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

by Chasity Bowlin

  “Desire is not love,” she protested.

  “No… but I daresay that desire is the seed from which it can grow. Love isn’t simply one thing, Jane. It’s a combination of them. Desire is part of that. Trust is another.”

  He kissed her again, a surprisingly chaste brush of his lips against her cheek. With that, he turned and vanished into the shadows of the darkened hall beyond, leaving her to ponder the weight of what he’d said. Could she love him? Could he love her? And would she ever be able to trust in the sincerity of his love when the marriage itself had been bought and paid for?

  Chapter Nine

  The night had been long and restless for him. As Marcus descended the stairs, he was feeling the strain of that. He hadn’t anticipated wanting her to the degree that he did even after acknowledging his initial attraction to her. And it went far beyond just the need for feminine companionship. He could easily have found a willing woman to slake his lust. But therein lay the crux of it. They were only substitutes. Because he didn’t want just any woman. He wanted the woman. Miss Jane Elizabeth Barrett.

  “A missive has arrived for you, my lord,” Riggs said, approaching with a sealed letter on a salver.

  Marcus took the document, scanned the contents and sighed heavily. “I must go out, Riggs. If anyone should inquire, I will be home before tea time.”

  The butler frowned. “I see, my lord. Is there a problem?”

  “Nothing to worry about. Riggs, be certain that no one bullies Miss Barrett today or interferes with her breakfast, if you please.”

  The butler didn’t smile, but he had a wicked gleam in his eye at being trusted with the role of white knight. “Certainly, my lord. I shall gladly see to it that Miss Barrett is not disturbed or importuned in any way while she enjoys her morning meal.”

  With that, Marcus left the house and headed toward Highcliff’s residence near Bruton Place. The man wouldn’t have sent for him if he did not have news to impart. The short walk in the crisp air would clear his head and mitigate the effects of his lack of sufficient sleep, or so he hoped.

  When he arrived, the butler opened the door before he had even knocked and ushered him inside. Highcliff was ensconced in his study, still wearing a banyan with his hair mussed from sleep. He was also drinking copious amounts of strong, black coffee.

  Marcus grimaced. “How you can tolerate that abominable concoction, I’ve no idea!”

  “It clears the mind,” Highcliff answered. “From the bags beneath your eyes, I daresay you could use a cup or two.”

  “I’ll have tea, thank you. Like a proper Englishman.”

  Highcliff laughed. “I’m neither proper nor entirely English, am I?”

  It was an old joke between them, going back to their school days. “I assume you have news or I wouldn’t have been summoned here at this ungodly hour.”

  Highcliff nodded, took another sip, and then answered, “I tracked down a member of Charles’ regiment. He was not injured. Not at Corunna nor in any other battle. He was always curiously devoid of even the most minor of scrapes. According to this man, it was almost as if the French tried to avoid shooting the bastard.”

  Marcus sank down into one the chairs facing the desk. “Perhaps I should have brandy instead of tea. It’s worse than I thought, isn’t it?”

  Highcliff sighed wearily, a sound that belied his normally carefree attitude and sometimes dandified experience. No one knew better than Marcus just how much of his true nature Highcliff concealed. The man was deadly and had done things for king and country most could not imagine. Even now, his life as a scandalous bachelor concerned only with fashion and the seduction of merry widows and unhappy wives was largely a ruse.

  “Charles’ movements during the war perfectly coincide with significant losses that potentially resulted from the leaking of invaluable information about munitions and troops,” Highcliff replied. “You suspected him of it years ago. You brought those suspicions to me in Portugal months before Corunna, did you not?”

  Marcus heaved a weary sigh of his own. “I did. But I desperately hoped to be wrong. A traitor in the family… a man guilty of treason and in line for a dukedom? And then, of course, there are the lengths he would go to in order to have the title. I’ve no proof but there isn’t a doubt in my mind that he was fully responsible for my capture. The soldiers ignored him and took me instead. Yet, I was dressed as an enlisted man. In my borrowed uniform at that time, Charles gave every appearance of outranking me.”

