The Making of a Marquess

Book 2: Society of Single Ladies

by Lynne Connolly

Genres: Historical Fiction; Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

USA Today Bestselling Author

The Society for Single Ladies is a crime-solving club founded by the wealthiest woman in London.Yet even Miss Angela Childers’ charming detectives are not immune to the forces of love . . .

Dorothea Rowland attends a country house party to investigate a long-lost heir—not to find a husband. But when the dashing American claimant discovers her prowling for clues, she is startled—and then seduced—by his provocative kiss. It’s all Dorothea can do to remember her mission. Especially when a series of accidents adds up to something far more dangerous . .
 
Benedict only meant to silence lovely Dorothea—not find himself enamored. What’s a gentleman to do but join forces—and propose to the clever beauty? Yet as Ben and Dorothea pursue the truth about his inheritance, their faux betrothal threatens to become the real thing. Soon Ben’s plan to return to his life in America is upended—not only by his deepening bond with his bride, but by someone who wants his fortune badly enough to jeopardize his future—even end it. And Dorothea can’t let that happen. Not for the title, but for Ben . . .
 
“Lynne Connolly writes Georgian romances with a deft touch. Her characters amuse, entertain and reach into your heart.”
—USA Today bestselling authorDesiree Holt
 
“With plots, deviousness and passion galore, Temptation Has Green Eyes by Lynne Connolly is a truly enjoyable read.”
—Fresh Fiction
 

Release date: March 31, 2020

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 215

Sample

Chapter 1

Spring, 1743

Benedict Thorpe, Lord Brocklebank, heir to the mighty marquessate of Belstead, braced himself against shivering, despite the chill of the early morning. This April had been wet and cold. Today would be no exception. The people standing around would think he was afraid. He was not. Not one bit. Already in his shirtsleeves, facing his cousin Louis, Ben squared his jaw. If he died this morning, he’d do it staring down the man who’d dared to insult the woman who meant more to Ben than anyone else. His betrothed, the woman he would marry next week.

If he lived.

The great oak tree above them had witnessed many of these encounters. A dozen men stood around, their soft voices breaking the natural peace of dawn. They were placing bets and calling out encouragement to their favorite. Quietly, because dueling was illegal. If the authorities caught them everyone would be in trouble. Ben and Louis most of all.

How had they come to this? Louis had spent so much time in Ben’s childhood home, he was all but a brother. Watching Louis divest himself of his blue riding coat and hand it to his younger brother, William, Ben recalled childhood moments with his two cousins. Carefree times playing Robin Hood on the grounds of Cressbrook House. William and Louis had made his childhood bearable. If not for them, the expectations heaped on his shoulders would have overwhelmed him. Then Louis and he had roared their way around Europe, while William had started his longed-for army career.

So short a time ago. A year after they’d returned home, everything had gone wrong. To be more precise, ever since they both set eyes on Lady Honoria Colt.

Now look at them. Fighting over a woman. Although Honoria’s name had not crossed their lips, everybody here knew the real reason for this duel. And who had persuaded Louis to demand pistols? He had assumed Louis would choose swords, and they’d fight to first blood.

Honoria had accepted Ben’s offer of marriage before Louis had said the ugly things that had driven them to stand here. Instead of snuggling in their warm beds, they were facing off across twenty yards of damp grass.

If they’d used swords, one of them could still have died, but pistols made that eventuality even more certain. And yet, after what Louis had said, Ben could not forgive him. He never would.

If he lived. Those three words counterpointed his heartbeat, like some fancy harpsichord piece. They marked the short time from challenge to meeting.

Ben had stripped off his scarlet coat and handed it to his best friend Hal. Disdainful of the practice of reducing the visibility of the target for his opponent by wearing subdued clothing, he’d kept up the color theme. His red waistcoat and full-sleeved white shirt made him a flamboyant presence. He would give Louis every chance. Then he would wing him, and this foolishness would end. Louis was an excellent shot, but Ben was better. Ben didn’t think Louis would aim for the heart. Not Louis.

The seconds met in the middle of the field of play, ten yards from the oak tree. This spot had been mute witness to many duels; some were serious, some half-hearted. But if they came here, the people involved were usually in earnest. Impulsive duels were sorted out on the spot, whether that was a gaming den or a gentleman’s club. To wait until dawn meant the participants had every chance to make up and shake hands. Many did. Ben and Louis had not.

