How I Married a Marquess (2 page)

Blowing out a harsh breath, he stalked toward the house with his hands clenched in frustration so intense that his eyes burned with it. He knew he should be grateful for still being alive, that he still possessed a beating heart that could be sent racing and breath that could turn into anxious pants at even the slightest provocation. Because it meant he was still alive. But
damnation
, at what cost? How much more could he tolerate before it drove him completely mad?

And how much longer before he accepted that his life would never again be what it had once been? Before he realized that he would never have that life back, no matter how desperately he craved it?

He ran his fingers through his hair, cursing them for trembling. His work as a spy was finished. The War Office wouldn't give him another field assignment now, no matter how good his skills. The shooting had made him too conspicuous for espionage work. Too
wounded
. And because of both the shooting and his position as the duke's heir, he couldn't get any sort of military commission now. Even the damned admiralty had rejected him.

Apparently he wasn't even good enough to drown anymore.

Yet he couldn't bear the thought of returning to the life he'd led before he'd joined the War Office, when he'd had nothing to do but wait for his father to die so he could become duke and then…well, then do nothing all over again until he died and his heir replaced him. After fighting against Napoleon on the Peninsula as part of the Scarlet Scoundrels of the First Dragoons, he found little meaning in being a society gentleman. In only a few months after he'd returned from the war, he'd worked his way through all the pursuits enjoyed by the quality—cards, horses, women, more cards, even more women—until nothing was left. But he'd still felt empty.

No wonder so many men gambled away their fortunes, became drunkards, or turned into rakes who sported in ruining young women. They were bored out of their blasted minds.

When he thought about how little life as a peer held for him, the darkness now edging his existence, and both the increasing frequency of the attacks and their severity, he doubted he could survive. In the past year, he'd managed to hang on to his sanity only by clinging to the hope that he still had connections in the government who could get him back into fieldwork. But so far he'd had no luck. No one had been willing to recommend him.

Jensen opened the front door as he bounded up the steps and stalked inside the town house. He paused at the foyer table to sort quickly through the morning mail, searching for one particular message, one specific—

He saw the letter. His heart faltered with a desperate hope.

Earl Bathurst.

With a nervous breath—and damn his shaking fingers that he could barely get to work—he broke the wax seal to scan the message from the Secretary of State for War and the Colonies, the man responsible for overseeing the War Office, and his last hope at returning to the life he'd known before the shooting. But each sentence he read caused the demons inside him to reach out for him again, and his heartbeat raced as the blackness crept in around him, strangling the air from him. He sucked in a deep breath to steady himself as Bathurst's refusal to help fell through him.
I remain unconvinced that you will be able to provide the kind of assistance we need…

The ghost pain pierced him. Leaning against the table on one hand for support, he protectively covered his side with the other, even knowing full well that the wound was completely healed by now, no matter how raw and sharp the pain. He pressed his eyes closed to concentrate on his breathing. Slow, steady, controlled—
One, two, three, four—

“Sir?” Jensen arrived at his side. “Is there a problem?”

Opening his eyes and pulling himself instantly to his full height, he turned to face the butler as he covered his humiliation with a shake of his head and an irritated scowl. “Only an annoying piece of correspondence,” he lied.

Just as with Helene, he'd become an expert at hiding his distress from the servants. From everyone who cared about him, in fact. And he was good at it. After all, he had years of practice as a spy, when he'd been
forced to make himself look as if he belonged in the middle of groups where he never felt completely comfortable. Especially amid London society where his birthright declared he should belong.

He blew out a tired breath and thanked God that the shaking hadn't overcome him completely this time. The very last thing he needed was for the servants to think him ill. Or mad. “Put this in the study, will you?”

He tossed the letter onto the pile and turned away. He would deal with it later when he was alone and could fully absorb the refusal of this last, desperate attempt at life. When he could let the darkness smother him and fall helpless to it. But now the Earl Royston waited in the drawing room and his sister in the morning room, and he had to appear normal in front of them, no matter how agonizing the engulfing blackness searing his chest.

