The Marquess’ Quest for Love: A Regency Historical Romance
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Synopsis
Captain Byron Balfour never expected to inherit the title Marquess of Bridgewater, let alone the weight of responsibility that comes with it. When his beloved brother dies in a phaeton race in Hyde Park, however, Byron sells his army commission and returns to England, ready to uphold the Balfour family legacy. As he navigates his newfound duties, he meets the enchanting Lady Mirella, a woman who captures his heart and fills him with hope for a future he never thought possible.
His brother had been betrothed, though, to their neighbor’s daughter. Byron’s father had always instilled in his sons the importance of fulfilling their obligations and had wanted to join the Balfour family with that of this neighbor, his closest friend. Byron finds himself torn between duty to his family and his desire for true love.
Lady Mirella Strong makes her come-out, becoming the darling of Polite Society. Her family is known for making love matches, and Mirella will settle for nothing less. She falls in love with Byron, but he informs her he cannot pursue her because he will soon announce his betrothal to another woman. Crushed, Mirella throws herself into the activities of the Season—but realizes the handsome marquess is the man who holds her heart.
Will Byron wed another woman and pine for Mirella the rest of his life, or will he choose love over duty to his family?
Find the answer in bestselling author Alexa Aston’s The Marquess’ Quest for Love, Book 6 of The Strongs of Shadowcrest.
*Each book in The Strongs of Shadowcrest is a standalone story that can be enjoyed out of order and read in Kindle Unlimited!
The Strongs of Shadowcrest
Book #1: The Duke’s Unexpected Love
Book #2: The Perks of Loving a Viscount
Book #3: Falling for the Marquess
Book #4: The Captain and the Duchess
Book #5: Courtship at Shadowcrest (Regency Duet – includes Tempted by the Earl and The Viscount’s Heart)
Book #6: The Marquess’ Quest for Love
Book #7: The Duke’s Guide to Winning a Lady
Release date: September 6, 2024
Publisher: Dragonblade Publishing, Inc.
Print pages: 284
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
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The Marquess’ Quest for Love: A Regency Historical Romance
Alexa Aston
PROLOGUE
Bridgefield, Kent—1 September 1803
On the morning of his birthday, Byron Balfour awoke with a splitting headache, regretting the amount of ale he had drunk at the village tavern last night. He had never been one to drink to excess. Then again, he was now only eight and ten years of age. That was what university was supposedly for. At least, according to his older brother Dawson, who had recently graduated from Cambridge this past spring.
He had not seen Dawson all summer. His brother had gone straight from university to their family’s London townhouse, where he joined their parents for the remainder of the Season. Having just completed his education at Eton, Byron had yet to partake in the social scene in town and would not do so until after university.
He would be leaving in two weeks for Cambridge and was excited at the educational opportunities which lay ahead, having always been drawn to subjects such as history and maths. Dawson had insisted that Byron rent the same rooms he had, and the family solicitor had made those arrangements. His brother had written to him, saying he’d left an assortment of books and furniture, along with hints for how to get along with difficult dons. A list also awaited of Dawson’s favorite places to dine and which foods he recommended.
Byron idolized Dawson, who was four years his senior. His brother had taught him everything a boy needed to know to become a man. How to ride and hunt. How to fish and swim. Dawson had even taught him how to read. They had shared a bedchamber during their early years, and after they were supposed to be in bed fast asleep, Dawson would either read stories of adventure to Byron or simply make up ones off the top of his head. He wanted nothing more to be than the kind of man his brother was. Caring. Sympathetic. Intelligent. Honorable.
As the older Balfour son, his brother currently held the courtesy title of Earl of Linden and one day would inherit their father’s title of Marquess of Bridgewater. Since Byron would not inherit anything, he was destined for a career in the military, as many second sons pursued. While their father had been perfectly willing to buy Byron’s commission and ship him off to war upon his graduation from Eton, it was Dawson who insisted that his younger brother receive the same university education he himself had, telling the marquess that it would make Byron a better officer and give him a few years to mature in order that he might be more inspiring to the men he would lead into battle.
As always, Father bowed to his heir apparent’s wishes, for which Byron had been grateful. While he had grown up knowing he was meant for the army, to think of taking on that mantle of leadership at such a tender age had frightened him. While he possessed intelligence, combined with common sense, he knew he needed time to continue to mature physically and emotionally. Gratitude had filled him when Dawson fought for those extra years to give him a chance to become the man Byron hoped he could be, as well as the luxury of a university education, before his commission was purchased.
He rang for a servant and requested both hot and cold water, the hot to wash with and the cold to dunk his head into, hoping the headache would abate when he did so. Once dressed and shaved, he made his way downstairs to breakfast, where he found his father dining with Lord Hampton.
Viscount Hampton owned the estate next to Bridgefield, and he and Byron’s father had been the best of friends since boyhood, attending both Eton and Cambridge together. Even as adults, they spent much of their time in the country together, as well as at events in town during the Season.
