In a Perfect Mess With the Marquess

by Hazel Linwood

  “He’s used to getting his way, Thornmouth is, eh, wot?” the Baron said, nodding toward the young man.

  “Who is the other man?” Christopher asked, glancing back. The quarrel between the two men appeared to have slowed somewhat and they were now standing and talking with their voices lowered.

  “Lord Lounds, Viscount from Cambridgeshire, like Thornmouth. He was to back him up but then changed his mind.”

  Christopher licked his lips. It appeared this young man, who could not possibly be much older than him, was a rising star in the House of Lords. He scratched his chin and made a note of the name. Perhaps he could find a way to make his acquaintance. These were exactly the kind of people he needed to know to rise among the peerage once more.

  Christopher bided his time and engaged in small talk with his uncle’s friends, having determined that the elderly Viscount and the even older Baron were most certainly not going to be among those who would help him restore the Dukedom of Westmond to its former glory. No. If he wanted to reclaim what was once his, he’d have to find another way. He glanced behind him to where the young Lord Thornmouth and his companion were just departing. He pursed his lips, deep in thought.

  After what seemed an eternity, his uncle declared himself tired and in need of a rest, giving Christopher the chance to excuse himself and make his way toward his carriage. He was due to meet with his brother, Henry, for supper and his stomach was already grumbling.

  “Home, My Lord?” the coachman asked as he opened the door. Climbing inside, Christopher felt a tug in his heart.

  “To my uncle’s home. Yes, Thorpe,” he replied and sat leaned against the cushioned backrest. They no longer owned a home in the city. Their beautiful home in London, Havisham House, was among the properties that had been sold in order to pay off the enormous debt his father had left behind. Due to his illness and the shady business of his estate steward, Christopher had spent the first few months of his Dukedom trying to right the sinking ship. He was on the right path. Alas, some of the actions that had to be taken had been painful. The sale of Havisham House among them.

  He’d loved the London house. Located in Westminster it overlooked St. James’s Park and featured one of the largest ballrooms in the entire city. His mother had loved hosting balls there when he was still a young child, long before consumption had taken her.

  I shall get it back. I shall. It is one of the first things I will do.

  These days, whenever they were in London, they stayed with his uncle at his modest Mayfair home.

  He glanced outside at the streets which were lit by newly installed streetlights. Few people were about at this hour. He leaned his head against the window and watched as the houses passed, letting his thoughts wander. Even though he was not a keen rider, he always found the sound of trotting horses soothing, and tonight was no difference.

  The carriage was just making its way past Green Park and turned onto Half Moon Street when Christopher spotted a commotion up ahead. In the dim light of the street, he saw two masked men dragging a third off his horse. He squinted and recognized that the man being pulled of his horse was a messenger.

  “Thorpe, stop the carriage!”

  The vehicle came to a stop and Christopher jumped out, rushing toward the men.

  “Stop, you rogues.” The two men briefly looked up and then one rose to his full height, which was still somewhat shorter than Christopher who’d inherited his father’s tall statue.

  “Walk away, Me Lord. This don’t concern ya at all.”

  Christopher glanced down at the messenger whose nose was already bleeding and whose expression was one of fear.

  “Please, My Lord. Help,” the man begged.

  “I order the two of you walk away and leave the man be.”

  “Do you order that now?” the masked man asked. “And on whose authority?”

  Christopher grinned and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

  “On mine. I am Christopher Newmont, Duke of Westmond. And I order you to let up. Now.”

  The masked man turned to his companion who was still holding down the terrified messenger.

  “Do you hear that? The Duke of Westmond is ordering us to let the man go. What do you say? Shall we?”

  His companion appeared to ponder the question for a moment and Christopher felt quite certain that the two would do as he’d asked. He was, after all, a Peer of the Realm. Alas, he was quite mistaken.

  “Nah,” the second man said and suddenly Christopher felt himself being grabbed by his long hair and pushed onto the ground. It was only due to the utterly surprising attack that Christopher found himself at a disadvantage. He was no stranger to fights and always came out victorious. This time, however, he found himself on the ground.

