"Soft historical tale of love and comfort"
Reviewed by Make Kay
Posted September 14, 2024
Romance Historical
Despite the dreadfully twee series name, THE MYSTERIOUS MARQUESS is a lovely soft tale of love and comfort by Grace Burrowes. Burrowes is a dependable author for me, writing historical novels, both romance and murder mysteries. THE MYSTERIOUS MARQUESS is book two about missing aristocratic heirs in the Napoleonic era. At 270 pages, THE MYSTERIOUS MARQUESS is a quick read but still engages the reader fully due to a mature and sensible couple, a complement of charming secondary characters, and a villain one can truly hate.
Lucien, the Marquess of Lynnfield, disappeared from his family seat nearly a decade ago. He fled an arranged marriage to his dearest friend Penelope because neither of the two youngsters was ready for holy matrimony. Now Lucien is back in England, ready to take his place as the head of the family. And what a family it is! Plenty of odd characters, some of whom make great red herrings as the reader tries to figure out who is doing what to keep the two lovers apart.
Penelope thought that Lucien left her without a word, and she’s been silently trying to forget him and soldier on. But when Lucien reappears, Penelope must choose how she would like to forge her life- with a questionable neighbor. Or with the old flame who she believes jilted her? I like the honesty and integrity of both Lucien and Penelope. These stalwart two deserve a Happily Ever After!
Burrowes sets this series firmly in Napoleonic England, with a bucolic setting and lots of little historical details that flesh the story out well. I love how Burrowes, as a horsewoman herself, always brings a horse or two into the action too. Readers looking for a heartwarming historical romance will be pleased to pick up Burrowes’ THE MYSTERIOUS MARQUESS.
SUMMARY
The prodigal peer...
Lucien, Marquess of Lynnfield, disappeared from the family seat nearly a decade ago, and now he's back, ready to take his inheritance in hand. Questions swirl–Where was he? Why return now? What sort of man has he become?–and Lucien can't offer much in the way of explanations. All he knows is, the dearest companion of his youth, Lady Penelope Richard, is being courted by a handsome cad, and Lucien cannot allow her ladyship to waste her future on a scoundrel.
Or the return of a rogue?
Penelope hasn't seen Lucien for years, but she's been too angry with him for abandoning her to forget him. He broke her heart when he left the first time, and she is quite, entirely, completely over him–almost–until old passion stir backs to life, hotter and more dangerous than ever. If Lucien and Penelope are to share their hearts as well as searing kisses, they will have to overcome their worst fears and outwit an enemy who will do anything to keep them apart.
ExcerptThe Mysterious Marquess by Grace Burrowes
The Bad Heir Day Tales—Book Two
Chapter One
Lucien Pritchard’s favorite chess piece was the rook, formerly referred to as the chariot or the marquess. The rook began the game in the corner of the board, the whole battlefield open to his view. As a war prize, his value exceeded that of even the queen.
Lucien’s opponent, one Leopold St. Didier, was in danger of losing his queen’s rook to a lowly pawn. The match was of no moment to the other gentlemen gathered in the club’s subdued opulence, merely an idle contest between two of the quieter members.
Lucien knew better. “You are distracted,” he said when St. Didier moved a bishop rather than implement the obvious defensive strategy.
“You are too polite to suggest I forfeit, and you are right.” St. Didier tipped over his king. “I am distracted. I saw the ring.”
“I beg your pardon?” Lucien’s question was casual, but those four words—I saw the ring—filled him with frustration. He returned his army to its opening formation, taking care to move the pieces in rank order and without haste.
“The lion rampant.” St. Didier allowed his defeated forces to languish on their squares.
“The lion of England. A ring is a sentimental affectation, St. Didier. When one leaves Albion’s shores, little reminders of home take on comforting significance.”
“And my lord left these shores nearly ten years ago. What brought you back?”
My lord. Plagues and afflictions. “A sailing ship brought me back, and another might soon carry me away again.”
“My lord excels at the tactical retreat.” St. Didier extended a hand across the chessboard, the polite gesture signaling defeat.
Lucien shook when he’d rather have upended the board. “The lion rampant is probably the most common device in British heraldry.” He set about restoring proper order to St. Didier’s vanquished pieces.
“But your lion rampant is in the attitude sinister rather than the traditional dexter, and that caught my eye.”
Lucien had worn the signet ring only once in recent months, to a gathering hosted by the Dowager Duchess of Huntleigh and attended by her nephew—who happened to be the present duke and Lucien’s employer—and that fellow’s new bride. St. Didier had been in attendance as well, damn the luck.
