A Wedding In Springtime

chapter Eighteen





“Too late for Tatt’s,” grumbled Marchford once he and Grant left Bremerton house. “You want to tell me where you were all this time?”

“Found an urchin and gave it a bath.”

Marchford gave his friend a glare. “If you do not wish to tell me, just say so. I don’t want to tax your intellect by devising such a fantasy.”

“Was that an insult on my limited intellectual prowess and my tenuous grasp on reality?” laughed Grant. “How did things go with Louisa?”

“Wretched. If she spoke more than five times in the entire visit, I should be surprised, and now I have to play host to them for dinner.”

“I do not envy you, my friend.”

“Where can I drop you?” asked Marchford, climbing onto his curricle.

Grant put his hand on the door of the curricle but paused and stepped back. “Not going far. Think I’ll walk.”

Marchford turned and yanked the reins so that the horses pranced and whinnied in protest. “Did you say you were going to walk?”

“Yes, yes I did. It’s not far. Think I can do it if I apply myself.”

“Are you well? I should hate to leave you unprotected if you are febrile or concussed.”

“Am I well? Attempting to walk the streets of London!” To his friend’s, and perhaps his own, astonishment, Grant strolled down the street, walking around the block back home.

The walk itself was not long, yet he was feeling ridiculously pleased with himself for making the effort when he walked in the front door. He was greeted by his butler and his housekeeper. Armed with a comb in one hand and a hairbrush in the other, the housekeeper disappeared into the parlor to tame the wild head of Jem the urchin.

As Grant handed off his greatcoat, which this time he had managed to retrieve, a knock came at the door.

“Mr. Saunders,” said Grant in greeting.

“Good day, Mr. Grant,” said the man of business. “I have come to collect some papers from your father’s study. He wrote to me to take care of a few things.”

“Yes, of course,” said Grant and ushered him into his father’s study. As his father’s man of business, Mr. Saunders was a not uncommon visitor, yet Grant knew very little of his activities. Instead of heading to the billiard room as usual, Grant turned and followed Mr. Saunders into the study.

“Mr. Grant, is there something I can help you with?” asked the thin man with an efficient clip to his tone.

“Wondering what you did. Maybe you could enlighten me.”

Mr. Saunders opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. Grant waited for the first wave of shock to pass.

Mr. Saunders sat heavily in the oak chair behind the desk. “What would you like to know?”

“Everything!” Grant took a seat across from the befuddled man. “Why you’re here to start.”

“Ah, well,” said Saunders, shuffling about some papers. “We need to find new tenants for one of the estates.” Several thumps from somewhere inside the house caused the man to look up.

“Nothing to be concerned about.” Grant waved off the man’s worried expression. “New tenants? How do we do that?”

“We put out a notice with the land agent. Of course, we must first evict the present tenants. It might be a bit awkward since they have written me repeatedly asking for their lease to be extended.”

“Why not extend it?”

“They are more than six months behind on the rent. Apparently, they have taken on several orphan boys and the expenses were more than they expected.”

“An orphanage?”

“No, not quite if the letters are to be believed. They are a bit odd. Quakers, you understand, though we were not aware of it at the time of rental. They apparently feel the boys must be raised in a homelike setting.”

A crash came from the parlor and Mr. Saunders again looked up, alarmed.

“Think nothing of it,” said Grant calmly.

“But it sounds like something broke.” Mr. Saunders’s frown intensified when a howl erupted from the parlor.

“The orange cat figurine I can only hope,” said Grant wistfully. “Dreadful thing. Now tell me about this home for boys. I assure you nothing you could say could be of greater interest to me.”

“Well, I’m not sure what more there is to say, other than I am charged with writing to them to let them know we expect them to vacate the premises.”

“Oh no, we can’t have that,” declared Grant. “Their lease must be renewed.”

“But the rent—good heavens, sir, what is that noise?” A scream shot through the house.

“Hairbrush,” said Grant sagely. “Please do write these lovely Quakers and tell them we support their efforts, want to make a contribution. Christian duty and all that.”

“Hairbrush? Christian duty? Mr. Grant, is this some sort of joke?”

“No, no. You think me a heathen?”

“Well… I have not as yet seen any evidence you care to express your faith through action.”

“I do now,” said Grant plainly, even as another crash and a howl gave Mr. Saunders alarm.

“Mr. Grant, something is greatly amiss in your household!”

“Indeed! We must support this boys home at once!”

“Your father is a generous man and supports many causes, but this home is not one of them. I’m afraid the rent must be paid.”

“Take it out of my account.”

Mr. Saunders’s eyebrows rose so high they disappeared into his hairline. “Your personal account?”

“Yes, yes,” said Grant. “And write to tell them I have a new member for their family.”

Another crash was followed by a loud thump. “Should check on the crystal,” said Grant. “My mother does like that.”

“But I don’t believe the rental house has any crystal.”

“Should hope not with boys infesting the place,” said Grant over the sound of splintering wood. “Must dash!”

***

The Duke of Marchford arrived home to a different sort of chaos—his grandmother standing on the front step.

“Grandmother?”

“Ah, Marchford, you are home. I was looking to see if the constable had arrived. We best call a surgeon too.”

“What is wrong?” Marchford swept his field of view, looking for danger.

“It is the footman. Hurry!” The dowager led him to the study.

Upon reaching the scene of the crime, Marchford stopped and scanned the room with an efficient mental sweep. A footman lay on the floor, blood covering his head. Penelope knelt beside him, applying pressure to his head wound with a thick, white bandage. One of the windows had been broken and his papers that had been on his desk were scattered across the floor. The butler stood guarding the wall safe, which appeared untouched.

“What is his condition?” asked Marchford.

“He breathes,” said Penelope. “He mumbled he heard the window break and went into the study to investigate and was struck from behind.”

“Send for a surgeon,” Marchford instructed one of the interested staff who had gathered outside the door.

“The document?” Marchford asked the butler.

“It is safe,” he answered. “I heard the commotion and came running. I saw the man leave out the window, but I did not see the face.”

Marchford surveyed the scene around him with cold displeasure. One thing was for certain—the traitor would not stop until the document had been stolen.

It was time to trap a spy.





Nineteen





Genie walked into the drawing room conscious that all eyes were on her. She arrived with her aunt, uncle, and cousin, yet she appeared to be the center of attention. Within the drawing room was the Duke of Marchford, looking, as always, stiff and unapproachable; the dowager; Penelope; and five men of varying ages, all giving her a once-over like she was a prize heifer. She had to resist the urge to turn around slowly and show her teeth.

“Here, dear, have a seat.” The dowager indicated a chair and the young men flocked around her like buzzards to a fresh kill.

All were solicitous. All were attentive. But she was not sure if they were interested in her beauty, her dowry, or whether she would make another social faux pas.

Her aunt had dressed her in virginal white for dinner, a lace sheer layered over silk with a lovely blue silk ribbon at the high waist. It was a beautiful, expensive gown, which made her feel sophisticated, but the neckline was lower than she was accustomed, revealing more décolletage than ever before. It was fortunate her father and brothers were not there to comment, for she feared they would never have let her leave the house.

Her assets, now firmly on display, were causing a minor sensation. Many of her suitors appeared to be addressing her breasts in conversation. It was, of course, everything her aunt could have hoped, but would it be enough to cause one of these lusty lads to lose his head and pop the question? And if he did, what would her answer be?

After dinner, the ladies retired to the drawing room to allow the men time to enjoy their port at the table.

“I do thank you for your efforts to help repair my damaged reputation,” said Genie in a soft tone to Penelope. They sat in a stately drawing room slightly apart from the dowager, Lady Bremerton, and Lady Louisa.

“It is my pleasure to help,” said Penelope. “Did any of the men meet with your approval?”

Genie smiled back the truth. Mr. Grant came unbidden to mind. He met with her definite pleasure, too bad he was considered unsuitable. “I have been introduced to many men of late, but I have not known any long enough to form an opinion. I fear people are still wary to be long in my presence.”

“Give them time to forget. Never fear, another topic of gossip will emerge soon. The best way to make people forget one scandal is to have a bigger story come along. As my grandmama said, ‘folks dinna care fer a coon when they can eat veal.’”

“So I need to hope someone else will have an even greater fall from grace?”

“And someone will. By tomorrow there will be a new topic of conversation.”

Genie sighed and wrapped the strings of her reticule around her fingers, a nervous twitch she had never experienced before coming to London. “I know my aunt says it is quite important that I marry soon because of my disaster at my presentation, but—”

“You do not like being pressured into marriage?”

“No, indeed, I do not.”

“And yet, I imagine that you came to London with the idea to find a husband.” Penelope’s straightforward manner of speaking and plain brown eyes peered through the social niceties to get at the heart of the matter.

“Yes, it is true,” admitted Genie. “But there is a difference between being open to falling in love and agreeing to wed the next man who enters the room.”

“I agree, and I must say I am relieved to hear you say it. I know the dowager and your aunt feel differently, but I feel a marriage is not a decision to enter into lightly, nor should you necessarily wed the first man who asks.”

“Yes, thank you for understanding.” Genie let out a big breath in relief. She did want to get married. What unmarried female did not? But to be forced into marriage with the first person who could be coerced into asking, just so she could preserve her aunt’s pride, that was not appealing. “I also am concerned that my aunt has offered to pay this matchmaker a horrendous sum should I somehow manage to become betrothed.”

“Yes, I admit I was surprised by that turn of events too. However, before you decline an offer you would otherwise like just to save your aunt’s pocketbook, you might wish to consider what your aunt would prefer. If the dowager is to be believed, your aunt has the money, so it will not come as a hardship. I believe she would happily part with the blunt if it meant having her protégée respectfully wed.”

Genie considered the argument and nodded slowly. “I know you are right, but still I cannot feel easy with this arrangement.”

“Indeed, I should not like it either, but marrying you off early may be a cost savings to her, what with the cost of gowning you. I understand from the dowager that Lady Bremerton is paying the bills.”

Genie blinked at her friend’s forward comment. Even though she was raised in the country, Genie knew speaking directly of money was not an acceptable topic of conversation, but now that the topic had been raised, she was interested. “Yes, my aunt is supporting me. I had never considered the cost of the gowns. Do you think they are very dear?”

Penelope surveyed the lace and silk beauty Genie wore. “Quite dear, I should say.”

“Oh, I was not aware. Now I do not know what to think.”

“Forget about the pressures. It simply will not help you to dwell upon it. Perhaps you will find a man with whom you will fall in love. If it comes to it, I will support you if you need to decline an offer.”

“Thank you, Pen. Truly, that is very kind.” The weight Genie had carried since her grave error before the queen was lightened. Penelope Rose, in her simple muslin dress, was a friend and ally. One she dearly needed and was grateful to have.

“What of Mr. Grant?” asked Genie, feeling reassured enough in Pen’s friendship to speak of matters that were close to her heart. “He was the only one who was brave enough to speak with me several times at the ball, and I suspect he may have arranged with his aunt to invite me.”

“To be sure he did,” replied Pen. “I heard he garnered that invitation for you by promising to dance with all the young ladies at his aunt’s ball.”

“That was extraordinarily kind of him,” said Genie, her pulse increasing. Mr. Grant had indeed inconvenienced himself on her behalf.

“Mr. Grant is quite capable of making large grand gestures. He is well liked by his friends and critics alike.”

