How to Cross a Marquess Read online

  Neighbors called to offer their sympathy, Roger and his mother among them. Fenella was happy to see them. But even when Roger pressed her hand, gazed into her eyes, and said, “Please call on me for anything, anything at all,” she couldn’t find any words to reply. Her life had fallen into a kind of limbo—a floating existence plagued with trivialities that no one would allow her to resolve.

  On the second day after her father’s death, a post chaise arrived carrying John’s father, Sherrington Symmes. Greta’s thin, discontented-looking husband had brought Wrayle with him, and the latter’s narrow smile implied that he had retribution in mind. A few hours later, another vehicle pulled up and disgorged Nora’s husband, Donald Gissing. When Fenella asked about her sisters, she was given to understand that both of them were prostrate with grief at having missed their father’s demise. Fenella was berated for depriving them of the chance to say farewell and informed that their husbands would deal with her. Whatever that meant. She wanted to argue with them, but she kept her tongue between her teeth.

  In the course of the next few hours, the feel of Clough House changed completely. She wouldn’t have believed that an alteration could be so quick or so disagreeable. But the place suddenly possessed two contentious masters. And their problem wasn’t only Fenella. They didn’t get along with each other either. Fenella had often thought it curious that her elder sisters had chosen such opposites for their mates. Symmes was slender and sour and sarcastic, a man who savored cutting remarks as another might a fine wine. Gissing was physically his opposite—large and blustery and untidy. He maintained, continually, that he was an easygoing fellow, while actually demanding his own way in every particular. They did have that in common, Fenella thought after a thoroughly wretched dinner. So maybe they weren’t so different after all. She couldn’t wait until they went away.

  The reading of her father’s will, which the solicitor had refused to disclose to Fenella, was held the following morning, and it was then that Fenella’s world finished crashing down around her ears. Her father’s estate was indeed divided into thirds, going to her and her sisters, as she had expected. But her portion was placed in trust until she married. Not until she attained a certain age—although twenty-three seemed perfectly mature to her—but until she married.

  Worse, her two brothers-in-law had been appointed her trustees. They were charged with approving whatever expenditures she wished to make, as well as any marriage proposal she might receive. They were made, in effect, her guardians, even though she was of age and hadn’t the slightest need of such a thing. Her father had found one last way to disparage her, Fenella thought as she struggled to control her anger at these provisions. Having watched her manage these last months, how could he have doubted her ability to handle her inheritance? And how was she to go on with trustees who couldn’t agree on what to have for dinner, let alone more significant decisions?

  The solicitor finished reading. He folded the document. “That seems in order,” said Gissing.

  “As we anticipated,” replied Symmes.

  They were disgustingly smug. Had they known about the trust before this? Fenella wondered. From their expressions, she suspected they had. She was so furious, she was afraid to speak. It was going to be necessary to get along with these men, for a while at least, until she could think of something. Difficult as that was to accept, she had to hide her outrage.

  “You need have no worries about your pin money,” Gissing said to her. “I don’t begrudge a lady a few geegaws.”

  “Within reason,” said Symmes.

  “I’ve never been called clutch-fisted,” said the other man, in a tone that implied his brother-in-law had.

  “A term used by the profligate for those who practice reasonable economies,” said Symmes.

  “Like nipcheese and penny-pinching?” said Gissing with false cordiality.

  Would she be able to play them off against each other to get what she wanted? Fenella wondered. The idea filled her with distaste. And she didn’t think it would work for any large outlay. Her spirits sank farther. She wouldn’t be allowed to make any important transactions. It felt like a prison sentence.

  Symmes rose, his expression sour. “I believe we are agreed that the estate will be put up for sale? I don’t know how long that may take. Have your maid pack your things, Fenella. You will return home with me.”

  Even before the categorical denial could escape her lips, Gissing said, “Or with me, if you like. I’m sure Nora would welcome your help.”

  The men gazed at her. She’d wanted a choice, and here was one. Two paths into an absolutely unacceptable future. She could never live with one of her sisters. Did they even know of these invitations? Fenella doubted it. Neither Greta nor Nora would welcome her. And their husbands were not inviting a valued relation into their households. Her new fortune was their real object. She could see it in their eyes.

  They hoped to find a way to use her to enhance their own positions. And that meant arranging her marriage, which they had the right to approve. To one of their penurious cronies perhaps? And would they levee big charges on her estate for upkeep? Or were they simply enjoying the power over another that their new positions provided? Every feeling revolted.

  Fenella struggled to control her tone. “I’d prefer to stay here,” she said. “I can look after the house until we find a buyer.” If she said we, would they begin to see that she was an equal in this matter?

  “Oh, I think we’ll close the place up,” Symmes replied. “There’s no need for the outlay, with no one living here. Wouldn’t you say, Gissing?” The other man nodded.

  Suddenly, she was no one. A person with no say in her future. Or perhaps not so suddenly. To these men, she’d always been a negligible figure. As she had been to her father. “What about the servants?”