Mama was not fond of Lady Hampton. Byron had once overheard Mama telling a friend that Lady Hampton was the most disagreeable person she had ever encountered. He concurred with his mother. Lady Hampton was extremely unpleasant to be around. She treated servants rudely and was dismissive of many others. Still, the two women were expected to keep company with one another because their husbands were such dear friends. He felt sorry for Mama and supposed she was breakfasting in her room as usual.
“Ah, come in, Byron,” his father said. “Lord Hampton has joined us for breakfast this morning.”
He went and shook hands with the viscount. “It is always good to see you, my lord.”
Taking a seat, he told the footman he would like coffee. While he did not like the taste of the brew, it was much stronger than tea, and he hoped it would help clear the fogginess and help the pounding in his head.
It did not surprise him that his father did not wish Byron a happy birthday. Though he yearned for his parent’s love—and would have settled for his respect—the Marquess of Bridgewater had little use for his younger son. All his attention had gone toward Dawson. Byron had never been jealous of his older brother, understanding both their roles within the family. Instead of aspiring to be like his father, he had always wanted to be more like his brother.
He ate in silence, listening to the two men talk about various acquaintances and things that had occurred during the Season. Byron only wished Dawson had come home to Bridgefield when his parents had. Instead, his brother had accepted an invitation to a house party at Season’s end. He hoped they would have at least some time to spend together before he left for Cambridge.
Suddenly, Dawson appeared in the breakfast room, immaculately turned out as always, a broad smile on his face.
“Good morning,” Dawson said cheerfully. “Especially to you, Lord Hampton. It is good to see you at Bridgefield this morning.”
Pleasantries were exchanged as Dawson took his seat and accepted coffee from a footman.
“Did your house party already end?” Byron asked.
“It did,” his brother replied. “Two betrothals were announced at its conclusion. I have come to gather that is the sole purpose of holding a house party.”
He saw his father and Lord Hampton exchange glances, but neither man spoke.
“What exactly is it that you do at a house party?” he asked, curious, especially since he doubted he would ever be asked to attend one.
“It is an excuse for bringing eligible men together with unwed young ladies, so that they might get to know one another better,” his brother said matter-of-factly. “There are walks, rides, and drives through the country. Card play and dancing. Games on the lawn. Many boring nights of the ladies present showing off their musical skills.” Dawson grinned. “Or lack of them.”
“Are you . . . one of the gentlemen who is now betrothed?” Byron asked, finding it hard to picture his carefree brother ready to take on a wife.
Dawson laughed. “No, little brother. I have no intention of wedding for several years. The party was given by a duke and duchess, however. You will learn once you enter Polite Society’s company that one never says no to a duke. Even though I was not in the market for a bride, I did make some good connections, however.”
Byron didn’t remind his brother that he would not become a part of the ton because he was destined for a career in the military.
His brother tucked into his meal, while Byron pushed the food around on his plate, not hungry. He did consume two additional cups of coffee, and the headache began to recede.
Finishing his food, Dawson asked, “Are you up for a ride this morning, Byron? I want to go about the estate and see how things are since I have been away for so long.”
He caught the pleased look on his father’s face, hearing of his heir’s concern regarding Bridgefield. Since his brother would one day be the marquess, it was important for Dawson to take an interest in the tenants at Bridgefield. He couldn’t help but wonder exactly what Dawson would do, now that his education had been completed. With their father still alive and well, he was the one responsible for the care of Bridgefield and its tenants. Of course, Father had a steward who actually did most of the work. He decided he would ask Dawson what his role would now be when they were away from the house.
“Of course. Let me go change into my riding clothes. I will meet you at the stables.”
Half an hour later, a groom brought out their horses, and both men mounted. Though Byron knew the headache could very well return while being jostled about, he did not care. He enjoyed all time spent in his brother’s company.
“Happy birthday, Byron,” wished Dawson as they set out. “I hope you are not upset that Father did not acknowledge the day during breakfast.”
Though it had stung, he pretended otherwise and asked, “Why would he? He never has before.”
“I have already talked with Cook. She is making a cake for you so that we might celebrate. Just the two of us. I will bring the cake and snatch a bottle of Father’s best brandy. We can meet up in the stables this evening.”
He groaned. “No drinking for me. I actually went into Bridgehampton last night to celebrate with a few of the local lads. I had several drinks. Too many, in fact. My head pounded fiercely when I awoke this morning.”
His brother laughed. “The cure for consuming too much alcohol is to drink more.”
“I will pass. On the brandy. Not the cake.”
It touched him that Dawson had not only remembered his birthday, but he had spoken to Cook about it. His parents never had seen the day as call for celebration and never mentioned it, even in passing, while Dawson’s date of birth was celebrated each year with fanfare.
