How to Cross a Marquess

by Jane Ashford

As she walked downstairs to speak to the footman, she knew that William would gladly play his part for the few days until John and Wrayle departed. And he would prevent Wrayle from spreading his venom both in the house and out of it. There was no danger that the young footman would be swayed by Wrayle’s stories. The man’s treatment of William’s friends among the maids had hardened his, and the whole household’s, opinion against him.

  Symmes and Gissing left the neighborhood. The last August days lazed past, with only the approach of the festival on Lindisfarne to vary the household’s routine. John settled in, irritated by Wrayle but companioned by Tom. Fenella enjoyed her role as mistress of Chatton Castle, creating the beautiful, cozy retreat she’d imagined for herself when she first saw her grandmother’s.

  There was, naturally, widespread curiosity about their hasty marriage, and a few spiteful remarks were an irritant or a hurtful disappointment, depending on the source. The anonymous letters had sown malice that would take time to fade. Nothing to be done about that but show people the truth of her character, Fenella knew. It helped that there had been no sign of letters since their return. Fenella told herself that they’d stopped. She even hoped that perhaps the writer regretted sending them.

  When she said as much to Roger as they were going up to bed one night, he said, “I’d like to think so. But I don’t believe the sort of person who’d write them is likely to be sorry.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Too occupied with making trouble and gloating over the havoc they cause,” he added.

  At this description, a thought struck Fenella. “I wonder if it could have been Wrayle?”

  “That valet fellow Symmes foisted off on us?”

  She nodded. “He’s exactly the sort of person you just described. And he has a grudge against me.”

  “You?” Roger looked offended at the idea. “Why should he?”

  “Because I won’t allow him to creep about the maids, and I keep his bullying of John to a minimum.”

  “Why do we have such a servant in the house?”

  “Well, I don’t wish to, but John’s father insisted, as a condition of allowing John to stay. You needn’t worry. I’ve given William the task of watching Wrayle. He won’t let him go beyond the line.”

  “And rather enjoy it, if what I’ve seen of William is anything to go by.”

  “Precisely.” Fenella sat down at the dressing table and began to pull pins out of her hair. She’d taken to dispensing with her maid at bedtime. She and Roger had evolved some more…delightful routines.

  “Anonymous letters would be precisely Wrayle’s style,” she said. “He is a pernicious snoop and underhanded.”

  Roger’s voice came from the dressing room off the bedchamber. “Didn’t the letters begin before the fellow returned to the neighborhood with Symmes?”

  Fenella ran over the timing in her mind. “Yes. That’s true.”

  “So he would have had to find someone to deliver them.”

  “He could have paid someone.”

  “Right. Would he have known the…sorry tale well enough?” Whenever the topic of the letters came up, Roger sounded guilty.

  “He makes sure to hear everything.” But William had reported that Wrayle wasn’t much more popular in the village than in the castle. Would anyone have passed along a stale bit of gossip, which was what the story had been before the letters revived it? It didn’t seem very likely. Fenella was disappointed to see the holes in her theory. She would have liked to place the blame squarely on Wrayle rather than one of her neighbors. “Well, if it was him, he won’t be sending any more. William won’t give him the opportunity.”

  Roger came out of the dressing room in his shirtsleeves and stocking feet, and Fenella was distracted by how very handsome he looked. “Macklin’s lad Tom is still on the track of the letter carrier,” he said. “He’s certain he’ll find something.”

  “Tom is a kind boy and seems intelligent. I like him. But”—she sighed—“best just to get on with life, I suppose. It’s not as if I have nothing to do.”

  He bent to kiss the back of her neck. “And you are doing it all splendidly. You are a superb mistress of Chatton Castle, as I knew you would be.”

  Fenella met his gaze in the mirror. “Why? What made you think that the girl I was, or even the woman I became, would be superb?” There was a hint of challenge in her voice, as if the accolade was inappropriate.

