A Wedding In Springtime(106)

“What’s that?” asked Jem.

“A very important name.”

“Is it secret?”

“Very!”





Thirty-five





“Your grandmother requests your presence to discuss canceling the ball tonight,” said Penelope. She entered Marchford’s library, which had taken a militant turn, with boards across the windows and various weaponry within easy reach.

“What is our excuse?” asked Marchford.

“Apparently, I have taken ill.”

“Contagious?”

“Dreadfully. Something with spots.”

“I hope you will soon recover.”

“Me too. Have you gotten word from the thieves?”

“Yes. This was delivered.” Marchford held up a missive with a red seal. “Clever—they sent back my seal, so I’d know they were in possession of Miss Talbot. They would like to trade her for the letter code at dusk in Hyde Park.”

“A trap?”

“Naturally.”

Yelling and a loud bang interrupted their conversation. Marchford pulled a pistol from his coat and pushed Penelope behind him on his way to the door. He cracked the door from his study and looked out, then opened it all the way. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Your Grace! An urchin boy has invaded!” yelled the butler, giving chase to a small boy, with two footmen and a scullery maid in tow. “Came in the kitchen window. We’ll soon be rid of him.”

The small boy in question ran up the stairwell, then confounded his pursuers by jumping over the railing onto a small table, which broke under his weight, shattering an expensive vase. He found his feet quickly but not fast enough to avoid the strong hand of the Duke of Marchford on his shoulder.

“You the duke?” asked the lad, glancing nervously from the duke’s face to the hand holding the pistol.

“Yes.”

“I gots a message from Mr. Grant.”

“Do you?” The duke surveyed the young boy. “Thank you, Peters,” he said to his butler. “You have earned a bonus for your efforts, and you three as well.” He nodded to his staff. The duke marched the boy into the study, his hand never leaving the boy’s shoulder.

Penelope followed them. She was not invited, but she could not possibly miss the excitement now that she was a part of it.

“I know this lad,” said Penelope. “He is the boy who attempted to steal my bandbox outside your house.”

“Is that true?” asked the duke.

“Aye, sir,” said the boy, his eyes never leaving the gun.

“I believe he is also the lad Miss Talbot rescued and Mr. Grant has been housing. Goes by the name Jem.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Jem.

“So what brings you to visit my home, Master Jem?” asked the duke in a mild tone.

“Mr. Grant sent me. He wants me to tell you not to go to Hyde. They means to snabble you.”

“Snabble?” asked Penelope.

“To rob and murder, have I got that right?” asked Marchford in a lazy tone as if the plot was of little consequence.

“Yessir.”

“And why can the illustrious Mr. Grant not tell me this himself?”

“He and milady are pitch-kettled in a cellar.”

“And I suppose you would like me to follow you to this cellar?” asked Marchford.

“Aye!”

A knock on the door revealed a heavily laden Lord Thornton. He carried a rope, shovel, rifle, bucket, lantern, and a brace of pistols.

“Good heavens, Lord Thornton,” exclaimed Penelope. “You look quite the adventurer.”

“Aye! James requested my assistance. I have learned to come prepared,” said Thornton.

“Good show!” said Marchford approvingly.

“What are we doing today?” asked Thornton.

“Trying to rescue a damsel in distress without getting killed ourselves,” answered Marchford.

“Always a good plan. Especially that last part,” said Thornton with feeling.

“Young Jem here was just going to tell us why I would put my life in his hands by following him into a cellar.”

“Mr. Grant told me to tells you something.” Jem eyed Penelope and Thornton suspiciously and motioned Marchford to lean down so he could whisper in his ear.

“Ah!” exclaimed Marchford. “There is little you could have said that would have enticed me to believe you, but I know Grant would not, even under pain of torture, ever reveal that name. Lead on, Master Jem!”