“Say what you have to say, St. Didier. Whether a decorative creature faces left or right is hardly of any moment. You did not invite me to this table for the sake of a passing diversion.” Though to be fair, St. Didier played well, albeit conservatively.
“You were a decorative creature once,” St. Didier replied. “A marquess’s heir. One wonders what turned you up so difficult and contrary.”
“I am contrary by nature.” Lucien wasn’t yet thirty, but he abruptly felt as weary as a spavined coach horse. “What does great-auntie want now?”
“She wants you home, where you belong, managing the family’s affairs. I am not here on her behalf.”
Of all the cousins, in-laws, step-relations, and impersonators thereof at Lynnfield, only one individual interested Lucien significantly.
“Who put you on my trail?” Lucien braced himself for disappointment, and yet, hope stirred as well.
St. Didier’s calling was to discreetly locate missing, distant, and otherwise obscure heirs on behalf of titled families in want of same. He knew the arcana of inheritance, legitimacy, and royal patents, and he’d recently rescued the Huntleigh dukedom from the near occasion of escheat.
Leopold St. Didier knew Society’s scandals and was himself the scion of a house relieved of its honors for want of a proper heir.
“Lady Penelope asked me to locate you,” St. Didier said, picking up the black queen. “She sends her regards.”
What the rubbishing hell did that mean? “Please convey my greetings to her ladyship in return.”
Lucien waited for whatever came next. A request for funds, word of some elder’s failing health, a warning that Auntie was growing dotty. Pen would be that decent, he hoped. He would be decent enough to respond civilly too.
“Her ladyship is troubled by a legal matter,” St. Didier said. “You can solve it for her.”
Once upon a time, Lucien would have surrendered his life for Penelope’s happiness. He would still die to keep her safe and, in a sense, nearly had.
“St. Didier, you try my patience. The hour grows late for a mere majordomo. My solicitors have always known how to reach me.”
“Her ladyship dislikes confiding in what she refers to as a boogle of long-winded weasels.”
Her ladyship was apparently still outspoken. Good for her. “She sometimes called them a sneak of weasels,” Lucien replied and immediately regretted it. “Both terms are correct.”
St. Didier wasn’t given to smiling, but his dark eyes gleamed with apparent amusement. “The solicitors drafted your betrothal agreements, and you and the lady signed them.”
“We were told to sign them.” Ordered to sign them. “Both of us were yet in our minorities, so the agreement was never binding on us.” Lucien had consulted independent counsel to confirm that fact before leaving England.
“Just so. You were both underage, and now you have both attained your majorities.”
A cold, sad feeling took up residence in the center of Lucien’s chest. “Her ladyship is free to do as she pleases.” She always had been, did she but know it.
“You will execute a formal repudiation of the betrothal agreement?”
“Of course.” The pain in Lucien’s chest congealed into sorrow, but cutting the last tie was doubtless for the best.
“Her ladyship thanks you.”
Lucien plucked the black queen from St. Didier’s grasp and put the piece on its proper square. “She has nothing to thank me for. Send me the relevant documents, and I will append my signature before witnesses.”
“As it happens, I have the papers with me now.”
Lucien had known this day would come, but he hadn’t known it would come under the guise of a friendly game of chess at a quiet club for gentlemen of slightly awkward standing. Younger sons, former MPs voted out after a single term, wealthy gentlemen whose fathers had been in trade… The Marches was a place for those whom Society tolerated rather than accepted.
Signing a repudiation would be one more step away from the past, a step Lucien should have been eager to take.
Should have been… “If you intend to witness my signature,” he said, “we still need two more witnesses to appease the formalities. I cannot allow my ancient history to become common knowledge here.” A delaying tactic—strategic retreats usually were—also a valid concern. These men knew him as Pritchard, general factotum of the new Duke of Huntleigh, not as a marquess’s heir who’d disappeared from Society years ago.
St. Didier paused, withdrawing an empty hand from the breast of his evening coat. “My apologies. Discretion is warranted for the lady’s sake if not for yours. You are right again.”
“Come around tomorrow,” Lucien said, minutely relieved to have order established on the chessboard. “The ducal abode is deadly dull now that Their Graces have taken ship. I am to have tea with the dowager later in the day, but I can attend you any time before noon.”
Before polite society was out and about, enjoying the increasingly temperate weather and the increasing stores of gossip to be gathered in the shops and on the bridle paths.
“Tomorrow, then. You are being unexpectedly reasonable.”
Pen had anticipated a fight? “I wish her ladyship every happiness. You may tell her as much. Another game would suit.”
