A Wedding In Springtime

chapter Thirty-three





“Louisa is married?”

“Apparently,” said Marchford carelessly.

Grant frowned. “And the groom?”

“A Dr. Roberts.”

Grant shook his head. “Are mornings always this exciting?”

“Only when you are awake for them,” answered Marchford.

“Then I am cured of ever attempting it again. What are you going to do?”

“Miss Rose has suggested we go round to the good doctor’s residence and see if we can catch them before they flee. I own that I should most likely heed this advice.”

Grant glanced at Miss Rose who was sitting primly on the seat of the phaeton. The two men walked a few steps away, out of earshot. “What of the letter and Miss Talbot?”

Marchford patted his breast coat pocket. “The letter is safe for now. As for Miss Talbot, I fear I am at a loss. Did the servants know anything?”

“The groom drove her to a chocolate shop yesterday, but otherwise, I do not know.”

“Have you any other idea of where she would go? What she would do?” asked Marchford.

Grant shook his head. “I cannot believe she would do anything like this at all. Although…” Grant’s voice trailed off. He would rather be drawn and quartered than reveal that Genie had come to him last night. But why had she come? He was irresistible of course, but he had been profoundly drunk last night. Why had she been there? Was she in some sort of trouble? Had she come to him for help?

“What is it?” asked Marchford. “If you know something…”

“She may have been in trouble,” said Grant slowly. “She spoke to me, but I forget. I regret I was deep in my cups at the time.”

“Try to remember,” pressed Marchford.

Grant pressed his hands to his temples until it hurt, hoping the pain would clear his head. “Promise me you will shoot me if a drop of liquor ever again passes through my lips.”

Marchford’s eyebrows rose. “I can only surmise you are making a joke.”

“No, my friend. My memory is hazy but I feel sure Genie would not be in this trouble today if I had not been so beset by drink. And now it has taken from me the only lady I ever truly cared about.” Tears sprung to his eyes, unbidden and unfamiliar. Gone was the cool mask of society’s upper crust. He was a broken man.

Marchford put his hand on Grant’s shoulder. “Steady on. We will find her.”

“Yes, yes of course.” Grant gave himself a mental shake. “Forgive me, this morning thing appears not to be to my liking.”

“So if Miss Talbot was in trouble, perhaps she was being blackmailed or threatened in some way,” said Marchford in his direct way, getting back to the business at hand.

“Yes, considering her actions of late, I would have to agree with you,” said Grant, a chill taking hold.

“She could have been pressured to steal the letter.”

“But she did not. She stole only the seal.”

“Then she may be in danger once the people discover she has not given them what they want,” said Marchford bluntly.

A tremor like ice water ran down Grant’s spine. “We need to find her,” he said, his voice quavering.

Marchford studied him for a moment, as if noticing him for the first time. “I fear, dear chap, you are in love.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I cannot find any other reasonable explanation. You have bought a special license, sworn off drinking, lost control of your emotions on a public street, and—most disturbing of all—done all this before noon. I would say the evidence leads me to no other conclusion.”

“I suppose under the circumstances, it would be foolish to deny it. I love her madly, it’s true. I need you to be honest. If she has taken this letter somewhere, what will happen to her when they find it is a fake?”

“They want the letter. They will probably hold on to her for leverage until they can get it.”

“How can we find her?” asked Grant.

“Doubt we have to. I wager they will come to find me. I need to find my errant bride, then I will return home to see if a message comes.”

“I would like to inspect this chocolate shop,” said Grant. “It’s most likely nothing, but it’s our only lead.” He glanced at Penelope, sitting in his phaeton. “Take my horses. I’ll grab a hack.”

A short while later, Grant walked into the chocolate shop, his senses bombarded by the rich aroma. It was a dark shop, so small he might have passed it many times before ever realizing it was there. A young lad stood at the back counter in a dirty apron. It hardly appeared to be a setting for intrigue.

Still, what could be a better cover than a chocolate shop in Piccadilly?

“May I help you, sir?” asked the lad as Grant approached.

“I do hope so. Found myself in some trouble. Thought perhaps coming here would help,” said Grant vaguely, hoping the lad would reveal something.

“Trouble with your vowels, sir?”

“Find myself quite at a standstill. Heard this place might help,” fabricated Grant.

“Candyman’s busy now. Come back later perhaps.”

“Could I wait for him? Pockets to let.”

The lad sized him up, then nodded and led him to a small, dark room behind a door in the paneling. “Wait here.”

Grant sat at the table of the dim room until he heard other customers enter the shop and figured the lad would be busy. He opened the door on the other side of the room. It could not be a coincidence that Genie had visited a chocolate shop that doubled as what appeared to be a moneylender. Did she need money? Was that why she pretended to take the letter?

He sneaked out the door on the other side of the small room and found himself in a corridor. Down the hall were the sounds of the kitchens with people chatting through their work. He supposed making the chocolate and the sweets took considerable effort.

He opened the door across from him and entered a small study. He searched the papers and found ledgers of sales, but nothing of particular interest. On a hidden shelf behind the desk, he found a ledger of monies loaned to men and women who had fallen on hard luck. He raised an eyebrow at some familiar names, but the name of Genie Talbot was not among them.

He cautiously opened the door once more and edged down the corridor closer to the kitchens. On the left was another door and he quickly dashed to it. Opening the door, he found a staircase leading down to the cellar. He closed the door behind him and slowly crept down the stairs into the gloom.

***

“I should thank you for interposing yourself today,” said Marchford. “Your knowledge of the location of Dr. Robert’s place of business is helpful.”

