Lady Mary and Her Rakish Count: A Clean Historical Regency Romance Novel (The Revelstoke Legacy Book 3)

by Lynda Hurst

  Without a king to lead them, Montchagny left it to the people to choose their own king. To his surprise, the people had chosen him, a warrior lord, to be their king. As a coronation gift, the English earl who had lent him aid, had gifted him with a goldsmith’s rendition of what the Ark of the Covenant from the Bible must have looked like, done in solid gold. It was to be a reminder to the newly minted ruler of Mont-Tremblant to remember the rules all men should adhere to in the Ten Commandments, regardless of class or status. Because of the earl’s gift, the Ark was now made the official symbol of the king of Mont-Tremblant. A newly written law claimed that the king must have the Ark in his possession to be the rightful ruler of Mont-Tremblant.

  To further cement their friendship, King Jullien invited his friend, the first Earl of Revelstoke, to be one of his court members as a way of thanks. But the English earl gently declined the offer, claiming England as his home, and instead suggested that he be the English ambassador in his court.

  But since Jullien’s days as king, Mont-Tremblant was not without its blood feud. Those who claimed blood ties to the Laurent family rose up from time to time to restore who they thought was their rightful ruling family. Attempts on the lives of Jullien’s descendants by Laurent loyalists occurred during every generation leading up to Bastien’s rule, but with the Law of the Ark in place, no Laurent was ever successful in gaining the throne. Not when the Ark was kept safely locked away to prevent any Laurents from laying claim to the throne.

  At Bastien’s insistence, Valerian’s escort was comprised of six of Bastien’s own royal guard, men Bastien trusted completely. Although Valerian was not next in line for the Mont-Tremblant throne, it wasn’t uncommon for people less acquainted with the cousins to mistake one for the other. Similar in build and coloring, Bastien and Valerian could pass for twins if it were not for the subtle differences between them. Bastien had tiger-gold eyes and sported a small mole near the left corner of his mouth; Valerian had clear blue eyes and a sharp cleft in his chin.

  Because of their closeness in resemblance, a Laurent loyalist keen on assassinating the king had incorrectly chosen Valerian as their target on more than one occasion. The earliest such encounter was when the boys were twelve, and thereafter, Bastien’s father decided the boys needed an extra supplement to their education to better protect themselves. Together, the cousins learned hand-to-hand combat from an English pugilist while also training to fight with swords by the royal swordsmaster. In addition to traditional means of combat, the boys trained with all manner of weapons: bows, pistols, and daggers, to name a few. Bastien and Valerian learned to keep at least one small weapon on their person to the consternation of their respective valets who emptied the pockets of their discarded clothing at the end of each day. Now as adults, the habit remained with them, and it became customary for the pair to gift each other with a new weapon on either their birthdays or Christmas.

  Looking out the taproom window, Valerian mentally kicked himself for delaying this trip, especially when he knew that being this close to the mountains, snowstorms were frequent and unpredictable this late in the winter. Truthfully, the distractions of a widowed baroness currently wintering in Mont-Tremblant had him reluctant to leave the comfort of her arms, until Bastien came around to remind him of the loan of his men for the journey. He had no real desire for the wealthy widow, but he was never one to deny what women freely offered him and consequently saw his dalliance with her as a means of figuratively casting his nose up in the face of his betrothal.

  Bastien’s stern order to fetch his bride as punishment for his delay had him souring more. Rather than travelling to England to rid himself of a bride, Valerian was ordered to bring her back to Mont-Tremblant for Queen Ana to meet her firsthand. The queen’s wishes smacked very much of her meddling ways in his love life, but he dared not risk her wrath, not with her current condition of carrying the royal heir. Thus, he had left the city two weeks later than when he announced his intentions of discarding the unwanted betrothal.

  Due to his chosen mode of travel to be as inconspicuous as possible, it would take a little less than two weeks on horseback to reach Calais. From Calais, they would have to take a vessel across the Channel to enter England, and from there, God only knew how long it would take to collect the chit from the parish of Donnesbury.

