The Missing Marquess of Althorn (The Lost Lords Book 3)

by Chasity Bowlin

  “I suppose I’ll need a new wardrobe at any rate. I can hardly continue to be seen in mourning now that you’re returned. Whatever would people think?” Her teasing tone belied her inner turmoil. It was a defensive gesture. The conversation might have appeared superficial to most, but it scratched at much deeper issues. It also tugged at her conscience. She’d remained at her small desk late into the night, finishing the damning and damnable column for her publisher. Just before entering the breakfast room, she had sent one of the kitchen lads to deliver her latest masterpiece to the man in question. Guilt and shame were sinking their teeth and claws into her deeper with every passing second.

  Jane tamped those feelings down, ignoring them willfully. Her course was set. In the five years since he’d been reported missing, she’d not just accustomed herself to the idea of not being married or beholden to any man, she’d come to relish the day when she had true freedom through the annuity that had been left to her. Simply because he appeared to be much changed from before and to be cut from very different cloth than her father was no reason to alter her plan. She would stick to it and ignore any lingering scruples that might interfere. It was the only way to hold on to and possible even expand the small amount of freedom she’d managed to carve out for herself.

  “I suppose you will,” he agreed. “Before you undertake your massive shopping expedition, perhaps you’d join me for a drive in the park?”

  “The park?” Sitting in an open carriage with him, tooling through Hyde Park for all of society to see was not simply an announcement of his return. It was an announcement that their engagement would continue as planned.

  “That is part of courtship still, is it not?” he asked, his voice pitched low and the teasing tone reflected in the twinkling of his dark eyes.

  It was most assuredly a rite of courtship and she had agreed, at least at face value, to allow him to court her. There was no graceful way to refuse and no good reason to do so unless she were to admit that she had no intention of being honorable in their agreement. “Indeed, it is. Are you quite certain you wish to announce your return with such a public outing to start?”

  He chuckled at that. “My dear, Miss Barrett, the servants in this house have told the servants next door already. And they have told the servants two houses down. Before we even sat down to breakfast, I daresay word had already reached Regent Street.”

  Of course, it had. The speedy gossip of servants was primarily how she earned her modest living, after all. He clouded her thinking. Having him home, having their betrothal looming over her once more rather than simply the specter of impending spinsterhood left her feeling unsettled. It had nothing to do with the fact that he had possibly grown even more attractive in the years since he’d left. It certainly had nothing to do with the more tender feelings she’d had for him as a young girl until, with a few careless words, he’d crushed her fragile heart and even more fragile ego.

  “Certainly,” she agreed. “Gossip flows swiftly and typically gains embellishment with every retelling.”

  He didn’t smile, but his lips did lift slightly at one corner. It was an all too appealing expression on his too-handsome features. She could not and would not allow herself to soften toward him. The tenderhearted young girl with her heart on her sleeve was no more, and she would not allow any lingering remnants of her painful tendre for him to muddle her current thinking. Her plan remained and she would hold fast to it. No man would have dominion over her ever again. Once she managed to shake off the yoke of her father, she’d never give up her independence no matter how handsome the man asking might be.

  “Is half past eleven convenient for you?” he queried.

  No. It was not convenient. Nothing about their current situation was convenient for her. But as she had no other engagement to use as an excuse to beg off, she nodded. “Certainly. I shall meet you in the drawing room, if you like.”

  He rose from the table. “I’ll arrange to have the phaeton readied for us… assuming Father hasn’t bartered it off.”

  “He did, but he replaced it. The current incarnation is… well, your stepmother chose it. It’s a bit…” Jane stopped, uncertain how to describe the vehicle without appearing unkind or ungracious.

  “Garish?”

  She nodded gravely. “Some might describe it so. Naturally, I never would, but some might.”

  His lips firmed into a thin, hard line. “And yet all he talks about are the dire financial straits we are in. Eight years’ absence have not afforded him ample to time to realign his priorities, it would seem… I bid you good morning, Miss Barrett, until our appointment.”

  Jane watched him leave. She would have cursed if she had any inkling how. The few words she’d managed to learn over the years were far too mild to express her current dismay and frustration. Instead, she stamped her foot against the floor beneath the table. It felt shockingly good, so she did it again.

  She needed to keep him at arm’s length. As charming, handsome and reasonable as he appeared to be, that was a dangerous combination for a woman who had sworn off love and men altogether.

  Chapter Five

  Charles approached his uncle’s home with a large bouquet of flowers and a box of sweets. In order to disguise his knowledge of Marcus’ return, Cassandra had insisted it was best to proceed as if he’d planned to pursue a courtship with Miss Barrett. And so there he was, playing the role of a calf-eyed suitor. How he despised all of it! He wanted no part of her. But he did want her fortune and he wanted the title. He deserved it, after all. Marcus had never valued it and certainly never understood how their family worked. Their coat of arms should well have been the depiction an animal eating its young. It was their way, after all.

