“I know that, too.” Marcus rose to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and get rid of my travel dirt and hope to be in time to join your guests for luncheon.”
*
Although his godfather’s reaction to his plans irritated him, he recognized it came from concern and strove to banish it from his mind when he joined the other guests, most of whom he knew. Some were old friends, like Sydney Cromarty and Lord and Lady Overton. To the latter, he did not mention encountering their governess at the Hart. It would hardly have been discreet.
Among old friends and acquaintances were, inevitably, the matchmaking mamas out to snare him. For while he was approaching forty winters, he was not, as he had pointed out to his host, in his dotage. More importantly, he was a wealthy man and had never yet succumbed to marriage, which presented a challenge to some and brought out the hunter in others.
Like Mrs. Marshall, who accosted him as though he were an old friend, though he could not recall ever meeting her in his life. It was true she had a husband, Philip, a man of florid good looks with a flamboyant taste in waistcoats, who was a member of Marcus’s London club, but all Marcus remembered about him was that he talked a lot about art. Their daughter, Anne, looked as if she should still be in the schoolroom. She resembled nothing more than a startled deer when her mother presented her.
In the circumstances, it was with some relief that he went for an afternoon walk with Sydney Cromarty, whom he had known long before he was Silford’s heir. In fact, Cromarty had been at school with Stephen, Marcus’s younger brother, and later made some very wise financial investments on Marcus’s behalf. Which was one reason he had been able to undertake the improvements necessary to make his land profitable once more.
“You seem rather more than resigned to your role as future earl,” Marcus observed as they struck out toward the woods.
Cromarty cast him a lopsided smile. “Well, one can only play at life for so long. And land management is actually more interesting than I had imagined.”
“And grandfather-management?”
“I leave that to Henrie.”
“Not sure you do. I can tell he likes you.”
“If he does, I don’t know why. I quarrel with him all the time.”
“I expect that’s why. Most people just bow and say yes, my lord.”
“You never did,” Cromarty observed. “Or did you?”
“No,” Marcus admitted. He hesitated, then said abruptly, “I’m going to be traveling once more, so I’m doubly glad to see him reconciled with you.”
Cromarty cocked an intelligent eyebrow. “Traveling? To France again?”
Marcus scowled. “Does everyone know I went to France?”
“And rescued Stephen. Word of your heroism is everywhere.”
Marcus swore. “It was meant to be a secret.”
“It would probably have stayed so, except your brother and sister-in-law felt obliged to counteract rumors that you eloped with Isabelle de Renarde.”
Marcus cast his eyes to heaven. “Society’s stupidity never ceases to amaze to me.”
“Anyway, I heard from another source,” Cromarty said. “And if you’re going back, I am in a position to help you get there.”
“You have a finger in many pies,” Marcus observed with some amusement. “And I thank you, but I am not going to France. My aim is to get to Russia.”
“In winter?” Cromarty exclaimed “Through the retreating French?”
“There are other ways in. But yes.”
“You’re as mad as Bonaparte.”
“Thank you.”
Cromarty was silent for a little, then asked, “Bored?”
Marcus shrugged.
“Find a wife,” Cromarty advised. “It worked for me.”
“I’m not surprised. You have a charming, intelligent wife who, I’m sure, leads you a merry dance. And don’t tell me I will have to marry one day. I know it.”
“Is Russia to be your last adventure, then?”
“Something like that. I’m just restless, tired, feeling nothing, achieving nothing,”
“That isn’t what I hear.”
“It isn’t enough,” Marcus said and broke off with an irritable shrug. “I know. Perhaps the French adventure made me less contented with the quiet life.”
Cromarty nodded. “Still, not sure Russia is the answer. After all, the French are already leaving. What more is there to achieve?”
“I’ll tell you when I get there.”
Cromarty laughed and clapped him on the back.
Of course, there was more to his journey than that, but the nature of his promise to Ilya Robinov all those years ago was not Marcus’s secret to tell.
On their way back to the house, they discovered Henrietta, Cromarty’s wife, frowning up into a substantial Scots pine tree. With her was a rather gangling youth of perhaps sixteen, who appeared to be laughing.
“Well, how on earth did you get up there?” Henrietta demanded.
“We can’t remember,” said a distant boy’s voice from the tree. “And I can’t get past Eliza.”
“We’ll find the way eventually,” offered another voice from the foliage, presumably Eliza.
“No, you won’t,” said the youth on the ground confidently.
“Yes, we will!” insisted the boy in the tree.
“It makes no odds,” Henrietta interrupted the exchange. “I can’t leave you here to fall out of it.” She reached up to the first branch, and with some appreciation, Marcus realized she meant to climb up to help the children who were, presumably, her siblings. Cromarty only grinned and walked slightly faster.
“Henrie, don’t,” the older boy protested, pulling her back. “I was only joking. I’ll go up and get them.”
“One of the things I hate about being grown up,” Henrietta observed as the men joined her, “is that I can no longer climb trees without causing a scandal.”
“That doesn’t always stop you,” her husband observed, watching critically as the youth swung himself up onto the first branch and began to climb. “Richard, can you lift Eliza down to me?”
Marcus peered up at the two unconcerned children. “They’re too high up.” He followed Richard, swinging up on to the first branch.
“You are not obliged to rescue my family,” Cromarty said in amusement. “Though you clearly want to more than I!”
Marcus found the foothold to the next branch and hauled himself up. By then, Richard, standing straight, could reach up to his sister’s waist. “Now, we can do it. Pass her down to me and I’ll lower her to Sydney.”
“Can you do that?” Richard asked his little sister.
She glanced up at the other boy, who bore a marked resemblance to her, then nodded and reached down to clasp Richard around the neck. He swayed alarmingly, but recovered, reached downward for a different handhold, and lowered her in one arm to where Marcus could reach her. She regarded him with curiosity.
“He’s a friend of Sydney’s and mine,” Henrietta said, and her sister dropped into Marcus’s arms. Lowering her to Cromarty was simple enough, and by then, Richard was showing his little brother where to put his feet, with rather less patience than he’d shown his sister.