The Making of a Marquess

by Lynne Connolly

  He heaved a heavy sigh and looked away, as if avoiding her gaze. “I need to tell you about Mary. She was pretty, fragile, charming, tiny, a perfect catch. And she loved me. She said so, often.” He swallowed, then opened his mouth again to continue.

  Whatever he planned to say next was lost in the cheery greeting from his best friend. Dorothea cursed Lord Evington, but she did it silently, since Ben turned to him in what she suspected was relief.

  “Hal! You decided to brave the mud, then?”

  “I did.” Lord Evington had declared his intention of going for a ride that morning. Apparently he had changed, since he wore clean clothes. His green coat went beautifully with the distant hills. He raised his hat. “Morning, Miss Rowland.” He glanced at Ben. “Oh no, did I interrupt something? Wish me to perdition and I’ll go straight there.”

  “Not at all,” Ben said before Dorothea had a chance to say anything. “We were just planning our future. I have given Dorothea something to ponder.”

  “Really?” Lord Evington scowled. “I won’t ask what it is. I came to tell you that that scoundrel Thorpe is raising hell in the house.”

  “In what way?”

  Evington turned back and waved at the upper story, where someone was opening curtains, then winced and pulled his arm back to his side. He was still experiencing some discomfort, then. “He is crossing out names on your guest list and adding his own guests. He’s also ordered the rooms you desired opened and cleaned to be closed up again.”

  “Assumptions he is not entitled to,” Dorothea said. Anger rose inside her. Why would Louis want to undo all their work? Did he hate Ben that much? “I will insist the household continues to run as I have set it.”

  Ben smiled. “I’m sure you will. But the documents appear conclusive. I’m ready to revert to plain Mr. Thorpe once more.”

  Hal glared at Ben, his eyes wide, the lines at the corners of his mouth deep. “You’ll give up?”

  Ben lost the smile. He shrugged. “I can’t argue with the facts.”

  “So you’ll abandon all this?” Hal jutted his chin forward belligerently. “The place your ancestors built, all the people that depend on you and your estates? You know Louis will lay waste to it all. He’ll spend himself to a standstill, then he’ll mortgage what is left. Not only does that degrade the title, it degrades the country, too. And your family. You’ll give up without a fight? This isn’t just about you, Ben.”

  He flicked a glance at Dorothea. “You have the perfect marchioness, a woman with poise and intelligence. You’ll take all this away from her, too?”

  “What would fighting do?” Ben exploded then, his hands flying up from his sides. “Would that bring credit to the family name? And if I am a bastard, what then? I can do nothing about that, nothing!”

  “But you might not be. That discrepancy in the dates.”

  “It’s because he doesn’t want it.” In a flash, Dorothea knew what was wrong. “He never wanted the title, not after he found his own life. Making your own future, I understand that. That’s what I did when I accepted Angela Childers’s offer to become one of her agents.”

  “What?” Now she’d garnered the attention of Lord Evington. “What are you talking about?”

  “This.” She touched the silver pin on her shoulder. “Who sees and isn’t noticed? Who is so much a part of the scenery that nobody remembers if they were there or not?” She pointed at herself. “The single lady. Miss Childers comes across many problems we can help with.”

  “Good God,” Evington drawled. “I will never look at a poor relation the same way again.”

  At least she’d calmed the two men down.

  “Excellent.” Dorothea faced him, eye to eye. Being of a height helped, but she would have done the same had she been four feet tall. “I wouldn’t, if I were you. But if you’ve done nothing wrong, you have nothing to fear.”

  After a fraught silence, his lordship threw back his head and howled with laughter. “Oh, that’s rich! Perfect!” He held out his hand. When Dorothea put hers in it, he did not raise it to his lips, or bow, or some such obeisance; he shook it.

  That gesture meant more to her than anything else he could have done.

  “I love that. Am I to keep this to myself?”

  “By no means,” she said. “We discussed this at the last meeting before I left London. We want people to know where to come, who to contact. We are acting for Miss Childers, but we could help others.”

  “I admire that, I truly do,” his lordship said.

  “You would not be my friend if you did not,” Ben put in. “Dorothea is a resourceful woman.”

  Not what she wanted him to say, but she was glad of it anyway.

  His lordship gestured to Ben but spoke to Dorothea. “What will you do about this? Will you accept the situation?”

  Emboldened by Lord Evington’s question, she shook her head. She had been ready to give everything up. Used to sitting in the background, being overlooked, she had shaped her reactions accordingly. But she had a band of people to support her now, and the courage of her own convictions. “No.” She spared Ben a glance. “I will ensure justice is done. That discrepancy of dates is significant, I’m sure of it. It was a month and a few days after the original ceremony, which does appear to have been invalid.” She sent him an apologetic, wry smile, but he was watching her, a gleam in his eyes that she couldn’t interpret. “Ben has asked me if I want to marry Mr. Thorpe and move to Boston with him. If I have to, then I will.” The decision filled her with trepidation, but she wouldn’t allow anyone to see it. That was for her alone to know. “But I will first do everything I can to ensure he is not cheated out of this.”

  “But I don’t want it,” Ben said.

