How to Cross a Marquess

by Jane Ashford

  “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.”

  “A most happy outcome,” said Mrs. Thorpe, with the satisfaction of one who had supported the endeavor. “I wish you good fortune in Shropshire.”

  “On my own hook,” Arthur said with a smile. “Granted. I will stay for your performance here, of course.”

  “You have seen me as Lady Macbeth before. More than once, I think.”

  “But I haven’t seen Chatton as a marauding Viking.”

  “Or the bishop as St. Cuthbert,” put in Helena. “I understand he finds the robes sadly plain. And they chafe.”

  “How do you know that?” Arthur asked.

  “And where precisely do they chafe?” asked Mrs. Thorpe.

  “That I don’t know,” replied Helena with dancing eyes. “But the vicar told Mr. Benson, and he told me. I suppose the bishop must have complained to Reverend Cheeve. He took that as a sign that he should be been given the role. He is still exceedingly bitter for a clergyman.”

  He would miss her company, too, Arthur thought, but the pageant would mark the end of his visit. All seemed to be well here, and he felt his work might be done. If it weren’t for the lingering question of the anonymous letter writer. But that abject individual would probably fade into obscurity, as such people most often did, nursing their malice in small, mean corners.

  Seventeen

  Fenella took a deep breath of the summer air moving past her cheeks and enjoyed the view over a stretch of low hills. It was restful to drive a gig along a country lane—a much finer gig than she’d had at Clough House—and think her own thoughts. The Chatton Castle household operated with more pomp and required more attention than her old home. She was happy in her new role, but she was also glad to be away for a brief time. So she’d slipped out to make her visit to Mrs. Dorne, which had been put off by John’s antics at Lindisfarne and then a positive rush of events.

  She sat with the old lady for nearly an hour, eating one of the cakes she’d delivered and discussing the merits of the liniment she’d brought, as well as the doings of Mrs. Dorne’s various offspring, some of whom were stationed in the outermost reaches of the British Empire. By the time she started back, Fenella was considerably refreshed and looking forward to being in her own house again. Her own house. She repeated the words silently. A few weeks ago she’d had no notion that she’d soon be mistress of Chatton Castle. And a wife. Perhaps before long a mother. As her horse ambled along the familiar route, Fenella’s thoughts drifted off into the various pleasures that her change of status had brought.

  A hissing sound startled her out of her daydream. It was followed by a sharp blow to her left arm, just below the shoulder. Fenella looked down in astonishment. An arrow had passed through the skin on the outside of her arm. It stuck there, quivering, the reddened head behind her, the fletching in front. Blood welled up and flowed onto her shawl, pinned in place by the missile.

  The pain came then, sharp and dizzying. Fenella bent under the onslaught.

  Another arrow passed over her head with a hiss like a hunting cat. That one would have pierced her chest if it had found its mark.

  Crouching even lower, Fenella slapped the reins on the horse’s back. “Go!” she shouted. “Run, Dexter!”

  Startled, the horse surged forward. Fenella slapped the reins again, urging him to greater speed. The pain in her arm spiked as the motion caused the arrow to wobble and shift. This grew worse with every bump in the road. “You will not faint,” she commanded through clenched teeth. “You will not!” If she slowed, the archer might catch her. If she fell, she’d certainly break bones, or her neck, at this speed.

  At least one more arrow arced toward her, but it passed well behind the gig. After that, Fenella wasn’t certain. She didn’t see any more. But the ride had become a haze of teeth-gritting pain. Her attention narrowed to urging Dexter on each time he tried to slow. Which was often. Dexter was accustomed to gentle rambles, not desperate races down winding lanes.

  After what seemed an eternity, Chatton Castle appeared before them. Fenella slapped the reins again, and they hurtled up to it. The gig careened under the arch and slewed around into the stable yard. A surprised groom came out to receive the vehicle. At his shocked cry, others appeared. “My lady, what’s happened?”

  “Someone shot at me.”

  Horrified exclamations rose around her.

  “From a clump of trees.” She tried to remember the moment of the attack. “Near the turn to the village.” Fenella swayed in the seat.

  “Hold that horse, nodcock.” The head groom came to Fenella’s side. “Let me help you, my lady.”

  “Yes, I should—” But when she moved to step down, the arrow shifted and the pain made her cry out.

  “Fetch Mrs. Burke,” said the head groom to his minions. “And his lordship. Run, cloth head!” He reached up and lifted Fenella to the ground. “Rafe, you ride for the doctor. Sharpish, go!” He offered his arm to Fenella. “Can you walk, my lady? Or shall I carry you?”

