When the Marquess Was Mine Read online

  Dedication

  To everyone who’s trying to make the world a kinder and more equal place

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Also by Caroline Linden

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  1819

  It was to be a bacchanal for the ages.

  As Heathercote remarked, a man only turned twenty-nine once. Marlow pointed out that a man also only turned twenty-eight, or thirty, once as well, but they were well used to ignoring Marlow’s odd points of reason, and this one was promptly forgotten.

  Heathercote planned the entire affair, inviting the most dashing, daring rogues and scoundrels in London. He declared it to be the invitation of the month, and that he’d turned away several fellows for lacking wit, style, or both. “You mean they aren’t up to your standard of mayhem,” said Westmorland, whose birthday it was, to which Heathercote mimed tipping his hat in acknowledgment.

  After a raucous dinner at White’s, they decamped for the theater. The production was well under way when they invaded the pit in search of amusement. By the time the show ended, they had drunk a great deal of brandy, thrown oranges at the stage, and lost Clifton to the company of a prostitute.

  Everyone’s memories ran a bit ragged after that, with vague recollections of singing in the streets and Marlow casting up his accounts somewhere in Westminster, but eventually they settled at the Vega Club. It was so late, the manager tried to dissuade them from play. Mr. Forbes knew every one of them could wager for hours, and the Vega Club closed its doors at dawn.

  But Heathercote persuaded him to let them in and to give them the whist salon all to themselves. “We’ll leave by noon,” he promised, patting Forbes on the chest as he slid a handful of notes into the man’s hand. His words were remarkably steady for a man who’d been drinking for eight hours. Grim-faced, Forbes let them in, where they commandeered the main table and called for yet more wine.

  A few intrepid souls followed them from the club proper. Forbes tried to stop them at the door, but Forester recognized one and waved them in. “We don’t mind winning their money,” he said with a hiccup.

  They played whist, then switched to loo. One loser was dared to drink off the contents of his full flask in one go, which he did. The room filled with cigar smoke and ribald language, and the wagers grew extravagant. Marlow won a prize colt off Forester. Heathercote wagered his new phaeton and ended up with someone’s barouche. Sackville won the largest pot of the night, and everyone pelted him with markers.

  And then one of the hangers-on spoiled it. He had the look of a country fellow new to London, with an arrogant bluster that was initially amusing but eventually turned annoying. He’d played well enough, winning a bit and losing with colorful curses that made the rest of them roar with laughter. But it became abruptly clear that Sir Charles Winston was in over his head when he wagered his house.

  Marlow laughed. Heathercote picked up the scribbled note Winston had put forth and read it with one brow arched. “Can’t wager property, Winslow.”

  The man was already ruddy from drink, and now he turned scarlet. “Can so! Your fellow wagered a horse.”

  “Horses are portable,” said Forester, his Liverpool accent bleeding through. “Houses are not.”

  “Houses are worth more!”

  “Aye, too much more.” Heathercote flicked the note back across the table. “Markers.”

  “I haven’t got any more markers,” muttered the younger man. For a moment everyone focused in surprised silence on the empty space in front of him. None of them had run out.

  “Then fold your hand,” Forester told him. “You’re out!”

  Winston’s chin set stubbornly. His mate tried to slide some markers toward him, but he angrily shoved them back. “Give me a chance to win it back.”

  “All the more reason to walk away, if you’ve lost ’em all.” Marlow waved one hand, nearly toppling out of his seat. Mr. Forbes, watching grimly from the corner, came forward. “Forbes, Windermere is done.”

  “Sir Charles,” murmured the manager. “Perhaps it’s time to go.”

  “Not yet!” Winston scowled at them all, shaking off his friend’s quiet attempts to get him to fold. “Not now, Farley! They got a chance to turn their luck. Why shouldn’t I?”

  “Luck is like the wind,” said a new voice. Nicholas Dashwood, the owner of the Vega Club, stepped out of the shadows. “It rarely turns propitiously.”

