Mad about the Marquess Sample

Chapter One

“You needn’t pretend to listen, if you’d rather not,” said Lady Claire Standish, affixing a pin and glancing at her hostess in the vanity mirror.

Allison Bender, sitting on the edge of the bed in the guest room of her uncle’s home, where she’d grown up, only smiled, hands folded in her lap. “I’m listening. That is, I was. But I got lost just as you got to the part about Miss Fernham’s corgi and the ecclesiastical vestments.” She’d never been good at feigning attention. Her eyes always gave her away.

Claire wasn’t actually cross. She inserted the next pin, coaxing a glossy twist into order, and said, “You’re in a strange mood this morning. Stranger than usual.”

Allison wasn’t certain how to address that, so she said, “I had a dream.”

“Of the doom and gloom sort?” Claire smoothed a curl behind her ear, then, meeting Allison’s eyes in the glass, sobered. “Or of the more interesting sort?”

“Neither, precisely. It was about the late Marquess of Tyneham. Or perhaps not about him at all. He was simply there.”

Claire turned from her reflection and leaned against the edge. “Go on.”

The dream was still fresh. “He stood at the end of my bed, as vivid as you are now, and he said, ‘You must tell Paul there is a letter from me that he must find.’ Just that. Then he vanished.” Allison watched Claire closely for her reaction.

“A letter? Where?” asked Claire.

“He didn’t say. But he was looking very pointedly at my writing table.”

Claire’s lips quirked. “That’s rather theatrical for a man who spent the last decade making everyone in Dorset miserable.”

Allison shrugged. “I suppose the afterlife encourages one to develop a taste for drama.”

A silence passed, companionable but expectant. Allison thought of the dream, the marquess’s black gaze, the feeling of air displaced as if by a sudden chill, the way her own name had seemed to echo even after he’d departed. She’d long since grown accustomed to oddities in her sleep, but the distinction between true visitations and mere fancy was one she’d become expert in. This, she was certain, had been the former.

“Do you think it means anything?” asked Claire, her tone gentle but not condescending.

“I think it means the late Marquess is on my mind. Which is ridiculous, as he is nothing to me.” She paused. “Still, I suppose I must tell Lord Tyneham. He’ll likely laugh and send me on my way.”

This was, in fact, one of the things Allison most admired—and resented—about Paul Greenleaf, Marquess of Tyneham, his ability to meet the oddest assertions with a straight face and a measured question.

“I suppose,” said Claire. She straightened, busying herself with her toilette once more. “You should go after breakfast, before he is too busy with whatever keeps him occupied when he’s at home.”

Allison nodded to Claire’s reflection in the mirror.

As Claire pushed the last hairpin into her bun, she asked, “Will you come with me to the village later? I wish to see if the bookseller has the new Radcliffe.”

“I’d be delighted,” said Allison, meaning it.

***

Paul Greenleaf, the Marquess of Tyneham was in his study when Allison arrived at the house. He looked up from the papers on his desk as she was shown in, the faintest lines of surprise creasing his brow. He rose. “Allison. You’re abroad early.”

“I bring news,” said Allison, with a half-curtsy. “Or at least an odd message.”

He gestured to the chair in front of his desk. She perched on the edge, hands folded, and delivered her account of the dream.

Paul listened with an expression that might have been skepticism, as usual. When she finished, he said, “My father wasn’t a man who prized clarity.”

“No,” agreed Allison. “But he did seem insistent that you look for the letter.”

“It’s possible there’s something I’ve missed in the three years he’s been gone, but not likely.” Then, after a pause, he added, “Thank you.”

There was more—there was always more, with him—but Allison had learned not to press. Instead, she asked after the house, after his work, after anything that might give her a reason to linger. But the dream, and her errand, had put her in a peculiar state. She felt both the weight of duty and the ridiculousness of the whole thing, and couldn’t decide whether to apologize for troubling him or to insist on the importance of the message.

Paul made it easy for her, as always. He changed the subject, offered her tea, and inquired after Claire. Within minutes, the conversation had shifted to books and gardens, and the question of haunted dreams was forgotten—at least for now.

Allison returned home with the faintest ache in her chest—a sensation that was becoming distressingly familiar. She found Claire in the drawing room, stretched out on a chaise longue with a book.

“Well?” demanded Claire, not even bothering with a greeting. “Did you give him the message?”

Allison removed her gloves and sat across from her friend. “I did. He was perfectly civil about it.”

“He usually is, with you,” said Claire, with a significant look over the top of her book.

Allison ignored this, though she felt the faintest flush creep up her neck. “He said he would look.”

Claire set her novel aside. “Of course he will. Did anything else happen? Did the ghost of the marquess materialize and reveal a hidden will, or a curse, or a family of mice?”

“Nothing so dramatic,” said Allison, but she couldn’t keep a note of wistfulness from her voice.

“I do wish, sometimes, that you’d let yourself enjoy these things. Most people would trade places with you in an instant.”

“I doubt it,” Allison said, but not unkindly. “Most people are sensible.”

“I was sensible once.” Claire made a face. “It was wretchedly dull.”

They both laughed, the kind of laugh that had survived years of school, heartbreak, and at least two small scandals.

After a moment, Claire said, “Do you remember the dream you had about Miss Pratt’s keys?”

Allison did. She remembered every detail of that embarrassment—the keys hidden in the ancient hollow globe, the ensuing hunt, and the way the entire upper form had screamed with laughter when they appeared where she had described. “I’ve tried not to.”

“You said they’d be found in a world that was both old and new, which was ridiculous, but also quite correct.”

Allison remembered the aftermath even better—the Headmistress’s withering stare, the snickers and whispers that had chased her for a term. “At least no one died.”

“Yet,” said Claire, deadpan, and they dissolved again into laughter.

The moment lingered, sweet and a little sad. At last, Claire stood and said, “If we’re to make the village this morning, we should leave soon.”

Allison rose, grateful for the reprieve. She liked walking with Claire, liked the way the world seemed wider and softer in her company. She could almost forget, in these moments, that she was expected to be anything more than herself.

They collected their bonnets and cloaks, as the day was cold but bright. As they left the house, Allison hesitated, looking back at the warm windows and the comfort of the familiar.

Claire caught her arm. “No haunting today, I promise.”

Allison smiled, stepping into the sunlight. “Only the usual ghosts.”

They laughed and set off down the lane.