And she didn’t know who the bloody hell he was.
This did not bode well for him. One and a half years until the next general election… suddenly felt like a mere matter of days.
And here was Marcus, an unknown bachelor, joking about marrying the next woman he laid eyes on.
His mind caught on that. He could practically hear the gears working as his gaze rose to Miss Wolfenden once more.
“My son is too humble,” his mother said, with a dash of nervous laughter.
“Am I? What is there to be humble about?”
“Marcus!” she sputtered.
No. He’d never been humble. But just now, he realized, he needed to be more ambitious than he’d ever been.
Had he ever before experienced such fantastic luck? For on his doorstep, and now at his table, was none other than one Miss Wolfenden of Methering Manor, unmarried and in some manner of need. His low mood at being unknown by a prominent constituent evaporated, leaving behind a man he knew and recognized. Focused. Confident. And yes, a bit underhanded, but wasn’t everyone these days?
Still, this was all rather sudden. Better to keep his identity under his hat until he’d sorted out the best use of this chance encounter. How might he manage to wring Baron Methering’s support from this?
“Marcus!” his mother exclaimed again. “You—”
“Ought to offer some sustenance to poor, famished Miss Wolfenden!” Marcus interrupted handily, and brought an exaggerated hand to his forehead. “How could I forget?” He looked at his mother, grinning like a madman, hoping she might somehow understand what he was trying to convey, and what he was trying to avoid: any mention of theparticularsof his residency in Knockton.
For now.
Marcus went to ring for help once again, that something resembling a meal might be fetched from the kitchens. And a thought came to him: If he were to heed Towle’s suggestion, he in fact ought to take a wife.
Marcus slowly turned about, watching Miss Wolfenden, taking stock of the possibilities.
She was pleasant enough, he supposed, with an airy demeanor and a faultless complexion. A bit on the plump side, though Marcus decided it suited her features. Her eyes were rather nice. Her garb was frowzy, but as Marcus didn’t consider himself a sharp dresser, he wouldn’t fault it in another.
She stared back at him as if he were quite mad. Which perhaps he was.
But what if he were to make good on his threat after all, and marry this Wolfenden woman, the first he had clapped eyes on? It was rash, to say the least, and Marcus wasn’t spontaneous as a rule. On the other hand, he would not lose his seat in the next general. For no one in Knockton could help but recognize his name if it were tied to the Wolfendens. By Jove, all his problems could be solved in one fell swoop.
It was worth considering.
He smiled. Miss Wolfenden did not smile back.Drat. His skills of attraction, if he’d ever had any, seemed to have fallen by the wayside. But he would press on.
He ought to keep all options open.
Chapter Four
It was certainly strange,eating pitiable suet dumplings and lukewarm stew while two strangers attempted to put you at ease. But considering Evelyn had somehow sustained herself throughout the ordeal of the day on strength of will alone, she gladly accepted the middling fare offered her.
When the woman at Lambeth Palace had informed her there was a gentleman who happily assisted ladies in trouble, Evelyn had at first been relieved. But then she’d thought of Wright, her family’s estimable butler with the excellent sense, and she’d become skeptical. What would he think of such a claim? But the woman had assured her that Mr. Hartley was indeed a gentleman with noble intentions, and he resided in a decent neighborhood.
That bit had all but convinced Evelyn; her feet ached and she could not fathom wandering all night or, even ghastlier, taking sanctuary in a church pew. Still, the walk from Lambeth Palace to Mr. Hartley’s had taken the better part of an hour, even at a steady clip.
She had thought it odd that the woman had sent Evelyn on her way by reminding her that Mary had endured a difficult journey as she rode to Bethlehem on an ass, so Evelyn could face whatever was before her. Evelyn had nodded but made haste to leave, offering one last silent prayer that Mr. Hartley wasn’t quite as churchy as all that. She didn’t fancy a lecture about the impropriety of women and so on; she usually could barely stay awake during Sunday service in the Methering chapel.
Thankfully, for all his oddness, Mr. Hartley had limited the conversation to vague platitudes and eager smiles, with nary a mention of Christ. Upon finishing her meal, she lifted her eyes to find him watching her. She knew she ought to smile, but she dreaded encouraging whatever he was about.
“Thank you, Mr. Hartley, Mrs. Hartley. I feel much more myself.”
The gentleman’s mother had fetched some Berlin wool work some time ago and looked up from it. “Of course, you poor thing! Wandering after dark, all alone…”
“Unmarried,” Mr. Hartley added in a stern voice.