They rode for over two hours, walking their horses for the most part so they might talk as they went. He learned a few things about the Season, which his parents attended yearly, but they never mentioned anything about it to him.
“Actually, it can be quite a bit of fun, yet boring at the same time,” Dawson noted. “It is pleasant to spend time in the company of your friends, but some of the social affairs can be rather dull. Especially if you are not seeking a bride on the Marriage Mart.”
“What is that?” he asked.
“You see, each spring, a group of girls makes what is called their come-out. This debut simply means they are officially entering into Polite Society. Women of our class use the Season to search for husbands. The events include an incredible number of balls. While I enjoy dancing, I had no desire to wed, so I never danced more than once with a woman. If you dance twice with the same one in a single night, it shows you are incredibly interested in her. Hostesses invite gentlemen, such as myself, so that ladies’ dance cards might be rounded out. Yes, I danced with a good number of women. I also attended countless card parties, routs, and musicales.”
Dawson’s eyes lit with mischief. “The fun, though, is getting to spend time with your friends after some of the boring events, which end far earlier than balls do. I would go out with them. We would make our way from one gaming hell to another, gambling and drinking the night away, not returning home until well after dawn broke.”
“You do that kind of thing regularly?” he asked, not bothering to hide his shock. Byron knew Dawson was no angel, but he found it hard picturing his brother wasting his time with such activities.
“Oh, my naïve little brother. I do far more than that. I bedded a good number of women this Season. Not any of the young girls making their come-outs, of course, but there are always willing wives who are bored with their husbands or pretty widows who are eager to take a tumble with a handsome young buck.”
Byron was speechless. For the first time, he was seeing a side of his brother he never had before. Admittedly, he worshipped Dawson and wanted to be just like him. Still, their lives would be very different as adults and the paths they would pursue. After his officer training, he would be off to fight. The war with Bonaparte was dragging on, and he did not think it would be over anytime soon. That meant after university, Byron would be shipped to the Continent and lead soldiers in the fight against the Little Corporal. This talk of the Season and bedding women would have nothing to do with him.
Before he could ask his brother what he would do now at Bridgefield, Dawson asked, “When do you leave for Cambridge?”
“In two weeks. I am glad to be renting the same rooms you did while you were there. I am looking forward to extending my studies.”
Dawson chuckled. “You always were the academic between the two of us. University is for more than academics, however, little brother. I have told you that very thing, but you will understand better after you arrive in Cambridge and can see for yourself. These upcoming years are for learning about people. About life. You will certainly need to learn how to drink and wench. You are quite good at maths, so I assume you will have some skill when it comes to gambling.”
He was outraged at his brother’s words and did not bother to hide it. “This is what you did your entire time at Cambridge?”
Dawson shrugged. “For most of it. Yes, I did enough to get by in order to graduate, but I looked upon those years as time away from Father. Away from the obligations he always preaches to us about. I will certainly take those on when the time comes and meet my responsibilities. After all, I am the heir apparent. I know what is expected of me.”
His brother did favor Father physically, being stout and handsome, with blond hair and blue eyes. Byron’s looks came from his mother’s side of the family, with his hair black as coal and having Mama’s gray eyes. He did know his brother would be a dutiful marquess. It just surprised him how Dawson had been so cavalier about his years at university.
He had never been one to judge others, however. Perhaps he, too, might sow a few wild oats during his own Cambridge days. Once he entered the army, however, it would be all business. His father had drilled into his sons how important duty and responsibility were. Byron would be representing both king and country on the battlefield, as well as being responsible for the men serving under him. He would not take such an assignment lightly.
They returned to the stables and handed their reins off to a groom, strolling back to the house.
“What will you do now that you are back at Bridgefield?” he asked, wondering if his brother would settle down now that his university days were behind him.
“With university no longer looming over me, I am certain Father wishes me to take more of an active interest in estate matters. I will be spending time with our steward and learning as much about estate management as I possibly can.”
He did not think that would keep Dawson occupied enough, especially since his brother had just come off the social swirl of the Season.
Curious, he asked, “You said you are not looking for a bride. When do you plan to wed?”
Laughing, Dawson punched Byron in the arm playfully. “I will put that off for as long as possible.” Then sobering, he added, “I know what is expected of me. I will keep attuned to the situation. Father seems to be in decent health at this point, so I feel no need to chain myself to one woman. I assume in the next five to ten years, I will take a wife, however. Mama will be more than happy to see grandchildren from me, especially since she will get none from you.”
He had never really thought about the fact that he would, most likely, not have any children, nor even wed. The army would be his life. Byron would be as wedded to his career as he would a woman. He supposed he would look upon the men he commanded as his children. True, he had heard the occasional army officer wed, but that was infrequently done, and those wives remained behind in England when officers shipped out for war. Or at least he supposed they did. What woman would wish to live a harsh life with no luxuries, always on the move when the army advanced or retreated?