At two in the morning, in the middle of St. James’s Club, Ben had tallied his winnings and told William how much he owed. His cousin should have known that Ben would never demand the reckoning. How could he take such an enormous sum from him?

But before he said anything else, Louis ripped up. “At least I have something you want. Honoria is mine. Yes, that’s right, I took her, and I’ve enjoyed her since the beginning of the year. She’s mine. You might have everything else, but you won’t get her.”

The insult had proved too much to bear and Ben had struck him. Marston had said to Ben, “Do you mean to issue a challenge, my lord?” and that had been that.

His temper roused, his heart sore, Ben had confirmed the challenge, and stipulated that the loser would step aside in the pursuit of Lady Honoria. To do so, the loser would have to be alive, but Louis hadn’t taken that into consideration. Pistols at dawn, he’d wanted.

Well, he would get it.

His second, Lord Henry Evington, came across the turf to Ben. His feet left wet footprints in the dew-soaked grass. “No apology. He says he meant every word.”

“Bastard,” Ben said without heat. He’d expected nothing less. His cousin never backed down from a challenge. “Hal, if I don’t get past this, can you ensure Louis looks after her?”

Hal touched his arm. “You’ll get through it, old man. Neither of you wants to kill the other.”

“Then why the pistols?”

Hal shook his head. “He’s a better shot than he is a swordsman. Other than that, I don’t know. Let’s get through this. I’ve bespoken breakfast at St. James’s Club.” When he smiled, the carefree part of Hal shone through. Ben smiled back, a flash of amusement lightening his mood for a moment.

“Yes, let’s get this done.”

They started on the ritual, as well laid out as any courtly dance. The opponents came together in the middle of the arena.

“Well met, cousin,” Ben murmured, low enough for only Louis to hear. Louis said nothing, but set his jaw.

The crowd, now swelled to twenty, called muted encouragement, but not for them to make up. They wanted Ben and Louis to get on with it.

“Fifty on Lord Brocklebank!” someone said. “He’s a likely lad!”

“T’other’s the better shot!”

His life was worth fifty guineas. Good to know.

Neither man took his attention away from the other. Ben sighed. Their “private disagreement” would be all over town in a few hours.

The seconds collected the case of pistols and returned. As the accused, Louis had the first choice. He selected a weapon after one glance. Ben took the other.

They turned their backs. They stood so close that the heat of Louis’s body seeped through Ben’s silk waistcoat and linen shirt.

The seconds tonelessly counted to ten. On each number the men paced a step, until they had reached the agreed distance, ten paces. Ben kept his breath steady. He willed his heart to settle to a regular beat, instead of trying to hammer its way through his rib cage.

They turned. Hal and William held a white handkerchief, a corner each. Ben fixed his attention on Louis, letting the flash of white linen occupy part of his field of vision. He held the weapon by his side in the approved fashion, trusting that Hal and William had loaded them properly.

Sometimes the seconds “accidentally” forgot to load the balls. While he wished that to be the case, Ben could not rely on it. Maddening though his cousin was, he had no desire to hurt him. He made some rapid calculations. If he aimed at the right side of Louis’s waistcoat, he wouldn’t cause any lasting damage. Honor would be served. They would sort out the problem of Honoria another way. In private. They wouldn’t need the surgeon, even though they had brought one, as the rules dictated.

She was Ben’s. He had claimed her. He would have to bring Louis around to understand that. Louis was lying; he had to be. How could Honoria swear undying love to him and sleep with Louis at the same time?

Anticipation sent a shot of energy through his blood. When Hal said, “Gentlemen, are you ready?” Ben nodded and raised his weapon, holding it steady, aiming it at Louis’s chest. He would move six inches to the left. He had no idea what Louis planned, but he refused to believe his cousin meant to kill him.

Except Louis held his gun aimed at Ben. Right at his heart. A touch of concern made Ben waver, but he had no time to change his plan. Not that he wanted to.

“You may fire when you are ready,” William said.

The spectators fell silent. It would not be gentlemanly to interrupt the concentration of the opponents. In any case, if someone shouted, they would have to build the distraction into the odds after the event. It might even invalidate some wagers.

