Betsy laughed out loud. “She does love fashion. I will say, I was surprised she took Lady Dorset with her to Paris and not you or Catherine.”
Rowena shrugged. “I expect she is trying to make nice with Margaret, since she will be the Countess of Hazelshire one day, when Charles inherits the title.”
Betsy shook her head. “I dare say I don’t–“ She got no farther for up ahead, Catherine sprinted their way, running so fast she had to hold on to her bonnet to keep it from flying off her head.
“Rowena! Betsy! A messenger has come, a messenger!” She reached them, totally out of breath and bent forward, pushing her hands on her knees. In her hand she held a letter. Rowena recognized the broken wax seal at once as that of her father. She swallowed. Why would he be sending a messenger all the way to Herfortshire when they were going to be in London in less than a week?
“What is it, Lady Catherine?” Betsy asked, anxiety in her voice.
Catherine straightened and took a deep breath and then broke into a grin so wide it lit up her entire face.
“I am to have a ball. A coming-out ball! It is true. Papa has rented out the Worcester Ballroom for it and he will invite all the finest lords and ladies. It will be in a month’s time. Can you imagine? The Worcester Ballroom? It is glorious. And to receive such news on the day of Princess Charlotte’s wedding makes it all the more wonderful.”
She swayed back and forth, clutching the letter to her chest.
Rowena felt Betsy’s eyes on her before she even looked at her. When their eyes met, she could see that her friend knew what this meant just as much as Rowena did.
She steadied herself and then addressed her sister, who was swallowed up in a cloud of elation.
“Was there a letter for me as well?”
“What?” Catherine stopped swaying and looked up as if woken from a dream. Then she nodded. “There was. I am ever so sorry, I forgot. I was so excited about my ball.” She reached into her reticule and retrieved a sealed letter which was now somewhat crumpled from its journey inside Catherine’s bag.
She handed it to Rowena. As she took it, she suddenly realizing her hand was shaking. Forcing her hand to steady itself, she took a deep breath and broke the seal. She began to read the letter she knew would change her life forever.
Chapter 3
Christopher sat at the breakfast table, a steaming cup of hot chocolate growing cold before him. He held a beautiful golden necklace in his hand. Its long chain danced and twisted as he held it up to the morning light. The small pendant at the bottom caught the sunrays and sparkled. He’d found it on the ground after he and Thorpe had finally chased off the attackers two days prior.
The messenger, so cowardly that he had likely dropped it in his hasty retreat, abandoned all hope of delivering it to its recipient. He’d looked for the note or letter that had to have gone with it but hadn’t found anything. He had to admit, he’d been too exhausted to search properly that night.
A fly buzzed around the freshly baked honey bread, irritating Christopher. He swung his hand across the table to chase it away just as his brother, Henry, stepped through the door.
“Good morning, oh hero of the streets of London.”
Christopher gave his brother a weak smile and nodded toward the empty chair.
“Join me, will you?”
“Don’t mind if I do. It appears all this delicious food shall go to waste if I do not. Has your appetite deserted you, brother?” Henry took a seat and immediately set about cutting a large slice of honey bread from the loaf. He smeared it with butter and a generous helping of elderberry jam and took a bite.
I have never known one with such an appetite who remained so trim of figure.
“Have you decided what to do about that?” he nodded toward the necklace on the table.
Christopher shrugged his shoulders and winced. With his left hand he rubbed his right shoulder.
“Still aches? Perhaps you should have seen the physician after all,” his brother suggested before biting into an apple.
“It is nothing. I’ve had worse just falling off a horse. As will you if you decided to go in the military.”
Being the younger of two, there were no lands that awaited Henry and the young man had to make a life for himself. Christopher knew that he had his heart set on joining the military. A fine option for a young man, and with the dark days of the Napoleonic Wars behind them, a far less worrying one.
Yet, Christopher knew that his brother had been delaying his decision to join in order to help Christopher achieve his quest to rebuild their fortunes.
Henry held out his hand and bent his index finger, requesting the item. He dropped it into his brother’s hand and finally turned his attention to the honey bread on his plate.
“To my Darling Daughter, my Beautiful Rose. Your Loving Father.” Henry read the inscription out loud, his soft voice full of wonder. “Not much of a clue at all.”
Christopher crossed his legs.
“No, not at all. I have spread word at Parliament to see if anyone was in expectation of a messenger, but no results thus far.”
Henry frowned. “Why are you so determined to find the rightful owner? Judging by the material, the father is rather wealthy and can easily replace the item for his daughter.”
It was true, the chain itself was made of gold. The pendant, rectangular and with smooth edges, appeared older. The front contained a painting of three roses, intertwined to show one stem. Unusual.
“The father took great pains to create this. Surely it is important to him. And to his daughter.” He paused and locked eyes with his brother. “Imagine if Mother’s handkerchief had been lost.”
Henry’s green eyes darkened, and he dropped the apple he’d been eating on the table with a thud.
“I do not like when you invoke Mother.”
Christopher shrugged. “Like it, don’t like it. It is the same. Now. I shall go out and take a walk around Half Moon Street and the area, perhaps the letter which surely accompanied this pendant can still be located. Will you accompany me?”
