the valet who discreetly left the room. "You best tell me what this is about."
"It is about women, my dear man. They are craftier than we give them credit for. I've been caught, ensnared, compromised, by one of those doe-eyed debutantes who looks like they'd melt like butter at a simmering gaze but all the while they are stoking up the heat for themselves."
"Are you foxed?"
Grant shrugged. "Quite possibly. Drank a lot last night."
"Could you try again, for I am feebleminded this morning? What exactly happened?"
"Quite right, can't think straight in the morning. Too early. Facts are simple enough. I've been caught by Miss Talbot and I must step forward to press my suit."
"I thought Miss Talbot was going to marry Mr. Blakely."
"So did I, but I have it from Lady Bremerton this morning that it is not to be." Grant grinned like a boy with stolen pudding.
"You do not appear terribly upset by the prospect."
"That's how crafty those ladies are. They make you want your prison."
"So, you actually wish to wed Miss Talbot?"
"Today if possible." He brandished a folded paper from his jacket pocket. "I've been to Doctors' Commons already."
Marchford's jaw dropped. "You got a special license?"
Grant grinned again.
"My dear friend, I am concerned for you. Perhaps I should keep a watch over you until you sober up. You are clearly not in your right mind."
Grant merely laughed. "Won't make a difference. I must be wed. I must. I only hope she will give her consent."
Marchford stood to tie his cravat. "Drunk. Must be."
Grant was spared a response by a jingling sound.
"Aha!" Marchford leapt to his spyglass.
"Whatever is it?" asked Grant.
"Someone has entered the study. Perhaps we shall catch a spy today." Marchford looked for a long while into the spyglass, then turned his gaze to Grant, his face solemn.
"What is it?" asked Grant.
Marchford stepped back to allow Grant a turn with the spyglass. Grant pressed an eye to the glass. He could see the room in a rounded fishbowl view. In the corner of the room was the spy, looking behind pictures for the wall safe. Grant stepped back and closed his eyes. He had been sucker punched again.
"I am sorry," said Marchford.
Grant looked again to make sure.
It was Genie.
"She was feigning affection to get close to me. To you. To steal the spy code." Grant's mouth was suddenly coated in sand, and the words were harsh and painful to speak.
"It does appear that way." Marchford peered into the spyglass again. "She has found the safe. Now she is opening it with the key the opera singer stole."
Grant sat back down in a chair and stared unseeing at the far wall.
"Cheer up, old friend. Now you shall be excused from marrying the little spy. Consider it a near miss."
Grant shook his head. "It was a direct hit."
This is what it felt like to have a heart broken. It hurt. He had thought it was a metaphor. It wasn't. It actually hurt. "What do we do now?" he asked Marchford.
"Wait until she takes the letter, then catch her in the act."
"What will happen to her?"
Marchford gave another look like he ate bad fish.
"That bad?"
"Treason. It's not good."
Grant's stomach tightened such that he feared he might cast up his accounts. "This is what I get for trying the morning. Won't happen again."
Marchford looked again in the spyglass.
"What is she doing now?" asked Grant.
"Nothing. Folding paper. What is she doing?"
"Did she take the letter?"
"Not yet. But the safe is opened."
"Maybe she is not a traitor," said Grant hopefully. "Maybe there is an explanation."
"An explanation for sneaking into my study, opening a hidden safe with a key stolen from me by a paramour?"
"Do you need to put it that way?"
"And how would you describe it?"
"She is obviously being used. You cannot believe that a young girl from Sussex is a master spy."
"No, of course she is being used, though whether it is with her will or against it may make very little difference in the eyes of the law. After she grabs the letter, we get her and then convey to her the importance of telling us who she is working for."
"But if she is innocent?"
"She is rifling through my study, old friend. She is not innocent."
"What is she doing now?" asked Grant.
Marchford looked again with the spyglass. He moved it from side to side. "She's gone!"