  Musing into his ale, Valerian pictured a very staid, missish girl as his betrothed. More than likely, she would be docile and prudish being raised as an English lord’s daughter, and he rather thought he required more fortitude in a wife than what he thought he would be getting. Shaking his head, he reminded himself that he would rather not be saddled with a pre-determined bride, even one chosen by his father. Just as he could not picture himself saddled with a wife, he did not think it fair for any gentlewoman to be encumbered with him and his indulgent lifestyle.

  Bastien’s men surrounded him at the table as they played a rousing round of cards, but despite the carefree air around him, Valerian inwardly brooded over his impending meeting with Lady Mary Ellesmere. Reluctant to meet the girl, he desired to prolong the journey as safely as possible, just long enough for him find his pleasures where he could find them while on the way there. His mother would find his behavior reprehensible, but he reasoned that he had been indulging his appetites for carnality for so long that it would be a shame to stop now over an English slip of a girl.

  “Valerian, man, it’s your turn,” cried one soldier, named Simon. Blinking himself out of his reverie, Valerian looked about him to see everyone at the table waiting expectantly for him to either show his hand or fold. The haphazard pile of coins and various personal items in front of him had doubled since he had last paid attention to the game. Glancing at his cards, he had nothing better in his hand than a single pair, and he had nothing left on his person to match the bet. With his heart and his head not fully immersed in the game, he sighed, “I fold, gentlemen.”

  Groans emitted all around the table, as every man there threw down their cards, except for Simon, who had clearly won with a straight when he flashed his cards at everyone. With a whoop of delight, Simon gathered the pot closer to him while another soldier, Antoine, signaled the barmaid for more ale.

  In spite of Valerian’s table making a grand show of fun and revelry, Bastien’s borrowed men, as well as Valerian himself, kept watchful eyes around them. Being out in the open like this was risky for anyone related to the Montchagny line, but everyone assembled at that table were trained, skilled warriors, wholly capable of employing deadly force if necessary. Weapons were concealed underneath long cloaks but were easily accessible. The sheer size of each man should have been enough to intimidate even the boldest of assassins. But if one were to venture to try any of them in combat, they would soon discover that their size does not equate slowness in a fight. These men were trained to be quick, agile fighters, expressly to bring down an opponent swiftly before they themselves could sustain any damage to their person.

  Not yet ready for the rented room abovestairs, Valerian stayed where he was seated to watch the others start up another card game. Or rather, he gave the pretense of watching as he brooded once more over his approaching meeting with the Ellesmere girl. Arriving late at his “betrothed’s” doorstep was already bad form, especially when he had written an approximate date to the Ellesmeres regarding his arrival.

  Preoccupied with his grim thoughts, Valerian was unaware that he was being watched. While he and his companions kept an eye on the shadows, on alert for anything amiss in the dark corners of the taproom, it was the enemy hiding in plain sight whom they should have watched for.

  Sloshing a tankard of ale in one hand with an arm around the voluptuous serving maid currently in his lap, the stranger convincingly gave the appearance of a man deep in his cups. A man alone would have been suspicious, but this stranger sat among a crowd just as rowdy as he, trading ribald jests with those seated closest to him. Slurring his words every so often and laughing loud and boisterously at nothing and eve
rything, the stranger focused on Valerian and his company, observing all with an eagle eye.

  The woman on his lap giggled and tittered at everything the stranger said, to which the stranger whispered in her ear, “Careful not to overdo it, love. We are here to observe, not draw too much attention to ourselves.”

  In response, she pulled away and made a good show of smiling coyly at him, acting as though he whispered suggestive comments in her ear. Leaning close to his ear, she hissed back, “If I am overdoing it, it is because I have never played the doxy before. How much longer do I have to debase myself in this disgusting farce?”

