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Chapter Twenty-One
“Are you certain that I’m welcome here, My Lord? I feel as though I’ll burst into flames if I step into the manor.”
“Reginald,” the Marquess corrected, as he walked alongside Matthew Smythe. “And of course, you’re welcome. I’ve invited you.”
Matthew looked at the manor as if he feared it might suddenly devour him whole. Emma wasn’t with them, she was to follow with the children at the end of the month. If she had been present, though, Reginald was sure she’d have had some gently mocking words for her husband’s hesitance.
“My ancestors built this estate hundreds of years ago,” Reginald replied. “As far as I’m aware, no clerks have found their deaths within its walls.”
“With my luck, I’d be the first,” Matthew said, although he sounded more comfortable with the idea.
The curtains moved, and a fair, familiar face peered out the window. Marcella’s hazel eyes were shining in the sunlight. Reginald smiled in her direction. “My Marchioness,” he said, nodding.
Matthew looked towards the window. “Oh! A lovely young lady, to be sure,” he said.
“And witty,” Reginald replied proudly.
“How is marriage treating you?” Matthew asked.
“Well, it’s only been a week,” Reginald said. “Based on that small amount of time, I’d say it’s been quite lovely. I’m enjoying it much more than I thought I would.”
Matthew chuckled, something gleeful in his expression. “I’m glad it’s treating you well, but then, it usually goes well at the start.”
Of course, it would for him. Matthew had married a woman he loved, and he generally associated with people who wed those who they were attracted to. It was only thetonwho thought marriage ought to be primarily invested in money and titles.
“Does the Marchioness know about the sort of people you’re inviting to work for you?” Matthew asked.
Reginald ran his hand through his hair. “Truthfully, no. I’ve been trying to find a way to break it to her gently that I was…not the most ethical of men.”
“You were far from being the least ethical man,” Matthew offered. “If Lady Mar—no, if LadyHurrow—is as clever as you seem to believe, I’m sure that she’s capable of understanding moral complexity.”
“I know, but she’s still a lady.”
Matthew clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Now that you’re a Marquess, I feel like I ought to say nothing, but I’ve also taken to heart your frequent protestations that we are friends.”
“Oh, dear,” Reginald replied.
“My advice is this—tell the lady in no uncertain terms. She might be angry, but if Emmy has taught me anything it’s that women hate to be coddled. Your wife isn’t a piece of glass. Let her in, and tell her about those years in Southwark. Even if you’re ashamed of them, they’re still your past.”
Sometimes, Matthew was too wise for his own good. Reginald hummed. “You are right, and I hate you for it. You make that all sound so simple.”
Matthew laughed. “I apologize,” he said, utterly unrepentant.
Once they reached the manor’s entrance, the maid opened the door. Marcella remained there, standing just inside the house. Matthew quickly removed his hat and swept into an awkward, seldom used bow. “Lady Hurrow, you have my sincerest thanks for allowing me into your home.”
Marcella raised an eyebrow. She looked more amused than anything. “You’d do better to thank my husband. I haven’t the faintest idea who you are.”
“This is Matthew Smythe from London,” Reginald said. “He works as a clerk at a very prestigious firm.”
Matthew sounded like he was choking on something, probably because the firm he worked for was not exactly what any man would call prestigious. It was just a little lie, though.
“He’s going to keep my books,” Reginald explained. “Before the title was conferred to me, my father had mentioned having some concerns about the finances of the Hurrow estate, and I wanted a man I trust to look at them. I have the utmost confidence in Matthew.”
“I…see,” Marcella said. “Well, welcome, Mr. Smythe.”
“Thank you, My Lady.”
“Emily,” Reginald said.
