He winced as the muscles of his leg protested the added weight of another body. It had taken months of constant effort to rebuild his strength, to avoid walking with a limp for the remainder of his life. Even with that, it still pained him and likely always would.
“Riggs, would you have a footman carry Miss Barrett back into the drawing room?”
The butler was still standing there, his normally stoic face ashen. Reminded of his duties, he issued a curt nod. “Certainly, sir—my lord—Lord Althorn.”
The man was so agitated he couldn’t even fathom how to address him, Marcus thought bitterly. Immediately, a footman rushed forward and lifted Miss Barrett into his arms. Marcus straightened, winced as the muscles in his thigh contracted again, cramping to the point of agony. Willing the affected tissue to relax, he massaged the knotted muscles there with his hand until, at last, he could risk taking a step forward. The bullet he’d taken in his leg during their escape continued to provide many lingering reminders of the injury it had wrought.
The doors to the dining room opened and his stepmother emerged, followed by Mr. Barrett and a woman he did not recognize. He did not see his father.
His stepmother stopped mid-stride, stumbling as she gaped at him. “I don’t understand! Marcus! We thought you were dead!”
Hoped, he realized. She’d never had much use for him. Dead, he would have at least garnered her sympathy and attention. “Well, I am clearly very much alive. Your grief, Stepmother, was for naught. Where is Father?”
It was Mr. Barrett who spoke. “You’ve been gone for many years, Lord Althorn. Your father’s health has been deteriorating for most of them.”
The stab of grief was unexpected. He loved his father. It would take a monster to have no affection for one’s own parent, but it was much stronger than he’d anticipated given the contentious nature of their relationship. “Is my father dead then?”
“No. He is not deceased,” Mr. Barrett answered, “But he is quite changed. He had a fit of the brain nearly two years ago and has had some difficulty speaking since that time. He suffers with palsy and is unable to walk. I’m sorry, my lord. We had no way of keeping you appraised of his condition.”
There was a note of reprisal there, as if it had somehow been Marcus’ choice. He frowned at that, at all that it implied of just who was in charge now given his father’s ill health. “They were not amenable to the sending and receiving of letters in the prison where I was held, Mr. Barrett. You’ll forgive me for being unable to inform you of my direction, I hope. Now, if it is of interest to you, your daughter has fainted. I can’t be entirely certain, but given what I recall of Miss Barrett’s characters, that seems somewhat unusual.”
The woman who was unknown to him stepped forward. “I will check in on her, my darling.” The statement lacked anything resembling warmth or concern as she sailed past her husband toward the drawing room where Miss Barrett had been taken to recover.
Marcus shouldn’t have found it surprising that Mr. Barrett was remarried. His desire to do so had been one of the compelling reasons he’d put forth for pushing up the date of the wedding between Marcus and Miss Barrett, after all. What was it that his father had said all those long years ago? That her new stepmother didn’t wish to share a roof with her predecessor? Well, he’d certainly managed to muck up her plans.
“Perhaps we should all retreat to the drawing room,” Marcus suggested. “I’m certain that once she awakens, Miss Barrett will have many questions just as all of you will and I would prefer to answer all of them at once if possible.”
Chapter Two
Jane slowly became aware of the low hum of numerous whispered conversations about her. Memory seeped in—Charles’ proposal and Marcus’ return. Oh, dear. Her lashes fluttered for a moment and then she managed, at last, to open her eyes. She started to sit up, but the duchess laid a warning hand on her shoulder.
“Not too fast, my dear. It would be a pity for you to swoon again when we’ve all been waiting to hear what dear Marcus has to say!” The admonishment was uttered in a tone that was all friendliness and warmth, yet still managed to make Jane feel like a slugabed for having had the audacity to faint and inconvenience everyone.
Still, Jane moved cautiously into an upright position. Everyone was gathered. Marcus was in the room and the duke sat near his son in his wheeled Bath chair. Her own father and stepmother were present and, naturally, the Duchess of Elsingham was there, enjoying her moment at center stage, as always.
“You’re really here,” she murmured. “You’ve come back!”
“I have,” he concurred. “I did not stay away so long by choice. I was nearly killed and I’ve been held prisoner for the past five years. You do understand that?”
“I do. But I also understand that you very much left by choice,” Jane reminded him. “It has been eight years, in fact, since you left. More than five since we’ve even heard from you. That is not an easy absence to simply ignore. Many things have changed, my lord.”
He cocked an eyebrow at her. “And many remain the same,” he uttered smoothly, “such as our betrothal. I understand, of course, that you may wish to have the banns posted again. It will suffice as an announcement of my safe return and will cement for anyone going forward, including my cousin, Charles, that we are as betrothed now as we ever were. I understand from Riggs that he offered for you just before I arrived.”
How dare he! Gone for so many years, having left because he so despised the thought of their betrothal, only to return and protest as if he had the right to jealousy! Jane rose to her feet, her blood all but boiling with indignation. “So you’re to play dog in the manger now?” Her tone of voice shifted as she laid out his transgressions, from incredulous to strident. “You left me here while you ran away from home like a spoiled child, joined the army, and nearly got yourself killed. You did succeed in getting yourself captured—all simply to avoid being married to me. Now, you’ve returned and because Charles had the audacity to ask for my hand, you want to be possessive and claim me as if you suddenly have the right?”
