Amanda StoNeS
Historical Regency Romance Author
An Arranged Marriage
with a
Mad Marquess
with a
Mad Marquess
First Chapters
Chapter One
Morendale Manor, Shortly Before Breakfast
The room spun, faster and faster. It reminded Neil of those wooden spinning tops he’d played with as a child. The inevitable spinning competitions he conducted with his cousins would always end up with somebody’s top spinning right off the table, or crashing into a wall, leaving the top dented, splintered, or even cracked. Ruined, irreparably so.
Nausea lurched inside him, and he clutched the edges of his desk. Closing his eyes seemed to make it all so much worse. His half-consumed cup of tea had been overturned at some juncture, the liquid accumulating upon the surface of the desk, cascading over the edge. His seat was only a few feet away, but it might as well have been a mile. He would certainly not be able to put one foot in front of the other, let alone limp over to his seat.
How long had he been there, swaying in place and trying desperately to make the world stop turning? A minute? Two? Hours, perhaps? There seemed to be no way of telling.
Neil was just considering that perhaps his inevitable fall would be less painful if he lowered himself to the ground ahead of time, when his balance gave out entirely.
Thud.
Somehow, it was better to get the fall over with. So far, Neil had not seriously hurt himself during his collapses, but there was always time. He was frankly amazed that he hadn’t broken a limb, or perhaps cracked his head open. Bruises and scrapes seemed strangely irrelevant in the grand scheme of things.
Odd details caught his attention as he lay there, like the scratch of the carpet against his cheek, and the angle of the pattern stretching away from his gaze.
So this is how I die, then. Lying on the floor of my study after a fit, quietly fading away as the hours tick by.
Still a better death than Father had.
About five or ten minutes ticked by, although it was of course hard to keep track. He was facing away from the door, and so only heard the creak of the door opening and the muffled gasp from whoever stood there.
“Neil!”
Neil made a noise that was supposed to be a call for help, but only came out as a defeated grunt.
In a few seconds, strong hands gripped his upper arms and hauled him up into a sitting position. He would have slumped right back onto the carpet again if he hadn’t been carefully supported by his saviour.
Blinking hard through his double vision, Neil managed to focus on the drawn, worried face of his cousin.
“Harry,” Neil managed, through numb lips. “I fell over.”
“Yes, I can see that. Come, let me assist you to your feet. I shall summon the physician forthwith and…”
“No physicians. You know why. Only Mr. Blackburn. He’s the only physician we can trust.”
Harry pressed his lips together in a thin line of disapproval but said nothing. Neil was fairly certain the man would not go behind his back about this. His cousin might not like Mr. Blackburn – who was, admittedly, a snob – but there were good reasons why the family physician was the only one who could be consulted in this matter. And even then, Neil knew what the man would say. More drops, Lord Morendale. Just take more drops. As many as you need, as often as you need them. They’re quite safe.
He allowed himself to be manoeuvred up until he was sitting in a wide-armed chair placed behind his desk, high-backed and sturdy.
The worst of the dizziness had almost gone, but the nausea remained. The attacks were never very long, but according to his own records, they were getting longer. And more frequent. He had tried his best to find a pattern, to try and predict when the fits might occur, but to no avail. He had already stopped attending parties and paying visits, in case a fit should happen in public. That would be too much humiliation to stand.
Harry stood back, hands on his hips, and surveyed Neil with a frown.
“You look awful.”
Neil tipped back his head. “Thanks, old friend. I feel much better after hearing your kind words.”
“I’m not trying to make you feel better. Thank heavens I came up when I did. You might have lain there for hours and not gotten up. You shouldn’t spend so much time alone, Neil.”
Neil bit his lip and said nothing. It was true – the assaults rendered him as feeble as a newborn kitten.
He glanced at the clock, intending to record the length of this most recent attack of disorientation, but it was no good. He’d allowed himself to become immersed in his work and had not been keeping an eye on the time.
A simpleton, Neil, just a fool. Didn’t you already promise yourself not to make the same mistakes as Father?
“It’s almost time for breakfast,” Harry added, a trifle unnecessarily. “I’ll tell them you aren’t coming down.”
“You will do no such thing, Harry. I will be fine in just a moment. Better late than never, after all.”
Harry heaved a long-suffering sigh, rolling large, gold-green eyes up towards the ceiling. The green eyes were a family trait. One might stroll along the long, narrow Great Hall and survey the endless portraits of severe-faced Tidemores, and one would always see those startling green-gold eyes. Harry’s surname was not Tidemore, but Westbrook, but it seemed that there was enough of the old blood in his veins to make his eyes large, green, and incisive. They were not exactly cousins – third or fourth removed, if he was not mistaken – but they had grown up together, and Harry was a dear friend and an efficient steward. Few of the old and infamous Tidemores boasted the same shock of vivid red hair as Harry, but the eyes were certainly there.
Their family name was old, and their title large and cumbersome. The estate of the Marquess of Morendale was a large one, requiring a great deal of managing.
Especially when the Marquess himself was on the cusp of madness and death.
Familiar panic gripped Neil’s chest and he suddenly became afraid that if he did not get up quickly, he would die right there on the floor of his study as his father had, foaming at the mouth, with his large gold-green eyes bloodshot and dark.
He forced himself upright before Harry could object, staggering, arms flailing. He did manage to stay on his feet and allowed himself a brief moment of triumph.
“There you are, you see,” Neil said, dusting off his waistcoat. “I’m quite alright. Now, did you say they were already in the dining room?”
Harry blinked tiredly. “I daresay they shall be by now.”
“Why don’t you come and take breakfast with us?”
“That isn’t a good idea.”
There was a tense pause.
“This is my house,” Neil said carefully. “Mine. If I want to have my friend sitting at my dining table with me, then my mother and sister will simply have to make their peace with it.”
Harry ran a hand through his tousled locks, which were neatly trimmed at the sides and allowed to cascade in wild spirals upon the crown of his head. “I’d rather not cause trouble, if it’s all the same. Your health is so delicate at the moment I believe that any arguments will only make you worse.”
Neil bit the inside of his cheek. It was humiliating, being such an invalid that people did not dare even argue with you in case you might fall down dead from apoplexy, or something along those lines. Harry was generally very careful about that, never letting Neil feel too weak and foolish, but to an extent, it was unavoidable.
He was glad that Harry had said health rather than mental state, even though they both knew what he meant. And it was true that Harry’s presence would surely spark an argument. Not everybody agreed with a steward eating with his “betters”, regardless of whether he were related to them or not. Cynthia did not mind, however, since the demise of her husband, Neil’s mother had grown increasingly rigid in her adherence to propriety and decorum. He supposed he should be more understanding, but it was difficult.
“Besides,” Harry added, “I can take breakfast down in the kitchen, and have a little peace to read this.”