  Rubbing her back in an effort to soothe her, the stranger replied, “Don’t fret; it won’t be much longer. Once we can discern what the King is doing here, our work here is done. Then we must quickly send word to the good Doctor.” Having set his tankard down, he used the other hand to draw her face close to his and place a kiss on her mouth in assurance.

  Breaking away from the kiss, the stranger spotted Valerian watching him back, and his heart stuttered at the thought of being suddenly discovered. But as he watched, Valerian’s eyes roamed over the two of them, and he imagined that Valerian must be seeing them as two lovers who can’t seem to keep their hands to themselves. Yes, they were lovers, but they were also married to each other. Their pretense was for the sole purpose of keeping their identities secret as they were employed to observe any and all

  What Valerian could not possibly know about them at first glance was that their loyalties lay with the Laurent family, as the stranger could trace his antecedents back to the last Laurent ruler of Mont-Tremblant. King Jullien had spared a small number of Laurents who pledged an oath of fealty to him, but the remainder fled and went into hiding.

  The stranger himself was descended from the youngest Laurent prince who fled Mont-Tremblant with his family to live out his remaining days keeping his identity a secret. Similar in situation to his ancestor, the stranger had to live his days as a commoner while royal blood ran through his veins, and it angered him that the once proud Laurents were now relegated to living as paupers.

  He believed that the Laurents would one day be afforded their wealth, lands, and status, once the Doctor’s plans were put into motion, and the Laurents would have their day in the sun once again. If it weren’t for the Doctor, a Laurent loyalist, those Laurents who were eager for a change in their fortunes hadn’t a hope in making a difference in their plight. The Doctor demonstrated a remarkably keen intelligence and his well-laid plans enabled him to gain the trust of the few Laurents he was able to track down.

  When the stranger had asked the Doctor what stake he had in all of this, the Doctor only replied, “Your agenda just so happens to fit mine equally well.” And he said nothing more regarding the subject.

  Eyeing Valerian once more, the stranger whispered in his wife’s ear, “It’s time for you to work, love. Go find out what you can.” Sighing heavily, his wife angrily hissed back in his ear, “For this, I had better be receiving a princess’ tiara.” Remaining in character, she heartily slapped him and flounced off in Valerian’s direction. Whether that slap was meant to be a touch harder than she intended, the stranger chuckled at his wife’s show of displeasure with him.

  He watched as his wife played her part well, frowning when it looked too real, the way she feigned an attraction for the man who they believed to be the King of Mont-Tremblant. Now he wished she wouldn’t touch the man too familiarly, urging her silently to hurry and discover what direction he would be travelling next. The King travelling incognito with only a small contingent of men was intriguing enough to discover the reason for the journey. The Doctor’s instructions were clear to only observe and report all details concerning the King’s movements outside of Mont-Tremblant, and the stranger was happy to oblige.

  5

  Donnesbury, England – Two days later

  As was her habit after breakfast, Mary gathered her satchel and ensured it was stocked with bandages, salves, and her pouches of dried herbs. With the company of her maid, Brielle, the pair made their way to the Coultons’ cottage, which was Mary’s first stop among several planned for that day. The youngest Coulton, Sam, had fallen ill a few days ago and Kit’s stiffened joints wouldn’t allow her to venture out to see to him. It fell to Mary to go in Kit’s stead and check on the boy at Mrs. Coulton’s insistence.

  They walked in silence, while Mary mused to herself, something she had found she had been doing more of lately. Since the reading of her father’s will, she couldn’t help that niggling feeling that pricked at her when she thought of Valerian de Baptiste. And she had thought of him often since then, despite her desire not to. She fervently wished he wasn’t on his way to see her and wished even harder that her father hadn’t drawn up the betrothal in the first place.

