Chapter One

London—1 September 1809

C aptain 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.