Summerfield answered, ‘He is one of Lord Tinmore’s guests.’
‘Well,’ Marc spoke sharply, ‘you may tell Lord Tinmore that it is a fine thing to let this young lady nearly freeze to death. You should have come earlier.’
Lord Attison stuck out his chest. ‘And you should have returned her home, sir.’ His gaze shifted to Miss Summerfield. ‘Or would that have ruined your little tryst?’
‘You have it wrong—’ Miss Summerfield protested.
Marc seized Lord Attison’s arm and marched him to the door. ‘We will discuss this outside and allow this lady to dress.’
Once all the men were outside, Marc used his size to be as intimidating as possible to the smaller Lord Attison. ‘You will make no assumptions here, do you comprehend? This lady has been through enough without your salacious comments.’
‘Lord Tinmore—’ the man started to say.
Marc interrupted him. ‘I will explain to Lord Tinmore and to no one else. And, you, sir, will say nothing of this until you are instructed by your host. Is that understood?’
Possibly, just possibly Lord Tinmore would have sufficient power and influence to allow this incident to blow over without any damage to Miss Summerfield.
Or himself.
The cold of the morning finally hit him and it took all Marc’s strength to keep from dissolving into a quivering mess in front of this man. He wore only his shirt and breeches.
And his socks, now damp from the frost on the ground.
Attison looked him up and down. ‘Being undressed in front of an innocent young lady—’ The man smirked. ‘Or is she an innocent?’
Marc seized him again. ‘Silence that tongue!’
Attison’s eyes flashed with alarm, but he quickly recovered and pursed his lips. ‘I will leave you to Lord Tinmore, as you wish.’
Marc released him and turned to the other two men. ‘Do you know who owns this cabin?’
One man nodded. ‘Lord Tinmore. It is a groundskeeper’s cabin.’
‘Are we on Lord Tinmore’s property?’ How close were they to the house?
‘We are, sir,’ the other man answered. He gestured to the south.
Against the milky-white sky rose a huge Elizabethan house with dozens of windows and three turrets adorning its roof.
They had been that close.
‘The roads and bridges were flooded yesterday,’ he said.
One of the men nodded. ‘The water receded overnight.’
Miss Summerfield opened the door, glancing warily at their three early morning visitors. ‘Mr Glenville, may I see you for a moment?’
Attison made a move to speak, but Marc silenced him with a steely glare.
He entered the cabin and closed the door.
‘I have no laces,’ she said to him, presenting her back.
‘I cut them.’ He looked around the room and found her packet of ribbons and lace. He pulled a long ribbon from the still-damp package and started lacing it through the eyelets on her corset and her dress.
‘What do we do now?’ she asked, her voice cracking.
He worked the laces. ‘We tell what happened.’
‘You will speak to Lord Tinmore?’
He tied the ribbon in a bow. ‘I will speak to him. It turns out we are close to Tinmore Hall.’ He turned her to face him. ‘It is important that we make no apology, Miss Summerfield. We did what we needed to do to get through the storm. We did nothing wrong.’
Her jaw set. ‘No apologies.’
At least she had fortitude.
He grabbed his waistcoat and coat and quickly put them on. He shoved his feet into his boots. ‘We must leave now.’
She nodded.
They opened the door and walked out into the cold morning air.
* * *
Within an hour Marc and Miss Summerfield stood in front of a wizened old man in spectacles who nonetheless had a commanding bearing.
From his large wing-back chair, he glared at Miss Summerfield. ‘You have caused your sister great worry, young lady.’
‘It was quite unintended, sir.’ At least she kept her voice strong.
Lord Tinmore, old and wrinkled, wielded his cane like a sceptre, obviously accustomed to authority.
Marc spoke up. ‘We may dispense with this matter quickly if you will listen to what we have to say.’ Men of strength usually respected strength.
Lord Tinmore glared at him over his spectacles. ‘I want your name, sir.’
Marc bowed. ‘Glenville.’
Tinmore tapped his temple. ‘Glenville?’
‘My father is Viscount Northdon. He was a schoolmate of your son’s.’ Maybe that connection would help them.
Pain edged the man’s eyes, but the look vanished quickly. ‘Northdon,’ he scoffed. ‘I know of him.’
Of course. Everyone, except perhaps Miss Summerfield, knew of his father.
Tinmore scowled at him.
Marc continued. ‘Sir. Who I am, who my father is, has no bearing on this matter. I found Miss Summerfield near freezing in the storm. We took shelter in the cabin and it was impossible to leave until morning.’
‘That is the truth!’ Miss Summerfield added, with a bit too much emotion.
Tinmore’s attention swung to her. ‘The truth! The truth is you went gallivanting around the countryside without a chaperone, in bad weather, and wound up spending the night with a man!’
‘We had no choice,’ Miss Summerfield protested, still shivering and wrapping her arms around herself to try to stay warm.
Tinmore wagged a finger at her. ‘You are a reckless scapegrace, girl! A discredit to your sister! And to me!’
‘Enough!’ Marc shouted. ‘Miss Summerfield is still cold. And hungry. She needs dry clothing and food, not an undeserved scolding.’
‘Do not dictate to me, young man!’ Tinmore countered.
Marc glared at him. ‘Give her leave to change into warm, dry clothes.’
Lord Tinmore glared back, but Marc refused to waver.
Marc
