A Marquis to Marry

by Amelia Grey

  “That long? Sounds like she is as reclusive as her husband when he was alive. You were in the park with a beautiful woman, and Gibby was challenged to a duel? What else has been going on since I married that I don’t know about? I can’t believe you two have been keeping all this news from me.”

  “It’s not as if we wanted to or intended to, Blake. It’s just that you aren’t as accessible as you used to be.”

  “I live less than a mile from the both of you, and I damn well expect that one of you will stop by once in a while and fill me in on what’s happening in my own family.”

  “Can we please get back to Gibby and the fight?” Race asked in an irritable voice. “The challenge happened less than an hour ago, so it’s not as though days have passed concerning Gibby. Right now, his situation is more important than the duchess or your hurt feelings.”

  Blake growled. “My feelings aren’t hurt. I’m angry I was left out.”

  “I agree that we do need to discuss Gibby,” Morgan added. “But there’s one more thing about the duchess that Blake needs to know before we quit the subject. She wants Race to hand over our grandmother’s pearls to her.”

  “What?” Blake asked, clearly taken aback by this news.

  “Yes,” Morgan continued. “She says they were stolen from her family and wants Blake to give them back.”

  “What gall! Would you two blackguards not keep things like this from me ever again? Even if I am married, I still want to know what is happening.”

  Race suddenly felt as though he was back in the park again. He wasn’t having any better luck keeping control of the conversation with these two than he had with Gibby and Prattle.

  “All right, you’ve made that clear already, Blake.

  Morgan, you’ve said enough. Now, would both of you please sit down so we can get back to Gibby? The duchess and the pearls can wait.”

  Grumbling to themselves, his cousins took the two upholstered wing chairs that flanked a small circular table, and Race sat in the middle of the flower-printed settee facing them.

  “I’ll make this simple for you. Mr. Steven Prattle’s sister, Penelope, accused Gibby of compromising her at Lord Tinkerton’s party last night.”

  “Gibby?” Blake exclaimed. “No way in hell. That didn’t happen. I’m sure of it, but start at the beginning, and tell us everything.”

  Race briefly filled them in on all that happened in the park, leaving out only the part about his kissing the duchess when he took her home. Contrary to what his cousins thought, he did not have to tell them everything.

  “And you couldn’t persuade Gibby to give up this preposterous idea of a boxing match?”

  Race drained his wine glass and placed it on the rosewood table in front of him. “No. I think Prattle might have been convinced to forget this idea if I could have persuaded Gibby, but Gib had whipped the crowd into a frenzy to get them on his side. They were with him all the way, shouting ‘fight’ at him over and over again. You can’t imagine what it was like.”

  “What in the devil made Gib want to box the man like a bruiser?” Blake asked, shaking his head.

  “Who knows what goes through that strange mind of his? It’s clear we have to figure out a way to get Gibby out of this and let him save face, too.”

  “Usually the only way that is done is by marrying the lady in question,” Morgan offered.

  “Do either of you know of her?” Blake asked.

  “I’m thinking she’s one of the spinsters who usually sit around the dance floor at the Great Hall,” Morgan said. “Seems she’s rather tall and buxom and maybe about fifty years old. Do either of you think Gibby wants to marry her?”

  Race was the first to answer. “I wouldn’t think so. He certainly never made an indication he wanted to marry anyone. You both know that he’s always maintained that the only woman he has ever loved or wanted to marry was our grandmother.”

  “I agree,” Blake said. “What exactly did he have to say for himself?”

  Race sighed. “He didn’t say anything other than he had been on the portico with Prattle’s sister.”

  “I bet Prattle loved hearing that.”

  “You can’t even imagine the rage the man was in,” Race said. “I thought his eyes were going to pop out of his head and his buttons burst off his waistcoat. If two bystanders hadn’t grabbed Prattle and held him back, he would have attacked Gibby right then and there.”

