Page 2 of How to Cross a Marquess (The Way to a Lord's Heart 3)

“Sit down,” said their host, gesturing at the waiting table. As they obeyed, he signaled for wine to be poured. “They have a fine roast beef this evening. As when do they not at White’s? We’ll begin with soup, though, on a raw night like this.” The waiter returned his nod and went off to fetch it.

Roger appreciated the hot broth. His stomach had been giving him trouble for months, and this was just the thing to soothe it as well as warm him. “Vile weather,” Whitfield said.

The others agreed. Compton praised the claret, and then looked worried, as if he’d been presumptuous, which was rather odd behavior for a duke. The rest merely nodded. Roger leaned forward and then couldn’t think how to ask what this gathering was about without being rude. He searched for some alternative remark, and found none. So he downed his wine instead. He was immediately given more. All the glasses were being emptied and refilled rather rapidly.

Steaming plates were put before them. The rich aroma of the beef both tantalized and unsettled Roger. He was hungry, and yet his iron digestion had deserted him lately. Or not so lately. Since the Crenshaw affair began, really. And today’s rancorous visit had brought it all back. The horseradish sauce was clearly out of the question.

“No doubt you’re wondering why I’ve invited you—the four of you—this evening,” Macklin said. “When we aren’t really acquainted.”

Roger leaned forward again, eager for an explanation.

“You have something in common,” Macklin went on. “Wedo.” He looked around the table. “Death.”

Had the man actually saiddeath? Roger checked his companions, and saw astonishment on their faces. Clearly, they knew no more than he. That was a crumb of comfort. He hated being at sea in a social exchange—a discomfort that was all too familiar. So many of his troubles came through not finding the right thing to say.

The older man nodded across the table. “My nephew’s wife died in childbirth several years ago. He mourns her still.”

Furness looked more furious than grief-stricken as the table’s attention shifted to him. He obviously had not expected this information to be shared with strangers.

The earl turned to the viscount. “Whitfield’s parents were killed in a shipwreck eight months ago on their way back from India,” he continued.

Whitfield looked around the table as if he couldn’t understand how he’d come to be here. “Quite so. A dreadful accident. Storm drove them onto a reef. All hands lost.” He shrugged. “What can one do? These things happen.” His expression said he didn’t intend to discuss it.

“Chatton lost his wife to a virulent fever a year ago,” Lord Macklin said.

Though the remark wasn’t a surprise, given the foregoing, Roger felt a surge of anger. The phrasing brought back all his in-laws’ unfair denunciations. “I didn’tloseher,” he replied. He could feel his face reddening, as it did with any strong emotion, the curse of his pale skin. “She was dashed wellkilledby an incompetent physician, and my neighbor who insisted they ride out into a downpour.” Much as the Crenshaws wanted to blame him for Arabella’s death, it hadnotbeen his fault.

Roger saw the others pull back slightly. He’d spoken too emphatically. The proper tone was such a damned difficult thing to gauge, most of the time. And those words hadn’t been right either.

“And Compton’s sister died while she was visiting a friend, just six months ago,” their host finished.

The youngest man at their table flinched. “She was barely seventeen,” he murmured. “My ward as well as my sister.” He put his head in his hands. “I ought to have gone with her. I was invited. If only I’d gone. I wouldn’t have allowed her to take that cliff path. I would have…done something.”

Useless regrets, Roger thought. He’d had his share of those. And more than his share, he sometimes felt.

“I’ve been widowed for ten years,” said Macklin gently. “I know what it’s like to lose a beloved person quite suddenly. And I know there must be a period of adjustment afterward. People don’t talk about the time it takes—different for everyone, I imagine—and how one copes.” He looked around the table. “I was aware of Benjamin’s bereavement, naturally, since he is my nephew.”

Furness gritted his teeth. Roger thought he was going to jump up and stalk out. Whitfield showed similar signs. But the earl spoke again before either of them could move.

“Then, seemingly at random, I heard of your cases, and it occurred to me that I might be able to help.”

“What help is there for death?” Roger said. He might have wished there was, but death was an inalterable fact. There was no making up for it, as his in-laws had repeatedly pointed out to him. His temper flared. Arabella’s mother had flat out called him a murderer. A mixture of despair and ire made his stomach roil. He was sorry he’d tasted the beef. “And which of us asked for your aid?” he muttered. “Icertainly didn’t.”

Whitfield pushed a little back from the table. “Waste of time to dwell on such stuff. No point, eh?”

Compton sighed like a melancholy bellows.

“Grief is insidious, almost palpable, and as variable as humankind,” said their host. “No one can understand who hasn’t experienced a sudden loss. A black coat and a few platitudes are nothing.”

“Are you accusing us of insincerity, sir?” Roger found that his fists were clenched on either side of his plate. No doubt his face had gone as red as his hair. But he wouldn’t have the Crenshaws’ insinuations echoed by a stranger. On the left, Compton edged away from him.

“Not at all,” answered the earl. “I’m offering you the fruits of experience and years of contemplation.”

“Thrusting them on us, whether we will or no. Tantamount to an ambush, this so-called dinner.” If he’d had the least inkling that the meal would be a repeat of his earlier appointment, he never would have come.

“Nothing wrong with the food,” said Whitfield, sticking his unwanted oar in. “Best claret I’ve had this year.”

“Well, well,” said Macklin. He seemed serene, not affected by their responses. “Who knows? If I’ve made a mistake, I’ll gladly apologize. Indeed, I beg your pardon for springing my idea on you with no preparation. Will you, nonetheless, allow me to tell the story of my grieving, as I had hoped to do?”

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