Lord Reginald (Sons of the Marquess Book 1)

by Mary Kingswood

  “But I am not so minded!” she cried. “Papa, must I go? I am conscious of the great compliment Lady Carrbridge pays me, but I cannot feel I should be comfortable in such company.”

  “All the more reason to go, missy. A stay at Drummoor will give you a little London polish before your next season, which will be no bad thing, and I give you permission to marry whichever of the marquess’s brothers takes your fancy. But if the company palls, the house itself will appeal to you, for it is one of the finest in the country. I daresay there are more than one hundred chimneys, and it is said there are more than two hundred rooms, not counting the servants’ domains. And if even that fails to excite your admiration, the library is fascinating. It contains the largest collection of stuffed lizards in Christendom.”

  She laughed. “That settles the matter. I must go, of course.”

  ~~~~~

  With the incessant rain, there was no possibility of getting out of the house that day, so Reggie lurked in a corner of the ship room, so called because of the paintings of ships that adorned its walls. It was officially the marquess’s office, but it had become a refuge for all the brothers, on account of the good fire always kept there, the newspapers from London and York, and the array of decanters on a console. It was also a room where they were permitted to smoke, a habit enthusiastically enjoyed by Gus. Usually, Reggie could depend on finding lively company therein, but Humphrey and Gus had gone off to town on mysterious business of their own, and Gil had simply vanished the day after Merton’s discouraging assessment of the family’s finances. Monty — well, Monty was never lively company, being of a serious disposition. Reggie suspected he was in the library reading sermons as penance for some suspected misdemeanour.

  The marquess and Merton worked at the large desk beneath the window. His newspaper containing no notices of battles or other excitements, Reggie laid it aside, and amused himself by listening to his brother and Merton.

  “This letter is from Mr Fitzroy, the tenant of Marsh End Manor, my lord,” Merton said. “He says: ‘To my most esteemed and generous benefactor with humble gratitude, I write in the deepest sorrow to inform you—’”

  Carrbridge covered his eyes with one hand. “Summarise for me, if you please, Merton.”

  “By all means. His daughter has died, and the cost of crepe is so exorbitant that he cannot meet the rent, my lord. He begs for leniency and time to pay.”

  “His daughter! The poor, unfortunate man, how he must feel it. Naturally, we cannot press him hard at such a time.”

  “As you wish, my lord, naturally, but…”

  “But, Merton?”

  “Having had occasion to examine the accounts, I cannot recall that Mr Fitzroy has paid so much as a penny piece in rent these last five years.”

  Reggie got up from his chair by the fire and walked across to the desk. “May I read it?” Silently Merton handed the letter to him, and Reggie perused it in growing bewilderment.

  “I do not understand this,” he said. “If a man engages to pay a certain sum in rent each quarter, he is obliged to pay it, is he not? And if he does not, then he might expect to lose his home. A prudent man would take care to set aside that sum in advance, to be sure of having it to hand when required. And a prudent man would not spend such a sum on black crepe, now matter how deep his grief.”

  “Quite so,” Merton said.

  “And you say the fellow has paid no rent for five years?”

  “So far as I can recall. I should need to go through the accounts again before I could say with absolute certainly, but Fitzroy is a distinctive name, and rather memorable, not one to pass unnoticed.”

  “And how is it that this matter has been allowed to continue unchecked?” Reggie said, horrified. “No wonder we are short of funds if this sort of thing has been occurring!”

  “I daresay Sharp has been dealing with it, in his own way,” the marquess said. “This is his responsibility, I should say.”

  Reggie was much struck by this. “That is true. The management of leases and tenants falls to the agent. Surely this letter should have gone to Mr Sharp, Merton.”

  “I cannot say, Lord Reginald. The direction is written so ill that it is impossible to decipher, and so Crabbe passed it to me, and I have made the contents known to Lord Carrbridge, as is only proper.”

  “Quite right,” the marquess said. “Only I do not quite know what to do about it.”

  “Leave it to Sharp,” Reggie said at once. “That is what he is for, after all.”

  “Certainly he is,” Merton said, “but there are certain irregularities—”

  “Which Shape will no doubt explain perfectly satisfactorily,” Reggie said, his voice rising.

  The marquess looked from one to the other, then said, “Merton, what do you advise?”

  Reggie huffed in exasperation, and stormed back to his seat by the fire.