“Playing uncle to your children will be good enough for me,” he told Dawson. “As it is, who can predict the future? I may spend my entire adult life abroad if England cannot contain and defeat Bonaparte.”
“You would still be granted leave every now and then, I assume.”
Byron doubted it. Once his commission was purchased, the army would own him. War did not cease merely because a man tired of it and wished to take a few weeks to visit his home and family. In some ways, he believed Dawson a bit naïve but did not call him out on it.
They entered the house and were met by their butler.
“His Lordship wishes to see the both of you in his study.”
“We will be there shortly, Jarrod,” Dawson said easily. “First, we must wash the scent of horse from us. Have water sent up for baths for the both of us.”
“Yes, my lord.”
That was the difference between being the first and second son. Byron would have gone immediately to their father’s study because he had been summoned. Dawson, comfortable in being Lord Linden and the heir to the marquessate, would take his own time before answering the summons.
More than an hour later, he went and knocked on his brother’s bedchamber door and was admitted. Keller, their father’s valet, was tying Dawson’s cravat. He supposed now that Dawson had returned to Bridgefield permanently, he would need his own valet, or possibly share Keller with the marquess.
“I came to see if you were ready.”
His brother glanced into the mirror, nodding satisfactorily. “Yes. Shall we go?”
They went to Lord Bridgewater’s study, a place Byron only entered upon rare occasions. The room was the marquess’ sanctuary. He spent many hours within it, only entertaining Lord Hampton in it, with no other visitors coming here.
Jarrod announced them, and they stepped into the room. Immediately, he noticed the irritation in his father’s eyes, which the marquess quickly masked. Byron knew Father would never complain about how long it took them to arrive.
“Have a seat, boys,” the marquess said from his seat by the window, indicating the two chairs nearby.
As they did so, Dawson cheekily said, “You know, Father, we are not boys. We are both men.”
Father frowned. “You will always be boys to me, Linden.”
The marquess’ tone wiped the smile from his brother’s face, and Byron wanted to deflect their father’s displeasure.
“We had been out riding, Father,” he said quickly. “We did not want to offend you by filling your study with the stench of horse and sweat.”
“Very well,” the old man said brusquely.
Trying to continue to smooth things over and placate their father, Byron asked, “What would you like to speak to us about today, Father?”
What followed was one of the marquess’ lengthy lectures on honor, duty, and family obligations. The Balfour brothers had been subjected to these many times over the years, from the time they could walk. While he had thought Dawson was cut from the exact cloth as Father, Byron now realized his brother rebelled a bit if his behavior at university was to be believed. Still, he knew Dawson would make for an excellent Marquess of Bridgewater when his day came. His brother was intelligent and would settle down and take his responsibilities seriously.
He kept an attentive look on his face while thinking of other things. No conversation was ever expected during these lectures. Instead, his father would ramble for an hour or two before dismissing his sons.
This time, things were different.
Byron sat up slightly when he heard the word marriage uttered, especially since it had been a topic he and Dawson had just discussed during their ride together.
He hadn’t heard exactly what was said and so looked to his brother, who wore an incredulous look on his face.
“You wish me to marry her?” Dawson asked, his voice raised in anger.
Who was the her?
In the blink of an eye, Father sprung to his feet and struck Dawson. The sting of the slap shocked Byron, as did the handprint instantly appearing on his brother’s face. No one had ever touched either boy, which made the display of sudden violence so jarring.
As he seated himself again, the look in the marquess’ eye turned deadly. “You will never speak to me like that, Linden,” he told his older son. “Ever.”
The chill in the room could have frozen a lake, and the silence stretched out for some minutes. Byron’s gaze dropped to his lap, worried how Dawson would react. His brother, though, kept to his seat and remained quiet.
Finally, Father said, “I have spoken to the both of you about duty and honor for many years. Byron will serve our king and country and be duty-bound to the crown and his men. He must remain honorable in order to maintain the respect of other officers, as well as his soldiers. You, on the other hand, Dawson, are to follow in my footsteps. A marquess is but one step below a duke. You will have the eyes of Polite Society upon you. You will not fail. You will make me proud from my grave.”
Father took a deep breath and expelled it. “Lord Hampton is the brother I never had. My chosen family. We have been close for over fifty years. It is our wish to unite our families.”
Now, he knew what was going on. Father had told Dawson he was to wed Jacinda Bowles, the viscount’s spoiled daughter. While Dawson was a good man, he did have a stubborn streak. Ordering him to wed Jacinda would not sit well.
“I know you have never liked being told what to do,” the marquess said, echoing Byron’s thoughts. “I also know you will do as you are told. Most every marriage that takes place within the ton is not the choice of the bride or groom. It is the parents who make their wishes known. In this case, I expect you to wed Jacinda. She is but eleven years of age now, Linden. That gives you a good number of years to enjoy the company of . . . other women.”
