Page 5 of Make Mine a Marquess

The butler paused to open French doors leading into the gardens, and they stepped outside. Landon halted at the top of the terrace steps. It was a warm, pleasant summer afternoon in the country, and the guests were enjoying the estate’s vast gardens. A buffet table with a cold luncheon had been set up by the man-made lake. A few were just beginning to form teams to play lawn bowls.

Hobbs cleared his throat. “The Marquess of Landon.”

Silence descended. Even the birds seemed to cease chirping as all eyes turned. Then collective gasps reverberated through the gardens. Some openly gaped.

Landon ignored the crowd’s shock. Instead, his razor focus was on one man. His cousin, the baron. Lord Willard.

The man responsible for his attempted assassination. Landon’s breath burned in his throat.

Willard had been speaking with a group of men when the butler’s announcement seemed to have caught him off guard. A tumbler of alcohol slipped from his fingers to land in the grass at his booted feet. Liquor splashed on his polished Hessians without the baron noticing.

“Good God! Is that you, Landon?”

Landon’s lips turned upward in a smile—one he’d practiced for weeks in front of a mirror. One he’d perfected for just this occasion. He must not give his enemy even the slightest hint of his knowledge.

He’d savor his revenge in slow degrees until the man was as incinerated as the burning ship.

“It is. I’m home.” His voice was as smooth as fine wine, the result of more practice.

Willard lurched forward awkwardly, then found his footing and approached. “It’s good to see you, cousin. We thought the worst when you…when you—”

“Didn’t come back from my seafaring journey?”

“Yes.”

“There was a fire aboard the ship, and it was lost at sea,” Landon delivered the short speech he’d prepared. “My head was struck by a falling mast and I was concussed. I’m back now.”

It was an abbreviated and twisted version of the truth. He’d suffered much worse. He’d floated on a part of the splintered mast for two days before a fisherman had found him and Aram’s family had taken him in. He’d been bruised, battered, burned, and concussed, and hadn’t recalled his name for months. His physical recovery had been slow, along with his memory.

“Our prayers have been answered.” Willard embraced Landon. His cloying cologne singed Landon’s nostrils like acrid smoke. It took every ounce of his self-control not to recoil and shove his enemy away. Not to punch him square in the mouth. Do worse.

Patience!

Landon was aware of Aram by his side. Solid and reliable, his friend was a constant reminder of their well-devised trap.

Willard released Landon and turned to face the guests. “The Marquess of Landon has returned!”

The silence that had descended dissipated as everyone clapped. Landon was able to take in the people present. Twelve well-dressed guests in all.

“Are you hosting a party?” Landon asked.

“A house party. We were just about to begin a game of lawn bowls,” Willard said, motioning to the green rectangular playing surface that had been created in a section of the gardens. “If a house party is too much, we can arrange—”

“Nonsense,” Landon was quick to protest. “To see everyone at my country estate makes my homecoming more meaningful. I do not seek to disrupt any of the organized festivities. It is a time for celebration after all, is it not?”

Willard dipped his head in consent. “Yes, indeed. It’s a joyous time for celebration.”

Landon knew better than to believe a single word from his cousin’s mouth. The urge to confront him right at that moment was gnawing his innards, but he would have to wait. He needed proof of his cousin’s treachery and violence.

Men came forward to greet him. Many were known to Landon—members of the nobility, landowners, and longtime country neighbors. Others he did not recognize—two popinjays dressed in brightly checked and striped waistcoats and pointed starched shirtfronts that appeared sharp enough to cut their necks. They had the look of dissipation—too much liquor, or gambling, or whoring, or all three. Landon’s stomach soured in distaste at his cousin’s choice of friends.

“Let us drink to your return.” Willard snapped his fingers, and a liveried footman appeared. Willard spoke to the servant who hurried back with two tumblers on a tray. Willard handed one to Landon.

Landon nodded. “You remembered that I prefer Scotch whisky.”

“How could I forget my cousin’s favorite?”

“Indeed.” Landon raised his glass and took a sip. It was smooth, the finest whisky from his own cellars.