He held aloft a slender, well-thumbed volume, encased in dark blue cloth, the title picked out in gold lettering so faded that Neil could scarcely read it.
“Coriolanus,” he read aloud. “More Shakespeare, eh? You really are a glutton for punishment. Haven’t you read that one before?”
Harry grinned. “Indeed, and I’m reading it again. And you cannot make snide comments about the Bard, not when you love Mrs. Radcliff’s novels so very much! I’ve caught you engrossed in Mysteries of Udolpho more times than I can count.”
Neil chuckled, shaking his head. It was perhaps not considered gentlemanly to enjoy popular novels so much, especially the ones with fainting heroines, improbably villainous plots, and almost-haunted abbeys. Even so, he loved them.
“Come on, then,” Harry said, getting to his feet. “If you insist on going down for breakfast, I insist on escorting you there.”
Neil’s pride would have compelled him to descend the stairs unaided; however, his quaking knees had other ideas. With a reluctant air, he acquiesced to Harry’s offered arm.
*
There was never a finer time to note the Tidemore family’s resemblance than at the dinner table.
Lady Emma Tidemore, the dowager Marchioness of Morendale, had taken to sitting at the head of the table during her husband’s illness and attacks of… well, it was best to call it disorientation. Now that the old Marquess was gone and Neil was in his place, Lady Emma had not seen fit to give up her place of honour at the head of the table.
It was a silly thing to feel irritated over, and yet Neil could not suppress a flash of annoyance as he moved over to his usual seat at his mother’s right-hand side and slumped down. He thought he was moving with a steady enough gait, even without Harry’s assistance, but his sister eyed him for a long moment and then spoke.
“You’re limping, Neil.”
He tried for a smile. “Pray, Cynthia, I have scarcely partaken of my morning repast, and already you are prattling on at me? I am not limping.”
Cynthia rolled her eyes, a most unladylike gesture. Neil considered remarking upon it, but decided that, in the end, it was not worth the trouble.
Of course, Cynthia had the traditional green-gold Tidemore eyes. Their mother had plain grey eyes, slate-grey and rather blank at the best of times, but both of her children had inherited her delicate, pointed features, as well as her long, thick hair. However, it was Tidemore hair, which meant that it was as black as jet, wild and wavy and almost untameable.
Cynthia had managed to tame hers, of course, slicking parts of it into a complex pile of knotted braids and twists on top of her hair, the front and sides forced into unnatural little ringlets hanging around her face. Very fashionable, and not, in Neil’s opinion, particularly becoming.
Cynthia narrowed her eyes at him, setting down her cup of tea with a clack.
“What are you staring at, Neil? Are you looking at my hair?”
“Perhaps,” he retorted. “You look like a wild tumbleweed, caught in a gust of wind.”
Cynthia made a movement as if she were going to kick him under the table, then seemed to recall that she was a Proper Young Lady of two and twenty and would not stoop to such nonsense.
“Fine talk from a man whose hair looks as though it has not seen a brush this past week,” Cynthia snapped, once she had regained most of her composure.
“That is enough,” their mother interrupted, quelling them both with a glare. “Neil, do not make fun of your sister’s looks. I think she has been through quite enough without that.”
There was a taut, nervous silence after that, spreading over the table like a thick, uncomfortable blanket. He immediately felt guilty. Cynthia had only returned from Bath that week, and it seemed that she was not quite recovered. The papers had finally stopped talking about her broken betrothal, moving on to the next scandal, but she had not forgotten. Besides, Society seemed to believe that two-and-twenty was positively ancient.
Only for a woman, of course. Neil was seven-and-twenty, and people tended to tell him that he was in his prime.
“I’m sorry, Cynthia,” he murmured, chastised. “I didn’t mean…”
“Enough of that,” Emma interrupted again. “I’m glad you came down, Neil, because I have something important to discuss with you.”
He tilted back his head and closed his eyes. A headache was pounding between his temples. Squeezing the narrow bridge of his nose could provide a heartbeat’s relief, but that was all. He could scarcely remember a time when he did not have a headache.
“Pray tell me, dear Mother, that this matter does not concern marriage. We have discoursed upon the subject so extensively that my ears are quite weary of it.”
“Of course it is about your marriage,” Emma responded, gesturing for a footman to take away her plate. “And I shall not stop talking about it until you are safely betrothed.”
“I am not well, Mother. I don’t want to talk about…”
“That is exactly why we must give the subject our attention,” Emma said at once. “You are not well. If you were to… to die without an heir, awful as it is to consider, the estate would pass to your cousin. And none of us want that.”
There was a brief silence as they all weighed up the realities and consequences of such a thing.
Your cousin did not, of course, refer to Harry. No, it was Lord Clayton Tidemore, jokingly called the handsome Tidemore, full of charm and wit and blessed with a gentlemanly love of hunting. Nobody said as much, but it was generally considered that he would make an excellent Marquess.
No ladies would baulk at marrying him, especially since…
“He’s not mad,” Neil muttered aloud.
Emma stiffened at once. “And neither are you. Neither was your father. Regardless of what it appeared to be like, I can assure you that he…”
Neil surged to his feet. “He was mad, Mother. He died mad, raving and foaming with no idea who he was or who was around him, and it’s likely that I shall die the same way. Perhaps it is not just our remarkable green eyes that is a family trait.”
“Stop it, Neil!” Cynthia snapped, rising from her chair. “You’re upsetting Mama.”
“You are both mad already if you think that Society doesn’t know about our condition,” Neil responded. “I have tried to find a suitable bride, Mother, truly I have. But nobody will have me, and I cannot blame them. It’s been three years, and unlike Cynthia, I haven’t even had one betrothal.”
That was cruel, and Neil immediately regretted his words. Cynthia flinched, dropping her gaze, and he could have bitten off the tip of his tongue.
He opened his mouth, intending to apologize, but it seemed that the words simply would not come. He just stood there, jaw agape.
Emma was the one who broke the silence.
“These episodes of yours have only begun over the past year,” she said quietly. “It took your father longer than that to die. You still have time, Neil.”
“It’s not fair, Mother, it’s not…” he began, but then his vision lurched.
Oh dear, not again.
The nausea surged anew, the scents wafting from the breakfast table causing him to feel a wave of revulsion. He bent forward in his seat, clutching the back of his chair in a vain attempt to steady himself, yet it proved futile.
He tumbled to the ground, feeling as though he were falling for a very long time. Distantly, he heard Cynthia give a cry of alarm.
“Fetch Harry,” Emma said, voice muffled.
For the second time that morning, Neil found himself sprawled out on the floor, limp as a wilted flower. He was vaguely aware of Cynthia’s skirts shuffling past, her shoes tap-tapping on the ground as she hurried to find Harry.
With considerable rustle and crumpling of her gown, Emma knelt beside her son. Neil blinked up at her, seeing two images of his mother’s concerned face.