  From the corner of his eye he saw Thorpe rushing to his aid, only to be tackled by the second man, who’d let go of the messenger. To his horror, rather than help them, the messenger mounted his horse and rode into the night.

  The tall man straddled Christopher’s chest and wrapped his hands around his throat, squeezing hard. Gasping for air, Christopher saw flashing images appear before his eyes. His mother, young and beautiful. His father, strong and in his prime. He and his brother with their parents on a summer’s day. He, Christopher, the spitting image of his tall, dark haired and blue-eyed father and Henry, so like their mother. The images flickered as he struggled to breath.

  This cannot be the end. No. I will not allow it. I have never lost a fight and I shall not start now.

  Christopher knew he only had seconds left to act, seconds to save himself, and by the looks of it, Thorpe, who was now knocked out on the ground, was taking a beating from the second man. Christopher closed his eyes and gathered all of his strength. With one deep breath he curled his hand into a fist and a moment later, swung his arm forward.

  Chapter 2

  Rowena made her way down the grand staircase, running her hand along the beautifully carved wooden handrail. She crossed the foyer, passing Mrs. Wooster, their housekeeper, on the way. Mrs. Wooster was carrying a bundle of freshly cut flowers in her sturdy arms and smiled as she passed.

  “Lady Rowena, don’t you look lovely today. Is that one of the new dresses Her Ladyship sent from Paris?”

  “It is indeed,” she pulled the delicate silk fabric to the side and gave a little twirl, making the old woman chuckle.

  “Utterly darling, I declare.”

  “I was meant to save all the new dresses for when we go to London next week, but I couldn’t resist. And Mama is in London already with Margaret, so she won’t find out.” She paused and tilted her head to one side.

  Perhaps I should not have told Mrs. Wooster. She is ever so loyal to Mama. But then, it is just the one dress, after all.

  She needn’t have worried. The kindly woman smiled at her and shook her head.

  “She shan’t find out from me. And I doubt Lady Catherine will tell her, given that she is presently prancing around the gardens wearing a new gown herself,” she winked at Rowena who grinned. “I shall carry on as these need putting in water,” she lifted the bundle of flowers and departed when Rowena gave her a nod of the head.

  Rowena proceeded to make her way through the foyer. One of the footmen opened the large French doors leading outside. She stopped at the top of the stairs and inhaled. The scent of fresh-cut grass was in the air and the sound of birds singing in the distance drifted to her ears. It was May now, and spring was on the cusp of turning into summer.

  She loved this time of year. The harshness of winter was long behind them and the best season of all, the London Season, was ahead of them. Rowena could hardly wait to join the rest of her family, who were already in London to attend the Royal Wedding, later in the week.

  “Rowena!” her sister called out. She looked up and broke into a grin as her eyes settled on her younger sister, who was walking through their father’s rose garden up ahead. Betsy Carmichael, Rowena’s close friend, strolled alongside her.

&n
bsp; “Come, join us. It is glorious weather out here,” Catherine called out. Rowena grinned as she gathered her pale, peach-colored gown in her hand as to not let it drag along the sandy driveway and stepped onto the gravel path.

  “I see you could not resist the call of the new gowns any more than Cathy could,” Betsy said with a smirk as Rowena joined them.

  “The best part of the war being over at last is that we can finally have access to all these glorious gowns from France,” Catherine said and gave a twirl. She was dressed in a striking yellow gown that flattered her blonde hair and pale skin. A row of white-lace embroidery ran down her chest in a V-shape and the same embroidery had been used around the hem. She’d paired the dress with a white spencer; it too was embroidered, this one with matching yellow flowers along the sleeves.

  “I would venture to say that the soldiers disagree with you there. However, I must admit that I have never seen gowns quite as beautiful. And Mama and Margaret have really outdone themselves. We have enough gowns and hats and reticules to last six London Seasons.”

