Lord Humphrey (Sons of the Marquess Book 2)

by Mary Kingswood

  Humphrey turned to Charlie, who was sitting on the bench watching him with a bemused expression on his face.

  “I say, who are you?” Charlie said, in the polished voice of a nobleman. “I did not send for you.”

  “Well done, Charlie! Very impressive, but you can drop that voice now.”

  “Milord?”

  “Well spotted. Can you do my parson’s accent, do you think?”

  “Of course I can, my good man,” Charlie said at once, in quavering tones.

  Humphrey grinned. “Excellent. Get your clothes off and put these on, and you will walk out of here a free man in under twenty minutes.”

  “What? Not a chance,” Charlie said. “I’ll not let you do this for me.”

  “But I will not have to,” Humphrey said. “No one is going to hang the brother of the Marquess of Carrbridge.”

  “Which is me, just now. I can do it, you know I can — convince everyone I’m you, like.”

  “Only by perjuring yourself in court.” Charlie looked at him blankly. “Only by lying. Whereas I really am the marquess’s brother. No lies needed. Well, not many. The magistrate will waggle a finger at me and tell me not to do it again. No time for arguments, Charlie, just swap clothes quickly otherwise you will get me into hot water too.”

  “Oh. Don’t want to do that, milord. I’d do anything for you, you know that. Don’t never want to get you into trouble.” And he began shrugging out of his clothes.

  They both had a little difficulty with their new attire. Humphrey had trouble squeezing himself into Charlie’s tight-fitting uniform, and Charlie could do nothing with Humphrey’s cravat. In the end, Humphrey tied it for him in a simple knot, trying to suppress Billings’ anguished countenance from his mind, and hoping that the scarf and greatcoat would cover the mess.

  The constable’s heavy tread was already approaching, when Humphrey grabbed the Bible and slammed Charlie’s hand onto it. “Swear to me right now that you will never do anything like this again.”

  “I swear it. And… thank you, milord. Thank you.”

  Then the keys rattled, the lock creaked and the door swung open. “You finished, Mr Hay, sir?”

  “I am, my good fellow,” said Charlie, in such an authentically querulous voice that Humphrey was lost in admiration. “We have prayed together, and I must hope that his lordship is in a more penitent frame of mind. Good day to you, my lord.”

  “Good day, Mr Hay,” Humphrey said in his own voice. “Thank you for visiting me. Pray give my regards to Miss Hay and Miss Agnes.”

  “I shall do so. May God forgive you your sins, my lord.”

  And so saying, Charlie swept out, head high, the Bible under his arm.

  The door clanged shut, and Humphrey started to laugh. Then, he settled himself on the bench as comfortably as he could, and prepared for a long, uncomfortable night.

  19: Repose And Reparations

  Hortensia had twice to walk the greys about while she waited, to prevent them from getting cold. Three times she sent Tom out into the square to read the time from the church clock. But before the hour struck, a tall figure in greatcoat, wig and hat came round the corner. Her heart lurched, but then she saw at once that it was not Humphrey. Something about the set of the shoulders was all wrong. Charlie had almost as much height as Humphrey, but he had not the same breadth of shoulders.

  She should have been pleased that their little scheme had succeeded but instead she was rather downcast. Humphrey was in prison, and there was no knowing how that would end. Oh, if only he were there beside her, smiling up at her in that heart-stopping way of his, holding her hand—

  No, this would never do. She needed to pull herself together. Charlie climbed nimbly into the curricle without a word, and Hortensia set the horses in motion at once. Tom, who had been holding their heads, jumped up behind them. They clattered through the cobbled streets of Sagborough at a sedate pace, so as not to attract too much attention, but they were an odd grouping altogether — a rich gentleman’s curricle being driven by a lady and with a seemingly elderly and ill-dressed parson as a passenger.

  Turning onto the York road, they passed some fine old buildings clustered around a market square and then a range of working yards for a barrel-maker, an ironmonger, a glass-blower and a brewer, before the town abruptly ended with two or three larger properties ringed by walls and high railings. Almost at once, they plunged into woodland. After a mile or so, they turned again onto a smaller road following a lively stream dotted with small mills and their clusters of cottages. Then more woodland, followed by good farm land, the fields studded with cattle. The hedgerows rose on either side of them, the great heads of cow parsley nodding gently. Bees hummed in the afternoon sun, and every mile, every new vista of splendid English countryside raised Hortensia’s spirits a notch.

