“No, don’t say that.” Grabbing her hands, he spun her to face him again. Despite his determination to treat her carefully, he could not bear her talking that way. “You are good enough for anyone, Dorothea. Better, even. You deserve the best, and I am certainly not that.”
“You seem to be the only man who thinks so.” She pulled away, holding up her hand to still his protests, and gave a light, shaky laugh. “Indeed, I have come to see the advantage in a life as a single woman. I will live as independently as I may, and I have found other occupations, things to fill my time. I am an old maid, a spinster—oh, I have heard them all, and the words have ceased to hurt me. Instead, I revel in them. I am a single woman and I have the world in front of me. I have enough to allow me to choose my own future. If marriage is not for me, then I have plenty of other interests. Do not spare me a thought, my lord. I am content.”
She left him strangely dissatisfied. He’d thought that once he’d apologized, the matter would be closed, but she had left him with a deeper understanding of what he had done to her. That went beyond an apology. Society knew they had been discussing marriage, and then he’d spurned her, leaving her to face the hidden ridicule, the whispering behind fans at balls. If she was not good enough for Benedict Thorpe, perhaps she was good enough for nobody.
He should at least have allowed her to reject him firmly and publicly, but he had not. Instead, he’d left the wound to fester, and however sorry he was, he couldn’t undo that.
* * * *
Sir James took his time verifying Ben’s claim. If Dorothea had not seen him at work, then she’d have imagined he was delaying on purpose, but the man was a fusspot, his attention to detail complete. He intended to take depositions from everyone who remembered Ben, including herself. Dorothea kept her statement brief, explaining the failed betrothal as her brother had done at the time, a discussion in its early stages that did not amount to anything. But she was firm in her identification of Ben. This was the missing marquess.
After their uncomfortable discussion in the garden, she’d expected Ben to avoid her, but instead, he sought her out. During the following days he always seemed to be in the vicinity when she went outside to take the air. A heavy downpour had delayed the much-anticipated duck hunt, and when she’d gone upstairs to walk in the long gallery, he’d been there too. Afterward, he spent time with her and her sister-in-law in the library, helping them to discover the scandalous novels hidden behind the sermons. The shelves were deep, able to conceal a multitude of sins. He teased out her laughter and told her amusing stories of his time in the colonies. But he rarely mentioned his wife, which Dorothea wondered at. Perhaps he was merely being tactful.
She liked him. That was the trouble, because she’d imagined that after so long, any lingering feelings she might have for him would have died. Unfortunately, they had not, even though Ben had changed. He had lost his air of superiority and that casual carelessness so many in society possessed.
The other guests remained too, Ben assuring them they were most welcome. They took to calling him “my lord” instead of “Mr. Thorpe,” which made Louis set his jaw, but nobody remarked on it. Ben did not comment on the title one way or another.
After a pleasant and brief Sunday service in the house’s private chapel, she managed to exchange a few words with Sir James on the way upstairs to breakfast. “Have you made your decision?” she asked. Surely, he’d taken enough time.
“I have made up my mind, but in order to satisfy the House of Lords and make a ruling nobody will question, I need ample proof.”
Ah, that made sense. “I see. So you are collecting all the statements you can?”
“Indeed. I wish to fill in every hole in the narrative. I have sent enquiries to the docks in London. The records will confirm the ship Mr. Thorpe took. I have sent enquiries to the colonies, but I do not expect to receive the replies inside of three months. But they can be filed with the others when they finally arrive.”
Sir James was being courted assiduously by Louis and his wife Honoria, while Benedict was all but ignoring the man. Dorothea couldn’t understand him. Didn’t he want the marquessate?
“My other problem,” said Sir James as they strolled along the wide corridor, deliberately lagging behind the others, “is that Mr. Louis Thorpe and his wife have already started their nursery. With two children already, both daughters, unfortunately, they could easily produce a son. Sadly, Mr. Benedict Thorpe is decidedly single. If he remains so, then the inheritance will pass to Mr. Louis Thorpe’s son, when he has one. For that reason I would prefer a cordial relationship to exist between the cousins. I thought to give them a little time to settle to the idea. A child born to the title or brought up in the knowledge that he will one day inherit will always prove a better candidate than one thrust into the part or drawn away from his regular circle in order to learn the business.”
Dorothea thought of several men who had unexpectedly inherited wealth or a great title and made a huge success of it. But she kept her thoughts to herself, since they were approaching the breakfast room.
Polite chatter covered what they’d said. But they did not see Benedict, which was strange because he had sat behind her in the chapel and quit the place before she did. However, she thought nothing of it until he glanced at her and sent her a wicked grin before taking his seat opposite her. He shook out his napkin and spread it on his lap before the footman could do it for him. That was typical of the man.
Breakfast was an informal meal and a substantial one, the sideboards positively groaning with food. The guests helped themselves or asked a servant to fetch what they required. Then they sat at an empty space at the table, instead of using order of preference as they did at dinner. So Ben was free to sit close to her if he wished.
He fixed his gaze on Sir James, who was sitting next to Dorothea. “I am sensible, sir, that I will have to start my family.” He grimaced. “I am perfectly content to marry again in the service of the estate.”
