Page 98 of Desperate Proposals
Marcus chuckled. “It’s called ‘They Can’t Hold a Candle to Me.’ It’s a music hall song, a comic song. Sung by a swell.”
She leaned back, her chin raised.
“Do you frequent music halls often, then?”
He shook his head. “Haven’t got the time, do I?” he said with a tinge of sadness.
Evelyn responded with a wordless hum, and allowed her gaze to wander to a smallish portrait of a pretty woman, a tired-looking man, and a small boy. After several seconds she recognized two of the sitters; they were none other than her mother-in-law, Mrs. Hartley, and her husband as a child. The third person must be his father.
“On that note,” Marcus said, still playing, though the melody had slowed out of consideration for their conversation, “I meant to tell you that I shan’t be returning to London. Not until I’m required, that is.”
Evelyn looked at him, that strange feeling welling in her chest again.
“You won’t?”
He smiled, and in that moment she felt as if she were the only one in the entire world for whom he reserved such a smile. It nearly took the breath from her.
“I won’t. I must make myself into a true Knockton man. Especially now, as I’m sure Wright will do everything he can to circumvent your threats and undermine my prospects.” He shook his head and blew out a sigh. “Strange happenings at Methering Manor do not bode well for the ballot papers, I’m afraid.”
“Oh!” she said, her heart racing. Then she straightened her back and smoothed down the front of her wrapper, feeling his curiosity pique at her outburst. “Only, that is to say, I meant tospeak with you about that. In fact, I’d begun to last night, but… well. At any rate, Mr. Davies offered me a ride home yesterday.”
Now Marcus raised an eyebrow.
She sniffed. “Why, he’s nearly my father’s age and has never before said or done anything untoward.” She paused now, and made an even further show of rearranging herself on the bench.
Marcus waited patiently.
“He spoke of The Plough, and of the political discussions that take place within. It might behoove you to go and speak with them. And not just once, either.”
Marcus brought his fingers down on the keys with an echoing force. He chortled.
“You want me to go to The Plough? And what, let them all have a go at me?” He laughed some more, shaking his head before pinning her with a confused look. “Why, Evelyn—I would never have expected it of you. Do you truly wish for your husband to go carousing at the local watering hole?”
She huffed. “Carousing? Absolutely not. Politicking? Yes, I do. Why, everyone in Knockton gives their custom there.”
“Everyone aside from your father,” Marcus groused, banging out one long, ominous note. “The town council, Mr. Reed…”
“Precisely!” Evelyn said, exasperated. “Mr. Reed would never dream of it, but you—well, to be perfectly frank, it would not seem terribly out of the ordinary, were you to—”
“Go and have a drink on it with Knockton’s odds and ends?” Marcus said with a jesting grin. His fingers stilled, and the room fell silent as he tilted his head, thinking.
Evelyn suddenly felt ill at ease. She was speaking of things she knew little about. A memory came to her, of one morning at the manor when Edmund and his friends, all of them still drunk from the evening before, folded up the pages of the newspaper to make themselves hats.Woolly Wolfenden. She straightened her shoulders. No, that wasn’t her. Not any longer.
She was a Hartley now. Her gaze drifted back to the family portrait, and she looked into the eyes of the man who had sired her husband, whom she knew little to nothing about. He seemed kind, if a bit put-upon.
“You know, perhaps there’s something to it.” Marcus paused and reached for her hand. With an exaggerated display of gallantry, he placed a kiss upon it. “Thank you.”
He began tapping out the ditty once more, his expression warm and happy.
The fallout from the Wright debacle turned out to be less than Marcus had anticipated. Mrs. Wolfenden remained within her rooms for a week, tended to by Evelyn and his mother, but around town little was said. In fact, at Evelyn’s behest he had called on her father, Baron Methering, to ascertain whether the manor employed any loose lips. The only opinion the baron offered about the entire affair was a grumble about being left high and dry by his butler. Marcus did grow concerned when the housekeeper gave him a wary look as he took his leave—having been unable to endure a third hour discussing the feats of the renowned pugilist Jem Mace—but Evelyn put his mind at ease, vouching for the servant’s prudence and loyalty.
He didn’t even hear a word on the subject during his time at The Plough. Taking Evelyn’s suggestion to heart, Marcus had begun holding court there when the weather allowed for it; as the year drew to a close, they’d had more than a few storms. And although during every visit he merely nursed a drink, Marcus had come to enjoy the conversation of his constituents, even when it didn’t concern politics.
His private acts of charity had continued uninterrupted, thanks to Fennel, along with Dr. Collier’s assistance and oversight. Marcus wondered at that, but his friend’s letterassured him that there was no cause for concern. Perhaps Fennel, being deprived of a household, had surplus energy to put to use elsewhere.
To his surprise, Marcus heeded Dr. Collier, and did not find himself worried at all.
He’d never before spent a winter in Knockton. But one evening, as he sat at the piano, the realization dawned that it suited him. He’d been playing more these past weeks than he’d done in years—and for that he knew he owed his gratitude to one person.
