The Making of a Marquess

by Lynne Connolly

A strong perfume wafted over her. “Dear Miss Rowland, do you intend to go ahead with your planned ceremony?” Lady Steeping waved her fan, which only sent a stronger gust of the sickly aroma in Dorothea’s direction. “After all, circumstances have changed.”

  Dorothea didn’t hesitate in her reply. “But the man I promised to marry has not changed. And isn’t that the most important consideration?”

  Most people in the room would have said no, and cited standing and wealth, but she dared them to articulate it.

  Lady Steeping favored her with an amused titter. “Some might say so. However, the man is only part of the bargain. I must say he is a bear of a man, if one likes that kind of thing, and he’s been most gracious in his conduct. That does make me think better of him.”

  Considering what Ben had said to Lady Steeping the other day, her words surprised Dorothea. Perhaps they were for someone else’s benefit. Sir James stood on the other side of the room while Louis Thorpe talked to him, or rather, talked at him. What was he saying? What had Sir James told him?

  “Thank you.”

  Conversation started up again and passed on to town gossip, which Dorothea would not deny she had missed. She would miss it all the more if she went to Boston. However, they probably had their own society gossip. She could not imagine a situation where people would not listen avidly to other people’s business.

  Ben entered, a lady by his side and the Earl of Marston, commonly known as Mars, on the other. Marston’s dark good looks were balanced by his modest fortune. Few people knew how hard he was working to restore the depredations made on his estate by the previous holder. Dorothea only knew because Mars had a tendre for Angela Childers, and so she’d seen more of him than many people.

  Dorothea was delighted to see them both. Surging forward and knocking everyone out of the way would not have been acceptable. Therefore, she had to wait for them to make their way over to where she stood.

  Ben smiled at her, an intimate caress that warmed her. Then he set himself to work his way past the guests, all of whom craved a word or two with him.

  Eventually, Dorothea could embrace her friend. “Angela! I am so happy to see you!”

  Angela, as beautiful and fashionable as ever, returned the hug warmly. “After your last letter I could hardly stay away, could I?”

  Ignoring Louis’s glare, Angela flicked open her fan with careless elegance and plied it gently, the brilliants set into the pattern flashing in the sunlight. At this time of year sunset wouldn’t occur for three hours or so yet, and the curtains remained open.

  As always, Angela displayed her considerable wealth in the subtlest of ways. But everyone knew the fine pearls around her neck were not fish scale and glass beads, and the diamonds in her hair owed nothing to the glassmaker. She wore them with careless elegance, but nobody would miss the message. Although she had one foot in the City of London and the other in Mayfair, she belonged equally in both places.

  After she had made her curtsy to Lord Marston, Ben bent over Dorothea’s hand, his lips grazing her skin and raising the inevitable thrill along her nerves in response. “Did I do well to bring her to you?”

  “Did you know she was coming?”

  He rumbled a laugh. “Not until she arrived in the wake of Sir James and Louis.”

  “She threw the Duke of Devonshire’s house into complete disarray,” Lord Marston added. He was as tall as Ben, and as powerfully built, but in Dorothea’s eyes, not nearly so handsome. “I offered to escort her.”

  Angela threw him a roguish glance. “I thought better to allow that than to have you trailing behind.”

  Marston raised a dark brow. “Like a pathetic puppy?”

  “I can think of many people who would appear that way, but not you.” Angela raised a laugh with that comment.

  “Why the haste?” Dorothea asked her.

  “How could I stay away from your wedding?” Angela demanded.

  Her exquisite presence had created quite a stir. Louis was definitely not pleased to see her, but he was making his way across the room to her when Schultz entered and announced that dinner was served.

  Formality dictated the order people processed in to the dining room, and where they sat. Since two claimants to the marquessate were present, there was some hesitation. “I suggest that we use our current status,” Louis said. “You are the superior by age, cousin, so you may go in first.”

  His wife smirked.