“I’m going to die, Mama,” he said, jaw heavy and tongue thick in his mouth.
The face lurched and blurred until he could not read her expression anymore.
“Do not say such words. You must fight, Neil. I cannot bear the thought of losing you. You are everything to me. Pray, have faith and keep strong. Remember that you are the very essence of our family’s future. You are not merely an obstacle in Clayton’s pursuit of honour, you have a legacy to carry forth. An heir must rise from you, a son who will carry on what is rightfully yours.”
He squeezed his eyes closed. Even if that did not help the spinning.
“Who’d marry me, then? I can’t blame any woman of the ton for not wanting to marry a madman and become a young widow. Enough talk of my health – and of father’s sickness – has escaped these walls to deter most sensible ladies. And the ones that would not be deterred would doubtless make for a poor Marchioness, don’t you think?”
Emma hesitated a moment, small white teeth latching onto her lower lip. As always, she took a long time to answer, gathering her thoughts and choosing her words with care, like picking fruit from a high tree.
“Then we must lower our gaze,” she said at last. “We have been looking among the highest in the land, which is your birthright. However, it is true that there are flaws to what you can offer, Neil. It is not your fault.”
“I never said it was,” he managed, keeping his eyes shut.
“We shall look in lower-ranked families. Tradespeople, perhaps. Fallen members of the ton lack sufficient dowry to tempt a decent gentleman otherwise. There are plenty of people in Society with decent breeding and enough money to make a respectable match. Generally, ladies in lower circles would never dream of catching a Marquess, and if the opportunity does come their way…” she trailed off meaningfully, cocking her head to one side. “They will be willing to overlook a few small issues.”
“Like their husband slowly but surely going mad?” he managed, with a harsh laugh. With his head pressed against the floor as it was, he could hear the drumming of approaching footsteps, both Cynthia’s thin-soled slippers and Harry’s heavy boots. He wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep. Of course, there was a great many things between himself and his bed at that moment. Stairs, for one. Getting up from the floor, for another. Both seemed like insurmountable obstacles.
It’s not fair for my mother and sister, living through this horror with me every day, he thought tiredly. How can I condemn a wife to it? What if I go mad and then simply don’t die? What will happen to her then?
And then he conjured up an image of Clayton as a child, his boot hovering above Harry’s still-spinning top, a grin on his face.
Clayton, don’t! It’s the only one I have! Harry bleated, but Clayton only grinned wider and brought down his foot with a crunch.
“I suppose I can’t let Clayton be Marquess,” Neil heard himself say, his voice thick and drowsy in his ears. “It would be an unmitigated disaster. If you can find a woman willing to have me, Mother, I shall marry her.”
Something like relief crossed Emma’s face. She leant down, pressing a kiss to Neil’s temple. Oddly, it seemed to soothe the headache a little.
“That’s my brave boy,” she whispered, much as she had when he was a small child and scraped his knees. “I shall find a suitable companion for you, just you wait.”
Neil let himself drift off into unconsciousness, his last thought bouncing around his head like a spinning top.
I doubt it.
Chapter Two
Marshville Manor, The Quiet Hour After Luncheon
Patrina’s fingers hovered over the pianoforte keys. One might have assumed that her parents, arguing in the next room, would have heard the music desist, but apparently not. At times like this, they departed into their own worlds.
Really, she had no time to waste. She ought to be practising, and committing the piece to memory, before time ran out altogether. The composition—a light, fashionable air that every salon desired to grace their drawing rooms for a season or two before it became tiresome—was on loan to her for but two more days. Afterward, it was to be returned to Miss Butterfield, who would then pass it on to her married sister, and thence to another, and another. Should she wish to borrow it again, she would be obliged to await its turn in the queue of those eager to possess it.
Music sheets were, after all, expensive. Not everybody had the luxury of a proper music room, and therefore did not have space to store piles of music sheets, even if they could afford them. Patrina did not have the money or the leisure to spend too much time in learning it. The quicker she committed it to memory, the better. There were plenty of Society ladies in the same predicament.
Besides, it always looked more impressive if a lady could recollect an entire song, rather than hunching over her music sheets at somebody else’s pianoforte.
In the next room, Lady Marshville’s famously shrill voice pitched a little higher.
“What exactly do you mean, George, when you say that we cannot pay the butcher? What are we meant to eat? Grass?”
It was not usual for the family to hear their father’s voice raised in anger, but Patrina heard it then.
“I mean what I say. The bill has been allowed to climb and climb, and now we do not have money to cover it. The butcher, who has already displayed an excessive degree of forbearance toward us, shall not be trifled with by a partial settlement of the account. He demands the entirety of his due in one sum, and I must confess I cannot fault him for this.”
“Oh, George, how could you have let this happen? What are we to do? This is your fault!”
“And what is it that you wish me to do? You spent a small fortune on the girls’ dresses, which we cannot afford to pay, and now I am forced to dismiss more members of our household.”
“You must be jesting, surely. Do you expect me and the girls to slave in the kitchen, perhaps? Oh, how amusing that would be. Lady Marshville and her three daughters, sweating over a vat of soup.”
“Pray cease, Mary; I implore you to desist.”
There was a tiredness in her father’s voice now, powerful enough to make Patrina’s heart ache. She imagined him slumped down in a chair, exhausted and miserable. She knew that they were lucky to have parents who cared so intensely about each other. Most couples in Society tolerated each other at best and loathed each other at worst. For all the airy ideas and novel plots about marrying for love, it seemed that people only ever married for two reasons – money, and power.
“Of course I had to buy the girls new dresses,” Lady Marshville snapped, an edge of defensiveness in her voice. “It is only Agnes’ second season, and Gillian’s come-out is this year. All of the girls have to marry, we both know that. If they do not marry, they will not have a life. And if only one marries, she will have the burden of caring for her sisters when you are gone, so we need to get all of them married. It is essential, and you know this. Where has the money gone, George? Answer me, George!”
There was a long period of silence. Holding her breath, Patrina strained to listen, heart hammering in her chest.
She could imagine her mother, tired out by her own anger and panic, sinking onto a sofa. Her father, anger all gone, would hurry over to her, concerned.
Patrina did not hear anything more, beyond muted whispers and the murmur of voices through the wall. She let her hands slip away from the pianoforte. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if she never finished memorizing that piece. Either way, she had half of it in her head already.
Rising to her feet, Patrina crossed the room, pausing before the door which led into her parents’ private parlour.
Perhaps I should leave them alone.
However, Patrina had never been known for making tactful decisions, and did not intend to begin now. She knocked firmly and waited.
“Come in, Patrina,” came George’s tired voice.
She eased open the door and peered inside. As expected, Mary and George sat together on the sofa, hands entwined.
“How did you know it was me?” she asked.
Her father smiled wryly. “Because Agnes lives in her own world, and Gillian is entirely too wrapped up in gowns and parties to think about eavesdropping.”
