The Making of a Marquess Page 3

“Only the usual rashness of a young man,” Sir James admitted. “But he demonstrated a positive gift for it after he had control of the estate. He was trained alongside Lord Brocklebank, with a view to him becoming the land steward to the estate once his lordship inherited, so in a way the decision was a natural one, even considering the circumstances of the duel.”

  The House of Lords had decreed that the date of the presumed death must be taken from the reception of the letter. So at the end of this month, Ben would be officially dead. He would take all Dorothea’s girlish dreams with him.

  “Just so.”

  They were in accord. But the business was uncomfortable for all involved, and a great pity. “This house is beautiful, if a little run-down in parts.” Dorothea got to her feet and ran her finger along the windowsill, coming up with a fine film of dust.

  Since she had stood, Sir James followed suit. “However, Mr. Thorpe has made many extravagant purchases for the estate, as if he had no doubt he would inherit. He has, as Lord Brocklebank’s accredited steward, sold some outlying unentailed assets.” He sighed heavily. “I will do my best to get an overview of the accounts.”

  “If you do, I would appreciate seeing them.”

  He nodded. “I will ensure you are informed.” He went to the door, but paused in the action of opening it. “I would caution you not to go into situations where you might be in danger. If Mr. Thorpe was willing to do away with his cousin, he will not hesitate to do the same to any person who threatens his inheritance. We will try to make sure we have all the facts. When we are sure, the inheritance will most likely go through, but by then Mr. Thorpe would be in prison awaiting trial. So promise me you will not appear to others to be too interested in this case. Does your brother know what you are up to?”

  She nodded. “He told me much the same. If there is the least suspicion of danger, I am to back away.”

  She did not say she would, merely that she had been told to do so. She was not foolhardy, and she had a couple of pistols in her luggage, which she well knew how to use. Since this gathering was designated a hunting party, nobody would see it as very unusual. And travel could be dangerous. But that was not what the weapons were for.

  But for the sake of her lost love, the man she’d given her heart to so long ago, she’d do her best to discover everything she could and ensure he was avenged. Of course she was over her youthful passion now. Naturally she was.

  “If we need to meet,” he continued, “we may as well use this room. It is rarely used and is out-of-the-way enough to avoid attracting attention. If I ask you to meet me, we may merely name a time.”

  “I agree. We should achieve much more together than we do apart.” She liked Sir James, despite his overcautious approach. “Mr. Thorpe has invited his particular cronies, the ones he expects to approve of his actions. Some were on Hampstead Heath that fateful day.”

  “Indeed. Conversations can be had before we put the enquiry on an official footing. If necessary, I will formally accuse him and call in the local magistrate, although a case such as this could end in the House of Lords.”

  The Thorpe family must bear a curse. Only Louis’s younger brother, William, could save them if Louis was brought to trial for the death of his cousin.

  Sir James opened the door for her to precede him. “I appreciate your help, ma’am, and while we may not be able to affect anything, at least we have tried.”

  * * * *

  Dorothea dressed herself for dinner without the help of a maid, but she didn’t find the task too arduous. Her dark green satin gown was perhaps not at the height of fashion, but nobody would be expecting her to be the center of attention. Pairing the gown with the white petticoat with the embroidery around the hem that had taken her most of last December to complete gave her at least a respectable presence. She wouldn’t powder. Not everybody did in the country. Locating her evening gloves and picking up her fan, she set out. She had no difficulty navigating her way to the drawing room, where the party was gathering before dinner.

  The atmosphere in the great drawing room was fraught. Tension snapped in the air as the groups of people, around twenty persons total, chatted quietly. Dorothea had no doubt they were all talking about the same thing. This room was spacious enough to ensure a measure of privacy, but not to prevent threads of words drifting around. She was right. “Marquess” and “new” were two of the words she caught. As always in company, she kept her head down and spoke quietly, listening more than talking. Not that people asked for her opinion very often. But she was used to that. In society, people tended to prefer the sound of their own voices to anyone else’s.

