THE DUKE’S HOLIDAY
Book One in The Regency Romp Trilogy
By Maggie Fenton
Copyright © 2014 by Margaret Foxe
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by electronic or mechanical means – except for brief quotations – without written permission. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or if it was not purchased for your use only, then please return and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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Email her at [email protected].
COVER ART by Clarissa Yeo at http://yocladesigns.com
DEDICATION
Dedicated to my mom, who kept pestering me about publishing “that cute Duke of Mumford story”. Thanks for supporting me in all of my artistic endeavors. I may even let you read the whole thing this time, mom, even the naughty bits … well, maybe not. They’re pretty naughty, and you’re … well, you’re my mom.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
THE DUKE’S HOLIDAY
"When one is in town one amuses oneself. When one is in the country one amuses other people."
-Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest, Act 1
Chapter One
IN WHICH THE DUKE RECEIVES UNSETTLING NEWS
LORD CYRIL Halbert Algernon Monk, the eleventh Duke of Montford, got drunk for the first and only time in his life at the tender age of twelve. His best mate, Sebastian Sherbrook, managed to procure a bottle of Blue Ruin from a stablehand for a sum of money they later found out to be outrageous – a crown indeed! – and the two of them, curious as only twelve year old boys can be on the subject of vice, hid in a copse of elderberry bushes outside their dormitory at Harrow during the winter holidays (as neither had families to go home to), drank down the whole bottle like it was water, and scoffed to each other how little effect it had on them.
Five minutes later, they were in the elderberry bushes, not just hiding amongst them. And eventually his lunch and Sebastian’s lunch were also in the elderberry bushes, and on his new boots. But for the brief euphoria before that terrible, messy fall, the experience was an unmitigated disaster.
Yet he had an explanation at long last for the one thing in his life his usually agile brain could not seem to take in. Namely, why his parents, who had been two rational, fairly perceptive people – or so he’d been told – had given him not one, not two, but three perfectly dreadful names. The sort of names that made a little boy shipped off to Harrow at eight years old an easy target for his peers. For, until that point in time, he had been raised by a team of solicitors, tutors, and house servants, and had been obeyed like a petty despot since he’d learned to speak in sentences.
Harrow was indeed a rude awakening. In that first year he was tripped, teased, pinched, punched, and the butt of countless schoolyard jokes, most of them taking the form of the ever-popular limerick.
His parents, he decided, had been drunk when it had come time to name him. It was the only thing that made sense.
That revelation – and the sad state of his boots – was enough to convince him of the myriad dangers of alcohol. He was never drunk again. He was no teetotaler by any means, but he knew his limit when out with his more reckless mates. He knew he’d had enough when any of his names started to sound good to him. When that happened, he put down his glass, stepped away from the decanter, and called it a night.
The only good thing to have come out of his parents dying tragically when he was four was inheriting the title and availing himself of a name that was blessedly un-ridiculous. Having no immediate family left, there was no one to call him by his given names. He was His Grace to servants and strangers and just plain Montford to his circle of intimates.
No one had dared utter Cyril, Halbert, Algernon, or even Monk, to his face since his second year at Harrow when he had given Evelyn Leighton, Viscount Marlowe, aforementioned bully, a drubbing so fierce that molars, spit, and blood had been flung about the schoolyard in a ten foot radius. It was the one time in his life he had not fainted at the sight of blood, so distraught was he.
Never mind Marlowe was twice his size and a year older. Never mind he’d been suspended for the rest of the term, banished to one of his guardian’s country estates, without the company of anyone but the staff. Something inside of him had burst after one of Marlowe’s infamous cuffs to his neck and an uninspired limerick that rhymed Algernon with hard-on. He’d jumped upon Marlowe in a frenzied whirl of arms and legs, spouting a litany of curses so foul even Sebastian, already world-weary at age ten, had gasped in astonishment. He’d had to be pulled off of Marlowe’s stunned, nearly unconscious form by the combined efforts of two instructors.
No one had teased him after that.
And that drubbing had won Marlowe’s heart, it seemed, for from that day forward, Marlowe had decided to be his bosom friend. The sick bastard.
By Cambridge, with Sherbrook and Marlowe by his side – not to mention having sprouted up to an impressive six foot two inches tall – he was no longer teased. He was Montford, one of the wealthiest, most powerful aristocrats in the kingdom, even at eighteen. Of course, behind his back, some braver souls – including Sherbrook and Marlowe – labeled him The Monk, because of some of his more peculiar personal habits that could not be hidden behind any title.
He had always been fastidious, what could he say?
For instance, he liked his boots shined until they were like mirrors. And when his boots weren’t on his feet, he liked them to be lined up in the wardrobe, heels precisely aligned. He had his valet, Coombes, arrange his jackets and waistcoats by color – black, grey, blue, green, etc. – and his breeches by category – a drawer for riding, a drawer for morning, one for afternoon, and one for evening. And he liked his cravats starched, ironed, and tied just so. If he spotted, felt, or suspected a wrinkle, he had Coombes fetch a fresh one immediately. He invariably went through half a dozen by the end of the day – twice that if he’d been out riding about his estates or fencing at his club.