  She never quite seemed to see what a marvel she was. Roger didn’t understand that. It seemed so obvious to him. And she wasn’t easily fobbed off with empty compliments either. On the one hand, that was good, because he could never think of any empty compliments. On the other hand, it presented difficulties, because he had to find a way to put her wonderful qualities into words. That would require a speech, as she had so many, and the chances of him saying it right were slim. Perhaps a distraction? He held her eyes in the mirror as he undid the top button of her gown. A small smile curved her lips, as if she knew what he was doing and didn’t mind in the least.

  Roger undid another button. Together, they’d developed a glorious nighttime ritual, an undressing game that drove both of them wild. Slowly, and deliciously, until they couldn’t wait a moment longer to leap into bed. He undid another button. The sleeve of Fenella’s gown fell off her shoulder, and he dropped a kiss on the bare skin. He heard her breath catch and reveled in it, as he did every time he was able to make that happen.

  Roger was making a study of his new wife’s body, on a quest to discover everything that brought her pleasure. It was the most enchanting study he’d ever undertaken. And he felt he was doing rather well—certainly better than he ever had in school, he thought with a smile.

  Another button. The bodice of her gown slid down. Fenella rose and let the garment fall to the floor. Now there were lacings and a petticoat and stockings, in an escalating pattern of arousal. Her fingers went to the fastenings of his shirt. Which had to be taken slowly, in concert with his efforts. Because when she moved on to the breeches, well, that was usually where the game broke down and they tumbled into bed.

  They’d found their way to a heady combination of breathless need and tenderness and shattering release. Roger reveled in it, and he was pretty certain she did as well. She seemed to have dedicated herself to a similar sort of study from her side. He was undoubtedly a very lucky man, he thought, before a flood of desire wiped all thought away.

  Sixteen

  “A friend of mine is arriving in the neighborhood tomorrow,” Macklin told the assembled party at dinner the following evening.

  Roger’s mother had joined them for the meal, as she often did. It was another boon of his marriage that she and Fenella liked each other so well, Roger thought. “Indeed?” she said. “A happy coincidence.”

  “She’s taking part in the pageant at Lindisfarne,” Macklin replied. “Giving a reading from Macbeth.”

  “You know the famous London actress who’s performing?” Fenella asked.

  The earl nodded.

  “How…unexpected.”

  “That I should know an actress?”

  “Well, yes. And call her a friend.”

  “I was acquainted with her husband first. He’s a prominent banker. My banker, in fact.” Macklin smiled. “Mrs. Thorpe is a respectable married lady, despite what some may think of her profession. I seem to say that each time I mention her.”

  “I thought the actress coming was called Simmons,” said Roger.

  “She uses her maiden name for the stage.”

  “And her banker’s name for society,” said Fenella.

  “Precisely,” replied the earl.

  “Where is she staying?” asked the dowager marchioness.

  “An inn near the island, I believe.”

  “No, no, she must come and stay with me,” replied Roger’s mother. “It will be so amusing
.”

  “She would be a charming guest,” said Macklin.

  Roger wondered if he should object to this plan, but he couldn’t see why. Which was fortunate because he was sure his mother wouldn’t listen to him.

  Mrs. Thorpe was duly contacted, invited, and installed at the dower house. The next evening she joined their company at dinner. An impressive lady in her middle years, she carried herself with immense dignity. Her voice was musical, with a note of command that Roger thought must be helpful in her profession. If he hadn’t known she was an actress, he would have assumed she was a grand lady of the neighborhood. Watching her converse with his mother and his wife, Roger for some reason thought of Fenella’s grandmother. If she ever had a set-to with Mrs. Thorpe, the confrontation would rival the epic bare-knuckle match between Gentleman Jackson and Daniel Mendoza, he thought. He wouldn’t want to predict the outcome. And what had put such a bizarre idea into his head?

  “Yes, I am rather known for my Lady Macbeth,” Mrs. Thorpe said in answer to Fenella’s question. “I’m past the age for girlish parts.”

  The idea didn’t appear to disturb her.

  “Indeed, I’m thinking of retiring from the stage,” she added.

