The Making of a Marquess

by Lynne Connolly

  The Society for Single Ladies is a crime-solving club founded by the wealthiest woman in London. Yet even Miss Angela Childers’ charming detectives are not immune to the forces of love . . .

  Dorothea Rowland attends a country house party to investigate a long-lost heir—not to find a husband. But when the dashing American claimant discovers her prowling for clues, she is startled—and then seduced—by his provocative kiss. It’s all Dorothea can do to remember her mission. Especially when a series of accidents adds up to something far more dangerous . . .

  Benedict only meant to silence lovely Dorothea—not find himself enamored. What’s a gentleman to do but join forces—and propose to the clever beauty? Yet as Ben and Dorothea pursue the truth about his inheritance, their faux betrothal threatens to become the real thing. Soon Ben’s plan to return to his life in America is upended—not only by his deepening bond with his bride, but by someone who wants his fortune badly enough to jeopardize his future—even end it. And Dorothea can’t let that happen. Not for the title, but for Ben . . .

  Visit us at www.kensingtonbooks.com

  Books by Lynne Connolly

  The Society of Single Ladies

  The Girl With the Pearl Pin

  The Making of A Marquess

  The Shaw Series

  Fearless

  Sinless

  Dauntless

  Boundless

  The Emperors of London Series

  Rogue in Red Velvet

  Temptation Has Green Eyes

  Danger Wears White

  Reckless in Pink

  Dilemma in Yellow

  Silk Veiled in Blue

  Wild Lavender

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  The Making of A Marquess

  The Society of Single Ladies

  Lynne Connolly

  LYRICAL PRESS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  Contents

  Books by Lynne Connolly

  The Making of A Marquess

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Author’s Foreword

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  Author Biography

  References

  The Girl With the Pearl Pin

  Chapter 1

  Copyright

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  LYRICAL PRESS BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2020 by Lynne Connolly

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund-raising, educational, or institutional use.

  Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Sales Manager: Kensington Publishing Corp., 119 West 40th Street, New York, NY 10018. Attn. Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

  Lyrical Press and Lyrical Press logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  First Electronic Edition: March 2020

  eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0953-1

  eISBN-10: 1-5161-0953-8

  First Print Edition: March 2020

  ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0956-2

  ISBN-10: 1-5161-0956-2

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To you, the reader. Without you, I wouldn’t be here, doing this.

  Author’s Foreword

  Now I’m into my stride, and the story of the mysterious claimant to a title and the single lady investigating his claim led me on an adventure I didn’t want to end!

  Chapter 1

  Spring, 1743

  Benedict Thorpe, Lord Brocklebank, heir to the mighty marquessate of Belstead, braced himself against shivering, despite the chill of the early morning. This April had been wet and cold. Today would be no exception. The people standing around would think he was afraid. He was not. Not one bit. Already in his shirtsleeves, facing his cousin Louis, Ben squared his jaw. If he died this morning, he’d do it staring down the man who’d dared to insult the woman who meant more to Ben than anyone else. His betrothed, the woman he would marry next week.

  If he lived.

  The great oak tree above them had witnessed many of these encounters. A dozen men stood around, their soft voices breaking the natural peace of dawn. They were placing bets and calling out encouragement to their favorite. Quietly, because dueling was illegal. If the authorities caught them everyone would be in trouble. Ben and Louis most of all.

  How had they come to this? Louis had spent so much time in Ben’s childhood home, he was all but a brother. Watching Louis divest himself of his blue riding coat and hand it to his younger brother, William, Ben recalled childhood moments with his two cousins. Carefree times playing Robin Hood on the grounds of Cressbrook House. William and Louis had made his childhood bearable. If not for them, the expectations heaped on his shoulders would have overwhelmed him. Then Louis and he had roared their way around Europe, while William had started his longed-for army career.

  So short a time ago. A year after they’d returned home, everything had gone wrong. To be more precise, ever since they both set eyes on Lady Honoria Colt.

  Now look at them. Fighting over a woman. Although Honoria’s name had not crossed their lips, everybody here knew the real reason for this duel. And who had persuaded Louis to demand pistols? He had assumed Louis would choose swords, and they’d fight to first blood.

  Honoria had accepted Ben’s offer of marriage before Louis had said the ugly things that had driven them to stand here. Instead of snuggling in their warm beds, they were facing off across twenty yards of damp grass.

  If they’d used swords, one of them could still have died, but pistols made that eventuality even more certain. And yet, after what Louis had said, Ben could not forgive him. He never would.

  If he lived. Those three words counterpointed his heartbeat, like some fancy harpsichord piece. They marked the short time from challenge to meeting.

