Lord Montague (Sons of the Marquess Book 4)

by Mary Kingswood

  ~~~~~

  One day a huge, antiquated coach drew up outside the door. From it alighted four portly bewigged gentlemen in sombre black.

  “Good gracious, who can this be?” Melissa cried, spying them from the library window where she was making use of the daylight to read.

  Monty set down his pen, for he had been trying to write his sermon for the next Sunday, and came to the window to look. “I have no idea. I never saw them before in my life. They will be here to see Carrbridge, I expect.”

  And so it seemed, for they were admitted to the house and led away to some inner fastness. Melissa returned to her book, and Monty to his sermon. But it was not long before Mr Merton tap-tapped his way across the vast expanse of wooden floor.

  “Beg pardon, my lord, but there are four gentlemen from London waiting in the ship room.”

  “Want do they want of me?” Monty said.

  “Actually… it is Lady Montague they wish to see, if you permit,” Mr Merton said.

  “Who are they, Merton, and what do they want with Lady Montague?”

  “The gentlemen are lawyers, my lord, although they have not divulged the purpose of their visit.”

  “How very mysterious,” Monty said. “Are we at home, my dear?”

  Melissa was too astonished at the very idea of refusing to see anyone, let alone lawyers who had travelled all the way from London, to formulate a reply. Luckily, Monty saw her difficulty and laughed.

  “Well, perhaps that would not be very civil, although it is usual to write and make an appointment on such occasions.”

  “Indeed it is,” said Mr Merton in disapproving tones. “They are fortunate that you are not at Kirby Grosswick or visiting elsewhere. It is not mannerly to call without an invitation.”

  “Perhaps they wished to surprise us?” Melissa said.

  “Then they have succeeded in their objective,” Monty said gravely. “Come, let us go and unmask our secretive and unmannerly visitors.”

  The ship room seemed rather full. The four severe-faced lawyers were arrayed upon a line of chairs, and by the similarity of feature and the gradual increase of roundness from youngest to oldest, Melissa suspected they might be brothers.

  “Ah, Monty, Lady Monty,” Carrbridge said, with signs of panic in his eyes. “Do come in. These gentlemen are from Cummings, Cummings, Cummings and Cummings, a legal firm London. They are all called Mr Cummings. Gentlemen, Lady Montague Marford, Lord Montague Marford.”

  “Good day to you, gentlemen,” Monty said politely. “You wished to see Lady Montague, I understand?”

  The eldest Mr Cummings was the spokesman. “We wish to speak to the lady who was known to the world as Miss Melissa Frost, ward of the Earl of Bentley, of Bentley Hall in the county of Hampshire.”

  “I am… was Melissa Frost,” she said, although greatly wondering at what it all meant. What could these four imposing gentlemen have to do with her?

  “Then we are very happy to make your acquaintance at last,” the lawyer said, and all four of the brothers rose and bowed in unison. “We should have discharged this duty some weeks ago, but when we went to Bentley Hall to find you, we were told only that you had gone away, and no one knew where you might be found. Fortunately, the housekeeper had seen the notice of your marriage to the Lord Montague Marford in the newspaper, and informed us of this fact. We went then to Marford House in London and were directed here. And very glad we are to have found you at last. Will you be seated, my lady?” he added gently.

  Mr Merton brought forward a chair for her, and Monty stood beside her, one hand resting lightly on her shoulder. How reassuring that was! Any number of formless fears swirled in her mind, all of them centred on the terrible prospect of losing Monty, but while he was there, and touching her, no matter how lightly, she knew herself to be safe.

  “We are here,” the lawyer intoned, “to inform you of your parentage, and all the provisions made for you, which now come to fruition. There is much that you do not know of your history which we are here to convey to you. You must be prepared for a great shock, Lady Montague, for your true name, the name of your birth, is not Melissa Frost at all.”

  “Oh, I know,” she said, smiling happily. “I am— I was Lady Emily Brockenhurst really. Monty found it all out. I am sorry if you have come all this way to tell me this.”

  The four lawyers all murmured at once, but the eldest Mr Cummings waved them to silence. “Excellent. Then it is not necessary to explain who your esteemed parents were, nor shall we be needing the smelling salts. Excellent. But there is much that you may not appreciate of all that was done for you over the years, so we shall recite your history as we know it, so that you may understand.”

  He paused to mop his brow, and Mr Merton took the opportunity to dispense glasses of Madeira to the lawyers, who all nodded their thanks.

  The eldest Mr Cummings went on, “You were born at Bentley Hall, and given into the care of a nurse called Martha.”

  “Yes! I remember her,” Melissa cried eagerly.

  The lawyers smiled and nodded again. They were very good at nodding. “When you were six months old, your mother… it pains me to say this, but Lady Bentley ran away with a Frenchman, taking you with her. But she did not run far, only to Harpeth village, where you and the nurse were left with the nurse’s sister, to be raised as Melissa Frost. Melissa is a corruption of your real name, Emily, and Frost — well, seemingly it was a frosty day when you were born. Her ladyship then came to us in London, and we helped her to establish funds by which you might be supported until such time as she could return to collect you.”

