“Au revoir, Monsieur Villeneuve.”
“Au revoir, Monsieur Morton.”
No more need be said. They both knew that they would be doing further business in future, both on Setford’s behalf, and in the matter of artworks. The journey from there went smoothly, although far slower than Raphael would have liked.
Raphael had never spent so many days straight in a carriage in his life, and he ached in every bone by the time they reached the ship. Perhaps the carriage was simply poorly sprung, or the roads worse than they had seemed at first, but the end result was the same, the continuous jarring had left him worn. Riding the whole way, at fast pace, would have been easier.
By the time the paintings were loaded into the hold of the Morton Venture, and all was ready for their departure, Easter was upon them. On Easter morning, she put out to sea, bound for London.
Two days later, Manning was waiting on the dock when they eased her in to tie up. Manning handed him a message, informing him that Setford was at Witherwood Chase, with the Hounds.
Raphael instructed him to have the paintings unloaded and taken to the warehouse, then, gathering Setford’s chest, and his meagre valise of clothing, he set out, in yet another carriage, for Witherwood Chase.
~~~~~
A week after Raphael’s departure for Paris, Sera had received a letter from Lady Sylvia, inviting her to the wedding of Lady Harriet and Lord Geoffrey. Sera had considered it, conflicted. She had come to dearly love Harriet, who was bright and friendly, and full of a confidence in life that Sera envied. But she did not know if Raphael would return in time to attend the wedding – he did not even know its date! And the thought of facing that many people of the ton, all together, without Raphael at her side…
She was not at all certain that she could do it. They may now be accepting her, but it was still fragile, and two years of fear had left her unwilling to face them too often. Perhaps, if Raphael returned in time, she would travel to Witherwood Chase with him, and attend the wedding. But she simply could not face doing it alone.
She sent a letter to Lady Sylvia, prevaricating. She used the gallery as an excuse, and said that, if she could arrange things, she would be there, but that she was not certain. Internally, she damned herself as a coward, but she could not regret her decision.
~~~~~
Never had a place looked more appealing to Raphael than Witherwood Chase when he arrived, late on the second day after leaving London. To be somewhere with friends, and able to not be in a carriage for at least a few days, was a marvellous thought.
He gathered up the chest, and his valise, and made his way to the door. Barnstable, upon opening it, smiled with genuine pleasure to see him again.
“Good evening, Mr Morton. If I may say so, you look rather done in. If I may take your valise? I’ll have your room prepared – and a bath, perhaps?”
“Thank you, Barnstable.”
Raphael handed over his valise, but kept Setford’s chest tucked under his arm.
“They are in the large parlour, Mr Morton.”
“Thank you, Barnstable, I’ll find my own way there.”
When he opened the door to the parlour, conversation stopped, and all eyes turned towards him.
“Raphael! I told them that you were sure to make it here before everyone went home. They didn’t believe me. But I must say, I am disappointed – you missed my wedding!”
Raphael nearly dropped the chest in shock – he had not even known the planned date of Geoffrey and Harriet’s wedding when he’d left for Paris.
He glared across the room at Setford, who was sitting quietly in a corner of the room, talking to Gerry. Setford shrugged, almost apologetically, then rose and came toward him. Raphael held out the chest.
“I sincerely hope that what this contains is what you expect, and that it is truly worth me having spent two weeks in hard sprung carriages on rutted roads!”
Setford chuckled, and took the chest. Raphael pulled the cord with the key from around his neck, and held it out. And then the others surrounded him, all talking at once, wanting to know of his travels, and all trying to tell him about their own lives, and about Geoffrey and Harriet’s wedding.
Harriet, in typical form, simply slid through the crowd, took his arm, and pulled him to a seat, talking all the while. He went, and gratefully took the glass of brandy that someone pushed into his hand. For a moment, he wished for the rich French cognac that Monsieur Villeneuve had served him.
When Barnstable tapped on the door and informed him that a room and a bath were ready, and that Hurst was waiting to assist him, Raphael gratefully escaped the chaos of friendship, and went to restore himself to a more normal state of being.
The next few days were a pleasant contrast to the previous two weeks, but still, Raphael chafed at being away from London. He ached to see Sera again, and felt rather guilty that he had rushed out of London without at least seeing her. But then, had he gone to see her, he was not at all certain that he would have been able to make himself leave. And he had wanted to get the chest into Setford’s hands as soon as possible.
By the third day, he felt almost normal again, and the torrent of conversation required to catch up had died down to a comfortable trickle. But the pull drawing him to London, and Sera, had become almost unbearable. He had determined that he would leave the following day, and had just announced that to the others, when Barnstable tapped on the parlour door.
“A messenger in most impressive livery has just delivered this for Mr Morton.”
He extended the silver tray, and Raphael picked up the missive that rested on its surface. Setford, sitting quietly in a corner as usual, smiled broadly when he saw it, but made no comment. Raphael turned it over, and examined the seal. It was a seal that he had seen before.
“That looks rather imposing – who is it from?”
“The Prince Regent, if I am not mistaken.”
“Interesting. Has his visit to the gallery made you fast friends?”