Patrina flushed. “I wasn’t eavesdropping. You were both just very loud.”
“Mm-hm. Come in, my dear, sit down. I suppose you deserve to hear this, too.”
A tremor of apprehension began to stir in Patrina’s abdomen. She made her way to an armchair opposite – hopelessly threadbare, it had needed unholstering for several years now – and sat, folding her arms in her lap.
She remembered enough of her finishing school lessons to know that ladies were meant to sit and move in certain ways. Frankly, the lessons had been wasted, and she had only cared about the music lessons.
Perhaps if we hadn’t wasted all that money on my finishing school, the wallpaper wouldn’t be peeling from the walls with no money left to fix it, she thought. Or perhaps if I’d listened harder, I might have snagged a duke or something in my first Season, instead of spending three years hurtling towards spinsterhood.
Perchance, perchance. No sense in looking back, was there? Patrina drew in a breath and glanced between her parents.
“Tell me the worst,” she said at last. “I’m not a fool. I know that our financial situation is more dire than you two have let on. I imagine there’s no dowry at all left for us girls.”
Mary and George exchanged a long look.
“It’s rather worse than that, I’m afraid,” George managed at last. “I find myself rather deeply in debt to gentlemen who are most eager for restitution. I imprudently concealed this matter from your mother, who proceeded to acquire various items on installment—things such as gowns, slippers, jewels, and the like. Exquisite items that are not easily returned. This was all intended for Gillian and Agnes, as well as for you, my dear.”
Patrina did not miss the fact that she was an afterthought. It stung, of course, but then, this was her third unsuccessful Season. The simple fact was that they were now relying on Agnes and Gillian to make good matches.
She reflected on her two sisters, turning them over in her mind. Their family was not a remarkably handsome one. She herself was often considered the prettiest of the family at the moment, being the oldest, tallest, and fairest. Her hair was golden, and curled naturally, and she did think it was very pretty. Her eyes were a pale blue, unremarkable, and her collection of features were well enough on their own, but not enough to make her a Beauty.
Agnes was plainer, with a vivacity of mind that would make her a fine choice for any sensible gentleman in Society.
Or so Patrina thought. The gentlemen did not agree, and nor did Society. Agnes’ awkward attempt to catch Lord Something-or-Other had run aground during her first Season, and now she had her eye on the lord’s rather humbler cousin.
Gillian was shaping up to be pretty enough, with a spirit that might attract or repel the right man, depending on pure luck and who she was competing against.
Plainly put, the three of them had never much stood out in Society, where flocks of shimmering, perfect ladies crowded together and fluttered, showing off their wares at the Marriage Mart. Homely looks might be ignored over a great fortune, or being part of an ancient and highly respected family, but Patrina and her sisters were nothing remarkable in that area, either.
She was beginning to worry about their futures. Judging by the looks on her parents’ faces, they had been worrying for a great deal longer.
“Things are getting bad,” George said at last, voice quiet. “I would rather you did not tell your sisters. They’re young – Gillian is barely eight and ten – and they do not deserve to worry about this sort of thing.”
Patrina nodded slowly, bowing her head. Her mouth had gone dry. She imagined bailiffs shouldering past the front door, hefty-faced men with notebooks to make lists of everything valuable they had, carrying it away over their shoulders. She had passed by public auctions before, where some poor, ruined fool was having all of their things sold off to pay their debts. The house itself would be sold last, naturally. If the individual was fortunate, they might secure a satchel or two containing items deemed either too trifling to dispose of or possessions they were permitted to retain. They would depart with a sense of mortification, embarking upon a fresh chapter of their existence.
The unlucky ones went to debtor’s prison, until they could pay off their debt. And, of course, while locked up in prison, nobody could work hard enough to pay off a penny. Once a person entered the debtor’s prison, barring some miracle or sudden inheritance, they remained inside.
Papa would be imprisoned, Patrina thought, an edge of hysteria creeping into her mind. Mama and the girls and I would be left to make our way as best we could. And, of course, we would not.
She thought briefly about their household, the faithful old servants who’d stuck with them through thick and thin. The servants who were owed wages by the family, no doubt. Wages that the family could no longer afford to pay, no more than they could afford to pay anything they’d bought on installment.
She swallowed hard, guilt edging up underneath her new lace-trimmed bodice. It was probably too late to return the thing, as it had already been adjusted.
“What are we going to do?” Patrina heard herself say, her voice remarkably steady considering the circumstances. “Are we ruined?”
George paused, glancing at his wife. “I would have answered yes, undoubtedly, only an hour ago. And then a very strange letter arrived.”
He withdrew a crumpled letter from his sleeve, as if by magic. Mary tensed, drawing her hand away.
“Well?” Patrina asked, leaning forward. “Who is the letter from?”
Her father drew in a breath. “It’s from the Marquess of Morendale.”
Patrina flinched back at that. “You mean the Mad Marquess?”
George grimaced. “Who says he’s a madman? The man hasn’t been out at all this year, not in London. I haven’t seen him.”
Mary snorted. “Anyone who believes the man is not mad is a fool, George. Everybody knows for certain that his father died an insane, and these sicknesses often pass through a family. It is naive to ignore the gossip. I hate to say it, but the gossip makes sense.”
Patrina got to her feet, pacing up and down. “Well, yes, but the rumours are flying about the city even so. You must have heard them. Everybody knows his father was mad as anything before he died, so it must run in the family. Miss Butterfield said, just the other day…”
“I am not interested in gossip,” George said sharply. “No matter how much sense it appears to make. Do you want to know what the letter says, or not?”
“I want to know why the Marquess has written to us,” Patrina responded. “He doesn’t know us. We’ve never been introduced. I’m not sure I’ve ever even seen him.”
“Well, the handwriting looks like a woman’s, so I would guess that perhaps his mother – the Dowager Marchioness, you know – might have written it for him. Or his sister, perhaps.”
“I’m surprised that such a wealthy man can’t afford an assistant,” Patrina said tartly.
“It hardly matters. He signed the letter at the bottom. There, that is his crest. Take it, read it.”
Patrina reluctantly took the letter. It was good paper, creamy and thick, covered with looping, sloping handwriting that did look like a woman’s. She saw an unfamiliar seal, dug deep into red wax, which had clearly once sealed the letter shut.
It was most unexpectedly succinct missive. Not crossed nor densely penned, either. Such brevity seemed unnecessary, and one could not doubt that a gentleman of the Marquess of Morendale’s stature would possess no need to be frugal with his stationery. He could easily procure as many sheets as his heart desired. Indeed, it was likely that he would not even consider inscribing upon the verso of his correspondence.
My Dear Lord and Lady Marshville, the letter said, I hope this finds you in good health. I write to request a meeting with yourselves and your daughters at your earliest convenience. The location and time of our meeting can be discussed later.
