His Majesty’s Hounds– Book 2
Sweet and Clean Regency Romance
Arietta Richmond
Dreamstone Publishing © 2017
www.dreamstonepublishing.com
Copyright © 2017 Dreamstone Publishing and Arietta Richmond
All rights reserved.
No parts of this work may be copied without the author’s permission.
ISBN-13: 978-1-925499-18-6
Books by Arietta Richmond
His Majesty’s Hounds
Claiming the Heart of a Duke
Intriguing the Viscount
Being Lady Harriet’s Hero (coming soon)
Healing Lord Barton (coming soon)
Heart of Lace (a prequel to Winning the Merchant Earl - coming soon)
Winning the Merchant Earl (coming soon)
Loving the Bitter Baron (coming soon)
Rescuing the Countess (coming soon)
The Derbyshire Set
A Gift of Love (Prequel short story)
A Devil’s Bargain (Prequel short story - coming soon)
The Earl’s Unexpected Bride
The Captain’s Compromised Heiress
The Viscount’s Unsuitable Affair
The Count’s Impetuous Seduction
The Rake’s Unlikely Redemption
The Marquess’ Scandalous Mistress
A Remembered Face (Bonus short story – coming soon)
The Marchioness’ Second Chance (coming soon)
A Viscount’s Reluctant Passion (coming soon)
Lady Theodora’s Christmas Wish
The Duke’s Improper Love (coming soon)
Other Books
The Scottish Governess (coming soon)
The Earl’s Reluctant Fiancée (coming soon)
The Crew of the Seadragon’s Soul Series, (coming soon - a set of 10 linked novels)
For everyone who had the grace to be patient while this book, and every other book that I have written, were coming into existence, who provided cups of tea, and food, when the writing would not let me go, and endured countless times being asked for opinions.
For the readers who are coming to know these characters, in this new series, well, as they have come to know the characters in my other series well, and who inspire me to continue, by buying my books!
For my growing team of beta readers and advance reviewers – it’s thanks to you that others can enjoy these books in the best presentation possible!
And for all the writers of Regency Historical Romance, whose books I read, who inspired me to write in this fascinating period.
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
Epilogue
About the Author
Here is Your Preview of 'Being Lady Harriet's Hero'
Books in the His Majesty's Hounds Series
Books in the Derbyshire Set Series
London lay under a deep cover of snow, but everyone seemed to share a feeling of carefree happiness. This was the first Christmas after the end of the long Napoleonic Wars. Waterloo, the mother of all battles, had ended with a resounding victory and, after many years spent fighting, the surviving soldiers had returned to their homes. For most, there was much to celebrate this Christmas, and choirs could sing “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men!” giving full value to the truth of the joyous words. But for some, that joy was tempered by other concerns…
Offering his arm to his mother, Lady Pendholm, Lord Charlton Edgeworth, Viscount Pendholm, entered Lord Baildon’s townhouse. A footman hurried to relieve them of their outer garments.
They joined the receiving line, and soon they were announced, and went on to join the crush in the ballroom.
Their appearance was followed by a sudden hush, after which conversations resumed, with a slight edge to them. Nobody knew a lot about the new Lord Pendholm, who had only recently returned from the wars on the Continent, to resume his life, and to succeed his brother, the former Viscount Pendholm, who had died in a rather scandalous way, almost a year previously.
It was common knowledge, among the ton, that the deceased Lord Pendholm had been something of an unsavoury character. His prowess as a gambler was legendary and it was whispered that he had not restricted himself to respectable gentlemen’s clubs like White’s or Watier’s, but had also attended disreputable gaming hells, associating with shady personages, usurers, swindlers, crooks and all manner of riff raff.
Another, darker, rumour circulated among the gentlemen: that the late Lord Pendholm had had a nasty penchant for violence against women. All of the demi-monde had suddenly ostracised him, after he had viciously beaten a famed soi-disant French courtesan, and Mrs Tennant, a notorious Abbess, had banned him from her house of pleasure. All these juicy tit-bits were whispered behind fans and in dark corners, while Charlton and his mother circulated amongst the guests.