  “She meant to come back for me?” Melissa said, wide-eyed.

  “Why, certainly. But she was going into France, and it was not a fit place to take a baby, not then, so she left you in a place of safety. But in case anything should happen to her, she left with us certain items — a letter certifying your identity, details of where your birth was registered, your baptismal bracelet, her marriage lines, a locket of hers.” As he spoke, he laid each item on the desk in front of him. “Enough to identify you beyond doubt, Lady Montague. And we were charged with ensuring that your nurse and foster family were recompensed for your care.”

  He sipped his Madeira, and Melissa gazed at him in stupefaction, this elderly, plump stranger who knew so much about her. Tentatively, she stretched out a hand to the desk, where lay the small fragments of her life. In wonder, she picked up the locket — her mother’s locket! The first possession of hers that she had ever held in her hands.

  “When you were not yet six years old, your mother was tragically taken from the world. Her gentleman companion then came to see us. Since your mother would never now have the opportunity to reclaim you, it was your father’s duty to take charge of you and raise you as a lady. The French gentleman had been very fond of your mother, and so he wished to make that possible. He was prepared to offer a handsome allowance to Lord Bentley, but only if he agreed to take you into his house, educate you appropriately and find you a suitable marriage partner when the time came. We approached Lord Bentley, but, sad to say, he was not cooperative at first. He had expunged all evidence of his wife and child from his life, and had no wish to acknowledge his daughter. However, he offered a compromise — he would assume his responsibilities towards you but only if you remained as Melissa Frost, and were introduced as his ward. We agreed to it, for we could not force him to recognise you as his daughter. Our only stipulation was that he must use your real birth date, for otherwise proving your heritage would become impossible. And so you left your foster family and moved to Bentley Hall, and we did not see you again. We were forbidden from visiting. Instead, Lord Bentley came to see us in London every year, and gave us his word as a gentleman that you were well and being raised according to the specifications laid down in the agreement. In return, we paid the allowance.”

  “He treated me well enough,” Melissa said. “He was not a generous man, but he was not cruel. Not like his sons.”
<
br />   “Ah, yes,” said Mr Cummings. “Everything changed when the fifth earl died. The sixth earl caused us some concerns. But by this time, you were nearing your majority, the moment when we were charged to explain everything to you, so we felt it best not to interfere. But there is one other matter of which we must speak, and that is the wager which took place between the fifth earl and the eighth Marquess of Carrbridge.”

  “I know all about that,” Melissa said. “I had a letter promising me to the marquess’s son.”

  “Indeed. But you may not know how that letter came to you. Lord Carrbridge came to us one day, quite unexpectedly. He knew all about you, that you were a legitimate but unacknowledged daughter, and he explained about the wager. Being himself an honourable man…” He turned here to make a little bow towards the present Lord Carrbridge. “…he wished to do the right thing by you, and therefore pledged you to his son, and wrote that letter to bind himself to the deal. He attempted to give the letter to Lord Bentley, but he would have none of it, insisting it was all nonsense. So Lord Carrbridge came to us, and asked us to ensure that you received this pledge when you were old enough to understand it. We therefore gave it into the care of your foster family and clearly they succeeded in conveying it to you, for here you are, and married into the family, if not quite to the expected member of it. Still, it is very satisfactory.”

  “Yes, indeed it is,” Melissa said, glancing up at Monty. He smiled down at her. Yes, it was very satisfactory.

  “So it remains only for us to obtain a few details from your husband, Lady Montague, so that we may transfer the remainder of your fortune into his care. Now that you have attained your majority, the whole amount is freed from our care.”

  “My fortune…” she said faintly.

  “Oh, yes. Your mother’s gentleman friend has left you very well provided for. We do not have the exact sum, for it is scattered about rather, but it will come to at least forty thousand pounds.”

  There was a long silence. Melissa felt dizzy with shock, hardly aware of what was going on around her. Monty chafed her hands gently, and someone — Mr Merton, she thought — pushed a glass of brandy towards her. Forty thousand pounds! It was an inconceivably vast amount. In the last few days, she had acquired a title, an unexpected array of relations, and now an independent fortune.

  “Well, Lady Monty, it seems you may have your new carriage after all,” Monty said gravely.

  “I grew up thinking I had nothing at all,” Melissa whispered. “No family, no fortune, no name. I was just a burden on my guardian, as he told me many times. And now to discover that I am not nobody after all, that I have a name, a family, brothers and sisters, money to call my own... It is too much! I am so blessed.”

  And she burst into tears.