“Why do I have the feeling you are about to tell me something of him that is not good?”

Pen took a sip of her tea and shook her head. “I do not like to revisit the past, particularly in regards to my sisters, but I would not like to see you make the same mistake. It was several years ago when we first came to London. One of my sisters became well-known for her beauty, but our connections were very low, and we were snubbed by more exacting members of the ton. Mr. Grant was very attentive, very courteous. He even helped us gain entry into society in a way we could not have done without him, and for that I am thankful. My sister was quite taken with him, and we held hopes that the rumors about him were untrue. Surely such a charming man could not be the rake they described. We hoped for a proposal and at last one did come.”

Pen stopped and took another slow sip of tea.

“Your sister refused him?” asked Genie, impatient to hear the end of the story.

“His proposal was for her to become his mistress, not his wife.”

“Oh.” Genie sat back in her chair, deflated. “I see.”

“He is quite charming, but I thought you should know.”

“Thank you,” murmured Genie. She knew the warning was for the best, but Pen had poured freezing water all over her nice, warm dream.

“This story is not widely known,” said Pen.

“You can be assured of my discretion,” said Genie. She really did not wish to talk about it. The dream of Mr. Grant was best forgotten.

“Mr. Blakely,” announced the butler at the door of the drawing room.

Mr. Blakely entered the room in a double-breasted coat of dark blue, light trousers, and tan kid gloves. He might not be as showy as Grant, but he was not an unattractive man. He bowed his apology for being late to the dowager, with an excuse of a prior engagement. His manners were polished and pleasing, Genie decided.

Penelope vacated the chair next to Genie and Mr. Blakely was drawn to it.

“I will make my apologies to you too, Miss Talbot,” said Mr. Blakely, taking her hand in his gloved one and giving her a slight bow.

“Not at all,” said Genie. “I am pleased you were able to come.”

Mr. Blakely’s mouth twitched upward, in what Genie guessed was a smile. “I must thank you, Miss Talbot. On your advice I visited the British Museum. I can see now why you recommended it. I found the visit most educational.”

“Was it? I am pleased. The guidebook said it was not to be missed.”

“Have you not visited yourself?”

“No, not yet.” Genie’s aunt laughed at the idea of visiting the museum. It was apparently not how young ladies spent their time.

“Perhaps I could be your escort sometime,” suggested Blakely. “I should like to visit the museum again soon, and I could not ask for more pleasant company.”

Genie smiled and noted with pleasure that Mr. Blakely looked her in the eye, not down the front of her gown. “I should like that very much. My guidebook lists many sights in London that should not be missed.”

“A guidebook sounds sensible. Perhaps I could avail myself of it?”

“By all means! I am glad to hear you say it. You cannot imagine the grief I have endured for that guidebook. My aunt threatened to burn it if she ever saw it again. I have learned it is not considered fashionable.”

“I should not like to think the opinion of others should prevent me from enjoying the history or architecture of this city.”

“Exactly what I think! Thank you, Mr. Blakely. I am so glad to know I am not the only one who thinks this way.”

“I should go find the gentlemen and pay my respects to my host,” said Mr. Blakely. “I expect to return soon.” He gave her a warmer smile and bowed his exit from the room.

In his absence, Genie was the object of four knowing smiles from the ladies in the drawing room.

“That was promising,” commented the dowager with a cunning grin.

“I do hope something definitive can be arranged quickly,” worried Lady Bremerton. “If Genie could at least be betrothed respectably, her value would increase and perhaps we could start receiving more invitations. I do not dare ask for a voucher to Almack’s for her, not with that Jersey gel as a patroness.”

“An invitation to Almack’s would be just the thing,” said Penelope. “If the patronesses of Almack’s endorse her, she must be accepted by society at large.”

“But how could this miracle be made to occur?” asked Lady Bremerton. “Surely you have been in London long enough to know Almack’s is the most exclusive club in London. With Genie’s reputation, how could it be made to come to pass?”

“I have seen the most atrocious behavior be tolerated and even celebrated by society. The only hope is to show her as an original,” said Penelope.

“Quite right!” said the dowager, rapping the floor with her cane. “Never show fear in society. The gossips will eat you alive. Confidence is what you need, gel.”

“I shall certainly try,” said Genie with a smile. “If only to please you.”

“No need to try to win my favor,” said the dowager, but she nodded in approval. “What you need is a good man.”

“And here I am,” stated Mr. Grant, entering the room with an air of style and grace only he could muster. “I do not know of what you are speaking, but it is a conversation in which I must have a share. Or perhaps,” he said with a wicked wink to the dowager duchess, “you would prefer my absence so you can talk about me at your leisure.”

“Mr. Grant, you are incorrigible as usual,” said the dowager, and Genie could almost swear she winked in return.

Genie’s heartbeat quickened at the unexpected arrival of Mr. Grant. He was dressed impeccably in a sage green coat of glistening superfine, a mustard waistcoat with exquisite detailing, and matching breeches so skin tight it was positively indecent. Genie could not help but drink him in with her eyes. He was a dreadful rogue to be sure, but when he entered a room, she could not look away.

“I would not dare to contradict you, Your Grace.” Mr. Grant gave a bow that put every other man on the planet to shame. At least, that is how Genie saw it.

“I have come to return to you Mr. Blakely, who found me lounging in the study,” continued Grant, and only now did Genie notice that Mr. Blakely stood behind him. The rest of the men chose that moment to enter the room and the dowager gave instructions for tables to be set for cards.

“We were speaking of Almack’s, Mr. Grant,” said Pen. “Have you been this season?”

“Ah, Almack’s. I have not graced their halls this season.”

“I should say not,” said Marchford.

“You do not care for Almack’s?” asked Penelope.

“Almack’s is fine, but the matchmaking interference I could do without,” said the duke. “The last time we entered those hallowed halls, Mr. Grant was accosted by a flurry of females. His arrival seemed to spark hope in the breasts of matchmaking mamas who decided his very presence in the ballroom was a sign he was searching for a wife. It was actually quite amusing.”

“I found it less amusing,” said Grant.

“Was it so bad they no longer issue you vouchers?” asked the dowager.

“Obtaining a voucher is not the difficult part,” said Grant.

“Those vouchers are quite exclusive,” said Pen. “I doubt they would issue one to Miss Talbot.”

“Is it a voucher you need?” asked Grant. “I confess when you said you needed a man, I was hoping for something a little more exciting.”

“I am sorry to disappoint you,” said Genie.

“Not at all! Which day should you like to attend? I shall promise that your vouchers will be delivered to you. And in payment, you can offer me the first dance.”

“I promise,” said Genie, warming to the idea. Dancing again with Mr. Grant, being held in his arms… her ardor was cooled by a pointed glare from her aunt.

“Can you do this?” asked the dowager. “Lady Jersey will surely object.”

“But I am on friendly terms with Lady Jersey and close with the princess. Leave the worries to me.”

Despite Genie’s interest in sitting next to Mr. Grant, she was firmly placed in the center of a group of men, while Grant was corralled into making up a fourth for whist with Lord and Lady Bremerton and the duchess. Genie felt sorry for the man, but he accepted his fate with equanimity and even made staunch, old Lord Bremerton break forth into laughter.

Genie survived a dull game of lottery tickets. Her only consolation was in Mr. Blakely’s confidence that he also was not an enthusiast of the game and would have preferred a more challenging pastime or even reading a good book, to which Genie could only agree. The game was so simple for Mr. Blakely, he did not even have to remove his gloves during the play.

After cards, Genie noted that the dowager gave the duke several pointed looks and a glare so intense she would not have been surprised to see Marchford suddenly burst into flames. With a stifled sigh, Marchford stood and asked for the attention of his family and friends. “Lady Louisa, we have long had an understanding between us. I would like now to make this betrothal official by making a formal announcement and celebrating it with a ball.”

Louisa’s eyes widened and her lips were pressed into a straight line.

“Oh yes!” shrieked Lady Bremerton, her excitement getting the best of her. “That would be lovely! A grand ball, how delightful!” It was a vindication to Lady Bremerton, whose friends were beginning to talk that the duke would never come up to scratch.

Lady Bremerton began to talk of dates with the dowager, with the promise they would get together soon. Marchford took Lady Louisa’s hand and bestowed upon her a chaste kiss. Genie could have sworn she saw Louisa snatch her hand back.

The party began to break up and some of the men took their leave. The coats were requested, and Genie followed her aunt and uncle into the entryway of the grand Marchford house. The rest of the potential husbands prepared to leave, with Mr. Blakely bowing over her hand.

“Perhaps we can meet again soon and you can show me this contraband guidebook,” said Blakely in an undertone.

“I’d like that,” she whispered back. “I shall have to smuggle it out of my room somehow.”

“Perhaps a secret rendezvous?” he suggested.

“Yes, let’s!” Genie agreed.

Lady Bremerton drifted closer, making the sharing of confidences impossible, so Blakely took his leave.

“Made a new friend?” asked Grant with a slight edge to his voice Genie was unaccustomed to hearing.

Genie chose to ignore the comment and replied in an undertone, “I am sorry you were stuck playing whist with my aunt.”

“It was my best game of whist in years,” declared Grant, but Genie was unsure it was a compliment. “Did you have a good evening?” Mr. Grant met her eye.

“I had a most respectable time,” said Genie, and then realized she had chosen the wrong word. She meant to say lovely or entertaining or pleasant, not “respectable.”

Grant laughed, and in the confusion brought by the arrival of their coats, he whispered, “How dreadful. You have my full sympathy.”

“I meant to say it was a pleasant evening,” Genie whispered back.

“Now I know what you truly mean if you ever use that word. I do hope you will never describe me as ‘pleasant.’” With a wicked wink, Grant escorted her to the door. She left but not without leaving a few slivers of her heart behind.

***

“How was it Mr. Blakely found you?” asked Marchford after all the guests had left.

“Entered the study saying he was looking for the dining room,” said Grant.

“A ruse?”

Grant shrugged. “You have a big house. He’s unfamiliar with it. Get lost myself sometimes.”

The men returned to the study where Lord Thornton was reading a book in a chair, his back to the wall and the entire study within view. A loaded revolver sat on an end table next to him. The broken window had been boarded up, giving the normally sophisticated study a shanty feel.

Thornton snapped the book closed when the men entered. “What’s the plan?”

“To catch a thief,” stated Marchford, producing a black bag and proceeding to pull out tools.

Grant picked up a handsaw and a gimlet. “Exactly what do you intend to do with this thief? Seems a bloody mess.”

“These are for some renovations,” said Marchford.

“What do ye plan to do?” asked Thornton.

“I intend to make some modifications, and I am hoping you both will prove to be able tradesmen to do it,” said Marchford.

“What?!” cried Grant. “Too far, my friend! Remind me why I am here standing guard over this thing?”

“Because there is no one else I trust,” said Marchford simply. He rolled out a scroll with some roughly drawn plans. “This is the plan. Do you think it possible?” he asked Thornton who was looking over his shoulder.

“Aye, ’tis possible, but it will ruin the paneling.”

“Grandma won’t like it,” stated Grant.

“That is nothing new,” muttered Marchford. “I will leave this project in your capable hands.”

“Leave? Where are you going?” demanded Grant.

“I have a date with an opera singer.”