  Rowena broke into a giggle, joined by Catherine. Suddenly, Rowena’s eyes fell on her friend’s face and she saw that Betsy had not joined in the excited giggles. No, instead she stood quietly, her hands folded in front of her, a polite smile upon her face.

  A wave of shame overtook Rowena and she reached out to clasp her friend’s hand.

  “Faith, Betsy, I am ever so sorry. I did not mean to be so insensitive and boastful.”

  Betsy waved her hand dismissively. “Please, do not fret, Rowena. I am happy for you. This is an important Season for the both of you. Of course, Lady Hazelshire will want to ensure you have the very best and finest of everything. Besides, she has not entirely forgotten me.” A sheepish expression crossed her comely face and her grey eyes flashed with a spark.

  “She has sent me a small trunk of items as well.”

  Rowena exhaled, relieved that her mother had not forgotten their dear friend.

  It was silly of me to worry. Of course, Mama provided for Betsy. She loves her ever so much.

  Betsy, the only surviving child of Lady Hazelshire’s closest childhood friend, had been made an orphan ten years prior when a devastating fire robbed her of her entire family. Lady Hazelshire, loyal to her friend as she was to all those she cared about, had taken her in and raised her alongside Rowena, Catherine, and their brother, Charles.

  “That is wonderful. You must show me later. We can pick out our Promenade dresses for when we are in London.”

  Betsy smiled and nodded, “We shall. Although I imagine Lady Hazelshire intended the new wardrobe to assist me in finding a position, more so than to go for strolls in Hyde Park.”

  Rowena swallowed hard. She knew Betsy was right. While she had been raised alongside them, she was not of noble birth and the time had come for Betsy to find a position for herself. Perhaps as a teacher or governess.

  The thought of her friend leaving made Rowena incredibly sad. Of course, she knew that she would soon be leaving the family home as well…as soon as her father found her a suitable husband. She sighed. Rowena disliked change, but she knew very well what her place within the family was, just as Betsy knew hers.

  “Rowena, do not look so Friday-faced. The London Season is upon us,” Catherine broke Rowena out of her sadness, excitement in her voice. She was presently squatting down beside a bed of orange roses, pulling the blossom toward her, and inhaling the scent with her eyes closed.

  “Does this not smell divine? And the color matches my dress ever so well. I shall like to cut one and put it in my hair. Don’t you think that would be marvelous?”

  Rowena shook her head. A strand of her rich, dark brown hair fell into her face.

  “I would not dare. You know how Papa is with his roses.”

  Catherine scoffed.

  “You are such a goody good, Rowena.” She set out to break one of the roses off, making sure not to poke her skin with any thorns, and wedged it behind her ear. “Papa won’t find out. He is in London, anyhow.”

  Suddenly, her sister’s blue eyes took on a dark expression. “I cannot believe we were not invited. It is a scandal, I declare.”

  Rowena and Betsy exchanged a glance, each suppressing a grin.

  “I would not go so far as to declare a scandal, sister. If every member of every aristocratic family in England went to the wedding, they would have to hold the wedding at outdoors in St. James’s Park instead of Carlton House. Indeed, Charles and Margaret were lucky to get invited alongside Papa and Mama.”

  Catherine shook her head and rose. “Faith, Mama and Margaret best memorize every detail. I shall want to hear it all the moment we get to London.” She looked down at her hands, pouting. Rowena was struck by how young her sister looked. She was seventeen now, a woman already, but still her face still had a child-like quality to it, especially when she was upset.

  “I am certain they will,” Rowena said and ran her hand along her sister’s spencer in comfort.

  “I know I should not say so, but I am ever so envious of Princess Charlotte,” her sister’s voice slipped from matter-of-fact to dreamy. “They say it was love at first sight between her and Prince Leopold. Can you imagine?”

