The Missing Marquess of Althorn (The Lost Lords Book 3)

by Chasity Bowlin

“That’s not what the servants say. They’ve all remarked on just how different he is.”

  Jane put her quill down. “If you had gossip you should have told me that first! It might change the entire tone of what I’m working on. It is really him, isn’t it?”

  Sarah looked at her in shock. “Well, no one said it wasn’t, miss.”

  “Drat! Of course they’re all certain it’s him. Why would they question it when he will likely be the one who pays their wages later on?” Jane murmured under her breath. Never mind that he looked every inch the part and had the same mannerisms. Never mind that there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for every slight alteration to his appearance that could be attributed easily to the passage of time and the endurance of hardship. She was grasping at straws and she knew it.

  “What was that, miss?” Sarah asked, eyeing her worriedly.

  “How is it that he’s changed according to them?” Jane replied, not acknowledging or explaining her previous statement.

  “The under butler was assigned to be his valet, but he declined. He said he could manage to dress without aid. And he does everything for himself. He turned down his own bed, dismissing the maids before they could!”

  “That’s hardly noteworthy.” Jane couldn’t keep the disappointment from her voice. She’d hoped for something more significant to support her claims.

  “For a gentleman, an aristocrat no less, to decline a valet? I wonder if he was injured and is trying to conceal his scars?” Sarah mused. She uttered the questions with wistful dreaminess. “He must have been so brave.”

  “Perhaps it isn’t the presence of a scar… it could be the absence? If he’s not Althorn, but an imposter, then he wouldn’t have the same marks on his body. A valet, or a servant who had been with the family for so long would know that! Maybe he really isn’t Althorn? But how to prove it?” Jane was muttering to herself, spinning plots as if she wrote gothic novels instead of gossip rags.

  Sarah shook her head. “There would be no way to prove it. But if you could make other people doubt it, then perhaps he would have to prove it himself. Are you certain you wish to do this, miss? I think it might not go well for you if you do. Your father will be furious. Your stepmother will be more unpleasant than usual. And, well, it isn’t my place to say it, but are you certain marriage to such a man would be so bad?”

  “So bad? It would. Of course, it would! I don’t want to be married. I want to be free!” Jane insisted. Freedom for women was, of course, a relative thing. She’d never be truly free but she might have the liberty of at least making her own choices in some aspects of her life.

  “But he said you could call off the wedding! Isn’t it a bit dishonest to sabotage him so?”

  It was, but Jane was desperate. “I’ll do whatever is necessary. I’m not letting any man dictate my life ever again. Father has done enough. I won’t trade one jailer for another!”

  Sarah sighed heavily as she stepped behind Jane and began taking the pins from her hair. “Yes, miss. I only hope you don’t come to regret it. There’s something to be said for having the love of a man in your life.”

  Jane looked down at the words on the page. “Love has no part in this particular play, Sarah. It’s all about money and has been from the start. I’d rather be alone than with someone who required compensation to be with me.”

  The opinionated maid had no response to that. She worked in silence, brushing and then braiding Jane’s hair before saying goodnight.

  Alone, Jane returned to her writing. She was sealing her fate in essence, creating a rumor that he was not truly the Missing Marquess as the scandal sheets had dubbed him. It was life or death, she reasoned. To her mind, being trapped in a miserable and loveless union with a man who would attempt to rule her every thought and action was a kind of death. The slow loss of one’s self to another was something she never wanted to experience it. Her mother, in the few memories that remained of her, had been a ghost of a woman. Bullied and downtrodden, browbeaten by her husband so often that she barely uttered a whimper of protest at anything—Jane would not let her own fate mirror her mother’s.

  *

  Charles entered his suite of rooms and, still in a fit of temper, slammed the door behind him with such force it rattled the windows. It reverberated so fiercely that empty wine bottles toppled from the table and tumbled to the thinly carpeted floor. He was living in poverty, subsisting on table scraps. After all that he’d done to ensure his future, he was still living on the fringes of the world that should have been his.