  They crossed another road from York, and then dropped down into a broad valley.

  “Wait a minute,” Charlie said. “This ain’t the way to the marquess’s house. This is Silsby Vale.”

  “Indeed it is,” Hortensia said. “Lord Humphrey felt it would be safer for you if you do not return to Drummoor for a while. If any of the ladies’ maids who saw you today were to recognise you in the stables, there could be some very awkward questions asked. I am taking you to stay with your mother for a while.”

  “Oh.” He was silent for a while. “’is lordship said I was to go there?”

  “He did.”

  “Then I will, although I don’t know as anyone there’ll be very ’appy to see me, like.”

  Hortensia noted the sudden lapse into the local vernacular, and Charlie’s left foot tap-tap-tapping nervously. “If you are not content to stay there, Charlie, I shall take you somewhere else,” she said, although she had no idea where that might be.

  “You’re very kind,” he said, and almost his voice seemed to be breaking. “Don’t know why you’d do anything for me.”

  “Because you are half-brother to the Marquess of Carrbridge,” she said gently. “For his part, he wishes to take care of you and see you respectably established. I hope you wish also to do him credit, and to do nothing to bring dishonour on the family.”

  “I do!” he cried. “I do wish that… not bringing dishonour… everything you said. But it’s difficult sometimes to know what to do. I’d like to help Lord Humphrey, but I seem to make a mess of it. I only wanted to help him get his gaming house, and I thought those rich ladies wouldn’t miss a few bits and pieces.”

  “A few!” she said in alarm. “Did you take anything else, Charlie?”

  He hesitated, and she could almost hear him considering lying. But then the shoulders slumped. “A couple of things.”

  “Where are they? Not in your room, I hope?”

  “Nah, not that stupid! There’s a big jug thing with birds on it near the top of the stairs by the long room with all the paintings. They’re in there.”

  Hortensia interpreted this to be the Chinese vase near the gallery. “I shall retrieve them, if I can. But Charlie, you must never do anything like this again, do you understand?”

  “Aye. So ’is lordship said. Made me swear on the Bible, miss.”

  He sounded so indignant that she could not help laughing. “Never mind, Charlie. A blameless life may be dull, but at least it will not be cut short by the hangman.”

  “But what’s going to happen to me now, miss? I s’pose I can’t go back to Drummoor.”

  “Probably not. It is too confusing having two of you looking so alike, when you can imitate each other so well. One would never know whether one was talking to Lord Humphrey or you. I expect we shall find you some honest employment somewhere. Although…”

  “Yes, miss?” he said hopefully.

  “With your talents, a life on the boards would be a possibility. Acting, Charlie, in a theatre. Would you like that?”

  “Not sure, miss — madam. Never been to a theatre.”

  “We must take you to one, then you could decide whether it might
suit you. Ah, we are coming into the village. Direct me to Silsby Vale House, Charlie.”

  The village straggled in a listless way along both sides of the stream. About a mile beyond the last house, they came to palings and, before long, an entrance, the gate standing wide open. Hortensia turned the curricle between the gateposts and up a short drive to the house. There she stopped, breathed an ‘Ohhh!’ of delight and gazed about her.

  The house drowsed in the afternoon sun, its stone walls a delicate pink that was both warm and elegant. Roses and summer jasmine mingled over the front door, filling the air with heady perfume. Insects hummed and buzzed, and vivid orange butterflies fluttered in profusion over many-coloured beds of flowers. Beyond the house, a willow whispered over a small pond.

  Hortensia was mesmerised, quite unable to move. The house was so quintessentially English, its comforting serenity as familiar as a favourite shawl, that she felt, for some unfathomable reason, that she had come home.

  Then the front door opened, and down the steps came one of the footmen from Drummoor.

  “Fitch? Goodness, what are you doing here?”

  “I was sent to help out, madam. May I assist you to alight?”