I understand that this is rather unorthodox, but I believe you and I have matters of great importance to discuss regarding the future of our families. In fact, I would go so far as to suggest that it is a matter of mutual benefit. I offer no more details until a meeting can be arranged.
I await your response with the greatest eagerness. I must warn you that a prompt reply is expected, or else I shall take my offer elsewhere.
She read the short letter several times, waiting for some hidden meaning to reveal itself.
It did not.
“I don’t understand,” she said at last, blinking down at the letter. “What does he mean? Or what does his mother mean, if she is the one who wrote it?”
“He specifically says he wishes to meet with your mother and I and our daughters,” George said, tapping the letter and lifting his eyebrows significantly. “What new marquess is not preoccupied with the matter of marriage and heirs? I imagine his lordship is looking for a wife.”
“And why can’t he just pick some pretty, rich little debutante from Society?” Patrina responded. “Gentlemen don’t look for wives in this manner.”
“You said it yourself. The gossip mongers have him as a madman. A man of his standing ought to have been married already, especially since the estate is entailed and he has no brothers. He must be getting desperate. Besides, any lady of any worth would not look twice at him.”
Patrina flinched back, swallowing hard. She stared at her father, waiting for him to realize what he had said.
He must be getting desperate. Any lady of any worth would not look twice at him.
That is why he has asked to meet us, was the implication. Because the Marshville girls were not worthy of much else.
“I am not happy about this,” Mary announced. Her lips were pressed tight together, her back ramrod straight. She was starting to look tired, and Patrina wondered uneasily if her mother had used up her meagre stores of strength on all of this. It was clear that she had already known about the letter, and equally clear that she did not approve.
“If he truly is mad, I won’t let any of my daughters near him,” Mary continued. “Besides, George, you are placing the cart before the horse. We have no inkling of what this gentleman desires.”
“No, we do not,” George admitted, leaning back in his seat. “And, Patrina, let me be clear about this. I will not compel you or your sisters to meet this man. The idea of forcing my daughters into a marriage is truly repulsive to me. Not that you girls would permit yourself to be in that situation at all, to be frank. But a man like this, with his wealth and power… well, he could turn our lives around like that.”
George snapped his fingers, making Patrina jump. Silence fell over the parlour after that.
“Can… Can I decide later?” Patrina asked at last, her voice a little shaky. Mary looked relieved, and George’s face fell.
“Of course,” he said, forcing a smile. “But decide by morning, my dear. I intend to send off a reply by breakfast.”
He’s already written the reply in his head, Patrina thought dully. He’s already decided what he is going to do. And he hopes that my sisters and I will fall into line. After all, what else can we do? No other miracle is going to come along and save us. This is it for us.
“Of course, Papa,” she said aloud.
*
“It could be nothing, couldn’t it?” Patrina said, meeting her maid’s eyes through the mirror.
It was dark outside, half of the household asleep already. Rain battered at the windowpane, and only the light of a single candle lit Patrina’s bedroom. There was of course no fire in the grate – firewood was expensive – and her toes were starting to go numb.
Lucy frowned, squinting in the poor light, trying to wind Patrina’s untidy hair into a long, thick braid for sleep.
“I think that there’s only one way to find out,” she said aloud. “It’s not as if he’s going to pressure you into accepting.”
“I don’t know,” Patrina muttered. “There are some shocking stories about his father. The man went quite, quite mad before he died, they say. He would often bellow and convulse, frothing at the mouth, and would dash down the corridors nearly in a state of undress.
Apparently, he even accused his own family of being against him. Can you imagine that?”
Lucy pursed her lips. “Well, I don’t know. These rich, old families are always a bit odd, I think. But anyway, his lordship and her ladyship would never allow you girls to come to harm. You said yourself that your father promised you wouldn’t be forced into anything, and I’m sure you won’t. If you don’t like him, that’s that. There. Your hair’s done.”
Patrina sighed, leaning back in her seat. Lucy Pearson had come to work for the Marshville family – before they began heading towards ruin, of course – as a gawky fourteen-year-old. Patrina couldn’t even remember how they had become friends, only that they had, and she had begged her mother to let Lucy be her companion, and later her lady’s maid.
Lucy was short, inclined towards stockiness, with nut-brown hair and large, keen hazel eyes. She had a pretty round face and was sharp enough to see through any nonsense. She alone had gotten Patrina through the humiliation of that latest, hellish Season.
“I suppose I’ll have to agree to meeting him,” Patrina remarked, tilting her head this way and that in front of the mirror. “If only out of curiosity. After all, nobody else will come to save us. Things are bad, you know.”
Lucy said nothing, but didn’t look surprised. Patrina supposed that the servants knew just as keenly how bad things had become, just as her parents did. They probably knew more than Patrina and her sisters. She imagined, briefly, what it must be like in the kitchen, day after day, stretching out meagre rations. Not having enough money to buy proper meat, serving cheap fish and boiled vegetables instead. Baking bread when the flour basket was depleting at a worrying rate. Going to the grocer’s and the butcher’s when you did not know how much further the credit would stretch.
Although not with the butcher. Not anymore, not until their bill was settled. Which would never be.
Patrina bit her lip, eyeing her reflection a little more closely. None of this would have happened if I’d just caught a duke in my first Season.
“Lucy, don’t you think I look almost pretty in this light?”
Lucy stopped in the middle of folding something, and came to stand behind her mistress, hands on her hips.
“Almost pretty?” she repeated, tartly. “I can no longer endure your disparagement of yourself, milady. You are a paragon of beauty, though I daresay looks are of little import when one truly considers the matter. You possess such kindness, thoughtfulness, intelligence, and a delightful spirit that makes your company so enjoyable. Just because those insufferable gentlemen of Society label you a bluestocking and suggest you lack the willowy delicacy they so admire does not make their words any more valid.”
Patrina bit her lip, looking away. “I don’t care what they say about me, Lucy. But I can’t bear how they talk about Agnes. And Gillian, too, once she comes out. You know how she says whatever she thinks. And I know fine well that they only talk so cruelly about us because we are poor. It isn’t fair.”
“No, it’s not,” Lucy conceded. “But the truth is that you find yourself in straitened circumstances. You cannot conjure wealth from naught.”
“I can’t, that’s true. I’d have to marry it,” Patrina sighed heavily, leaning back again. “It seems only yesterday that I was an optimistic girl, dreaming of a love-match. I did so want to meet my Prince and find myself utterly beguiled. It’s foolish, isn’t it?”
Lucy gave her a level look. “I don’t think that wanting to fall in love is foolish.”
“It is, though. For women like me, it is. If I were sensible, I’d have married Mr. Bowles in my first Season.”
Lucy wrinkled her nose. “That old, bald man?”
“Yes, him. I couldn’t stand him, but he did have a good deal of money.”
“You’d have caused quite the scandal within a year and been the talk of the town for it.”
