Lord Humphrey (Sons of the Marquess Book 2)

by Mary Kingswood

  “No one knows,” Merton said. “No one ever knows where he goes to, not even his wife. Whenever I have asked him, he merely says that he is about the marquess’s business. But I have been tracking his comings and goings for months, and I can tell you that he is away five days out of seven. Sometimes it is only one night, but more often four or five.”

  “That is ridiculous!” Carrbridge said. “Surely he does not need to travel so much? Wherever can he go to?”

  “We have found one of his destinations — Silsby Vale House,” Merton said. “But there must be others. Shall I set someone to follow him on his travels, my lord? It is a little devious, but…”

  “Hmm, would that be a good plan?” the marquess said. “Humphrey, what do you think?”

  “It would certainly be amusing, but I cannot see the necessity. Sharp is your employee, and must answer to you in all matters. Ask him where he goes — precisely where he goes, and what he does when he gets there. If he refuses to answer or is evasive, then tell him he is not to go anywhere without your explicit authority. We have every piece of his paperwork, after all, so it is perfectly reasonable to expect him to wait until Merton has sorted through it all.”

  “Very well,” Carrbridge said. “I shall ask him to explain himself.”

  “Just make sure I am here when you do it,” Humphrey said. “I have never much liked the man, and I should like to see his face so that I may judge whether he lies or not. I do not care if he keeps a mistress or not, for that is between him and his conscience, but using Ganymede without my permission is beyond anything. And if you do not object greatly, Carrbridge, I should like my horse back safely before you start leaning on Sharp.”

  The marquess laughed and agreed to it, and Humphrey reflected on how genial and easy-going his brother had become since he had married. He had inherited the title at the early age of one and twenty, and he had floundered for a few years until chance had thrown Miss Constance Allamont in his way. Despite her provincial background it had proved to be a perfect match. Carrbridge was not a deep thinker, so he was happy to defer to her authority in all domestic matters, and since her understanding was excellent, the outcome was beneficial to all.

  Humphrey envied them their happiness, but wondered if he would ever find a wife who suited him quite so well. Not one he would defer to, that much was certain! He liked Connie very much, but he could never see himself tamely led by his wife as Carrbridge was. Now, Reggie’s betrothed, Miss Chamberlain, was a pleasant enough girl, but dreadfully conventional, and Humphrey was not sure that would suit him either. She was currently visiting Drummoor with her parents, who were just as conventional as she was, and although this made them pleasant enough company, they were not, to Humphrey’s mind, the least bit interesting.

  And that led his thoughts to Miss Blythe, who would arrive in a few days with her two hundred thousand pounds and her curled hair and blue eyes. She reminded him of a china doll Harriet had once had, which had survived Harriet’s robust style of play for a surprisingly long time. Perhaps Miss Blythe, too, would turn out to be more resilient than her delicate appearance suggested, and would match him stride for stride on the hunting field, or at least play a decent hand of whist. He sighed, wondering for the hundredth time if this was such a clever idea. Well, he was not committed to Miss Blythe yet. She was to stay for a month, as part of Connie’s summer attempt to fill Drummoor to its crenellated roof with guests. If she and Humphrey found they did not suit, she would leave again and no harm done. With such a fortune, she would have no trouble finding a husband to her taste, after all. But then where would Humphrey find the money for his gaming house? He would have to begin his search for a rich wife all over again.

  He had not long to wait before Sharp returned from his wanderings. Humphrey was in the stables, mulling over the possible mounts for his morning ride, and finding himself unenthusiastic about all of them, when a clatter of hooves echoed around the high ceiling.

  “Ah, Sharp, there you are!”

  “Good morning, my lord.”

  “No, do not dismount, Sharp. I have an urgent task for you.”

  “I am entirely at your disposal, naturally, my lord. Always happy to oblige any of his lordship’s family, as you know. Might I be permitted to call at home first, my lord, to change my clothing?”

