Page 12 of How to Cross a Marquess (The Way to a Lord's Heart 3)

Tom nodded. “What happened to him?”

“Who?”

“The snake.”

“Oh. One of the gardeners killed it. With a hoe. Chopped it into four pieces.” John felt a lingering sadness at this summary execution.

“Huh.”

There was no sign of withdrawal on Tom’s homely face. John’s relief made him brave. He drew in a breath and took the risk. “What’s Lord Macklin?” he asked.

“What d’you mean?”

“What’s his rank?”

“Ah. He’s an earl.”

John’s mind worked. “If I told Wrayle that you’re here with an earl, perhaps his ward, he’d likely give me permission to go for a walk. Wrayle’s a dreadful snob.”

“I ain’t his ward,” replied Tom. He seemed to dislike the idea.

“No.” Disappointment threatened to engulf John. “But Lord Macklin is feeding and housing you, isn’t he?”

“For the present.”

“And you’re not a servant. He doesn’t pay you wages?”

“No. Didn’t want ’em.”

“So you’re practically his ward. Let me tell Wrayle.” John didn’t wish to beg, but he found this terribly important.

“Well.” Tom pursed his lips. “I suppose it’s all right.”

“I’ll speak to him when we get back.” John’s spirits soared. “Perhaps we could go walking tomorrow?”

Tom nodded. “I’ll come ’round and fetch you.”

Three

Fenella hadn’t meant to attend the rehearsal for the Lindisfarne pageant. She’d determined to send her regrets to Harold Benson, pleading a press of duties and the exigencies of her father’s illness. However, a note from the man in charge of the performance had put paid to that idea. If she’d known Colonel Patterson was supervising, she would have made her refusal clear to Mr. Benson at the first mention, Fenella thought. Now it was too late. The colonel, a hero of Waterloo and scion of an ancient noble family, was expecting her, and one did not go back on a promise to him. The idea of seeing disappointment in the upright old man’s eyes when they next met made Fenella shudder.

She’d told herself that Chatton wouldn’t appear, and so this whole scheme would come to nothing. But there he was, walking toward her across the wooden floor of the village hall—rangy, frowning, with his red hair agleam in a ray of sunshine, automatically the center of attention even in this crowded room. She’d seen him more often in the last week than in months before that, and his renewed presence was reviving memories at an increasing pace.

The heir to Chatton Castle had been a wild boy, careening over the countryside with his cronies, brandishing wooden swords and makeshift shields, racing their ponies along the beach. Fenella, burdened by her father’s criticisms and hemmed in by her mother’s rules, had envied them their loud, heedless freedom. She’d watched them from out-of-the-way corners at children’s parties, not knowing what to say. She’d fumbled for conversation when they were older and thrown together at neighborhood assemblies. Not that she’d often been asked to dance. And then came their fathers’ disastrous attempt to marry them off, which broke her life in two. Fortunately, Fenella thought. She was grateful for her time in Scotland and her grandmother’s insistence that she “grow a spine,” as the old lady had put it. She was glad she’d risen to that challenge, happy with the woman she’d become.

“I wasn’t going to do this,” Chatton said when he reached her, echoing her thoughts. “But then I heard from Patterson.”

Fenella nodded.

“And as my mother immediately pointed out, one does not say no to the colonel.”

“I feel as if I’ve enlisted.”

Chatton laughed. “Or been taken up by Harold Benson’s one-man press-gang.”

“If he’d said it was Colonel Patterson…”

“I imagine he’s careful not to.” Chatton smiled at Fenella as he hadn’t in a long time. “I was surprised Patterson took on this job. At least we know the thing will run efficiently.”

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