  No matter how attractive the man looked, she had promised herself never again to fall for another pretty face. She had learned from that particular mistake from her ordeal with Raleigh, and she resolved from then on not to be drawn in by handsome features and a winning smile. A miniature of the comte accompanied the letter from his mother, which was probably sent without his knowledge, and at first glimpse, anyone with eyes could see the man’s features were exceptional. Heaven help her, but the man’s piercing blue eyes and his chiseled jawline were almost enough to sway her. Catching herself from continuing down that mental path, she snorted inwardly and uncharitably supposed that his above average looks provided him advantages that lesser mortals generally were not afforded.

  But she was still a woman, and she appreciated beauty in all of its forms. To deny that the comte was handsome would be akin to lying to herself about her initial reaction to his comely appearance. Maybe eight years ago during her comeout, she would have been drawn to such masculine beauty from the safety of the opposite side of a ballroom. But now that she was older and hopefully much wiser, she maintained a safe distance from any man looking more handsome than she thought was right.

  In her experience, the ordinary looking men of the ton have had to make up for their lack of stellar looks with charm and wit. They have had to work harder to crack her almost dismissive exterior, one that worked well as armor, guarding her from the Raleighs of the world. When most of them realized it took too much effort to try to woo her, they had decided to move on to a more willing female who was more receptive to their attentions.

  She had nothing personal against any of those men as they had all been so lovely with her, but she found one thing lacking. Having observed her own parents and their love story unfolding before her, and then later, with her dearest friend Faith, and now with her own twin brother, Mary knew that she wanted to find a love just as special as theirs. And she couldn’t settle for anything less; to do so, would be cheating herself out of something she believed to be true, enduring, and life-altering.

  But the comte was the least of her worries. Her work as an unofficial healer in the parish of Donnesbury had come with an unexpected downturn in the form of unhappy fathers whose children she had recently seen to. Mr. Coulton and his friend, Mr. Hull, had protested loudly against Mary’s work on their children, claiming that if it was God’s will that their children fall ill, then it was against God’s will for Mary to interfere with her witch’s brews and potions. They placed more faith in praying for healing from above than the healing itself, and no doctor or healer would ever grace their door.

  Donnesbury was mostly Christian, being predominantly Anglican, but the problem Mary had encountered of late dealt with the very thing Kit had warned her about all those years ago. Female healers were often mistaken for witches in the past, and it was always the undercurrent of hate present against anything foreign or unexplained that rose up to the fore, endangering the livelihood of a true healer. But it was at the insistence of their wives that Mary come and examine their children, their coughing worsening as the days progressed, and nothing the mothers tried from their limited cache of remedies could alleviate their children’s sufferi
ng. Sam Coulton and Jemma Hull were both ten years old, and both could not breathe comfortably, breathing noisy, wheezy breaths despite no other signs of an illness.

  With Mary’s help, a few of her remedies made a world of difference in the children. Along with her poultices, she was now ready to employ a new remedy she had only read about: thornapple, otherwise known as devil’s snare. Having consulted Kit with its proper usage, she learned its benefits worked best when its leaves were burned, and its resulting smoke inhaled by the afflicted individual.

  Arriving at the Coulton’s door, Mary knocked and called out, “Mrs. Coulton? I’m here to see about little Sam.” Behind the closed door, Mary could hear the poor child struggling with a nasty bout of coughing and his mother trying to soothe him.

  The door speedily swung open, and an exhausted Mrs. Coulton looked at Mary with tired relief. “Lady Mary, I’m so glad you’ve come. My poor Sam didn’t have a good night of it, what with all of the coughing he was doing all night. The rest of us also didn’t fare as well with all of the racket he was making.” She waved Mary and Brielle into the cottage and led the way further into the house where Sam lay resting.

  “If it’s no trouble, may I borrow one of your warming pans and a towel, if you please? And matches, too.” Mrs. Coulton nodded and moved to retrieve the requested items. Mary approached the bed where little Sam was lying with the covers up to his chin, and he watched her as he drew raspy breaths that were too audible for her liking. Bending down so that her face was level with his, she said cheerily, “Hello, Sam. Your mother tells me that you haven’t fared well since last I saw you.”