Page 70 of How to Cross a Marquess (The Way to a Lord's Heart 3)

“Particularly as Chatton was talking of the story again last Sunday,” continued Mrs. McIlwaine. “It might have been better to ignore it.” She shook her head. “Difficult, though, when one is angry at the injustice.”

Not malicious at all, Arthur concluded.

“I’m so glad they didn’t let it stop them from marrying,” the visitor added.

“Why should they?” asked Helena. Clearly, she was angry.

“Exactly so,” answered Mrs. McIlwaine. “One mustn’t give such a vile person the satisfaction. It’s so lowering to think that one of our own neighbors would be so sneaking and spiteful.”

“Neighbors,” said Helena.

“Well, they were delivered by hand, you know. Dreadful to imagine that creature writing them nearby.” Mrs. McIlwaine gathered her shawl, eager now to go and spread her juicy news. They said their farewells and waited a few minutes until they heard her carriage depart.

“You said you had some idea what we might do about those letters,” Helena said then.

Arthur nodded. “Find out who is sending them,” he replied.

“How will you do that?” Her voice was clipped with annoyance.

He didn’t blame her. “By watching for the messenger. Someone local has been enlisted, and no doubt paid, to carry them. They will be more flush with cash than before. And perhaps prone to boasting.”

Helena frowned. “We can’t wait in the lanes or the village tavern for this person to appear.”

“No, but I have someone who can. Tom is a keen observer.” Arthur noted her doubtful expression. “He’s proven his ability to discover information when we needed it. You may trust me on that.”

“Well, of course I do. It’s just…this is rather important. I can’t bear to have more of these letters arrive. What a horrid welcome to her new home for Fenella.”

“We will treat it so,” said Arthur. With a courteous salute, he went out.

After a moment’s thought about the best way to arrange a private conversation, he went up to his bedchamber and rang for Clayton, who was dispatched to find Tom. The lad turned up a few minutes later, bright and inquisitive. When the problem was explained to him, he said, “I can do that. Likely this messenger is spending his new wages around the village.”

“That’s what I thought,” Arthur said.

“He may be itching to tell about his good fortune as well. Most do. But even if he’s not, there’ll be summat to notice.”

“And then you must follow him to the source,” Arthur reminded him. “Without being observed yourself.”

Tom nodded.

“After that, we will root them out,” the older man added. “There’s nothing worse than poison-pen letters.”

“Ha, poison pen, that’s a good name for them,” said Tom.

“Descriptive of the effect they can have.”

Tom turned toward the bedchamber door. “I’m right pleased to have something to do,” he said. “That Wrayle fellow has got John shut away at Clough House, and I’ve been back to walking about the fields on my own.”

* * *

Roger pulled his horse up beside Fenella’s and joined her in gazing at a cascade of water foaming over a tumble of rocks and into a stream by the side of the road. They had decided not to hurry their journey north. They might have reached her grandmother’s house in two days, but they were taking at least three. Fenella’s horse wasn’t as good as his, for one thing. Mr. Larraby’s hapless animal was plodding and stubborn. He took advantage of any opportunity to pause and crop grass, as he was doing now. And he objected strenuously to long treks into unknown territory.

Also, Roger was balancing concern about facing Fenella’s formidable grandmother with the inconvenience of having no change of clothes. He’d bought a few necessities in Coldstream, so they weren’t without a hairbrush and tooth powder. But they had little else. The cash he’d had with him when they fled was running low. He told himself that it would suffice.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” said Fenella.

The most beautiful thing in Roger’s view was his new wife, but he didn’t say so. Sometimes she appeared to enjoy a compliment; other times praise unsettled her. He hadn’t learned the difference, whatever it might be. “The scenic route,” he replied instead.

This won him a smile. “I promise you I know the way,” she said.

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