  “Not to mention that he knew you’d been captured and informed no one. Some whispered that you were dead, others a deserter… and he possessed knowledge that not only would have quelled any gossip or conjecture, but could well have led to your rescue and return,” Highcliff pointed out. “This patently false tale of a head injury at Corunna is simply a way of covering his tracks and hiding, if not his involvement, then at least his inaction on your behalf.”

  “And in my absence, he waited a full five years before making a play for Miss Barrett’s hand. Why now? He didn’t know I was returning. No one could feign the shock that I saw on his face when we met,” Marcus mused. “There must be some reason for his sudden ambition on that front.”

  “Debt, my friend. Your cousin likes to gamble, but he does it poorly. He spends a great deal of time at a gaming hell and brothel by the name of The Prickly Thorn. It’s hardly a respectable establishment… I strongly suspect that it’s the lovely Helena who lured him there.”

  “Helena?”

  “She’s a soiled dove who styles herself as a demirep. There are wild stories about her being the illegitimate daughter of a Prussian count. I don’t believe it for a minute. She’s beautiful enough but a more grasping woman I’ve never met. Oddly enough, she bares a shocking resemblance to your stepmother. And as Lady Cassandra’s father was both notoriously faithless and fertile—it could be worth looking into. I will say this for the lovely Helena, even in her silks and satins, there is something of the gutter about her… and I ought to know. Takes one to know one and all that. And she’s got her claws into Charles all the way to the hilt. She’s been seen coming and going from his apartments at all hours of the day and night… always heavily veiled and dressed as a widow. Probably in castoffs from her illegitimate half-sister.”

  Marcus considered it. “Did Cassandra introduce them? Perhaps she thought to establish Charles as her sister’s protector when she believed he’d inherit the dukedom. Regardless, you think she’s the impetus for his sudden pursuit of Miss Barrett and his play for the title?”

  Highcliff picked up a letter opener from the desk and twirled the blade between his fingers with a skill and agility that was mind boggling to those who hadn’t seen him do so before. “I think he can’t hold her if he doesn’t have the funds to pay her. She’s the kind of woman who can drive even the best of men to their knees,” Highcliff answered. “Charles has never been the best of men.”

  “He’s hardly the sort to fall arse over head in love,” Marcus retorted. “Charles has never given a fig for anyone else… not in the entirety of his life.”

  “It’s not love, my friend. It’s obsession. And unless your cousin is a eunuch, trust me when I say that she could sway him to her cause.” Highcliff paused and took another hefty swallow from his coffee before continuing, “That woman is the devil’s own. Mark me on that.”

  “We’re supposed to attend the theater with him tonight. It’s a family outing. My stepmother is coming as well, though my father has begged off.” Marcus said. “At the Royal… you’ll be there?”

  Highcliff grimaced. “I hate that bloody place. I’ll have to play the ham-headed fop since it’s such a public appearance, but I’ll be in attendance, as well. This was Charles’ idea?”

  “Yes. I can only assume that he is planning something. What, I cannot guess. Rather than allow Charles to make the arrangements, I said you had obtained a box for us. Can you?”

  Highcliff sighed heavily. “Yes, I’ll get you a box. You’re very d
emanding for a man who’s been dead for five years, Althorn.”

  “I have a great deal of time to make up for… I didn’t trust Charles. I think it’s best he doesn’t know where we’ll be in the theater until we arrive there. I can’t say for certain that he would plant an assassin but, given his past behavior, I can’t be certain that he wouldn’t,” Marcus explained.

  “Keep a close watch on your Miss Barrett. I wouldn’t trust him as far as she could throw him,” Highcliff stated firmly. “I’ll have a few friends at the theater, as well, just in case something goes wrong.”

  Marcus gave a curt nod. “Agreed. There’s something sinister afoot. There’s an investigator you’ve used before?”

  “Harrison,” Highcliff replied. “He’s good, especially in places that are not entirely respectable. The man blends well with the worst of society. It’s a damnable skill to have in a man that, far as I know, is completely honorable.”