Twenty





Jem crept through the dark alley, though the night was black as pitch. It was not his first time finding the door in the dark. He entered the cellar through a gap in a boarded window. A single candle burned on an old table, a small point of light that seemed to be swallowed whole by the dark surroundings.

“So you finally decided to join us,” said the man with the burned hands.

“Sorry. I had to wait till that housekeeper went to sleep. She’s a cunning one.”

“The lads had to wait for you to return to be fed,” said the Candyman with deceptive mildness. He gestured to a row of five-foot square cages along the wall. Locked inside were skinny children, their eyes reflecting the single flame of the candle. They were unnaturally silent.

“Tell me what you have learned, and I will tell you if they have earned any bread today,” said the man.

Jem told the man his adventures with Mr. Grant and Miss Talbot. He did not tell about the kiss.

“I told you to get inside the Marchford house, what do I care for Mr. Grant,” yelled the Candyman.

“But you said I should gain their trust and I did,” argued Jem.

The man stood in a flash and struck Jem across the mouth with a closed fist. Jem flew back and rolled into a ball. It was not the first time he had tasted blood.

“None of your back talk. Get in the cage,” demanded the man. Jem scrambled inside if only to protect himself from further abuse. The cage door locked shut with an echoing click. “No food today. If any of you are hungry, you can blame Jem, who did not do what I asked.” The man held up a small key. “Fortunately, I now have the key to the safe. All I need now is to get into the Marchford house, and you, boy, are going to help me do it.”

The man took the candle and went up the cellar stairs, leaving the dank basement in utter darkness. Jem began to pull scones and biscuits, ham, and lamb shank from his pockets, socks, and hat, and passed them through the bars to the boy next to him who took some and passed it along.

“Thanks, Jem,” came a whispered response. Jem curled into a ball and went to sleep, trying not to hear the faint crying from one of the younger boys. The older ones knew better than to waste their tears.

***

The sun was shining brightly and Genie awoke with a smile on her face. She could not help it, her first thought was of Grant. She gave herself a mental shake and tried to redirect her thoughts toward Mr. Blakely. He was a kind man and not afraid of her guidebook, which could only recommend him. As her maid assisted her into a morning dress of light blue, she had to continue to remind herself which man held precedence in her thoughts. Despite her determination, it took some mental effort to direct her thoughts toward Mr. Blakely, a practice that made her weary even at the breakfast table.

Somewhere over crumpets and eggs, she saw a red head peek through the front window. “Excuse me!” she exclaimed and hustled to the garden, where she found the expected Jem. Did he have a message for her from Grant or her brother?

“Jem! Are you well?”

“Yes’m. Gots a message for you.” The boy handed her a neat envelope. Jem on the other hand, was less than tidy.

“Why, Jem. What has happened to your new clothes? They are so dirty. You must take better care of yourself.”

“Yes, milady.” The boy hung his head.

“Now do not be discouraged. I understand it is hard for little boys to stay clean. You must try your best. Do you understand?”

The boy nodded and ground a booted toe into the dirt.

Genie opened the letter and was a bit disappointed to find it was not from Grant. The missive was from Mr. Blakely, suggesting they meet at Marchford house to discuss the guidebook without the danger of Lady Bremerton’s disdain.

“Tell the man who gave you this letter that I will meet him at Marchford house during morning calls, do you understand?”

Jem nodded, but evaded her eye. “Wouldn’t you rather spend time with Grant? That cove is togged in twig.”

“I do not understand.” Genie often struggled to understand the young urchin, but this time he had lost her.

“He’s a fine dresser and nice. You do like him, don’t you?”

Genie sighed. “I’m sorry you saw our, er, embrace yesterday. I do like Mr. Grant, but I need to make other friends as well.”

“I says you shouldn’t.”

“You have a kind heart, Jem. Can you deliver the message?”

“If you wish.” Jem dragged his feet walking out of the garden and Genie wondered at his apparent dejection. She shrugged to no one in particular and traipsed upstairs to find a reticule big enough to hide her guidebook.

***

“Lions? Does it really have lions?” Genie bent closer over the guidebook, her head close to Mr. Blakely’s.

“Yes, I believe the Tower of London does have lions,” answered Blakely. “I think that should go to the top of our list.”

“Definitely!” Genie had easily convinced Lady Bremerton to let her visit Penelope at the Marchford house. She told Pen and the dowager of her planned meeting with Mr. Blakely, which was met with enthusiasm. As soon as Blakely arrived, the dowager suggested they visit the garden, and so Genie found herself on a bench next to him, with Penelope somewhere amongst the hedges to maintain propriety.

“Look, they list their names,” exclaimed Genie, turning the page on her red, bound volume of The Picture of London. Genie had purchased the fat volume for five shillings and despite the grief she had endured about it, was quite enchanted with the two pullout maps and several nice engravings.

“Miss Fanny?” read Blakely. “Seems a rather tame name for a lioness.”

“Look, there’s a panther named ‘Miss Peggy,’” giggled Genie. “I had a friend by the same name. I should like to visit her.”

“Yes, let’s! What a helpful guidebook this is.”

“Thank you!” Genie was pleased someone finally recognized the value of her volume.

They passed an enjoyable afternoon reading about the various glories in London, including St. Paul’s Cathedral, Westminster Abbey, Kensington Palace, and many other notable sites. Genie was desirous to stroll through Hyde Park, which had apparently been recently planted with trees. Blakely confessed an interest in visiting the armory at Carlton House, the residence of the Prince of Wales, which according to the guidebook was the finest in the world.

After an hour, Blakely reluctantly stood to take his leave. They walked to the front door, Penelope discreetly following behind as any good chaperone should do.

“Well, hallo there!” called a familiar voice.

Genie turned to find Grant strolling down the grand staircase. “Grant! Are you visiting the duke?” Despite her concerted effort not to care a fig for Grant, her heart beat a little faster and a smile sprung to her face.

“Just leaving,” he said with a smile, but as he approached, she noted he had an unusually disheveled appearance and, if she was not very much mistaken, was wearing the same mustard waistcoat he had worn the day before. “I see you have been visiting with your new friend.” Grant’s smile dimmed.

“Yes, we were reviewing my guidebook.”

“How… edifying.”

“May I drop you back at Bremerton house, Miss Talbot?” asked Mr. Blakely.

“Actually, I was hoping to visit Hookham’s library. I have arranged to be picked up there later.”

“Why, Hookham’s is exactly on my way!” declared Grant. “You must allow me the pleasure of taking you.”

Despite a furious glare from Penelope, Grant insisted he be given the role as squire and soon Genie was sitting next to him on his phaeton.

“You seem to be on friendly terms with Mr. Blakely,” said Grant in a manner slightly less than cordial.

“He seems a very nice man,” said Genie, not sure what to do with the winter in Grant’s tone. “Tell me how does Jem do today? I saw him earlier this morning.”

“Then you have seen him more recently than I,” replied Grant. “He’s a squirrelly fellow. Never seems to stay where I put him.”

“Little boys are like that,” laughed Genie. “He needs a place to run.”

“Might have found a place. Bunch of Quakers take in orphans on a country estate.”

“Yes, it sounds exactly like what Jem needs, as long as the people there will be kind to him. I believe country living is a good choice for young boys. I should have known you would find the right place for our Jemmy.” A bump in the road threw her against Grant. She straightened but left her shoulder touching his. For balance, she told herself.

“Here we are.” Grant pulled up in front of Hookham’s Lending Library. He jumped from the phaeton and lifted Genie neatly to the ground, his hands almost encircling her small waist. He lingered a moment longer than he should have, his eyes meeting hers, his hands on her waist. Genie forgot to breathe, looking into his silver-blue eyes and unshaven face.

“Thank you again,” murmured Genie, heat crawling across her face and down into unmentionable regions.

“I am always at your service.” Grant walked her to the door and left her with a bow.

Grant returned slowly to the phaeton, watching Genie through the window of Hookham’s. She looked around for a moment, then threw open her arms wide to give a long embrace to a handsome young man.





Twenty-one





“I think these are all good candidates,” said the dowager over tea that afternoon. She examined sorted cards Penelope had created with the names, positions, and significant information for the potential bachelors they wished to put into the running for Genie’s hand.

“I agree. These five would be good potentials. I should think Mr. Blakely is the frontrunner. They had a nice visit together over that guidebook. I believe they could become good friends,” replied Penelope.

“Friends? What difference does that make? She is choosing a husband not a lover.” The dowager carefully chose a biscuit from the tray.

Penelope stared at the dowager.

“You needn’t look so scandalized,” chastised the dowager. “You young people are so much more moralistic than we were in my time.”

“Should I apologize? How was it exactly in your time? Did you entertain many lovers?”

“A lady would never quote a number,” said the dowager with a sly smile. “It used to be a marriage was for family name, inheritance, and breeding. Love was something reserved for other relationships, after, of course, you provided at least one or two legitimate heirs.”

“I can come back later if I have interrupted a private conversation,” said the duke, who was standing by the door.

“Your grandmother was telling me of her numerous lovers. I’m not certain you would quite like to hear it.”

“I am sure I would not. Miss Rose, could I have a moment in the study?” They walked down the corridor to the study, where the butler was standing guard outside the door. “Thank you, Peters.”

“You are leaving nothing to chance,” said Pen, following the duke into the study.

“No, not after yesterday,” said the duke, motioning Penelope to sit down. He sat across from her and she could see worry lines about his eyes she had not noticed before. “I expect the thief will try again, and this time I intend to be better prepared. Tell me what was that man doing here?”

“Blakely? He came to visit Genie without the watchful eye of Lady Bremerton. Genie has a guidebook she wanted to review with him without suffering her aunt’s set-downs regarding the topic of guidebooks.”

“A guidebook for London?” Marchford asked with a twinge of disgust.

“Exactly so.”

“Anything else I should know?”

“Most of the staff have in some way been either threatened or bribed to retrieve what you are hiding in this study.”

“I am aware. I’ve had to send agents out to protect the families of several housemaids and a few have left altogether.”

“Why did I see Mr. Grant here this morning, looking like he had slept in his clothes?” asked Pen.

“We had some fun last night and he passed out on the floor. Not safe to wake Grant until afternoon, so there was nothing I could do but let him sleep.”

Pen raised an eyebrow.

Marchford sighed. “That is the story you are to tell grandmother.”

“Would it do me any good to ask you for the truth?”

“I needed to go out last night and I trust none but Thornton and Grant to guard the letter. The footman and any guards I could hire are vulnerable, and I’ll not trust any agents from Neville’s office.”

“Mr. Grant offered to drive Miss Talbot to the lending library. She left in that high-perch phaeton of his.” Penelope’s tone was accusatory. Marchford may trust Grant to watch over his document, but she did not trust him to watch over Genie.

“You do not approve?”

“If he has no intentions of offering marriage, which I think we both know he does not, he should clear the field.”

Marchford sighed. “I will speak to him. Anything else you have to report?”

“Miss Talbot has befriended a young boy, a street urchin and thief, and is trying to rehabilitate him. Lord and Lady Bremerton rejected the notion, so Mr. Grant has agreed to house the urchin.”

“I confess Grant did tell me much the same, but I thought it must be one of his jokes. And my grandmother?”

“Feisty and plotting your demise.”

“Everything is normal then, capital. I must thank you, Miss Rose. I have rarely seen my grandmother in such fine fettle. Whatever you are doing to lift her spirits, please do continue.”