“Then I have no choice in the matter,” Dawson said flatly.
“No. Frankly, the choice was never yours. Lord Hampton and I have spoken of this on numerous occasions. I simply felt it was time to make you privy to our discussions. We have agreed to the dowry and other details of the marriage settlements. In fact, we signed these documents in town before we both traveled down to Kent after the Season.”
Byron knew the fact the marriage contracts had already been arranged would irk Dawson to no end. Yet Father was right. Marriages were strictly business arrangements. His brother should have suspected this would be the outcome.
“You did not need my signature on these papers?” Dawson asked, his tone neutral.
“No. Nor did I need your permission,” the marquess snapped, his displeasure with his older son still evident. “As I said, the chit will not make her come-out for seven years or so.”
“Has she been told?” Dawson demanded.
“She will be told. In time. No sense in it now.”
“Why would she even need a Season if she already has an intended husband?” Byron asked.
Father turned to him, baffled, as if he just now realized Byron was in the room.
“Why, the girl will need a bit of town polish on her. All girls make their come-outs. Jacinda will not be an exception. I believe she will be the leading girl in her come-out group. A diamond of the first water. It will be a feather in Linden’s cap to wed the beauty of her Season.”
“I will do as you request, Father, and honor the contracts which have been signed,” Dawson said, sounding as if the choice of bride had been his all along. “Jacinda Bowles will stand out from the other girls who make their come-outs. It is only fair to give her a Season to enjoy and allow our courtship to be played out in front of Polite Society.”
It made Byron secretly glad that he would not have to wed a woman of his parents’ choice and that he would simply enter the army. He did feel a bit sorry for his brother, though. He would be stuck with Jacinda for the rest of his life, even years before they wed. Even if Dawson found himself attracted to another girl, he would not be allowed to act upon his feelings because of the secret commitment.
“I am glad you came to your senses, Linden,” the marquess said, approval in his tone. “We should toast to your betrothal.”
Drinking was the last thing Byron wished to do, but he accepted the snifter of brandy his father handed to him.
“To the union of the Balfour and Bowles families,” Father said, satisfaction written on his face.
The trio tapped their crystal tumblers against one another’s. Byron brought the glass to his lips and winced as he downed the brandy. It burned a trail from his throat to his belly. He hoped he would be able to keep it down.
“We need to tell . . . to tell . . .” Father’s voice trailed off as an odd expression crossed his face, something between surprise and bewilderment. Then he dropped the empty snifter and clutched at his chest, clawing at it.
As he dropped to his knees, Dawson calmly said, “Have Jarrod summon the doctor.”
Byron ran from the room, shouting for the butler. When Jarrod came around the corner, he sputtered, “Father is ill. Gravely ill. Send for the doctor at once.”
He raced back into the study, seeing that his father was now prone. Dawson knelt beside him, loosening Father’s cravat.
“The doctor is coming, Father,” his brother said reassuringly, his voice almost eerily calm. “You will be fine.”
Panic filled the old man’s eyes as he struggled to take a breath. Byron took one of Father’s hands and held it tightly, seeing the light ebb from the marquess’ eyes. Then he stilled, his eyes wide with terror in death.
Dawson reached out and swept his palm over them, closing them. “He’s gone, Byron.”
“Gone,” he echoed, not comprehending the swiftness of the events. “But he was just talking,” he insisted. “He was fine.”
“I think it must have been his heart. At least, that is what the doctor will say of the suddenness. How he clutched at his chest and then collapsed.”
“You . . . are the Marquess of Bridgewater now,” Byron said, his voice full of wonder at the power his brother now yielded.
“I am,” Dawson said firmly. “I plan to make him proud. I will live up to his expectations. And I will marry that damned chit. Because it is what he wanted. The Balfours and Bowles will unite in marriage.”
Dawson, the Marquess of Bridgewater, rose and poured more brandy into two snifters and handing one to Byron, who came to his feet, still a bit unsteady, but wanting to support his brother.
Doing his part, their dead father lying at their feet, Byron held his tumbler high. “To the Marquess of Bridgefield.”
“Thank you,” his brother said, tapping his glass against Byron’s, and both men drained the contents.
“I will not force you into the military,” Dawson revealed. “You will go only if you wish to do so. I know it is the tradition for second sons to enter the army, but you will always be welcomed here at Bridgefield, Byron.”
“Thank you,” he said, numbed by what had occurred during the last few minutes.
He would reflect upon Dawson’s offer. No, the Marquess of Bridgewater’s offer. They would never again be on equal footing as brothers. Bridgewater would wield more power than Byron might ever have imagined.
In that moment, he knew his path forward lay with the army. If he remained at Bridgewater after graduating from Cambridge, he would have no set role. No goals to achieve. Father had constantly lectured them about honor and duty. His would be to his king and country.