Taking a moment to gather himself and pull his jacket sleeves down to cover his scratched wrists, he paused to lean his shoulder against the doorway of the morning room and looked in at his sister as she sat on the sofa, her feet curled up beneath her and an open book on her lap. He'd brought Emily such worry over the past year. Guilt for the hell he'd put her through only added to the tightening remorse that ate at his gut.

But for now she was relaxed, happily humming to herself, and absolutely glowing. He took solace in the sight of her, and the darkness slowly retreated until his heartbeat stopped pounding and his breath slowed. Until he appeared normal.

“Do you have a valid reason for being here, Mrs. Grey,” he drawled, hoping his voice sounded steadier than he actually felt, “or are you simply spying on me again?”

“The latter, of course.” Emily smiled as she set the book aside and reached toward the tray on the low table to pour a cup of tea. His sister moved with an inherent gracefulness that turned women green with envy, and the sharpness of her mind only served to distinguish her more from those society ladies who could bore a man to death with their chatter about fashions and balls. “I know you have a visitor waiting for you—Royston wished me good morning when he arrived. But when you're finished with him, I expect you to join me for tea.”

Not a request, he noticed. “You know, as a marquess, I outrank you.”

“Only a courtesy title, brother dear,” she reminded him, falling easily into the teasing jabs and barbs that were their wont. “Although it wouldn't hurt to put that title to good use and consider calling on some of the young ladies who—”

“No.”

She shot him a peevish glare over the rim of her teacup, which he ignored. He would have to marry someday and produce an heir, but there was no hurry. No need to punish some poor girl unduly by bringing her into the madness of the Matteson family sooner than necessary.

“You came to check on me again,” he accused gently, although in truth he was glad to see her. The darkness never disappeared completely these days, but when he was with Emily, it receded.

“I came because I had the day to myself for once, and I wanted to spend time with my loving brother.” Despite that obvious lie, she scolded lightly, “Shame on you for insinuating otherwise.”

He arched a blatantly disbelieving brow. Emily was beautiful, charming, and elegant, and an absolute pain in the arse whenever she meddled in his business, which was most of the time. But he loved her, and he would gladly lay down his life for her—when he wasn't set on throttling her himself. “Where has Grey gone off to, then?”

“He and the colonel went to Tattersall's to look at a hunter that Jackson Shaw has up for auction,” she answered far too smoothly, clearly having practiced her response in anticipation of the question. She never could lie well, not even as a child. “Kate and the twins are away at Brambly House. And I couldn't bear the thought of being all alone at home, so I came here.”

“You couldn't bear the thought of
me
being all alone, you mean,” he countered, knowing full well that she had her son, his nanny, and a dozen servants to keep her company. “So you came here to torture me.”

With a shrug she lifted the teacup to her lips. “If you can't torture family, well, then, whom can you torture?”

“And that,” he pointed out earnestly, “sums up every Matteson family dinner since we were five.”

She choked on her tea. Laughing, she cleared her throat. “Go on, then. See to Royston. I'll be here when you return.”

“Dear God,” he grumbled painfully, “truly?”

He saw the devilish smile she tried to hide behind the teacup, then turned into the hallway.

“And give my regards to Lady Humphrey the next time you…
see
her.”

He froze.
Damnation
.

Rolling his eyes, he glared at her over his shoulder. “You've become as much of a spy as that husband of yours.”

“Torture, spying—” With a wave of her hand, she dismissed him. “It's all Matteson family business.”

Yes, he conceded as he took the stairs three at a time, he supposed it was.

Except not for him. Not any longer.

Pushing the black thoughts from his mind, he forced a smile as he strode into the drawing room. “Royston.”

“Chesney.” Simon Royston, Earl Royston, clasped his hand. “Good to see you again.”