  Winston stubbornly sank lower in his seat. “I deserve ’nother chance.”

  Heathercote slung his arms over the back of his chair. “Well, West? What say you? Shall we let him stay and wager away everything he’s got?”

  Lounging in his seat, the Marquess of Westmorland looked up in irritation. “Really ought to go, Winsmore.”

  “Wins-less, more like,” snickered Marlow.

  Winston sat up straighter in his seat. “Please, my lord.”

  “Oh, let him ruin himself,” muttered Forester, shuffling his cards restlessly.

  The marquess lifted one shoulder. “Damned if I care.”

  “Sir Charles,” said Dashwood evenly, “do not wager what you cannot afford to lose.”

  Winston scooped up the scribbled paper and added a line, signing his name with a flourish. “I won’t, sir.”

  But he did. Within four hands, he’d won a bit and then lost it all—including the deed. Suddenly he did not look so belligerent or so stubborn. He looked young and quite literally green, staring at the winning hand, lying on the table.

  “Should have listened,” said the unsympathetic Heathercote. “Should have left.”

  Winston puffed up furiously. “Should have known better than to play with the likes of you!”

  “Di’n’t y’know that before you sa’ down?” Marlow’s words slurred together. “Stupid bloody fool!”

  “That’s my home!”

  “And you risked it at loo!” Heath made a derisive noise. “Idiot.”

  Winston was the color of beets. “Don’t call me that.”

  Sackville raised one brow. “No? ’S not your home anymore.” He reached out and plucked the scrawled paper from the pile of markers and examined it, although his eyes never quite managed to focus on it. “It ’pears to be West’s.”

  West’s friends howled with laughter. “He doesn’t need it,” cried Winston. He made a convulsive grab for the paper before his lone remaining friend caught his arm. “He’s got a dozen houses!”

  “Set it up as a brothel, West,” suggested Forester. “And give all your mates discounted fees.”

  “Free!” yelped Marlow with a wheezing laugh.

  Winston drew a furious
breath, but instead of continuing the fight he turned and rushed from the room, rather unsteadily; he wrestled with the door, and then almost tripped on his way out, causing more howls of laughter from the table. His friend helped him back onto his feet before the door closed on them both.

  “Who invited him?” asked Heathercote in disdain.

  “Marlow.”

  “Ballocks,” mumbled Marlow, putting his head down on the table. “Never did. Was Forester.”

  Forester made a rude gesture. “I vouched for the other man, Farley.”

  “Your friends are all bad ton,” said Sackville.

  Forester’s face tightened. He rose and swung his wineglass into the air in a toast, spilling some. “Thank you all for a most exciting evening, gentlemen.” Pointedly he bowed only to Viscount Heathercote and Lord Westmorland. Sackville repaid him with a rude gesture at Forester’s back.

  Heathercote protested, but Forester waved him off and left. With Marlow asleep on the table and Sackville still giggling drunkenly to himself, West placed his hands on the table, hesitated as if gathering strength, then heaved himself to his feet. “The carriages, Dashwood.”

  Stone-faced, the owner left. West—the Marquess of Westmorland—surveyed the table. “Did I win the last?”

  “Aye,” said Heathercote with a wide yawn.

  “Credit it all, Forbes,” said the marquess. “God above, I’m tired.”

  As expressionless as his employer, the manager stepped forward. With an air of distaste, he picked up the deed promise and held it out. “I cannot credit this, my lord.”

  West stared at it. “Damn. Right.” He stuffed it into the pocket of his jacket and staggered out into the morning sunlight with Heathercote, never guessing the trouble that wagered deed was about to cause him.

  Chapter 2

  Georgiana Lucas was having an absolutely splendid visit in the Derbyshire countryside when the letter arrived. That simple page of folded paper would, unwittingly and unintentionally, disturb the equilibrium of her life and send it veering wildly off course.