  Ben had stripped off his scarlet coat and handed it to his best friend Hal. Disdainful of the practice of reducing the visibility of the target for his opponent by wearing subdued clothing, he’d kept up the color theme. His red waistcoat and full-sleeved white shirt
made him a flamboyant presence. He would give Louis every chance. Then he would wing him, and this foolishness would end. Louis was an excellent shot, but Ben was better. Ben didn’t think Louis would aim for the heart. Not Louis.

  The seconds met in the middle of the field of play, ten yards from the oak tree. This spot had been mute witness to many duels; some were serious, some half-hearted. But if they came here, the people involved were usually in earnest. Impulsive duels were sorted out on the spot, whether that was a gaming den or a gentleman’s club. To wait until dawn meant the participants had every chance to make up and shake hands. Many did. Ben and Louis had not.

  At two in the morning, in the middle of St. James’s Club, Ben had tallied his winnings and told William how much he owed. His cousin should have known that Ben would never demand the reckoning. How could he take such an enormous sum from him?

  But before he said anything else, Louis ripped up. “At least I have something you want. Honoria is mine. Yes, that’s right, I took her, and I’ve enjoyed her since the beginning of the year. She’s mine. You might have everything else, but you won’t get her.”

  The insult had proved too much to bear and Ben had struck him. Marston had said to Ben, “Do you mean to issue a challenge, my lord?” and that had been that.

  His temper roused, his heart sore, Ben had confirmed the challenge, and stipulated that the loser would step aside in the pursuit of Lady Honoria. To do so, the loser would have to be alive, but Louis hadn’t taken that into consideration. Pistols at dawn, he’d wanted.

  Well, he would get it.

  His second, Lord Henry Evington, came across the turf to Ben. His feet left wet footprints in the dew-soaked grass. “No apology. He says he meant every word.”

  “Bastard,” Ben said without heat. He’d expected nothing less. His cousin never backed down from a challenge. “Hal, if I don’t get past this, can you ensure Louis looks after her?”

  Hal touched his arm. “You’ll get through it, old man. Neither of you wants to kill the other.”

  “Then why the pistols?”

  Hal shook his head. “He’s a better shot than he is a swordsman. Other than that, I don’t know. Let’s get through this. I’ve bespoken breakfast at St. James’s Club.” When he smiled, the carefree part of Hal shone through. Ben smiled back, a flash of amusement lightening his mood for a moment.

  “Yes, let’s get this done.”

  They started on the ritual, as well laid out as any courtly dance. The opponents came together in the middle of the arena.

  “Well met, cousin,” Ben murmured, low enough for only Louis to hear. Louis said nothing, but set his jaw.

  The crowd, now swelled to twenty, called muted encouragement, but not for them to make up. They wanted Ben and Louis to get on with it.

  “Fifty on Lord Brocklebank!” someone said. “He’s a likely lad!”

  “T’other’s the better shot!”

  His life was worth fifty guineas. Good to know.

  Neither man took his attention away from the other. Ben sighed. Their “private disagreement” would be all over town in a few hours.

  The seconds collected the case of pistols and returned. As the accused, Louis had the first choice. He selected a weapon after one glance. Ben took the other.

  They turned their backs. They stood so close that the heat of Louis’s body seeped through Ben’s silk waistcoat and linen shirt.

  The seconds tonelessly counted to ten. On each number the men paced a step, until they had reached the agreed distance, ten paces. Ben kept his breath steady. He willed his heart to settle to a regular beat, instead of trying to hammer its way through his rib cage.

  They turned. Hal and William held a white handkerchief, a corner each. Ben fixed his attention on Louis, letting the flash of white linen occupy part of his field of vision. He held the weapon by his side in the approved fashion, trusting that Hal and William had loaded them properly.

  Sometimes the seconds “accidentally” forgot to load the balls. While he wished that to be the case, Ben could not rely on it. Maddening though his cousin was, he had no desire to hurt him. He made some rapid calculations. If he aimed at the right side of Louis’s waistcoat, he wouldn’t cause any lasting damage. Honor would be served. They would sort out the problem of Honoria another way. In private. They wouldn’t need the surgeon, even though they had brought one, as the rules dictated.

  She was Ben’s. He had claimed her. He would have to bring Louis around to understand that. Louis was lying; he had to be. How could Honoria swear undying love to him and sleep with Louis at the same time?

  Anticipation sent a shot of energy through his blood. When Hal said, “Gentlemen, are you ready?” Ben nodded and raised his weapon, holding it steady, aiming it at Louis’s chest. He would move six inches to the left. He had no idea what Louis planned, but he refused to believe his cousin meant to kill him.