  “Yes, of course I can walk.” But Dexter shied, jerking the gig sideways. The carriage caught the head of the arrow, knocking it sharply. Fenella cried out. She reached for support, noticing that her whole arm now ran with blood, and fell into darkness.

  * * *

  Roger sat beside his wife’s bed as Mrs. Burke bound up her arm with a length of cotton
bandage. He’d cut the head off the arrow himself and eased it gently out even as he went quietly mad. Someone on his own land had shot at Fenella. Which was impossible, insane, because no one would. This didn’t make sense. He was on good terms with all his tenants. She’d been driving along a common lane. She hadn’t been creeping through the woodlands, where she might have been mistaken for a deer. By an idiot! And no hunter would use a bow and arrows. Nobody had for years and years. Snares, firearms, yes. But not this. A poacher? Perhaps. But none of that brotherhood would be lurking by a traveled lane. Still less would one risk a shot across it. Roger’s thoughts bounced from one impossibility to another. And yet Fenella lay there, wounded and pale. He held her hand as Mrs. Burke took away the bowl of bloody water and felt as if his heart might burst out of his chest.

  Fenella opened her eyes. She looked around her bedchamber, confused. “I told myself not to faint,” she said.

  “You didn’t do so until you were home. You did splendidly.” Roger squeezed her hand and tried to keep the frantic note out of his voice. “I don’t understand what happened.” He needed more information so he could catch her attacker.

  “It makes no sense,” she said, echoing his thought. “I was driving along the lane—”

  “Alone.”

  “Yes, Roger, as I often have.” She held his gaze until he had to look down. “And suddenly an arrow went through my arm.” She looked at the bandage as if she still couldn’t believe it. “I would assume it was a bizarre accident, but there was another when I was bent over.”

  “What?”

  “It flew right above my head. If I hadn’t crouched down, this would have been much more serious.”

  Roger couldn’t sit still. He had to get up and pace. “This is unbelievable.”

  “And there was one more shot after that. At least. Then Dexter ran. That’s all I saw.” She frowned. “Someone was aiming at me. One arrow might be a mistake, but not three.”

  “If I had been with you—” he began.

  “What? You would have caught the arrows with your bare hands?”

  Of course he couldn’t have done that, though he might have wished he could. “Why would anyone do this? How did they dare?”

  Fenella shook her head. “I don’t believe I have enemies. Now, if my brothers-in-law had not left the neighborhood, I might suspect Gissing.”

  “This is not a joking matter!”

  “I know that.” She put a hand to her wound.

  “Are you in pain?”

  “A little. Some.”

  “The doctor will be here soon.”

  “I’m not sure that’s—”

  “He will look at it!”

  “Very well.”

  “I didn’t mean to shout.” He sat down beside her again and took her hand. “I’ve been so worried about you. And I am far more concerned now that I hear what happened.”

  She looked down at her bandage. “This isn’t too bad.”

  “But it very nearly was, apparently. You will take a closed carriage from now on, should you go out. And have servants with you. We must withdraw from that scene in the Lindisfarne pageant obviously, and—”

  “Roger,” she interrupted.

  He couldn’t stop. “No one can touch you within these walls. I’ve never been so glad to live in a fortified castle. You will stay at home and be safe.”

  “Forever?”

  Her dry tone on this one word brought him up short. His hand tightened on her fingers. “For a while.”

  “We must look into this incident and find the person responsible,” she answered. “We will investigate, discover if anyone saw something, and bring the archer to justice. But I won’t hide. I won’t have my life so narrowed.”

  He started to object.

  Fenella held up a hand. “I agree to use a closed carriage and not go out alone.” She sighed. “I suppose I can’t ride either, for now. But I won’t be made a prisoner in my own house.”

  “Aren’t you afraid? Because I’m terrified.”

  His vehemence caught her full attention.

  “When I saw you lying there covered in blood and thought perhaps I’d lost you…” He had to swallow a tremor of fear. “I was desperate. I don’t know what I’d do without you. Now that I’ve understood how very much I—” His voice broke on the words he needed to say to her. He mustn’t get tangled up in them now!

  “There is one person who hates me, seemingly,” said Fenella.

  “What?”

  “The one who wrote those letters,” she added. “They wanted to hurt me. And when the letters didn’t work, perhaps they decided to do more.”

  “People who send anonymous threats are cowards,” said Roger. His brain jittered from his curtailed declaration to fears for her to the knowledge that they’d never found the earlier culprit.