  Of course, she did not know that at the time.

  It came while they were at the breakfast table. Georgiana was idling over her tea, savoring the freedom to do so since her rather starchy chaperone, Lady Sidlow, was still in London while she rusticated in Maryfield. Her hostess and dear friend from school, Kitty, now Lady Winston, was cuddling her baby at the head of the table, rapt with adoration for little Annabel, six months old this day. Geneva, Kitty’s sister-in-law, was reading aloud the amusing bits from a local parish newspaper, giggling over the tale of Mr. Pott’s pigs, who had got loose in the lane and caused an uproar. The dowager Lady Winston, Geneva’s mother but called Mother by all the family, was listening to her daughter while she went over the menu for that night’s dinner, when the local vicar and his family were to dine with them.

  Mr. Williams, the butler, brought in the post. “From Sir Charles,” he said to Kitty.

  “Oh!” With a pleased smile, Kitty laid the baby in the cradle at her feet. She took the letter and broke the seal.

  Georgiana let Geneva pour her another cup of tea. The windows were open, and the breeze carried in the ripe, lush scent of summer and the faint buzzing of bees in the garden. It looked to be another perfect day. Georgiana considered taking a long walk, or perhaps a ride. Country life was inferior to city life in many ways, but not in the exercise opportunities available.

  A clatter broke her thoughts. Kitty had dropped her teaspoon and sat bolt upright. “What is it?” Georgiana said in concern.

  Kitty held the letter in a white-knuckled grip. “Charles,” she said tensely.

  Geneva fell silent. “What has happened to Charles?” asked Mother Winston in mild worry.

  “Something dreadful.” Kitty looked up, her brows drawn. “My dearest wife,” she read aloud. “I do not wish to alarm you, but I write to you in great urgency and turmoil. I have had the terrible misfortune of falling in with—” Here she broke off, her eyes dark and dismayed.

  “Is he dead?” cried Geneva.

  “He could hardly write a letter if he were dead,” said Georgiana. She reached down to soothe the baby, who had begun whimpering at Geneva’s outburst. “Go on, Kitty. What has happened?”

  “He’s not dead.” Kitty put down the letter and stared out the window.

  “Do tell us, my dear,” urged Mother Winston. “Was he robbed? Is he injured? I have heard the streets of London are not safe.”

  Kitty didn’t reply, but she took up the letter again and read on. “I have had the terrible misfortune of falling in with some very sharp fellows, and I suffered a terrible loss at their hands, to my pride, and my dignity.”

  “Someone beat him!” cried Geneva. “Was it a boxing match?”

  Kitty’s face was inscrutable. “I don’t think so. He writes further: The chief scoundrel who tricked me is Lord Westmorland, and I fear he may present himself at Osbourne House. If he should arrive on your doorstep, my beloved, do not let him in. He will see us all ruined.”

  Geneva gasped. Mother Winston’s mouth sagged open in shock. “What?”

  Kitty flipped to the second page of the letter. “He says he is trying to prevent disaster from falling on us, and will write more later. The rest merely repeats that we must not admit Lord Westmorland or receive him at all.”

  “They must have fought a duel!” burst out Geneva.

  “Hush,” scolded her mother. “Charles would never be so rash.”

  “Even if he did fight a duel, he’s well enough to write letters, which is a very good sign,” Georgiana pointed out. “And if he were injured, he would send for Kitty immediately.”

  “Why on earth would Westmorland come here if he had a quarrel with Charles?” Kitty asked, almost to herself. She turned over the letter again. “Charles said he was tricked . . .”

  “Perhaps a business arrangement,” suggested Mother Winston. “Charles can be so trusting, I have often worried he would be preyed upon. His father worried, too.”

  “But what business could he have with a marquess?” Kitty frowned, one finger against her lips. “Surely he would have mentioned it. And if the marquess did something unethical, Mr. Jackson would put a stop to it.” Mr. Jackson had been Kitty’s family solicitor for many years, and had followed her to the Winstons on her marriage.