Byron would keep this to himself, however. He would only let the marquess know of this decision four years from now.
CHAPTER 1
London—1 September 1809
Captain Byron Balfour awoke in a cold sweat, his heart racing, the battle scene of blood and gore still fresh in his mind. He sat up, pushing his fingers through his hair, trying to slow his heart, breathing in and out carefully, as he had taught his men to do when they were terrified.
No, he was no longer Captain Balfour, officer under Wellesley, attacking the French armies under Joseph Bonaparte at Talavera.
He was the Marquess of Bridgewater.
Why the bloody hell had Dawson challenged someone to race their phaetons through Hyde Park, both of them deep into their cups?
Actually, it sounded exactly like his brother. As a boy, Byron had worshipped the ground Dawson trod upon. No one could ride better, run faster, or shoot as well as Dawson Balfour. It was only when their father passed, six years ago to this day, did Byron begin to glimpse the true Dawson. He supposed he had hints of his brother’s character along the way. He hadn’t judged his brother for not being as academically oriented as he himself was. Dawson had said and done all the right things after their father collapsed and died. He had even encouraged Byron to continue with his plans to go to Cambridge, telling him there was no sense in him staying at Bridgefield to mourn a man who had cared little for him.
Eager to pursue his studies, Byron had left Kent, glad he could escape. It was at Cambridge that he shone. The dons had tried to convince him to become an academic himself, but he had in his head—and heart—that he was meant to serve his country. Dawson had purchased Byron’s commission for him, sending him off to war. His brother had written to him several times a year, but the letters were usually ones he wrote when drinking. The text rambled. Most often, the missives were sent from London, instead of Bridgefield. In his heart, Byron knew his brother was neglecting Bridgefield and its tenants and only hoped the steward exercised full control. The pedestal he had placed Dawson upon when Byron could barely walk had toppled, showing Dawson was not the best of men. Certainly not the one their father had envisioned taking over at Bridgefield.
Yet Byron had not been prepared for that role. It was one he did not want and never would have wished for. He had found a home in the army, his fellow officers his brothers-in-arms, his men ones to be encouraged, praised, and pushed onto the battlefield.
Today, he turned four and twenty—and felt another score older than he was. He also felt adrift. He had only spent two years in the army, with no thought of ever doing anything else. Now, he carried his new title like an albatross about his neck. He could hear echoes of phrases his father had spoken over the years and only hoped he would be able to manage his new responsibilities well.
Climbing from the bed, he washed with the water the innkeeper’s wife had brought the night before, wishing it were warm so that shaving was not so difficult. He donned his captain’s uniform, knowing he would soon give it up for clothes more appropriate to his station. The thought of so many prying eyes on him made Byron ill. At least he had just missed the Season and all the social swirl surrounding it, and would not be forced to move amongst Polite Society straightaway.
His immediate concern was Bridgefield. He would learn more of the status of things when he visited with Mr. Pilsbury, the Balfour solicitor, this morning. Then he would check on the London townhouse and make haste to Kent.
Going downstairs, he stopped for breakfast, forcing himself to eat. The food lay as a lump in his belly. Byron told himself to shake off his gloom and worry. He could not change anything which had occurred up to this point. It was what happened beyond today which mattered most. If Bridgefield had been neglected, as he believed, then he would put things right. He had always possessed a thirst for knowledge, and there would certainly be much to learn in the weeks and months which lay ahead. It might not be as bad as he suspected.
At least, that’s what he told himself.
After breakfasting, he sat sipping a second cup of tea. The tea served in the army had been too weak for his tastes. The coffee had proved even worse. Byron had never acquired a taste for the brew at any rate. He removed Pilsbury’s letter from his pocket and read through it several times, mulling over the contents.
The solicitor had briefly written of what he termed an accident, saying that Lord Bridgewater, who had been fond of racing, had challenged a friend to a phaeton race in Hyde Park. Byron read between the lines, Pilsbury intimating that the marquess had been drunk without directly coming out and stating that to be the case. At any rate, both men had crashed, with his brother perishing immediately and the other man dying the next day.
Pilsbury had told Byron the wisest action was to sell out as quickly and return to England as soon as possible, asking that the new marquess visit Pilsbury’s London office to receive an overview of the estate. That meeting would occur this morning.
He returned to his room for the small knapsack which carried an extra shirt, a comb, and his shaving equipment. Men in service of the king traveled lightly, and Byron was no exception. He held all his earthly possessions in his hand, at least the ones Captain Byron Balfour had owned. He had no idea what he had inherited with his title.
When he had arrived in London last night around seven o’clock, he had chosen not to go to the family’s townhouse. It was located in Mayfair, and Byron had only been there twice. He wasn’t even certain he could locate it on his own. Instead, he had chosen to take a room for the night at an inn which was close to Pilsbury’s office. Because of that, he now set out on foot to see the solicitor.