  He’d stopped at a hell on the way home, lost more markers that he lacked the funds to cover and consumed copious amounts of brandy that he could not pay for. No doubt, there would be a stern talking to from his uncle in the near future. How dare that little cow dismiss his offer as if it had no merit?

  The woman on the bed was draped in silk woven so finely it was transparent. She rolled to her side, propped her head on one hand and allowed the other one to rest on her hip, highlighting the exaggerated curve of her waist. “What a tear you’re in!”

  “That pie-faced cow turned me down,” he all but shouted as he paced the room. “Stated quite firmly that she had no desire to be married to me regardless of my cousin’s fate and that nothing I could say or do would sway her.”

  The woman smiled at him and patted the bed. “Come sit here with me, darling. She’s not even a woman… upon my word, she was born a dried up old spinster! I still can’t believe you offered for her! We discussed this!”

  “What has that got to do with anything?” he snapped, even as he settled onto the edge of the bed. She rose on her knees behind him. Her hands moved to his neck, massaging the knotted muscles there with a precision that had his eyes closing and his lips parted on a groan before she even replied. “I’ve no choice in the matter… the money lenders are breathing down my neck and your blasted husband keeps the purse strings tied up so tightly I’m lucky to see a guinea!”

  Cassandra, the Duchess of Elsingham, pouted at her lover and her nephew-by-marriage. “I know he’s a tight-fisted miser… but we have bigger issues to deal with.”

  “I should have seduced her,” he said. “If I’d ruined her entirely, then she’d have no choice but to marry me, would she? Course, I’d have had to drink a gallon of brandy beforehand. Plainest chit I’ve ever seen!”

  “That plain chit’s father was willing to settle a hundred thousand pounds on the occasion of her marriage with additional funds to follow with the birth of each child,” she reminded him gently. “I daresay that even if her face wilted your manhood, those banknotes would rally it quickly enough.”

  “How on earth am I supposed to seduce her, my love? When all I can think of is you… no other woman could compare,” he said quietly.

  “But we cannot live on love,” she whispered, soothing the sting of the reply with a soft nip at his earlobe. “And now, we won’t have to.”

  “I don’t understand,” Charles muttered. “Did he die? Did the old bastard cock up his toes? I’ll petition the House tomorrow to have my cousin declared dead!”

  She laughed. “No, my darling. Your uncle, the duke, is still very much alive… but he won’t be for long. As for your not having to marry Jane Barrett, the pie-faced cow… someone else will marry her for you. Marcus has returned.”

  Panic hit him, socking him squarely in the gut and making it difficult to even draw breath. That couldn’t have happened. It wasn’t possible.

  “Think of the life we’ll have once they’re both gone! We’ll live in the lap of luxury with all of her lovely money. The finest parties, every sensual delight known to man at our fingertips. He’ll bring her to heel, add her little fortune to the family coffers, and then they shall both meet with a rather tragic and unfortunate demise.”

  “God, but I love you,” he said. Her wickedness, concealed by her pretty face and her often mindless rambling, was the truth of her and that was the part that he savored, that was reserved solely for him.


  She made a face. “It’ll be such a tragedy when they meet their untimely ends… reunited at last, and then taken from this world far too soon. We have to give them enough time to consummate the marriage, but not so much that there might be an heir.”

  He clasped her hands and brought them to his lips. “I will shower you with jewels. You’ll never want for anything… and you’ll never again be obliged to let any man touch you but me.”

  “You’ve worked so hard for this, my darling… when I think of the danger you faced at Corunna and what might have happened if you’d been caught! The dukedom will be yours… no matter the cost,” she said softly. And she would be his duchess.

  “It’ll be a scandal when we marry,” he said.

  “If there is one thing I’ve learned, my darling, society loves a scandal. We’ll be celebrated as the greatest of romances by them before the ink has even dried on the register. People already feel sorry for me because I’m married to such an old, ugly and impotent man. Little do they know, my maid’s herbs are the cause of his impotence,” she said with a laugh.

