Lord Gilbert (Sons of the Marquess Book 5)

by Mary Kingswood

  LORD GILBERT

  Sons of the Marquess Book 5

  A Regency Romance

  by Mary Kingswood

  Published by Sutors Publishing

  Copyright © 2018 Mary Kingswood

  Cover design by: Shayne Rutherford of Darkmoon Graphics

  All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction.

  The dramatic conclusion to the series! A traditional Regency romance, drawing room rather than bedroom.

  Lord Gilbert Marford is in disgrace. He joined the Hussars to stay out of trouble. Instead, he quarrelled with half his fellow officers, seduced the wives of three of them, got himself shot in a duel and sustained an injury that might end his career. Now he’s being sent home like a naughty schoolboy, and he’s not happy about it. So when an opportunity arises to run away, he’s not about to let a little snow stop him.

  Miss Genista Hamilton accepts her place as the youngest daughter of the family, staying at home to look after her father and help with his work as a country physician. She knows she’ll never marry, and has never even thought of love. Until the day a young man with the face of an angel appears, unconscious, on her doorstep in the middle of a snowstorm. But how can the lowly daughter of a physician ever aspire to marry the son of a marquess? It can only lead to trouble…

  Book 5 of the 5-book Sons of the Marquess series, each a complete story with a HEA, but read all of them to find out all the secrets of the Marford family!

  About Sons of the Marquess: when the ninth Marquess of Carrbridge finds himself short of funds, his five younger brothers have to make a choice: take up a career to support their lavish lifestyle or marry an heiress. But love has a strange way of appearing when it’s least expected…

  Book 0: The Earl of Deveron (a novella, free to mailing list subscribers)

  Book 1: Lord Reginald

  Book 2: Lord Humphrey

  Book 3: Lord Augustus

  Book 4: Lord Montague

  Book 5: Lord Gilbert

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  Table of contents

  Prologue

  1: A Winter Journey

  2: Lavender Cottage

  3: Backgammon

  4: Roast Beef

  5: Duty

  6: A Visit To Canterbury

  7: London

  8: Lady Dryton

  9: Drummoor

  10: Kindly Faces

  11: News

  12: A Large Family Dinner

  13: A Meeting With The Lawyers

  14: The Long Gallery

  15: A Visitor

  16: A Small Family Dinner

  17: A Grand Ball

  18: An Evening At Silsby Vale House

  19: A Perfect Day

  20: A Change Of Plan

  21: Garthorpe

  22: A Leaky Roof

  23: Memories

  24: Hero

  25: A Bath Before Dinner

  26: A Walk In The Woods

  27: High Berenholme

  28: A Confrontation

  29: A Long Night

  Thanks for reading!

  About the author

  Acknowledgements

  Sneak preview of The Governess: Chapter 1: The Will

  Prologue

  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.

  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. “Did you never hear of it? Maybe it was when you were away in Harrogate. The Latin master was a dry old stick, but he had the most luscious wife imaginable 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 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. We were as bad as each other as boys, and my father was far stuffier than yours about it. ‘I’m very disappointed in you, David,’ he would say, with that awful glowering look.”

  He paused, and Gil clapped him on the shoulder sympathetically. “He would be more disappointed now, if he knew you had ended up as my batman. He never liked me. Thought me too ramshackle by half, and a very bad influence on you.”

  “Well, so you are,” Davy said, grinning. “But you saved me from a worse fate after the old man lost his money. Heaven knows what I’d have done if you hadn’t taken me on.”

  “Well, I thought you would be fun, and look how wrong I was,” Gil said in aggrieved tones. “You do nothing but lecture me now, you old devil.”

  “I can’t afford any decent entertainment any more, so I amuse myself by nagging you. And you are getting worse, you know. If it were just the gaming and an occasional 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! What is your name?”

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

  “Well, Robbie, this hack of yours… is it for hire?”

  “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, Robbie. And if you get in trouble for it, tell them that it was for Lord Gilbert Marford.”

  “Aye, milord. At once, milord.”

  It was the work of a few minutes for Robbie 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 can hardly 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. They 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 f
or 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. 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 understood 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.