Page 50 of How to Cross a Marquess (The Way to a Lord's Heart 3)

They reached the turn where they would separate to go to their different houses.

Fenella noticed that John was shivering harder. The wind had come up, cooling the August day, and clouds threatened rain. She slapped the reins to hurry the gig along.

“I’ll come along with you to retrieve my coat,” Roger said to Fenella.

“I can bring it, my lord,” said Tom. “I’ll be returning the horses.”

Roger looked thwarted. He was an attractive sight in his shirtsleeves, Fenella thought. It would be pleasant to have him riding along at her side. But John was her first priority right now.

“The bishop is calling on your mother today,” said Lord Macklin. His face as he looked from Roger to Fenella showed remarkably acute curiosity. “We promised not to leave her to entertain him alone.”

Roger didn’t curse, but he looked as if he would have liked to. He spurred his horse up to John’s side of the gig. “There’s no harm in searching for adventures,” he said to Fenella’s nephew. “You’ve a bold spirit. You’ll learn to manage them better.”

John perked up. That had been kind, Fenella thought, particularly after their last prickly encounter.

Roger gave her a look that warmed her down to her toes before he dropped back and turned with Macklin toward Chatton Castle.

Their smaller party hastened to Clough House, where John was bundled up to his room to change clothes. Fenella went to her own room to shed her riding habit. When she left it, and passed her father’s bedchamber, she was surprised to hear John’s voice within. Her nephew wasn’t usually eager to visit his grandfather. Yet he was in there. The door was ajar; his tones were plain. Fenella paused to listen.

“And then the tide came pouring over the sand,” John said. “It felt like a huge hand pushing against my legs. I could hardly stand up. But I knew if I fell, the water would sweep me out to sea. So I leaned against the current and stepped very carefully, even though I’d twisted my ankle.”

“That was brave of you,” said her father.

“Well, Tom helped me. I couldn’t have done it without him.”

“Did he?” The old man’s voice had taken on the vagueness that meant he didn’t recognize the name. “Who are you?” he added.

“I’m your grandson,” John replied with a touch of indignation.

“Oh. Are you?” he replied. Fenella could imagine the frown of bewilderment on her father’s face. She saw it more and more these days. But this time he retrieved some information. “Greta’s son? Or Nora’s?”

“My cousin Frederick is only four years old!”

“Who?”

“Greta is my mama.”

“So you’re a Symmes?”

“John Symmes.”

“Eh. I thought Greta’s son had some silly grand name. Sanford or the like.”

“Sherrington,” answered the boy with loathing.

“That’s it. A ridiculous mouthful. Thought so when I first heard.”

“I hate it!” said John.

“Good for you.”

“They refuse to call me John at school,” the boy added.

“Tell ’em your father won’t pay their fees unless they do,” replied Fenella’s father. Outside the door, she smiled.

“But that isn’t true.”

“Are they likely to ask him?”

---