  Climbing the steps, he knocked at the door and thought how odd it seemed that the simple wreath with its black ribbon was gone. He’d grown so used to the trappings of mourning that had initially been a constant reminder of his cousin’s fate. They were certainly quick to remove all traces of it, he thought bitterly, shaking off the black ribbons and widow’s weeds like a wet dog drying itself. The prodigal son had returned, after all. The fatted calf would be slaughtered by sundown.

  Riggs, with his typically dour expression, answered the knock and ushered him inside. Charles noted the absence of his black armband and those on the footmen as well. “Riggs, has the house decided to throw off mourning?” Charles queried with false concern.

  “We have no reason to mourn, sir,” the butler intoned, “and every reason to rejoice. Lord Althorn is returned to us.”

  Even though he’d expected it, had known it would be uttered, the words still made his heart stutter in his chest. Those simple words represented a threat to every hope for his future. They could well mean that there would be no title, no fortune. Depending on how much Althorn knew, it was quite possible he would go to the gallows. Even if Althorn didn’t know the full extent of his war time activities, there was no doubt he’d be banished from the family if his plot failed to rid of him of Marcus once and for all. Cassandra thought it possible to brazen one’s way through even the most difficult of obstacles. For himself, he was not so sure.

  His cousin had seen him, after all, had called out to him for help as he was being carted away by the French. At worst, he might suss out the truth and determine that it was Charles who’d set the French soldiers on him and that might lead to other questions about his dealings with the French. At best, Charles would be branded a coward and a liar for not helping him and for keeping his fate a carefully guarded secret for five years. Cassandra didn’t know that. She didn’t know that Marcus had recognized him there. He’d never told her because he’d thought it wouldn’t possibly come back to him. A folly he would, no doubt, come to regret.

  “When did this happen?” he demanded. He allowed his voice to tremble. After all, no one would have expected he would be happy about the return.

  “It was just after you departed last night, sir,” Riggs answered. “Why you must have passed Lord A
lthorn on the street as you were leaving.”

  There had been a well-dressed gentleman on the opposite side of the street. He’d crossed the street just as Charles had climbed into a hackney. Had that been Marcus lying in wait even then? “You’re certain it is him? There’s no mistake?”

  Riggs didn’t answer. His gaze drifted past Charles.

  “As certain as anyone can be. It is good to see you, Cousin. Isn’t it?” The words were uttered in a deep baritone that he had not thought ever to hear again. They were also heavily laced with suspicion.

  That voice was instantly recognizable. They had grown up together, after all. Charles turned. It was him, of course. Against all hope, he had to admit that it was true. There was no chance it was an imposter. A harder, leaner and more weathered version of his cousin, but his cousin just the same.

  “We thought you were dead,” Charles said simply. His tone lacked any real degree of warmth, but then they had long since given up any pretense of familial affection. It was difficult to feign joy when the man’s very presence signaled so much disaster for him.

  “Thought or hoped?” Marcus asked. The undercurrent of anger and veiled accusation was evident in his tone. “Remind me, Charles… when was it that our paths crossed last? You were at Corunna, were you not?”

  “Thought, of course. Who could ever wish you ill? Yes, I was at that horrible place. The chaos and bloodshed has never left me. I took a blow to the head near the end of the battle… I laid senseless for days afterward,” Charles lied easily, his tone light and devoid of the fear-fueled rage he felt. That piece of fiction was a last ditch effort to cover his perfidy. “But now we are both here and in the bosom of our loving family. Welcome home.”

  He despised Marcus. The moment in time when his general disregard had altered into true hatred was unknown to him. It had grown over time, he supposed, watching as every advantage was heaped upon his cousin’s head while he faced a life of struggling penury as a clerk or vicar. When Marcus had tossed all of that away, running off to fight in a war he, as a member of the aristocracy, could easily have avoided, Charles had both marveled at and reveled in his stupidity.

  For the first three years of that long and arduous war, he’d waited with bated breath to see if his cousin would succumb to the fate of so many other soldiers. But opportunity had presented itself and he’d taken advantage. A well-placed word in the right ears, and Marcus had been taken on the field. His assumption then was that he would be killed, but he could never attest to his certainty of that without offering up a reason and incriminating himself in the process. Instead, Charles had bided his time and toadied to that vile tradesman, William Barrett, to assess his willingness to transfer the contract to any Duke of Elsingham present or future. Well, they were through waiting for that. Marcus would marry the cow and then they’d get rid of them both.

  If it wouldn’t have utterly destroyed everything he was working for and everything he hoped to gain, Charles would gladly have run him through right there on the spot.

  “Thank you,” Marcus said, his tone as equally devoid of emotion. “Is there some reason you stopped by, Charles? Perhaps you heard of my miraculous return?”

  The animosity was palpable. Even the servants appeared to be uncomfortable, some of the footmen glancing nervously at one another until Riggs cleared his throat in warning. It appeared, Charles thought, that his recently returned cousin was willing to be much more forthcoming about their mutual antipathy than they ever had in the past.

  “No. I was caught quite unawares,” Charles lied with complete calm.

  Marcus smiled, his lips curving but in an expression that offered no warmth at all. “I understand that you made an offer to my betrothed the evening past. While I thank you for your concern for her future and wellbeing, as I have returned, it will be unnecessary for you to honor those obligations on my behalf. You understand, of course, that we will be using this time to become reacquainted with one another and will naturally want a certain amount of privacy in the family home.”