  “Then keep her herbs well away from me,” he said, pushing her back onto the bed. “How did you get away tonight?”

  “The same way I always do,” she said. “I gave him a little extra laudanum and then took the carriage. No one dares question me… you know that.”

  He dipped his head and sucked lightly at the skin of her breast, just above her nipple. Only when he’d left a slight mark there, did he draw back. He pressed his fingertips to the mark, tracing it softly. “And do you explain such things to your helpful maid? Does she wonder at giving your husband a potion to make him impotent when she sees my marks upon your perfect skin?”

  Cassandra reached for his cravat, untying the knot with skilled fingers. “She dares not. I’d have her tossed out without a reference and she knows it well enough. Trust me, my love, all will work in our favor or feel the consequences of crossing us!”

  As excited by her viciousness as her beauty, Charles was done with talking.

  Chapter Four

  When Marcus entered the breakfast room the following morning, he was tensed as if for battle. It was as likely an occurrence as anything would be given how unwelcome his return had been. His father’s behavior he understood. The old man had never been warm or particularly affectionate. Any hopes or disappointments he felt in that reunion were of his own making.

  Miss Barrett he understood, as well, to a degree. Given his explanation the night before, he hoped that she would be in a more hospitable frame of mind but he wasn’t counting on it. She had a deep aversion to being married, not just to him, but to any man he believed. Still, none of it made for a pleasant homecoming.

  Crossing to the sideboard, he filled his plate liberally with eggs, potatoes, bacon and Cumberland sausage as well as a generous portion of bread. The sight of it and the glorious scent of it all was enough to make him weep with joy. If there was one true blessing in being returned to the family fold it was that the food would be utterly divine. He’d fantasized about food just as often during his imprisonment as he had about the glorious company of women.

  Taking his feast back to the table, he seated himself and poured a cup of tea, a luxury he hadn’t missed nearly as much as the food. It was still a pleasant reminder of all the comforts London and his home had to offer.

  “Do you really mean to eat all of that?”

  The question had come from behind him. Miss Barrett moved like a cat it seemed. Marcus turned to look at her over his shoulder. “Every single, solitary bite of it… and I shall enjoy each morsel with hedonistic pleasure.”

  She made a slight sound of disapproval that he chose to ignore. Watching her, he noted how gingerly she filled her plate, only a single bite or two of only a few foods.

  “One has to wonder why you even bother to have the meal at that point,” he said.

  Her cheeks turned a rather charming shade of pink. “I enjoy a good meal but, like everything else in life, one should indulge with moderation.”

  “I would hardly call breakfast an indulgence,” Marcus replied, bemused by her stuffy, staid and well-rehearsed answer. “Tell me truthfully, why such a ridiculously small portion?”

  “Very well,” she snapped, placing her fork with a slight clink on the edge of the plate. “If you must know, my stepmother has pointed out to me that I have grown plumper than my current gowns permit and she refuses to allow my father to purchase new gowns for me when the fault lies entirely upon my own doorstep. My lack of self-control and love of cakes has made me quite fat, according to her.”

  Marcus laughed. In the face of such utter idiocy, it was all that he could do.

  “I’m certainly happy to have amused you, my lord. Now that my humiliation is complete, I shall return to my room,” she said as she rose from her chair, clearly offended.

  Sobering, he studied her expression and found it to be entirely earnest. Her stepmother might have voiced the opinion, but Miss Barrett believed it entirely. Rising to his feet, he commanded, “Sit down. You aren’t going anywhere.”

  Miss Barrett blinked at him in surprise. Then her lips firmed in a clearly displeased line. “I am not a servant to be ordered about, my lord.”

  “No,” he said. “In this instance, I will be your servant.” With that, Marcus crossed to the sideboard and filled a plate generously with helpings of each of the items prepared. Returning to the table, he placed it before her. “Eat what you like. She has no power in this house. If you want new gowns, you’ll have new gowns.”

