Lord Humphrey (Sons of the Marquess Book 2) Page 3

  “I had heard Sharp is not too meticulous about filing,” Humphrey murmured. Behind him, Mrs Sharp could be heard softly moaning.

  “This is unacceptable!” Carrbridge said, spinning round and brushing past Humphrey. “Merton, get some men here and pack up all these papers. Get them over to the writing room. They are yours, now. Mrs Sharp, when your husband returns, tell him that I am deeply disappointed in him.” He took one last look at the devastation, then, with an exclamation of disgust, he strode off, with Bill Carpenter scampering after him.

  Mrs Sharp whimpered, and ran off into the back area of the house, leaving Merton and Humphrey gazing at each other in surprise.

  “Well, that was interesting,” Humphrey said.

  “The state of the office? I had heard rumours—”

  “No, no. I meant Carrbridge. When he gets in high dudgeon like that, he looks exactly like Father. Quite unnerving.”

  3: Silsby Vale

  The entire day was taken up with packing the multitude of papers into old travelling boxes and conveying them to the house. Because they might be confidential, Merton and Humphrey undertook all the packing themselves, and left the grooms and footmen only the task of carrying the boxes. But eventually it was done, every drawer and shelf of Sharp’s office cleared, and the boxes safely locked away in the writing room, awaiting the gargantuan effort of sorting the papers into some kind of order.

  “As if you did not have enough to do already, dealing with all Father’s letters,” Humphrey said to Merton that evening, as they sat over their port after dinner. “And there is Carrbridge’s correspondence, too.”

  Merton gave a deprecating shrug. “I had sooner have too much to do than too little, my lord, although it might speed the process to engage someone to help me, if Lord Carrbridge agrees.”

  “Lady Hardy, perhaps?” Humphrey said slyly.

  Merton became a little flushed, but answered with his usual composure. “No, my lord. Some of the late marquess’s letters are… not quite suitable for a lady’s eyes.”

  “Not even when the lady in question is married?” Humphrey said, amused.

  “Even then,” Merton said calmly. “As for Sharp’s papers, you saw for yourself how many were personal correspondence.”

  “Of Father’s?” Carrbridge said. “Why then does Sharp have them?”

  “That I could not answer,” Merton said. “I daresay over the years Mr Sharp has acted as secretary as well as agent, since there was no appointed secretary.”

  “I did have a secretary, rather briefly,” Carrbridge said. “Poor Penicuik! He was the chaplain here before his tragedy.”

  “So I have heard. Whatever happened to him?” Merton said.

  “We never talk about it,” Carrbridge said with a shudder. “It was all too horrible for words. So who shall you engage to assist you, Merton?”

  “I thought Mr Julius Whittleton, my lord, since he is family, and I daresay he would appreciate a little extra money. I shall pay him out of my own pocket, of course.”

  “No need to do that,” Carrbridge said. “I do not pay you such a high salary as all that, and you have your house to furnish and so forth.”

  “I have some money of my own,” Merton said. “When I had the management of Sir Osborne Hardy’s financial affairs, I was able to arrange some of his investments to greater advantage. In gratitude, he was so kind as to leave me a small bequest in his will, enough to give me an independence.”

  “He was a very warm man, Sir Osborne,” Humphrey said thoughtfully. “I daresay he left Lady Hardy well provided for, too.”

  “Her settlement was most generous,” Merton said.

  “Although I suppose it reverts to the estate if she remarries?”

  “No, it is hers without conditions. There were also some substantial pieces of jewellery.”

  “What is this sudden interest in Lady Hardy’s fortune, Humphrey?” Carrbridge said. “Should I expect an announcement from you very soon?”

  Humphrey laughed. “Well, I have nothing but my allowance from you and the use of one of the hunting lodges, so a wealthy widow is an appealing prospect. Besides, she is a very handsome woman, would you not agree, Merton?”

  “Very handsome, my lord,” Merton said, with a smile that lit his dour face. “Her income is twelve hundred and fifty pounds a year, if you should wish to try your luck with her.”