  “No, you may not. You are to ride directly to Silsby Vale House, and tell that fool of a groom of yours to release Ganymede. Then you will bring my horse directly back to Drummoor. You will not need to ride hard to be back in time for your dinner. Which is more than I was last night, for I had to walk home, and a long step it is on foot, let me tell you. I was obliged to spend an uncomfortable night at the Old Cross Inn, which is not an experience I wish to repeat soon — or ever, now that I think on it. I am seriously displeased, Sharp, so I suggest you leave this instant, if you wish to avoid my wrath.”

  Sharp’s face was such a ludicrous mixture of fear and dismay that Humphrey was almost tempted to laugh. But that would never do. He jumped up to sit on a cross-rail to bring himself to the same height as the mounted agent, and folded his arms with a haughty glare, his bearing every inch the aristocrat.

  Sharp licked his lips. His eyes skittered left and right, as if he looked for aid, or perhaps an escape route. “Silsby Vale House, my lord?” he croaked. Then, more strongly, “I did not know your lordship had any connection there.”

  “Nor did I, Sharp, nor did I, until I went that way on Ganymede and he seemed pleased to be there, and the groom addressed him by name. The lady who lives there — Mrs Andrews, is it? — was most affable. She is a good friend of yours, I take it?” He paused, but Sharp seemed incapable of speech just then, his mouth opening and closing ineffectually. “Mrs Andrews told me that you owned the house, Sharp. I must congratulate you. It is a fine property indeed.”

  Now the man’s eyes were wide, and the horse tossed its head restlessly, sensing some tension in the rider. Then, clearly making a decision, Sharp turned the horse. “I will fetch Ganymede at once, my lord.”

  And with that he was gone.

  Humphrey smiled grimly. “Very good, Sharp, so you do not want to explain now. So be it. But you will explain it later, if I have to thrash it out of you.”

  He jumped down from the rail, and at once a familiar face popped up from one of the empty stalls. “That Mrs Andrews?” Charlie said, grinning at Humphrey, the likeness with his own reflection disconcerting Humphrey all over again. “She ain’t no lady, that’s for sure. She’s got some devious ways to pay the bills, that one.”

  “That is enough!” Humphrey said, although he smiled a little too. “Do not go around repeating servants’ hall gossip about your betters, Charlie. And remember that your mother still works there. You do not want to set Sharp against her. And you should not eavesdrop. It is very bad manners, and liable to get you cast off without a reference.”

  But Charlie just grinned even more. Humphrey began to wonder if he had made a huge mistake in bringing the fellow to Drummoor, son of the marquess or not.

  6: Cards And Horses

  Hortensia delighted in the long journey north to Drummoor. She had equipped herself with a comfortable travelling carriage, a coachman, a groom and two footmen, together with a luggage wagon and driver. She had no lady’s maid, but as she would travel with her governess and companion, Miss Quayle, would need no further chaperonage. Lady Carrbridge had answered by return, with a long list of inns which she might safely patronise, and precise details of the route and journey times. There was nothing, therefore, to be done except to gaze at the English scenery passing the windows like an endless series of water colour paintings, each more ravishingly beautiful than the last.

  “Is it not magnificent?” she said to Rosemary. “Look at that castle — so dramatic with the lowering sky behind it.”

  “It looks like rain,” Rosemary said, pulling her tippet closer about her shoulders and burying her hands in her muff. “The road will be churned to mud, I daresay. Are we
stopping soon? For I should like another hot stone for my feet.”

  “Poor dear! How you do feel the cold! And this is summer, so I dare not contemplate how chilled you will be in winter. Just think of it — ice and snow and frost and all sorts of magical things. But you will not be able to enjoy them unless you accustom yourself to the cold, dearest.”

  “It is all very well for you,” Rosemary said. “You grew up in England, but I have known nothing but India and heat and wonderful spicy food. The sauces here are so dull. Like the weather.”

  Hortensia laughed, and turned her head to gaze out of the window again. “Such charming stone cottages, and the gardens so pretty with all those pale colours. And green! I had forgotten England possessed so many shades of green! Oh look, such a delightful little church with a spire. Do look, dear.”

