Page 23 of How to Cross a Marquess (The Way to a Lord's Heart 3)

Fenella followed. When she’d shut the bedchamber door behind her, she summoned all the hauteur and steely resolve she’d learned from her Scottish grandmother. Or rather had uncovered from deep inside herself, if Grandmamma was to be believed.

“You have half an hour to pack your things, Wrayle. William will help you, and then he will take you over to the tollgate where you can get the mail coach south.” A glance at William showed Fenella that he relished his assignment. She wasn’t surprised. He had friends among the housemaids.

“I refuse!”

William took a step toward him. Fenella held up a hand. “You really can’t stay if we don’t want you here, you know.”

The man sputtered and fumed. Finally he turned away. William followed. “I shall tell Mr. Symmes how I have been treated here!” was Wrayle’s parting shot.

Fenella supposed he might cause problems between the two households. She definitely needed to tell Greta about his poor behavior before he had a chance to complain. Let Greta explain that to her husband.

“You got rid of Wrayle,” said a small, awed voice.

She looked down to find her nephew gazing at her as if she had performed a miracle. “He’ll be there when you go home,” she pointed out.

“That’s not until after next term. Mama won’t be thinking so much about my snake by then. She’ll have a new baby. And Sally already has a new kitten.” He seemed to equate the two additions. “I’ll send Sally some ribbons. She likes to tie ribbons around their necks.” He pondered the plan. “Do you have any ribbons? Ones you don’t need, I mean.”

“I might.”

“Thank you!” John beamed at her, and Fenella understood that his gratitude extended to much more than ribbons. “Is there anything I can help you with?” he added. “I’d be glad to. Anything at all!”

“Perhaps. We’ll see.”

“Yes, Aunt Fenella.”

He practically bowed, and Fenella realized that she’d assumed mythic proportions in his mind. Inadvertently, she’d become the Aunt, the imposing relative so many families seemed to possess. She remembered her own aunt Moira, her mother’s oldest sister. Wife of a Scottish laird, she’d been up to anything. Fenella had wistfully admired her forthright manner and fiery spirit. A smile escaped her. Aunt Moira wasn’t a bad source of inspiration. “Shall I show you the playhouse now?” she asked John.

He looked ready to jump for joy. “Yes, Aunt Fenella!”

Five

Roger reined in his mount on a small rise and looked down at Clough House. A substantial brick edifice, far newer than Chatton Castle, it had been built to replace an earlier building that had burned down a century ago. Rather than facing the buffeting of the North Sea, the house was nestled in a fold of land bordered by a stream and surrounded by gardens rich with trees. The stream fell into the ravine that had given the place its name and ran off to the south. A softer place than his home, Roger thought. Which led him to thoughts of Fenella, as all too many things seemed to do lately.

For years he’d avoided this house, and her. Today, he was calling on her father but hoping to see her. He didn’t know if that was wise, but he had to admit that it was true. Beset by constant thoughts of her, he had to discover what she felt about their jumbled connection.

Admitted to Mr. Fairclough’s bedchamber some minutes later, Roger was shocked at the change in the old man. He hadn’t realized he was so ill. He ought to have come before, despite their dispute. Fairclough had been a friend of his father’s before he became his enemy in that stupid way.

He was greeted with a growl from the bed. “Chatton.”

“Mr. Fairclough. I’m sorry you’ve been poorly. I hope you will soon be better.”

“Well, I won’t. Only one cure for me, and that’s a box and a shovel. Come to get the better of me when I’m down, have you? You’ll find you’re out there.”

Roger shook his head. “Not at all. In fact, if you don’t feel up to talking, I can come another day.”

“That won’t help. Say what you have to say and be done with it.”

Now that he’d seen the man’s state, Roger found that he did have a good deal to say to him. Though he hadn’t been invited to sit, he didn’t want to loom over the old man. He fetched a straight chair to the side of the bed and sank onto it. “Shouldn’t we resolve the border dispute that has dragged on between us for so long?”

“Don’t blame me! That was all your father’s doing.”

“Was it? I don’t even know how it got started.”

Fairclough scowled. “Your father…” he began. Then he looked puzzled. “I can’t seem to recall.”

Roger opened his hands in a there-you-are-then gesture. He didn’t say that the matter must be trivial, knowing this wouldn’t be well received.

“Wait, wait.” Fairclough plucked at the coverlet. “No, I’ve got it. My great-grandfather wanted to buy that parcel of land on our borders, and your great-great-grandfather agreed to sell. But he went back on his word. I found the agreement in our archive room.” He gave Roger a triumphant glare.

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