So he’d overheard Sir James. Dorothea sucked in a deep breath, trying to prevent by sheer willpower the flush rising to her cheeks. Because really, she shouldn’t be taking an interest at all. And that Sir James confided in her made it look like she was in cahoots with him. Which in a way, she was, but nobody except Sir James knew why. Angela would not be pleased if Dorothea used her name in such a public place, so she remained quiet. The bank prided itself on its discretion and would be put out if its name was involved in this title dispute, or if Angela took sides. She hadn’t even told Ben she was acting for Angela. Why, she was not quite sure.
Being a banker was a tricky balancing act at times. Dorothea wished she could have the running of such an enterprise. A large estate like this one, for instance, would challenge anyone to run it properly. Mrs. Thorpe appeared to care for little except her own pleasures, but Dorothea would take far more of an interest in the running of the estate.
Not that she would ever be in that position.
Louis glared at his cousin. “I am making my own enquiries,” he said. “I cannot understand why you stayed away so long without a word.”
Ben only shrugged.
“Could you have made Benedict’s acquaintance, then done away with him and taken his place?”
Lord Steeping snorted. “Hardly likely, is it?”
If Louis had his quizzing glass about his person, he would have used it on his lordship. But today, he wasn’t wearing it. “I have read of more than one instance. True, this man has a passing resemblance to my cousin, but that could be coincidence. And if he knew Benedict, he could have learned many of the stories he is reciting now.”
Sir James exchanged a glance with Dorothea, his brow slightly raised. Yes, if he could possibly do it, Louis would challenge Ben in court. That would deplete Ben’s resources and keep him busy for years to come. So the thorough investigation was necessary.
Ben stretched lazily, and sm
iled, not a jot of strain in his features. “Why would I do such a thing?”
Pointedly, Louis glanced around the room. “The estate is a great one with a considerable income.”
Much reduced by Louis’s demands on the resources, but nobody mentioned that.
“From what I have seen, it needs a deal of work to bring it up to scratch,” Ben replied. “I have enough. I am content, and unlike the Thorpe holdings, what I have is in good heart.” He glanced at Louis, fixing him with a dark stare. “Do you visit your daughters every day? I would like to make their acquaintance. After all, we are related, and I do not want to be a stranger to them.”
Louis snorted. “As to how often I visit them, that is my concern.” But he didn’t answer Benedict’s request.
A distraction arrived in the form of Schultz, bearing the morning post. He handed a large packet to Benedict, wrapped in waxed paper and sealed carefully in two places, so it must be something of note. He put it aside. “Business,” he explained briefly. “Tedious,” and turned to a smaller missive.
Conversation changed to other matters as people opened their post or took a newspaper from the butler and discussed the contents. Dorothea found a week-old copy of The Tatler that contained some interesting court gossip. “Do you think the peace will hold?” she asked.
“Perhaps,” Sir James answered.
That distracted the company well enough. The peace talks to end the current war with the Austrians were proceeding apace, but acrimoniously.
“What do you think?” Benedict asked her.
“Neither side has what it wants. So I believe the peace will hold long enough for each side to catch its breath and regroup.”
“Like a round in a boxing match!” Louis exclaimed. “Very good, Miss Rowland! Have you ever seen such a thing?”
She had to admit she had not. Officially, ladies did not attend boxing matches, but it hadn’t prevented a few, more intrepid women snatching a glimpse of one. After all, the participants stripped almost bare.
“Scandalous,” Benedict murmured. His discomfiture at the discussion of marriage appeared to have passed, and his eyes had regained their usual liveliness of expression.
How could she not have known? But she could not help a shameful feeling of relief that Benedict was not currently attached to any female.
Such a foolish notion. She could not think that way, even though some ladies had declared Benedict was partial to her, and they suspected a courtship was taking place. Foolish again, particularly in the light of Benedict’s revelation of a few moments ago. She attended to her rapidly cooling breakfast and breathed a sigh of relief when conversation passed to more impartial topics.
After he had made a light repast, Louis got to his feet and flung down his napkin. “If you will excuse me,” he said to the company at large. “I will go to ensure arrangements for tomorrow’s duck hunt are well under way. The ground is finally firm enough to take our trampling and the birds are plump and waiting for us.”
Ah yes. The gentlemen were looking forward to tomorrow’s senseless slaughter. Perhaps murdering innocent ducks by the dozen would help them to feel more like men.
Chapter 6
Ben woke to his valet moving silently around the room. Rougier had arrived along with the bulk of Ben’s luggage earlier in the week. He had not employed a valet for a while, but he had stopped at the best registry office in London to find one appropriate to his new position. The man certainly understood what he was about. His wardrobe had been unpacked, ironed, and bestowed in the old clothespress with expediency. Ben couldn’t remember when he’d had a closer shave than the one Rougier had given him yesterday.
He watched the man reverently laying out his hunting outfit. The coat had certainly seen better days, but it was probably more suited to the day’s activity than a fashionable garment. Rougier treated it like spun gold.