  But Rosemary had closed her eyes, and was leaning back against the squabs.

  Eventually they turned off the main road onto a smaller one, and then another even smaller, deeply rutted, so that the carriage swayed about a great deal, to Rosemary’s alarm. They came in time to the village of Mishcombe, the road shining with a recently-passed rainstorm, water still streaming into ditches filled with wildflowers. Many of the inhabitants of the village were out and about, the women neat in their cloaks and bonnets, the men dark-coated, striding about importantly. All turned to stare as the impressive entourage passed by, taking in the array of impassive postilions and coachmen, and then curtsying deeply at the glimpse of Hortensia’s feather-trimmed bonnet peeping from the carriage window. A small child waved cheerfully to her, and delightedly she waved back.

  Then they were through the village and back into trees and two miles of rain-dampened gloom before they turned under the crenellated archway that marked the entrance to Drummoor. Another two miles of winding driveway gave but brief glimpses of the house, then a small hill, the house again, a lake and finally, in all its glory, Drummoor itself. If Hortensia had ever imagined the perfect English nobleman’s house, Drummoor fitted the image precisely. From the latticed windows to the battlemented roof and the gargoyles adorning every wall, it was enchanting. And beyond it, acre upon acre of smoothly turfed parkland, absolutely begging to be galloped over.

  “Oh!” she breathed. “This… this is a place I could enjoy. Oh, if only I could live here!”

  Rosemary peered over her shoulder. “I wonder if it has ghosts?”