“I don’t have to claim you. You’re already mine,” he insisted. “We’ve been betrothed since you were an infant! Please tell me that you aren’t actually considering an offer from that worthless dandy?”
The other occupants of the room took up the battle then. Her father and the duke began yelling back and forth, Mrs. Barrett glared daggers at the lot of them. Only the duchess was unaffected. She looked from one person to another with a gleam in her eyes as if savoring the excitement.
Ignoring the others and focusing only on Althorn, Jane said, “How do you know he’s a dandy? You haven’t seen him in years!” Of course, she had no interest in Charles’ offer and had already informed him thusly, but she was deeply and bitterly resentful of Althorn’s assumption that he could simply waltz in and behave in such a high-handed manner with her. She wasn’t a shy little girl any more, desperate for him to show her even a shred of affection. If he thought to cow her or control her then he was terribly mistaken.
“He was always a dandy. I doubt it’s changed!” His reply was just as cross as hers. They’d been in one another’s presence for less than a quarter hour based on the mantel clock and they were already at one another’s throats. “There are things about him that you cannot possibly know but that make him a most unsuitable choice for you!”
Jane continued on, oblivious to the back and forth swiveling of heads as everyone in the room watched them argue. “Why on earth should it matter to you if I am considering his offer? If you’d wanted to marry me at all you wouldn’t have run off to shoot guns with all the other little boys!” As soon as she’d said it, Jane clapped her hand over her mouth.
It was a terrible thing to have said. The war had been brutal and bloody, robbing many of their lives, their limbs and their spirit. Hadn’t she seen them when she volunteered at the church to feed the poor? Soldiers with terrible scars and haunted eyes lined up for soup and old bread because the c
ountry they had served had failed them so miserably upon their return. Even worse than those soldiers were the widows and orphans who arrived, just as haunted and destitute. To make light of what anyone had suffered there, even the man before her, was unforgivable.
Althorn drew himself up to his full and rather impressive height. His eyes flashed with anger and every muscle in his chiseled face was taut with anger. “I’ll grant that I might have been a boy when I left, but it takes little enough time on the front lines of a bloody and gruesome war to become a man. As I said at our last meeting, my reasons for leaving that day are not what you believe them to be! Regardless, they should not be discussed here in front of everyone else.”
The duchess blinked at them. “Well, don’t stop now. Dear heavens! This is more entertainment than I’ve had in years! Why on earth they feel the theater is an inappropriate activity for those in mourning I cannot begin to fathom. Certainly comedies should be avoided, but a nice tragedy could be enjoyed without appearing to be too gay, could it not? Perhaps you should take this particular act to Drury Lane?”
Jane clamped her lips firmly closed. In one instance, he had been correct. This was not a conversation they should be having in front of others. Her behavior was abominable, but then his wasn’t much better. They were bickering like school children. Of course, everyone else in the room was behaving like children as well.
“Walk with me,” he suggested.
“Where?” she asked. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t really in her best interest to refuse him. She could see her father glaring at her from across the way and her stepmother counting all the various ways in which she’d been unpleasant and undermined her. She’d no doubt hear from both of them later. By agreeing to speak with him privately, she was at least giving the illusion of being somewhat agreeable.
“Just in the garden… we can speak privately there,” he said.
“If you’ll ring for the maid, she can bring my pelisse,” Jane said.
The duchess laughed. “Oh darling girl! Why bother? She’s right outside the door along with every other servant in this house. Sarah,” she called out, “Go and fetch Miss Barrett’s cloak for her!”
Immediately, the sound of footsteps could be heard outside the door as the maid left to do her bidding.
Gossip. How Jane despised gossip! Even if it had earned a tidy sum of money for her. Perhaps, it was best to say she despised being the butt of gossip. In the immediate aftermath of his presumed death, she and Althorn, in absentia, had been the subject of countless rumors and stories. Now they would be at the center of them again. And she would have to return to society. The respite provided by her period of mourning for him was over. She’d have to face the lot of them. If they ever find out who you are and what you’ve done you will pay dearly.
That thought echoed in Jane’s mind and brought forth a whole new wave of panic. How could one person’s life become so inordinately complicated in the span of a single evening? A missing bridegroom returned, another would-be bridegroom running off in a snit, and a secret career that was both scandalous and lucrative and that would embroil the very elite family she was to marry into in a scandal that would set the ton on its ears—it was no wonder she’d fainted for the first time in her life.
The maid appeared with her pelisse and, once it was donned, Jane permitted Lord Althorn to take her arm and lead her through the corridor to the doors that opened onto the terrace at the back of the house and the small garden beyond.
Outside, the cool night air settled around them. It eased the burn in her cheeks from both her own embarrassment and her anger. It wasn’t simply that he’d been gone; it was that gut-wrenching scene which had occurred immediately prior to his departure. She’d never forget the humiliation she’d felt that day at hearing him describe the idea of marriage to her as repugnant. Even now, it threatened to swamp her.