  Except Louis held his gun aimed at Ben. Right at his heart. A touch of concern made Ben waver, but he had no time to change his plan. Not that he wanted to.

  “You may fire when you are ready,” William said.

  The spectators fell silent. It would not be gentlemanly to interrupt the concentration of the opponents. In any case, if someone shouted, they would have to build the distraction into the odds after the event. It might even invalidate some wagers.

  They drew back the hammers on their weapons. The click echoed around the sward of Hampstead Heath. Someone standing in the garden of Kenwood House, on the other side of the Heath, would hear it.

  The fraught silence lasted for the rest of Ben’s life, or that was what it felt like. In this eternal stretch of time, it might be true.

  With a clap of wings and a harsh cry, a crow flew out of the oak tree at Ben’s right.

  A shot followed and a sharp pain blossomed in Ben’s side. The shock of the hit made Ben tighten his grip. His own weapon burst into life, the flare of the flint as the hammer hit the pan dazzling his sight.

  Dropping the pistol, he fell to his knees and clutched his rib cage. He gasped, forcing himself to conquer the pain, to keep breathing. When his sight cleared, he beheld a scene he would never forget.

  Louis lay on the ground, his feet toward Ben, the brown leather of his boots darkened with dew. Two men knelt at his head, the surgeon and William.

  Hal rushed to Ben. “What has he done? How badly are you wounded?”

  A few deep breaths gave Ben some measure of control. “It hurts like the devil, but I don’t think he’s done more than graze me.”

  “He aimed for your heart,” Hal said grimly.

  “But he missed,” Ben reminded him. “Now get a pad of linen for me, there’s a good fellow, and find out what has happened to Louis.”

  Hal tore off his shirt sleeve and roughly fashioned it into a wad of fabric, pressing it to Ben’s side. Ben winced, but bore the pain. It was receding now, from blinding to agonizing. Enough for him to take note of what else was happening.

  Already the crowd was dispersing. The sound of shots, loud in the quiet morning air, would be enough to rouse the authorities. The spectators would settle their wagers in the comfort of their clubs.

  Ben sank back on his heels and breathed deeply. When pain speared him, he bit the side of his cheek to prevent himself crying out. A rib or two was probably cracked or broken. When he moved the pad, the bleeding was settling to a sluggish trickle.

  Hal raced back. “We have to go,” he said, anxiety creasing his forehead and deepening the brackets around his mouth.

  “What?” Ben wouldn’t leave his cousin. Their dispute was settled, honor restored. He could make sure Louis was cared for.

  “Ben, he’s bleeding badly. You shot him over his heart. He’s like to die.”

  Death in a duel, honor or not, was murder in the eyes of the law, premeditated and carried out. If Louis died, Ben would
hang, unless he did as Hal urged. “He’ll die?”

  “The surgeon can’t see him surviving. Yes, fool, he will die.”

  “I didn’t mean to kill him...” Ben rose and took a step toward his cousin, but Hal put his hand on his arm.

  “Don’t go. Don’t watch him die. You’ll never forget it.”

  Guilt burdened him, and numbness filled his body until his feet weighed heavy as lead. “It was that bird—”

  “Yes. But the damage is done. Come.”

  This time Ben allowed Hal to lead him to the carriage waiting on the pathway. He climbed in and spared one glance behind him. The people remaining at the scene were crowding around the supine body of Louis. Ben’s thoughts whirled, confused.

  “This wasn’t supposed to happen,” he muttered as the carriage drew away. “I was the one who should have died.”

  Chapter 2

  Spring, 1750

  Ben threaded his hand through his hair, spreading his fingers out before he reached the bow at the back of his head. If he had a valet, he’d have appalled the man, but these days he rarely bothered with a body servant. No time, no inclination, no reason to have one.

  Getting up from his desk, he took a turn around his office, the letter in his hand. Standing before the window, with its spectacular view of the bay, he stared out. From here he marked his ships in the forest of masts, the achievements he’d won with no help from anyone else.

  He read it again.

  The lines dragged him back to the world he’d left, the one he’d never expected to see again. Or wanted to, for that matter.

  Dear Ben,

  I need advice.

  Events here are coming to a head.

  Since the death of your father, Louis has run through as much of your fortune as he can get hold of. Now he wants the entailed property.

  The only way he can do this is to inherit. That can only happen if you are dead. Since the last time anyone saw you was the day of the duel, Louis wants you declared dead on the last day of August. That’s seven years and a month since you were last heard of.