  Dorothea went in with Ben, who had merely nodded his agreement. That put him in a dilemma. Did he claim the head of the table, or leave it for Louis? To do the first would be to assume his claim, but not to do it would cede the ground to his cousin.

  His solution was to accept the head, which he was almost bound to do. But he gave Dorothea the place by his side, instead of at the bottom of the table, which the marchioness would automatically assume. She left that to Lady Honoria, who took it reluctantly.

  Honor was served.

  Angela sat opposite, on Ben’s other side. The chatter was lively, everyone avoiding the fraught topic they had all arrived to witness, until Lady Steeping stepped in where angels, and Angela, refused to tread.

  “So, Sir James, do you intend to keep us all in suspense about your decision? Will you bestow the title on Louis Thorpe, or his cousin?”

  Conversation stilled. Lady Steeping lifted her glass of white wine and fixed her bright blue gaze on Sir James. “Indeed, you really must tell us, sir! Surely now the marriage of poor Mr. Benedict Thorpe’s parents has been declared invalid, the decision is made for you?”

  Sir James took his time replying. He put his knife and fork crossways on the plate. Louis had ordered the most elaborate set to be pressed into service again. The gold gleamed balefully, and Dorothea could not help reflecting on what she would have done with the money Louis had frittered away on it. The green drawing room needed new drapes, for one thing. Louis was all show, no substance.

  “Not at all,” Sir James said. “There is a discrepancy in the dates of the wedding, enough to indicate that another wedding might have taken place. I cannot discount that possibility.”

  A low murmur started up.

  Sir James glanced around the table, pausing at Ben, and then Louis. “Naturally, I will inform the parties concerned when I have made my decision, but I am only discerning the truth and listing the evidence. It is only a recommendation. The King has expressed his interest in the affair, but the title must be awarded according to the rules set down in the letters patent. His opinion is only peripheral.”

  “What is his majesty’s opinion?” Lady Steeping leaned forward, bringing her ruffled bodice perilously close to the sauce boat set before her plate.

  “I cannot possibly betray the King’s confidence.”

  Sir James first gave Louis his attention, then Ben. He smiled at Ben. That was enough. Dorothea didn’t care what the King wanted, or even why Sir James hadn’t mentioned it before, but that look gave Ben the advantage, and she was glad.

  Sir James sipped his wine and put the glass back in its spot. “Some would say the suspicion of a second marriage was enough. Others would recall that handfasting is sometimes sufficient to seal a bargain. At the Royal Exchange, thousands are contracted on a mere handshake.”

  The gentle sound of silver on porcelain accompanied the discussion. Lord Steeping laughed. He was a hearty man who cared little for nuance. “If you believe that, why not say so, man? For God’s sake, is this a game to you?”

  “Besides,” Louis put in quietly, sparing Ben a glance. “My cousin has become a prosperous merchant. He has a tidy business to return to. Perhaps we should allow him to do that. I have to admit I do admire your achievements, but the colonies are so far away. No doubt you are well respected in your little community.”

  “No doubt,” Ben answered, unruffled. “But I do not intend to abandon what I have built in the last
seven years, whatever the outcome of this dispute.”

  “That is up to you.” Louis’s smile was smooth. “It can hardly affect what is happening over here.”

  Ben raised a black brow. “Do you think so? Louis, do you remember selling the merchant traders my father used to own?”

  “I do. They were not raising the profit I expected.”

  More likely, the ships were an easy way of making money.

  “Six fine ships, newly refurbished. They came at a good time for me, since I had put some of my fleet into dry dock for repairs. And the price was so good, how could I refuse to buy them?”

  “You bought them? But the price was—”

  Ben stopped Louis mentioning the amount. “A bargain. Almost enough for me to believe you knew I was behind the sale, but of course, you could not. That was before my father-in-law passed away and I took sole control of the company.”

  Louis’s jaw dropped. “You own Foulson’s Shipping?”

  “I do.”

  “How can that be?”