Using the address on the letter he had received, he soon located his destination and entered, going to a desk where a clerk sat. Using his height and tone which oozed authority, Byron said, “I need to speak with Mr. Pilsbury at his earliest convenience.”
The clerk sat up a bit. “Do you have an appointment, Captain?” he asked, obviously recognizing Byron’s rank from his uniform.
“No, I have just arrived from the continent.” He swallowed, and for the first time uttered the words which would forever define him. “I am the Marquess of Bridgefield.”
Immediately, the clerk shot to his feet. “Yes, my lord. Please, wait here a moment. I will let Mr. Pilsbury know you have arrived.”
Faster than a Frenchman retreating from one of Wellington’s attacks, the clerk was off. Returning less than a minute later, he said, a bit out of breath, “If you will follow me, my lord. Mr. Pilsbury will see you at once.”
Byron did so, moving along a corridor and entering the door the clerk indicated.
Already, the solicitor was on his feet, bowing to his client. “Lord Bridgewater, it was good of you to come. Please, have a seat. Might I offer you some tea?”
“No, thank you. I would rather get down to business, Mr. Pilsbury.”
“Yes, of course.” He nodded, and the clerk shut the door.
Both men took a seat on either side of the desk, and the solicitor reached for a stack of documents.
“I have quite a bit of information to share with you, my lord.”
“Before that, tell me of my brother’s death,” he said. “The unvarnished truth.”
Pilsbury winced. “I believe I wrote to you that—”
“I know what you wrote,” Byron said impatiently. “I am now the Marquess of Bridgewater. You have no loyalties to my brother or father. Only to me,” he stated. “And I expect to hear the entire truth regarding what took place.”
With that, the sordid tale unfolded. Much as he had believed, his brother had been inebriated, as had the other fellow. Both horses had to be put down, as well.
“Who did Bridgewater decide to race? I suppose I will need to go and offer my condolences to the family.”
The solicitor’s eyes widened. “You do not know, my lord?”
Impatience filled him. “How was I to know? I have been fighting in Portugal and Spain. I only know what you wrote to me of, Pilsbury.”
The older man’s face flushed. “You are correct, my lord. I . . . I am not quite certain how to tell you this.”
“Spit it out!” he roared, tired of the man dancing around the facts.
“Lord Hampton,” sputtered the solicitor. “It was Lord Hampton who also perished in the accident.”
Byron stilled, his thoughts racing, trying to comprehend what he had just heard. “Our neighbor? My father’s closest friend?”
Pilsbury nodded. Byron sat, stunned by this news.
Finally he found his voice. “Why would Lord Hampton accept such a challenge from my brother?”
Meekly, the solicitor said, “Lord Bridgewater—that is, your father—often issued these types of challenges to his closest friend. In fact, all of London watched with interest when your father and Lord Hampton placed bets with one another. They were known for their antics. Your brother simply took up the mantle once he took on the title. He and Lord Hampton became close friends. They drank and gambled together.”
Pilsbury hesitated, and Byron believed the solicitor wanted to add rutted together to that list.
“At any rate,” the solicitor continued, “it was not unusual for them to make a bet with one another. Both were interested in horseflesh and gambled at the drop of a hat. It might have even been Lord Hampton who challenged Lord Bridgewater to the race. That is a possibility.”
Clearing his throat, he said, “I will need to pay a call on Lady Hampton to express my condolences. And the new Lord Hampton.”
He thought a moment, deciding Cedric Bowles must have turned one and twenty recently. Most likely, Cedric had still been in university.
“There is no Lady Hampton, my lord,” he was informed. “Lady Hampton passed away last winter. From what I gather, Lord Hampton celebrated rather than mourned her death.”
Byron shook his head. At least his mother would be relieved she no longer had to spend time in the woman’s company.
Then it struck him. Dawson was to have wed Jacinda Bowles. The marriage settlements had been drawn up years ago. Jacinda had lost not only her father—but her future husband.
“Let me go over everything with you, my lord,” Mr. Pilsbury said. “We have much ground to cover.”
He decided to let the question of the betrothal lie for now.
Two hours later, he had an accurate vision of his financial worth. Obviously, Bridgefield was the crown jewel, but he had a few other scattered properties and several investments in various companies which earned him more than a tidy sum.
“I apologize that it is not more, my lord,” Pilsbury told him. “The previous Lord Bridgewater had several gambling debts at his death. Those markers were called in, and I was forced to pay them.”
“You did the right thing,” he assured the solicitor. “I will tell you now that you will see no gaming debts accrue with me. Yes, I enjoy the occasional card game, but I do not have my brother’s fascination nor his addiction to gambling.”
“The state of your affairs is quite solid, my lord. Your investments have been wise and are paying excellent dividends. The tenants at Bridgefield bring in a healthy sum each year.”
He decided now was the time to address the matter of his brother’s marriage.