  “All right, one thing he can do is marry the woman,” Blake offered, “but we all agree he probably doesn’t want to do that, especially if he didn’t compromise.”

  All three men nodded.

  “He can go through with the fight, and we can hope he won’t get hurt,” Morgan offered.

  “No,” Race and Blake said in unison.

  “We have to do something,” Morgan reasoned. “I don’t want to see Gibby boxing a man, either, even if they are close to the same age, but bare-knuckle fighting probably wouldn’t kill him the way a sword or pistol could if Prattle decided to do something stupid.”

  “I agree, but that seems as distasteful as getting caught in a parson’s mouse trap,” Blake said.

  “We all know that Miss Prattle could have made this whole thing up in hopes Gibby would be forced to marry her.”

  Race nodded. “That’s very possible.”

  “All right, I suggest we offer them a reasonable sum of money,” Morgan said. “The brother and his sister. It’s the quickest, safest, and easiest way to settle the matter.”

  “I agree,” Race said. “None of us believe Gibby would have intentionally compromised the woman, but if for some reason she felt he crossed the line while he was on the portico with her, then she will at least be compensated for whatever injury she feels he caused.”

  “It’s a good idea only if Gibby, Prattle, and his sister go for it,” Blake injected. “Do either of you know the man well enough to approach him?”

  Morgan and Race shook their heads.

  “I thought as much,” Blake said. “The plan sounds good to me. And, Race, I believe it’s your turn to take care of Gib.”

  “Oh no, not me,” Race complained.

  “Yes, you. I just finished getting him out of that ridiculous balloon venture he was tangled up in a few weeks ago, and Morgan recently got his money back for him from that blasted time machine invention he was so crazy about a few months ago.”

  Race had a sinking feeling in his stomach. Somehow he had known they would leave it up to him to handle this.

  “All right, I’ll see if I can get Gibby to agree to us talking to Prattle.”

  “If he agrees, and they take the offer, we need say no more about this,” Blake offered.

  “There might be a few disgruntled people who wanted to see a fight, but soon a new scandal will come along, and everyone will forget about this one.”

  Morgan finished off his drink. “There are always new scandals on the horizon.”

  “Now tell me more about the duchess,” Blake said.

  Race tensed. He didn’t want to talk about her. He wanted to keep her all to himself. He couldn’t ever remember feeling that way about any other woman. He didn’t know why she was different; he knew only that she was and he didn’t want to discuss Susannah with them.

  “It’s a fascinating story,” Morgan began when Race didn’t speak up immediately. He rose and walked over to the sideboard. “She arrived unannounced at Race’s card party, which you missed by the way.”

  “Sorry about missing that, Race. We had good intentions of coming. It would have been Henrietta’s first card party, but we, ah—she—I mean…”

  “You’re forgiven,” Race said with a laugh, getting Blake out of the corner into which he’d back himself.

  “So you invited her to your card party? How did you know she was in Town? And what’s this about her claiming Grandmother’s pearls belong to her family?”

  “That’s part of the irony of this entire story,” Morgan said, speaking for Race once again.
“Race didn’t invite her. He had never even heard of her until she arrived at his door and demanded to see him.”

  “It wasn’t a demand,” Race countered.

  “I distinctly remember you thought so at the time.”

  “Morgan, that’s enough,” Race muttered.

  “Oh, quite right,” he said sarcastically. “I keep forgetting it’s your story to tell. I’ll just end my part of it by saying, I can’t believe she’s been hiding up in Blooming all these years, unless, of course, she had a very good reason to stay there.”

  Race threw imaginary daggers at Morgan’s chest.

  “So you took her to the park today,” Blake said. “My, my, things are moving fast, but tell me more about her claim. I knew you had some unsavory men asking about the pearls. By the way, I saw that fop Captain Spyglass last night. He was at the Great Hall, dancing with every young lady whose mother would let him near their daughter.”

  Morgan grunted. “I can’t figure out why any of them would. It’s all over London that he obtained his wealth by pirating ships.”