  “Really, Reggie,” the marquess said sharply, “you are getting as bad as Gil for displays of temperament. Sharp is a perfectly adequate agent, I make no doubt, but he is the son of a baker who obtained his position because he was batman to our father in his brief army days. Merton, on the other hand, is a gentleman whom one might be happy to meet anywhere. I know whose opinion I value more highly.”

  Merton said nothing, but bowed deeply to Carrbridge.

  “Well, Merton? What do you think I should do about this?” the marquess said.

  “It would be best, I believe, to investigate the exact conditions of the lease and reconcile those with the accounts. Then, armed with that information, it would be possible to discuss the matter with Mr Sharp from an informed position.”

  “Then pray do so.”

  “My lord, in order to oblige you in this matter I should require access to the eighth marquess’s private papers in his writing room.”

  “Is that necessary? That room has been locked up since shortly after my father’s death. All the legal papers are held by the lawyers, or are in the safe in the library, so the writing room will only have his personal correspondence. Sharp has asked many times for access but I have always refused, indeed, I have never ventured in there myself. I cannot see that anything in there is pertinent to this situation.”

  “That is possible, my lord, but the account books and the documents I have examined so far — those held by Mr Sharp, and those here in this room — frequently refer to older documents. It may be that some very important papers are stored in there. I also did not know about the safe. Mr Sharp did not mention it.”

  “Ha! He does not know everything! Very well, Merton. There is no point asking you to look into these matters and then tying your hands, is there? I shall give you a key to the writing room and show you how to open the safe.”

  Merton made a small bow of acknowledgement, but said, “May I have your permission to examine any papers found therein? Or are there perhaps some areas you wish to remain private, for family eyes only?”

  “Good Lord, no. What do you expect to find? Rent arrears, a bill or two unpaid, some vowels from Queen Anne’s day perhaps — nothing untoward. We have no secrets, Merton, you may be sure of that.”

  3: Ancestors

  Robinia tried very hard not to be impressed by Drummoor, but failed completely. It was not merely its size which won her over, for she had seen great houses before. Rather, it was the unselfconscious way it defied all expectations of beauty and fashion, and yet rose above the constraints of both. From the arched and turreted entrance to the two-mile-long drive to the mellow and ivied walls of the house itself with its crenellated roof, it was impossible not to delight in its charms. The interior was even more entrancing, for its casual lack of symmetry, which ought to offend the eye, only enhanced its beauty. It was filled with odd corners and mysteriously-shaped rooms, which nevertheless felt both natural and intentional.

  “Oh, how I should like to paint this!” she cried, gazing at the carved wooden ceiling and latticed windows of the great hall. “What a delightful screen! Is it oak?”<
br />
  “That I cannot answer,” said the marchioness, laughing. “I daresay Lord Carrbridge might know. All I can tell you is that it conceals a minstrels’ gallery.”

  “Oh, how wonderful!” Robinia breathed. “And what a challenge to capture the exact colour of the wood. But I do not have my painting things with me, so I must do the best I can with my sketchpad.”

  “I can supply what you need. Although I have not painted at all since my marriage, my easel and brushes have been kept safe. I tell myself I shall take it up again one day, but there is so little time. But that gives me an idea! The Miss Salmonds both paint, I am certain, and some of the Miss Whittletons. We must have a little contest for you all — the best painting of the great hall, to be judged by Lord Carrbridge, who has never lifted a brush in his life, but he has a very good eye for composition and colour.”

  “A contest! And will there be a prize?”

  “Why, to be framed and hung in the great hall — what else? Come, now, let me show you to your room.”

  Her room was not, as Robinia had feared, a dark, gloomy space unchanged since Queen Bess’s day. The furnishings were a little old fashioned, but the walls were pale and the hangings prettily draped. The only decoration was a series of paintings and drawings of robins.

  “We call this the Robin Room,” the marchioness said. “It seemed appropriate for you — I hope you do not mind.”

  Robinia could only laugh. “What a charming idea! This is delightful. Thank you!”

  “I hope you will be comfortable. I will send someone to help you unpack and change. When you are ready, you will find everyone in the pink drawing room. You can get there either through the long gallery and down the stairs and across the fountain court, or else—” She stopped. “Just ask the maid to show you the way. You will get lost at first — everyone does! Just keep walking and eventually you will come to one or other of the staircases, where you will find a footman posted on the ground floor.”