“What of the marriage settlements signed by Lord Hampton and my father? I know this was several years ago and that my brother was committed to marrying Miss Jacinda Bowles.”
“That contract would be null and void, my lord, with the death of the marquess,” the solicitor shared.
“Do you know if Miss Bowles was ever informed of the betrothal?”
“I am unaware of that, my lord. I can look and see which solicitor represented Lord Hampton when we wrote the contracts and contact him. He might know. Or you could speak with the new Lord Hampton when you call upon him and see. Why?”
“It was my father’s wish that the Balfour and Bowles families come together.”
Pilsbury frowned. “Surely, you realize you are under no obligation to do so. Both men are dead. And Miss Bowles may not even have learned of the arrangement.”
“True.”
But his father had always instilled the ideas of duty and family obligations into him. Byron believed it would be the right thing to do if he stepped in for his brother and wed Jacinda. The thought left him with a poor taste in his mouth. She had been a spoiled, selfish child. He doubted under her mother’s hand that she had changed much. Still, he wanted to do the right thing. He would need to visit with Lord Hampton and settle matters.
“If that is everything,” he said, rising.
Pilsbury winced. “Actually, there is another matter which must be addressed, my lord.”
Byron took his seat again. “What is causing such a pained expression, Pilsbury? You have already told me of the gaming debts you have paid off on my brother’s behalf. Does he owe his tailor? Or his wine merchant? Has he purchased horses from Tattersall’s and neglected to pay those bills?”
“No, my lord. This involves . . . a very . . . delicate matter.”
Awareness filled him. “Did Lord Bridgewater have a mistress? Am I to pay her off, as well?”
“Not exactly. The situation is more . . . complicated than that.”
“Just say what needs to be said, Pilsbury. I need this to be over and done. I wish to get to Bridgefield as soon as possible and take up my duties there.”
“It is Miss Truman. Forgive me. I mean Mrs. Smithson.”
He let out a long sigh. “Tell me. Tell me now, so that I might rectify anything neglected by my brother.”
“Oh, Lord Bridgewater did take care of them.”
“Them?”
Pilsbury turned beet red. “Mrs. Smithson has a daughter. Amity. The girl is five now.”
The story came rushing from the solicitor once he mentioned the girl. Apparently, Miss Verity Truman, daughter of a viscount, was compromised by Dawson. When she found she was with child, the marquess informed her they could not wed because he was already betrothed. Miss Truman refused to go away from the prying eyes of Polite Society and have the baby, then give it up, which caused her father to disown her. The viscount put out the word that his daughter had died of a fever.
Fortunately, Bridgewater had done the best he could. He had purchased a small house for Miss Truman in St. John’s Wood. The child, Amity, had been born there, and the marquess paid for the handful of servants required to run the household and tend to its occupants.
“Lord Bridgewater pays Miss Truman, who goes by the name Mrs. Smithson, a yearly sum. The allowance covers the salaries for the staff and any maintenance required on the house, as well as any necessities.” The solicitor paused. “You are under no obligation to continue this arrangement, however, my lord.”
How could he not continue the payments? His brother had gotten a lady of good birth with child, one who had been ostracized by her family to the point of them pretending she no longer existed. If he did not keep up the payments, this woman and Byron’s niece would be out on the streets.
“Keep the payments in place,” he said crisply. “Have you informed Mrs. Smithson of Lord Bridgewater’s death?”
“Not directly, my lord. She may have seen the death notice in the newspapers, however, if she reads them.”
He rubbed his eyes wearily. “I have so much to handle. Was the marquess still seeing Mrs. Smithson?”
“No, my lord. In fact, he never laid eyes upon his daughter. Once he discovered Miss Truman was with child, he cut all contact with her. Everything has gone through me, from then on, until now.”
“Then we shall keep to that arrangement,” he told Pilsbury. “I may or may not decide to meet this woman and her daughter. For now, though, I have more pressing matters which require my attention.”
Byron hadn’t a clue how he was going to be a marquess, much less deal with everything that came with it. For now, meeting the woman Bridgewater ruined was asking for more than he was willing to give. He would not turn his back on the two, however. They were innocent in this. He had discovered he had more money than Midas. He would never miss what it took to keep a roof over their heads and clothes on their backs.
“Do you think they have ample funds?” he asked.
“What Lord Bridgewater provides to the pair is . . . adequate.”
That meant Mrs. Smithson had to scrimp.
“Double it,” he said. “They will benefit from you doing so.”
Pilsbury shook his head in wonder. “You are a most generous man, my lord.”
It was merely the right thing to do. To try and correct one of the many wrongs perpetrated by his brother. Hearing of this woman and the child she had borne hammered the final nail into Dawson’s coffin. The beloved brother he had adored had feet of clay in the end.
Byron determined to be the best Marquess of Bridgewater the family had ever seen.
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