Page 92 of This Marquess of Mine

Chapter Twenty-Eight

It drizzled overnight and into the early hours of the following morning, but by noon the storm had passed, leaving behind a cloudless sky and the scent of wet forest in the air.

“Where are you headed after you leave Keswick House?” Griffin asked James as he guided his horse, a black Arabian named Rasputin, around a fallen branch lying on the forest floor.

“Falconridge,” James replied from his own mount, a handsome chestnut Griffin had recently purchased. “We’ll stay there through the new year and then return to London. Unless, of course, some fortuitous event keeps us at home.”

Griffin flicked a glance at James, noting the contented smile on his face. It was strange, seeing his normally subdued friend so free and easy with his smiles, so obviously happy in his role as husband. He wasn’t sure he’d ever truly believed he would see this day come, or that James would so obviously relish the notion of becoming a father. To be honest, it was a bit surreal.

“I’m glad to see you so happy,” he said to him. “Marriage seems to agree with you.”

“It does, indeed,” James said with a grin. “I’ll spare you the dissertation on the merits of taking a wife, though.”

“Much obliged.”

They came into a small clearing then, and Griff tugged lightly on the reins, slowing Rasputin to a halt.

“It’s still intact,” he said, his eyes trained on the ramshackle structure a short distance off.

James grunted from beside him. “Mostly.”

The fort was in piss-poor condition, but it never was much to look at, even twenty years ago when they’d first cobbled it together.

“Shall we?” Griffin quirked a brow at James, who grinned, and the two dismounted, tethering their horses to the trunks of two sturdy English oaks before heading for the fort.

The ‘door’ was nothing more than a thick slab of tree trunk propped against the opening to the shack, and Griff moved it out of the way before peering inside. The space was dim and damp, but there appeared to be no immediate danger, so he ducked his head and entered, brushing aside an abandoned spider web with his sleeve.

“Like finding ancient ruins,” James mused as he followed Griff inside.

The fortress was dank and smelled of rot. It was much smaller than he remembered. Wild mushrooms and peat moss flourished, filling nearly every crack and crevice, even the giant oak log they’d used for a bench. A rusted tin sat beside it on the ground, as if they’d left it there, intending to return for it the next day.

“Not half so glamorous as I remembered it,” Griff joked.

With the tip of his boot, he nudged the tin onto its side. Water spilled onto the already damp dirt floor, carrying with it a heap of ‘treasures’—stones and old buttons, chestnut shells, obsolete coins. A collection only a child would value. He smiled to himself. It had taken years to amass.

“Remember that time we nicked a bottle of Cook’s sherry?” James asked with a grin.

Griffin nodded. “We drank the whole thing in one sitting, and you fell off the log.”

“You fell off the log, and took me with you,” James shot back, slipping his hands in his pockets. “God, was I sick the next morning.”

Griffin chuckled. “My mother called the doctor, and we spent the remainder of our holiday confined to our beds.” He glanced at James. “Think she knew?”

James grinned. “Without a doubt.”

After one final glance around the dilapidated fort, the two exited and made their way back to the horses.

The two mounted and began the short journey back to the house, keeping a leisurely pace as they cleared the forest and crossed the wide, green fields, still wet from the early morning rains.

“So,” James said some minutes later, “I understand you journeyed to Surrey last month. To pay a visit to Olivia’s father, I believe?”

Griff threw him a look, surprise slackening his jaw. “Does everyone know?”

James shrugged. “Lady Augusta told Olivia and Olivia told Sophie and, naturally, Sophie told me.”

Griffin gritted his teeth in annoyance. “It was meant to be a secret,” he muttered, guiding his mount around an abandoned fox hole.

He’d told no one about his visit to Surrey. How the devil had Lady Augusta found out about it?