  Major William Thorpe, brother to Louis, for once not in his regimentals, smiled at her, crossed the room to where she stood, and bowed over her hand. “It is good to see you again, Miss Rowland, after our delightful time together at the Wilkinson rout last year. How are you?”

  “Very well.” He held her hand for a few seconds longer than necessary. William Thorpe was altogether a different person from his brother. His army career was prospering, and his kindly features belied the warrior he was reputed to be. William would have made a solid, dependable marquess, but he was the younger brother. “Have you been abroad recently?”

  “Constantly,” he said. “I try to keep myself busy. However, the general has threatened to have me transferred to Horse Guards for a spell.” He touched his upper arm. “A wound I sustained refused to heal. It’s well now, but a period of enforced rest is called for. Do you spend much time in London?”

  “I do, yes. I accompany my brother and sister-in-law when they go to town for the season. Although I’m not on the marriage mart any longer, I find plenty to do.”

  He raised a brow. “I wouldn’t say that. The part about not being on the marriage mart, I mean.” He stood to one side of the sofa, as if protecting her, though from what, Dorothea had no idea. Perhaps, at this late stage in her career, she’d finally found another suitor. That would be exceedingly odd, but Dorothea wasn’t the idealistic young woman she’d been on her entrance into society. She was no longer seeking passion and love, but a comfortable partnership.

  When Louis Thorpe entered the drawing room, his wife by his side, the sound dipped, then rose once more. Mr. Thorpe was his usual handsome self, his smiles proclaiming pleasure in his imminent triumph. Honoria Thorpe had hardly changed from the golden beauty who had taken society by storm seven years ago. Despite giving birth twice, her figure was as elegant as ever.

  Smiles and laughter increased, and soon a lively group surrounded the pair. “Of course, I am devastated to have to do this,” Thorpe said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “However, my cousin’s disappearance is a tragedy that needs bringing to its inevitable conclusion.” Regret tinged his voice.

  “I wish you would tell us what really happened that day,” Lady Steeping said, her cherry-red lips drawn in a pout.

  “Most people are aware of the events, which I deeply regret.” He glanced around the room, drawing in his audience. “Despite his own wounds, my cousin fled in a waiting coach with my blessing. I gave him my forgiveness before he left, as a dying man should, but I recovered. Unfortunately, when we made enquiries, thinking to contact him, he had already sailed, or so we were told.” He heaved a sigh. “Such a pity. We’ve heard nothing of him since, apart from the letter we got in August, giving me power of attorney. We could not tell from that where the letter had come from. I do not even know where he perished, but it seems likely his wound eventually got the better of him, or he encountered some other incident we know nothing of.”

  He caught Dorothea’s attention for a fleeting moment before passing on, his gaze encompassing everyone in the room. Truly, he was astonishingly handsome. His turquoise eyes attracted her attention first, but after that, the pure line of his straight nose and the clear outline of his firm chin and strong forehead. Naturally he wore the fashionable wig, as did most men
present, but his seemed snowier than the others.

  Looking at him, and his control of the room, she could barely believe that he had gone through a fortune in the last few years. He seemed intelligent, poised, and perfect. But he was not.

  “Miss Rowland,” he said suddenly, breaking through the people surrounding him and heading straight for her. “You have a comment to make?”

  What had he seen in her? Had she frowned? No, but perhaps that fleeting glance had shown him more than she wanted to display. She gathered her senses, brought herself back down to earth. Next to her, Dorothea’s sister-in-law, Ann, remained perfectly still, as if sitting for her portrait. “Only that I could be referring to you as ‘your lordship’ before the week is out.”

  Would that be enough to deflect him? She could not give her mission away now. He must not know she had severe doubts about his accession to the title.

  One corner of his mouth turned up in a half smile. The gesture looked practiced to her. Why should she be surprised, when society itself was full of poses and rehearsed remarks? “You flatter me. I daresay the process will take a week or two at the least, not a few days. Is that not so, Sir James?”