They drew back the hammers on their weapons. The click echoed around the sward of Hampstead Heath. Someone standing in the garden of Kenwood House, on the other side of the Heath, would hear it.

The fraught silence lasted for the rest of Ben’s life, or that was what it felt like. In this eternal stretch of time, it might be true.

With a clap of wings and a harsh cry, a crow flew out of the oak tree at Ben’s right.

A shot followed and a sharp pain blossomed in Ben’s side. The shock of the hit made Ben tighten his grip. His own weapon burst into life, the flare of the flint as the hammer hit the pan dazzling his sight.

Dropping the pistol, he fell to his knees and clutched his rib cage. He gasped, forcing himself to conquer the pain, to keep breathing. When his sight cleared, he beheld a scene he would never forget.

Louis lay on the ground, his feet toward Ben, the brown leather of his boots darkened with dew. Two men knelt at his head, the surgeon and William.

Hal rushed to Ben. “What has he done? How badly are you wounded?”

A few deep breaths gave Ben some measure of control. “It hurts like the devil, but I don’t think he’s done more than graze me.”

“He aimed for your heart,” Hal said grimly.

“But he missed,” Ben reminded him. “Now get a pad of linen for me, there’s a good fellow, and find out what has happened to Louis.”

Hal tore off his shirt sleeve and roughly fashioned it into a wad of fabric, pressing it to Ben’s side. Ben winced, but bore the pain. It was receding now, from blinding to agonizing. Enough for him to take note of what else was happening.

Already the crowd was dispersing. The sound of shots, loud in the quiet morning air, would be enough to rouse the authorities. The spectators would settle their wagers in the comfort of their clubs.

Ben sank back on his heels and breathed deeply. When pain speared him, he bit the side of his cheek to prevent himself crying out. A rib or two was probably cracked or broken. When he moved the pad, the bleeding was settling to a sluggish trickle.

Hal raced back. “We have to go,” he said, anxiety creasing his forehead and deepening the brackets around his mouth.

“What?” Ben wouldn’t leave his cousin. Their dispute was settled, honor restored. He could make sure Louis was cared for.

“Ben, he’s bleeding badly. You shot him over his heart. He’s like to die.”

Death in a duel, honor or not, was murder in the eyes of the law, premeditated and carried out. If Louis died, Ben would hang, unless he did as Hal urged. “He’ll die?”

“The surgeon can’t see him surviving. Yes, fool, he will die.”

“I didn’t mean to kill him...” Ben rose and took a step toward his cousin, but Hal put his hand on his arm.

“Don’t go. Don’t watch him die. You’ll never forget it.”

Guilt burdened him, and numbness filled his body until his feet weighed heavy as lead. “It was that bird—”

“Yes. But the damage is done. Come.”

This time Ben allowed Hal to lead him to the carriage waiting on the pathway. He climbed in and spared one glance behind him. The people remaining at the scene were crowding around the supine body of Louis. Ben’s thoughts whirled, confused.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” he muttered as the carriage drew away. “I was the one who should have died.”

Chapter 2

Spring, 1750

Ben threaded his hand through his hair, spreading his fingers out before he reached the bow at the back of his head. If he had a valet, he’d have appalled the man, but these days he rarely bothered with a body servant. No time, no inclination, no reason to have one.

Getting up from his desk, he took a turn around his office, the letter in his hand. Standing before the window, with its spectacular view of the bay, he stared out. From here he marked his ships in the forest of masts, the achievements he’d won with no help from anyone else.

He read it again.

The lines dragged him back to the world he’d left, the one he’d never expected to see again. Or wanted to, for that matter.

Dear Ben,

I need advice.

Events here are coming to a head.

Since the death of your father, Louis has run through as much of your fortune as he can get hold of. Now he wants the entailed property.

The only way he can do this is to inherit. That can only happen if you are dead. Since the last time anyone saw you was the day of the duel, Louis wants you declared dead on the last day of August. That’s seven years and a month since you were last heard of.

I did as I promised. I told no one that I know where you are, if you are alive or not. If you wish to remain dead, then you need do nothing.

But Ben, Louis is ruining more than the estate. He is ruining the people who depend on it for their living. The dwellings your steward is supposed to oversee are tumbling down, and so are the walls. Everything except the house is falling into disrepair. He has sold your father’s fleet of trading ships. The only reason he has not sold the coal mine is that it is on entailed land.