“I shall remind you that you directed me in such a manner sometime in the future.” Pen could not help but smile.

Marchford smiled in return, a rare occurrence. “I do not mind having you in the house nearly as much as I thought I would.”

“Was that a compliment? I fear I may have missed it.”

“It was a little backhanded, I apologize. Let me try again. I enjoy your presence, Miss Rose. I shall miss you when you leave with my grandmother to the dowager house.”

“Thank you. Since we have no plans at present to leave, you shall have the pleasure of enjoying my presence for the extended future.”

“I shall accept my fate with the courage that befits an Englishman,” said Marchford gallantly. “I should warn you, I shall be around the house and most likely in my rooms for the next few days. I believe I will become ill.”

“You are going to keep to the house to try to catch this thief.”

Marchford graced her with another smile. “You are a clever one, Miss Rose. If you could pass along my apologies for tea? Tell my grandmother I told you I was feeling ill.”

“As you wish,” said Penelope, standing to leave.

“Oh, I almost forgot. This arrived for you.” Marchford reached for something in his inside coat pocket.

“Thank you.” Penelope took the letter he handed her. It was address to her, but other than originating from London, it had not return address or information. She broke the seal quickly, curiosity overtaking her. One glance inside told her she must read this particular letter in private. “I think I shall take a moment to rest and read my letter in peace.”

If he had hoped her to explain the letter, he accepted her silence and merely bowed in response. Penelope proceeded upstairs to her room to open the mysterious letter without prying eyes. There was another sealed letter inside the first one. The letter within was addressed to Madame X.

***

“Why, George, whatever is the matter?” Genie frowned into her brother’s formerly playful eyes. They had a dull appearance now. She took his hand and drew him to sit with her near the window of Hookham’s Lending Library.

“Nothing is the matter. This has been a great lark.” He rubbed his tired eyes with his hand.

“You look dreadful. Have you slept at all since we last spoke?”

“Been having too much fun to sleep,” said George.

“It does not look like you have been having any fun at all,” retorted Genie.

“Shows what you know. Some things are not meant for a girl. Turns out I have a knack for cards,” he said proudly, puffing out his chest.

“Cards! Please do not tell me you have been gambling away your school money, George.”

“All right, I won’t tell you. I didn’t ask you here to quarrel but to give you this.” He handed her a small box. Inside were two twinkling, emerald earbobs.

“George! These are beautiful!”

“I thought they would look nice with your coloring,” said George like he had been living in Town all his life.

“Why, yes, yes, they will. Thank you so much.” Genie gave George a warm hug. “But how could you possibly afford them?”

“Like I said, I have had a run of good luck. The cards love me!”

“Father and Mama would not approve of you gambling.”

“They would not approve of me losing money, but you see, I’m winning money. I cannot lose!”

“I do not think that is exactly what they meant by not approving of gambling.”

“I told you I wanted to do something to help you. I have seen the way so many of these ladies dress, all flash and sparkle. I know you haven’t a single earbob from Mama, so I thought your baby brother could come to your aid.”

“Thank you, George, now please go to sleep.” She could not help but feel concern over his gray complexion.

“Yes, Genie,” he said with puppy dog eyes.

“And go back to school.”

“One more night tonight and then I’ll go.”

Genie gave her brother another big hug.

Outside the window, Grant snapped the reins and drove off in his phaeton. He had seen enough.

***

Penelope glanced around her bedroom to ensure she was alone. The outside letter was a note asking her to direct this letter to Madame X and no one else (this last part was underlined). Inside was another sealed letter with the simple direction, Madame X. No signature accompanied the missive and no identifying marks were given. She examined the handwriting, but she did not know it. She turned the letter in her hands, wondering what to do.

Of course there was no Madame X, except herself and the dowager. She wondered if she should turn the letter over to the dowager but stopped, pondering why the letter had been addressed to her in the first place. It seemed more reasonable if someone was trying to connect with Madame X that they would ask the dowager, so why was the note addressed to Penelope? Only one way to find out.

Penelope broke the seal. When she unfolded the paper, a hundred-pound note fluttered to the floor. She stared at it as if it might jump up and bite her. She scooped it up quickly and read the note.

Dear Madame X,

I write you for I am greatly distressed and do not know where to turn for help. I have accepted an offer of marriage that is not of my parents’ choosing. Unfortunately, I am already officially betrothed to another. How can I break this long-standing marriage contract and wed the man I choose?

I have included a small deposit. If you choose to help, please send me advice through Mrs. Roberts at 7 Chandos Street, London.

Sincerely,



Desperate



Pen read the letter again and again. Who was this “Desperate” character? And who was Mrs. Roberts and how had she heard about Madame X? No, Pen could guess the answer to the second question. She had overheard Lady Bremerton whisper to the Comtesse de Marseille that she had retained the help of an infamous matchmaker, Madame X. The news must have spread.

Penelope thought about the situation for a while, then composed a response. She rubbed the crisp hundred-pound note between her fingers. She had never felt one before. There must be a rationale that would allow her not to tell the dowager but still keep the money, but alas she could not think of one. Whoever “Desperate” was, she had gone to great lengths to prevent the dowager from reading her letter, and Penelope was determined to find out why.

With a longing glance, she folded the hundred-pound note back into the letter and sealed it, addressing it simply to “Desperate.” She then wrapped it in a second paper and sealed it also, addressing it to the mysterious Mrs. Roberts.

Penelope put the letter in a book to conceal it and walked downstairs to rejoin the dowager. Tomorrow, Pen planned an outing. This letter would not be franked; no, this letter she planned to deliver to Mrs. Roberts herself.





Twenty-two





“I am looking for Mrs. Roberts. Can you direct me?” Penelope Rose asked the young man at the apothecary. The day after she received the mysterious missive, she followed the direction in the letter to a storefront in a nicer part of Town. The sign on the door said “Dr. Roberts” and inside there was an apothecary with rows and rows of bottles on the wall behind a smart young man in an apron at the counter.

“No Mrs. Roberts here, ma’am. Just a Dr. Roberts.”

“Perhaps Dr. Roberts has a wife or a mother?” suggested Penelope.

“No, ma’am.”

“Are you sure? I received a letter from a Mrs. Roberts and I am looking for her.”

“No, ma’am. No missus and both of Dr. Roberts’s parents are deceased, ma’am. God rest their souls.”

“Yes, quite so,” answered Penelope absently. This was not the answer she expected. She wanted to find this Mrs. Roberts, but apparently she did not exist.

“Can you tell me something of Dr. Roberts? Has he been in practice long?”

“Dr. Roberts is a fine gentleman physician, ma’am. Best in London. He has been called to treat the queen and other notable persons. He is quite well known.”

“I have never heard of him.”

“Begging your pardon, ma’am, but it is not the healthy who need the doctors.”

The sound of laughing and murmuring of happy conversation floated down from above.

“The doctor is seeing a patient,” explained the lad at the counter.

More laughter could be heard. “I do not remember my visits with the doctor being so diverting,” said Penelope under her breath. “I would like an appointment. May I see him next?” asked Penelope.

“Oh no, he is far too busy. He only accepts certain cases.”

Penelope opened her mouth to argue, but the door upstairs opened at that moment and out walked Lady Louisa.

“Thank you very much, Dr. Roberts,” she said in more sober tones. “My mother will appreciate your advice.”

“Please let me know if I can be of any greater assistance,” said the doctor. He was a young man, handsome and tall. His features were pleasing and his eyes were dancing and bright. If he were to be the physician, Penelope would hardly mind being sick.

“Dr. Roberts,” called the man behind the counter. “This young lady was looking for a Mrs. Roberts. Do you know who she is talking about?”

Louisa froze, recognizing Penelope. Louisa appeared to grow visibly pale, but the impression lasted but a moment. With crisp determination, Louisa continued down the stairs.

“You are looking for Mrs. Roberts?” The doctor followed Louisa down the stairs, his brows knit together.

“I have a letter for her,” said Penelope.

“I can take that,” said the doctor briskly.

“Is she here? I would like to deliver it myself.”

“No, no, she is…” Dr. Roberts glanced at the lad behind the counter, then at Louisa. “A cousin. She is a cousin of mine. She will arrive soon. I will see that she receives it.”

“Forgive me, but I have been given very particular instructions to hand this to no one but Mrs. Roberts herself.”

Louisa and the good doctor exchanged a glance, but neither said a word.

“Then I wish you luck in finding her,” said the good doctor. “Might I suggest you send it through the post? Perhaps you would have better luck in routing it to the right person.” He bowed to the ladies and caught Louisa’s eye once more.

“Good day, Dr. Roberts,” said Louisa.

“Good day, Lady Louisa,” he said gravely and disappeared back up the stairs.

“Lady Louisa, how remarkable that we meet here,” commented Pen.

“It is not terribly remarkable. My mother is a patient of Dr. Roberts. I come regularly to pick up her medication and get advice from the doctor.”

“I see.” Penelope was not sure she did see, but she was determined to find out. “How fortunate for me that you were here. I took a hack here, so if you would not mind, I should love to ride back to Marchford house on your way home. It is on the way, yes?”

Louisa shot her a glance that conveyed she would rather have hot pokers stabbed in her eyes than share a coach with Penelope Rose. Penelope merely smiled. She was accustomed to having that effect on people.

“Yes, please do join me.” Lady Louisa’s jaw was so clenched Penelope wondered that she could speak at all.

Penelope climbed into the Bremerton town coach, which was, naturally, quite nice and more than a little pretentious. Penelope took a seat across from Louisa, who averted her gaze in a feeble attempt to pretend Penelope was not there.

“Have you known Dr. Roberts long?” asked Penelope politely.

“He is our family physician,” Lady Louisa said in quelling accents. My, but the aristocracy did know how to give a set-down to the commoners. Unfortunately for Louisa, Penelope was not about to take a polite hint.

“I do hope Lady Bremerton is not terribly ill.”

“Nervous complaint,” said Louisa, still focusing her gaze outside the carriage.

“Did the doctor come recommended?”

“Indeed, from your mistress, the Duchess of Marchford. He has even served as a consultant to the queen, so yes, Miss Rose, he does come highly recommended.”

“Is that how you met him? Through the duchess?”

Louisa turned toward her, a spark of anger in her eye. “I met him because he was the personal physician to the sixth Duke of Marchford. Dr. Roberts did everything he could, brought Frederick back from death’s door more times than I care to remember, and yet it was not the will of Providence for Frederick to survive. There now, Miss Rose, have you any more questions for me?”

Penelope sat quietly for a few minutes. She could be obtuse, but she tried not to be rude. Louisa turned to stare out the window. How difficult it must be for her, Penelope suddenly realized. To be engaged to be married, only to watch her fiancé slowly die and thus find oneself obligated to marry the brother. Even though the current Duke of Marchford was not a poor-looking specimen, he clearly held no particular regard for Louisa.

Penelope knew conversation was not welcomed, yet an opportunity to speak to Louisa without others overhearing may not come again soon. She had questions and she was convinced Louisa had the answers.

“It is very strange that I could not find Mrs. Roberts. I was given clear instructions to make sure this letter was delivered directly to her hands and none else.” Penelope drew the letter out of her reticule and Louisa’s gaze snapped to it.

“In your visits to Dr. Roberts, have you met a Mrs. Roberts?” asked Penelope, watching carefully to gauge Louisa’s reply.