“I would say you’re welcome, but I do not think it was a compliment,” said Penelope, sitting next to him on the phaeton.

“I thought we had an agreement that you would tell me relevant information. You have clearly been here before. Did you not think my fiancée’s husband would be relevant to me?”

“I did not know she was married,” Penelope defended herself. “I did know she was interested in Dr. Roberts, but I did not know the extent of the relationship. How do you feel about this turn of events?”

“I wish she had told me before I announced a ball in her honor. Going to be dashed awkward.” Marchford steered deftly through the crowded London streets.

“Here we are, on the left. What is your plan now?” asked Penelope.

Marchford pulled up in front of the respectable house in a nicer part of Town. He left Penelope’s question hanging in the air, since he did not know the answer himself. Inside the residence, the young man in the apothecary attempted to tell them the doctor was unavailable, but Marchford ignored him. If there was a time to break social convention, this must be it.

“I believe his living quarters are upstairs,” said Penelope.

Marchford did not wait but bounded up the stairs with the shop clerk right behind, demanding he stop. Marchford burst through a door and got lucky. Dr. Roberts stood in the drawing room.

“Your Grace,” said the good doctor. “It is quite all right,” said the good doctor to his shop clerk, who glared at the interlopers but left the room.

Face to face with one of the doctors who had attempted to save his brother’s life, memories of sickbeds, treatments, and medicine flooded Marchford, rendering him speechless.

“Dr. Roberts, I don’t think we have formally met,” said Penelope, noting the silence in the room and taking command. “I am Penelope Rose, the new companion to the Dowager Duchess of Marchford.”

“A pleasure.” Dr. Roberts bowed.

Penelope’s sensible tone snapped Marchford back to the present. “Dr. Roberts, I do thank you once again for doing all you could for my brother,” said Marchford, finding his voice. “But I am here on a different errand.” He cleared his throat, wondering how to begin. “I understand you may know the location of Lady Louisa.”

“I am sorry I cannot help,” said the doctor. “I have not seen her since her last visit.”

“Dr. Roberts, I think the time has passed for charade. I need to speak to Lady Louisa.” Marchford spoke with the authority of a duke.

“I am sorry,” said Dr. Roberts firmly.

“Dr. Roberts, I am not here to stop Louisa. I simply would like to talk to her.”

“I am here,” said Louisa, emerging from a side door. She appeared calm but clutched her reticule with white knuckles.

Marchford took a deep breath. “Is it true you are married to Dr. Roberts?”

Dr. Roberts stood beside her and took her hand. The answer was clear.

“I understand,” said Marchford. He should feel disappointed, but the only thing flooding his heart was relief.

“We need to think strategy,” said Penelope. “Running away will not enhance the social credit of either one of you.”

Marchford glanced at Penelope, amused by her direct manner. It was a relief to have someone willing to state the plain truth without preamble or apology.

“Do you think there is any way my parents will accept my marriage to Dr. Roberts?” asked Louisa.

“There must be,” declared Marchford. “And so we will find it.”

***

Grant crept down the stairs. Ahead was a dim light in the cellar. He crept around the corner and found… nothing. A high, street-level window provided some light to inspect the room. It had cartons of flour and sugar and other ingredients, but otherwise there was nothing of interest.

He walked back up the stairs, not exactly sure what he was hoping to find. He opened the door slowly to find the surprised form of Mr. Blakely.

“Mr. Blakely? What are you doing here?”

“Mr. Grant!” Blakely clenched his jaw. “I could ask you the same question.”

“Cards got you all rolled up?” asked Grant. Mr. Blakely’s appearance was slightly less than his usual lack of polish. Had the man gambled himself out of the good sense to correctly tie a cravat?

Blakely gave a nervous smile. “Don’t tell me you’re run off your legs.”

“Nothing like that. Looking for Miss Talbot actually. Found she had come here. Know anything about it?”

“Sorry, I don’t. If she was looking for a loan, she might have gone to another lender I know about. I told her about it once. Never thought she would acquaint herself with it.”

“What interesting conversations you must have had. Can you tell me where this is?”

“I’ll do one better and take you there,” said Blakely.

Grant followed Blakely out of the chocolate shop, across the street, and down a side alley not even wide enough for two to walk abreast. Blakely stopped at a cellar door.

“I’ve heard a moneylender operates in this cellar as well.” Blakely paused as if nervous to continue.

“I’ll give it a go,” said Grant. He slowly opened the cellar door. “Hello!” he called but got no reply. He carefully crept in a few steps. “Hello!” he called again.

“Grant?” came a female voice from the darkness.

“Genie?” shouted Grant. He stumbled forward into the dark cellar. “Genie are you there?”

“Yes, only do be careful!” cried Genie.

Running forward, Grant could see her now, tied to a chair. “I have found you!” Relief to see her alive was mixed with a panic to help her escape immediately.

“Careful, there are other people in the cellar!” cried Genie.

Grant was grabbed by several pairs of hands. He prepared to strike but saw he was being attacked by children, dirty street urchins. He checked his swing and tried to push them away. He took out his penknife to cut Genie’s bonds but was attacked again and so he merely put the knife in her hand.

“Let go!” he demanded. “Blakely, I’ve found Genie. Get help!”

More dropped on him from above, one covered his mouth with a foul smelling cloth. He was able to free himself but not before spots of light flashed before his eyes.

The room spun and he fought against the encroaching darkness. Mr. Blakely appeared before him, holding a club.

“Don’t trust him!” called Genie.

But it was too late. The club came down hard.

Grant never felt the impact.