“Where have you been for so long?” Jane asked the question in an attempt to establish some sort of normality in an otherwise abnormal situation. How did one comport oneself in such a muddle?
“There was a small island off the coast of Spain that was controlled by the French. As I said, I was imprisoned there for several years,” he answered evenly.
Imprisoned. He’d said it dispassionately, as if it didn’t conjure up horrific images. “Well, it sounds positively hellish.”
He ducked his head, his lips quirking slightly. “You do not mince words, Miss Barrett. Not at our last meeting and not at this one either. It was hellish. We were treated very poorly initially. Eventually, it got better.”
“And they let you go?” This man was very different from the stiff and priggish boy she remembered. But then, she supposed fighting in a war, being captured and held as a prisoner for years and whatever else he might have gone through would be enough to significantly change a man.
“No, Miss Barrett. I escaped,” he said softly.
“Was it dashing? Worthy of a penny novel?” The moment she uttered the question, she wished she could draw it back. If she wished to be circumspect, she was doing a poor job of it, indeed.
“Hardly that,” he said dismissively. “As the war progressed, fewer guards were stationed at the prison. They were all called off to serve in other capacities. Finally, it reached a point where only two fat old men who preferred wine to work were left to monitor the lot of us. We overtook them, and sailed to shore in Portugal in a leaking boat that reeked of rotted fish and unwashed men. It was not dashing or heroic. It was dirty, smelly, difficult and altogether anticlimactic after years of imprisonment.”
“I wouldn’t say so,” she protested. “You faced the threat of death if you were caught. And I don’t understand why you would have been imprisoned in such a way, at all! It was my understanding that the French allowed officers to live in towns on a sort of parole! It seems very unfair that you were treated so differently.”
“When I was captured, I was not dressed as an officer. I was working in intelligence at that point,” he admitted after a long and thoughtful pause. “I was taken for an enlisted man and, given the information that I had, it was best for all concerned that my captors continue believing it. By the time the information was no longer valuable and I could profess my true identity, no one believed me. They all assumed I was claiming a different rank simply to get out of the hard labor that was part of my sentence.”
“But you’re here now… in England. You did not return to your unit!”
“I was injured during our escape,” he explained. “When we arrived in Portugal, we reported to the nearest British contingent. I was treated, relieved of duty and put on the first English naval vessel headed home.”
Jane allowed that to sink in. While she did, she made a study of him. From the elegant cut of his coat, the perfectly-fitted waistcoat and trousers and a pair of boots that possessed a high shine and new soles. It was a puzzle to her how he might have procured such clothing if he’d only just arrived.
“That is English tailoring, my lord,” she said, pointing to his coat and the part of the tale he’d presented which bothered her the most. “It was made for you and you alone. Which means you did not just return to England. You have been here, in London most likely, long enough to have a custom suit of clothing made for you. And yet, you waited until tonight to make your presence known. Why?”
He looked away then. His profile was different, she thought. Sharper, his nose slightly misshapen from having been broken. There were other small differences that could easily be accounted for simply by the nature of maturity and the violence he’d suffered while fighting in the war. But those differences, along with his changed demeanor, might be enough. A plan started to form in her mind.
“To put it simply,” he replied, “I wasn’t sure if I should come back and if I should, how. What does one say after such a long absence and such certainty of death?”
“A letter warning of your arrival might have been a good starting point,” she chided. “Why not write us before leaving Portu
gal? Why not give us some indication that you were still amongst the living?”
As it was quite clear from the set of his jaw that he did not intend to expand upon his answer to her question, Jane continued. It stung regardless. Even now, eight years later, was the idea of returning to the life that had been planned for them that repellant to him? It wasn’t as if she wanted to marry him at all, really. But it was a blow to her pride to think that he still dreaded the prospect so intensely he’d sacrifice his own identity to avoid it. Finally, he offered, “The letter and I would have arrived at the same time and likely on the same ship.”
That might well be the truth, but it was obvious to her that it was not his only reason. He was lying for some reason and she would not be satisfied until she knew why.
“You look very different. I’m not even sure you are Marcus Balfour.” She certainly didn’t want him to be. It symbolized the end of her freedom. “What are your titles?”
He turned to her then, a smirk on his lips. With an imperiously arched brow, he asked, “Do you want all seventeen of them?”
That was a gesture she recognized, effectively quelling her doubts. But she would brazen it out regardless. She hadn’t truly doubted his identity, but then her doubt or belief was not the most important factor. Her freedom would rest on her being able to make others question just enough to delay the wedding. It was in her benefit to prolong the inevitable as long as possible. She was six months shy of her birthday. Six months away from the inheritance left by her grandfather that her own father could not touch. Six months to freedom from every man and managing relative in her life. “At least a few of them, I would think… for the sake of authenticity.”
“Obviously, I will one day be the Duke of Elsingham. Currently I am the Marquess of Althorn. I am also Lord Helingford, Lord Avondale, and a few others. There is an endless string of them, Miss Barrett, and I can recite them all if you like, but I hardly see the point. I am who I say that I am, and our situation has not changed since I left… even if we may have.”
The Missing Marquess of Althorn (The Lost Lords Book 3) Page 4