  “Set him on this Helena. I know enough about Charles, even if his strategy isn’t completely obvious to me yet. But she’s an unknown and that makes her dangerous.”

  Highcliff nodded his agreement. “I’ll see to it. You’re off to squire Miss Barrett around the city, then?”

  “No. I’m off to obtain a ring for her. Most of mother’s jewels have been showered on the current duchess, more’s the pity. Vapid as she may be, I think if someone were to attempt to take her jewels, they’d have nothing left of their hand but a bloody stump.”

  Highcliff scribbled an address on a piece of parchment. “Tell him I sent you. He’ll do right by you and by Miss Barrett.”

  Marcus nodded his thanks and left. The waters were growing murkier by the minute, but all of the ripples seemed to center on Charles and his greed. If he’d been selling secrets, it was no doubt for money. But if his gambling was as bad as Highcliff suggested, it was a certainty that the money was already spent. So he’d be looking for a new revenue stream and a woman with Miss Barrett’s fortune, not to mention her father’s desperation to see her wed to a title, would have suited him perfectly.

  Hailing a hackney, he climbed in and muttered under his breath, “If anyone has a more worthless family than I do, I pity the poor bastard.”

  “What was that, guv’nah?” The driver’s accent was harsh, mimicking the sounds of Seven Dials.

  “Nothing. Take me to Bond Street.”

  “Aye, guv’nah!”

  *

  Jane hadn’t eaten her breakfast. She had waited with bated breath for the morning papers to arrive, including her little scandal sheet, as her stepmother referred to it. The woman had no idea just how accurate her description was as the scandals originated at the very tip of Jane’s own quill. It was a strange reversal of circumstances that she was finally permitted to eat whatever she wished and her nerves were such that she couldn’t tolerate a single bite.

  Eventually, the footmen had cleared away the breakfast dishes along with her untouched plate and she’d retreated to the morning room. She’d mangled her already pitiful attempt at embroidery under her stepmother’s reproachful eye. Even the Duchess of Elsingham, possibly the least skilled lady in embroidery Jane had ever seen, had given her an arched look upon noting the tangled mass of threads that was supposed to have been a chair cover.

  Unable to sit still a moment longer, Jane set her embroidery aside and rose to look out the window at the street beyond. When she saw the shabbily-dressed lad run down the stairs to the servants’ entrance carrying a bundle of papers, she nearly danced with excitement.

  “Excuse me. Our news sheets have arrived and I need to see if there is a new edition of the London Ladies’ Gazette,” she said.

  Mrs. Barrett harrumphed loudly. “That rag! I cannot understand how a girl who styles herself as a bluestocking, and with your love of books you could be nothing less, could bear to read such utter nonsense!”

  “We all have our small indulgences,” Jane answered, the words hurried as she was even then making her way to the door. “Excuse me, Mrs. Barrett, your grace.”

  Leaving the room and the two women gaping after her, she ran down the stairs to the kitchen, but she was too late.

  “Where are the papers that were just delivered?” Jane asked. If the servants thought it odd that she’d entered their domain, their expressions were carefully schooled to conceal it.

  “Well, Miss Barrett, they were already taken up to the library… straightaway as soon as the lad brought them and the day’s mail. I’m sure his grace wouldn’t mind you popping in if there was something important you were expecting,” the housekeeper, Mrs. Oliver, said. Her tone clearly indicated that she felt there was nothing important enough to warrant interrupting his grace.

  Panic. Terror. Painful regret. There were a dozen or so ways to describe just how Jane felt at the prospect of that article finding its way into Marcus’ hands. It would be well worth braving the duke’s wrath to avoid it. Turning on her heel, she all but ran up the stairs and toward the library. By the time she reached the double doors, she was breathless and her face was flushed. The footman opened the door for her, his expression implacable even if she did appear ready for Bedlam.

  “What is it?” the duke bellowed from within.

  “Really, Father. Could you possibly be more unpleasant?” Marcus replied from behind the doors.