“On occasion I believe I may have. Would you like me to give this to her?” She leaned forward, eyes still on the letter.

“I have been tasked with finding this Mrs. Roberts. Can you help me?”

“She is… reclusive, but I can get it to her. You can trust me.”

“Can I?” Penelope let the question hang and Louisa turned away. “Lady Louisa, did you write me a letter to be directed to Madam X?”

Lady Louisa said nothing.

“I can confirm the handwriting with Miss Talbot if I need to. Is that why you sent the letter to me instead of to the dowager? She no doubt would recognize your handwriting.”

“What do you want? Money? Do you wish me to buy your silence, Miss Rose?”

Penelope recoiled back into the squabs as if she had been doused in cold water. “Open your letter, Mrs. Roberts.” Penelope held out the letter, which Louisa took.

Louisa opened the seals and caught the hundred-pound note before it fluttered to the floorboards. She scanned the letter quickly, then put both it and the money away in her reticule. “I misjudged you. I do apologize.”

“The dowager has begun plans for the wedding.”

“I know. My mother has been planning for years.”

“Have you tried telling your mother you do not wish to wed the Duke of Marchford?”

“How could I? Mother was forced to marry Lord Bremerton when her sister eloped. She did so to raise the future of her children. She has lived on the expectancy that I would marry a duke since I was in my cradle.”

“Yes, I can see your point. But if you are determined not to wed the duke, you must be willing to stand up to your mother.”

“Speaking my mind is one thing, but how do I garner her support?”

Support? Get Lady Bremerton to dissolve her daughter’s engagement to the duke? Never! “You may need to recognize your parents may not support you in this. But it is always your choice whether or not you wed. They may be angry, very angry, but they cannot force you to wed. Nor will they disown you and toss you from the house; they are too proud for that and you are their only child.”

“Yes, but how can I get them to support my marriage to another?”

Insight finally flashed. “Dr. Roberts? Are you in love with Dr. Roberts?” asked Penelope.

Louisa colored and evaded her eye. “I am sorry I was beastly to you. When you saw me with him, I was ready to sink.”

Penelope leaned back on the squabs and pondered Louisa’s predicament. This was a puzzle. Lady Louisa marry a gentleman physician instead of the duke? Penelope shook her head. It was impossible to imagine Lord and Lady Bremerton would accept that.

“We fell in love over time,” said Louisa so softly Pen could hardly hear over the squeaking and jostling of the carriage. “We were in each other’s company many times when Frederick was ill. I did love Frederick. I wished to marry him at his bedside, but he wanted to give me the wedding he felt I deserved. He wanted to stand next to me, not lie on some bed. So we waited for him to recover, but it was never to be.”

Louisa took out a handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. “Dr. Roberts was very compassionate. Afterward, he was kind, friendly. My mother took on nerves, so he was frequently at the house. He talked to me, made me laugh. The feelings came on so gradually, we never noticed them until it was too late.”

“Dr. Roberts I am sure is an excellent man, but he is far from your station.”

“I know he is now, but he is also the heir to a large estate and a baronet. When his uncle passes away, he will inherit a significant fortune. He is not wooing me for the money, of that I can assure you.”

“That does improve his eligibility, but a barony is rather less than a dukedom.”

Louisa nodded. “I know. And I know what my mother would say. But what else can I do? We were waiting until he inherited to go before my parents and plead our case. With Marchford being gone so long, we hoped we could make a rationale for dissolving the contract.”

“But Marchford returned and ruined everything.”

“Yes. Quite.”

“You may have to live without their approval or your inheritance.”

“And flee London in disgrace? Barred from society? And what of Dr. Roberts? If the gossip spread that he had wed me against my parents’ will, none of his patients would ever speak to him again. His reputation, his practice would be ruined! Why his uncle might even be led to disinherit!”

“If you are determined to walk down this road, you will need allies, people who will support you.” Pen went straight for the heart of the problem. “A good solicitor will be important. And you need to find people who can encourage your parents to accept this match. I know you wish Marchford would just go away, but his being here may help you if you can get him to support you in dissolving the union.”

Louisa sighed. “I suppose I do need to talk to Marchford.”

“In the end, you may need to resign yourself to one of two unpleasant options. Either follow your heart and be lost to society, or follow your parents and let go of these feelings for Dr. Roberts.”

“You do not understand, Miss Rose. It is impossible for me to wed the Duke of Marchford. Simply impossible.”





Twenty-three





It had been two days and Genie had not seen Mr. Grant. Not that she expected to or wanted to or… who was she trying to fool? Of course she wanted to see him. What good it could possibly do her was a bit more vague.

Mr. Blakely, however, had been quite solicitous in his attentions. He had visited twice and a threatened thunderstorm had ruined plans to go to Hyde Park. This had brought up memories of another storm that had caught her in the arms of Mr. Grant. The thought left her restless.

“I hope the weather will clear soon,” Genie sighed, sitting with her aunt and cousin in the sitting room.

“Yes, the streets become ghastly. Why, I added an inch to my pattens just for Town wear,” commented Lady Bremerton.

The formal butler entered with a bow. “For you, Lady Bremerton,” intoned the butler, handing her a large envelope.

She broke the seal and gasped.

“Is something wrong?” asked Genie.

“No, no, it is most wonderful!” Lady Bremerton looked up with a glorious smile. “We have all been issued vouchers to attend Almack’s tomorrow night!”

Genie smiled radiantly in return. It must have been the workings of Mr. Grant.

***

“You do not look at death’s door. I was promised a man in ghastly health, but you look well enough.” Grant surveyed the duke with a critical eye. He and Thornton had decided to visit Marchford in his bedchamber since the rumor had circulated that the duke was ill. “Though that waistcoat was a mistake.”

“Wrong color or cut?” asked the duke.

“Yes,” replied Grant. “Brought it with you from the Continent, I can tell.”

“I did indeed. I thought it well enough.”

Grant shook his head sadly. “You have been gone too long, dear friend. I will give you the name of my tailor. He will set you to rights.”

“You never gave me the name of your tailor,” objected Thornton.

“I thought you had no concern for fashion my friend. I had always pictured your raiment as a protest against fashionable society in defense of your Scottish bloodlines.”

“’Tis just a coat, Grant.”

“‘Just a coat’? And you wonder why I would not subject my tailor to you.”

Thornton’s brows furrowed and he turned to Marchford. “Returning to the point of the visit, we were told ye were ill. Are ye well?”

“Yes, yes, I am well, but I must keep to my room.”

“If you reveal some contagion, I fear I shall run screaming from the room,” said Grant, pouring himself a whiskey. “Your story appears to be a long one. I fear I may need refreshment before you are through.”

“I would invite you to help yourself, but I see you have anticipated me.”

“Why must ye keep to yer room?” asked Thornton, ignoring Grant’s distractions.

“I am trying to catch a spy.”

Grant took a hearty swig. “I was right. A drink was needed.”

“I appreciate the modifications you made the other night to the study directly below. I have continued your good work. If someone tries to remove the letter in the safe, it will pull a cord and a bell will ring there.” Marchford pointed to a brass bell mounted on the wall with a cord running down the wall and disappearing under the floorboards.

“I thought this might be the direction ye were going,” said Thornton. “But how will ye get down in time to catch the thief?”

“See here,” Marchford opened a narrow panel in the wall which revealed a spiral staircase. “It leads to the study.”

“Very cloak-and-dagger,” said Grant with feeling. “When did you have this made?”

“My grandfather commissioned it when the house was built. I would like to say he had nefarious intent, but apparently he did not walk well in his later years and wished to have a shorter route from his study to his bedchamber. In any event, it is useful.”

“So you have been waiting to see if the letter is stolen?”

“Yes, and look here. Remember how I asked you to drill a hole in the ceiling?” Marchford motioned to a spyglass on a letter table. He slid a small panel and stepped back to let Thornton take a look.

Thornton pointed the spyglass down. “Why, I can see the whole room. Clever thought to put a spyglass here.”

“So you are spending your time locked away in your room spying on your own study?” asked Grant. “How dull.”

“Yes, actually it is,” admitted Marchford. “I had anticipated the thief would make an attempt on the room soon, but so far I have been disappointed.”

“How long do ye intend to play the role of invalid?” asked Thornton.

“Yes, well, therein lies the rub. I cannot rightly stay here too much longer without society taking notice. Already my grandmother has insisted that a physician be called. I fear my acting ability may not be up to the task.”

“So get someone else to sit here and wait for the spy—really quite a simple solution. They must have people who do this sort of thing.” Grant waved his hand in a dismissive manner.

“Yes, indeed. But I suspect a spy has infiltrated deep into the Foreign Office. I do not wish to use anyone from official channels.”

Grant put down his drink. “I do not like where this is going.”

Marchford smiled at his friends. “I know you have been wondering what you could do to help win the war against Napoleon.”

Thornton raised an eyebrow and Grant reached for the decanter to refill his glass. “If you can say that with a straight face, you have nothing to fear from your acting abilities.”

“I fear the thief will not strike until I am out of the house. It is imperative we find the spy. You are the only ones I trust.”

Grant shook his head. “You go too far. I cannot fathom sitting here, doing nothing all day.”

“I understand.” Marchford nodded. “It is a dangerous assignment. I would not wish to put you in harm’s way.”

“What are you suggesting?” asked Grant.

“Nothing, nothing at all. It is perfectly natural, since you have been enjoying a life of ease that you would become…” Marchford looked up at the ceiling as if in thought.

“Soft? Fearful? Cowardly?” supplied Thornton. He shrugged at Grant’s glare. “Just trying to help our friend find the right word.”

“Let us simply say you are out of condition. I would not wish you to get hurt if you are not physically capable or do not have the mental fortitude—”

Grant put up his hand to stop Marchford. “Enough! Say no more or I shall be forced to retaliate in kind. Do you truly believe impugning my honor would entice me to sit in your bedroom, waiting for a thief?”

“Did it?” asked the duke.

Grant sighed and flopped on the couch in the sitting area of the master bedroom. “Suppose I should get comfortable. But how is the thief going to open the safe to ring the bell? I thought you had it locked.”

“I do, but one of my keys was stolen.”

“Stolen?” asked Thornton in alarm.

“By a sly little opera singer.”

“The one you went to see the other night?” asked Thornton.

Marchford nodded.

“That little minx.” Grant shook his head.

“Yes, she was—” began Marchford.

“Not her, you!” declared Grant. “You purposely allowed her to seduce you, so she could steal the key and give it to the thief!”

Marchford merely shrugged.

“All in the line of duty to King and Crown?” Thornton raised an eyebrow.

Marchford smiled. “Long live the King.”

***

“Thank you for seeing me.”

Lord Bremerton gestured for the young man to sit in one of the high-back, comfortable chairs in his study. “What can I do for you today, Mr. Blakely?”

“I have had several pleasant conversations with Miss Talbot. Am I correct that you are serving as her guardian here in London?” asked Mr. Blakely.

“That is correct.”

“I understand there is interest in seeing her engaged quickly.”

Lord Bremerton said nothing, neither confirming nor denying the statement but gazing at Mr. Blakely with a confident air of the aristocracy.

“Miss Talbot is a sweet girl and very pretty. I should be the happiest man alive if she would consent to be my wife. However, I have run into some financial embarrassments since coming to London.”

