Page 9 of An Arranged Marriage with a Mad Marquess
Chapter Three
The key was to project confidence. That was what Harry had said, and Harry was generally right about these sorts of things.
Neil had kept the curtains of the carriage closed as he made his way to the Marshville home. He realized, a moment or two too late, that approaching in a closed-up carriage would look fairly odd. No doubt the family had been peering at him from the windows.
Too late now, of course.
The carriage rolled to a halt, the door was opened, and Neil was obliged to step out. He found himself looking up at a tall, grand house, with only a little shabbiness around the corners. From the information Harry and Lady Emma had gathered, he knew that the family were rather good at putting on a mask in Society. They could make what little money they had stretch a little further, and mend and make do with the most frugal families.
In Society, appearances were paramount. One could subsist on mere wits and a pittance, provided one possessed the art of management.
Of course, such a lifestyle was not exactly sustainable, as Lord and Lady Marshville and their daughters were doubtless discovering.
A grim-looking footman in much-darned livery met him at the door. Neil fought not to cringe before the man’s contemptuous stare. Once again, the servants in a place like this would be the most loyal core of the family, determined to serve their employers for as long and as well as they could.
Or perhaps they were simply owed too much in back wages to risk leaving. Hard to tell at first glance.
“This way, Lord Morendale,” the footman said shortly, turning on his heel and not looking behind to see if Neil followed.
It was clear that the servants, at least, were not welcoming Neil’s presence.
They probably think I’m mad, too. They’re mostly right, I suppose.
He was led through a wide, high hallway, walls covered with various portraits. It was meant to convey the idea of an ancient and noble family, Neil thought, but anybody who knew the Marshvilles would know that they were rather new, by theton’sstandards. New, and not particularly rich. They were the sort of family that would be warmly accepted in Society, providing they had enough money and half-decent breeding to earn it. However, should that breeding waver or their money fail, they would be cast out at once.
There were ancient, impoverished families in Society that were not shunned, simply because of their name and their long, elegant family history. The Marshvilles would not have that sort of luck and forbearance.
He spotted plenty of signs that the home was not well looked after: dusty corners in hastily swept and mopped floors, brass in need of a good polishing, lopsided pictures, cobwebs hanging from the ceiling. In places, there were patches of musty smells, indicating that the house was overdue a good airing. He passed countless closed doors, and would have wagered that inside those doors, the furniture was swathed in dust sheets, the shutters barred, closed and silent. Fewer rooms to maintain meant fewer rooms to heat, clean, and occupy. It was generally for the best.
The hallway weaved under a wide staircase, the banister of the landing hanging overhead. Neil wasn’t sure what made himlook up, but look up he did, and was greeted by three faces hanging over the banister, staring down at him.
Neil paused, standing still, head tilted back to look up at them in silence.
These were the Marshville girls, certainly, ranging in age from almost-eighteen to two and twenty, if his sources were correct.
It was clear that they were sisters, all sporting the same golden hair, the same longish faces, the same delicately up-tipped noses and blue eyes.
None of them smiled. They did not dart backwards out of sight, embarrassed at being caught staring. They stared down at him, returning his gaze unblinkingly, faces unreadable. Swallowing hard, Neil gave a nod, intending it for them all. No response was forthcoming, so he tore his eyes away and hurried after the disappearing footman. It was occurring to him now that perhaps the man was actually a butler. It was difficult to tell.
Neil was shown into a small, neatly arranged study. A fire burned heartily in the grate, making the room rather too warm. It felt like overcompensation, as if the owner of the room was making a point, that he could overheat his room and not care about the waste of firewood. Perhaps indicating that, despite the chill hanging over the rest of the house, this room at least could be as warm as its occupants like. Neil wished a window could be opened.
A pair of armchairs were angled towards the fire, and a middle-aged woman sat in one of the armchairs, back turned to the door. There was a large desk taking up most of the space, with a chair before it and a chair behind it. A short, round-faced man occupied the chair behind the desk. He got unsteadily to his feet as Neil entered, smiling nervously. The woman did not stand up.
“Lord Morendale, what a pleasure,” the man stammered, extending a pudgy hand for Neil to shake. “I am Lord Marshville, as I’m sure you’ve surmised. This is my dear wife, Lady Marshville. She insisted on being present. Your… your note implied that this meeting was of great importance, so I thought my dear lady wife ought to be here.” He was babbling, a sure sign of nerves.
Neil inclined his head towards the lady. She was still not looking at him, staring instead into the fire. He shifted from foot to foot, wondering if the woman was going to invite him to sit or not. It was her prerogative, of course, as the lady of the house. She did not seem inclined to speak, or even spare a glance his way. She seemed to be pretending that he did not exist.
The problem of seating was solved by Lord Marshville sitting himself down with a thump, then seeming to recollect his guest in a rush. Reddening, he gestured to the other seat.
“Pray, take a seat. Tea will be coming soon. I thought you might prefer to talk in my study, instead of the parlour, since this is business.”
Neil smiled faintly. He wished, not for the first time, that Harry was here. Harry was better at being charming, at getting people to like him. And if Neil were to have a “turn” – heaven forbid – Harry would know what to do. Harry had a way of helping people relax, to speak freely about it. It was a real talent, and one that Neil did not possess.
Much as he wished he might possess it.
But one couldn’t bring one’s steward on an errand like this. Harry had come with him, for moral support, and was waiting in the carriage.
“It is a matter of business,” Neil managed at last, reviewing the notes he’d written in his head on the way here. “This is a delicate business, but I suppose you would consider it as a proposal of marriage.”