  Jane froze. Her feet were rooted to the floor as she was assailed by a dozen visions of how horribly wrong everything could go.

  “Girl, come in or go on about your day, but do not stand there gaping at us a moment longer!”

  The barked order from the duke roused her to activity. Forcing one foot in front of the other, Jane entered the room and curtsied. “Good morning, your grace, Lord Althorn. I believe one of my publications was delivered with your mail by mistake.”

  The duke picked it up from the stack and waved it about. “This piece of drivel? ‘Marquess A Returns From Captivity… Or Does He?’ This is preposterous! I will not have such rubbish in my home!”

  Jane watched Marcus for his reaction. He frowned, then arched one eyebrow before crossing to his father’s desk and picking up the small pamphlet that Jane had been secretly writing for since his disappearance. As he thumbed through the pages, his eyebrow rose further. Then he looked up and she could see that he was furious.

  “This has Charles written all over it,” he said. “That greedy, grasping, worthless nephew of yours has once more tried to sabotage everything I hold dear for his own gain!”

  “I’m certain it isn’t so very bad,” Jane offered in what she hoped was both a reassuring and placating tone.

  “Not so very bad? He’s branded me an imposter, a confidence man and that’s just with the headline! Heaven only knows what sort of depravity I’ll be accused of in the article itself,” Althorn snapped.

  “Well, don’t take the girl’s head off! It isn’t as if she wrote the blasted thing!”

  At the duke’s reprimand, which was, of course, patently false, Jane’s heart began to palpitate. Her nerves were strung tighter than a bow and she very much feared she would either faint again or cast up her accounts. Neither of which would endear her to the duke.

  “Father is right, Jane. I’m sorry for behaving so boorishly but this kind of subterfuge is precisely the sort of thing Charles has always engaged in to get his way in things. I’ll not have it. With all that the other prisoners and I endured in captivity and the danger we faced in our attempts to return home… I’ll not allow an insult such as this to pass!”

  “I’m sure he meant no insult. And you know how gossip is… a person might have simply remarked that you had changed in the interim and suddenly it’s a headline!” she fibbed. “I wouldn’t think a thing of it. Truly.”

  The duke waved his hand dismissively. “Get out. The both of you. Take that worthless piece of nonsense with you. There is too much emotion in this room by far! I’m done with the lot of it!”

  Marcus strode forward, grasped her hand and pulled her from the room
with him. “Where the devil can we go in this house that won’t involve seeing my relatives or yours?”

  “The garden,” Jane suggested. “Cold as it is, no one else goes there.”

  “Get your pelisse,” he instructed. “We need to speak privately about this, with no prying ears or eyes. And there are other matters to address.”

  Did he know? Had he somehow, in that short span of time, pieced together the truth? That she was responsible for the rumors that would now be circulating that his claim of being the Marquess of Althorn was fraudulent? She’d given it away, Jane thought. Somehow her cursed inability to ever conceal her feelings had somehow exposed her guilt to him.

  “I’m very warm actually… I don’t need my pelisse. Let’s just get on with it.”

  He looked at her oddly then, taken aback by her abrupt reply. “Very well. We won’t be long.”

  As if she were facing her very own execution, Jane walked with him into the garden and wondered what on earth she would say to her father when he rightly withdrew his offer.

  Chapter Ten

  Marcus took in her hang-dog expression curiously. Jane appeared utterly morose and he had no idea as to why. Unless it was the article, he thought bitterly. What woman would wish to attach herself to a duke who might not actually be a duke? To go through with their marriage and navigate society with their rank questioned at every turn would be difficult to say the least.

  “About this article, Jane, rest assured that I will find the person who wrote it and see that every word is retracted and a full rebuttal printed. I’ve no doubt whatsoever that these are more of Charles’ machinations,” he said, striving for a tone that was both confident and reassuring.

  It infuriated him beyond end as the article not only indicated that he was not who he claimed to be, but painted him as a fortune hunter, a confidence man and little better than a criminal completely lacking in honor. It was heavy handed even for Charles.