Page 10 of Weave me a Rope
Spen spent nearlyas much time getting dressed and groomed for his meeting with his father as he had the evening before, for his proposal. He could not believe his father would take the news well. Spen could withstand one of the marquess’s tirades without outwardly quailing—nearly two decades of being hit at the least sign of fear had seen to that. But the man’s voice raised in anger still had the power to bring back all the emotions of a frightened child.
“I am taller and fitter than him,” he reminded himself, as he strode through the streets from his bachelor apartments to the family townhouse. “What can he do? Refuse his permission? I will marry her anyway when I am of age. Stop my allowance? Remove the Hertfordshire property from me? I have savings enough to keep me until my birthday, and that will give me time to find a position.”
He had been given full authority for a little estate in Herefordshire when he was seventeen. “Make your mistakes before you are marquess in my place,” his father had said. “You can keep any income the place makes, but any losses come out of your allowance.”
A retired solicitor had been hired as his tutor, and the estate’s steward did the actual work, but all final decisions were his. He gloried in working with his advisers, the tenants, and other locals to learn about the people, the land, and the livestock, and to cautiously make improvements. Income was up in the past two years, but most of it had to go back into the neglected estate, of course.
If his father cut him off, could he perhaps get work as a land steward? Perhaps Mr. Milton could find him a job, though he did not fancy asking such a favor from the man whose niece he wanted to marry. Still, Spen’s pride did not matter to him as much as Cordelia.
The townhouse loomed above him. He checked his watch. Ten minutes after ten. His father’s reply acknowledging his message had said to call at half past ten. He could walk around the streets for a little longer, but instead, he forced his reluctant feet up the steps.
“I am meeting with my father this morning,” he told the butler, handing the man his hat, coat, and walking stick.
“His lordship is not at home,” the butler intoned. Which meant, Spen guessed, that the marquess was still in bed after a late night of socializing.
Spen shrugged. “I am a little early. Is Mr. Morris here? I will drop in on him.”
Morris was the man who had helped train him in estate management. He worked one day a week in the marquess’s estate office and was, as Spen expected, already at work and pleased to see his former pupil. They spent ten minutes discussing the latest reports from Herefordshire, before Morris said, “This has been delightful, my lord,” which was a polite dismissal and Spen took the hint.
The butler was hovering in the hall, his face blank of expression except for a small hint of worry about the eyes. “Is the marquess up yet?” Spen asked.
The butler allowed himself to disclose a little more information this time. His lordship is not currently in the house.”
Spen sighed. His lordship was not likely to have woken and gone out this early in the day, so he had probably been out all night, with his mistress or carousing with friends. Whether or not he turned up any time soon, and in what condition, depended on whether he remembered the meeting with Spen. “I will wait in the library,” Spen told the butler. “Please have someone bring me tea.”
He preferred coffee, but no one in this house brewed it correctly.
The daily newspapers, neatly ironed, had been laid out on a table by the window. Spen sat with his tea and scanned them, one after another. He may have read them, even, but he had no memory of the words. His mind was replaying memories of that kiss, rehearsing words that might convince the marquess in the coming interview, and enjoying pleasant daydreams about a future with Cordelia.
He could not see the clock on the mantlepiece from where he was sitting. It chimed the half-hour shortly after he sat down, and the three-quarters as he was pouring his first cup of tea. The tolling of eleven o’clock felt so much longer than fifteen minutes later that he got up to check whether the clock was still working. It seemed to be doing so, but Spen had never known time to creep so slowly.
He’d sent for and consumed a second cup before the door opened and the marquess erupted into the room. “Spenhurst!” His father strode towards him, weaving slightly, and threw himself down on one of the library sofas. His cravat wasrumpled, and his clothing creased, as if he had slept in it, or tossed it on in a hurry.
Spen rose and bowed. “My lord.”
The marquess indicated a chair. “Come and sit. Here, where I can see you,” he ordered. A slight slurring of his consonants hinted at the level of his inebriation as much as the weaving. The marquess was in his cups, which—given the man’s tolerance for alcohol—hinted at huge quantities consumed.
Spen did as he was told. Close at hand, the man stank of brandy, sweat, floral perfume, and a faint fishy smell that hinted at what he’d been doing with the owner of the perfume.
“You wanted to talk to me about your marriage,” the marquess announced. “You’ve been paying attention to one young woman. M’sister keeps me informed.”
Where was the thundering? The abuse? “Yes, my lord, and I seek your consent for our marriage.”
“Not the choice I expected you to make,” Lord Deerhaven commented.
The alcohol must have mellowed him. That or his copulative activities. “My aunt does not see the lady’s strengths, and how she will benefit the family,” he said.
The marquess responded with a snort. “Fortunately, it is my consent you need and not that of my sister.” He hoisted himself to his feet and stood for a moment, looking dazed, before sharpening his gaze and turning it on Spen, who had also risen to his feet.
“I’m for my bed. Bring her to Deercroft, Spenhurst. I am not displeased, but I will meet her before I give my final consent. Send a message to your stepmother and tell her I said to set up a house party and to invite your intended and her companion a day or two before.”
Ignoring Spen’s thanks, he left the room, and Spen could hear him calling for his valet, the voice fading into the distance.
Spen sat as if his strings had been cut. He had not expected it to be so easy.
Chapter Five
Minute by minute,the carriage carried Cordelia ever closer to Deercroft, the principal estate of the marquesses of Deerhaven. She was excited and anxious in equal measure.