  “Oh — no, thank you, Fitch. I can manage.” Lightly, she jumped down onto the gravel drive, still gazing around, breathing deeply to absorb the intoxicating air. It was a place of enchantment, which left her feeling as if she had stepped into a painting.

  “The mistress is in the garden,” Fitch said. “May I take you to her? Tom can see to the horses. And… the other person.” He gazed with disfavour on Charlie, still in his parson’s disguise.

  Dreamily, Hortensia followed him round the side of the house, past the pond, to a lawn surrounded by a semi-circle of towering rhododendrons, their great flower heads a fiery red. In the centre of the lawn, a lady sat at her ease on a comfortable chair. Perhaps she had been sleeping, for there were pillows at her back and a footstool at her feet, but she sat alertly now, looking eagerly towards Hortensia crossing the lawn, then rising to greet her.

  “Miss Quayle, madam,” Fitch said.

  “Oh! How do you do?” her hostess said with a tremulous smile, holding out her hand in a delightfully informal manner. “I am Maria Andrews, widow of Mr Cecil Andrews. How charming of you to call, although I do not believe we have met?”

  Hortensia curtsied, shook the proffered hand and returned the smile. Mrs Andrews was an amply endowed lady of middle years, her gown a good, if home-stitched, effort at fashionable style. The chair she had risen from was worn, and in need of recovering. At a guess, Mrs Andrews was struggling to survive on a widow’s stipend.

  “I beg your pardon for descending on you so unexpectedly. I am from Drummoor—”

  “Oh!” Mrs Andrews raised a hand to her mouth. “Oh dear! Is it… is it about Mr Sharp?”

  “Mr Sharp? No, I know nothing about a Mr Sharp. It is about Charlie, your cook’s son.”

  “Oh, Charlie. Oh, thank goodness!” She laughed. “Please, will you not sit and tell me all about it?”

  Another chair was brought out, tea and cake ordered and Hortensia explained briefly about Charlie, before launching into her paean of praise for the house. Within half an hour, Mrs Andrews had told her the whole history of it, and her own unhappy tale. Within an hour, Hortensia, in her turn, had unburdened herself to her new acquaintance, who instantly sympathised with the difficulties of sudden wealth and switching places and attractive young men. They both cried a little, and Hortensia felt immeasurably better.

  “Oh, this house is so restful!” she cried. “How lucky you are to live here.”

  “True enough,” Mrs Andrews said. “Now that Mr Sharp comes here no more, the place is just as it ought to be — a peaceful haven. At least, I do hope he comes here no more. Lord Humphrey said… but I cannot be quite easy about it, all the same. For if he should return, he would be very cross to see me sitting outside like this, and entertaining in this way. But if anybody calls on me, I cannot turn them away, can I? It is only polite to receive callers. And I do so enjoy company, and sitting in my garden and being at peace. I am very fortunate, am I not? But I daresay I shall be obliged to leave here soon.”

  “Oh no! But why so?”

  “Why, because his lordship will want to get full value for it, either by selling it, or finding a tenant willing to pay rent, which I cannot afford to do.”

  Hortensia stared at her, suddenly unable to breathe. “No, but I can! I can afford rent, or — I could even buy it, if Lord Carrbridge would sell. Mrs Andrews, how would you like to live here forever, as my companion?”

  ~~~~~

  Hortensia returned to Drummoor too late to do more than throw on the gown chosen at random by her maid, thread a ribbon through her hair and rush down to dinner. No one noticed her arrival. The company was agog with excitement at the news that Lord Humphrey had been arrested, and Lady Patience, whose necklace had been stolen, was for once the focus of everyone’s attention. No one mentioned the loss of any other jewellery, thank goodness! If the other two items had not yet been missed, there was still time to return them to their owners.

  She had planned to slip away after dinner to retrieve them from the vase, but she was called upon to play the pianoforte to accompany one of the Whittleton ladies on the harp, and then to turn the pages for Rosemary. After that, she was immediately drawn into a game of whist, and the evening wore away without an opportunity. Her expedition to the vase would have to wait.

  So it was after midnight before she crept from her room and through the night-darkened corridors. Twice she was almost caught out, once by a footman conveying a decanter of brandy to some sleepless soul, and once by a trysting couple whispering in a window embrasure, half hidden by the curtains. Was the gentleman Mr Merton? She rather thought it was. But eventually, by means of circuitous detours, she reached her destination.

  There was no moon, but just enough light filtered through the window as to silhouette the Chinese vase. She slipped her hand inside, and pulled out two items, a hideous diamond choker and a massive ruby-studded ring. She could not imagine any person of fashion wearing either of them. Nor, more to the point, could she remember ever seeing either of them before. How on earth was she to replace them unnoticed if she had no idea who owned them?

  She heard males voices coming up the gallery stairs and saw the wavering lights of a couple of candles, and her heart leapt into her mouth. And at that point, her courage failed her. It had been a long, trying day, she was exhausted and this was too difficult a problem for such an hour. She had no idea what to do with the jewellery, and she could not for the life of her bring herself to care about it. If only she had someone to talk it over with, someone to help her. She had never felt lonelier in her life.

  Tears prickled at her eyelids. Sliding the jewellery soundlessly back into the vase, she slipped away into the night. Tomorrow, when Humphrey came home, she would ask him about it. He would know what to do! Humphrey always knew what to do. And perhaps, her heart whispered, he would look at her in that magical way and hold her hand. Perhaps he would call her Hortensia again… But she cried herself to sleep all the same.