Lady Pendholm was in her early fifties and still a beautiful woman. She was silver haired and slender and her son knew well that, under an air of refined gentility, she hid the resilience of a steel blade, the same quality that flashed in her greenish brown eyes when she perceived how they were being oh-not-so-very-subtly snubbed by the ton.
She lightly squeezed Charlton’s arm, a silent warning not to react. Lord Pendholm looked around, to see if any of his friends were there, but he knew that was a forlorn hope.
Hunter Barrington, Duke of Melton, was spending Christmas with his family at Meltonbrook Chase and would arrive later, at the beginning of the Season; Mr Raphael Morton, as a wealthy Cit, was not normally invited to the ton’s entertainments, despite the very real fact that he could buy off many an aristocrat, with change to spare; Lord Geoffrey Clarence was undoubtedly suffering under the grinding heel of his brother, Lord Alfred Clarence, Marquess Woodford, who was rather forcefully focussed on educating poor Geoff in his responsibilities as his heir; Lord Barton Seddon and Lord Gerald Otford, Baron Tillingford were off somewhere together, probably buying horses to improve Gerry’s stock at his new estates.
Charlton sighed. The unlikely group known as His Majesty’s Hounds had formed during the war, as a very select unit, a closely knit association of men of different, and priceless, talents. Their friendship had been forged on the anvil of many harrowing experiences and was invaluable for all of them. It was second nature for each of them to look for the other Hounds when in any difficult situations, or when faced with potential conflict.
And this, his first public appearance at a social function since his return, was making Charlton feel on edge, his perceptions keenly alert, all of his fighting instincts to the fore. He smiled bleakly. This first skirmish, though important, was not decisive by any means.
He had many battles ahead to fight and win, if he wanted his family to regain the social standing they’d once had and which his brother’s behaviour had called into question. And win he would, Charlton vowed: Harriet, his baby sister, a lively, spirited, pretty young thing, would not be looked at askance. He was an honourable man, from an honourable line: he would not allow one rotten apple to ruin it for them all.
Something caught
Charlton’s attention, pulling him out of his thoughts, and into the moment.
Maybe because he was thinking about war, it seemed significant - it was a man, somewhat older than Charlton, a slim, elegant figure, clad entirely in black, with a ruby signet ring on his finger and a sharp, aquiline profile.
It was the ring that created the association in Charlton’s mind. It was the same ring, or a very similar one, as one he had once seen on the hand of a man who had been pointed out to him as a French agent. Was it really him? And, if so, whatever was he doing in London, attending a Christmas Ball?
As he considered the puzzle of the mysterious guest, the crowd parted, revealing a young lady standing beside an older one and looking around with a half excited, half scared expression. A simile flashed through Charlton’s mind - the shell opens to reveal the pearl.
He paused, looking at her, and the crowd vanished, the noise quieted, time itself stopped. She was petite, but lushly curved, with a heart shaped face, a small pointed chin, a pert upturned nose and a wide brow with perfect, dark, wing shaped eyebrows.
Her skin was as translucent as mother of pearl, her eyes reminded him of the colour of the gentian violets he had once seen on the Swiss Alps, before the war. She was tastefully dressed in a jonquil satin gown, trimmed with white lace, elbow length white gloves and dainty white kid slippers.
A bony lady in Pomona green elbowed him as she moved through the crush, and brought him out of his reverie.
After a perfunctory “Your pardon, my Lady”, and without losing track of the unknown enchantress, Charlton looked for his mother, in the hope that she might know her, and therefore be able to introduce him.
Lady Pendholm was talking with her long-time friend Sir Arthur Bowscale, a distinguished gentleman in his sixties, who owned a ramshackle mansion near Pendholm Hall, their country seat, and who, thanks to his acquaintance with a number of influential peers, had been able to smooth over most of the unpleasantness and the scandal following Michael’s murder.