Henry nodded. “The street sweepers are likely to have got to it, if it was ever there, but certainly. But only if a visit to Brook’s is in the cards.”
Christopher groaned. “Brook’s is for the Whigs. We’re Tories. White’s it is, or nothing.”
The brothers rose. “We are only Tories because Father was and Uncle Nestor is. We might make up our own minds as to what we believe in. Besides. Brook’s has much better wine than White’s.”
They made their way to their chambers to ready themselves for the ride just as Uncle Nestor’s voice could be heard.
“As long as we have to share Uncle Nestor’s house, you would do well not to mention Brook’s again,” Christopher said with a grin.
Henry rolled his eyes and a moment later, they parted ways.
The brothers had walked around Half Moon Street and the adjacent roads for the better part of two hours, scanning the streets for any lost communication the messenger might have dropped that night, but to no avail. Currently, they were making their way down Charles Street.
“Truthfully, the attack took place on the corner. We do not even know where he was going. It might be hopeless after all,” Christopher said, his voice now full of doubt. They might just be wasting their time. Yes, it was the right thing to do, to return the pendant to its true owner. It was the honorable thing. Certainly, seeking out the owner was the kind of thing their mother would have encouraged them to do.
Yet, it was not practical. He ought to concentrate on the matter of his social standing, not roaming the streets in search of lost letters. As so often, Christopher found himself torn between what was expected, and what was right in his heart.
“Topher!” Henry called out using his childhood nickname.
“Yes?”
“Let us cut around and head through the park. White’s is not far from here. I am famished.”
“Very well,” Christopher nodded and the
two headed in the direction of Green Park. He noticed that the streets were not as busy as they had been in the past few days. Given that the weather had taken a turn for the worse, this was no big surprise. It only meant that White’s would be crowded, which was fortunate.
A full club meant many opportunities to make connections and with Henry by his side, it would be all the easier. They were both outgoing, outspoken individuals. They often made a wonderful team.
“Let’s see if we can find some lords willing to play us in billiards. Perhaps we can make connections and win some guinea at the same time.”
Henry laughed out loud. “Always a scheme going, Brother, eh, wot?”
“Eh, wot? You are beginning to sound like Uncle Nestor, Henry. It is about time we moved back to Havisham House before you start turning into an old man before your time.”
His brother’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps it is unwise to set your hopes on reclaiming the house. The Viscount may not be willing to sell it back to us, even if fortune’s wheel turns in our favor once more.”
Christopher shook his head.
“Let me worry about the matter when it comes to it. Havisham House is the London home of the Dukes of Westmond, and it shall never change. I am certain I will reclaim it.”
Christopher had not found it in his heart to go to Westminster to see the house, instead taking the long way around each day on his way to Parliament to avoid seeing it. He was determined that the first time he’d go near it again would be the day he was ready to purchase it back.
“Brother!” Henry’s voice drew him back to reality. He turned around and saw his brother point at a house across the street, on the corner of Charles and Queen Streets.
It was one of the more modern town houses and looked to be four-stories tall. Christopher spotted two bricked-up windows, done so to avoid the window tax, of course. A clear indication that the owner was wealthy.
The windows on the lower floors were tall and the building’s exterior was stucco, another indication that it was new. Christopher disliked these more modern homes. He much preferred the older Tudor style of Havisham House, or his Uncle’s home.
“What is it?” he asked.
“There, look.” His brother pointed at the two columns which framed the black front door. Like many in the area, they were of a stark white, but there was something unusual about them. On each of the two columns was a distinct painting. Three roses intertwined to appear as though they had one stem.
“The same as the pendant,” Henry said while Christopher stared.
“Indeed.”
The two men made their way across the street and peered at the engraving on the marble columns. Christopher pulled out the pendant and held it up for comparison when suddenly, the door opened.
“Can I help you?” an older man, the butler no doubt, asked in a stern voice.
Feeling not unlike a child caught doing a misdeed, Christopher lowered the pendant and cleared his throat while fishing in his pocket for a calling card.
“Indeed, good sir. I am Christopher Newmont, Duke of Westmond. I would like to call upon the lord of the house. Lord…?” He tilted his head to one side, aware that his calling upon a house whose owner he did not know and was most likely not yet formally introduced to was frowned upon.
But then, he had not called on them, really. The butler had come out to call on him, so to speak.
“Lord Hazelshire is not at home. I will present your calling card upon his return.”
Hazelshire. The name is familiar. How do I know it? Have I met the man at Parliament? Or at White’s perhaps?
“When can His Lordship be expected back?” Henry asked as a carriage came to a stop on the street behind them.
The butler sighed and nodded with his chin in the direction of the carriage.
“It appears His Lordship has returned now. However, I am certain he is very busy, so if you could–”
The carriage door was opened, and an older man stepped out. Dressed in a cream-colored pair of pantaloons and a dark-green tailcoat with a matching waist coat underneath, the man looked every bit a lord of the ton. He stopped to pull his waistcoat straight and then fixed his eyes on Christopher and Henry.
“What is this then, Mister Foxworth? Callers so early in the day?”