“Been betting deep and lost,” said Lord Bremerton without emotion.

“Yes. And to be honest, I haven’t the blunt to repay the debt.”

“And how is it you expect me to help you with this problem of yours?”

“It pains me greatly to ask you this, but the circumstances involved force me to present my case in a manner most vulgar. I fear I must ask, if a man was engaged to Miss Talbot, if her dowry might be available even before the wedding?”

“You want to become engaged to Genie and collect early on the dowry to pay off your vowels.”

“You must understand how wretched I feel in even asking this of you.” Blakely’s voice trembled and he gripped his own hands in tan kid leather gloves.

“Once the engagement has been accepted and announced, you shall have access to the funds to discharge your embarrassments.”

“I much appreciate it, Lord Bremerton.”

“I would much appreciate it if you took her off my hands and let my household get back to peace.” Lord Bremerton returned to his paper.





Twenty-four





Almack’s Assembly Rooms. Genie walked into the prestigious social club and was not disappointed by the lavish interior of marble inlays and gilt railings. A full orchestra provided engaging musical selections and the main attraction of the ballroom was to join the dance. Since dancing was an occupation Genie enjoyed, she entered the hallowed halls with every expectation of being pleased. Particularly if the one responsible for her voucher was here.

She smoothed her green, shimmering, silk gown with her hands in new, long, white gloves. Her brother’s emeralds dangled from her ears, making her feel expensive and somehow dangerous.

“Heaven’s sake, child, do not fidget,” whispered her aunt. “You must do what you can to appear respectable.”

Appear respectable. As if she were conducting some huge masquerade on the unsuspecting London society. Advice from so many well-intentioned people rang in her ears, mostly a long list of things she should not do. But tonight, she did not care. She was going to dance with whomever asked, laugh if she was amused, yes, and even talk about hay if she chose. Well, maybe her aunt was right about not mentioning hay, but otherwise she intended to enjoy herself.

“Whatever you do, do not dance with Mr. Grant,” said her aunt.

“Aunt Cora, I do believe we have Mr. Grant to thank for the invitation tonight. I fear I must dance with him.”

“Perhaps,” muttered her aunt. “But don’t appear to enjoy his company.”

“I fear I am not that practiced of an actress.” Genie scanned the room for the impeccable form of Mr. Grant, but he was not to be found. She was disappointed, for it had been her expectation that Mr. Grant would be waiting to claim the first dance as he had done before.

Instead, Mr. Blakely caught her eye and walked toward her.

“Here comes Mr. Blakely. Be nice, do not ruin this for me, Genie,” whispered her aunt.

Genie sighed. Her aunt could dampen even the most ardent of lovers.

“Good evening, Lady Bremerton, Miss Talbot.” Mr. Blakely gave his bow. He was dressed in a nicely cut midnight blue coat, with the required light breeches. He gave her a warm smile, and although he was no Grant, he appeared perfectly amiable.

“May I have the honor of the first dance?” he asked, holding out a white gloved hand.

“Thank you, yes,” smiled Genie.

They walked out onto the dance floor, where Genie discovered Mr. Blakely was a fine stepper, his feet light, never missing a step. He was almost as good a dancer as Mr. Grant. With the number of couples present and the intricacies of the dance, it was almost impossible to have conversation, but afterward, Mr. Blakely escorted her to have some lemonade.

“So what do you think of Almack’s?” he asked.

“I am enjoying myself. I do love to dance.”

“It is an enjoyment we share. I think perhaps we share many interests.” He smiled at her, his brown eyes inviting.

“Is that so? What other interests do we share save dancing?”

“We enjoy history, seeing the London sights, good books, and the country, and I hope you will forgive me for saying it, but we both enjoy laughing.”

“Ah, you are a cruel man to bring up my ruin. And here I am trying to show myself to best advantage. Besides, I have never known you to laugh.”

“Yes, I suppose that is true. It is something I would like to learn. Something I need to learn.” He looked away, the smile gone from his eyes.

“Is there something the matter?”

“After the death of my father, I have not had much laughter in my life. Perhaps you can help me find it.” He took her hand and led her farther into the back of the room, along the wall, where they found a cushioned bench. She took a seat and he sat beside her, taking both of her hands in his.

Genie’s heart raced and she felt the room grow uncomfortably hot. Is this what love felt like or fear?

“Forgive me for being forward, for I know we have not known each other long, but I feel I must take this opportunity to speak. I understand your aunt hopes to see a wedding for you soon, and I want to make my wishes known before another speaks ahead of me. Miss Talbot—Genie, I love the way you make me smile, I love the blue of your eyes, I simply love you. I think we would suit well together, since you are accustomed to country life and that is what I have to offer. Would you consider making me the happiest man on earth and consent to be my wife?”

Genie caught her breath. It was as nice a proposal as she could ever have hoped for. Aunt Cora would be so happy. Everyone’s reputation would be saved. Here was the answer to all their prayers. She should be so happy.

“Thank you, Mr. Blakely. You have quite taken my breath away. May I consider your offer and give you a response later?”

“Of course, of course. I know we have not known each other long. I was under the strong impression from your aunt that a swift proposal would be greatly appreciated.”

“Yes, thank you, I know my aunt would dearly love to see me join the matrimonial ranks.”

He smiled and led her back to her aunt, who was conversing with Penelope. Without further conversation Blakely bowed and left. What was she supposed to feel? Did she feel it?

“Well? Tell me what did he say to you? What did you talk about? I saw him lead you off somewhere. Tell me there is reason to hope,” demanded her aunt.

“Yes, Aunt, we must not give up hope.” Genie did not tell her aunt about the proposal. To do so would mean an acceptance would be demanded immediately. If her aunt found she had turned down a proposal, she would be sent back to the country—on foot most likely.

“Genie,” said Penelope. “Would you mind walking with me for some refreshment? It can get so hot in a crowded ballroom.”

“Yes, of course,” said Genie and followed Penelope to a table of weak lemonade.

“Did Blakely propose?” asked Penelope in her blunt manner.

“Yes.”

“But you did not accept?”

“I said I would think on it.”

“So what do you think?” Pen offered Genie a small tea sandwich.

“He is a fine dancer,” reported Genie.

“That he is.”

“He seems kind.”

“Indeed.”

“I do like the country.”

“True.”

“So I suppose I should accept?”

Penelope took a bite of her own sandwich. “It does not seem as if you hold much regard for him.”

“He seems a nice man.”

Penelope raised an eyebrow. “But can you see yourself in his bed?”

“Penelope!” Genie snapped open her fan and fluttered it before her. When had the room gotten so unbearably hot?

“One of the primary duties of a wife is to produce heirs. There is only one way to do that, and it begins and ends in bed.”

Genie waved her fan more furiously and tried to image herself with Mr. Blakely. Heavens, she didn’t even know his first name. She could hardly make love to a man she called Mr. Blakely. Now, William Grant was a name she could cry out and—she snapped the fan shut.

“I cannot begin to think about that sort of thing in a crowded ballroom.”

“Truly? I can think about it anywhere.”

Genie gaped at her, but Pen waved off the comment.

“Let me tell you what more I’ve discovered of our Mr. Blakely,” continued Penelope. “It has been difficult to get good information about the man, since he has never before been to London and I cannot find he has any intimates here. The story circulating about him is he inherited a fine country estate. I imagine he came to London in search of a pleasing wife. He also has a tendency to gamble and has been betting deep lately.”

“So is he marrying me for the money?”

“I cannot say that. He may need to make an advantageous match and you need to marry soon. It does not mean that he is not genuinely interested in you or that you both will not grow in affection.”

“I cannot like that he gambles.”

“Nor should you. I can say, though, that most of London society gambles. If you exclude all who do, you may find yourself left with a very small pool of potential mates.”

“I’m not sure I know what do to with this information.”

“Think on it. Sleep on it. That is my best advice. I will say nothing of the proposal until you give me the word.”

“Thank you. By the way, where do you get your information?”

“You will think less of me, but I eavesdrop on conversations. Also, never underestimate the servants. They know everything. The footmen are the best, often present for interesting conversations and easier to bribe than the butler.”

***

Grant strolled into Almack’s late and unsure. It was not like him to feel this way. It was not like him at all. The only thing on his mind was Eugenia Talbot. Miss Talbot. Genie. The girl whose presence he had come to desire more than he should. The girl whose simple kiss still clung to his lips. The girl who was interested in another man.

It was amusing in a way. Was it not he who broke hearts by enjoying the company of many ladies? Who was he to judge behavior that so clearly reflected his own? He had thought her an innocent, but her attention was not for him alone. No, her affections were shared with others, as her embrace with a man in the lending library so clearly showed.

He should see her, talk to her. Perhaps there was an explanation. He laughed at himself as he searched through the crowd. How many times had he felt this desperation in the eyes of a young miss who came to him, hoping for some other explanation than what was plainly obvious? Grant never lied, never made false promises, but that never stopped unrealistic hopes. Genie also had not lied to him. She made it clear they sought a husband for her.

Marriage. Grant reached for his flask to swallow down the bitter taste the word left in his mouth. He had sworn he would never fall prey. The last time he had decided to break this rule his heart had been ripped out, torn asunder, and left for the dogs to eat. He had made the mistake of falling for a Rose girl. He thought them naive, defenseless, but had underestimated the power of—

“Good evening, Mr. Grant.” Miss Penelope Rose. She stood before him in crisp muslin, straight and formidable as any soldier. Napoleon’s army was nothing to fear compared with this quiet lady of influence and control.

“Miss Rose,” Grant nodded. He didn’t have the strength to pretend a smile. She wanted to tell him something; she would not have spoken to him otherwise.

“I understand you are to thank for the vouchers to Almack’s. I would like to thank you on Genie’s behalf.”

“She can do that herself.”

“Naturally, I am certain she will. Her presence here will certainly help restore her credit amongst society, and I have hopes that soon we shall hear wedding bells.”

“Do not toy with me, Miss Rose. Is Genie to be married?”

“I should hope so.”

“Have you picked a bridegroom yet?”

Penelope paused. “Not as yet.”

“I see.”

“Do you? You are a very charming man, Mr. Grant. I do not like to bring up the past, but more than one young lady has had their head turned by you only to fall prey to disappointment.”

“Yes, let’s not dredge up the past.” All these years, Miss Rose had been under the impression his offer to her sister had been less than honorable. The cruel irony was that he had intended marriage, but before the miscommunication could be resolved, Lord Stanton proposed and effectively left Grant in the cold. Grant allowed the misconception to hide his broken heart.

“No, let us not dwell on the hopes you have dashed.”

“You know I never make false promises,” said Grant.

“Which is why I am unclear why you have pursued Miss Talbot. She is an impressionable young girl and fond of you. But since you have declared yourself adverse to the institution of marriage, and she is in a position where marriage is a pressing need, I cannot see what purpose further friendship between you two could serve.”

“You just cannot help but to meddle in affairs which are not yours,” said Grant warmly.

“The affairs of my sisters and friends are my concern,” said Pen with so much frost in her tone he almost shivered from the cold.

“Thank you, madam. You have made your position clear enough.” Grant left her before he lost his composure, which he never did. He took another swig of whiskey to settle his nerves. Another thing he rarely did. It was becoming a night of firsts. Perhaps he could pass out drunk on the floor of Almack’s and really make a spectacle of himself.