Ben gazed at the familiar walls. Strange to be back in this place. The same paintings, mostly landscapes of the estate, hung on the walls, and the small bookcase was filled with the tomes he was studying before his visit to London that fateful year. They were a mixture of scurrilous novels and volumes on mathematics and calculus. His fascination with numbers had worked well for him in the colonies. The novels, not so much, but he still read them.
As a boy, when he’d been moved here from the nursery wing, he’d open the window on summer nights and listen to the events going on down below. Sometimes he would hear talk, when his father’s political friends gathered to discuss the affairs of the day. Murmurings on the balmy summer breeze. Or music, when his parents were entertaining, the tinkle of the harpsichord, the thin whine of the violin.
Or arguments. Not many, but they did happen. Nobody’s childhood was completely free of sadness. Ben had been fortunate, and he’d considered himself blessed. Until he went abroad on his Grand Tour and ran wild, coming home to repeat his behavior in London. Why not? Heir to a great title, possessor of a substantial estate, what could go wrong? And he was to marry soon, he’d discovered. Dorothea Rowland was pleasant, but he resented the arrangements being taken out of his hands, and he’d used Dorothea shamefully as a result. He had not told her that he didn’t want to marry her, but left it to her brother to do so.
It was not Dorothea he had resented, but the decisions being made for him, as if he’d have no say in who he would spend the rest of his life with. However, until he’d met Honoria, he had gone along with the plans, not seeing anyone else he preferred, as if the female population of London was ready to prostrate themselves at his feet.
At the time he’d been more self-centered, more feckless, but now he knew how much she deserved the apology he’d given to her. However, he’d found much more than a woman he owed reparation to.
The chilly morning on Hampstead Heath had shown him another side of life. After the duel, Hal had shoved him into the waiting carriage and they’d rushed to the docks, where Hal loaded him onto the first ship carrying passengers leaving on the next tide. If he’d been in his right mind, he’d have written the letters he later had to send from the colonies, but he wasn’t. He’d been at sea before the shock had worn off. A week after he’d reached Boston, a letter from Hal had arrived at the local receiving office to tell him that Louis lived; his wound not as serious as they’d assumed.
He’d made his decision to cut ties with his home then, and only recently had he come to regret it.
He glanced at the table by the window, where he’d laid out the proofs he was planning to show Sir James. Eventually. The document he’d received yesterday had sealed the case for him. That would reassure the damned man.
Sir James had spent quite some time in the servants’ quarters. Since only the butler was left from his day, Ben would be forced to make an excursion or two into the village, where more people remembered him. He had made a private visit there and greeted the old ones, glad to see them again, but the state of their houses had saddened him. Louis had a lot to answer for. And very soon, he would.
Flinging back the covers, Ben swung out of bed. The valet hurried across to lift the hot water can and pour a generous libation into the porcelain basin resting on the substantial washstand. They had changed the pottery since his time here. This set had blue transfers of happy villagers. Perhaps the original had been too scratched or damaged. Staring into the mirror, Ben cracked his jaw in a mighty yawn before picking up the cake of ivory soap and dipping his hands into the water. Beside him, Rougier ran the razor expertly along the strop.
“I have laid out your hunting dress, my lord, but you might wish to consider ordering a new one if you desire to make a mark in London.” He had a pretty French accent. Too pretty. Ben didn’t entirely trust it.
“You are French?” Without warning, Ben switched his language. “Vous ne vouliez pas chercher un emploi en France?” After all, Paris was the center of the fashionable world. Some valets feigned an accent in ord
er to increase their worth to the less-discerning master.
The valet answered fluidly in the same language. “My father is French, but my mother is English. I was brought up speaking both tongues. My father came here to work in the house of the Duke of Richmond and my mother was a housemaid there.”
“What do they do now?” Ben couldn’t imagine the superior Duke of Richmond employing a married couple. The man was a stickler for the proprieties.
“They own a shop selling optical instruments in the City of London,” Rougier said.
Ben switched back to English. “I may visit it some time. Remind me when we’re in Town.” He used to watch the stars through the telescope he’d inadvertently left in Boston.
While he sat back and allowed himself the luxury of having someone else shave him, Ben went over the events of last night. After a good night’s sleep, he was better prepared to ruminate on events here.
What did Dorothea Rowland have to do with Sir James and his investigation? He’d caught her glancing at Sir James once or twice. When he’d come upon her in the passage at the back of the house, he could have sworn he’d spotted Sir James turning a corner ahead. There was something going on, and it wasn’t of a romantic nature.
Now he’d had a glimpse of the state of affairs at home, he was determined his cousin would not benefit from the inheritance. His stop in London had included a visit to an old friend, a lawyer who could give him a frank opinion about Louis and what he’d been up to—leaving Ben with the impression that he shouldn’t have stayed away so long. He still planned to return to Boston, but only when he’d arranged matters here to his satisfaction and put a responsible, trustworthy manager in place.
Did he dare consider Dorothea for that position? There would never be love between them, not least because Ben had hardened his heart against it, but there was still liking. She could bear his children, and he would trust her with the management of the estate. Surely that would be better than living as a spinster. And it might help to assuage his conscience, to give her the position she should have had years ago.
The Making of a Marquess Page 6
