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“Lord Darkmoor seems agreeable to the arrangement,” the viscount said out of the blue.
Yet again, Margaret felt her stomach flip. “Is that so?”
“Indeed. He has been meaning to take a wife since the former viscountess passed away.”
How abominable was that sentiment? Had Lord Darkmoor no real emotions? This only made the prospect of marrying him all the more horrid.
Margaret considered that she had done a fine job up until that point of concealing her own emotions. But now, against her better judgment, she felt a tear fall from her eye. Yes, not only did the notion of marrying Darkmoor make her scared, but it also made her impossibly sad.
The viscount seemingly did not notice this tear, for he continued to drink and carry on, discussing heaven knows what before saying, “I am going into town this evening.”
To gamble, Margaret wished to say, but that did not need to be uttered. “Very well.”
“I expect that you and Jane will retire early after the long afternoon you’ve had.” The viscount elevated his brow, once more referring to John.
“As you wish.”
Margaret had the mind to sneak out of Pelham Downs that evening and run just as fast as her feet could carry her. She’d go find John, express to him that his idea of fleeing to France was ideal, and they would escape together, leaving it all behind them. He was yet another playful and heartening fantasy that Margaret could hold onto.
“Do you ever miss Mother?” Margaret asked, surprised that the question fell from her lips.
The viscount seemed equally surprised, for he put down his fork and cleaned the sides of his mouth with his napkin before he could reply. “Of course, I miss your mother. Such a silly question.”
“Do you ever imagine how things might have been different… had she survived?”
“Yes,” the viscount replied plainly.
For all of his ill qualities, Margaret had to consider that her father loved her mother very much. If Lord Darkmoor was keen on finding a wife just as soon as his first wife perished, then it must be noted that the viscount did not do the same. In fact, Margaret was pretty sure that her father would never marry again.
That is unless he found a woman with a large dowry.
Just then, fury took hold as Margaret knew that she was the one who was meant to fix the whole situation. Why could her father not fix his misgivings for himself? Despite Lord Darkmoor’s ill reputation, maybe it would still be more hospitable to live under his roof instead of the viscount’s.
***
That evening, John was seated in his room, thinking of Margaret, and how his sister had admonished him. It was all rather confusing, and it made John want to come up with a plan. But to do so, John would need a pint of ale, which would require going out into the streets of Farthington, considering that Westerly House did not have a tavern.
This all turned out to be rather pleasant, for the streets of Farthington were warm and inviting that evening, and John delighted in his little stroll. There were passersby and various taverns to choose from. The one that caught his eye was called the Red Lion, and John popped in, noting that the establishment was lively that night.
John smiled to himself. He truly did enjoy Farthington. This was much different from Cornwall, consisting of mostly fishermen and those who worked at the docks. It would become lively at night, but it was a much different kind of liveliness. Cornwall was for the rough and tumble, but Farthington was cozy, relaxed, and the surrounding fields were beautiful.
Seating himself at the bar, John ordered his ale, and it arrived quickly. He took a sip, then set it down. The drink was refreshing, but what was more refreshing was the sound of chatter and laughter that emanated the tavern. Then, just when John was feeling most at ease, a man seated himself to his right, and the fellow appeared piss drunk.
“I will have what he is having,” the man said, pointing a finger into the air.
“Good evening,” John said, by way of being polite. But, then, a sinking feeling came over him and John inspected the man keenly. He knit his brow, having a remarkably bad feeling about the situation.
“I have lost yet again,” the man said, wiping his brow.
“Lost?”
“Played a wee bit of cards this evening. My luck is deplorable.” When the man’s drink arrived, he loosened his cravat and took a hearty sip.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Arthur is the name. Arthur Crowley.”
Every muscle in John’s body froze. Yes, this was Viscount Bolton seated beside him, and what’s more, he was so drunk that he did not even recognize John’s face.
