“Do come in, then. And we can sort out just what assistance you require.”
Truth be told, Marcus was dying to know what had befallen her. His mind raced. She clearly wasn’t the usual prostitute, shop girl, or factory worker; she reminded him more of his own female relatives. If any of them were to ever wander the streets alone at this hour, seeking aid at the doorsteps of strangers… his stomach twisted at the thought.
And then he knew he couldn’t follow through with his intent to torment his mother in this way. It wouldn’t do, not at all, to shamelessly flirt with someone in dire straits. He chided himself for being so conniving.
It had happened more often than he would care to admit as of late, that he would set aside his personal morals in exchange for some sort of political advantage orquid pro quo. But he hadn’t realized until this moment that it seemed the habit had seeped from his professional sphere into the personal. Was he really so eager to teach his mother a lesson that he would use an already mistreated and deceived young woman as a tool? In the stifling summer night, with his senses riled from the trials of the day, he felt slow, defeated. His entire person became heavy with the implications of his actions.
Just who was he becoming?
The woman stepped forward, pausing at the threshold to peer at him with curiosity. “I was told that you are a gentleman.”
Usually Marcus would laugh at such a statement, but his mood had soured, and he felt unlike himself.
“I’ve been informed that I am,” he said, attempting a light tone as he shut the door.
She didn’t smile at that. But he did, and gestured to the hall. She raised an eyebrow, but allowed him to lead her to the dining room. Suddenly Marcus wished he’d something to offer her besides cold suet dumplings and his mother’s frenetic company.
“Oh good, you’re finished. I hope you sent her—” Mrs. Hartley had begun saying, before the words caught in her open mouth as she looked up and saw the lady accompanying Marcus into the dining room.
“Mama, please allow me to introduce you to…” He turned to the young lady. “Goodness, it seems I’m in as poor form as Ellis was when he left you at the door.”
“Yes, it seems you are,” she sniffed.
She then strode forward.
“Please forgive my son, miss; he can be quite the boor. I am Mrs. Hartley. And you are?”
“A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Hartley. I am Miss Wolfenden.”
“Please, please, sit!”
Wolfenden?Marcus ignored his mother’s fretting over niceties; his thoughts kicked up as he watched the lady take his former seat across from his mother, then reach up to untie her bonnet. She removed it, revealing hair of a pleasant enough ashy color.Could it be…?He had to know.
“Do you hail from London, Miss Wolfenden?” he asked nonchalantly, pretending to flick away a speck of dust from his sleeve.
“I should think not,” she declared proudly. “I am from Lancashire. Knockton, to be precise.”
“Oh,” he said, still aloof even as his body thrummed with excitement. “Why, I myself have a home in Knockton. An interesting little bit of country.”
That ought to do it. She’d put two and two together, and mark him for who he was. Such a thing had never happened to him before, and Marcus found himself strangely anticipating it, being recognized.
“Certainly? I apologize, I can’t seem to recall any Mr. Hartleys at present. How terrible of me.” She looked at him, but only out of courtesy, obviously unbothered despite her words.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.Perhaps Towle wasn’t far off the mark. Opening markets had, apparently, done little to endear Marcus to the local gentry. And if a Wolfenden could not pick him out of a crowd, what did that say for his prospects with the rest of his constituency? He drew in a worried breath. Come to think of it, when he had he been in Knockton last?
Miss Wolfenden studied him, obviously waiting for him to get on with the conversation.
“What my son didn’t say, Miss Wolfenden, is that—”
Before his mother could finish and expose him, Marcus sat down alongside her and placed a filial hand upon her arm. With a start, he nearly pulled it back. When had his mother become so frail? But now was not the time to think about that, and he patted her gently.
“Lovely, lovely. Don’t you think, Mama? A lovely place for a lovely young lady.” He smiled at Miss Wolfenden, then back at his mother, who gaped at him as if he’d gone mad.
“Marcus,” his mother said, her voice uncharacteristically measured, “are you quite well?”
“More than well.” He turned to Miss Wolfenden once more, who was looking as if she’d just detected an awful smell.
Marcus cursed silently. Perhaps he ought to tone it down. But… this was Miss Wolfenden. Of the Knockton Wolfendens. There’d been Wolfendens in Knockton even before Duke William had claimed the crown. And for some backward, countrified reason, Baron Methering still held sway over the town. This woman might only be a baron’s daughter, but to Marcus, she was damn near royalty.