  “That would be a great loss,” said Macklin.

  Mrs. Thorpe smiled benignly at him. “Knowing when to withdraw gracefully into the wings is the mark of a truly great actress. I’ve done more than I ever hoped I could when I was a girl.” She looked pensive. “Though not more than I dreamed.”

  “Have all your dreams come true?” asked Fenella in a curious tone.

  “The important ones. But then those would be the most likely.”

  “Why do you say that?” Fenella seemed quite interested in the new guest.

  “Because that’s where I worked the hardest,” replied Mrs. Thorpe. “Except—”

  The others at the table waited, transfixed by her voice and presence. Mrs. Thorpe smiled at them. “Marriage came to me as a gift. When I least expected it and with very little effort on my part. Mr. Thorpe surprised me, I admit. And asked only my whole heart.”

  “Perhaps you were a dream of his,” said Macklin. “Indeed, from what I know, I’m certain you were. And are.”

  Mrs. Thorpe turned to gaze at him. She looked moved, her perfect facade for once undone. “I like that. Thank you.”

  They saw less of his mother and Macklin after Mrs. Thorpe’s arrival, and Roger had the feeling they were having a lively time over at the dower house. He might have envied them, but he had his wife, and they found plenty of diversions of their own as they settled into their partnership. And so Roger was simply glad that his mother had interesting companions to amuse her.

  * * *

  At a knock on his bedchamber door, Arthur looked up from the writing desk and bade the person enter.

  Tom came in, his homely face showing satisfaction. “I’m fairly certain I’ve found out who carried those letters,” he said.

  “Good work,” replied Arthur. He set aside the missive he’d been writing and gestured at the armchair by the window. Tom sat down.

  “I can’t say for sure,” the lad went on. “Seems there haven’t been any letters just lately.”

  “I haven’t heard of any.”

  Tom nodded. “So I couldn’t follow the messenger. Had to do a bit of a nose about instead. Talking to this one and that one. Piecing bits together. I found there’s a girl, daughter of the miller, coming up on nine years old. Seemingly she’s been where she oughtn’t to be, and then not shown up where she’s supposed to be, a deal of times this last month. Enough so’s people noticed. And all of them places where she wasn’t meant to be were houses where letters came.”

  “A girl,” said Arthur. “Not what I expected. I would have thought a boy less likely to be noticed.” He wondered what this might reveal about the letter writer.

  Tom nodded again. “The thing about Lally—this girl—she’s just a bit dim. Or mebbe that ain’t the right word. I don’t know. Folks say she’s generally lost in a daydream, pays you no more attention than a songbird. And she wanders. I reckon someone took advantage of that.”

  The earl frowned. “She doesn’t sound like the best choice to carry secret messages.”

  “Not who I’d pick. But then mebbe I’d be wrong.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Tom settled deeper in the chair. “I’ve been thinking on it,” he said. “We figured somebody was being paid to take the letters. And that we could give him more money to tell us where they came from. ’Cause that’s what he’d be interested in. The pay.”

  “Right,” said Arthur.

  “But if the person weren’t doing it for money.” Tom spread his hands. “Then we’d look all nohow.”

  “Why would they be doing it then?”

  “I talked to Lally.” The lad smiled. “Couldn’t really call it a conversation. She talks about what she wants, not what a person might want to know. But I’d swear she has a secret. Right pleased about it, she is. Hugging it to herself, like. And she won’t be telling.”

  “If I spoke to her parents?” Arthur asked.

  Tom shook his head. “They’d want to help you, most likely. There might be shouting. But Lally won’t care. I’m thinking people shout at her a good bit.”

  He wasn’t going to bully a dreamy child, Arthur thought.

  “Another thing is, I reckon that girl knows every nook and path hereabouts. Even if she thinks that fairies live in the mounds. She could slip about easy.”

  “Perhaps we can keep an eye on her. See where she goes. She might visit the letter writer.”

  “I got a few boys doing that,” Tom said.

  “They won’t plague her?”