  Sir James, who had not looked her way since their first mutual recognition on entering the room, glanced at her and nodded. “Indeed, I’m afraid the wheels of administering an unusual occurrence can take time to roll. We are unused to such events. However, I am certain the matter will be concluded to everyone’s satisfaction.”

  Beside him, an audible “humph” came from Lord Evington. The man had been a close friend of the late marquess, or the missing marquess, or whatever they were going to call Benedict when he was declared officially dead. He had been present at the duel that had started this whole affair. “What will you do if he turns up alive after all?” he asked.

  Of course Lord Evington would not want his friend to be dead. “That is why we make the process so thorough,” Sir James said. “I am here to ensure justice is served.”

  Lord Evington nodded. “I will abide by the decision, naturally.” He slanted a glance at Sir James. “I would have a word with you, sir.”

  “Indeed, and so you should, to ensure everything is done properly.” At last Mr. Thorpe turned away from her. Dorothea fought against breathing a sigh of relief and revealing her own thoughts. She found his attention deeply unsettling, especially so close. “I, too, want the matter decided beyond dispute.”

  As it would be. Once the Crown decided on Louis Thorpe as the new marquess, the decision would be hard to revoke. If the missing man turned up, he’d have to challenge the decision in court and create a precedent in the law. The Crown could even rule not to recognize him, because a title holder was just that. She couldn’t recall a time outside the Civil War where a title had been removed from a living person and awarded to someone else. What a mess. Enough to wish that the matter was clear now, as Mr. Thorpe desired. But she wanted justice done and needed to ensure Angela was compensated for the heavy debts Mr. Thorpe had run up. No wonder he was looking triumphant, the very set of his head as if he proudly wore a crown. Or to be more precise, a coronet.

  “It will be decided soon,” Mr. Thorpe said confidently. “Keeping the estate in limbo like this is not good management. Honoria and I will be making our bow at court before too long as the Marquess and Marchioness of Belstead.”

  A new voice came from the doorway. “I believe the saying is ‘over my dead body.’”

  Chapter 4

  Louis had a pinch of snuff in his fingers, and that, together with his open snuffbox, tumbled to the floor. Fine brown powder spilled everywhere, but nobody took notice.

  Lord Steeping strode forward, flinging up a hand, palm out, as if that would stop the man standing in the doorway. “Who are you, sir, to interrupt us so rudely? Are you a guest here?” He turned to Louis, an expectant sneer on his arrogant face.

  “No, sir, I’m not a guest.” The man turned his full attention to his cousin. “Tell them, Louis. Who am I?”

  Dorothea watched the tall, powerful, travel-stained man as his gaze swept the room. Shock arced through her. He wasn’t dead? Ben didn’t have a twin, so surely it couldn’t be anyone else. He’d grown broader in the shoulder, and his face was not as smooth as it had once been, but for all that, it couldn’t be anyone else. Those emotions she had considered dead, had fought to kill, returned in full force.

  As she rose to her feet, she caught his attention. He halted, staring at her, eyes widening. Dorothea did not think to look away. The fraught few seconds lasted a lifetime, and then his gaze swept on, taking in the guests dressed in their finery.

  She knew him, as did most of the people in this room. Benedict Thorpe, more properly known as the Earl of Brocklebank, only son and heir of the late Marquess of Belstead, firmed his square chin and gave his whole attention to his cousin. “Well?”

  He was certainly arrogant enough for a marquess. He always had been.

  The footman had completely forgotten his duties and stood gaping at the door.

  Louis raised his quizzing glass to his eye. “I do not think I have the pleasure of knowing you.”

  “No, Louis, that will not wash. Do not pretend not to know me, it’s only been seven years. I’m back to claim what is mine.”

  Schultz had come up behind Benedict and addressed Louis. “Mr. Thorpe, sir, I would have announced Lord Brocklebank’s arrival, but he moves faster than I do.”