His chest lightened at the warm familiarity with which the earl greeted him. It was always good to see someone he could trust, especially these days. “And you.”

Royston had been a family friend since the days when Thomas's father first returned from India and took a government post in London. Since then the two families had grown even closer. The two ladies often co-hosted soirees and elaborate parties that were the talk of the season, and the two men worked closely together in the Lords, with Royston an ardent supporter of several of Thomas's father's initiatives.

In comparison to the Matteson family, with its duchy going back nine generations, the Roystons were recently titled, the current earl only the third in the line. But the earl's grandfather had been well admired among his peers, and Simon Royston carried on that legacy, having become a rising star in Parliament and a trusted advisor at the ear of the prime minister. Thomas liked the man and his family. Royston had been one of the few peers to welcome his father to London long before inheriting had ever been a consideration, and Thomas personally felt a certain loyalty to the man that rose from Royston's help in securing his captain's commission with the Scarlet Scoundrels. Because of all that—and a niggling curiosity about what brought the earl to Chatham House during the off-season, a curiosity that just might distract him for the remainder of the morning—he warmly welcomed the earl.

Thomas gestured to the liquor cabinet. “Whiskey?” Not yet noon, the hour was still early, but he noticed with concern the tension in the older man's body, the dark circles beneath his eyes. The earl could use a drink. And truth be told, so could he.

Royston nodded. “Please.”

Thomas poured two glasses and handed one over, then motioned for Royston to sit. He settled into his chair and watched as the earl tossed back nearly half the whiskey in a single swallow.

“I haven't seen you since August,” Thomas commented. “I hope you're well.”

“As fine as one can be in England in October.”

But the forced jocularity to his voice raised Thomas's concerns. “And your wife and son?”

“The countess is happily fussing over the affairs of running Blackwood Hall, and Charles is finishing his last year at Oxford. I expect him to claim a first in mathematics.”

He heard the tension edging the man's voice and forced himself not to frown. “Good to hear.”

“And you?” Royston's eyes narrowed on him, and Thomas felt the peculiar suspicion that he was being scrutinized. Although, knowing the close relationship the earl had with his parents, his mother had most likely put the man up to checking in on him while he was in town. “It's been a year since the shooting. Is everything back to normal for you?”

If anyone else had asked him that question, Thomas would have told the man to go to hell. But he knew the deep regard in which Royston held him and his family, and he knew the question was asked with nothing less than true concern.

“Yes,” he lied, raising the glass to his lips to cover any errant expressions that might flit across his face. “Back to my old self and doing my best to lay waste to whatever pleasures London can provide.” Then, purposefully turning the conversation away from himself, he commented, “Although this morning's visit is a surprise, I must admit. I thought you'd be in the country until January.”

“I had unexpected business in London,” he answered vaguely with a polite smile.

Thomas respected the man's privacy and didn't press. “Of course you're always welcome at Chatham House.” Over the years, Thomas and his father had spent more hours playing cards and shooting billiards with the earl than he could count, not to mention all the dinners and political talk at various
ton
affairs. A visit from Royston wasn't unusual, except…“But Father is in the country for the hunting season. Surely you know that.” As should be every other man of landed property who had the good sense to avoid London this time of year. Including Royston.

“I came looking for you, actually.” The earl paused. “May we speak in confidence?”

He nodded, holding back a puzzled frown. Whatever could Royston want with him?

The man leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and rolled the crystal tumbler between his palms. “There's been trouble at Blackwood Hall.”

Thomas had never been to the Roystons' country estate, but he knew of the place, which had been granted to the earl's grandfather when he received the title. Located in the heart of Lincolnshire, the estate was two days' hard ride on horseback from London under the best of conditions; at this time of year, with the increasing cold and fall rains, a coach would be lucky to reach the estate in four. So whatever had sent the earl scurrying to London must have been serious. And it clearly wasn't a social call at his mother's behest.