Redeeming the Marquess: Sweet and Clean Regency Romance (His Majesty's Hounds Book 6)

by Arietta Richmond

  They rose together to discover what Cook had prepared to surprise their palates for lunch. Whatever it was, it would surely taste all the better for the presence of the head of the household. Oliver was home, and Georgiana’s heart was filled with joy.

  The Prince Regent was finally crowned King, a full six months after his father’s death, and the business of the nation had settled into a calmer state. Oliver had spent much of the last four years, since his return from America in January of 1817, as a respected advisor to Setford and others.

  His estates were more profitable than they had ever been in his father’s time, his plantation in America had proven a remarkably good investment, and his ongoing business dealings with Raphael had been of great benefit to both of them. Add that to the ever-increasing prosperity of the lands of Casterfield Grange and he was a very wealthy man.

  He had, at the end of this long session of politicking, finally declared to Setford that he wished to remove himself from London, and, for quite some time to come, devote himself fully to the needs of his growing family. Whilst this was a rather outrageous thing for a member of the nobility to do, Oliver, as usual, gave not one whit of care for their opinions.

  “You won’t be going to London anymore, my dear?”

  Georgiana was as surprised at her husband’s announcement as the children were excited.

  “Only to enquire about the latest ladies’ fashions from Paris, for your benefit,” he replied with a grin.

  “I am home at last and this is where I intend to stay, whether we are at Dartworth Abbey or here at Casterfield Grange, so long as I am with you, I will be happy.”

  William could hardly contain his excitement. “Papa, you promised to take me fishing. When may we go?”

  “We must first consult with Master Hobbs here and determine whether you have applied yourself diligently to your studies. Then, perhaps, we might find a day to explore the river and see if we can tease a pair of fine trout from the water.”

  William clapped his hands in excitement and Oliver could clearly imagine the blessing of spending a day with his son on a quiet riverbank, teaching him the art of fishing.

  After lunch, as the children took a short nap and Master Hobbs applied himself to his writing, armed with a glass of sherry, a pipeful of good tobacco and a freshly sharpened quill, Oliver sat with his wife and talked of the future.

  “My darling, when the baby has been born and you have your strength back, mayhap next year, I am mindful to make a journey and I want you and the children to come with me.”

  Georgiana’s curiosity was piqued by the suggestion.

  “A journey, Oliver? And what would be the purpose and destination to such a journey?”

  “I’m of a mind to visit our estates in America, my love, and show you how great the Americas have become in so short a time. To show you how different a place it is from here. To show you the places where I learned to labour for my own survival, and appreciate the work of others.”

  “Oliver, you speak of a long journey and many months away from our home.”

  There was a hint of consternation in Georgiana’s voice.

  “Indeed, that is true, but I would not make the journey without you. I could not bear to be away from you for that long, again. Once was quite enough.” They were quiet as the idea sank in and the implications of such a long voyage sparked further questions. Oliver continued, “I am free of my duties and responsibilities to the government and am ready to take advantage of my new freedom. Only think on it, my darling, for we could not consider leaving for at least another year.”

  “And what of William’s education? Would he have to learn to become a sailor on the long voyage to the Americas? I had hoped for more for his future.” Oliver laughed, as Georgiana could always make him do.

  “Oh, no, my love. William will not be serving his passage as a cabin boy or a powder monkey! I fully intend bringing Master Hobbs along with us too, so that William’s education will not be neglected in any way. But I feel he would learn much from a visit to the New World, lessons that cannot be found in his books.”

  Georgiana smiled. An adventure. A trip to the New World. A chance to explore an entirely different society. Despite her profound attachment to her lands and her beautiful house, the spirit of adventure still touched her heart. She said that she would think on it, but deep within her heart she had already made up her mind. If they were away for even a full year, she knew that both Casterfield Grange and Dartworth Abbey would be well cared for, by people they trusted and loved.

  As long as she was with Oliver and the children she would go anywhere in the world, and know that she would always be happy.

  Her life had changed so much since that cold, Spring day, when she had accompanied her sister to the Duke’s magnificent house, to see Cordelia married, and to find a husband for herself.

  No-one could have foreseen how her life would be.

  No-one could have predicted that the penniless and mud-soiled Marquess of Dartworth would confound everyone’s expectations, reclaim his fortune and win the hand of Lady Georgiana Branley in marriage.

  No one could have foreseen how exquisitely happy she would become in the arms of her husband and family.

  Now perhaps she was ready for another adventure, to sail into the unknown and see first-hand the place that had so strongly formed her husband’s opinions on life. Yes, it would be an adventure. But she would be safe in the arms of her husband, Oliver Kentworthy, Marquess of Dartworth - and that was worth more than all of their estates put together.

  The End

  Arietta Richmond has been a compulsive reader and writer all her life. Whilst her reading has covered an enormous range of topics, history has always fascinated her, and historical novels been amongst her favourite reading.