He’d given up on Coombes shaving him just to spare himself the anguish of discovering a stray hair mid-morning and Coombes’ inevitable tears when his error was pointed out. He therefore shaved himself. And after he was done with his morning ablutions, he made sure that all of his brushes, razors, strops, and bottle
s – square, not round – were lined up on the table at perfect ninety-degree angles.
And then there was his desk. His desk was his haven. A more orderly desk in London could not be found. His inkwells, paperweights, blotters, and ducal seal sat in a neat, even row at the top center, precisely three inches from the edge. His stationary sat directly in front of his chair, so meticulously stacked it looked like a single, thick rectangle.
He allowed his man-of-affairs, Stevenage, to sort his correspondence into tidy piles, the bottom right hand corners aligned. When Stevenage had taken over his position after the retirement of Stevenage the Elder – for he had inherited his job in much the same way Montford had inherited the dukedom – the man had taken it upon himself to align the correspondence just so, revealing a love of detail and order that spoke directly to Montford’s heart.
Stevenage, suffering from the same obsessive affliction as his employer, was more than happy to put the Duke’s correspondence into pristine piles. A pile for estate affairs. A pile for banking receipts. Another for House of Lords business. Another for his personal correspondence. Another for the social invitations he wanted to accept (a very short pile). Another for the social invitations he didn’t want to accept but was obliged to (a rather large pile). And another labeled Miscellaneous – correspondence that, like the oversized books in his library he’d banished to a far corner, defied categorization and utterly nettled him.
The Miscellaneous pile –That Pile – nettled Stevenage as well. Montford often caught his man-of-affairs glancing at it as nervously as he himself did when he thought no one else was looking. Stevenage was, if at all possible, even more concerned with the order of things than Montford himself.
And Stevenage was, on this particular morning, looking extremely concerned when Montford entered the library to take up the morning business. His man-of-affairs was, as usual, immaculately dressed in stiff, unrelenting black superfine, the kind that only solicitors and undertakers seemed to wear, his cravat simply but neatly tied, his steely gray hair combed and pomaded, and his gold spectacles as unsmudged as ever. But the brown eyes behind the spectacles were a little … well, wild, and the man kept glancing over to That Pile on the desk.
Montford knew something was dreadfully wrong when Stevenage tugged upon his cravat, disordering it ever so slightly.
“What’s wrong?” Montford demanded.
“I don’t know how it happened, Your Grace … how it was overlooked. Indeed I do not know …” Stevenage trailed off into incoherence, a first for the usually acute man.
Montford sat down at his desk and braced himself, then noticed an opened letter clinging perilously to the cliff’s edge of That Pile, as if it had been dropped there, willy-nilly, by his man-of-affairs. Or had sprung to life of its own accord like some pernicious barnacle, uncaring of the chaos it caused.
Montford sucked in a breath and told himself to remain calm. “Remain calm, Stevenage, and tell me the problem.”
“Alyosius Honeywell is dead, Your Grace.”
Hmm.
Well, this wasn’t exactly bad news. He had been waiting for years for Alyosius Honeywell to kick off, hadn’t he? “And what’s the problem?”
“Well, er … it appears … Your Grace … that he has been dead for … er, some time.”
“Some time.”
“A year.”
Montford jumped to his feet. He sat back down. Then he jumped up again, strode to the window, and looked out onto the busy Mayfair street below, trying to get his head around the news.
Dead. For a year.
It seemed that even in death, Alyosius Honeywell – a man who had been the bane of Montford’s well-ordered little kingdom since Montford had assumed the full reins of his title – had thumbed his nose at him. Montford’s only consolation was that Alyosius Honeywell’s given name was even worse than his own.
Not that he had ever met Honeywell. Not that Honeywell knew he was a bane to a Duke … No, scratch that. Honeywell knew exactly how much his existence vexed Montford. He knew as well how little Montford could do to be rid of him, however much he taunted and teased in his haphazard reports sent down from Yorkshire. The Honeywells had been a thorn in the side of the Montford Dukes for nearly two centuries now, ever since one of Montford’s illustrious female ancestors had unwisely married into that family of … of …
What were the Honeywells? Merchants? Confidence men? Fairy people?
At the very least, they were upstarts.
Mushrooms.
Or they had been two hundred years ago, when they’d swindled a long ago Duke into a contract so convoluted no team of solicitors since then had been able to extricate the dukedom from its grasp. The contract had allowed the Honeywells to become the proprietary tenants of one of the ducal estates in Yorkshire for as long as the Honeywells endured. And the Honeywells had endured.
