Page 24 of How to Cross a Marquess (The Way to a Lord's Heart 3)

So it seemed that Fairclough, not his father, had started the troubles, Roger thought. “I didn’t know my great-great-grandfather, of course.”

“Doesn’t matter,” the old man barked. “Debt of honor. Blot on your family escutcheon.”

“Escutcheon?”

“It’s an expression.”

“I know.”

“A shield, isn’t it?” said Fairclough. “Like the old knights used to carry. Wouldn’t want a blot on there. Badton, eh?”

It seemed to Roger that they were wandering from the point. “If you have a signed conveyance of the land…” he began. But he couldn’t have, Roger realized. If he did, the courts would have ruled in his favor at once.

“There was an agreement,” Fairclough replied. “Agentleman’sagreement. The land to be sold. For twenty guineas.”

“Twenty guineas! That’s a ridiculous figure.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“It dashed well does. The land is worth far more than that.”

“So was a guinea, back then.” The old man’s eyes, though reddened by illness, gleamed.

“That sum was paid then? To my great-great-grandfather?”

Fairclough’s gaze shifted, and Roger saw another flaw in his argument. “It wasn’t, was it? So an agreement may have been initiated, but it was never completed. Not signed or paid. It seems they changed their minds. Can’t we drop this dispute?”

“No!” Fairclough pounded weakly on the bedclothes. “It’s a matter of principle.”

He looked worn out, Roger saw. He should leave him to rest.

The sly look returned to the old man’s face. “You could still marry Fenella. That was our original solution. Put that bit of land into her inheritance. Tied up the loose ends all right and tight.”

Roger couldn’t believe her father would mention this idiotic plan. Hadn’t it caused enough trouble? And then he was even more startled at how differently he felt about it today. The outraged rebellion of five years ago was gone.

“Now you’re free again,” Fairclough added.

As if Arabella had been nothing but an impediment. The phrase, and the old man’s tone, cut too close to the bone. “My wife died,” he said.

“Well, they do. Look at Foster over at Deeping. He’s had three.”

Roger stood.

“That was a jest, Chatton. No need to poker up about it.”

“It’s difficult to laugh at death.”

“Well, I beg your pardon. You have my condolences, of course.”

Roger bowed, and felt like a fraud. He’d felt relief, among other things, at the sad end of his marriage, he admitted silently. Guilt washed through him, with a twinge of pain in his stomach. He wished for the potion that Fenella had brewed for him, which had been helping dramatically.

“I’m ill, not long for this world,” said Fairclough. He attempted a pathetic look, but achieved only devious and exhausted. “I’d like to see my last daughter settled before I go.”

“I believe we both expressed our opinions on that when the idea was first brought up,” Roger replied dryly.

Fairclough waved this aside. “That was years ago, and Fenella’s much improved since then. Her grandmother managed to instill some spirit in her. She’s in better looks, too.”

Though this was true, Roger still felt offended for her. Old Fairclough talked of his daughter as if she was livestock.

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