There was general laughter in response to both Geoffrey’s words, and Raphael’s expression when he considered the idea. Raphael broke the seal, and unfolded the letter. This was rather more formal than the note he had previously received, but its purpose was similar – he was summoned to appear at Court on a specific day – only three days hence.
“I am summoned to appear at Court. It’s very formal, so I assume that means full formal dress, suitable to such an occasion. All of you would know better than I – do I even own something that would be regarded as suitable?”
“I am sure that you do – between us we’ll make certain that you are adequately presented. When do you have to be there?”
Charlton’s words only mildly reassured Raphael. For, whilst the summons did not mention any reason, there was only one likely cause – he really was about to be made an Earl. It still seemed improbable in the extreme, yet it appeared to be actually happening.
“Three days hence. There is barely enough time!”
“Then you and I had best be away early tomorrow. I am sure that, if you have need of anything, my wardrobe will manage to supply it.”
“I sincerely hope so – I would not wish to look anything less than a perfect gentleman.”
“Of course. But the big question is… why have you been summoned? Does it tell you?”
It was obvious that Geoffrey had voiced the question that everyone on the room wanted answered, as they all turned to Raphael hopefully, waiting for his response.
“It does not. I will discover the reason on the day, no doubt.”
~~~~~
The room was crowded, and Raphael was nearly overwhelmed by those wishing to meet him. Whilst the Letters Patent and all other process involved in conferring the Earldom of Porthaven upon him had been dealt with quietly, under Bridgemont’s capable guidance, the Prince Regent had chosen to publicly acknowledge the new Earl of Porthaven, before a very large assemblage of the nobility.
It was an occasion marked by the Pri
nce Regent’s usual excess and was certain to be gossiped about for months. Raphael was dizzied by the heat of the crush in the room, and already passing beyond mere annoyance at being none too subtly probed about the ‘services to the crown’ which had earnt him the title, and the Prince Regent’s favour.
He could not, however, leave until given the Prince Regent’s permission – as the guest of honour of the occasion, there was nothing he could do but be grittedly polite to everyone, and attempt to remember all of the names of those he was introduced to. Throughout it all, both Setford and Charlton stayed near him, performing introductions, whispering needed information to him, and guaranteeing him at least a modicum of personal space.
Within the hour after the announcement, the gossip ran through London – via servants, via lesser members of the nobility who had not been able to be present in the room, and soon, via the newssheets.
The caricaturists and gossip reporters were overjoyed – and headlines about ‘the Merchant Earl’ proliferated. One caricature in particular, which was drawn and brought to press with remarkable speed, showed a man supposed to be Raphael who seemed to be delivering a large pile of goods to the Prince Regent, who was placing about the man’s neck a seal of office. The implication was obvious, and unpleasant.
Raphael, trapped in the seemingly never-ending round of sharp edged conversation of the courtiers, knew nothing of any of that. It was long after midnight when he was finally able to leave, and to make his way home, to collapse into bed.
It was more than a week now, since Raphael’s return from Paris, yet still she had not seen him. Sera ached for the moment when she would. Part of her wanted to be angry that he had not even come to see her, but had left London almost as soon as the ship had docked, and gone straight to Lord Geoffrey’s, but she acknowledged to herself the fact that the Hounds were as much his family as his blood family, and that she had no claim on him to touch that. He might love her, but that was a new bond, and still somewhat shaky.
The gallery continued to thrive, and Mr Featherstonehaugh, who had been back to Witherwood Chase for the few days around Lord Geoffrey’s wedding to Lady Harriet, and returned with another coachload of paintings, was invaluable. He greatly enjoyed spending his days in the gallery, and effortlessly sold to the nobility, by impressing upon them how much more astute each of them was than their contemporaries. If one believed everything that Mr Featherstonehaugh had said to them, London was overrun with amazingly intelligent men. Sera somehow doubted it. But telling them that sold paintings.
Manning had taken her to the warehouse, and shown her the remarkable collection that Raphael had brought back from France.
There was, indeed, much profit to be made from what she saw. She had chosen a small number of the most interesting pieces, and had them sent to the gallery.
It was a bright, clear April morning, with a distinct feel of Spring in the air, and she was assisting Mr Featherstonehaugh with placing the French paintings on display. He had been exuberant at the sight of them, and the prices he had suggested were quite astounding.
She had no doubt that he would easily find collectors to pay those sums.
When all was ready, they opened the doors, and, blown in with the scent of spring on the breeze, came one of their now regular customers. He was clutching a newssheet and a caricature sheet in his hand.
“Good morning, Lady Serafine, Mr Featherstonehaugh. Have you seen the gossip sheets this morning? Cruel of you to have kept something like this quiet like! Although I must say, the caricature’s a bit off – not the way I’d ever see him doing business, not at all.”
He thrust the papers at Sera, and she took them, automatically, wondering what on Earth he was talking about. As Mr Featherstonehaugh turned the man towards one of the new French pieces, Sera looked down at the papers in her hand.
‘Nobility Sullied by Trade – now we have a Merchant Earl!’
The headline made no sense to her, so she read on.
