Lord Montague

by Mary Kingswood

  Book 1: Lord Reginald

  Book 2: Lord Humphrey

  Book 3: Lord Augustus

  Book 4: Lord Montague

  Book 5: Lord Gilbert

  Any questions about the series? Email me - I’d love to hear from you!

  About the author

  I write traditional Regency romances under the pen name Mary Kingswood, and epic fantasy as Pauline M Ross. I live in the beautiful Highlands of Scotland with my husband. I like chocolate, whisky, my Kindle, massed pipe bands, long leisurely lunches, chocolate, going places in my campervan, eating pizza in Italy, summer nights that never get dark, wood fires in winter, chocolate, the view from the study window looking out over the Moray Firth and the Black Isle to the mountains beyond. And chocolate. I dislike driving on motorways, cooking, shopping, hospitals.

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks go to:

  My mother, who first introduced me to the wonderful world of Jane Austen.

  Shayne Rutherford of Darkmoon Graphics for the cover design.

  My beta reader: Mary Burnett.

  Last, but definitely not least, my first reader: Amy Ross.

  Sneak preview of Lord Gilbert: Chapter 1: A Winter Journey

  Captain Lord Gilbert Marford was so angry he could barely form the words.

  “Sent home like a schoolboy!” he hissed in a low voice. “It is the outside of enough! Who do they think I am, to be treated so? I joined the Hussars to fight the French, not kick my heels in Yorkshire.”

  “They might let you fight the French if you stopped fighting your fellow officers,” Davy, his batman, said, without looking up from his task of folding shirts.

  “I never minded being sent home from Eton, it was almost a point of honour to be rusticated once or twice a year, but I am an adult now! How could they do this to me?”

  “Daresay you never got rusticated from Eton for bedding someone’s wife,” Davy said. “Pass me that coat, will you, Gil?”

  “Actually, I did, once,” Gil said, instantly diverted. “The Latin master was a dry old stick, but he had the most luscious wife whom he neglected shamefully. She had a penchant for activities that would have astonished her husband. A few of them would have astonished the Roman Emperors, I suspect. Well, some of the Emperors, anyway.”

  Davy looked up in amusement. “Did she make you dress up in a toga?”

  “Ha! Not quite, but she was the greatest fun imaginable, until her husband caught us in bed one afternoon.”

  “Really, Gil!” But Davy was laughing. Having grown up with Gil, he was quite unshockable.

  “I know, and I was supposed to be in a class with Mr Cornish, the history master. Henry the Eighth. Well, he had six wives, and I never quite saw why I should not, too.”

  “But at least they were his own wives,” Davy said, turning back to his packing.

  “Well, where is the fun in that? I am the last sensible one in the family, do you realise that, Davy? All my brothers are married now, even Monty, and I never thought to see that. I always liked Monty. At least he never lectured me like Carrbridge does. You are such a trial to me, Gil. Think of the family honour. Why can you not be more like Reggie… or Humphrey… or Gus… or Monty? Bah! At least I have been out of his disapproving eye these last few months. Sometimes I wish I were not the brother of a marquess. That is the worst of this business, being sent back to Drummoor. I had rather be flogged.”

  “Do you have to go? Can’t you just head for London and enjoy yourself until the fuss dies down?”

  “If only that were possible! But no, Colonel Jefferson has written to Carrbridge and if I fail to turn up, or disappear later, he is to write at once, and I shall be cashiered and that will be the end of it. He will really do it this time, he says. It is so annoying. There is no real harm in what I do, Davy, you know that.”

  “Aye, you get bored, that’s all it is, and then you get into mischief, and if it were just a bit of a scuffle with the other officers, no one would mind that. But the Major’s wife, Gil! And you really should take care with that leg of yours. Every time you ride too hard or push yourself too far, you damage it. After that horse race with Captain Walters, the sawbones was threatening to cut it off.”

  “Stuff!” Gil said. “Nothing wrong with my leg now. Just a bit of a limp, no more than that.”