  Mr. Thorpe held up a hand. “Stop. We have no proof that this rapscallion is Lord Brocklebank, much less the new marquess. Do you admit every ruffian who comes to the door claiming to be a dead man?” He glared at Schultz, who met his gaze directly.

  The butler bowed. “Only when he is his lordship, sir. I have known his lordship since he was in short clothes, and I am seeing him now.” He pivoted on his heel and addressed the newcomer. “My lord, your room is ready.”

  Dorothea forced herself to breathe.

  Lord Brocklebank glanced at the butler and nodded, flashing him a smile that did terrible things to Dorothea’s heart.

  “Sir, you may have the appearance of my late cousin, but I have evidence that he died,” Mr. Thorpe said, lifting his chin, so he could glare down his nose at the disheveled man standing at the door.

  “Then your evidence is wrong,” his lordship snapped. “Because here I am, not dead.”

  He had changed, but not so much that nobody could recognize him. The young Lord Brocklebank had drawn all eyes. But back then he’d had a slender, elegant figure, and he’d laughed all the time. Too much, she’d thought sometimes. He worked his way through society frantically, as if avoiding reality, seeking out distractions like a dying man who had a week to live. As if his proposed betrothal to Dorothea and their marriage would end his fun. This man was far more powerfully built than the Lord Brocklebank she remembered, but the voice was the same, rumbling and low, the air of command unmistakable.

  Dorothea had long reconciled herself to be unremarked, ignored, but now it irked her. She wanted to be the person he turned to. The desire delved deep into her, to the parts of her body she did her best to ignore. He had once, however briefly and reluctantly, been hers.

  He was not dead. She repeated the words to herself, trying to come to terms with them. He is not dead. She had to change “was” to “is” and learn to cope with it, just as she had coped with his—probable—death.

  Sir James cleared his throat. “If I may introduce myself, I am Sir James Hunstone, here on behalf of the Crown to settle the question of the title. Am I correct in assuming you are claiming to be Lord Brocklebank, who was last heard of seven years ago this month?”

  The man inclined his head. “You are indeed correct. But I do not claim to be him. I am him, although I have gone by the name of Benjamin Thorpe for the last seven years.”

  “Then may I suggest you continue with that name for a few days longer?” S
ir James might be formal, but nobody would gainsay him.

  After staring at Sir James for a few moments, Ben nodded. His chest moved as he took several deep breaths. “Very well. But this matter must receive your immediate attention.”

  “I intend for it to do so, sir. However, this unexpected development puts a different cast on the affair. You will allow me a day or two to question the household and gather more information.”

  “Yes, of course. And in the meantime, I’ll go to my room and change for dinner. I shouldn’t be above twenty minutes.”

  Thorpe spoke, his voice trembling, though whether with anger or fear was not clear. “How do I know you will not steal what you can and leave? Or murder us all in our beds?”

  Slowly, Benedict Thorpe turned his head. “Because you do. You know me, Louis.”

  Thorpe gasped and closed his eyes. No one had stepped forward to support his claim that the intruder was an impostor.

  With a sigh, Mrs. Thorpe, who had expected to become the marchioness before the year was out, put the back of her hand to her forehead and collapsed in a graceful faint.

  A very well-timed faint. Dorothea admired her timing. Very graceful, too.

  Her husband caught her, lifting her against him before glaring at his cousin as if to accuse him of causing the dramatic reaction. “You see what you’ve done?”

  Benedict—not Benjamin, why had he used that name?—studied the woman cradled in Louis Thorpe’s arms. “She always did enjoy being the center of attention.”

  “You should have warned us you were coming.”

  Benedict gave a slight shrug. “What would you have me do? Send a letter and wait for your invitation to my own house? I think not.”

  Standing by the fireplace, Major Thorpe watched, no expression on his austere features.

  The arrogance, the assumption that Benedict would be instantly accepted, astonished her, until Dorothea, naturally observant, spotted a tiny twitch by the side of his left eyebrow. He was not as relaxed as he at first appeared.