He was more than a bit drunk, of uncertain temper, and not fit for public viewing. A wise man would go home. Instead, he took another swig.





Twenty-five





It was getting late and Genie took another wide sweep of the ballroom, looking for a familiar figure. The more she pondered the proposal from Mr. Blakely, the more she wished to speak to Grant. Perhaps she could compare how she felt when she was with Blakely to when she was with Grant.

“Looking for someone?” asked a male voice behind her.

She swirled to find the immaculate figure of Mr. Grant. His ivy-colored coat and white breeches were so formfitting and well tailored they might have been painted on. For one horrible moment, Penelope’s question invaded her consciousness and she did imagine herself in bed with Grant. He wrapped his arms around her waist and drew her closer, covering her lips with kisses and her body with his own, naked, glorious—

“Miss Talbot?”

“I do apologize, Mr. Grant,” said Genie, flicking open her fan and waving it before her in a vain hope to bring herself back to the present. “I was thinking of something else and did not see you standing there.”

“I am sorry to have sunk so far beneath your notice.”

“No, no, not at all.”

“Are you enjoying Almack’s?”

“Yes, thank you so much for securing me a voucher. It is more than I thought possible.”

“Have you made any new friends? I hear you are becoming quite the favorite.”

Genie waved her fan before her. It was dreadfully hot in the ballroom. “I suppose.” She did not wish to talk about Mr. Blakely right now.

“And did you meet your friend in Hookham’s? Did you have a nice time with her?”

“Yes, quite, but who can think of books when in a ballroom?” She did not feel free to tell him about her brother either.

“Certainly not me,” replied Grant with a smile that did not reach his eyes. She got the impression she had disappointed him. “You look lovely tonight. Those emeralds are divine with your gown. A gift from a new suitor perhaps?”

“No, they are from…” Genie paused, not wanting to say they were from her brother.

“While you decide whom they are from, perhaps you would care to dance?” asked Grant.

“Yes, I would very much.” Genie smiled at Grant, but he seemed different, distant, removed somehow.

And so they danced. They spoke not a word, but as the music played, everything else seemed to drift away. Mr. Blakely was a fine dancer, but Mr. Grant was beyond that. He did not appear to be a man performing a series of steps, but rather one with the dance, flowing through the music. With him, she felt lightweight, giddy, and free. She was connected to the music and him and all was good.

Grant stood still in the middle of the ballroom holding out his hand. She glided to him to take it. She would follow him anywhere.

“Thank you, Miss Talbot, for a lovely dance.” Mr. Grant bowed and was gone. The dance was at an end.

Genie wandered back to her aunt, stunned. Grant had not spoken to her. No conversation. No repartee. Nothing. The loss of his friendship hurt; it actually hurt. But what could be wrong? She must discover the reason.

Unfortunately, her immediate plans to press after him were arrested by Penelope and the dowager, who had several other young beaux for her to dance with. With her presence at Almack’s, much of her social stigma had been lifted and young men felt free to make their interests known to the pretty, young miss.

It was over an hour later before she escaped the ballroom by whispering a need to visit the ladies’ retiring room. On the way back to the ballroom, Genie found Grant alone in a corridor. She had been pondering the meaning of his silence, and now here he was, sitting on a bench with a flask in his hand.

He raised the flask as he saw her approach. “Your health,” he said and went to take a drink, only to look disappointed. “All gone.” He held the flask upside down. “Never fear. I’ll find more whiskey to drink you with.”

“No, thank you. I think you’ve had quite enough,” said Genie with disapproval.

“You’re right, of course. Why are you not with your admirers? Got yourself quite a pack of them.”

There was something in Grant’s tone she could not like. “My aunt has been introducing me to many people tonight.”

“Capital. Capital. It is not often one finds such an enterprising young lady.” Grant leaned closer and she could smell the whiskey on his breath. “Go for the one with the deepest pockets; that’s always the best plan.”

“Mr. Grant, I do believe you are feeling the ill effects of drink.”

“If that’s a fancy way of saying I’m drunk, then you’re right.”

“Mr. Grant, is something the matter tonight? You seem not yourself.” Genie was actually concerned for him. This behavior was unusual.

“Not myself, no not myself at all,” mumbled Grant.

“Whatever is wrong? Your family, are they well?”

“Yes, yes, everyone is quite well. Family. Is that what you want, Genie? A family? Damned nuisance most of the time. Always telling you what it is you ought to do.”

Concern wavered. Perhaps nothing was wrong with Grant that a good night’s sleep wouldn’t fix.

“Now, I am going to tell you what to do,” said Genie, taking charge. “You are going to go home this instant and sleep it off.”

“What if I don’t want to?” Grant set his jaw like a pouty boy. It was not his best look.

“I did not ask what you would like. Come now.” Genie stood and offered a hand. Grant took it and pulled himself up, using a bit more force than she expected. She stumbled forward as he stood, ending up in his arms.

Neither said a word. Neither moved away. Grant leaned down closer, and in his eyes, she saw a glimpse of sorrow. She reached up and put a hand on his cheek. He closed his eyes and breathed deep. He bent down closer so that Genie thought he meant to kiss her, but instead he laid his head on her shoulder. Instinctively, she put her arms around him, as if to comfort him, though from what grief she did not know.

“Will you not tell me what is wrong?” asked Genie.

As if wakened from a trance, Grant stepped back, his eyes shuttered once more. “I see what you are about. Trying to seduce me at Almack’s and compromise me to force a proposal.”

“Mr. Grant. You are speaking nonsense!”

“Am I?” he said with confidence and swagger, only to have his shoulders sag the next moment. “I am, aren’t I? Apologize. Never take up the bottle. Makes you stupid.”

“It certainly does!”

“I need to go home,” said Grant, stumbling off in the wrong direction.

“No, no, you are going the wrong way.” Genie sighed and took his hand. “Here, let us find a back way out. You are not fit to be seen by anyone.”

“Not fit, nit fot,” slurred Grant.

“Try not speaking,” suggested Genie. She wandered her way through the back passages, the places that only a servant would go. She found a servants’ entrance and exited onto a side street. But here, Grant stopped her.

“No, no, I can find my carriage from here. Go back to the dance. Can’t be seen leaving out the back door with Mr. Grant, that would never do.”

“Still worried I am trying to compromise you?”

“I am a horse’s arse, Miss Talbot.”

“Will you not tell me what is wrong, Mr. Grant?”

“Lost a friend tonight.” Grant looked up into the dark night. Pale stars were barely visible in the small ribbon of sky visible between the buildings.

“I am so sorry. Is it someone I know?”

Grant looked back at her and smiled even as the sadness returned to his eyes. “You will marry and never again speak to me.”

“We can still be friends,” said Genie, but she knew the instant she spoke, the words were not true. Her feelings for Grant stretched long past friendship. When she was married, she would need to distance herself, which would not be difficult if she married Blakely, since she would leave for the country. Her friendship with Mr. Grant would end.

Neither said anything, the realization of their loss becoming real. This could be the last time she would ever speak to him alone. Genie tried to think of what she wanted to say. She wished to tell him how she felt, but considering she was about to accept another man’s proposal of marriage, the declaration seemed rather inappropriate.

“I will miss our conversations, Mr. Grant,” said Genie, wishing she could say more.

“I will miss your kisses,” said Grant.

And there it was. The truth she was afraid to say. She would miss them too. “Perhaps we should give each other one for good-bye?”

Grant raised an eyebrow. “That is supposed to be my line.” He stepped closer, and Genie’s heart raced. He stood before her for a moment, then reached up to touch her arms, tracing down from her shoulders to the skin below her short, lace sleeves to the edge of her long, white gloves. He slowly pulled off her gloves, first one, then the other. Tingles shot from her fingers to her toes at being so undressed. He lifted each hand to his lips, kissing first the back, then the palm. Shivers of energy pulsed through her at his touch.

He slowly encircled his arms around her and she returned the favor, floating in his embrace. She breathed deep and snuggled into him. This is where she had wanted to be, wrapped in his arms.

Slowly, he bent down and pressed his cheek to hers, then kissed along her jaw until he finally reached her lips. His lips were soft and warm, and she parted her lips to him. He was wet and warm and tasted of whiskey. She relaxed into his kiss, pressing closer and getting a full response in return as he deepened the kiss. She closed her eyes and was weightless and dizzy. Her knees buckled, but he held her fast.

“Run away with me,” breathed Grant into her ear.

“You cannot mean that,” whispered Genie.

“But I do.” Grant pulled back. “I don’t want to lose you. Come away from all this stupidity of society busybodies, and be with me. Leave your critical aunt and the gossiping hordes, and simply be with me. We could live in the country together.”

“What are you asking?”

“I could take care of you, protect you, and it could start tonight. You would have the best of everything. No lady would ever have been pampered the way I would lavish decadence upon you!”

Genie had an odd sensation of being both hot and cold at the same time. “You wish me to be your mistress.”

“I wish you to stay my friend. Come home with me tonight. I don’t care about the consequences.”

“That is perhaps because those consequences are not as grave for you as they are for me.” Genie stepped back toward the door, her heart beating painfully. She did not want to say good-bye and swallowed the disappointment that he had offered her everything except what she really needed—his name.

Grant closed his eyes, then opened them again, his eyes dark in the pale light. “If you loved me the way I love you, it would not matter.”

Everything slowed to a stop. Not a sound could be heard, not a whisper of wind could be felt, nothing made a noise. She could not speak. She could not blink. She could not breathe. Had he said love?

A scullery maid opened the door with a bundle of trash in hand. She stopped short, surprised to see guests, bobbed a curtsy, and continued on.

“Get back to your aunt,” said Grant as he swayed. “Do not listen to me. Drunk. Vile liquor. Bad for you I am.” Grant wandered down the alley in the general direction of the line of coaches.

Genie stared after him, still too stunned to move. He loved her. Yes, he was drunk, but the emotions he shared were real, honest. She could not say how she knew, but she did. And yet, he had not offered marriage.

She took a large breath and wondered how long she had been holding it. The damp night air filled her lungs, restoring her perspective. She liked Grant. Liked him quite a bit. Maybe even—but no. That line of thinking would do her no good. What she needed was a husband, and Grant, for all his charm, for all his self-declared love, offered her everything she wanted but nothing she needed.





Twenty-six





Genie awoke with the same fluttery sensation in her stomach with which she had gone to sleep the night before. A decision lay before her. A proposal. She needed to give an answer to Mr. Blakely. Could she marry him? Sleep in his bed? Give him children? The thought left her… flat.

Could she reject him? Her aunt would have a severe case of the vapors, probably toss Genie from the house, and she would return to her mother in shame.

What about Grant?

She tried to forget about him. His proposal was indecent. It was one she could not accept. And yet… the sensation of his lips on hers rushed through her with a hot flush. Could she see herself sleeping in his bed? Giving him children? The thought had her reaching for a fan. Yes, she could picture it; she could almost feel his hands running down her back and up her thighs.

Genie coughed and flung off the coverlet, standing up in the cold morning. She welcomed the cold shock of reality. She needed to get control of herself, get dressed, drink some stalwart English tea to steady herself, and then make a decision about Mr. Blakely. Mr. Grant could not enter into consideration. What would her mama say? It was too awful to contemplate.

