Page 13 of The Duke’s Scottish Bride (Scottish Duchesses #3)

Chapter Eleven

T he days following the wedding blurred into a new, bewildering routine for Marion.

Each morning, Mrs. Clarke brought new instructions on what was to be done. There were new duties on managing the household and the requisite assessing glances of the staff.

While she was raised properly, by her parents and the strict Reverand McCrae, life in Greystead Hall was new territory.

Eventually they will tire of me Scottish ways, and I will become plain to them, she prayed.

While Marion did not always enjoy the detailed directions Mrs. Clarke gave, she was immensely grateful. She had been with the family for many years and was a great resource for a fledgling, Scottish bride.

“Your Grace,” Mrs. Clarke began one brisk morning after Marion felt slightly more settled in, “I have taken the liberty of sorting through the household accounts. There are a few discrepancies in the linen inventory that require your immediate attention, and the cook insists on ordering French truffles for Thursday’s dinner.

Now I am sure you know, His Grace prefers simpler fare.

And then there’s the matter of the stable hand…

Young Thomas, who I am sure you also know about…

He has a rather unfortunate tendency to misplace harnesses. Lord knows what he does with them!”

“Right. The truffles. And the harnesses. Is there anythin’ else that requires my immediate attention, Mrs. Clarke?” she asked with a smile, even though she was still half asleep and fully in over her head.

Mrs. Clarke simply raised a silver tray in response presenting the delightful aroma of bergamot and black tea. Beside it was a small scone spread with fresh butter. Marion’s lips watered at the sight as she wondered if there was any need this woman could not anticipate.

The clatter of dice and the murmur of clandestine conversations was a familiar backdrop in the gaming hell, which Anselm abhorred. But certain matters required him to venture into such places. He walked through the smoky room and made his way to a private suite.

Lord Fanthorpe was lounging on a velvet settee, and looking up as Anselm approached him.

At first, the poor sod must not have noticed it was Anselm. His face lit up with a particular expectation that quickly soured. He’d clearly been anticipating a more indulgent kind of company.

“Your Grace,” he scoffed as he pushed to his feet and made it clear that his intent was to leave. “What are you doing here? Have you come to preach virtue at me? I think I will just make my way to a less-frequented?—”

“You are not leaving until we have spoken, Fanthorpe.”

“I would stay, but I am quite busy finding ways to spend my fortune in peace. Thank you very much though.”

Anselm blocked his path with a shift of his considerable bulk.

“A moment of your time, Fanthorpe,” he said. “Now.”

Despite his initial indignation, Fanthorpe nodded his head in agreement, and they settled at a small table away from the main hall. Somehow, it did not feel quite right having a manly conversation in the confines of a courtesan’s bed or in the middle of the gambling area.

“The way our families parted was, shall we say, unfortunate,” Anselm began cooly, his gaze unwavering. “Amends must be made, and I understand that. For the sake of both our reputations.”

Fanthorpe scoffed and a sneer twisted his lips. “It is your sister’s reputation that will suffer, Your Grace. She is the one who fled her wedding, after all. That is what angers me more than anything. It was such a disgraceful display!”

Anselm nodded as he considered his next words carefully.

“Foolish rumors, Fanthorpe, are insidious things,” Anselm said, his tone deceptively mild.

He drew a folded note from his breast pocket and placed it on the table between them with pointed precision.

“One might hear of a certain marquess spending an undue amount of time in gaming hells, frittering away his inheritance on ladies of the night.”

Fanthorpe’s face blanched.

“Perhaps word could circulate about a proclivity for… even more unsavory habits,” Anselm continued, his gaze sharp as a blade. “Or about a rather significant debt owed to certain characters who would not appreciate a quiet departure from London without recompense.”

The threat hung heavy in the air, thick as the tobacco smoke curling between them.

“I had hoped the rumors were baseless,” Anselm added coldly, tapping the note with a gloved finger. “But this left me in no doubt.”

Fanthorpe’s face mottled with fury. His tired eyes bulged as he digested Anselm’s words.

“Are you threatening me? Are you daring to imply that I…” He slammed his fist on the table, rattling their drinks, and not finishing the thought.

“Consider it a friendly suggestion,” Anselm returned smoothly. His gaze never left Fanthorpe’s.

Anselm could smell the drink coming from him and see the redness in his tired eyes.

“All this unpleasantness can be resolved of course,” Anselm offered after taking a long sip of whisky.

“The ton need only know that the wedding was mutually cancelled, and that both our families have parted ways amicably . A simple, dignified statement approved by both parties. Nothing scandalous. Nothing that would invite further speculation. It remains simple.”

With that, Anselm slid a folded piece of paper across the table. Fanthorpe eyed it suspiciously, then unfolded it to reveal a deed of money transfer. Anselm had made sure it was a sum so handsome that it would make his eyes widen.

And he had to fight a chuckle when Fanthorpe’s eyes threatened to bulge out of their sockets.

“Also,” Anselm added as he swirled his glass, “perhaps a lengthy holiday is in order? Wherever your heart desires. Say, a villa in Italy? An apartment in Paris? A place where the current gossip will not reach you. A place where you could rediscover your finances and reputation.”

While Anselm embellished here and there, it was true Fanthorpe had been squandering his money on drink, gambling, and women.

Fanthorpe’s eyes greedily devoured the sum. His exasperation melted away like an icy beverage on an island holiday. He clutched the paper to his chest before giving a silent nod confirming his acceptance.

“Italy, you say? The Tuscan sun sounds rather appealing now that you mention it. And the wine, of course is impeccable.”

The men stood up then. But before Fanthorpe could make his escape, Anselm’s voice cut through the clamor of the gaming hell one last time as he brought him close.

“Should I hear even a whisper of ill will about my sister’s name… I am talking even a single, solitary word… You will regret it. Even if you aren’t the one to say it. I assure you that my reach extends far beyond the gaming tables of London. Far beyond even the Tuscan sun. Are we clear?”

Fanthorpe merely nodded in silent promise. When Anselm released him, he practically bolted from the room.