  Hortensia laughed. “Almost certainly, my dear. Well, here we are. We have arrived.”

  ~~~~~

  Humphrey was relieved to discover that Miss Blythe was every bit as pretty as memory had made her. Her creamy-white skin, wide blue eyes framed with yellow curls and enchanting dimples when she smiled made his murmured expression of pleasure as he made his bow entirely genuine.

  “How delightful to see you again, Miss Blythe. I trust your journey was not too trying.”

  “How do you do, Lord Humphrey,” she answered composedly. “It was as trying as such journeys generally are, but we had no great difficulties or set-backs to trouble us, and every inn that Lady Carrbridge so kindly recommended looked after us perfectly. Indeed, we were so well informed about every possible contingency that we never had the least thing to worry us. Nevertheless, I am very glad to have arrived.”

  And that easy composure was exactly why he had chosen her, he reminded himself, not her beauty. He had never had much time for tongue-tied debutantes, and here was one who, even at the young age of eighteen, was an easy conversationalist.

  “Do you remember my companion, Miss Quayle?” she went on.

  He had not taken much notice of the companion at the tea party, having some vague memory of a severe-faced older woman who had not spoken. Surely she must be quite old, as companions customarily were. He was surprised to find himself faced with a woman of much his own age, and almost as tall. A severe cambric cap covered an abundance of dark hair coiled neatly under her bonnet, with only a single soft curl falling over each ear. She was thin and wiry, not especially pretty but a pair of huge brown eyes gave her face a great deal of intelligence. The eyes were sparkling in amusement at that moment, their owner understanding perfectly his confusion.

  “Lord Humphrey.” She curtsied, head lowered demurely, but when she lifted her head again, her lips were curved into a little smile.

  “Miss Quayle. Welcome to Drummoor.”

  That evening was a pleasant one. Humphrey was too well-bred to devote all his attention to Miss Blythe, but there were snatches of conversation with her as he moved around the room before dinner, and he was pleased to see that she was well situated during the meal between Carrbridge and Mr Chamberlain. The house was already alive with guests who had fallen into Connie’s orbit in London, as well as numerous Marford relations and the impoverished Whittleton cousins, and it did not surprise him to see Julius Whittleton make straight for Miss Blythe after dinner, having now discovered the extent of her fortune.

  While they drank their tea, some of the young ladies performed on the pianoforte, and Humphrey had the pleasure of discovering that while Miss Blythe was no more than tolerably competent on the instrument, she had a lovely singing voice. When once this was discovered, a duet with Julius Whittleton was called for, and Humphrey had to admit that they made a striking pair, two handsome young people with the voices of angels.

  After the music, the company settled down to play cards. The older guests played whist while the younger ones set up a large, noisy game of speculation. Humphrey joined this group, largely because Miss Blythe was part of it, although the simplicity of the game soon palled, and there was no possibility of rational conversation in the shrieks of delight or groans of disappointment after each play.

  Looking about the room in boredom, he noticed Miss Quayle sitting quietly on her own. She had some sewing resting in her lap, but she was not paying it much attention, being engaged in looking about her with great interest. Her eyes met Humphrey’s and she smiled before turning back to her neglected stitchery. Excusing himself from the game, he made his way across to her.

  “May I sit with you for a while?” he said.

  “I beg your pardon, Lord Humphrey,” she said, shaking her head so that the two curls danced on either side of her face. “I did not mean to distract you from the play.”

  “Believe me when I say that I am very ready to be distracted,” he said. “But do you not wish to play yourself? Or should you like to join Mrs Chamberlain, Mrs Graham and Mrs Ambleside over by the fire?”

  “Oh no, for they are talking about weddings and babies and other matters of the utmost interest to mothers. I should have nothing at all to contribute to such a conversation. As to the games, the whist tables are all filled and I do not much enjoy speculation. There is but little skill to it. Please be assured that I am perfectly content to sit here and watch everyone else. I am nothing but a paid companion, Lord Humphrey. I do not expect to be included in every social occasion.”

  He smiled at that. “Even companions may play cards, Miss Quayle. If you wish to play whist, I can find two more players in a moment. Or chess may be played with two. Cribbage, perhaps? Or piquet?”

  “You are very good.” She eyed him speculatively. “I should by no means wish you to take pity on me if your charity takes you away from better play or better company.”

  At that moment the speculation table burst into great whoops of delight.

  Humphrey leaned forward to whisper, “The company is quieter and more sensible here, I warrant, and I do not enjoy speculation any more than you do, Miss Quayle. It would please me greatly to play something a little more challenging. What shall it be?”

  She smiled at him, a wide smile that lit her eyes so that they shone with brilliance. “I have never played piquet, and it would interest me to learn.”

  “Piquet it is, then.”

  He found a small table a little distance from the noisy speculation table, and prepared the cards. He had only to explain the rules once for her to grasp the essence of it,
and she was soon playing with some competence.

  “There, you see?” he said with glee, as she took a game in handsome style. “I am very well rewarded for my good deed in taking pity on you, Miss Quayle. I should not have enjoyed half so entertaining an evening elsewhere. You are already an excellent player.”

  She laughed. “Why, thank you, Lord Humphrey. You play quite well yourself.”

  “I am accounted a tolerably good player,” he said, amused, as he deftly shuffled and dealt. “Is this your first visit to England?”

  “Why, no, I—” She paused and was that a blush on her cheeks? “Yes, it is, but I have heard so much of it, and read so many books telling of the most minute details of English life that I feel as if I have been here before. So much is familiar. Do you not find it so? Have you ever been abroad, Lord Humphrey?”

  He answered her easily, and forbore to press her further, but he was intrigued, all the same. Such a simple question, yet she had stumbled over it. He could not help wondering why.

  ~~~~~

  “So what do you think of him?” Hortensia said as she unwound the coils of Rosemary’s hair and began to brush them out.

  “Mr Whittleton?” Rosemary said, turning innocent eyes on her. “Why, he sings divinely.”

  “And is perfectly well aware of it,” Hortensia said impatiently. “I hope we may look a little higher than Mr Julius Whittleton, dear. Besides, he has not a feather to fly with, Lady Patience informed me, so we must not be taken in by his beautiful face. No, I meant Lord Humphrey, for that is why we have been invited here, is it not?”

  “And how many feathers has he to fly with?” Rosemary asked.

  It was an excellent question, and one with which Hortensia had been much exercised. “He has the title, but it is only a courtesy one, and his chances of inheriting are very slim.”

  “Hortensia!” Rosemary stared at her friend. “That is… very calculating.”