He approached them and stopped before them, with Christopher reaching for another calling card which he handed to the man who had to be Lord Hazelshire. The older man held the card out in front of him and squinted, then pulling his looking glass in front of one eye.
“The Duke of Westmond? I knew your Father. Quite a fellow. Ever so sorry to hear about his passing.” He reached out his hand which Christopher shook. “James Burton, Earl of Hazelshire.”
The Earl of Hazelshire? I cannot believe it! He is one of the richest Earls in the entire House of Lords. One of the richest men in the entire country. What a stroke of luck!
Beside them, the butler stepped from one foot onto the other. Christopher knew the man had to be highly upset by this irregular display. Under normal circumstances it would be he, the butler, who would be introducing Christopher. However, this was not a usual day.
The Earl and Christopher shook hands. “Thank you, Lord Hazelshire. It was a tragedy to be sure.”
The Earl squinted and looked at Henry who stood and waited for his introduction.
“My brother, Lord Hazelshire,” Christopher pointed at the younger man. “Lord Henry.” Henry nodded at the Earl.
“It is good to meet you both. Shall we?” He motioned toward the house. The butler’s eyes darted from one to the other. “Foxworth, have some tea sent up to my study, and perhaps some candied fruit, if there is any.”
The three men made their way into the house and through the modern parlor toward the back of the house, where the Earl’s study was located. Christopher was struck at once by how much the interior of the study differed from the rest of the house.
From the furniture to the tapestry that lined the high walls, everything appeared to be from a much earlier time, Jacobean perhaps. In fact, it reminded him of his father’s study at their country home. The only home they had left.
He glanced at Henry who appeared to be thinking the same.
The Earl stepped behind a large oak desk and motioned for them to sit on the heavy, red velvet chairs before the desk. Once seated, Christopher fished for the necklace in his pocket and held it in his hand, waiting for the opportunity to present it. Before he could, Lord Hazelshire spoke.
“I apologize for not making your acquaintance earlier. I’ve been exceptionally busy. I acquired a vineyard in Shropshire which turned out to be rather more time consuming than I had anticipated. In fact, I shall have to set off again tonight to return there.” The man shook his head, his wrinkles appeared to deepen. Then, suddenly, his eyes widened. “Westmond.” He pointed an index finger at Christopher as if something had just come to him. “Your Father owned a vineyard also, did he not? Summerwind Wine, that is yours?”
Christopher wetted his lips as he nodded. The vineyard was one of the few properties they had been able to hold on to. In fact, the vineyard was their main source of income these days.
“Indeed, it is. In fact, it is I who has been overseeing the vineyard and the winery there for the past few years.”
Lord Hazelshire nodded. “Yes, I imagine with your Father’s illness–”
“Before the illness, even,” Christopher interrupted, earning himself a sharp kick from his brother which reminded him of his manners. Since inheriting the title, he’d developed a bit of a habit of allowing the grand title to cloud his good manners.
He had to remind himself that just because he outranked these marquesses, earls, and viscounts didn’t mean he should disrespect them by interrupting them as they spoke. If nothing else, he needed them in his quest to rebuild his wealth.
Fortunately for him, Lord Hazelshire did not appear in the least perturbed by his poor manners, if he’d noticed at all.
“Christoph
er is quite the expert when it comes to wine production now, My Lord,” Henry said. Christopher smiled at his brother, grateful for his attempt at smoothing over his rudeness.
“Well, that is wonderful to know. As I said, I am having a rather unfortunate time with it. It appeared a worthwhile investment and my son is keen to take over the operation. However, it has been troublesome…” he shrugged. “Perhaps when my son and I return from Shropshire we can take dinner together, the four of us and talk about the business. Perhaps at White’s?”
This is going better than I had expected, and I have yet to return the necklace to him.
“Indeed, I would love to.”
“Well, that is settled then. Of course, I assume this was not the nature of your visit. What was it you were coming to call on us for?”
The brothers exchange a glance.
“Well, it is an unusual matter but, as it were, a couple of nights ago as I was returning from Parliament, I witnessed a robbery in progress, just a few streets from here, on Half Moon.”
“How ghastly! And I had thought Mayfair such a safe neighborhood. The best in London,” Lord Hazelshire’s voice was laced in outrage.
“Indeed. It was a messenger who was attacked. I was able to fend off the attackers…”
“With help of our coachman, Mister Thorpe,” Henry threw in, glaring at Christopher once more for taking too much of the credit.
“Yes, yes, Mister Thorpe. Brave man he is. In any case, together we were able to fend off the attackers. The messenger had run off with his horse the first chance he had and, well, he left this behind.”
Christopher opened his hand and held it out to the Earl who gasped.
“By Jove, there it is!” He took the necklace from Christopher’s palm and held up the necklace. A loving expression appeared on his face. “I had this made by my trusted jeweler back home in Hertfordshire and expected it days ago. I feared it lost. What good fortune. And just in time, for my daughter will arrive in London today…” He retrieved a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and folded it around the necklace. “There wasn’t a letter with it, I suppose?”
In a Perfect Mess With the Marquess Page 30