  ~~~~~

  The day finally came when Melissa deemed the parsonage finished, or at least sufficiently finished for her to live in permanently. Drummoor was a charming house, and the marquess and marchioness made her very welcome, but there was nothing like having one’s own home. She had a morning room to work in now, and a music room for entertaining, as well as several guest bedrooms, ready to be occupied by Patience and her children whenever they visited, or Miss Hay, when she held her informal surgeries for the poorest of the villagers. Together, Melissa, her step-mother and her sisters spent their days perusing the advertisements and catalogues, choosing splendid new rugs and chairs and escritoires and clocks with which to enhance the parsonage.

  The new carriage arrived, and conveyed Melissa and Monty to Kirby Grosswick, and they walked into their home side by side. Melissa could hardly remember now the bleak days at Bentley Hall, and her desperate flight north to claim a husband in the Earl of Deveron. So long ago it seemed, and yet it was but a few short months.

  “Is it not strange how everything has turned out?” she said to Monty, as she curled up beside him in bed that night, her head on his shoulder. “Had it not been for that drunken wager between your father and mine, I should never have met you. I should have been married to the charming Mr Pontefract, I daresay. And you only offered for me from pity, for you did not want to marry me at all.”

  “I was never unwilling,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “There were moments when I wondered if it would ever be within my power to make you happy, for you seemed so… so angry sometimes, and at other times merely sad and lonely. But I always wanted to try to reach the warm, affectionate Melissa that was hidden beneath that prickly exterior. Never did I regret my offer, and it was not long before my heart was entirely yours. Darling Melissa. You bring me such joy.”

  “Oh, Monty!” She rolled over so that she could see his dear face clearly. “My hero. You rescued me twice, you know. Once from the humiliation of discovering that the earl I planned to marry was a child of four, and again from the clutches of Mr Pontefract. And as if that were not sufficient heroism, you also rescued half the village from the floods. What an astonishing man you are. I do not deserve to be so happy, and I shall try very hard to make you happy too.”

  “An admirable ambition in a wife,” he said. “You could perhaps begin by giving me a kiss?”

  “You shall have as many kisses as you like,” she said.

  With a low chuckle, he pulled her towards him, and as her lips settled on his, she closed her eyes and gave herself into the warmth of his loving embrace.

  Epilogue

  The chambers of Markham, Willerton-Forbes and Browning were enjoying their usual afternoon somnolence. Sir Rathbone Willerton-Forbes had had but one appointment at noon, after which he had dictated one letter to his clerk, Eversley, had read three letters delivered with the mid-day post, and perused the announcements of births, marriages and deaths in the newspaper. He had reached that depressing age when more of his acquaintance were to be found amongst the reports of the deceased than elsewhere. After that, exhausted by his labours, he drank one glass of port and snoozed in his comfortable chair behind the desk until such time as the clock struck the hour appointed for him to make his way home.

