Page 86 of How to Cross a Marquess (The Way to a Lord's Heart 3)

“Common phrases that people use.”

Tom considered. “Nah. I expect I couldn’t carry it off. And John and me have an idea brewing for Wrayle.”

“Do I want to know what it is?”

“Best not.” Tom’s grin was impish.

Arthur had learned, over the course of their acquaintance, to trust Tom’s instincts. The lad wouldn’t do anything beyond the line. And from what he’d heard from Clayton as well, this Wrayle deserved a setdown. So he asked nothing more, letting Tom go on his way. Arthur was due at the dower house for tea and conversation that was certain to be delightful. He set aside his letter and prepared to walk across the Chatton Castle property.

It was a positive joy to see these two ladies side by side, he thought a little while later. They presented a picture of mature beauty and dignity. Mrs. Thorpe’s black hair was immaculately dressed, as always. Of the two, her clothes obviously came from the more fashionable modiste, being the height of the current London mode. Her face was a bit pale, but nothing could detract from its classic bone structure. Her blue eyes gleamed with sharp intelligence. In contrast, the dowager marchioness’s blond hair gleamed in a shaft of sunshine from the window. She was more slender, her gaze softer but with equal acuity. Arthur was happy that the two women had found much in common and was pleased to have given Helena another new friend. They’d been making plans for her to go to London and see a play of Mrs. Thorpe’s in the spring.

When they had settled their arrangements, Mrs. Thorpe turned to Arthur and said, “You haven’t asked me about my visit to Shropshire.”

“True,” he replied. “I await your report.”

“Report?” Helena looked interested. “What does that mean? Is this part of your campaign of helping?”

“Yes,” said Arthur. “The last bit of it, in fact. Mrs. Thorpe was making a visit to a friend in the area where the young man lives, so I sent her on a reconnaissance mission.” Somehow, Arthur could never bring himself to use Mrs. Thorpe’s first name. It simply did not feel appropriate, even if he had been given leave, which he had not. A completely different case than Helena somehow. Of course he and Mrs. Thorpe hadn’t been friends in their youth.

“Reconnaissance.” Mrs. Thorpe smiled at the label. “It did rather feel like that. Alberdene is a curious place, practically in Wales, and like something out of a Gothic novel.”

“Ruins and bats and spiky towers?” asked Helena.

“Not far off, particularly the ruins part.”

“May I ask who lives there? Or is it a secret?”

Arthur didn’t see why it should be. He’d confided other things to his hostess, and he trusted her. “The young Duke of Compton. I’m looking forward to seeing this ancestral pile.”

“It very nearly is a pile,” said Mrs. Thorpe. “It looked like it might subside into a heap of stones at any moment.”

Helena was looking at Arthur. “You’re going soon then?”

“I’ve stayed a long while,” he replied. “When I was never invited here in the first place.”

“It’s been lovely to have you. I shall miss your company.”

Arthur noticed Mrs. Thorpe’s raised eyebrow. “We are old acquaintances and now have agreed to be firm friends,” he said.

She surveyed them with a shrewd eye, and accepted this.

“And what will you do in a pile of stones in Shropshire?” asked Helena.

“I don’t know yet,” he replied.

“And that is a great part of the attraction,” she said.

Once again noting her keen understanding, Arthur had to nod. “There is a certain excitement in not knowing.”

“Be sure to pack your woolens,” said Mrs. Thorpe. “It was already growing colder when I was there, and Alberdene did not appear well heated. Or indeed well anything. The owner is really a duke?”

“He is.”

“Well, I suppose even dukes fall on hard times. I beg you will not ask me to take part in any schemes you hatch there.”

“Have you helped with others?” Helena asked.

“My nephew’s case,” said Arthur. “I told you about him.”

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