Lady Pendholm looked at her son and was surprised to see the normally calm and steady young man fidgeting.
“Did you want to speak with me, my son?” she asked graciously, her expression curious.
“Yes, Mother, if you please. Would you be so kind as to tell me whether you happen to know that young lady over there, the one dressed in jonquil satin?”
Lady Pendholm peered through her quizzing glass.
“The one near the portly lady in slate grey?”
“Yes Mother, that one. Do you know her?”
“Hmmm, no, I do not think so. I have never seen her before, which is strange. I thought I knew almost everybody. The ton, after all, is the most parochial group I know. My curiosity is piqued. Come, my son, let us look for our hostess and ask her.”
Lady Catharine Baildon, a vivacious and slightly garrulous sixtyish woman, was chatting with Lady Magda Wilmson, and was, when they approached, telling her, in painstaking detail, all about her younger nephew’s exploits and vagaries.
“My dearest Sylvia!” she gushed. “How nice to see you again, after your terrible ordeal… and here is Lord Pendholm… What a handsome gentleman you have become, my dear Charlie! Excuse me if I seem overfamiliar, but I saw you in your swaddling clothes and you will allow an old woman her vagaries… So, you are back from the wars, at long last, and high time it was for that beastly Frenchman to be bundled up and sent halfway to nowhere, to live or to die as he pleases… We must find a nice girl for you straight away, my lord, you need to settle down and have a few children of your own… Will it not be a treat, my dear Sylvia, to hold a baby again, all warm and cuddly? I dote on my Eddie’s brood… five of them, up to now, and I could swear dear Dorothy - you know, Eddie’s wife – is breeding again…” Half amused and half vexed, Lady Pendholm succeeded at last in stemming her friend’s seemingly unstoppable flow of words.
“Will you indulge my curiosity, my dear Catharine? You know that I have been out of society for more than twelve months now, in mourning - you must bring me up to date. Nobody is as knowledgeable as you are about what is going on with the ton. For instance, who are those two ladies over there? I cannot seem to remember them.”
Lady Baildon, who was very short-sighted but too vain to use a quizzing glass, squinted. “The young one in jonquil satin is Lady Odette Marmont, and the older one in slate grey is her aunt, Lady Farnsworth. Poor Odette has no mother to look after her – a tragic death, you know – and Lady Farnsworth - her mother’s sister, you know – is chaperoning her. Almost on the shelf, she is. Already twenty-two and not even betrothed. Very shy little mousy thing, not spirited at all. Would you like me to introduce you?”
Lady Pendholm smiled. One could always count on Catharine for a bit of harmless meddling.
“If you would be so kind, I would be delighted, I’m sure.”
With the majesty of a frigate under full sail, Lady Baildon ploughed through the crowd, with Charlton and his mother in tow, and reached Lady Farnsworth and Lady Odette.
Seeing their hostess approaching them, Odette opened her eyes wide and seemed on the point of bolting, but Lady Farnsworth put a restraining hand on her elbow and hissed “Are you set on disgracing me, girl? Behave yourself! You are not a cowering, mistreated scullery maid, you are a Lady and like a Lady will you comport yourself. Now, stop fidgeting, stand straight and try to be gracious.”
“Good evening, Lady Farnsworth, how are you? I would like to introduce you to a very dear friend of mine, Lady Sylvia Edgeworth, Viscountess Pendholm. And this is her son, Charlton Edgeworth, Viscount Pendholm. You might have heard that his elder brother, the former Lord Pendholm, died of late. They are just out of mourning and re-acquainting themselves with society life.”
Lady Farnsworth smiled. She was a formidable looking woman, with a white streak in her dark hair, piercing grey eyes, a strong chin and an imposing Roman nose.