  Ben smiled. “A combination of hard work and marrying the owner’s daughter.” He glanced at Dorothea, checking with her before he said anything further. She gave him a brief nod, agreeing to him revealing more. “The bargain was to both our advantages. I was not anxious to make my presence known, since I had every intention of leaving my mistakes behind and starting anew.”

  “Good Lord!” Lord Steeping had a reputation for intemperate language, but if he had not made an exclamation, someone else might have done. “You see reports of that company every day in the newspapers! You own that, sir? Why, then, do you want the marquessate?”

  The implication was, after Louis had laid the title to waste.

  “Honor,” Ben said simply. “If I am to inherit the title from my father, then I will not abandon my duty.”

  “Glad to hear it, sir. One must always put one’s country first.”

  As if half the people sitting at the table tonight didn’t think of themselves before country, or how they could benefit from their service. Dorothea sipped her wine and allowed the footman to remove her plate. The servants quietly set about clearing the course in preparation for the next one.

  “I do plan to change the company name,” Ben said. “Now my father-in-law and my wife are no more, I am the sole owner. Thorpe and Foulson has a good ring to it.”

  “It does, sir. But you would not need the company, surely, once you inherit.”

  Ben merely lifted his brow and leaned back to give the footman access to the tureen at his elbow. Gossip would carry the news of Ben’s wealth, and soon everyone would know. The villagers would prefer Ben in charge, surely, considering the state of their cottages. Ben was turning the tide in his favor. If Sir James could find for him, he would do so.

  But Sir James was a fussbudget, and he would work to ensure the correct decision was made. By which, he would mean not the person who could do the most for the title and estate, but the one who had it by right. Which currently appeared to be the person who wanted to take it apart.

  Chapter 21

  A bloodcurdling scream woke Dorothea from a deep slumber. Ben’s arms tightened around her, and he cursed. “What in all Hades was that?”

  Light was seeping in through the crack between the curtains as Ben pulled his watch from underneath his pillow. “It’s a quarter past seven. Has a maid dropped a chamber pot?”

  His prosaic suggestion helped to calm Dorothea, who was not used to being woken up like that. After a night when Ben had collected her from her room and deposited her firmly in his bed, she was feeling cherished. She wasn’t sure what to do with the emotion.

  Nobody cherished her. As she was still in the throes of her monthly courses, she’d assumed Ben would prefer not to be with her and had prepared for bed in her own room. Bundled up like a baby, wrapped in layers of cloth and her night rail on top, she’d protested in vain. “You need warmth, and I intend to provide it. Besides, I find that I sleep better with you.”

  Now, her fuddled senses scattered, she was prepared for the worst. The house tumbling down at the very least. She never woke well.

  Scrambling out of bed, she threw on her robe, tying the belt hastily and reaching for the buttons. She shoved her feet into her soft shoes and went to the door, but Ben, attired in that jaw-dropping dark blue banyan, arrived before her and opened it. “If I say run, you run back here and bolt the door. Understand?”

  He had a pistol in his hand.

  “What? You think there’s trouble?”

  He gave a mirthless laugh. “With all that’s been happening recently? At the instant I say it, come back here, do you understand?” He glared at her fiercely.

  Oh. “Yes,” she said meekly, although other circumstances would have had her answering differently. “Do you have another pistol?”

  “Not loaded, no.”

  “Pity.”

  He eyed her with consideration. “I’ll make sure there are two available next time. If there is a next time.”

  He went first, waving her behind him. Amused by his masculine assertion of control, especially if it turned out a maid had dropped a chamber pot, she followed him. He would feel safer if she was behind him. Perhaps he needed to protect her, who knew? Men had the most foolish notions sometimes.

  More people were about, including Hal, and farther along, William Thorpe. As they turned into the main corridor on this floor, other guests were hurrying in the same direction. And then they heard another scream.

  Her brother emerged from his new bedroom, glanced at her, then Ben, and flicked his gaze up in an exasperated expression, but he said nothing. He, too, carried a pistol. Lady Steeping and her husband emerged, then Lord Marston, then Sir James. “What on earth is happening?”