Patrina pursed her lips, considering. “No, I don’t think so. I believe I could have navigated the situation with grace, if I were careful. And after a while I would make a most intriguing widow, I fancy.”
“Forget about being an intriguing widow; you’ll be a chilled young lady if you don’t stop wandering about in your nightdress. Get into bed, milady. Do be sensible.”
Patrina smiled wryly, obeying. She and Lucy had been friends for long enough to speak in this way to each other. Frankly, Patrina liked it – it was good to feel that one’s maid would speak honestly and fairly about important matters.
“Thank you, Lucy.”
The maid fluttered around the room, tidying up and plumping cushions, while Patrina lay back, pulling her blankets up to her chin, and waited for the bed to warm up.
I’ll have to meet him, she thought at last. But what does he want with us? Perhaps after all this flutter and worry, it’s got nothing to do with marriage at all.
Chapter Three
The key was to project confidence. That was what Harry had said, and Harry was generally right about these sorts of things.
Neil had kept the curtains of the carriage closed as he made his way to the Marshville home. He realized, a moment or two too late, that approaching in a closed-up carriage would look fairly odd. No doubt the family had been peering at him from the windows.
Too late now, of course.
The carriage rolled to a halt, the door was opened, and Neil was obliged to step out. He found himself looking up at a tall, grand house, with only a little shabbiness around the corners. From the information Harry and Lady Emma had gathered, he knew that the family were rather good at putting on a mask in Society. They could make what little money they had stretch a little further, and mend and make do with the most frugal families.
In Society, appearances were paramount. One could subsist on mere wits and a pittance, provided one possessed the art of management.
Of course, such a lifestyle was not exactly sustainable, as Lord and Lady Marshville and their daughters were doubtless discovering.
A grim-looking footman in much-darned livery met him at the door. Neil fought not to cringe before the man’s contemptuous stare. Once again, the servants in a place like this would be the most loyal core of the family, determined to serve their employers for as long and as well as they could.
Or perhaps they were simply owed too much in back wages to risk leaving. Hard to tell at first glance.
“This way, Lord Morendale,” the footman said shortly, turning on his heel and not looking behind to see if Neil followed.
It was clear that the servants, at least, were not welcoming Neil’s presence.
They probably think I’m mad, too. They’re mostly right, I suppose.
He was led through a wide, high hallway, walls covered with various portraits. It was meant to convey the idea of an ancient and noble family, Neil thought, but anybody who knew the Marshvilles would know that they were rather new, by the ton’s standards. New, and not particularly rich. They were the sort of family that would be warmly accepted in Society, providing they had enough money and half-decent breeding to earn it. However, should that breeding waver or their money fail, they would be cast out at once.
There were ancient, impoverished families in Society that were not shunned, simply because of their name and their long, elegant family history. The Marshvilles would not have that sort of luck and forbearance.
He spotted plenty of signs that the home was not well looked after: dusty corners in hastily swept and mopped floors, brass in need of a good polishing, lopsided pictures, cobwebs hanging from the ceiling. In places, there were patches of musty smells, indicating that the house was overdue a good airing. He passed countless closed doors, and would have wagered that inside those doors, the furniture was swathed in dust sheets, the shutters barred, closed and silent. Fewer rooms to maintain meant fewer rooms to heat, clean, and occupy. It was generally for the best.
The hallway weaved under a wide staircase, the banister of the landing hanging overhead. Neil wasn’t sure what made him look up, but look up he did, and was greeted by three faces hanging over the banister, staring down at him.
Neil paused, standing still, head tilted back to look up at them in silence.
These were the Marshville girls, certainly, ranging in age from almost-eighteen to two and twenty, if his sources were correct.
It was clear that they were sisters, all sporting the same golden hair, the same longish faces, the same delicately up-tipped noses and blue eyes.
None of them smiled. They did not dart backwards out of sight, embarrassed at being caught staring. They stared down at him, returning his gaze unblinkingly, faces unreadable. Swallowing hard, Neil gave a nod, intending it for them all. No response was forthcoming, so he tore his eyes away and hurried after the disappearing footman. It was occurring to him now that perhaps the man was actually a butler. It was difficult to tell.
Neil was shown into a small, neatly arranged study. A fire burned heartily in the grate, making the room rather too warm. It felt like overcompensation, as if the owner of the room was making a point, that he could overheat his room and not care about the waste of firewood. Perhaps indicating that, despite the chill hanging over the rest of the house, this room at least could be as warm as its occupants like. Neil wished a window could be opened.
A pair of armchairs were angled towards the fire, and a middle-aged woman sat in one of the armchairs, back turned to the door. There was a large desk taking up most of the space, with a chair before it and a chair behind it. A short, round-faced man occupied the chair behind the desk. He got unsteadily to his feet as Neil entered, smiling nervously. The woman did not stand up.
“Lord Morendale, what a pleasure,” the man stammered, extending a pudgy hand for Neil to shake. “I am Lord Marshville, as I’m sure you’ve surmised. This is my dear wife, Lady Marshville. She insisted on being present. Your… your note implied that this meeting was of great importance, so I thought my dear lady wife ought to be here.” He was babbling, a sure sign of nerves.
Neil inclined his head towards the lady. She was still not looking at him, staring instead into the fire. He shifted from foot to foot, wondering if the woman was going to invite him to sit or not. It was her prerogative, of course, as the lady of the house. She did not seem inclined to speak, or even spare a glance his way. She seemed to be pretending that he did not exist.
The problem of seating was solved by Lord Marshville sitting himself down with a thump, then seeming to recollect his guest in a rush. Reddening, he gestured to the other seat.
“Pray, take a seat. Tea will be coming soon. I thought you might prefer to talk in my study, instead of the parlour, since this is business.”
Neil smiled faintly. He wished, not for the first time, that Harry was here. Harry was better at being charming, at getting people to like him. And if Neil were to have a “turn” – heaven forbid – Harry would know what to do. Harry had a way of helping people relax, to speak freely about it. It was a real talent, and one that Neil did not possess.
Much as he wished he might possess it.
But one couldn’t bring one’s steward on an errand like this. Harry had come with him, for moral support, and was waiting in the carriage.
“It is a matter of business,” Neil managed at last, reviewing the notes he’d written in his head on the way here. “This is a delicate business, but I suppose you would consider it as a proposal of marriage.”
“Marriage?” Lady Marshville spoke up, gaze still fixed on the fire. “You talk about marriage, sir? You’ve never met one of my daughters, not even once.”
He swallowed. She was clearly not pleased he was here. Lord Marshville winced, but did not argue with his wife.
Tread carefully, Neil. Tread carefully.
“It’s true, what I am proposing is not traditional. I understand my mother contacted you about this?”
Lord Marshville shifted. “Yes, but she was rather light on the details. Do I understand that you wish to marry one of my daughters?”