  “I am not so sure,” Humphrey said solemnly. “The income is an attraction, certainly, but Lady Hardy’s skill at the chessboard would be a problem. She is an excellent card player, too. Imagine the disappointment of a wife who constantly defeats one. It would be more than a man’s esteem could bear, and I do have my reputation as a skilled gamester to consider. You are the only man who can defeat her at chess, I believe, Merton. I daresay Miss Blythe would suit me better. She looks as if she would let me win at everything. Connie has invited her, I take it?”

  “She has, although there has been no reply as yet,” Carrbridge said. “But Humphrey, you should be cautious. You know nothing of this girl or her family.”

  “She is rich,” Humphrey said, with an indifferent shrug. “What more needs to be said?”

  “No one in London knows anything about her or her family.”

  “Her father lived in India for years. I daresay they have no acquaintance in England at all,” Humphrey said. “If it ever comes to a betrothal, I shall make stringent enquiries of her lawyers and financial advisers, you may be sure. But I do not care who her family is, Carrbridge.”

  “Nevertheless, I shall write to Mrs Mallory, I believe. Beatrice married into the Stoner family, if you recall, and they are — or were — nabobs. Made their whole fortune in India. Mr Stoner may know something of Miss Blythe and her father. And by all means engage Julius Whittleton, Merton. He is a handsome fellow and very much admired by the ladies, but he is not interesting company and he has such a prodigious appetite. It will do him good to earn his beef.”

  ~~~~~

  The following day, the weather was favourable enough to tempt Humphrey on a longer than usual ride. Since he was curious about how Ganymede had acquired a teasel in his mane and Sharp had not yet returned, Humphrey followed the same route as his previous ride. Having stretched Ganymede’s legs and burnt off his first burst of energy by galloping across the park and fields, he rode more circumspectly through the woods and up to the moor.

  He half expected to meet Sharp again, but he saw no sign of any other rider, and cantered on along the broad track at an easy pace. The track forked at a small copse, where once had stood an inn. One way led to Great Mellingham, but Humphrey rode to the west, past a few small hamlets, crossing the York road at the Old Cross Inn, before plunging down into the cool woodlands of Silsby Vale. At the bottom of the descent where the valley opened out was the fulling mill, its cluster of outbuildings and cottages around it. To one side was the field of teasels, grown for their usefulness in the fulling process.

  Here Humphrey halted. The road from the inn ran straight on down the valley to the village of Silsby Vale, but there was a narrow track leading through the teasels. He had never been that way before, but clearly Ganymede had, for in no other way could he have acquired teasels in his mane. So Humphrey nudged the horse in that direction, and Ganymede started forward with energy, ears pricked.

  The track ran straight through the field, so that the heads of the teasels pressed close, reaching as high as Humphrey’s shoulder. The new year’s growth fell away as the horse pushed through it, but the older growth, with last year’s dried heads still clinging to the stems, snapped easily, leaving spiky burrs attached to Ganymede’s mane and coat.

  Emerging from the teasel field, the track ran into a narrow valley of smallholdings, busy with chickens, men hoeing, and women draping laundry over bushes, small children at their heels. They all stopped and stared as Humphrey passed by, before turning back to their work.

  At the bottom of the valley, the track met a larger lane, but Humphrey had no need to won
der which way to turn, for Ganymede pushed on eagerly, knowing the way. Before too long, palings appeared to one side of the lane and then a gate, standing invitingly open. Humphrey slackened the reins, and the horse turned in at the gate without hesitation.

  Humphrey found himself in front of the entrance to a house. It was a gentleman’s house, of that there was no doubt. The size, the well-maintained grounds, with a couple of gardeners hard at work, and the tracks of carriage wheels proclaimed it so. He had no idea where he was, but the horse did, that much was clear.

  Dismounting gracefully, Humphrey stepped aside to look about him, and at once the horse trotted off and turned a corner of the house with a whicker of pleasure, as if he had arrived home. With an exclamation of annoyance, Humphrey strode after him. As expected, there were the stables tucked away behind the house, and a man had come out to attend to the horse.