You may have given him free rein over the estate as compensation, out of guilt or for Honoria’s happiness. But he has more than made up for that one moment of madness on Hampstead Heath. It is time you came home. If you do not come now, then there is no point returning at all.

His brother is serving in the army, and can do nothing to help as long as his brother is alive.

If you wish this to happen, then I swear to you I will do nothing. I will watch the destruction continue, or rather, keep as far away from it as I can. But if you are not home by August, you will lose everything, including your name. Even if you return later, you will face a legal battle to regain what is yours. And the way the law is, you will most likely fail. If he claims the marquessate, the law will hold it as his.

I will remain your friend, and I will not say a word, unless you instruct me to. If you choose not to reply, I will count that as a signal of your death. And I will mourn, but I may continue to correspond with my friend in the colonies, Benjamin Thorpe. He is a good man.

Yours,

Henry Evington

Ben carefully folded the letter and put it aside.

Hal had proved the best kind of friend. Although Ben had not seen him since the day he had hastily embarked on the first ship to leave the Pool of London, they had written often. At least once a month, although the letters were long delayed.

After his father had cast him off, Ben determined never to contact the man again. He’d made such a mess, this being only the latest in a series of scandals, that he longed for a clean sheet, a new start.

The night before his rash challenge, his father had carpeted him, threatening to beat him, but it was the grief on his father’s face rather than his empty promises that had distressed Ben. He’d spurned the match his parents had chosen for him, deciding that Lady Dorothea Rowland was too staid for his taste, and turned to chasing Honoria instead.

His mother had sobbed out her distress. They were better off without him. And her last words, “You would be better dead, Ben. I fear I have done you a bad turn somehow, that I failed you.”

Those words had hurt him more than the opprobrium his father had heaped on his head. That his mother blamed herself.

Consequently, when he’d met Louis, he’d issued the challenge. He had lost his parents’ love, so losing Honoria had been the last straw.

After the duel, he’d rushed to the docks and taken the next ship to leave, never minding where it went. It had sailed to Boston on the tide, and here he still was.

Louis had survived, for which Ben was profoundly grateful, but he had no wish to return home, or to contact his cousin. He’d made such a mess of everything; he was better off dead.

Maybe I should go home. Instant discomfort made him shift his stance.

His marriage had ended when his wife died trying to birth their child, and he’d inherited a business from his father-in-law, Jeremiah Foulson, when he’d died shortly after his daughter.

Ben was successful, a merchant in his own right, a life he savored more than he had ever enjoyed his life as the heir of a marquess.

Ben gazed out the window at the ships below. He owned some of them. Men scurried about on the dock, loading and unloading. This country would be far greater than most people in the civilized world imagined. He’d visited the interior, and there was far more of it than appeared on the maps. And he still hadn’t reached the other coast. There was so much to do and discover here, unlike his cynical, well-mapped homeland.

But that elm tree in the Home Park—did the initials he’d carved there still exist? And that dip past the rose garden where a boy could hide for hours—was it still there?

If he went home, he’d have to stay for at least a year, maybe more. His duties in Britain would demand his attention. Eventually he could appoint a manager for the estates at home. If Louis had reduced them so much, that was definitely possible.

Maybe find a new wife. Someone intelligent, who could look after affairs at home. If he stayed for the year, he could marry and start his nursery, provide an heir to cut Louis off from creating further depredations. Another duty wife, but this time they would live on opposite sides of the world. More a business partner.

A sense of regret lingered. His dreams of having someone he could share a life with, loving her and having love in return, had vanished. He doubted that would happen now.

Nonsense. Sentimental nonsense at that. Better he put youthful dreams of romance where they belonged; at the bottom of the sea.

Ben would have sworn to hell and back that he cared little for the estate and the title he’d abandoned. But he was wrong. His inheritance burned deep, a part of him. He’d been bred to care for it, to support it, to ensure its health and well-being and that of everyone who belonged to it. If Louis had proved a worthy master, Ben could have kept away with good conscience, but now? He could not do it.

Even if Louis had been near death’s door after the duel, Ben had carried that guilt for too long.

Ben stared through the bristling masts to the horizon, where gray sea met gray sky. Already his mind teemed with plans, possibilities. He did not fool himself that regaining what he had lost would be easy. But for his father’s sake, or for the name he still bore, he should do it.