An hour later, Genie was dressed and looking respectable, even if her meditations kept slipping into forbidden territory. She must stop thinking of Grant. Blakely would be a perfect antidote to being consumed with mad, passionate, lustful thoughts. The contemplation of him brought none of these strange sensations. He was as an Englishman should be. Predictable. Steady. Dull—that is dependable! She meant dependable, which is quite a nice compliment when you think about it.

Halfway through her eggs, one of the maids handed her a twist of a note. Since no one else had yet risen, she read it at the table.

In the garden. Come with all haste.

She knew his writing. She left the table immediately and went into the garden.

“George! Whatever are you doing in Lady Bremerton’s garden? The staff will think me quite naughty going to meet you like this.”

“I am sorry.” Her brother stumbled forward into the pale morning light and she could see he was not well.

“Whatever has happened? You look a wreck!”

George sank down onto a stone bench and put his head in his hands. His cravat was loose, his clothes crumpled, and he smelled strongly of stale smoke and liquor. “I should never have come. I am ruined now.”

Genie sat beside her brother, alarmed. “Tell me what has happened. Come now, sit up, there’s a good lad. It cannot be as bad as all that. You need to rest. You look like you’ve been up all night.”

“I do believe I have been awake for days, but what of it now? I’ve lost everything.”

“Did you lose at gambling?”

George looked up, his eyes bloodshot and wild. “I did not know the amounts we were playing for. They were saying three and four, I thought it was hundred.”

“You lost four hundred?” Genie gasped.

George laughed, a mirthless tone. “I lost four, then I wanted to make it up, but I lost another three. I had good hands, Genie, I had been winning and winning with much worse hands. I panicked. I knew I didn’t have the money, so I played again, trying to win it back, but every hand I lost.”

“How much did you lose, George?” A cold chill seeped through the stone bench into her bones. How could her brother get himself into such trouble?

George put his head down again and shook it.

“George, tell me the truth. How much did you lose?”

“Twelve,” mumbled George in a small voice.

“Twelve hundred pounds? Oh George!” Genie put her hand to her chest.

But George shook his head. “That’s when they told me they were not playing for hundreds. They were playing for thousands.”

Genie stood up, gaping at him. “Twelve thousand pounds?”

George nodded miserably.

Genie sat back down hard on the cold bench.

Twelve thousand pounds.

“George, that is impossible! You could never raise that kind of money. Even Father could not raise that money.”

“He must never know!” George grabbed her hand with his cold one.

“George, you are freezing out here. Come inside.”

He shook his head, a more miserable boy she had never seen. “Aunt Cora would send off a post to mother straightaway. Genie, I am sorry, but I’m going to need to ask for those emeralds back.”

“Yes, yes of course. I’ll just be a trice.”

Genie stepped lightly up to her room. She grabbed the box with the emeralds and paused to take one more look. Grant had complimented her on them. She did think they looked fine. She swallowed back regret and put the lid back on the box. It was time to be responsible and do what she needed to do to save her brother. Her decision was made. She would marry Mr. Blakely. What need could she have for sparkly ornaments?

Squaring her shoulders, she returned to the garden. She was a farm girl at heart, strong and hearty. She would meet this challenge directly and take care of her family. She would be respectably married and her fiancé would no doubt help to discharge her brother’s debts. Mr. Blakely was a nice sort of man. This was the best choice. This was her only choice.

Her brother took the emeralds from her without looking her in the eye. His shoulders were stooped, giving her rise to an uncharacteristic flash of anger.

“Do you know what I think, George? I think these men set a trap for you. They allowed you to win at first and then lured you into thinking you were playing for lower stakes, getting you to bet big. You should just explain to them that there was a misunderstanding.”

George let out a choking laugh that sounded more like a rasp. “You do not understand. This is a debt of honor, one I must pay.”

“There must be some way to have this debt forgiven.”

George turned toward her, his eyes hollow. “No, Genie. It is a debt of honor.” He stepped back and faded from view, in danger of being swallowed whole by the thick morning London fog. “If I cannot pay it…”

Cold shot through her and true panic rose in her throat. Her brother was in danger. She felt it from the hairs on the back of her neck to the tips of her frozen toes. “George, you must promise me you will not do anything rash. I will not have you jumping off a bridge because someone cheated you at cards. I will help you, I promise. Let us not give up hope.”

“I must go see what I can get for these emeralds,” said George in a dull voice.

“Promise me, George. Promise you will keep yourself safe. You cannot even contemplate hurting Mother like that.”

The fading shape in the garden bowed his head, smaller and fainter. He was disappearing. “I promise, for now. I love you, Genie. You have always been a good sister to me.”

“George! Promise you will meet me here tomorrow morning.” Genie heard nothing from the dense fog. “George? One day, just give me one day.”

“As you wish.” The metal gate creaked and he was gone.

Genie sank back down on the cold stone bench. Twelve thousand pounds. It was a fortune. She had heard the stories of young men being routed in gambling hells and then, unable to pay the debt, “putting a period to their existence.” She could not and would not let that happen to her brother.

“What am I do to?” she murmured to herself.

“Your brother is under the hatches deep,” said a small voice.

“Jemmy?” asked Genie.

“Aye, milady.” The small form of Jem stepped out of the mist.

“Should you not be at breakfast?”

Jem shrugged. “You need a gullgroper. Only one I know can tip that kind of blunt.”

“Jem dear, I haven’t a clue what you are talking about.”

“A gullgroper whats lends money to gamesters.”

“I see,” said Genie quietly. She had no idea even an hour ago that she would be in need of this type of information.

“The Candyman can tip you the blunt you need.”

“Candyman? Where would I find this person?”

“Chocolate Shoppe in Piccadilly.” Jem recited the address and Genie stored it away for future reference if needed.

“Thank you, though I hope this information will not be needed. Go on back to your breakfast now. You shouldn’t be out in all this damp air.”

“Aye, milady.” Jem shuffled back into the fog but turned and scampered back.

“Don’t go there, milady,” he whispered. “Don’t go see the Candyman. He’s a mean cove.”

“Thank you, Jemmy. Go on back now.” Genie listened until the footsteps disappeared in the direction of Grant’s house.

Grant was next door to her. Was he sleeping now? Probably. Desire to run and tell him what happened and ask for help washed over her. But she should not, could not. Mr. Grant was a shining dream, but he was not her future.

***

Grant could not remember when he had acted more like a horse’s arse. His behavior toward Genie, Miss Talbot to him from now on, had been incorrigible. His shocking words and actions revealed clearly he had drunk too much. The fact that he remembered every painful detail proved he had not drunk enough.

Had he really asked Miss Talbot, an innocent debutante living under the protection of the Earl of Bremerton, to be his mistress? He put his aching head in his hands and groaned. So she met a man in the lending library. So she encouraged that dull boy Blakely. None of it could excuse his own behavior.

He had always been careful to avoid any situation which would force him into marriage. He had avoided schemes, entrapments, plots, and intrigues, and yet here he was, tripping over his own stupid self. If any situation ever called for an immediate proposal of marriage, this was it. All those years of trying to avoid the matrimonial noose and here he had put his head in one of his one making.

He was going to do it. He was going to ask Eugenia Talbot to marry him.

Grant waited for the usual feeling of dread that generally accompanied the mere thought of wedding bells, but instead he felt lighter, happier, and, despite the obvious contradiction, freer.

Grant sat up and rang for his valet. It was 2:00 p.m., time for an early start for the day. Today’s agenda was to get dressed, look sharp, and ask a girl to marry him. And not any girl. Genie. His Genie. He could mentally call her that now that he had decided to wed her proper. Genie who made him laugh. Genie his wife. Genie in his bed.

“Hurry man,” Grant demanded to his valet. “I have important business today!”

So unusual was that declaration that the valet came to a full stop, as if ascertaining whether Mr. Grant was really his employer or had been replaced by a changeling overnight.

Once Grant had been dressed to his satisfaction, he went first to his mother’s rooms. Rummaging through her jewelry boxes, he found what he was looking for. His mother had once shown him a collection of rings that had been in the family. Many were beautiful and could be used as an engagement ring. There was one kept in a small, wooden box hundreds of years old. It was a simple band of braided gold, silver, and steel, symbolizing the union between God, a man, and a woman. According to his mother, it was a love ring only to be given to one’s true love.

Grant held the love ring for a moment, then returned it to the wooden box and chose a stunning emerald to match the earrings Genie wore. Maybe in time he would consider the love ring, for although he liked her, maybe even loved her, he felt the need to hold something back.

He paused for a moment, considering whether or not his mother and sisters would be pleased with his choice. He shook off the question. Genie was a living, breathing female; they would be ecstatic.

Grant arrived at Bremerton house looking like a man he would have laughed at only days before. He held a bouquet of flowers from his mother’s garden, a ring was in his breast pocket, and his heart was on his sleeve. How had it come to this?

And yet, for all the ridiculousness of the situation, he did not want to be anywhere but here. He was going to ask her hand in marriage. He would do it right.

Grant was shown into the drawing room where, much to his disappointment, he was met by Lady Bremerton and her daughter.

“I am here to see Miss Talbot. Is she in?” he asked politely.

“She is resting. It has been a busy morning,” said Lady Bremerton. She made no movement to call her down, and Grant sat nervously in a chair. His hands starting to sweat as he awkwardly held the flowers. He had envisioned how things would proceed when he asked for her hand. He had practiced his apology; it was a good one. Then he would tell her of his love and the things about her that he admired and all the reasons why his life would not be worth living without her.

Yet in every scenario he had imagined, Genie was at least in the room. Lady Bremerton posed an obstacle he had not considered. His reputation had not concerned him before, but it was not helping him now. Or perhaps Genie had shared with her aunt his indecent proposal? That would certainly explain the looks of hostility directed his way from Lady Bremerton.

“It was quite an evening at Almack’s last night. I hope you enjoyed the vouchers.” Grant smiled. No harm in reminding her of his contribution. “Did you fare well at the tables?”

“I do not gamble, Mr. Grant.” In other words, she lost.

“It was terribly flat last night. Perhaps I should return later when Miss Talbot is available.”

“My niece will be quite busy today,” said Lady Bremerton. “We need to start making wedding plans.”

“Wedding plans?” Grant echoed.

“Yes, perhaps you have not yet heard. Mr. Blakely proposed to Genie last night. She has invited him over today so she can formally accept his proposal. We expect him any minute.”

Grant’s stomach recoiled as if he had been sucker punched. He had to force himself to take a slow breath. “How wonderful,” he said, forcing his lips upward into what he hoped looked like a smile. “Please relay to her my best wishes for a long, happy life together. I understand now how much preparation you have before you to plan the wedding. I’ll not keep you any longer.”

Grant somehow managed to get his feet moving and walked out of the house with the false smile still plastered on his face and the flowers in his hand. It was the smile of a man who had just had his heart ripped from his chest. Grant walked around the block back to his house. He dropped the flowers in the gutter somewhere along the way.

There was only one thing to do. Grant reached for a bottle as soon as he walked in his study. He planned, quite simply, to crawl into a bottle and never come out. Last night, he had drunk enough to become stupid, but not enough to forget. He would not make that same mistake. With any luck, if he started drinking immediately, he would forget this whole day ever happened.

He grabbed a bottle and took a large swig. This way, when the servants found him crying, he could blame it on the drink. He wiped the tears from his eyes and lifted the bottle.