  “You should take care, that’s all I’m saying. There, that’s the last box packed. I’ll get the carriage brought round.”

  “Carriage!” Gil said in frustration. “How humiliating to be driven about like a dowager.”

  “Physician’s orders,” Davy said firmly. “Got to look after that leg, Gil, or you won’t have a leg to worry about.”

  ~~~~~

  The first flakes of snow were falling just as they turned in to the inn yard to change horses. The place was in chaos, ostlers rushing hither and thither with teams of horses, dealing with several carriages at once, to a chorus of angry shouts.

  “Sorry, nothing to spare just now,” a harassed ostler told them. “Everything is out, and not a pair rested enough to put to the traces. Go inside, sir, sit by the fire. Rest for an hour or two.”

  “Rest!” Gil expostulated, but the man had already gone. “I hardly need rest when I have been sitting on my rear for the last two hours. We will not make London today at this rate.”

  “It was always unlikely,” Davy said. “Specially at this time of year. Look at the weather! If it settles in, we’ll be lucky to make it to Sittingbourne.”

  “Pfft! What is a bit of snow? I have been out in worse. Surely there must be some horses for us.”

  He strode into the capacious stables, dodging a steaming team of bays being led to stalls. The ostler was right, there were no horses left that were fresh enough to be put to a carriage. But there was one horse…

  “You there! This hack of yours… is it for hire?”

  The stable boy jumped, looked around as if wondering who was being addressed, then licked his lips nervously. “Aye, sir, but—”

  “Saddle him.”

  “But—”

  “Just do as I say. Here—” He pulled out his purse and pushed several silver coins into the boy’s hands, and had the satisfaction of seeing his eyes widen. “Now saddle him. And if you get in trouble for it, tell them that it was for Captain Lord Gilbert Marford.”

  “Aye, milord. At once, milord.”

  It was the work of a few minutes for the boy to prepare the horse, although the animal danced and blew and side-stepped as if, for some unfathomable reason, he was loathe to leave his warm stable to venture out into the falling snow. Gil swung himself into the saddle, and then, as pain shot through his leg, remembered why he should have used the mounting block. He grimaced, took a deep breath and fought down the nausea that assaulted him. Then he trotted into the yard, the horse dancing about the whole time.

  Davy was still standing beside their carriage, chatting amicably to a couple of the tap boys. Gil would have ridden straight past his batman with a cheerful wave had Davy not grabbed the reins, causing the horse to half rear.

  “What are you doing, Gil?” he cried, more fear than anger on his face.

  “What does it look like? You cannot expect me to sit here like an old woman for hours. With luck, this fellow will get me to London by nightfall.”

  “With luck? Gil, you’re insane! It’s snowing hard, you’ll never make it, and think of your leg. Gil! For God’s sake, Gil!”

  With a quick jerk on the reins, the horse was free of Davy’s restraint. With a snort, the animal bounded forward and took off through the arch, and then they were on the London road at a fast canter.

  Gil laughed aloud in delight, as the snow spat freezing drops into his face. All around him, the snow fell softly, not heavy but steady now, the flakes drifting gently to earth. Already the road had a thin covering, the dark lines of coach tracks fading to invisibility. The horse soon lost its initial enthusiasm and slowed his pace, as Gil settled down for the long ride back to London. Th
ey passed a few coaches, the drivers and outside passengers muffled up to their eyebrows, and one small town, its inns beacons of warmth in the white wasteland, but Gil was not minded to stop. That would mean admitting he was wrong to attempt the ride, and that he could never do. So he pressed on.

  It was not a comfortable ride. His leg throbbed abominably, and as the snow whirled ever faster around him, it made him feel queer and dizzy. The cold seeped into his very bones. But the horse was a good one, and needed little direction, and after a while Gil stopped noticing the cold. He rode on, although the horse had slowed to a walk. And the snow fell more and more thickly. Perhaps he would stop at the next inn after all, but the thought was hazy, as if his mind were filled with treacle. But he had seen no inn for a while now, and no coaches either. Nothing to do but push on, always onwards. Sooner or later there would be an inn.

  The horse stopped. Gil jerked up from his position low to the creature’s neck. He had almost fallen asleep! That would never do, not in this bitter weather. He tried to kick the animal forwards but somehow his legs would not move. He flicked the reins instead, and the horse jolted into motion, almost tipping Gil off backwards.

  And now that he had begun, the animal seemed to have found a sudden burst of energy for he cantered along in a manner which had Gil screaming from the pain in his leg. Where had this agony come from? And why was he so hot, with an inch of snow on his shoulders? The weather had worsened considerably, for it was almost dark. He could barely see the horse’s head in front of him.

  An inn… he must find an inn…

  There was a light! Like a lighthouse in the gloom, ahead shone a thin golden beam. Gil pulled on the reins, but the horse tossed its head imperiously and moved even faster. Panic swept over Gil. He must stop! If he rode past the light then he might never find another one. He had to stop, at all costs!

  He pulled again on the reins, heaving with every last ounce of strength remaining to him. The horse reared, and with a cry of despair, Gil slid sideways.

  The ground was hard, knocking the breath out of him. For a moment he lay, too stupefied to move. When he came to himself again, the silence was absolute. Not a creature moved in this white wasteland, not an owl was abroad, nor a fox, not so much as a hedgehog rustling in the undergrowth. Was he dead? He felt neither heat nor cold, only the dull, relentless pain of his leg. He was tired, so tired. If he lay still, if he kept his eyes closed, he would drift off to sleep and he would feel better in the morning, he was sure of it. At Drummoor. He would be home soon.

  No.

  Something was wrong. If he slept… he must not sleep, somehow he knew that.

  The light. There was a light. With a massive effort, he lifted his head. Yes! There it was, shining unwaveringly through the white shroud of the falling snow. He tried to get up, but his legs would not work. But he must reach the light, he must! His head was as thick as soup, but he knew that much. No matter how great the struggle, he must reach the light. Slowly, trembling with the strain, he raised himself a little on his arms and shifted an inch nearer to the light.

