Page 33 of How to Cross a Marquess (The Way to a Lord's Heart 3)

He wanted to go with them, Roger thought. He wanted to follow Fenella around, talk to her, listen to her. And more than that. His interest in his lovely neighbor, freed from the internal chains he’d put on it, was growing by leaps and bounds. Did she feel the same? He was going to have to ask her before he let things go much further. He could at least be certain that the current version of Fenella would tell him the truth.

Roger made his way out of the village hall. The Fairclough party, with Tom, was riding away. Fenella managed her spirited horse with easy grace. Years ago, Roger had overheard her father complaining to his own about the burden of three daughters, and the lack of a son. Fairclough had been ridiculously venomous, he thought now. It was no wonder Fenella had been a timorous girl under that weight of disapproval. At the time, Roger hadn’t paid much attention. It was borne in upon him, yet again, what a heedless, self-centered youth he’d been. Was there any way to make up for that now? He found he was determined to try.

* * *

Arthur slipped his arms into the evening coat his valet was holding for him. Clayton smoothed it over his shoulders and brushed a speck of lint from the lapel. “I’d be a sartorial shambles without you, Clayton,” said the earl.

The valet permitted himself a small smile, which warmed a round face that was pleasant rather than handsome and softened his brown eyes.

Arthur was grateful for the sharp mind and deep well of common sense behind those eyes. The man had been with the earl for more than twenty years, and Arthur valued his canny insights as much as his personal services. Clayton was a valuable sounding board when the earl was working out a course of action. Arthur reasoned better by talking aloud than through introspection. “What do you hear about Miss Fairclough?” he asked now.

“She seems to be an interesting young lady, my lord. She took over management of the Fairclough estate when she returned from Scotland, as her father is quite ill. Some are happy about that, and others are complaining.”

Arthur cocked an eyebrow for more information.

“I’ve heard it suggested that the latter are a ‘gaumless, shiftless lot.’”

The phrase made the earl smile. “Lady Chatton thinks well of her.” She’d more or less implied that Roger and Miss Fairclough would do well together, and his host’s manner when Miss Fairclough was present seemed to support that opinion. “I think it’s time for us to hatch a plot, Clayton.”

Clayton didn’t sigh. He would never lower himself to do so. But he gave the impression of a sigh nonetheless.

Arthur wondered if his valet was missing the round of house parties that usually occupied their summers. He knew Clayton had cronies among his noble friends’ servitors. “Next year we will be back to our customary routines,” he said. But as soon as he spoke, he wondered if he could make such a promise. He was finding this summer so much more satisfying than the last few. “I think,” Arthur added in all honesty.

Clayton’s answering nod was noncommittal. It was often difficult to decipher what he really thought, Arthur acknowledged. He’d offered more than once to help Clayton into another, more prestigious profession. The man always said he was happy where he was. “More matchmaking, my lord?” the valet said now.

“Who would have thought it, eh? But in this case, there may be a complication. Their fathers tried to force them to marry a few years ago.”

“So I have heard,” replied Clayton. “Mrs. Burke, the housekeeper here, is of the opinion that the previous Lord Chatton ought to have known better.”

“Because?”

“The present marquess was not a particularly…obedient child.”

“And what wild young sprig wants to be told who to marry?”

“Indeed, my lord.”

A knock at the door heralded the entry of Tom. They’d formed the habit of chatting in the half hour before dinner, which Tom insisted on taking with the servants. Which was undoubtedly wise, Arthur thought, as Tom tended to be. Could such sensitivity simply be innate? He enjoyed hearing about the lad’s adventures, and in this case his description of the pageant rehearsal seemed promising. Arthur didn’t see just how at present, but it had certainly brought his targets together in an interesting way.

“When is Mrs. Thorpe coming?” asked Tom.

“A few days before the performance, I believe,” answered the earl. “It’s not as if she needs much rehearsal to recite a speech of Lady Macbeth’s.” Mrs. Thorpe had played the part on the London stage, to great renown.

“That Mr. Benson says the play ain’t true,” said Tom. “Claims Shakespeare got it all wrong. Can you do that?”

“What?”

“Call Shakespeare a liar. Ain’t he kind of sacred, like?”

“Drama critics have never thought so,” answered Arthur with some amusement.

“He’s trying to get the pageant to call off that scene,” Tom added. “Do you reckon we should tell Mrs. Thorpe?”

Arthur considered the matter. “I don’t think it’s our place to do so. I suspect the organizers won’t want to offend one of the foremost actresses in London. After she has agreed to come all the way up here.”

Tom accepted this with his customary good humor and proceeded to tell them more about his part in the pageant.

“It sounds like an interesting spectacle,” said Arthur when he finished. “Perhaps I’ll go by and watch a rehearsal one day.”