  ~~~~~

  It must have been the longest night in Christendom, or at least it seemed so to Humphrey. The constables called him ‘milord’, and fed him bread and soup and ale at regular intervals, but he was very glad when he was led out of his small cell, allowed to wash and then taken to another cell below the courtroom. Then another interminable wait before he was taken up narrow stairs and into the close atmosphere of the courtroom, crowded with noisy spectators and the overpowering smell of unwashed humanity crushed together. And there facing him above the heads of the lawyers and court officials was the magistrate.

  “Name,” that gentleman said, not looking up from the paper he was reading.

  “Lord Humphrey Marford,” said Humphrey in ringing tones.

  Heads turned, conversations died away, mouths dropped open. And then the entire courtroo
m burst into laughter. Even the magistrate quirked an eyebrow and gave a small, resigned sigh.

  “Really, Humphrey,” Lord Carrbridge said. “I do not expect to see my own brother brought before me.”

  “No, my lord. Quite so, my lord. Beg pardon, my lord,” Humphrey said meekly.

  That brought more gales of laughter. But they had to go through the formalities, and so the constable read the charges, and Humphrey agreed that, yes, he had stolen the necklace, but only for a bet. The details of the wager were discussed, Mr Merton, who was conveniently in the gallery, agreed that he had made the bet with Lord Humphrey, and the note was produced for Lord Carrbridge to inspect.

  “You are very foolish, Humphrey,” he said in his best peer of the realm voice. “You have caused a great deal of trouble and upset, and I cannot be seen to condone such behaviour. You will apologise to the ladies concerned, and recompense the constables with a barrel of ale. You are hereby fined five hundred pounds and bound over to keep the peace for a period of one year. Now go away and stop cluttering up my court.”

  “Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord.”

  As he was released from the prisoner’s box, he saw Miss Cartwright and Miss Wilde, their expressions a mixture of relief that it was only a mischievous prank and nothing more serious, and disappointment that they had not, after all, had their glorious moment in the witness box. He bowed and said all that was proper and invited them to the Carrbridge Arms across the road for refreshments, and after a glass or two of port, they declared him a silly boy, and so like his father, who was also a betting man and forever in one scrape or another. He listened politely while they regaled him with some very boring tales of the eighth marquess, and felt at the end of it that, whatever his crimes, he had been amply punished.

  20: The Summer Ball

  Hortensia waited in vain for Humphrey to return from Sagborough. The morning dragged on, and he did not come, leaving her in the most dreadful suspense. But shortly after noon, Mr Merton returned and sought her out, sending a message for her to attend him in the library. She found Lady Hardy there, too, with her piles of books for cataloguing, an endless task which Hortensia could not decide was a worthy enterprise or merely an excuse to linger a little longer in the hospitable shelter of Drummoor. Or perhaps the lingering was driven more by Mr Merton, for where one was, there the other generally seemed to be. And Hortensia wondered then about the midnight tryst that she had thought involved Mr Merton. Was the other party Lady Hardy? How interesting.