  Rowena sighed. She could not. She’d never dared to. She knew very well that as the oldest daughter she would be expected to marry whoever her father chose for her. And, as much as Lord Hazelshire loved his daughters, he would choose someone who would benefit the family and who increased their influence and wealth. Not someone who fit his daughter’s romantic fantasies. Although she thought it wise to keep these thoughts to herself. Her sister was slipping into a melancholy mood as it was.

  “I am sure it is wonderful. And I know you will find someone to love soon, Lady Catherine,” Betsy said, giving the younger girl an encouraging nod. Instead of being encouraged by the comment, Catherine simply sighed.

  “I would need to have my coming-out ball first, of course. Otherwise no man will even know I exist.” She looked from Rowena to Betsy and back.

  “Cathy–” Rowena reached toward her, but Catherine removed her hand and shook her head.

  “It is quite alright, Rowena. It cannot be helped. I simply must be patient.” She rubbed her temples. “I feel as though I am coming down with a rather nasty headache. I shall rest for a while, but I will see you at dinnertime, I am sure.”

  Without waiting for a reply, Catherine walked away toward the house.

  “I feel ever so dreadful, Betsy,” Rowena said as she and Betsy walked along the lake which lay just beyond the rose garden. “It is my fault she has not had a coming-out ball yet. And it is my fault she has not yet been able to even look for a match.”

  Rowena shook her head, her delight at the arrival of the beautiful gowns now a distant memory.

  Betsy looped her arm through Rowena’s.

  “It is not your fault and you know it. Do not let it vex you. I am certain your Father will find a husband for you soon and then Catherine can have the most glorious of coming-out balls and be wed in no time at all.”

  Rowena sighed. She knew that the only reason her parents had held off on giving Catherine a coming-out ball was because they had yet to find a husband for Rowena. While having both daughters out at the same time was not uncommon, it was unseemly.

  “I can only hope. I still feel ever so terrible about what happened with Lord Mortimer.” She shuddered at the memory. The year prior, her father had attempted to make a match for her with Louis Forbes, the Marquess of Mortimer. She had met the young man on several occasions, always properly chaperoned by her mother and found him as tolerable as one could hope for in a match. She’d expected that an offer of marriage would be made in no time at all.

  In fact, her parents had been so confident that an offer would be made, plans were drawn up for a summer wedding as well as a coming-out ball for Catherine that fall, who’d been ecstatic at the idea.

  And then the unthinkable had happened. Lord Mortimer had run o
ff with his secret lover, the daughter of a local butcher, and wed her at Gretna Green. Utterly devastated by the events, Lady Hazelshire had taken to her bed for a week, and Catherine had cried until her eyes were puffy and red, and Rowena…well. She had done what she’d been raised to do. Kept her composure. While her mother and sister had fallen into despair at their respective disappointments, Rowena had carried on as always.

  “Faith, don’t waste another thought on that scoundrel Mortimer. You’ll see, soon enough you will have a new match and Catherine will have a ball. And I, God willing, will have a suitable position.”

  Rowena frowned. “Have you got any prospects?”

  Her friend shrugged. “Lady Hazelshire is going to take me along on her morning calls when we get to London to introduce me to some of the families that might be in need of a governess.”

  Rowena sighed heavily. “I shall miss you ever so much, Betsy.”

  Her friend shook her head. “Don’t fret. I won’t go far. You all are as close to a family as I have. I’d never want to leave you. Well,” she winked, “unless a handsome young merchant asks for my hand in marriage. Then I might be inspired to go wherever he wants to take me.”

  She swayed a little as she walked, and Rowena found herself pushing away a slight ping of envy.

  Sometimes I wish I had the freedom to wed a man I choose, like Betsy.

  She pushed the thought away, reminding herself of all the blessings she had in her life and of all the hardships Betsy had gone though. If Betsy could find a man who loved her and gave her a comfortable life, Rowena would be happy for her. There were few people who deserved happiness more than Betsy.

  “Shall we return to the house?” Betsy asked after they’d walked for a while in silence.

  Rowena nodded, “Perhaps we should. I have much packing yet to do. I dare say, Mama went a little over the top with her purchases.”