‘At Court yesterday, the Prince Regent announced that the title of Earl of Porthaven, previously held by a traitor, which had reverted to the crown, has now been conferred upon Mr Raphael Morton, noted merchant and war hero. At a glittering gathering of the ton, the Prince Regent’s approval of the new Earl was made abundantly clear. But… the thinkers amongst us are wondering – just exactly what were the ‘services to the crown’ that have led to Mr Morton being so handsomely rewarded?’
Heart pounding, Sera looked at the second sheet of paper. It was a cartoon, one of those vile things that were so often drawn to mock and defame anyone who was a little out of the ordinary, or who made a good target for scandal – there had been many drawn about James’ death. This one showed a man supposed to be Raphael who seemed to be delivering a large pile of goods to the Prince Regent, who was placing about the man’s neck a seal of office. As usual, the figures were labelled ‘Mr M’ and ‘P.R’ – intended to in no way disguise identities, and to make certain that everyone knew what to gossip about. The implication was clear – they were, effectively, accusing Raphael of bribing the Prince Regent for a title.
Sera felt violently ill. She turned, and went into the back room, carefully closing the door, and sank to a chair, stifling a sob. She stared at the wall, the horrible papers crushed in her trembling fingers. She had hoped… hoped so much, hoped that they were past misunderstandings, past barriers, that she might, just might, be able to have the man she loved, that they might marry, that she might be allowed to sink quietly out of sight as a respectable merchant’s wife.
For she would be completely happy to never deal with the ton again, beyond what was required for the gallery. Having regained enough respectability that she and her mother were not outright shunned was enough – she did not wish to spend her days amongst the shallow people who had turned on her in her greatest time of need. Now this!
She did not question that Raphael deserved the recognition, she knew that it would be easier for him to move amongst his friends in society now, as their peer, yet she also knew that the ton would not accept him as one of them, easily. The cartoon crumpled in her hand demonstrated that thoroughly. They would look for ways to disparage him, they would look down on him for his ‘merchant class origins’, and they would turn against him quickly, given any excuse. The barest breath of scandal attached to him would be enough for the ton to make his life a misery, and perhaps, to intentionally cease to buy from his businesses.
The conclusion was inescapable. She could not destroy this for him, by being associated with him – even the Prince Regent’s intervention had barely made society tolerate her presence. The ton would use her to destroy him, given the chance. She would not give them the chance. If it meant giving him up, to protect him, she would. She loved him too much to do anything else.
Her decision made, she drew herself up, dried her eyes, and went back into the gallery, determined to make sure that the business thrived, regardless.
~~~~~
Raphael woke slowly, the memory of the previous day filtering into his consciousness. He lay there, eyes still closed, and considered it. It was not a dream. He was the Earl of Porthaven. The name made him almost laugh – how appropriate for a man whose wealth came from ships crossing the sea to foreign ports. He had best bestir himself, for, from the colour of the light in the room, he suspected the day was far advanced. It was time to tell his family of their now exalted status.
A stray thought did cause him to laugh out loud. Now Isabella would get the Balls and parties that she had so desired – and as a member of the ton. It was, as he had suspected, after midday. The effects of the day before left him feeling worn and rather seedy. He broke his fast in blessed peace, then ventured towards the parlour.
His mother sat, serene and patient, embroidering something. Gabriel was reading – a travellers account of their journey, from the look of it, and Bella fidgeted about the room, quite obviously bored.
“Will he never rise from his bed? I want to know all about it.
If it’s true, for a start, and then every detail of what happened!”
“I have risen Bella. And you, obviously, have no patience whatsoever.”
“Good morning Raphael. Have you broken your fast?”
“Yes, thank you Mother. I managed to sneak into the breakfast room without any of you hearing me, and do so in peace.”
Bella spun towards him, her expression outraged.
Raphael laughed.
“Well, admit it Bella, if you had known I was there, you would have been sitting next to me on the instant, and pestering me with questions whilst I tried to eat.”
Bella looked sheepish.
“I suppose you are right. I might have done just that.
Raphael settled onto the most comfortable couch in the room, and considered where to start. Gabriel looked up from his book, then placed a bookmark between its pages, and laid it down beside him.
“So, brother, what is the truth of it? The scandal sheets and the caricaturists are having quite the time of it.”
Gabriel reached to a side table, picked up some sheets of newsprint, and tossed them to Raphael. Puzzled, Raphael looked at them. Suddenly, Bella’s words made more sense. Horrible sense. For the cartoon before him portrayed him in the worst possible light, as having bribed the Prince Regent for his title. It made him cringe.
But what else could he expect? The ton were always going to resent an upstart amongst them. They so abhorred trade (except where it advantaged them) that he had known, from when the Prince Regent first told him of his intent, that such a reaction was likely. So be it. He would weather this storm, as he had weathered many others. The Prince Regent’s favour would have a large impact, and those of the ton who had dealt with him knew his character. He had good friends – this gossip would fade as they became used to his presence in society.
Winning the Merchant Earl: Sweet and Clean Regency Romance (His Majesty's Hounds Book 8) Page 17