  Gissing shrugged. “Pension off the older ones, dismiss the others to find new posts.”

  As if that was easy, and not very important. She had no power to save their positions, Fenella saw. At most, she could provide letters of reference. Perhaps some neighbors had places open. But that wouldn’t be enough.

  “You may keep your personal maid, of course,” said Symmes, like a monarch conferring a great favor.

  Fearing she might burst into angry tears, Fenella retreated to her bedchamber. She could run to her grandmother in Scotland again. But that would mean giving up her fortune to these vultures. They would never let go once she was gone.

  She could go to the law. Grandmamma might help her. But leaving an inheritance in trust for an unmarried woman was common practice. She would probably be told to be grateful that she had male relatives to look after her money. Fenella gritted her teeth. She had to get out of the house, breathe some fresh air. But when she’d put on her riding habit and gone to the stables, she discovered that the gentlemen had sent all but the cart horses off to be sold. Including her own mount, a gift from her grandmother, which was not theirs to dispose of. Without informing her!

  When she taxed them with this transgression, they were unrepentant. “No sense keeping a stableful of animals eating their heads off” was Gissing’s only reaction.

  “No place for you to keep a horse,” Symmes pointed out. “Didn’t seem a proper mount for a lady in any case.”

  And then they gazed at her as if she was being dim. It was all Fenella could do not to fly at them with her riding crop.

  * * *

  It was as if Fenella had disappeared from the neighborhood, Roger thought. He was longing to see how she was, to do something for her, but he hadn’t been able to manage one private word. He’d called several times at Clough House. At first there’d been a mob of other callers on visits of condolence. And when they cleared out, he’d been received by her brothers-in-law, playing lords of the manor. He didn’t know these gentlemen, and he hadn’t taken to them. When he’d asked to see Fenella, they’d been as suspicious as dogs
guarding a contested bone. He’d longed for a reason to punch the fleshy one—Gissing. The fellow had practically leered at him.

  Fenella hadn’t been riding either. Roger had lurked along her usual routes each day and seen no sign of her. The delay was driving him mad. And then, at last, more than a week after her father’s death, he finally spotted her on a path by the sea. She was mounted on a rough-coated brown gelding rather than her gray. But she was here. He spurred toward her with eager relief. “There you are,” he said when he caught up. “I’ve looked for you every day.”

  “I have not been able to get out until now.”

  “Has something happened to your gray?” She’d looked so at home on that spirited creature, as if they had a special bond. The horse she rode today wasn’t nearly in the same class.

  “Lightfoot has been sent off to be sold,” Fenella replied in a toneless voice. “Along with my father’s other horses.”

  “I thought she was your horse.”

  “So did I. But apparently what’s mine is now…not.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I had to borrow a mount from one of our tenants,” she went on without acknowledging his question. She indicated the gelding. “He was kind enough to humor me. I had to have some air. I’ll pay when I get home.”

  “Pay?”

  “When my brothers-in-law learn I’ve been out riding alone, I’ll get a lecture. Or worse.”

  Roger remembered her tart response when he’d made that objection, so long ago it seemed now. She seemed a different person today. Still as beautiful, but she looked weary and dispirited. Perhaps she was mourning her loss? That burden could grow heavier before it lightened. “I’m sorry about your father,” he said.

  “I am more than sorry. I am ruined.”

  “But surely he left you well provided for?” Roger wondered if Fairclough’s affairs had been left in disorder. Was that why the horses were being sold?

  “Some might think so,” Fenella replied. “I do not. He left my portion in trust until I marry.” She gritted her teeth. “To be overseen by my sisters’ husbands. I believe you’ve met them.”

  Roger nodded.

  “We have never been more than uneasy acquaintances.”

  He could understand that. They hadn’t seemed the sort to be her friends.

  “And now we are very likely to become bitter enemies.” Fenella shook her head. “I expected to gain my independence. Of course I did not want Papa to die. I’m sorry he’s gone. But to leave things like this! He might have noticed that I managed his affairs quite competently for the last year. That I can take care of myself. But no. My fortune is left entirely out of my control. Every move I make must be approved by two men I dislike, who hardly ever agree with each other.” She made an angry gesture. “They’ve been given the right to approve any match I make. Can you credit it? They intend to make the most of that, I can tell. My only hope is that they won’t be able to settle on one candidate. Of course I shall refuse.”

  Roger groped for words. It seemed that his thought of presenting himself as an official suitor would not do. Fenella’s greedy relations would see that they’d gain no advantage with him.

  “I have been ordered—ordered!—to live with one of my sisters. Most generously, I may choose which. Perhaps you remember how well we get on.”

  Her tone was bitter. Roger could see that she was devastated. But the fact that stood out in his mind, selfishly, was that she was going away.

  “Can their husbands have failed to notice that Greta and Nora have very little regard for me? But why do I ask? What do the silly opinions of women matter to them?”

  “I don’t suppose you can fight the will,” Roger said.

  “For what cause? And what judge would side with me?”