Neil drew in a breath. “Indeed, that is the essence of the matter, Lord Marshville. With her consent, of course, and with yours.”
There was a brief silence.
“My girls have no dowry,” Lord Marshville said carefully.
“Yes, I know. The truth is, I know a little about your affairs, Lord Marshville. I know that you are in straitened circumstances. As you son-in-law, I would be able to not only provide a comfortable life for one of your daughters, but I could also do something about your situation.”
He’d mis-stepped, Neil realized that at once.
Lady Marshville was on her feet in an instant, red-faced and furious.
“Are you implying that we would sell one of our daughters to you? A man said to be mad?”
He recoiled. Lord Marshville held out a placating hand to his wife.
“Mary, dear, I implore you- do cease this at once!”
“No, she is right,” Neil said, recovering. Lady Marshville narrowed her eyes at him.
“Pray tell, Lord Morendale, what is your scheme?” she inquired slowly, with a hint of mistrust in her tone.
He shifted on his seat, clearing his throat.
“Indeed, it is true that there are some unflattering whispers regarding my mental condition. My father passed away under rather distressing circumstances, and… to speak candidly, I have cause for concern regarding my own health. However, I assure you, Lord and Lady Marshville, I am not mad. I do experience episodes, I shall not disguise that, but I am not a threat. I do not harm others, nor have I ever made any intimation to do so.”
“But your father did,” Lady Marshville said, voice quiet. “I heard that he accused all around him of murder. His own murder, no less.”
Neil bit his lower lip until he tasted copper, trying not to remember how his father’s tortured howls had reverberated through the house. He could still hear his mother’s frantic shouts, desperately pleading with the man she loved to come back, come back to her. He could hear Cynthia’s sobs; head hidden beneath a pile of cushions to try and block out the sound.
“That is true, too,” Neil said at last. “My illness seems to be different to my father’s. For now, at least. So far, the condition confines itself to fits, nausea, and dizziness. I am not dangerous, and you can speak to my family and the family physician, Mr. Edmund Blackburn. However, you can understand why I am not looking for a bride in Society, and why I felt the need to come here and be blunt and open with you both about my state of health.”
Lord and Lady Marshville exchanged glances.
“I appreciate your candour,” Lady Marshville said at last, sounding a little mollified. “But I’m sure you can see why I would not want my girls marrying a man with your condition. Why should I feel otherwise?”
“Because,” Neil said, steeling himself to be blunt, “your girls have no prospects.”
Lady Marshville bristled. “I beg your pardon?”
“I must beg your pardon for my candour, but is this not the unvarnished truth? I have no doubt that your daughters are admirable young ladies, yet they do not conform to the prevailing notions of beauty in these times. Your family, while respectable, does not possess the antiquity or influence that might endear you to society. Your financial standing is precarious, and I fear you are encumbered by considerable debt, which places your assets at great risk, rendering any prospect of a suitable dowry quite unlikely. I understand that your eldest daughter has endured several unsuccessful Seasons, and it is my belief that your second daughter has likewise faced similar challenges. I intend no affront nor wish to distress you; I merely seek to convey the truth of the matter. Am I mistaken in any of my assertions? “
Lord and Lady Marshville exchanged glances again. Slowly, slowly, Lady Marshville returned to her seat, dropping down with a ragged sigh.
“No,” she said at last, sounding defeated. “You are not wrong. I love my girls, Lord Morendale, make no mistake. Patrina and Agnes are not thriving in Society, it’s true. We had placed our hopes upon Gillian, and perchance in a year or two, she may secure a match of her own. Yet, I am uncertain we possess the luxury of a year or two to squander.” She paused, casting a scathing glance at Neil. “But our daughters are precious to us, Lord Morendale, more dear than you can fathom. They are exquisite young ladies, possessing admirable qualities, and each one of them is worth ten of any empty Society beauty.”
He bowed his head. “I agree, Lady Marshville, I agree. I don’t mean to insult your girls. In fact, if you are amenable, I want to marry one of them. She would be a Marchioness, with a share of my fortune. She would be a powerful woman, and if I should… if I should die young, as I fear I might, she would be left as a wealthy widow, to run my estates and raise our child. Or children, if we are so blessed.”
There. He’d said it. Everything in his head was said, and Neil let out a small sigh of relief. He sat back in his seat, waiting for Lord and Lady Marshville to make their decision.
The pair glanced at each other; expressions unreadable.
“Which of the girls did you have in mind?” Lord Marshville asked, voice uncertain.
“Well, I am not acquainted with any of them, and I am certain they are all most amiable young ladies.”
“Not Gillian,” Lady Marshville said suddenly, panic in her voice. “Not my baby. She is barely eighteen, and I think…”
“No, not Miss Gillian,” Neil said hastily, colour rushing to his face. “I am seven and twenty, Lady Marshville, and I would like a wife closer to my own age. As I mentioned earlier, I may very well die within the next few years, and I want a grown woman as a Marchioness, not a child.”
Lady Marshville relaxed, just a little. She met her husband’s eye.
“I think I know which of our girls will suit you, then.”
*
There was an uneasy silence in the drawing room.
After Lord Morendale had come through the house, shown straight into Papa’s study as had been agreed, the three sisters had come hesitantly downstairs, craning their necks to peer down the hallway as if expecting something terrible to leap out at them.
Nobody could settle. The grate in the drawing room was empty, despite the chill in the air. Generally, there was a fire in the drawing room and not in Papa’s study, as he preferred to save the firewood and wrap himself up in blankets. Today, though, they had to warm the room for their illustrious guest.
And so, the girls were obliged to freeze.
“Come away from the window, Gilly,” Agnes said, breaking the silence. She was bent over her sewing, working on a complex, beautiful embroidery piece. A vibrantly red rose was taking shape under her needle, far more beautiful than anything Patrina could ever create.
Gillian was curled up on the window seat, a forgotten book hanging from her fingers. Her cheek was pressed against the glass, and she stared blankly out at the garden below.
“Agnes is right,” Patrina said, pacing up and down in front of the empty fireplace. She simply could not seem to settle. “You risk becoming quite unwell by remaining in that position.”
“If I were to become unwell and perish, perhaps I shall be spared the fate of marrying that madman,” Gillian replied with a weary expression.
Patrina stopped pacing. “We won’t let you marry him.”
“What if he chooses me? He doesn’t know any of us. Papa and Mama will likely let him take his pick.”
“They won’t do that,” Agnes responded, biting off a string of thread. “You’re the prettiest of us all, and likely to make a good match of your own accord. If she were to bestow your hand upon him, she would be consigned to the company of us two spinsters for all eternity. I daresay Lord Morendale is indifferent as to which of us he espouses.”
Patrina said nothing. She could still see the man in her mind’s eye, his head tilted to stare up at the three of them.
“He was more handsome than I thought he’d be,” she said slowly, not quite able to believe what she was saying.