  “It is not yours to turn down.” A title belonged to the person inheriting it. “You may choose to turn your back on it, to appoint a manager, to call yourself Mr. Thorpe. Nobody can stop you doing that. But you will be the marquess until the day of your death, and your son will inherit. If you have one,” she added hastily. Because if he meant it, and he still wanted her to marry him, she would have to fulfill that duty.

  “I cannot imagine you not bearing fine sons.” His voice softened, he stepped toward her and took her hand. “I am honored that you chose me, Dorothea. I would be the luckiest man alive if you decided to go ahead with the marriage.” He smiled. “But the choice is yours.”

  “I’ve chosen.” She would stand by her promise. Not least because she loved him.

  Chapter 20

  The muniments room was not the finest space in the house, but it contained the family’s greatest treasures. It was situated at the end of the old part of the building, down a level, in an area Ben told Dorothea had been in existence since Cressbrook House was built. Perhaps before then.

  She repressed a shiver when she entered, wishing she’d kept her cloak on, or at least brought a shawl. The room was lined with stone, its windows high up and only barely exposed to the light, certainly not big enough for a person to gain entrance, not even a contortionist like one of those children thieves were said to use to gain ingress into small spaces.

  A large iron safe was set into one wall, and an ancient chest was pushed next to it, forming a rudimentary seat. The large, scarred oak desk held a plethora of papers, and crudely built glass-front bookcases contained folders and documents, some of them leather bound. Two worn chairs and an oil lamp were set next to an unlit branch of candles.

  “Goodness, this is secure!” Dorothea exchanged a glance with Sir James, who had followed Ben and Dorothea in.

  “Family legend has it that it was used as a prison cell to hold wrongdoers before their trial,” Ben said. “It’s dank enough.”

  Collecting a tinderbox off the table, he busied himself lighting the candles, casting a warm glow over the scene. It didn’t help a great deal. Dorothea touched a folder, drifted her fin
gers over it.

  “That’s my father’s will,” Ben said. “It’s straightforward enough; it leaves everything to me.”

  “Does the estate have much unentailed property?” asked Sir James.

  “It’s about half entailed and half not. I am entitled to the unentailed part, whether I am legitimate or not, since my father’s will left it to me.”

  “So if the title went to Louis, half the estate would be yours.”

  Ben nodded. “Yes, it would. I could save some of it, anyway. Unless Louis found a way to dissipate that as well. He’s borrowed on the expectation, but while I was considered still alive he couldn’t sell it.” He touched a large tome that looked very old, the leather cracked with age. “Here’s the inventory of this house. Each part of the estate has a separate list, and the estate manager is supposed to aggregate them every year and prepare a report for the marquess. I have no idea if this has been done, but Schultz assures me that a man came up from London every six months to keep the records up to date.”

  Sir James frowned. “I would have thought an estate this size would have a permanent person in charge of recording the inventories. A secretary, or the estate manager.”

  “I have someone doing something similar for my business,” Ben said. “If we find what we’re looking for, I will ensure that will happen again.”

  “Then let us pray we find something,” Sir James said.

  “In what circumstances would the title become Ben’s?” Dorothea asked the officer.

  “If we discover that his parents remarried before his birth, making the marriage valid.” He lifted his hands. “I will have to report this to the Lord Chancellor, as it is his decision that counts. Unfortunately, Lord Hardwicke dislikes irregular marriages exceedingly. He is working toward an entirely new law that will make marriage a regular and more defined state. It has been his obsession for years. So to him, an irregular marriage is an illegal one.”

  “There is no doubt the man who wed them was a fraud?”

  “None at all, I’m afraid. He was a notorious impersonator, gaining money from his transactions. Many people were caught out by his antics.” Sir James sighed. “The situation is made difficult by the fact that the man was a well-known fraudster.”

  “What about handfasting?” Ben put in. At least he was trying. Hal’s angry speech must have roused him to action. “If a couple declare themselves married, is that not enough?”

  “Not in his lordship’s eyes, though you could test it in court. But what is done is done. If the title is awarded to your cousin and later the decision is found to be faulty, it is unlikely he will lose the marquessate. Possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

  Ben heaved a sigh. “I do not want to hold this family up to recrimination and ridicule. A court case could take years and prove ruinously expensive for all.”

  “True,” Sir James agreed.

  “I would rather the decision was made quickly. For my part, I will not question it, if it goes against me. I cannot speak for my cousin’s reaction, of course, but if the decision is for me, at least the title and lands will not be his to use and abuse.” He plucked a bound volume off the shelf. “This is the register of the family’s personal documents from this century, so the last fifty years. If there are marriage certificates, they should be here. These are not the originals, but copies, and a recording of where the originals are held.”

  Sir James rubbed his hands together. “Ah!”

  Clearing a space on the table, Ben set the candelabrum there and placed the book below it. Together, all three looked on as he turned the pages. His grandfather’s marriage and the records of the children born to him and his wife were faithfully registered there. Almost all had the original records as “In St. Edmund’s,” which was the parish church where Dorothea and Ben were to marry next Monday, or “At Mr. Exeter’s.” In most cases, both places were named.