St. Didier obliged, but the game did not suit Lucien at all. Too many games played with Penelope—chess, backgammon, and even kissing games—crowded onto the field of memory. Lucien won nonetheless. He usually won.
Not all the time, though. Pen had been a fiend for the sneak attack. A queen in her hands was the equal of any rook. Did she still play? If she didn’t, that would be a shame, but against whom could she aim all that skill and guile?
“Twice defeated,” St. Didier said some thirty minutes later. “I must give some thought to my strategies. Shall we enjoy the night air while the rain has let up?”
God, yes. Solitude beckoned. Solitude and the decanters. “You didn’t bring your coach?”
“I like to walk. I’m not the inveterate perambulator that Huntleigh is, but neither am I sedentary by nature.”
St. Didier was given to prowling, stalking, and noticing, all the while pretending to be just another serious, dark-haired gent blessed with skilled tailors and some means.
When he and Lucien reached the street, mist diffused the lamplight, and the hour—neither late nor early—meant no wheeled traffic rattled along on the cobbles.
A good night for sorrowing. “How is she?” Lucien asked when they were two streets away from the club and the lamps were farther apart.
“Lady Penelope? She’s robust, astute, formidable.”
Pen was also pretty, but nobody noticed that in the face of her intellect and personality. “Does she laugh?” A younger Lucien had delighted to inspire her laughter.
“I cannot say. Our dealings have been largely by letter. When I did meet with her, she appeared to be thriving. Very certain of her objectives.”
Too certain, sometimes. Stubborn, heedless… all the shortcomings she’d ascribed so credibly to Lucien, though he was, in fact, the soul of reason under most circumstances.
“Give her my regards. I’m around the corner here. Good night, St. Didier. Your discretion is appreciated.”
“Spoken like a peer, if you don’t mind my saying so. Are you sure you don’t want to make a short visit to Lynnfield to discuss the situation with her ladyship?”
“I know my own mind, sir.” And knew better than to clap eyes on Penelope at any distance less than twenty yards. “Good night, St. Didier.”
“Until tomorrow.”
They bowed and parted, but a question occurred to Lucien, one he could ask no other. He retraced his steps lest he shout his query into the London darkness.
“I assume Lady Penelope is tending to these legalities at long last because she has marriage in mind,” he observed, trying for nonchalance. “Who is the lucky fellow?”
“Hmm? Oh, the lucky fellow. Well, they aren’t engaged, of course, given the betrothal agreement with you, but the churchyard speculators allow that her ladyship has been saving her waltzes for Sir Dashiel Ingraham. Not a love match, one notes, but very cordial.”
Lucien was grateful for the darkness. “I see.” He saw Penelope smiling up into the face of an Adonis who would never be worthy of her and, in fact, wasn’t worthy of a baronet’s honors either. “Sir Dashiel Ingraham.”
“He’s home from the wars, considered quite the catch, and the two of them do seem to get on.”
Sir Dashiel excelled at getting on. He’d even managed to leave the military without being court-martialed for his crimes.
St. Didier arranged a claret-colored scarf about his neck. “Shall we say ten of the clock tomorrow?”
That scarf—a red flag against otherwise subdued attire—caught Lucien’s eye. Penelope was forthright to a fault, not given to subterfuge, much less subtlety. Lucien had loved that about her.
Appreciated that about her, rather, and yet, his chess master’s imagination considered it just possible that Pen had got herself into a situation involving Sir Dashiel that wasn’t quite what it appeared to be.
Or perhaps it was exactly what it appeared to be: an impending courtship between two adults, who would make a fine, cordial match.
But Sir Dashiel Ingraham… Lucien’s soul rebelled at the very thought. Years ago, Penelope had been unwilling to trust the good intentions of a young man she’d considered her best friend. What did Sir Dashiel offer that Lucien had lacked?
“You can send the documents over,” he said, “but don’t bother coming around. I’ll be looking in on Lynnfield, after all. The legalities can wait a few days.”
St. Didier offered a slight bow. “Very good, my lord. I am at your service if you’d like a traveling companion.” He walked off into the night.
“Don’t milord me,” Lucien muttered as St. Didier’s footsteps faded.
Lucien turned the opposite direction and considered the decision he’d just made. He’d hear nothing but milording at Lynnfield, that and Auntie’s lectures and importuning. If he could hear Penelope’s laughter, though…
Well, no. Best all around not to hear Penelope’s laughter. All that was in the past.
The rain resumed, and Lucien marched for the deserted house he’d lately been calling home.
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