  “You do not understand the dynamics of this household… she will make my life, and everyone else’s, quite miserable!” Miss Barrett insisted. “She’s like a viper. Constantly slithering about, ready to strike without warning.”

  Marcus glanced back at her, taking stock of every curve. Some might have called her plump. But for himself, he’d barely managed to drag his gaze from the lush bounty of her breasts or the delightful sway of her hips beneath her skirts. Not that she would welcome such a blatantly inappropriate comment even if it was intended to be complimentary. Instead, he offered vague and far too faint praise. “There is nothing wrong with your figure. Nothing at all. I daresay, it is precisely the sort of figure that I myself, and most of the men of my acquaintance, find very pleasing.”

  She blushed furiously. “Thank you, my lord, but pleasing you or any other man is not of great importance to me—keeping the peace is!”

  “Miss Barrett, I starved for the first six months in that prison. I ate things to survive that I cannot even bear to recall. With the bounty of a beautiful meal spread before us, it is painful for me to watch a person deprive themselves for such a silly reason,” he explained. “It would do much for my peace of mind to see you eat a meal and take joy in it.”

  She said nothing for the longest time. “I am sorry for what you endured, my lord,” she finally managed. “But if I do not do as she wishes—”

  “She will not turn you over her knee, Miss Barrett. She will not order your father to beat you. And she doesn’t have to starve you since you are apparently willing to do so yourself at her direction. No. She can only run roughshod over you if you allow her to. At this juncture, everyone in this house wants us to be married except for you. You may not realize it, but that actually puts you in a position of power. Use it to your advantage.”

  Marcus walked away then, returning to his own seat and the plate of food he was determined to enjoy with fervor.

  “It’s too much food,” she said. “I could never eat all of it.”

  “Then eat what you like of it. You’re not a child to be instructed to clean your plate,” he replied. “You will not be bullied in this house.”

  Miss Barrett stared at him, her expression a study in confusion. “You have never been kind to me before. I cannot understand why you are doing so now.”

  That gave him pause. Had he truly been so wrapped up in his own life before that he had been cruel? No, he had not.
He had largely ignored her though and, perhaps, to a young and impressionable child that was much the same. Had her life been so completely devoid of kindness that his current behavior could be considered such? “Was I so very unkind then?”

  She looked down at her plate. “Not unkind. But cold. Very cold and very distant. Your dislike was never voiced, not until that last day, but it was implied at our every meeting.”

  Marcus considered his answer carefully. “I suppose my actions could have been interpreted thusly. The simple truth is, Miss Barrett, I had no idea how to behave in the presence of a young girl. You were to be my wife, according to everyone else, and yet you were not old enough to be courted, not old enough to share common interests with me. I had no notion of what I ought to say to you then. The entire thing was deucedly awkward.”

  “You certainly seem to have recovered from that, my lord. You’ve been saying a great many things since your return,” she pointed out.

  Marcus took a bite of the rich, buttery eggs and let the flavor explode on his tongue. By God, he’d missed good English fare. With that bite completed and the pleasant sensation of fullness beginning to settle in his belly, he sat back in his chair and met her gaze levelly. “So I have. The reasons for my previous reticence have become a moot point as you are now definitely a woman grown and certainly old enough to be courted.”

  “And is that what breakfast was? Filling my plate and telling me to stand up for myself? Is that courtship?” she demanded.

  He smiled. “It isn’t a romantic gesture, I grant you. Perhaps, I’ll get you chocolates and a posy later.”

  *

  It was a romantic gesture. Perhaps not in the traditional sense, but it felt quite heroic and romantic to her. She’d never had someone stand up for her, to have someone be willing to openly defy her vicious stepmother on her behalf—yes, it was romantic. It was also guilt inducing. She felt the faint stirrings of it inside her—the awful sinking, wrenching feeling of remorse at all the insidious things she’d written the night before. Dishonesty, in spite of the secretive nature of her trade, did not sit well with her.