  Everyone was in undress, either nightclothes or a loose robe. Dorothea marked the people they met and when they joined the group, because she might have to remember later. Her heart was pounding against her chest by now; something was badly wrong, she sensed it.

  Angela joined them and handed Dorothea a loaded weapon. Dorothea breathed her thanks.

  As they approached the suite occupied by Louis and Lady Honoria, the door was flung open and Lady Honoria’s maid raced out, straight into Ben’s arms. He set the woman aside without speaking, and, grim-faced, strode into the room.

  Nobody waited for an invitation.

  The boudoir, which seemed perfectly in order, led into the bedroom that traditionally belonged to the marquess. Ben was first through, followed closely by Hal and William. After a cry of “Good God!” Ben came back to the door, but Dorothea would have none of it. She met his gaze, challenging him to keep her out.

  “The ladies should not see this,” he said, his voice shaking. His eyes were wide, and they had the blank look that signified he’d cut off his emotional side.

  Dorothea swallowed. Whatever lay inside was not pleasant. But she was not so feeble. She opened her mouth to say so, but Angela forestalled her. “I am not just a lady, I’m his banker. Let us through.”

  “Very well, but only you two, and Sir James.” Raising his gaze, he addressed the others, lifting his voice over the unearthly wailing coming from inside the room. “It appears that Mr. Thorpe has perished. There is no danger here. Not any longer. Please return to your rooms and allow us to deal with the situation.”

  “I will call the maids to have tea and coffee served in the breakfast room,” Lady Steeping declared. Strident she might be, but Dorothea blessed her practicality.

  The guests filtered out, their voices raised in speculation.

  She exchanged a look with Angela. Louis was dead? No doubt Ben would expect them to deal with what was obviously a hysterical Lady Honoria. Had the poor lady woken to find her husband dead beside her?

  The bed formed the centerpiece of the room, draped dramatically in crimson brocade, the Thorpe
coat of arms emblazoned on the headboard. The setting was almost theatrical, as was the woman slumped on the counterpane over the body of her dead husband.

  Who had perished not from any natural cause, but because of the dagger inserted between his ribs.

  * * * *

  Blood soaked the bed, the once-pristine sheets drenched in gore. The dagger stuck up, a dramatic counterpoint to the grief-stricken widow in her pale lemon banyan. Honoria’s loose golden hair flowed over the lower part of her husband’s body.

  Like a beautiful depiction of grief, Dorothea thought irreverently. But she could not help the notions that popped into her mind unbidden.

  “Dear God, the children,” Angela murmured. She moved forward, careful to keep her skirts out of the way, and touched Lady Honoria’s shoulder. “Come, my dear.” Dorothea followed her lead, but walked around the bed, taking note of the scene. Ashamed that she didn’t feel anything but shock.

  “Who is the lord lieutenant of the county?” Sir James demanded. “And the local magistrate? He must be sent for.”

  Ben answered him. “We will send word. Nothing can be done now. We must comfort Lady Honoria and ensure the room is secured.”

  At the sound of her name, Lady Honoria flung Angela’s hand away, got to her feet, and threw herself at Ben. He had no option but to catch her, even if only to stop her falling to the floor. Her sobs began anew, this time into his shoulder, and words arrived. “I came in and there he was. H-he w-was s-so angry tonight! B-but alive, and now he’s deaaaad! Take me away, Ben, I can’t bear this! I was in the next room, the m-murderer c-could have come for me! Who did this? Please, Ben, I want to go!”

  With his arms full of Lady Honoria, Ben couldn’t shrug, but the slight tightening of his mouth gave away his exasperation.

  If not for the situation, Dorothea would have smiled. But she could not say she liked the way Ben swept Lady Honoria up and carried her in the direction of her bedroom. He used no effort at all, but at least her hysterical screaming had quieted to convulsive sobbing. Dorothea couldn’t deny she would react the same way if she ever found Ben in that condition.