  “I doubt the marquess has the slightest idea how to transact business of any kind,” said Georgiana with a snort. “Everyone knows his father, the Duke of Rowland, manages everything.”

  Everyone looked at her. “Of course,” said Kitty in surprise. “You must know Lord Westmorland! You’ve been in London these three years now.”

  Still patting the fretting baby, Georgiana made a face. “I don’t know Westmorland himself. But I know of him.”

  They moved in the same society, after all, where it was virtually impossible not to know something about everyone else, let alone someone like the Marquess of Westmorland. Her chaperone, Lady Sidlow, had an encyclopedic knowledge of every unmarried gentleman in London, and was prone to discussing them with the avid interest of a sportsman discussing horses at Ascot.

  Superficially, Georgiana could have readily answered Kitty’s question. The marquess was tall and handsome, fit, and lethally charming when he wished to be. He had dark hair and glinting hazel eyes that made ladies swoon. He was heir to the Duke of Rowland, and as such would inherit one of the oldest and richest titles in all of England—not that he didn’t have a large income and an estate of his own already. Superficially, Westmorland was one of the most eligible men in England, and Lady Sidlow had mentioned more than once that it was very disappointing of Georgiana to promise to wed Lord Sterling, a mere viscount, when men like Westmorland were strolling freely around, almost flaunting their bachelor status.

  But Georgiana also knew something of his nature, and that was why she despised him.

  “What sort of man is he?” Kitty asked, her keen gaze fixed on Georgiana. “A scoundrel?”
r />   “Is he a cheat?” Geneva demanded.

  “He sounds very dishonorable, if he would trick Charles so cruelly!” declared Mother Winston.

  The Marquess of Westmorland was worse, as far as Georgiana was concerned. “I would be the last person to defend his honor.”

  Mother Winston’s eyes rounded. “What did he do?” asked Geneva, now avidly interested.

  Georgiana stirred her tea. She did not have a high opinion of the marquess, but for a purely personal reason. For a moment her conscience rebelled a little; just because she disliked him . . . intensely . . . didn’t mean she should blacken his name to everyone in Derbyshire.

  Then she recalled what Charles’s letter had said. Westmorland had tricked him, and might be about to arrive on Kitty’s doorstep—why would he do that? Charles was clearly terrified of what might happen if he did. Whatever had happened with Charles, if the marquess thought to punish Kitty and her darling child in any way, or Geneva and her mother, Georgiana was not going to stand by and let him.

  “He’s a notorious rogue.” Nothing she could tell Kitty was worse than what she’d hear in London anyway. “He runs with a very disreputable crowd—Viscount Heathercote, and Lord Marlow, and even the very shocking Mr. Clifton. You remember him, Kitty, the gentleman who nearly broke his neck climbing the spire of St. Martin’s.”

  “Oh my,” breathed Geneva.

  “How would Charles have fallen in with such a man?” fretted Mother Winston.

  “It must have been a lark, and not Charles’s fault at all. The marquess is quite wild,” Georgiana went on. “He and his friends are in the gossip papers all the time for some prank or another. They’re known for playing pranks, as a matter of fact, including putting one fellow into a boat while he was utterly foxed and sending him sailing off down the Thames. They thought it was a grand joke, even though he didn’t wake up until his boat hit a pier in Greenwich. At any moment he might have fallen out and drowned.”

  “Oh, and they might have played a prank on Charles?” Geneva’s face lit up, at once intrigued and horrified by the idea. “How dreadful that would be! Poor Charles!”

  “He doesn’t sound at all like Charles’s usual companions,” said Kitty. “But why do you dislike him, Georgiana?” She asked it with a look that said she knew there must be more to the story than wild, roguish behavior—which might, after all, fairly describe any number of London gentlemen whom Georgiana found charming and entertaining.