  ~~~~~

  Genista rather enjoyed the times when her father went away. It didn’t happen often, but maybe once or twice a month he would be summoned to a patient so distant that he would be required to stay overnight, and occasionally, if the patient took a long while to die or the baby was slow to be born, there would be a second night away too. With the snow so thick now, surely this would be one of those occasions.

  She checked the roast in the hot oven, and the vegetables in the slow oven. The soup was simmering, and the fruit pie was ready to go into the hot oven as soon as the chicken was out of it. She watched Betty lay the table in the kitchen — another treat, to eat off the plain wooden table, with no ceremony and no need to change her gown. She sighed with pleasure. She loved her father dearly, of course she did, but he did like everything just so. ‘We must maintain standards, daughter,’ he always said. ‘Your mother would wish it.’ And of course he was absolutely right — Father was always right — but just occasionally, it was lovely not to worry about doing things properly.

  She had just closed the door of the oven when she thought she heard a noise, an odd sort of tapping sound.

  “What was that? Did you hear something?”

  “I didn’t hear nothing, Miss Genista. Most likely it’s the wind catching the—”

  “Hush! There it is again. Did you hear it?”

  “No, Miss Genista.”

  “You don’t need to be so formal, Betty. You can call me Genista when Father isn’t here.”

  “That seems disrespectful— Oh! I heard it! It’s at the door, Miss Genista.”

  “This door? Why would anyone come to the kitchen door? Oh, the light, of course. The front of the house is dark.”

  She went through to the scullery, where a lamp hung on a hook over the sink, shining out through the uncurtained window. There it was again, a definite tapping sound, but faint. Perhaps Betty was right, and it was just a broken branch knocking against the door. But there was no harm in checking. She slid open the bolts and opened the door.

  On the doorstep, half covered in snow and just visible in the thin light of the lamp, lay a dark shape. It groaned.