  “But not proven,” Race added.

  “It must be the secrecy that surrounds him that intrigues the ladies,” Morgan said, picking up the claret decanter. “I suppose that’s why people invite him to their parties. For some damned reason, they think it adds an element of danger and mystery to their lives to be associated with a man who might very well be a real pirate.”

  “And all it really adds is an unsavory character into their lives,” Blake inserted.

  The cousins laughed.

  “So tell me more about why the dowager thinks our grandmother’s pearls belong to her family.”

  “She says they were stolen more than twenty-five years ago,” Morgan said.

  “Morgan, do you mind if I tell this story?”

  “No, please do,” he said innocently. “You tell it. I’ll pour myself another glass of wine.”

  Race had said all he was going to say about Susannah or the pearls. “There’s nothing more to tell.”

  “That means she is as secretive about her past as is Captain Spyglass,” Morgan said, “but Race decided he didn’t want to know about it from anyone but her; however, I would like to know anything you can tell me, Blake.”

  Race started toward Morgan and then stopped. “Blast it, Morgan, would you just get your wine and be quiet.”

  “Easy, Race,” Blake said, holding up his hand to stop Race. “I would tell either of you anything I knew. I simply don’t know anything about her, but that said, it wouldn’t take me long to find out.”

  “No,” Race said firmly. “I’m quite capable of finding out anything about her I want to know. And just so you know, Morgan, Gibby met her this afternoon. He knew her husband well.”

  “Hmm. So did you talk to him about her?”

  “Prattle showed up before much was said.”

  “I’m just going to say one last thing,” Morgan said as he recapped the wine decanter.

  “Don’t,” Race and Blake said at the same time.

  Morgan laughed, and then said, “Race is going to have a quite good time getting to know this beautiful lady and getting to the bottom of why she thinks the pearls belong to her family.”

  “Why didn’t you just ask her?” Blake asked, looking confused.

  Morgan sat back down in his chair and sipped his wine. “That would be too easy. Once he knows that, the intrigue surrounding her will be gone, and he fancies the idea of not knowing.”

  “Go to hell, Morgan.”

  Morgan laughed. “Be glad to when the time comes, but for now, I’m having too much fun on earth.”

  “With a dowager duchess in Town, I’m sure Henrietta will want to invite her to tea. It’s the proper thing for her to do.”

  “By all means,” Race said with a confident smile and relaxed into the settee.

  He wasn’t worried about Susannah meeting Blake’s wife, the Duchess of Blakewell. He had the feeling Henrietta wouldn’t get any more information out of the duchess than he had.

  Seven

  My Grandson Alexander,

  I was reading one of Lord Chesterfield’s letters today and found this extraordinary quote from him. Read this with interest: “He who flatters women most, pleases them best; and they are most in love with him, who they think is the most in love with them. No adulation is too strong for them, no assiduity too great, no simulation of passion too gross; as, on the other hand, the least word or action that can possibly be construed into a slight or contempt is unpardonable and never forgotten.”

  Your loving Grandmother,

  Lady Elder

  SUSANNAH AND MRS. PRINCETON WALKED THROUGH the front door, laughing.

  “I really can’t believe the judgment of that French dressmaker we talked to earlier today,” Susannah said as she took off her black cape. “It did not take me very long to decide that she will not be designing anything for me.”

  Mrs. Princeton set her packages on the floor beside her and began taking off her outdoor clothing. “Some ladies go for the more extreme styles of diaphanous fabrics for evening and wide stripes for day.”

  “Hmm, and very vivid colors, too, but they are not for me. I prefer simple lines, pastel shades, and basic fabrics. Thankfully, I didn’t have to choose a dressmaker today. I can interview more modistes later in the week. However, I am very pleased about my purchase of the pianoforte,” Susannah said with a smile, untying the ribbons on her straw bonnet. “I can hardly wait for it to be delivered tomorrow.”