  “So they say. But I suppose some might be different.” She looked at him. “I can’t think who else it might be, Roger. I’ve lived in this neighborhood most of my life and never made any enemies. Well, except you.”

  “Don’t joke about that!”

  “I’m sorry. But you must agree it’s the most likely explanation for this.” She indicated her bandaged arm.

  “Perhaps.”

  “The only one that makes sense.”

  “All right.” Roger tried a smile. He wanted to pour out eloquent speeches about his love for her, and to hear her say that she felt the same way. Particularly the second part, perhaps. He yearned for that, his throat tight with emotion. Wordless, of course. The frustration compounded his worry.

  Fenella smiled back at him. She looked drawn and weary. This wasn’t the time to press her.

  “And so you must promise to take care,” he said.

  “I will.”

  The doctor arrived, putting an end to their private conversation. After an examination, he agreed with Mrs. Burke. Fenella had received a nasty, deep scratch, which would require time to heal. But it did not threaten her life. The wound should be kept very clean, and she should rest. Other than that, he was simply outraged by the incident. “What numbskull fires an arrow across a public lane?” he asked Roger. “Something should be done.”

  “Indeed. And it’s worse than you know.” Roger threw caution to the winds and drew the doctor out into the corridor to tell him the whole story. He wanted it spread through the neighborhood as rapidly as possible, in case anyone had seen the attack and could supply information. On this or any part of the tangle.

  The doctor exclaimed and deplored and went away ready to tell everyone he encountered. Roger returned to the bedchamber to find Fenella drowsy from some potion he’d given her. The time for tender declarations had passed. For now.

  Roger went downstairs to his study and sat down to write out the tale, so that it could be conveyed to his neighbors. But before he finished, he wondered how to send the messages. Fenella’s theory was probably right. He had accepted that as the logic sank in. But it was barely possible that she’d been the victim of some lunatic archer. Was anyone who ventured out of Chatton Castle open to attack?

  Roger shook his head as he scattered sand over lines of ink. Highly unlikely. Yet if so, even more reason to send out warnings. When he had produced a sufficient number of copies, he went to consult his head groom about danger to his staff. The man scoffed and assured him that his lads could manage the task. “They’re champion at sneaking about,” he said. “The times I’ve gone looking for one or the other and found them gone.” He shook his head. “They know the countryside better than anybody, too. They won’t be caught out.”

  And so Roger sent off his notes, with a request at the end for any information the recipients might be able to gather.

  And then he waited and longed for action.

  Oddly it was Macklin, a stranger to the neighborhood, who finally brought him results. “T
om has found out something about the attack,” the earl told him the following day when he found Roger in his study.

  Roger came to his feet at once. “What? Where is he?”

  “In the kitchen.”

  “Have him come—”

  Macklin held up a restraining hand. “He has a way he wishes to do this,” he interrupted.

  “A way?” Roger frowned. “What does that mean?” He felt a spark of resistance. Tom was a pleasant lad, but this was Roger’s problem.

  “A method he thinks will produce the best results.” Before Roger could protest, Macklin held up his hand again. “Tom is often wise beyond his years or background.”

  “What then?” asked Roger impatiently.

  “He’s brought someone to speak to your wife.”

  “No, she’s not seeing anyone,” Roger pronounced.

  “A little girl,” Macklin continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “About nine years old, I believe. The daughter of the local miller.”

  “What has she to do with anything? Did she see something? Get her up here, and let us find out.” Roger nearly shot off to the kitchen to find out for himself.

  Macklin leaned a little toward him and spoke with quiet emphasis. “Tom thinks she’s much more likely to tell a lady what she knows. She’s an odd little creature, apparently.”

  “What, you think I’d frighten her?”

  “You are, rightfully, agitated about this matter.”

  Silently, Roger admitted it. He was ready to shake information from the very trees. A little girl probably would find him intimidating. He would curb his impatience. “I’m coming along to listen,” he said.

  “Of course.”

  Ten minutes later, their strange delegation entered Fenella’s bedchamber. She was sitting with a book open on her lap, but Roger didn’t think she’d been reading. He knew she’d had her fill and more of resting.

  Fenella examined the group as they spread out before her. She’d been prepared for their arrival, and she was curious about the little girl. The child was thin, with large, dark eyes and black hair that straggled as if she’d recently pushed through a thicket. There were thistles stuck in the hem of her gown and a bright feather at the bodice. She had a palpable, untidy charm. Tom stood protectively next to her. The two tall men hovered at the back. “This is Lally Graham, my lady,” said Tom.