  A sharp rap on the door announced the arrival of Eversley.

  “A package just arrived for you, Sir Rathbone. Delivered by hand this moment. It being addressed to ‘The Lawyer Acting for The Most Noble Marquess of Carrbridge’, I dare presume it is for your eyes.”

  “Most Noble?” He sighed. “What is the world coming to when a man writes to a marquess without knowing the correct manner of address?”

  Eversley had no answer to this rather sweeping question, so he bustled about tidying the discarded newspaper, arranging the pens and inkpot in their stand, straightening the sander and writing mat, placing the fire irons in a neat line.

  Sir Rathbone stared at the unassuming package. Wrapped in brown paper and string, it was very light, as if there might be nothing inside it at all. He sighed. He could, of course, lock the package away in a drawer, and deal with it some other time. It was late and he wanted to go home, to enjoy his bath and the ministrations of his very efficient valet, to dress for dinner and stroll round to his club to eat. Then he would spend a quiet evening in pleasant conversation with some of his friends, just as he did every day of his life now, since his wife had inconsiderately died before him, leaving him quite alone in the world.

  But duty was a difficult habit to shake off. Reaching for his pocket knife, he snipped the string, unfolded the brown paper and drew forth the single sheet of paper residing within.

  “Shall I call you a hackney carriage, sir, or shall you walk home today?” Eversley said, looking up from his tidying.

  Sir Rathbone gave a strangled sound.

  “Sir? Is you having a seizure, sir? Shall I send for the physician?”

  There was a long silence, then Sir Rathbone threw the paper forcefully to the desk. “Oh God!” he cried. “Oh, dear God!”

  Eversley, having never heard his employer use such language before, was struck dumb with shock.

  “This is a disaster,” Sir Rathbone said. “The ramifications
— No, it does not bear thinking of.”

  “Sir?”

  “This, Eversley,” said Sir Rathbone, picking up the paper and waving it under Eversley’s nose, “is a special licence. It proves, beyond a shadow of doubt, that the eighth Marquess of Carrbridge was legally married to Miss Amelia Gartmore several months before he married Miss Adela March. And there was issue, Eversley. There was issue from that marriage. A son. What was the boy’s name? Benjamin, I believe. Yes, Ben Gartmore is the true heir, and therefore the present Marquess of Carrbridge is not the legal heir. Is illegitimate, in point of fact. Oh, dear Lord, whatever is to be done?”

  He put his head in his hands and groaned in despair.

  THE END

  Find out how the tangle is resolved in Lord Gilbert, the final book of the series. You can read a sneak preview of Chapter 1 after the acknowledgements. For more information, or to buy, go to my website.

  Thanks for reading!

  If you have enjoyed reading this book, please consider writing a short review. You can find out the latest news and sign up for the mailing list at my website.

  Book 5 of the series is Lord Gilbert, and you can read a sneak preview of Chapter 1 after the acknowledgements.

  A note on historical accuracy - and an apology!: I have endeavoured to stay true to the spirit of Regency times, and have avoided taking too many liberties or imposing modern sensibilities on my characters. The book is not one of historical record, but I’ve tried to make it reasonably accurate. However, I’m not perfect! If you spot a historical error, I’d very much appreciate knowing about it so that I can correct it and learn from it. Thank you!

  One area where I have taken some liberties is geographical. In The Daughters of Allamont Hall, I squeezed the mythical county of Brinshire into a non-existent space between Staffordshire and Shropshire. In Sons of the Marquess, however, Drummoor is firmly set in the (very real) county of Yorkshire, the West Riding to be precise, and not too far away from York itself. I haven’t attempted to place it precisely, to give myself the freedom to add estates and towns and villages of my own invention. In the interests of such creation, several very real towns have been wiped off the map. To the good people of Yorkshire, I apologise.