He stared back out to sea.

He would go.

Chapter 3

Dorothea Rowland closed the door of the bedroom assigned to her and breathed a heavy sigh of relief. Arriving at Cressbrook House in the early afternoon with a plethora of other guests had exhausted her social tolerance. Now she had some time to herself, and she would make the most of it.

She looked around. Her traveling trunk had not arrived yet, but the maid had promised a footman would bring it up directly, which probably meant at least two hours.

This room was not the best in the house; with prestigious guests included in the party, she could hardly expect that. But it was pleasant enough, if a little spartan, tucked at the end of a long corridor that also contained the rooms assigned to her brother and sister-in-law.

Being, at the age of thirty, an older spinster, destined to become that dreadful thing, an unmarried woman, she had often been placed in less-than-pleasant surroundings. This room would serve her well enough. The old-fashioned four-poster bed at least sported a modern mattress, which boded well for her night’s sleep. An upholstered chair was set by the window, and a chest of drawers capacious enough to hold her modest belongings stood against the wall opposite. She had no bureau, but the table near the window would suffice for writing her letters once she’d cleared it of its motley collection of ornaments and empty vases.

Best of all, since she had a corner room she had windows on two sides. Even better, they opened easily and stayed that way, since they were of the old-fashioned latched type instead of modern sashes. Cool air rushed in, bringing a gentle breeze that made Dorothea groan in pleasure. The tiny, airless rooms in the inns they’d used had given her sleepless nights on the way here. She was tempted to lie down on that mattress and send her excuses for dinner.

The windows gave a view of the front of the house, the Home Park stretching to the horizon. The mature elms marching down either side of the drive added a touch of majesty.

The clock on the mantelpiece struck two. Two hours to dinner. Finding her bag, Dorothea plucked out the leather portfolio and opened it to reacquaint herself with the contents. Not that she needed to, but every time she touched the thing a sense of exhilaration flooded her. No more the discarded spinster, Dorothea now had a purpose in life. She was a member of the Society for Single Ladies, and she was here on a mission. She was supposed to meet the officer from the Crown Office, Sir James Hunstone, within the hour. So she could do no more than freshen up before she went downstairs. She glanced at the bed regretfully. No time to rest.

Someone knocked at the door, and Dorothea hastily closed the portfolio and shoved it back in her bag. Her sister-in-law’s maid, Brooks, entered, two footmen hauling Dorothea’s trunk in her wake. “My mistress says you must use me as much as you wish, ma’am. Would you like to change now?”

Dorothea shook the skirts of her traveling gown ruefully. “I’m afraid it was rather muddy today. What do we have?”

Twenty minutes later, arrayed in her new gown of blue striped lustring, her silver SSL pin tucked behind the robings on the left-hand side, Dorothea set forth to meet the officer of the Crown.

Cressbrook House was larger than she’d been led to believe, but the domestic staff were friendly, if reserved. She got directions to the small green parlor easily enough. Exhilaration filled Dorothea anew. At last, she was doing something useful, something that mattered. Dwindling into an old maid, even with a family as kind as hers, was not a fate she looked forward to.

Her first assignment for the SSL was a personal connection. She’d entered society two years before the beauteous Lady Honoria Colt, and while she had not driven young men to their knees, she’d been noticed. Lord Brocklebank, Ben to his friends, had entered into a gentle courtship with her, and she’d been lost. But her father had bidden him wait for her to grow a little older, and he’d agreed. Although Dorothea knew Ben wasn’t in love with her, she’d fallen for him the instant she’d seen him.

She’d never forget her first sight of him. Brocklebank had stood out as the most handsome, the most desirable of them all, tall and elegantly built. A pang had hit her as sharp as a knife between her ribs, and she’d wanted him with every sinew in her young body. He’d been taller than her, a definite advantage, since no man wanted a wife who looked down on him. In her late mother’s words, Dorothea was “unconscionably tall.” Her quiet happiness at the unspoken arrangement between them had colored her life. She’d had every expectation that their time together would be happy. She had love enough for two. Not that she had ever told him. Her shyness at the time had precluded that.