  “I didn’t want to say anything in front of the shopkeeper, but what will you do with it when we leave? Do you plan to have someone take it to Chapel Gate for you?”

  Susannah laid her gloves and reticule on the side table. “Of course not. Why would I, when I have one there? I will leave it here for the owners of this house so others can enjoy it, or,” she added thoughtfully, “perhaps I can find a small church here in London that is in need of a used pianoforte and donate it to them. That might be a nice thing to do, don’t you think?”

  “Very nice,” Mrs. Princeton agreed, brushing her wiry gray hair away from her eyes.

  “What is important to me right now is that it will give me comfort and pleasure to play in the afternoons. And, since the owner of this house has not seen fit to keep a gardener employed on a regular schedule, I think I will look into the possibility of hiring someone.”

  “I would be happy to see to that for you.”

  “Thank you. It appears I’m going to be staying in London longer than I originally thought,” she said more to herself than to her companion. “So I might as well make this house as pleasing and comfortable as possible.”

  “Oh, my, look at this,” Mrs. Princeton said, thumbing through the calling cards that lay on a silver plate on the vestibule table. She looked up at Susannah with a sparkle in her eyes. “You have become popular since we left the house today. You had several callers while we were out. And look, more invitations have arrived. Isn’t that wonderful?”

  Susannah pursed her lips and frowned. “I don’t consider that wonderful. You know I was hoping to stay out of the public eye while here.”

  Mrs. Princeton chuckled lightly. “How could you do that when you have now been seen in Hyde Park with one of the most popular, most handsome, and most eligible gentlemen in all of London? The marquis was the perfect gentleman for you to be seen with. He is not seen as a gambler or a fortune hunter.”

  “What did I tell you about trying to be a matchmaker?” Susannah said with more merriment than she was feeling.

  “Not to.”

  “That’s right. The eligibility of a gentleman does not matter to me. I am not here to find a husband.”

  Mrs. Princeton sighed. “More’s the pity,” she mumbled under her breath and then quickly added, “I see the Times has been delivered, too. It’s been two days since you were with the marquis. Do you think perhaps you should look at it and see if you are mentioned in Lord Truefitt’s Society’s Daily
Column today?” Mrs. Princeton held out the newsprint for her.

  “Do I really want to know the answer to that?”

  “Up to you, of course,” Mrs. Princeton said, the twinkle returning to her eyes.

  Susannah took the Times, folded it, and tucked it under her arm without answering her companion. She would decide later if she would read it.

  “You have four calling cards, all from ladies, it seems. Obviously someone recognized you when you were in the park a couple of days ago.”

  “Perhaps. Also, the marquis or Sir Randolph could have mentioned to someone that I am in Town. And you were right when you said it would be almost impossible not to have been noticed after what happened with Sir Randolph in the park. That in itself was enough to set tongues to wagging for months.”

  “From what you told me about it, I wish I had been there. It all sounded so bizarre.”

  Susannah headed toward the drawing room with Mrs. Princeton following her. “In a way, it was. The marquis is certain of Sir Randolph’s innocence and I don’t doubt him, but I couldn’t help feeling sorry for Miss Prattle. Her brother truly did her a disservice in confronting Sir Randolph in public.”

  “I’m sure she hopes she will never have to show her face in public again.”

  “That would be my guess, too,” Susannah said thoughtfully, having some knowledge of what the woman must be going through.

  “It looks as though you also had two notes delivered while we were out. They are probably invitations. Should I open them for you?”

  “Let me see.” Susannah stepped closer to Mrs. Princeton.

  “Look here, one is obviously from an ill-mannered boor. It is addressed simply to Susannah. That is shameful. Who would dare be so informal to a duchess?”

  Race?

  “Should we just throw it away without opening it?”

  Susannah’s chest tightened. “No, of course not. I will see who it’s from.”

  Mrs. Princeton gave her the letters. The first one was properly addressed to her as the Dowager Duchess of Blooming, as her title demanded, and the second a bold, black script that simply said Susannah.