“I’d be happy to.”
He casually pushed a lock of hair away from her forehead. “Where shall I begin?”
“How about with school?”
“All right, then.” He told her about attending Charterhouse and she learned that he’d been an exceptional student, academically.
“Were you well-behaved as well?”
“I was a model student, usually a favorite of my professors and prefects. I was one of the few lucky ones who never once received a caning.”
Clara grinned. “An achievement to be sure, but I doubt it was luck if you were well-behaved. Did you attend university?”
“Yes, I went to Cambridge, then I went abroad for a few years to Paris and India.” He told her about his travels, the things he had seen and done.
Clara listened to everything with keen ears, fascinated by all of it, soon forgetting that she was there on a mission to gather information and decide whether or not he was redeemable.
They chatted about their favorite pastimes, unusual tastes, embarrassing moments. The marquess had a surprising interest in botany. Clara enjoyed sketching people’s faces. The marquess once posed for an inexperienced artist in Paris who was attempting to paint Zeus. It turned out very badly. Clara had once drawn a picture that made the model look like a pomegranate.
He could be very amusing, she discovered as she laughed at his tales. He seemed to greatly enjoy many little things in life, like the sound of a dog snoring, or a warm hat on a cold day.
Before Clara knew it, an hour had passed, and she realized she had not uncovered half of what she’d wanted to learn about this man. There suddenly seemed to be much more to learn than she had initially imagined.
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” she asked.
“No. My mother had a difficult time bringing me into the world and the doctor told her not to have any more children. Seven years went by and she made the mistake of forgetting his advice. She and the baby died before she made it to the birthing bed.”
“I’m so sorry. Do you remember much about her?”
His expression softened. “She was a quiet, unassuming woman, and very kind. When my father remarried, he chose a more outspoken woman—my stepmother—but they were unfortunately unable to have children, which I believe partly explains the marchioness’s deep affection for her niece.”
“Miss Flint? The young woman who attended my sister’s assembly?”
“Yes. Her own mother died a few years ago. She was Quintina’s twin.”
“Ah, it’s no wonder she is close to her.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes, then Clara answered the marquess’s questions about her upbringing and education in America. She described her early childhood in Wisconsin, what it was like living in a one-room cabin in the woods before her father moved them to the city and slowly but surely earned his fortune on Wall Street. She told him about learning to speak French in Paris with her sisters, and she described her etiquette training in finishing school.
Then she decided it was time to broach a new subject. “What about your affairs?” she asked directly, knowing she had to become more efficient in this conversational quest before it was time to go back inside. “That woman from the divorce case. Did you love her?”
He sat forward slightly. “Now we’re getting somewhere. No, I did not love her, but neither was the sentiment returned.”
“How long were you involved with her?”
“Only a few months. She was a regular patron of the Cakras Balls. I was not the only man she carried on with but was I the only witness in court that day.” He looked away for a few seconds. “She was a kind-hearted woman. Quite witty on occasions.”
“Where is she now?” Clara asked.
“She went to Ireland. Her husband is still here, though he hides away in the country most of the time.”
Clara settled back onto the deeply buttoned upholstery. “Have you never been serious with anyone?”
“Ah. The questions are becoming more interesting, aren’t they.” He gazed up at the roof of the coach. “Yes, I was serious once.”
Clara sat forward. “How serious?”
“As serious as a young man can get. I was in love and wanted to be married.”