  “I picked out some good fellows. Those with a bit of heart. Said as how her folks were worried about her, didn’t want her getting hurt.”

  “Well done.”

  “And we are paying them,” Tom added with a shrug.

  “Do you need money?”

  “I will, by tomorrow.”

  Arthur fetched his purse and opened it, offering Tom a five-pound note.

  Laughing, the lad waved it away. “Coin, my lord. We ain’t making their fortunes here. A handful of sixpences, by choice.”

  “I’ll ask the housekeeper for change and get them to you.” Arthur replaced the banknote.

  Tom rose. “I’ll keep my eyes open as well.”

  “On your rambles in search of snakes?” asked Arthur with a smile.

  Tom grimaced. “There’s no more of that. That Wrayle fellow’s keeping John to his books. Only way he can get at him, with William hovering about.”

  “Who is William?”

  “Footman.” Tom face showed sly enjoyment. “Her ladyship set him on Wrayle, seeing as how Wrayle ain’t got no manners belowstairs.” Having explained this, Tom still lingered.

  “Was there something else?” Arthur always enjoyed Tom’s point of view.

  “Well, I was wondering, my lord, what’s the point of Latin? John says he’s got to learn it, no joke, and that there’s six different ways to write each and every word.” Tom shook his head. “But nobody speaks Latin any more, seemingly, haven’t for hundreds of years.” The lad’s homely face was creased in puzzlement. “I like learning myself, my lord. You know that. But I don’t see the point of knowing a language that ain’t around any longer.”

  It was always interesting having Tom about, Arthur thought. The lad’s curiosity allowed him—or goaded him—to delve into matters Arthur had never considered before. Was he to justify English pedagogy now? “Our own language developed out of Latin,” he said. “Partly, at least. So knowing Latin can help one work out the meaning of words one doesn’t know. Also, there is the heritage of the Roman Empire. Their history and literature and so on were written in Latin. All the best schools teach it.”
Immediately Arthur hoped that last point wouldn’t wound a boy who’d had minimal opportunities for schooling.

  Tom nodded, showing no sign of chagrin. “It’s not just Wrayle bullying John then. That’s good.” He grinned. “And that’s why Wrayle keeps twitting me for not knowing a single bit of Latin.”

  “Do you need me to speak to this Wrayle?” Arthur didn’t like the mention of bullying.

  “Naught for you to worry about, my lord.”

  “Very well.” A thought came, and Arthur wondered if Tom’s sense of mischief was rubbing off on him. “I could teach you some Latin tags.”

  “Tags?”

  “Common phrases that people use.”

  Tom considered. “Nah. I expect I couldn’t carry it off. And John and me have an idea brewing for Wrayle.”

  “Do I want to know what it is?”

  “Best not.” Tom’s grin was impish.

  Arthur had learned, over the course of their acquaintance, to trust Tom’s instincts. The lad wouldn’t do anything beyond the line. And from what he’d heard from Clayton as well, this Wrayle deserved a setdown. So he asked nothing more, letting Tom go on his way. Arthur was due at the dower house for tea and conversation that was certain to be delightful. He set aside his letter and prepared to walk across the Chatton Castle property.

  It was a positive joy to see these two ladies side by side, he thought a little while later. They presented a picture of mature beauty and dignity. Mrs. Thorpe’s black hair was immaculately dressed, as always. Of the two, her clothes obviously came from the more fashionable modiste, being the height of the current London mode. Her face was a bit pale, but nothing could detract from its classic bone structure. Her blue eyes gleamed with sharp intelligence. In contrast, the dowager marchioness’s blond hair gleamed in a shaft of sunshine from the window. She was more slender, her gaze softer but with equal acuity. Arthur was happy that the two women had found much in common and was pleased to have given Helena another new friend. They’d been making plans for her to go to London and see a play of Mrs. Thorpe’s in the spring.

  When they had settled their arrangements, Mrs. Thorpe turned to Arthur and said, “You haven’t asked me about my visit to Shropshire.”