Page 10 of How to Cross a Marquess (The Way to a Lord's Heart 3)

“A broom?” asked Fenella.

“She bashes him on the side of the head,” replied Benson. “Naturally we would take care—”

“I could do that,” Fenella interrupted.

“I’m sure you could,” said Roger. “And enjoy it, too. I don’t intend to be bashed, however.”

“The Viking prevails in the end, of course,” said Benson. “He sweeps her up and carries her off and, well, there is another bit, but we could make adjustments.”

“Throws her in the midden?” Roger suggested. “Or the pigsty perhaps?”

“After she kicks him in the face, repeatedly?” said Fenella.

Benson looked taken aback. “Whatever the exact, er, outcome, I’m glad to put you down as settled for the roles.” He whipped a small notebook from his coat pocket, pulled out a stub of pencil, and made check marks on a list inside.

“Wait,” said Roger. He noticed Macklin and his mother watching this exchange with interest. His mother leaned over to whisper to the earl, who would soon know all the history with Fenella that there was to know—from his mother’s point of view, Roger thought.

“Rehearsals begin day after tomorrow,” said Benson.

“Rehearsals!” repeated Roger and Fenella in unison.

“Just a moment,” said Fenella.

“Cheeve’s spotted me,” said Benson. “I must go.” He ducked sideways, scuttled along the path through the churchyard, and more or less ran away.

“Oh dear, I was going to ask him about taking a role myself,” said Roger’s mother.

“I suspect you’ll have your chance,” said Macklin.

Without meaning to, Roger met Fenella’s sparkling blue gaze. She was clearly irritated and amused and resigned. And why did he imagine he saw so much in a glance? Roger wondered. He couldn’t possibly. He was very bad at such perceptions. And yet hewascertain. Roger felt an odd inner tug of emotion. He couldn’t identify it. And when he had been so sure aboutherfeelings, too. That made no sense. And it was dashed uncomfortable. He turned away toward his waiting carriage.

* * *

On the other side of the churchyard, shielded by a tall monument, Sherrington Symmes, known at long last as John, was kicking pebbles onto the plinth when an older boy walked around the obelisk and joined him.

“Hullo,” he said.

John merely nodded. He wasn’t in the mood for conversation.

“My name’s Tom,” said the newcomer.

John kicked a larger rock. It struck the base of the monument, bounced back, and tumbled off into the grass.

“‘Dedicated to the memory of Malcolm Carew,’” Tom read from the stone. ‘“Beloved husband, respected father.’ They all say something like that. Have to, once they’re dead, don’t they?”

John felt a spark of interest in the newcomer.

“I mean, you never see a gravestone saying ‘rotten husband, mean old dad, and all-’round clutch-fisted blackguard.’ Ain’t done.” He consulted the inscription. “Plenty old when he died. I suppose nobody shells out for a great spike like this if they didn’t like the fellow.”

John laughed. “Who are you?”

“Name’s Tom,” the other repeated.

“Tom what?”

“Dunno.” The older boy shrugged. “Don’t got a last name.”

“But how can you not?”

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