And endured.
And to add insult to injury, they made ale. Blech. They used acres and acres of prime farmland to cultivate their wheat and barley for their foul plebeian brew. Honeywell Ale. It was, sadly, ubiquitous in every pub north of London. Or at least it was ubiquitous when it was available, which was not very often, as it was made in small quantities. There was invariably a rush on the pubs when the yearly shipments were sent out.
Sherbrook and Marlowe stockpiled the stuff, the traitorous bastards.
Needless to say, Honeywell Ale did not turn a sizeable profit. The ten percent that went to the duchy each year was a pittance, hardly worth the effort of a receipt. All that prime farmland, wasted. It was enough to make Montford want to cry. And he hadn’t cried since he was four years old. He liked seeing his holdings prosper, his investments blossom. It pained him to have this one glaring, gaping blot upon his record of success.
But if Honeywell was dead … and since Honeywell had no sons, that meant …
What did that mean? And why had he not been informed?
“A year?” Montford asked, turning back to his man-of-affairs with a glower that sent Stevenage’s fingers back to his cravat. Montford pointed towards the letter. “Who is that from? What does it say?”
“It is from the president of Dunkirk Brewing Company. A Mr. Lightfoot. It seems he wants to purchase Honeywell Ale – that is, Rylestone Hall and the rest of the estate, now that Mr. Honeywell has … er, passed on.”
Now that was vaguely interesting. Dunkirk was the largest brewing concern in Yorkshire. As profitable as Honeywell Ale was not.
“What the devil could he want with Rylestone?” Montford muttered.
“Apparently, the land is in close proximity to Mr. Lightfoot’s own property. He wants to expand the business.”
Montford’s interest in the letter and its proposal began to wane. It was all very well and good for Mr. Lightfoot to want to build his business, but Montford did not see how this could be of benefit to him. He didn’t give a jot about Lightfoot or his desire to become an ale impressario. And he certainly had no intention of selling Rylestone Hall after it was finally the dukedom’s again.
“Who the devil has been writing to us, then, Stevenage? If Honeywell’s been dead a year, who’s been sending us those damned reports?” He gestured, rather impatiently, towards a gargantuan rosewood bureau set against a far wall, in which all of his old correspondence sat neatly filed.
“I … don’t know, Your Grace. That’s just it, I don’t know,” Stevenage said bleakly.
“Well, don’t stand there like an idiot,” Montford grumbled. “Fetch me the last report that devil sent me.”
Stevenage scurried over to the bureau. Several minutes passed, in which Montford returned to his seat and began thrumming his nails against the desktop with impatience. At last, a squeak came from the direction of the bureau, and Stevenage held up an envelope as if he’d pulled a prize fish from the river.
“Well, come on, man, haven’t got all day,” Montford grumbled, which of course was a lie. He hadn’t anything to do today, as his affairs were, as usual, neatly tidi
ed away. Except, of course, for the matter of Aloyisius Honeywell.
Stevenage placed the envelope into Montford’s outstretched hand, and Montford unfolded it neatly before him and squinted down at the convoluted text.
To His Grace the Duke of Montford,
Concerning His Grace’s inquiries in his last letter in regards to the profit margin versus expenditure of the brewery and how the former might be increased over the latter. It is, frankly, the least of my worries at the moment, but it was So Good of His Grace to Be Concerned. Honeywell Ale holds itself to a high standard, which, alas, often means setting itself above margins and expenditures and other mercantile interests. I am sure His Grace, if anybody, understands the need to Set Oneself Above. Of course, if His Grace is suffering financially, my family, owing to our long association with the esteemed Dukes of Montford, would be more than willing to aid you in your time of need. We do not have any ready cash at hand, but if His Grace would be so kind as to accept in lieu two barrels of our special reserve ale to keep His Grace watered during a Difficult Time.
Regards, A. Honeywell
Montford wasn’t any less irked by the letter now than he had been six months ago upon its receipt. It read just like countless other letters he’d received from his tormentor. He would have known the uneven shape and slope of those letters anywhere. The script was as flowing and untidy as usual, all jerks and loops and blots. All the lines were written on a slightly downward slant that made him dizzy. The last sentence – if one could call such a poorly written string of words a sentence – even had the audacity to curve around the edge of the page, the author having run out of room. Difficult Time dangled along the edge like a deflated balloon, cramped and flattened but unmistakably capitalized, unmistakably insolent.
A. Honeywell.
Lightfoot claimed Honeywell was dead, but he wouldn’t put it past Alyosius Honeywell’s ghost returning to earth just so he might pen a snide letter to Montford. But unless he had suddenly stepped into the lead in one of those dreadful gothic novels Sherbrook was always toting about, Montford was quite sure no ghost had been involved. That meant whoever had been writing to him for the past decade was someone other than Alyosius Honeywell. Or the past few letters had been written by a master forger.
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