  The third marquess had a quiverful of children, but only three were boys.

  “I never knew my grandfather,” Ben said. “He died before I was born. My father was the marquess when I came into the world. But I had a herd of great-aunts. Still have three. They have all sent their warm regards but prefer to keep their distance. Two uncles, both of whom have died. Louis and William are Uncle Alexander’s sons. My other uncle has no children, or no legitimate ones, at any rate. He is abroad, serving in the diplomatic corps. As matters stand, he is the heir after Louis.”

  “Ah yes, I met him once. A perspicacious man, fond of detail,” Sir James said. “He is in Constantinople, is he not?”

  “He is. He is not married, nor likely to be so.”

  Dorothea read every one of the carefully written lines. Ben’s uncle had the right of it, at least where records of this nature were concerned. Detail was all-important. They outlined the story of a family, and if she’d had more time, she’d have enjoyed exploring the volumes. Her imagination filled in the gaps. The generation that had girl after girl until the precious boy came along, then had two more. Their poor mother must have been exhausted by that time. “I have heard some women can have children like shelling peas. I have never met one.”

  Ben touched her shoulder. “A man should not demand that of a woman.”

  “Perhaps he did not. She could have been the one to insist.”

  He sighed. “You’re right. They were both formidable people, by all accounts. My grandmother lived to see me born, but I don’t remember her. By all accounts, she was not a fond mama. More the kind that had her children brought to her once a day so she might quiz them on what she considered important.”

  Dorothea could imagine what that was. Her parents had been the other kind, the ones who did not abandon their children to servants. She remembered her father as a kind and loving man, who had taught his children the standards they strove to live up to.

  Ben turned the page. The left-hand side contained the accounts of Ben’s grandfather’s death, and his will with the bequests to the servants, good causes and...

  After that—nothing. The facing page was blank.

  “Shouldn’t your parents’ marriage be here? The settlement and your birth?”

  “They should.”

  Ben ran a finger down the center of the book, sucked in a sharp breath and drew his finger away. A streak of blood marred the flesh. Dorothea found her handkerchief and passed it to him in silence.

  “Someone cut out the page,” she said numbly.

  “Indeed.” Sir James examined the book for himself, more carefully than Ben had done, and came away without a paper cut. “That means there is a need to examine this issue. It also means this book was tampered with recently, or the paper wouldn’t have been sharp enough to nick you.”

  Ben shot a quizzical glance at him, but Dorothea understood. “If the records confirmed Louis’s story, there would have been no need to remove them.”

  “I don’t have to ask you if you removed them, do I?” Sir James asked Ben.

  At least the officer understood who he was dealing with. “No, you do not. I came back because I had to. I am not a poor man, and if I inherit the title, it would be more of an inconvenience than otherwise. You have, I take it, investigated my business?”

  Sir James nodded. “Naturally.”

  “What do we do now?” Dorothea asked.

  “We must continue to investigate. Discover who has taken this sheet, and if the originals are safe.”

  “I doubt that.” Ben closed the book with extravagant care and stared down at the leather cover, which had his coat of arms stamped on it. With the tip of his finger, he traced the lines of the stag that formed one of the supporters. “Louis went down to London, where our man of business holds copies. And if he has not visited the vicar in the village, who holds the parish records, I’d be shocked. He has systematically destroyed any rebuttal we might have.”

  “What do we do now?” Dor
othea wondered. “Apart from hunting for the records.”

  “I will consider that.” Sir James took one last look at the book, then walked toward the door. “Currently, I intend to order a pot of tea and a fire in my room. I’m chilled to the bone.”

  Ben watched him leave. “It appears I might be the marquess after all. I would have preferred to draw a line under the matter, one way or another.” Reaching out, he drew her close, and Dorothea went as if she belonged there. Which she did.

  “I won’t hold you to our arrangement,” he murmured, his lips against her hair, “but I am looking forward to showing you Boston one day. I think you will like it.”

  * * * *

  Upstairs, the house was in a bustle. Footmen were hauling traveling trunks across the hall, and people stood gossiping. At least eight, by Dorothea’s swift count.

  “Mr. Thorpe is planning a ball to celebrate his accession to the title. Mrs. Thorpe is quite revitalized.”

  “I’ll wager she is,” Ben said grimly. He took Dorothea upstairs, where, fortunately, nobody had been placed in what they were beginning to regard as their part of the house.

  An hour later, Dorothea entered the drawing room to a slight hush. She had expected that. People would be talking about her. She even caught a few pitying glances sent her way. Assuming an air of quiet dignity did not come naturally to her any longer. But she did her best, and went to join her brother and sister-in-law where they stood by the fire.

  “You look in fine fettle tonight,” Ann remarked.

  Dorothea glanced down at her clothing. As usual, she was plainly dressed, but her deep blue gown was in the latest fashion, with its smaller hoop and delicate pattern, and her white damask petticoat was a recent purchase. Still, she’d worn them before.

  Her luggage had arrived today. Because of her expected marriage, she had sent for her belongings. The contents of her wardrobe had arrived, and the maid Ben had assigned to her had spent the afternoon unpacking them. Soon her books would come. She looked forward to that.