Then, the next season, Lady Honoria Colt had descended on society and drawn men like iron filings to a magnet. Dorothea had pale hair; Honoria’s was of spun gold. Dorothea’s features were not remarkable, while men wrote sonnets to Honoria’s fine eyes and clear complexion. Ben had abandoned Dorothea—or rather, smiled at her and told her they would always be friends, would they not? He’d left it to her brother to break the bad news to her, that the negotiations for the marriage contract would not now take place.

Dorothea had berated him bitterly, but not to his face, and the negotiations for the marriage settlement melted away as if they’d never been. Lady Honoria became the prize to be won.

Then, after the duel, Benedict had disappeared, never to return. Dorothea had pined for him, but tried to move on. At the time, she’d expected to make some kind of a match, but the seasons had passed without one. There had always been someone more lovely and accomplished than her. And shorter.

Now she would remember her advantages, not her losses. She had much to be thankful for. This investigation would put an end to an unfortunate chapter in her life, as Angela had known when she’d handed her the portfolio.

Dorothea had paid only one visit to Cressbrook House before, but she remembered it well. That summer when she’d been happy. She was a different person now, with a different future to plan for. Remember that, and finally close the door on youthful dreams.

Left, then right at the painting of the miserable child—yes, because the second door on her left led to the room she’d been looking for. Unmistakably the small green parlor. The upholstery on the sofa set before the unlit fire was green, the walls were green, and so were most of the ornaments. An edge of shabbiness marked the room, and a dullness signifying that it did not receive much love from the housemaids.

A dapper gentleman sat on the green leather armchair by the fireplace. He rose at her entrance. “Miss Rowland?”

She dropped a short curtsy to match his bow. “Indeed. And you are Sir James Hunstone.”

He nodded. “You do not object to spending time alone with a gentleman? I had thought you would bring your maid.”

Dorothea gave a most unladylike snort. “And have our business discussed in the kitchen before the day is out? I think not, sir. I doubt you will pounce on me with unalloyed passion.”

The gentleman raised a slim brow. “You don’t do yourself justice, ma’am.” He was about fifty years old or thereabouts, a neat appearance indicating a man who did not allow fashion to rule his life. While respectable, his maroon coat and green waistcoat did not display extravagant embroidery, spangles or gilded buttons, but they were perfectly acceptable. Instinctively, Dorothea liked him.

He sat down and crossed his legs, while she disposed her skirts comfortably.

“Shall I begin?” he asked. When she nodded assent, he went on. “Mr. Louis Thorpe contacted the coroner about declaring his cousin dead. That means as soon as the courts confirm the death, Louis can claim the marquessate as the next heir in line. When it is ratified by the Lord Chancellor and approved by the King, he will inherit the estate. However, we are by no means certain that Lord Brocklebank is dead, and if he is, what became of him? Why has nobody heard from him?”

Dorothea ignored the inevitable pang when the prospect of Ben’s death was spoken of so calmly. What else did she expect? “I agree. And the usual period to wait until death is declared is seven years after the person has disappeared, is it not?”

Sir James’s thin lips flattened. “Lord Hardwicke and I are deeply concerned that Lord Brocklebank met his end, either as a result of injury sustained in the duel, or shortly after. Nefariously. You understand?”

Dorothea nodded. “Yes. Duels are illegal, and if his death occurred as a result, that makes Louis a murderer.” The pang turned into an ache. “I never considered that.” Surely not. Louis Thorpe was many things, but not a murderer. “Are you considering removing the title altogether?”

Sir James raised his brows. “Not while there is a legitimate heir in Louis Thorpe’s younger brother, and after that, his uncle. If we did that, the House of Lords would turn on us like an angry tiger. Or a collection of them.” His forehead pleated in a frown. “A herd of tigers? A bunch?”

“A prowl?” she suggested, and received a nod and a reluctant smile.

“We must be sure of our facts, ma’am. If Mr. Thorpe was responsible for Lord Brocklebank’s death, we cannot allow him to profit from that. However, the case would be difficult, and we have no wish to drag Mr. Thorpe through the mud if we are not sure of our facts.”

“I see.” So Ben’s death could go unavenged. After all this time, what proof could they uncover? Dorothea tried to think of him as Lord Brocklebank, nothing to do with her or the man she’d set her girlish heart on eight years ago.

Sir James lifted his hand, turning it in an. . .