Page 1 of How to Cross a Marquess (The Way to a Lord's Heart 3)

Prologue

Roger Berwick, Marquess of Chatton, peered through the growing dusk at the passing London street. It did not look familiar. In fact, it appeared that his hack was headed east, into neighborhoods he’d never penetrated during any of his visits to the metropolis. He rapped on the ceiling of the cab with his cane. “Where the deuce are you going?” he called. “I told you White’s club in St. James’s Square.”

“You said Whitechapel,” the driver replied.

“Are you mad? Why would I want to go to a back slum?”

“I heerd you. Whitechapel, the Cub, you said, clear as clear.”

“I did not!”

“You calling me a liar?” asked the driver, leaning so far over the top of the carriage that Roger feared he’d fall into his lap. “’Cause if you ain’t suited, you can get out of my cab and walk, yer high and mightiness,” he added, suddenly belligerent.

Roger realized the man was drunk. Which fit with the neighborhood they were traversing. Despite the filthy March weather, with its tendrils of icy fog, there were people slumped against the dilapidated buildings on either side, women as well as men, victims of an excess of blue ruin. Some of them wouldn’t wake, if what Roger had heard about the ravages of gin was true. There were also other figures, upright and alert, hulking in the shadows. He wondered if it was time to twist off the bottom of his cane to reveal the sword inside.

“I did wonder if you’d like the Cub,” the driver added, his voice gone meditative. “Mean, dirty sort of boozing ken. But what I say is, you never know with a toff. Right barmy, some of ’em. I’ve had gentlemen wanting me to take them to Limehouse or the stews around the docks.”

“Well, I do not,” said Roger, gritting his teeth. Nothing about this day had gone right. In fact, it was shaping to be one of the most exasperating days of his life.

The man went on without seeming to hear, taking on the tone of an inebriated philosopher. “And bawdy houses. Very popular, they are. I know ’em all. You want to visit the liveliest ladies in the city, young sir? Better than the Cub, I can tell ye. I could take you there in a trice.”

“No!” It was difficult enough not to be angry after his recent visit without the addition of a sodden cabdriver. Roger fought the temper that was said to go with his red hair.

“Eh, well, it’s not far now.”

Roger controlled his voice and spoke carefully. “We appear to have had a misunderstanding. Please turn back.” He enunciated the next sentence very clearly. “I want to go to White’s club in St. James’s Square.” When there was no response, he added, “Did you hear me? White’s club in St. James’s Square.”

“Bit late to be changing your mind,” the driver grumbled. “That’s right the other way around. I was heading home after this. Best you get down at the Cub as agreed.”

Which it hadn’t been, except in the fellow’s addled brain, Roger thought. But he’d never find another cab in this neighborhood. “Naturally I will pay you for your trouble,” he said.

Two large figures shifted in the darkness at the side of the road. The mention of payment hadn’t been wise, perhaps. But how else was he to convince the driver? Roger unsheathed his sword stick and held it so that the blade could be seen in the light of the carriage lamp.

Muttering about the stupidity of passengers who didn’t know where they wanted to go, the driver backed his horse and maneuvered to turn the hack around. Roger kept his eye on the lurking bravos as he pulled his greatcoat closer. He wiggled his toes inside his boots. His feet were chilled. And his gloves seemed inadequate. The grimy streets seemed to intensify the cold somehow. He was relieved when the driver finally got the cab going in the right direction, the melancholy streets of the slums receding behind them. No one had offered to molest them in the end. Roger relaxed a little. If the man kept to his job this time, he wouldn’t be late.

Roger rarely made the long, hard journey down to London from his home in Northumberland. He was here now only because his former in-laws had insisted on a face-to-face meeting. So that Arabella’s mother could relieve her feelings by berating him, apparently. She’d gone so far beyond the line today that Roger had nearly shouted at her. He was proud of thatnearly. Though it had been a near thing, he hadn’t responded in kind. He had behaved like a gentleman despite the glaring injustice of her remarks. And they had at last finished all the necessary business between them. He wouldn’t have to obey one of the Crenshaws’ summonses again. The relief was considerable.

He looked out at the fashionable precincts of London now passing outside the cab window. This trip hadn’t been a complete waste. He’d been here to receive the Earl of Macklin’s mysterious invitation. Roger had no idea why such an illustrious figure had asked him to dine. They weren’t friends, though Roger remembered being introduced to the older man at some party or other. He did know that Macklin had been a suitor of his mother’s, thirty years ago, because she liked to enumerate the many desirable partis who’d pursued her when she was the reigning belle of theton. Of course the invitation couldn’t have anything to do with that. In fact, Roger couldn’t imagine why he’d been asked to share a meal with the earl. He was quite interested to find out, though a bit worried about what he would find to say, as usual. He’d never mastered the art of light conversation.

Stepping into the brightness of White’s was like entering a different world. The rich wooden paneling and golden candlelight of the gentlemen’s retreat replaced the icy fog. There was a buzz of conversation and a clink of glasses from both sides of the entryway. Savory smells rode the air, promising a first-rate meal. His fingers and toes would soon be warm, Roger thought, whatever else this occasion might bring.

Surrendering his coat, hat, stick, and gloves to a servitor, Roger followed a waiter to a private corner of the dining room. There he found Arthur Shelton, Earl of Macklin, awaiting him. Though the man was old enough to be Roger’s father, he hardly looked it. His dark hair showed no gray. His tall figure remained muscular and upright. He was talking to a man with a snub-nosed face, dun-brown hair, and dark eyes. Roger offered the two of them a polite bow.

Lord Macklin acknowledged it with a smile. His face showed few lines, and those seemed scored by good humor. He gestured toward the snub-nosed man. “Daniel Frith, Viscount Whitfield, may I present Roger Berwick, Marquess of Chatton,” he said.

Puzzled, Roger greeted the other man, whom he had not previously encountered. “And Peter Rathbone, Duke of Compton,” added their host, looking over Roger’s shoulder.

Roger turned to discover a younger man behind him. This fellow couldn’t be much past twenty, he judged. Compton had black hair, hazel eyes, and long fingers that tapped uneasily on his flanks. He looked inexplicably uneasy. What could be the matter with him?

Roger remembered that he’d been told, not long ago, that his face fell into forbidding lines when he wasn’t paying any heed to his expression. The source was a young lady who had a unique talent for irritating him, and Roger had wanted to dismiss her comment out of hand. But it had come when he’d caused a small child to cry merely by looking at her, so he was concerned there might be a grain of truth to the observation. His father’s features had been a bit craggy, and Roger knew he resembled him. He tried for a smile. Compton shied like a nervous horse.

“And here is the last of us,” said Macklin. “Gentlemen, this is my nephew Benjamin Romilly, Earl of Furness.”

The new arrival resembled his uncle in coloring and frame. Anyone, seeing them, would have known them for relations. Furness looked glum rather than hospitable, however—more like a man stepping into a boxing ring than one joining a convivial supper party. Once again, Roger wondered about the motive behind this gathering.

“And now that the proprieties are satisfied, I hope we can be much less formal,” their host added.

They stood gazing at one another. Could the earl have some sort of business proposition in mind? Roger wondered. A few landowners around the country were investing in canals and opening coal mines. But his property was nowhere near Macklin’s estates, so that made no sense.

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