  Just as it was impossible to dislike the house, it was equally impossible to dislike the inhabitants. The marchioness was delightfully unassuming, and nothing was too much trouble if it made her guests feel at home. Her husband was a fine-looking fellow and younger than Robinia had supposed, having imagined that a peer of the realm must be close to his dotage, but he could not have been much above thirty. Only two of the five brothers were at home, but Lord Montague was a quiet and serious young man, and Lord Reginald, while perfectly affable, was neither handsome nor stylish. Robinia decided that her father’s permission to marry one of the brothers would not be needed for either of these two.

  Dinner was taken in the green dining room. It was the first time Robinia had stayed at a house with enough dining rooms to need additional identification, other than the dining room. She wondered how many such there were in the house, and how the kitchens managed to keep food hot when the various dining rooms might be scattered all over the house. She soon discovered the answer to that particular question — they did not. Every dish was practically cold. No one seemed to mind, and everything was delicious, so Robinia ate with gusto.

  “How do you like the quail?” her neighbour said, a stout girl of about Robinia’s own age. What was her name? Something fishy - trout, perhaps? Pike? But it was gone. There had been so many introductions in the drawing room — no, the pink drawing room — that it was impossible to remember them all.

  “Delectable,” Robinia said, not knowing which particular dish was quail.

  “Oh yes, but the sauce is a little overpowering, would you not agree?” The girl smiled, her spectacles twinkling in the candlelight.

  “I had not noticed,” Robinia said, with perfect truthfulness.

  “Ah.” The neighbour took another mouthful, chewed and swallowed, then turned again to Robinia. “I know it is very remiss of me, but I have quite forgot your name. I never can remember names, no matter how hard I try. Mama gets so cross with me, you cannot imagine.”

  “Oh, but I can!” Robinia said, laughing. “My mama is just the same, yet how can one remember a person after just one introduction? And the next time one sees her, she is wearing a different gown altogether, or a bonnet and pelisse, or has changed the arrangement of her hair, and how then is one supposed to know her again? It is most provoking! And I cannot remember your name, either, so we are equal.”

  The neighbour giggled, raising her napkin to her mouth. “Oh, yes, how very true! I am Miss Salmond. Oh, I beg your pardon, have I said something amiss?”

  “Oh, no, just… just something went down the wrong way, I believe.” Robinia reached for her wine glass. Salmond! Not trout or pike.

  “Those are my sisters further down — Violet, in the pink dress, and Rose there, in yellow, and the one in white down there with the ribbons in her hair is Primrose. They have such pretty flower names, do you not think, although they will never wear the proper colours for their names. I wish I had a flower name too, but I do not. I was named Ursula after our great-aunt, but in the end she died without leaving a penny piece to me, or to any of us, so that was a waste, do you not agree? I should have liked a pretty flower name, for I shall never be pretty myself, so it would have been pleasant to have something pretty about me. But it cannot be helped, I daresay.”

  “I had better luck than you,” Robinia said, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I was named Robinia after my uncle Robin, and he most obligingly left me his entire fortune.”

  Miss Salmond’s eyes bulged and her mouth dropped open. “Oh, you are the heiress! You must be Miss Chamberlain! I remember now, for mama talked about you and how you had suddenly come into forty thousand pounds and we speculated on which one of his brothers Lord Carrbridge intends to marry you.”

  Robinia laughed. “I daresay the sons of a marquess can aim much higher than a Miss Chamberlain of Lincolnshire, fortune or no.”

  “Oh, certainly, a duke’s daughter at least, I should say. But mama says they are all to pieces and the sons must all go into the army or marry heiresses.”

  “All to pieces?” Robinia said, looking around at the gleaming plate, array of footmen and multitude of candles lighting up the green dining room. “Surely not?”

  “Oh, but it is true, for mama had it from Miss Emily Whittleton, and she had it from the marchioness herself. I think it must be Lord Montague, do you not think? The one they plan to marry you off to, I mean, and I do envy you, Miss Chamberlain, for he is very handsome and I should very much like to be a lady and live in such splendid surroundings as these and have quail every day if I want it. Which I do,” she added, looking sadly at her now empty plate.

  “I should think one would tire of quail rather rapidly if one were to eat it every day,” Robinia said, trying very hard not to laugh.

  “Not I,” Miss Salmond said stoutly. “I should never tire of quail.”