Agnes snorted. “You have the strangest taste in men, Pat. He’s too thin, and with that black hair and green eyes, he looks like a witch’s familiar.”
Gillian gave a hoot of laughter.
“You’re both very cruel,” Patrina muttered. “I wasn’t saying that I thought he was handsome.”
“What did you mean, then?”
“I don’t know! Only that a man who looks like that, regardless of how mad he might be, should be able to catch himself a decent wife. And he’s rich,” she added, as an afterthought.
Agnes shot Gillian a meaningful glance. “Well, let’s hope that you marry him.”
It was half of a joke, but for some reason, it sent chills down Patrina’s spine.
If he wants to marry me, she thought, swallowing hard, I won’t be able to say no. Not if he could save us all. And if I do say no, then Agnes will be obliged to marry him. And she might say no, too, and that leaves Gillian…
He thoughts trailed off, and Patrina met Agnes’ eye. There was determination in her sister’s face, and she knew then that regardless of what sort of man the Marquess of Morendale might be, however mad or cruel or disinterested, either she or Agnes would marry him to save Gillian. Gillian had to be protected, at all costs.
There was a gentle rap on the door, and all three of the girls flinched. Sitting upright, they all turned towards the door, waiting.
The butler stepped inside, looking more sombre than ever.
“Ladies,” he said, a trifle hesitant, “I am sent to fetch Miss Marshville.”
“Which Miss Marshville?” Agnes demanded, voice a little strained. “We’re all Miss Marshville.”
The butler drew in a breath. “Miss Patrina Marshville.”
Gillian gave a strained yelp, pressing her hand over her mouth. Out of the corner of her eye, Patrina saw Agnes sink in relief, just a little.
“I see,” Patrina said aloud, secretly pleased with how steady her voice was. “I’ll be there directly.
*
Lucy would have much preferred to stay in the house that morning. That strange, mad Marquess was coming to visit, and Miss Patrina had privately confided in her that he wanted to marry one of the girls.
It was a wretched business, in Lucy’s opinion. Oh, to be sure, marrying a Marquess would be a great thing for any of the girls, and if the man was willing to help out with Lord Marshville’s debts, they might well be saved. Lucy was owed close to four months’ back wages, and some of the other servants were owed more. They liked their jobs, and Lady Marshville was a fine mistress, but money was money, and they were all growing more desperate. However, if they left now, there was a fair choice that they would never get their wages at all, so most of them hung on.
The young ladies were obliged to enter into matrimony; such was the crux of the matter. Yet, the gentlemen of Society proved too obtuse to appreciate Patrina’s many admirable qualities. Or Agnes’, for that matter. Lucy bit back a sigh, shaking her head. She couldn’t see a way out of it. No doubt the mad Marquess would choose the youngest of the girls, Gillian, and whisk her away. They’d be saved, likely, but at what cost? Wouldn’t the guilt weigh them all down?
Enough of that, Lucy, she warned herself. You shall fret yourself into a state of disarray with such incessant worrying.
Her errand that morning was to return some assorted fabrics, ribbons, and trimmings to the modiste’s, and get the money back. There wasn’t much they could return, but what could be returned was to be returned. Lucy hated doing returns. It was well known that ladies who gave things back to the shop and requested their money back were miserly. Poor, in other words.
Rich ladies didn’t need to care what sort of money they spent on clothes and trinkets.
Lost in thought, Lucy stepped out of the servant’s side entrance and hurried on towards the front of the house. The Marquess’ carriage was there, a bulky, square thing, blocking out all the light. She considered delivering a swift jab to the fine lacquer as she went by.
And then, as if fate had taken note of her uncharitable thoughts and chosen to teach her a lesson for it, a cobblestone turned under her foot, without warning. Lucy’s ankle twisted to one side, and she lurched forward, off-balance.
She would have gone crashing neatly into a filthy, stinking puddle by the side of the road, were it not for a strong pair of hands grabbing her arms, hauling her upright.
The basket flew out of her grasp, rolling over and turning the ribbons and trinkets out of the basket and onto the road. As soon as she steadied herself, Lucy gave a yelp of dismay and flew down to pick the ribbons up again. The modiste wouldn’t take back mud-soaked items.
She’d almost forgotten about her saviour already, until a male voice spoke somewhere above.
“Let me help you, miss.”
She blinked, squinting up at a man silhouetted against a bright, grey sky.
He knelt gracefully beside her, squatting so as not to put his trouser knees in the dirt, and began to nimbly pick up the spilled goods.
“Thank you,” Lucy said abruptly, a little too late. “For saving me. I’d have gone face-first into that puddle.”
He chuckled. “I’m glad to have saved you the humiliation.”
She inspected him a little closer, now that his attention was fixed downwards on the floor. He was a pale young man, with curling red hair, and the most marvellous greenish-gold eyes she’d ever seen. She estimated that he was around her age, or perhaps a year or two older, and dressed in sombre black. It wasn’t a servant’s clothing, so she found herself struggling to work out who, exactly, he was, and what his role was.
He glanced up at her, and Lucy felt her heart flutter. She cleared her throat, wordlessly holding out the basket. Hands cupped to hold the rescued trinkets, he spilled them into the basket.
“One or two of the ribbons are ruined, I think,” he stated, handing over the soiled items. “I am sorry.”
“No need to be sorry,” she managed, smiling faintly. “I am sorry to have seemed ungrateful, by the way. It’s just that these are my mistress’ things.”
He nodded understandingly. “Of course. Who is your mistress? Is it one of the Marshville ladies?”
“Well, I wait on them all, but I consider myself as Miss Patrina Marshville’s maid.”
“Ah, I see. Well, I am Lord Morendale’s steward. My name is Harry Westbrook.”
Lucy flinched at that. “L-Lord Morendale?”
A guarded look came over Harry’s face. Both of them got slowly and carefully to their feet, eyeing each other.
“Yes, the Marquess of Morendale,” he answered hesitantly, as if braced for her to say something terrible. “My cousin, actually. Distantly, but still. He’s a fine man.”
She bit her lip. He continued to regard her with a gaze that was both hopeful and cautious. It dawned upon her that he still anticipated some unkind remark from her.
“I’m sure he is,” she heard herself say. “I cannot claim acquaintance with the gentleman, yet I am certain that he is not deserving of the unfavourable opinions circulating about him. Indeed, gossip is a most absurd pastime.”
Harry gave a relieved smile. “Indeed, you can’t believe anything you hear.”
She cleared her throat, dragging her gaze away from him. “Well, I should get on.”
“Of course, of course.”
She turned and hurried away down the street, only to stop when he called after her.
“Wait! You never told me your name.”
She paused, fighting back a smile.
What’s the harm? I doubt I’ll see him again.
Although if one of the girls marries the Marquess of Morendale…
“Lucy,” she said, over her shoulder. “My name is Lucy Pearson.”