  She has written a wide range of work, from business articles and other non-fiction works (published under a pen name) but fiction has always been a major part of her life. Now, her Regency Historical Romance books are finally being released. The Derbyshire Set is comprised of 10 novels (7 released so far). The ‘His Majesty’s Hounds’ series is comprised of 12 novels, with the sixth having just been released.

  She also has a standalone longer novel shortly to be released, and two other series of novels in development.

  She lives in Australia, and when not reading or writing, likes to travel, and to see in person the places where history happened.

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  His Majesty’s Hounds – Book 7

  Sweet and Clean Regency Romance

  Arietta Richmond

  Julian Stafford, Duke of Windemere, signed the document with a flourish. Hopefully, that was the last. His wife, Antonia, had been dead for over a year now, yet here he was still paying the debts that she had incurred. He pitied the modistes, shopkeepers and jewellers she had patronised. When she had been still living, he’d had no idea that they were not being paid. And, it seemed, they had been so afraid of asking for their due, that it had taken some of them a year to come forward.

  When the ink had dried on the page, Julian handed the document to his man of business, who had stood patiently waiting whilst he dealt with it.

  “I hope that is the last, Burrowes. But, if more of them come forward, bring their claims to me, as always. For now, see these paid. Why it has taken them so long to come forward escapes me. Surely I am not so terrifying a figure that they would expect to have their due claims denied?”

  Burrowes shook his head sadly.

 
“Your Grace, I believe that your late wife was rather harsh in her dealings with those of the merchant classes. It seems reasonable that they should judge you by what they saw of her, if unfair. After all, they have never met you.”

  “True, Burrowes, although a distressing thought. I hate to think of the hardship that some of these people undoubtedly suffered, simply because my wife could not bestir herself to arrange payment of her bills. Please, ensure that any tradesmen and shopkeepers that my estates deal with are always paid promptly in future. I do not wish to emulate so many of the ton, and spend without the ability, or intention, to pay.”

  “As you wish, Your Grace.”

  Burrowes bowed, and took his leave, stack of papers in hand. Julian sat back in his chair, staring, unseeing, as the early afternoon sun cast beams of light past the curtains and onto the magnificent woven silk rug upon his study floor.

  A few motes of dust sparkled like gold dust in the sunbeams, but Julian didn’t see them – his thoughts were elsewhere, in his mind he saw, yet again, the day when Martin was brought home on a hurdle, the life already fled from his body, blood everywhere. His son and heir, his only child, gone, and in a way that need never have happened.

  How different might his own life have been now, if Antonia had been able to see past her prejudice and disdain for the lower classes, and accept Martin’s choice. If she had accepted Marion, then others might never have disparaged her to Martin’s face, the duel might never have happened, and Martin might still be here with him.

  Julian shook himself out of his thoughts. Foolish maundering - such thinking would only leave him blue-devilled for no useful reason. He could not change the past. Still, he did wonder what had happened to Marion. For he had neither seen, nor heard anything of, either her, or her family, since the day of Martin’s death. It disturbed him. He wished that he might have helped her, to honour Martin’s choice, no matter how much that would have offended Antonia, but one cannot help a woman one cannot find.

  ~~~~~

  At the same moment that Julian stared unseeing at sunbeams, not so far away, in her private parlour in Pendholm House, Lady Sylvia Edgeworth, Dowager Viscountess Pendholm, also sat staring at sunbeams. Lady Sylvia, however, was very aware of the sun. She was grateful for the late spring sunshine, with the promise of actual warmth this summer, unlike the previous year. She did wonder, however, what she would be doing this summer.

  She had chosen to stay in London, when her son, Lord Charlton Edgeworth, Viscount Pendholm, and his wife, Lady Odette, had retired to their country estate, Pendholm Hall, for the summer. It was time she gave Charlton and Odette the space to be themselves, without her presence intruding. Pendholm House felt so empty now, with Charlton and Odette gone, and Harriet, now married to Lord Geoffrey Clarence, also gone.

  Lady Sylvia was overjoyed that her children had both found such happiness, but now found herself rather lost.

  She could visit Mary and the other girls, and their delightful children, regularly, but they also needed time to themselves.

  With most of the ton leaving town as summer approached, there were less and less social events, less and less people to call upon and, therefore, less and less things with which to fill her days.

  If she was honest, Lady Sylvia did not care at all about the lack of society events. They had become rather boring.

  The more time she spent with Mary, Sally, Poppy and Rose, seeing the vast transformation in their lives which had been wrought by something so simple as having given them a decent home to live in, enough food to eat, and a small number of staff to help them care for their children, the more she wished to bring that kind of transformation to others.

  The suffering of the lower classes, especially those girls who had been abused by their employers, then cast out, had become more real to her, as she came to understand what those lives were really like. No woman should suffer such treatment.

  And, certainly, no child should be raised in the sort of appalling conditions that Mary and Rose had been living in, when Lady Sylvia had found them. Especially no grandchild of hers, regardless of which side of the blanket they were born on!

  With bitter sadness, she yet again acknowledged that she was, truly, glad that her eldest son was dead. The only positive things he had left in her life were the children, and an adequate supply of money to assist them.

  Deciding to help other girls like Mary was one thing. Knowing where to start, to do so, was another entirely.

  But… she most definitely needed something to do with her time, and far better something useful, than a genteel and useless occupation. Never prone to being still for long, Lady Sylvia rose, and went to her escritoire. Swiftly, she penned a note to Lady Anna Trubridge, Viscountess Farnsworth, Odette’s aunt, and, of late, Lady Sylvia’s closest friend.

