Page 25 of Lady Controversial
Damn it, he thought, pushing his horse into a canter. He needed possession of that cottage and he couldn’t afford to waste time or persuasive words getting his hands on it—especially if Finchdean had brought himself to the ladies’ notice. It was obvious that malleable little Jane was taken with the damned rogue. Even though that interfering cook had remained in the kitchen throughout his visit, sending Marcus frequent warning looks and cramping his style, there had still been plenty of opportunities for Jane to flaunt herself in front of him, as was her normal habit. But she had been reticent today, no doubt playing hard to get.
Perdition, it was a sorry state of affairs if he couldn’t depend upon her devotion. He had no intention of marrying the chit. She was empty headed, vain, required constant cosseting and would drive him demented with her petulant sulking and demands for attention. Even so, he had given her that impression on more than one occasion, needing to keep at least one member of that sorry excuse for a family on his side. He had anticipated some resistance from the elder Miss Crawley, who was a very different proposition from her sister—clever, practical, suspicious…and interesting.
More so than her sister, even if she wasn’t half as pretty.
And the devil of it was that Finchdean had already made her acquaintance. Had that been contrived? Marcus and Finchdean were superficially polite whenever their paths crossed in public, but in actuality they could not stand the sight of one another. Marcus would never forgive his nemesis for ratting him out to that damned mayor. There was supposed to be a code of conduct between gentlemen, an unwritten rule that they kept one another’s confidences, and Marcus had lost considerable face, to say nothing of his father’s fiscal support, over that particular incident.
And now, once again, Finchdean had come between him and his ambitions.
Not that there was anything he could do to prevent him from achieving them on this occasion, Marcus reminded himself, taking considerable satisfaction from thoughts of Finchdean’s frustration when his peace was disturbed. Nothing and no one stood between him and success, with the exception of the annoyingly stubborn Isolda Crawley.
‘Enjoy your moment of triumph, my dear,’ he said aloud. ‘The woman has yet to be born who can get the better of Marcus Brooke indefinitely.’
He wondered what he should say to pacify his partners as he rode in the direction of a meeting for which he was late. The smell of the sea lapping into Chichester Harbour assailed his nostrils as he drew closer to his destination, reminding him of the immense importance of their project; a project that promised rich rewards and would see Marcus set for life. His father would then be required to revise his opinion of his youngest son, and who knows, perhaps even come cap in hand to Marcus.
He chuckled as he considered that possibility. The old man was always preaching the virtues of thrift but was himself the polar opposite, spending lavishly on his own pleasures, permanently short of blunt. The hypocrisy stuck in Marcus’s craw, which would make his success that much sweeter when the old man was required to admit that he had made an error of judgement by evicting Marcus from the bosom of his own family.
He returned his thoughts to the two gentlemen awaiting his pleasure and his smile faded. They were becoming impatient and losing faith in Marcus’s abilities. He would need to think of something plausible that would satisfy them in order to buy him the time he needed to resolve the irritating difficulty posed by Miss Crawley.
He rode into the mews attaching to the Frog and Ferret with an idea formulating in the back of his mind. The taproom was crowded but Marcus merely glanced into the smoky room as he strode past it on his way to the private chamber where his partners would be awaiting his pleasure.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, thrusting the door open and striding into the room with purpose. It never did, Marcus knew from experience, to kowtow or show weakness of any type, especially when dealing with men whom he needed to impress.
‘You’re late,’ Darius Harling replied, putting aside a large and half-empty brandy glass and scowling at Marcus. ‘I am not in the habit of being kept waiting, especially by my inferiors.’
Harling was a belted earl, whereas Marcus was the younger son of a marquess, his title little more than a courtesy. Marcus did not need to be reminded of the fact, and Harling’s comment rankled. He refrained from pointing out that Harling had run through his inheritance and was in dun territory, especially since Marcus himself was currently in a similar state of fiscal impoverishment.
But unlike Harling, who belittled his station by feeling the need to remind people of it, Marcus had vision and knew how to get himself out of the mire.
‘We have invested a lot of time and trust in you,’ Victor Bright, the other man in the room, said in a milder tone.
Untitled yet from a well-respected family, Marcus and Victor had been joined at the hip during their university days. They had egged one another on to greater and greater exploits, and it was Victor who’d first had the mayor’s daughter in his sights. Marcus beat him to the spoils, with catastrophic results.
Finchdean had done nothing to offend Victor personally, but he had taken umbrage on Marcus’s behalf over the debacle regarding the mayor. That was why, when this opportunity presented itself, Marcus had been sure that his old friend would jump at the chance of financing it and persuade Harling to put his aristocratic name to the scheme when the time came. Victor would see a ten-fold return on his investment and enjoy the opportunity to irritate Finchdean. Harling would at least partially refill his family coffers.
‘I am well aware of that, Victor,’ Marcus said, shaking his friend’s hand warmly, ‘and progress is being made.’
‘Our patience is not limitless,’ Harling barked, sticking his long beak of a nose back into his brandy glass. ‘We expect to see a return on our investment, and soon.’
That was rich, Marcus thought but did not say, given that Harling’s backing had mostly been confined to the cachet of his name. And that could not be used until the project got off the ground—which in turn could not happen until Miss Crawley quit her cottage.
‘I have just come from Rose Cottage,’ he said, helping himself to brandy from the decanter on the side table since no one had bothered to offer it to him. He had no intention of being treated like the hired help, he decided, as he sat across from Harling and savoured his drink. The brandy was not the best quality, but it hit the spot. ‘The Crawleys will have quit the hovel within the month.’
‘Really?’ Victor arched a brow. ‘I heard their names mentioned at Finchdean Hall last night, but nothing was said about their leaving the district.’
Marcus hadn’t intended to show any reaction and inwardly cursed when his body jerked forward. ‘You were there?’ Marcus waved aside his own question. ‘Well obviously, you must have been. In what respect were they mentioned?’
‘Lady Finchdean thinks their presence in Rose Cottage is offensive,’ Victor replied, chuckling. ‘But then that old bat finds something to be offended about in the most innocuous of circumstances. She really is a pompous old harridan.’
‘Didn’t know you dined with the Finchdeans,’ Harling remarked.
‘Absolutely, old chap. They are the foremost family in the district and my sister aspires to catch the earl’s attention.’ Victor flapped a wrist in a negligent manner. ‘Not that she stands a hope in hell, but try telling her that. Miss Teddington was there last night, making cow’s eyes at Finchdean. Not that he seemed especially receptive. Too damned selective, if you ask me. Miss Teddington is a treasure.’
‘Got her in your own sights?’ Marcus asked.
‘I’ll bide my time. I won’t be second best to Finchdean so I’ll wait for her obsession to dwindle and for her to realise that I would make a much better prospect.’
‘Has the harbour entrance been surveyed?’ Harling asked impatiently.