  It was true. A trust for an unmarried woman was thought to be a kindness. She would be cared for with no need to bother her head about business.

  “I suppose I will return to my grandmother.” Abruptly, Fenella looked wary. “Don’t tell anyone I said that. They’d stop me.”

  “You have my word.” Perhaps he could visit her there, Roger thought. And then flushed. He was not the one needing help here. She was.

  “The idea of running back to her makes me feel like the frightened girl I used to be. Again!” She hit the saddlebow with her fist. “First those wretched letters and now this. It isn’t fair.”

  “There must be something you can do.”

  “I don’t have any time. They mean to hurry me away. And they keep me confined in the most insupportable way!” Fenella looked out over the sea, her expression deeply unhappy.

  He had to do something. He couldn’t stand seeing her this way. But what? An idea bloomed in Roger’s brain. A tempting idea. Unthinkable? But he’d thought it, hadn’t he?

  “Grandmamma would be happy to see me, of course,” she said as if trying out a theory. She grimaced.

  How to put it? Macklin had said he should be subtler. Roger searched his brain for a delicate way to frame his admittedly outrageous suggestion. And then he chucked the idea. Subtlety would never be his strong suit. “Marry me,” he said.

  “They won’t agree. And in any case, you mustn’t be forced—”

  “At once,” Roger interrupted. “It’s only four miles to the border. We can be married at the other end of the Coldstream Bridge. That’s just as good as Gretna Green.”

  “Gretna Green!” She stared at him.

  “Your fortune will be put into your hands as soon as the knot’s tied. I swear it.”

  “If I elope! You imagine I am so lost to propriety as to make a runaway marriage?”

  “It’s not a matter of days on the road. And staying at inns, and so on.” Roger had certainly not meant to insult her. “It’s just an hour’s ride. Less than that.”

  She gazed up at him from her smaller mount. “You’re serious.”

  He nodded. “Absolutely.”

  “You married in haste once before.”

  “This isn’t haste. We’ve been talking of marriage for—”

  “Days,” she interrupted with a thin smile.

  “Before this change. I beg you to allow me to do you this service.”

  “Service?” she repeated in a constricted voice.

  “Your fortune will be yours to command,” Roger repeated. “I promise.”

  “So you’re offering me a bargain?” she asked.

  “If you wish to put it that way.” He didn’t care much for the word. But he wasn’t going to dispute it.

  “We marry. I fulfill the…obligations of being your wife. And you give me full control of my own money.”

  She said obligations a bit strangely. But this wasn’t the time to quibble. “Yes,” he said.

  “But to elope! My family would kick up a great dust.”

  Was she wavering? Her tone suggested it. “I don’t think they would, you know. Not once they were presented with a fait accompli. You’d be Marchioness of Chatton. They can’t really object to that. Not with any cause that society would accept. Your father wanted it.” Immediately, Roger wondered if that last remark had been a mistake.

  Fenella gave a humorless laugh. “We could put it about that it was his dying wish. It actually was, in a way. His usual intractable way.”

  She was being pulled into the scheme. For once in his life, Roger managed to keep quiet. He would let her think.

  Fenella frowned into the distance. “But is this really possible? How does it work? You don’t need banns called or a special license?”

  She was definitely wavering. “In Scotland you simply declare yourselves in front of witnesses, and it’s a binding marriage. Any citizens will do. You don’t need a clergyman. Though we can hunt one up if you like. We’ll have a certificate as proof of the marriage.”

  “How do you know that?” Fene
lla asked.

  “It’s the sort of thing one does know.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “No. Well, an acquaintance of mine looked into the all the ins and outs of the thing a while back. He knew I lived up here and wanted to bring this chit along and marry her. I refused, of course.”

  “Because eloping is a terrible thing to do?” she asked.

  “Because she was sixteen, and her parents didn’t like him. With some reason, I must say.”

  “What sort of friends do you have?”

  “An acquaintance, I said. And not so much anymore.”

  She nodded, looking distracted. And perhaps hopeful? Even intrigued? Roger examined every line of her face, searching for clues.

  “I’d have to find a way to sneak out. Which will be next to impossible now that I’ve done it once.” She looked rueful. “They expect me to leave with them in a day or so.”

  “We could go right now,” Roger heard himself say.

  Fenella blinked. “Right now?” she repeated, as if the words were in a foreign language.

  “It’s just a few miles to the bridge.”

  “But I…I haven’t anything with me.”

  “Buy what you need. And then you can send for your things. When you inform your brothers-in-law that you’re married.”

  “Inform them,” she murmured.

  “And that they needn’t trouble themselves about your money any longer,” Roger added. “We’ll send off a note as soon as the knot’s tied.”

  “Needn’t trouble themselves,” Fenella repeated. She said it again, silently. Clearly, she liked this idea.

  “Or anything else concerning your affairs,” Roger added. “Which have nothing to do with them any longer.”

  Fenella smiled. She smiled at the horizon, and then she smiled at him. “I’d like to tell them that,” she admitted.