  “It’s a man,” she said. “Quick, Betty, help me get him inside. Heavens, look how wet he is, and cold! His face is frozen. Quick, we must take him through to the kitchen. Can you carry his feet? That’s it. One… two… three… lift.”

  The man screamed, and then silence fell.

  “To the rug… in front of… the range…” Genista puffed.

  Half carrying and half dragging the unconscious man, they set him down as gently as they could on the rug. Genista began to unfasten his snow-covered greatcoat and loosen his cravat.

  “His clothes are soaked through. We must get him out of them at once. Blankets, Betty, and towels — as many as you can carry.”

  Cautiously, remembering the scream when they had lifted him, she began divesting him of his sodden garments, the greatcoat first, then the top boots, then his coat. He was heavy in her arms as she raised him up, but not unmanageably so.

  Betty came back in at a run, her arms full. “How did he get here, Miss Genista? There’s little enough traffic on this lane, for it goes from nowhere to nowhere.”

  “That’s a good point. He can’t have walked from Elversham, for his boots aren’t muddy enough. There must have been a carriage… or a horse! It will die in this weather if we can’t get it into the stable. Betty, will you go and look? But don’t go too far, just down the path to the lane.”

  With a quick nod, Betty disappeared, and Genista turned back to her unexpected guest. He lay motionless on the rug, eyes closed, his long lashes resting on his pale cheeks, his breathing rapid. He was young, very young, perhaps three or four and twenty. Tendrils of dark hair clung damply to his forehead. He was beautiful, like an angel fallen to earth, his symmetry unmarred, his nose aquiline, his lips full. Who was he, this vision of perfection?

  She touched his forehead again… cold, so cold. He was chilled to the bone. There was heat enough from the range, but the stranger’s wet clothes would leach all the warmth from his body if they were not removed. Waistcoat, shirt, breeches. Then whatever lay beneath. Waistcoat, shirt, breeches. Oh Lord. If only Father were there! He would carry the man into the surgery and deal with… whatever lay beneath. But Father was not there, and if Genista didn’t do what was needful, then this fallen angel might well die and it would be her fault. She unfastened the waistcoat, and lifted him to slide it off. Then the shirt and undershirt, pulled off all in one movement. She paused, her eyes drawn to his bare skin, so pale in the lamplight. He’d looked so slender when they’d carried him in, but he was neither thin like a boy, nor soft like a woman. There was strength in his arms, and his chest…

  A deep breath. How foolishly missish to allow herself to be distracted. She was acting as his physician now, so she must be impassive, and do what she needed to do, and qui
ckly. Another deep breath, and then she unbuttoned the breeches, and began to wriggle them down his legs. And before she could think about it, the undertrousers.

  His upper left leg was an angry purple colour, the jagged scar raised and torn. Green matter oozed from one corner. With an exclamation of shock, she quickly wrapped him in blankets, then lit a candle and ran through to the mixing room for the necessary materials. Her expert hands had soon made a poultice.

  Betty was in the kitchen when she returned. “No sign of horse nor carriage,” she said. “I can just make out hoof marks heading towards Elversham. I guess he fell off and the beast went on by itself.”

  “Nothing we can do about it now,” Genista said briskly. “Hold the bowl, Betty, while I apply the poultice.” Lifting a small amount of blanket to reveal the injured part of the leg, she set to work.

  “Shouldn’t be doing that,” Betty said, with a sniff of disapproval. “He’s a man.”

  “He’s a very sick man, who will likely die if we do nothing,” she said sharply.

  Betty pointed to the discarded pile of clothes, the undergarments clearly visible. “But he’s nekkid, Miss Genista. And you a lady an’ all.”

  “I am a physician’s daughter, and my conscience won’t permit me to refuse to help. Father would wish me to,” she said, hoping that was true. Father could be such a stickler for propriety sometimes. Yet he had taught her everything he knew and why else but to help people, just as he did? But she felt uneasily that helping people didn’t quite mean stripping handsome young men naked.

  END OF SAMPLE CHAPTER OF Lord Gilbert

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