  “Well, Ganymede, what are you doing back so soon?” the groom said, catching hold of the horse’s bridle. Then he saw Humphrey. “Hoy! Who are you?” The groom, a man of forty or so, glared at him.

  Humphrey made his way along the side of the house to the stables without haste. “I am Lord Humphrey Marford of Drummoor, brother to the Marquess of Carrbridge.”

  “Ho, are you now?” the groom said. “And I’m the Prince of Wales.”

  “Your Royal Highness,” Humphrey said, executing a deep bow. “What an unexpected pleasure. I had thought you to be at Brighton.”

  “Ha,” the groom said humourlessly. “You think you’re very funny, I daresay.”

  “Oh, no more than mildly amusing. Your name, my fine prince?”

  The groom gave a bark of laughter. “Robert,” he said, lifting his chin. “Been groom and coachman here, man and boy, for more’n twenty years.”

  “That is commendable,” Humphrey said, politely. “But tell me, Robert, what is this place?”

  “Why, ’tis Silsby Vale House, did you not know?”

  “I did not. My horse turned in here and—”

  “Your horse? Where is your horse?”

  “You are holding him,” Humphrey said, bewildered.

  The groom laughed. “This ain’t your horse. This is the master’s horse, Ganymede.”

  “I assure you, Ganymede is my horse. I bought him from Tattersall’s three years ago, and I can recount his sires and dams for almost as many generations as my own. Who is your master, Robert, and who owns this place?”

  “Why, Mr Sharp is master and owns the house, same as he owns this here horse.”

  This was not entirely a surprise. Humphrey sighed. “We can resolve this very easily. Is Sharp at home? He will vouch for my name and also my ownership of the horse.”

  “He ain’t here, and you can just go about your business, you horse thief, you. Think yourself lucky I don’t set the constables on you. Go on, get out of here.”

  “Is anyone else at home?”

  “Not to the likes of you,” the groom said stoutly.

  The groom’s obstinacy was becoming tedious. By this time, a junior groom had emerged from the stable and the two gardeners were loitering interestedly, scythes in hand. Humphrey enjoyed a good mill as much as the next man, and usually won them, too, but four against one made for challenging odds, and he had no wish to start a fracas around so valuable an animal as Ganymede. He raised his hands and backed away.

  But as soon as he had rounded the corner of the house again and was out of sight of the stable and the suspicious eye of Robert, he bounced up the steps to the front door and rang the doorbell. The door was answered by a sour-faced housekeeper of similar age to the groom.

  “Yes?”

  “Good morning… or is it afternoon? I beg pardon for disturbing you, but I have lost my horse, and would appreciate some assistance. Is anyone at home?”

  “No.”

  “No one? Who lives here, then?”

  “Mistress lives here, but she don’t receive casual callers.”

  “And your mistress’s name?” Humphrey said patiently.

  The housekeeper stared at him, obviously debating whether to answer or not, but whether his expensive riding clothes or his accent convinced her that he was a gentleman, at length she said, “This is the home of Mrs Cecil Andrews, sir.”

  “Would you give my card to your mistress and ask if she would be so good as to receive me?”

  The housekeeper’s eyes widened as she read his name on the card. She disappeared inside, shutting the door. Humphrey waited without impatience on the step until the door creaked open again.

  “Mistress will see you.” The surprise in her tone made it clear that this was a rare honour.

  Humphrey was shown into a pretty little drawing room, furnished more to comfort and practicality than fashion. Mrs Andrews was alone, a woman approaching fifty, but with her looks intact, and her gown designed to flatter a rather fine figure.

  “Oh, do come in, my lord. Oh yes, I see the likeness now. Your father had fair hair, too.”

  “You knew my father?”

  “Many years ago. Pray be seated. Mildred, bring some tea.”

  Humphrey declined the tea, but sat on a well-cushioned sofa, while the lady of the house perched on its twin.

  “How very kind in you to call, for I am so out of the way here that I have few visitors, as you may imagine,” she trilled, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright. “Such a treat for me! But I daresay you bring me a message from Mr Sharp?”

  “No, not at all,” Humphrey said. “I had no knowledge of Sharp’s connection to this place until five minutes ago.”

  “Oh!” Her face registered first bewilderment and then alarm. “Oh, but I thought… since you are from Drummoor, I assumed—”