“My dear Lady Pendholm, how do you do? I do feel for you, my dear husband died not long ago and, between war and mourning, we have not been attending society for a long time. Lord Pendholm, I am honoured to meet you. I’m told you are a war hero and that all of us should be grateful to you for having rid us of the Scourge of Europe. May I introduce you to my dear niece, Lady Odette Marmont? She is the daughter of my dear departed sister. She is here with her father, the Comte de Vierzon. French aristocracy suffered many indignities at the hands of the Corsican parvenu and rejoice with us at his defeat.”
Odette looked at Charlton and, caught by his gaze, had to restrain herself from staring. He was a very handsome gentleman, with his wavy locks the colour of a ripe chestnut, rich with golden highlights, and his rich, warm chocolate eyes, where golden motes danced, but what Odette perceived was a compelling quality about him, a feeling of energy held on a tight leash, a strong magnetism emanating from the core of his being.
He was the most intensely alive person that Odette had ever encountered.
While Odette and Charlton looked at each other, their wits askew, the older ladies were engaged in a lively chat.
“Do you see the black clad gentleman over there, the one talking with Lord Stanmore? He is Odette’s father, the Comte de Vierzon.”
Charlton snapped out of his besotted trance and looked at Odette’s father. It was with deep disquiet that he recognised the gentleman he had previously noted. A French agent? An enemy spy? Or simply a French aristocrat, reinstated to his rightful standing by Napoleon’s defeat?
‘It is not my issue to worry about anymore,’ he thought. ‘Now I have other fish to fry’. Yet the sense of disquiet remained, even as he found his gaze drawn, irresistibly it seemed, back to the remarkable blue violet of Lady Odette’s eyes.
Charlton was sitting alone at the breakfast table. His mother’s lady’s maid, Ellie, had informed him that Lady Pendholm was still tired from the previous evening, and would have a cup of chocolate in her room. His sister Harriet had gone for an early morning ride in Hyde Park, accompanied by her governess and
a groom, and was not back yet.
Charlton chuckled. Harriet was fretting and fuming because, not being out yet, she was still technically a schoolroom miss and her governess, the very strict Miss Carpenter, treated her accordingly. Thus the little minx had set herself the task of being as disagreeable as possible and an early morning ride on a very cold day was undoubtedly part of her harassment campaign. In fact, Miss Carpenter, although she was a very good teacher, was also a very poor rider – yet Harriet knew that she would feel, nevertheless, compelled to fulfil her duties as a chaperone, and ride regardless.
Charlton drank the last of his black coffee, a habit he had picked up in Spain, and stood.
It was time to continue the thankless job of going through the ledgers and records, covering all of Michael’s dealings - a task which he was finding increasingly irksome.
Back from war, he had been chagrined to find that his mother, a lady usually brimming with energy, was at the end of her tether.
Of course, she’d had to manage their estates after his brother’s death, which alone would be a strain for her, in addition to dealing with her existing responsibilities. And, of course, the manner of Michael’s death, itself, had taken its toll, but, while examining his brother’s papers other, much uglier, possibilities for his mother’s strained state came to his mind.
They were richer than they had ever been before, this was true: unlike poor Richard, Hunter’s now deceased brother, Michael had been a very successful gambler and had not depleted their coffers. However, a very unpleasant pattern was emerging from his ledgers, a disturbing pattern, crooked enough to sicken Charlton (or anyone with a particle of honour, for that matter).
It was clear that Michael’s dealings included connections with a number of usurers, some of them quite infamous, and it looked as if the same usurers had granted loans to many a victim of Michael’s prowess at the card table.
It was very cleverly hidden between the lines, but Charlton was beginning to suspect that his brother had reaped a double profit: one from his debtors and one, in the form of a hefty percentage, from the usurers in recognition of the value of ‘customers’ that he had introduced to them.
Intriguing the Viscount: Sweet and Clean Regency Romance (His Majesty's Hounds Book 2) Page 1