  ~~~~~

  Reggie was rather pleased with Miss Chamberlain. She was not a great beauty, he conceded, but her features were pleasant and she had a well-formed figure that he found rather delightful. He could not abide thin women, all angles and bones, but nor could he like too plump a young woman, for by the age of forty she would surely be as round as a ball, with chins which wobbled whenever she spoke. Miss Chamberlain fell into the perfect point between these two extremes, neither too thin nor too large.

  She was not at all self-conscious when he addressed her, which was another point in her favour. Most young ladies seemed to simper or blush or be struck dumb when he tried to converse with them, but Miss Chamberlain answered very readily, as if she were perfectly easy. He was glad of it, but it was surprising, all the same. He had imagined that she would be shy in this sort of company, so unlike anything she might have encountered before. Having decided that he would recommend himself to her by helping her to settle into the grander surroundings of Drummoor, he was a little put out to discover that his efforts were unnecessary.

  What was worse, he soon came to realise that he had a rival for her affections in Jul
ius Whittleton, a worthy if dull young man, who nevertheless had the face of an angel, Reggie conceded. He sang like one, too, and there was nothing like an Italian aria performed in a splendid tenor voice for putting a young lady in a romantic frame of mind. Yes, he would definitely have to watch Mr Julius Whittleton, who probably would like to have Miss Chamberlain’s fortune even more than Reggie would.

  The Whittletons were distant cousins of the Marfords, and although the Earl of Humbleforth was the head of that branch of the family, there were scores of poor relations, the children and grandchildren of younger sons or daughters of previous earls, who never seemed to have two pennies to rub together. Connie delighted in inviting them to Drummoor in batches of half a dozen at a time, feeding them up for a fortnight and then sending them home with new boots or gowns or gloves. “I shall never wear these again,” she would say gaily, and their eyes would light up. How mortifying to be poor! And then Reggie remembered that he would be poor, too, if he could not prevail upon Miss Chamberlain to marry him.

  “Should you like to see the long gallery, Miss Chamberlain?” he said to her one evening, as they drank their tea after dinner. “It contains some splendid portraits of our ancestors. I should be delighted to show them to you.”

  “You are very kind, Lord Reginald, but Miss Augusta and Mr Julius Whittleton have already arranged to show me the portraits.”

  “Well, I should think I know more about the family’s history than Augusta or Julius,” Reggie said, indignantly.

  “I am sure you do,” Miss Chamberlain said equably. “We are to go directly after breakfast, if you would care to join us?”

  He was happy to agree, although he wasn’t quite sure how his invitation to her had somehow got turned around so that it seemed as if she were the one issuing the invitation.

  The occasion turned into a somewhat larger affair than Reggie had envisaged, as Augusta and Julius had seemingly invited half the household. There was a large gaggle of Whittletons, together with Mrs Salmond and her daughters, and a pair of overdressed honourables from Wales, whom Reggie had taken in instant dislike on account of their violently coloured waistcoats and ludicrously high shirt points. However, the larger party worked to his advantage, for in the general milling about and frequent excursions to the windows to admire the changing view, he was able to secure Miss Chamberlain’s undivided attention to himself. He was, as he had boasted, better able to acquaint her with the history of each portrait’s subject, and was pleasantly surprised to find her an interested and knowledgeable audience.