  Charles stiffened, his spine going utterly rigid and his chin notching upward. Had she told him that? Had the two of them laughed together at his proposal as if he were some sort of buffoon? “I see you and Miss Barrett have developed a much more intimate acquaintance than you’ve had in years past… home only hours and already sharing tête-à-têtes.”

  Marcus’ reply did not acknowledge the accusation buried within Charles’ own statement. Instead, he said simply, “We are both very appreciative of your wish to look after her but, under the circumstances, feel it is best if such advances were forgotten entirely.”

  Charles placed the chocolates and posy on the hall table. “Naturally, we will proceed as you direct. Give my regards to Miss Barrett. I have recalled that I am late for another appointment and must be off. No doubt as a member of the extended family, I will be the first to know when you are once again receiving callers.”

  *

  Marcus watched his cousin leave with a feeling of unease. He didn’t trust Charles to simply fade quietly into the distance. Then again, he’d never trusted him at all. Charles’ acts of cowardice and self-serving during the war were not the first indications of his true character. The man was grasping, greedy, and begrudging of everything that anyone else possessed and yet careless with anything in his own possession. It was as if he only valued things that he perceived as being out of his grasp. Did Miss Barrett fall into that category?

  As if he’d summoned her with the thought, she appeared at the top of the stairs. She wore a promenade dress, but one that lacked much in the way of embellishment. Even the black fabric was completely matte and lacked any sheen whatsoever. There were no pretty trims or bows. While he was not completely cognizant of all the rules of etiquette that governed women’s mourning attire, he’d never seen one dressed with such unrelieved austerity.

  She cast a curious glance at the abandoned bouquet and box of sweets on the table as she descended the last of the stairs. “Did someone come to call?”

  He considered lying to her, but only for a moment. Charles was no competition for her affection. Of that he was certain. “Charles came by,” he admitted. He did not believe for a moment that his cousin had genuine feelings for Miss Barrett. He also did not believe that as pragmatic as she appeared to be that she would be fooled by his thin veneer of charm. “I imagine he felt that today was to be the first day of your courtship… instead, it will be the first day of ours.”

  A thoughtful frown caused her lower lip to turn out slightly and the faintest of furrows to appear between her brows. With her pale blonde hair and rosy cheeks, she was far lovelier than he would have ever imagined her to be. The years since they’d last seen one another had been kind to her, indeed. The awkwardness of her youth had vanished and left in its wake a confident, curvaceous woman who knew her own mind and was not compelled to seek the counsel of others. While he admired those qualities in her, he also recognized that those same qualities would only make it more difficult to win her hand.

  Her hands were clenched at her sides and her chin notched upward as she asked finally, “Is this simply some sort of competition between the two of you? I’m well aware of the long-standing animosity—”

  “I assure you, Miss Barrett,” he replied easily, “that whatever occurs between the two of us is just that… between the two of us. It has nothing to do with Charles, our meddling fathers or an ages old contract that neither of us should be bound by. I want to see if we can make this thing work between us.”

  Her gaze was level, earnest and unwavering. “Why? Why this change of heart?”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  She stepped closer to him and whispered in a lower tone, “Lord Althorn, I have had a great deal of time to reflect upon it and I came to the conclusion that while you opposed marriage to me for a very valid reason that I have since been made aware of, you also opposed marriage in general at that time. One would think that after an eight year absence a
nd five of those years in captivity the taste of freedom would be far too heady to give up so readily.” She paused and took a deep breath. “Why have you changed your mind about marriage and more specifically, marriage to me?”

  “I will happily answer any questions but in private, Miss Barrett. Join me for our drive this morning and I promise to explain my reasons to your satisfaction,” he promised.

  She considered the offer for a moment and then gave a curt nod. “Very well, Lord Althorn, we may go for our drive as planned, but do not think to evade the question.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said as he donned his heavy cloak before they walked outside to the waiting phaeton.

  He didn’t gasp or recoil, but the urge was there. Calling the vehicle garish was a vast understatement. Painted an impractical powder blue and trimmed with white and gold, it was like a lady’s reticule on wheels. The interior was white leather and an ermine lap blanket draped the seat.

  “For pity’s sake,” he muttered. “What in the name of all that is holy is this monstrosity?”

  “I believe it’s called poor taste,” she replied easily. “But if one wishes to make a statement, and I assume you do, a better conveyance could not be found for it.”

  He handed her up and then took the reins from the groom that held them as he climbed up himself. It was an embarrassment to be seen in such a vehicle. Why on earth his father would ever have permitted such license by his bride—well, it was best not to think on why his father had permitted it. In fact, he would rather think of anything else.

  Taking Berkley Street to Curzon, he turned toward Hyde Park. There was a distinct chill in the air but, despite that, the streets were busy and crowded with pedestrians and other traffic. More than one person whipped their head around for a second glance at them as they drove past. He wasn’t foolish enough to think that it was merely the carriage that had caught their eyes. The stunned expressions of many passersby were all the confirmation he needed that his return had been well remarked upon.