  ~~~~~

  Two hours later found Lady Sylvia comfortably ensconced in Lady Farnsworth’s parlour, with a cup of excellent tea, and some delightful small cakes. Just being in Anna’s cheerful company made Lady Sylvia feel far better. Anna had an acerbic wit, and a clear, if somewhat unforgiving, view of the world around her. She was not afraid to express her opinions, and her astute observations not only entertained, but frequently informed in a way that Lady Sylvia found invaluable.

  “So, my dear, what can I do for you today? Whilst your company is delightful at any time, I sense that something is troubling you. Do tell – for today has been rather boring so far.”

  “Dear Anna, I have an idea. And I want your opinion.” Lady Farnsworth looked enquiringly at Lady Sylvia, waiting for her to continue. “I have been thinking a lot of late. Frankly, I need something to do. Now that both Charlton and Harriet are happily leading their own lives, they don’t really need me.”

  “I can see how that would leave your days rather empty, for indeed, my days have become the same. Now that Odette is happily married to Charlton, and learning to run her own establishment, as a Viscountess should, I am alone for the first time in many years. It is a strange feeling, is it not?”

  “Yes. Most definitely. I do not want to become one of those horrible society widows, whose life descends into a dull round of soirees where nothing is spoken but gossip and petty recrimination.” Lady Sylvia shuddered at the thought, her green brown eyes sparkling with the intensity of her emotion.

  “I cannot ever imagine you being like that, even if you tried to be! You are far too kind a soul. You lack the sharpness of tongue required to play such a part, dear Sylvia.”

  “I am glad that you think so! The challenge I have faced, dear Anna, is one of finding something to do – anything to do – which might be regarded as a suitable activity for a Lady of my position, and which is not unmitigatedly dull and boring. I have, finally, had an idea. I want to help more girls like Mary, Rose, Sally and Poppy. You have seen how much better their lives are, for what we have given them – which seems so little to us. Surely there are many other girls in situations like theirs, who need help? I think that I will spend the rest of my life wanting to help those abused by their noble employers – it might, in some small part, make up for the terrible things that my son did, whilst he lived. The problem is, I don’t know how to start.”

  “That is a very good idea! Perhaps Mary and the girls can advise us on how we might find others who need help?”

  “Of course! Shall we visit them now?”

  The ale was cool, and the food was good. Charles Barrington, Viscount Wareham, had stayed in the Marston Arms Inn many times over the past few years, and the innkeeper made sure that he was well served. Charles was happy. Soon, he could return to Meltonbrook Chase, and be close to Lady Maria again. His business on Hunter’s estates was concluded for this visit, with everything in order, and excellent potential for a good harvest this year – a pleasant change from the previous year.

  Only one thing marred his satisfaction with the world. It was nigh on four years now, and he had still not fulfilled his promise to Scartwick. A promise made as the man lay dying
, after a senseless duel. That duel was one of the things that had convinced Charles that the London life was not for him. He cared more for his brother’s estates than for drinking and gambling. But Scartwick had charged him with protecting Marion – and he had failed – not only had he not protected her, he hadn’t even found her… yet.

  He would not give up. He still, every day, brought out the folded paper that Scartwick had thrust into his hand as he died. The paper that proved, unarguably, that Marion was Scartwick’s wife. He looked at it again then, frustrated, put it away. As he did, a snippet of overheard conversation came back to him, from earlier that day.

  He had been finishing up his meeting with the farm manager at Hunter’s Springmarsh estate, when three of the farm labourers had returned from the fields. Their talk was of the sad death of an old woman who had lived in a nearby village. She had, apparently, been Nanny to two or three generations of the local aristocracy, and been well liked by everyone. The last part of their conversation, however, was what struck him most. One of them had said ‘What d’ye think’ll happen to the daughter and granddaughter now, with the old woman gone? I never understood why that granddaughter hasn’t got herself a husband to look after them. She’s three and twenty, and good to look at, but she’s by herself, with a three-year-old child that is, apparently, hers. Well, that’s what happens to people in London – better she’d never lived there, if you ask me.’

  The words stuck in his mind. It seemed a very long stretch of possibility. Yet… Marion would be three and twenty by now. And with a child… if he let himself believe the outlandish possibility that it could be Marion they spoke of, then a child of three would be the right age – the right age to be Scartwick’s child… Could that be why he’d found no trace of Marion in nigh on four years – because he was looking for a woman alone, not a woman with a small child, living with her mother?