  “That Sharp had sent me? No. He… owns this house, I think the groom said?”

  She stared at him, then nodded very slowly.

  “How interesting. But not relevant at the moment. My problem, Mrs Andrews, is that your groom, Robert, is claiming that Sharp also owns my horse, Ganymede, and is refusing to release him to me. This is, as you may imagine, rather inconvenient. Please tell your servant to return my horse to me, and then I shall leave you all in peace.”

  “Ganymede is yours?” she said faintly.

  “He is. Sharp had no business to take him out. So if you would be so good—”

  “I can’t!” she said, hand to mouth. “I just can’t! Ambrose would flay me alive if I interfere with his horses. The house… I may do as I please, but the stables are his domain. One of the gardeners rode one of the carriage horses once, and—” She broke off, shuddering, and two great tears rolled down her cheeks. She was one of those rare women who still look pretty while in tears, and Humphrey guessed it was a stratagem she had used for effect many times in the past. He was not influenced by her tears, but it was clear that Sharp was a firm master here, and he had no hope that she would relent.

  He rose to his feet. “Is there a village nearby where I might hire a horse?” She shook her head. “An inn, perhaps?”

  “The… the Old Cross. At the top of the vale.”

  “On the York road?” He sighed. He had a long walk ahead of him.

  4: The Old Cross Inn

  Humphrey went back round to the stables first, to check that Ganymede was being properly cared for, but his enquiries of the groom elicited the same response that he’d had from Mrs Andrews — the nearest inn was on the York road. There was nothing for it but to climb back up the vale, past the fulling mill and upwards through the trees until he reached the moors again. A few miles, no more — perhaps an hour, or maybe two, and then he could hire a horse. He would be late for dinner, but Connie would forgive him.

  As he walked steadily up the vale past the farmers, he mulled over the odd situation at Silsby Vale House. Was it feasible that Sharp really owned the property? He spent nothing on himself or his wife, so perhaps it was possible. But what then was his relationship to Mrs Andrews? If she were no more than a tenant, there would be no need for Sharp to visit more
than once each quarter, or perhaps only on Lady Day. Yet Ganymede was familiar enough with the house to find his own way to the stables — that was not the result of quarterly visits.

  Well, it would not be the first time a man kept a mistress hidden away, yet the cost of such an establishment must be large. Even if the gardeners came in now and again from one of the farms, there were still the two manservants — Robert the coachman, and a younger man to act as both groom and footman. Adding in several female servants indoors, and it could not be sustained on much under a thousand pounds a year, he suspected. No matter how he looked at it, he could not reconcile such an expenditure with Sharp, who spent nothing at all on himself or his wife, not even the price of a new coat or gown once a year. He shook his head and walked on.

  It was only when it seemed to take an unconscionable length of time to reach the mill that he began to wonder about his timing. He was not a slow walker, but the sun was already well down the sky before he made his way through the teasel field and past the fulling mill. Then there was a seemingly endless climb through the woods. Humphrey had eaten nothing since breakfast, and now rather regretted turning down the offer of tea and perhaps cake.

  He was beginning to wonder if he had gone astray, although there had been few branches away from the track, when, quite abruptly, he came out into open country. Now there was no more than a mile or so to reach the inn. He saw it on the horizon long before he reached it, its walls painted red by the dying sun. Beside it, the silhouette of the leaning cross that gave the place its name.

  The inn was not one popular with the coach trade, being largely a cheap place for wagons to pass the night. Often, the wagon drivers did not even bother with a room, spending the evening in the tap room and then bedding down for the night on their own wagons. But there were stables and hot food and plenty of ale, and Humphrey was known there, so he was not greeted by facetiousness when he gave his name.

  Tommy, the innkeeper, was appropriately deferential, but he regretted to inform his noble patron that there were no horses to be had. He kept three or four spares as a rule, but by ill fortune all were elsewhere, and he had nothing suitable to offer.