The Lords & Ladies Box Set Page 7

  Again she nodded, sick to her stomach, there was only one thing Richard could tell her that would make her run away. That he was not, after all the real Lord Rivenhall. How could he have lied to her? Deceived her so cruelly?

  *

  Richard watched as the knowledge of his perfidy was reflected on her face. She had guessed. Good - now he could begin his story. ‘I am not Lord Rivenhall, I believe you have just worked that out, but I am not a black hearted villain, whatever it might seem. I must tell you my story and hope you can understand, and forgive me for what I have done. My story starts at Waterloo.’

  *

  Major Richard Marshall lay mortally wounded; a French sabre slash had done for him. He knew he had at best a few hours, but would that be time enough to organize things, to convince his dearest and closest friend, Captain Richard Jones to do what he wanted?

  ‘Dickon, there is nothing you can do my friend. It is all over. I am done for, we both know that.’

  Captain Richard Jones, better known to his friends as Dickon, knelt beside the dying man. His

  bloodstained face and fierce demeanour made him seem demonic in the flickering light of their single candle.

  ‘I know that, Richard, but at least we are together. We always said we would die, as we have lived, side-by-side.’ Grief etched thick lines on either side of his mouth. He had spent the last ten years as second-in-command to this man, who was all the family he possessed. And now he was to lose him.

  ‘There is something you can do for me. It is my dying wish. Will you give me your solemn vow that you will honour my request?’

  Without hesitation Dickon answered. ‘I swear I shall do it, or die in the attempt.’

  Richard, shifted, with a slight groan, his narrow features contorted, and he gripped his friend’s hand. ‘Thank you, I would do the same for you, if our positions were reversed.’

  He gestured weakly to his saddlebags thrown carelessly on the floor with his saddle when Dickon had carried him from the battlefield. This half burnt cottage was ideal to shelter in. The sound of musket and rifle fire, heavy cannon and screaming men and horses could be heard all around them. But here, was peaceful, perfect for the purpose and as a good place as any to die.

  ‘Look inside, quickly, we do not have much time.’ Captain Jones opened the bag and extracted a letter several pages thick. Even on his deathbed Richard Marshall expected to be obeyed. His friend held each page before the feeble flame and read, to his astonishment, that plain Major Marshall, was really Richard Edward Rivenhall, a peer of the realm, and inheritor of vast estates in Hampshire.

  ‘Good God, Richard, you are a nob! How come you never mentioned it?’

  ‘I did not know myself until two weeks ago. My father was estranged from his brother and he died long before my uncle, Lord Rivenhall. My mother’s brief marriage had not been happy so when she was widowed she reverted to her maiden name. She had enough money to support us in reasonable comfort and to pay for my education. I always wanted to join the army so when my mother died I bought my colours and began my career.’ He coughed, and pink spittle trickled from his lips. Dickon wiped it away, with a sinking heart, knowing his dearest friend was soon to depart this life and leave him with some impossible task to fulfil.

  Richard rallied a little. ‘It appears that the lawyers have been searching for a legitimate heir for months. Eventually they discovered my existence and sent me the letter you have in your hand.’ He stopped too exhausted to continue.

  Dickon watched his friend struggle to find the strength to continue. Eventually he spoke again, but his voice was little more than a whisper

  ‘I want you to become Lord Rivenhall, take on my persona. We have, after all, often been mistaken for brothers. We are the same age and height, we have similar complexions and our hair is dark brown. Good God we even have the same strange coloured eyes. The only difference is in our build, as you are twice my weight.’

  ‘But I know nothing about your family, or ancestral home. I would be uncovered as an impostor at once.’

  ‘No, that is why it will work. I did not even know I was a Rivenhall until last month. I know nothing of my father’s family, so no one will expect you to either. We have spent the last ten years together. You know more about me, and my habits, than anyone else in the world.’

  Dickon sat back on his heels. What Richard said made sense. ‘I shall have to go to see your

  lawyers, the ones who sent you the letter; surely they will know that I am not you?’

  ‘I have never seen any of them. Why should I have done? My own lawyers, Blake and Sons, who have been investing my bounty, have not seen me since I was a stripling. You are enough like me to cause no worries. I shall give you my letter, all you have to do is present yourself to Blake first, and then to Metcalf, as Richard Rivenhall, the rest will follow.’

  Talking had weakened him further and his eyelids fluttered closed, but he still breathed, he was sleeping. God knows, Dickon thought, we are all exhausted; no one has slept for days. Whilst his friend slept fitfully he sat and considered what he had been told and reread the letter. What had been suggested seemed possible but why did his friend wish him to become Lord Rivenhall? Was he trying to help him up a rung in society, give him his estates in return for years of comradeship? Richard stirred and opened his eyes.

  ‘I could do this Richard, but not until I know why? I have no wish to be a lord. I have more than enough money invested in the funds to buy an estate in the country and live a comfortable life as a gentleman.’

  Richard smiled. ‘There is a cousin, Amelia, she will be nineteen or thereabouts and an aunt, not in the best of health; it is all there in the letter, you must read it more closely later. I am the true, direct heir; I do not wish the title or the estate to fall into the hands of some distant, remote connection.’ Dickon was about to interrupt, say that sending him, an unrelated stranger, would be even worse, but his friend shook his head slightly.

  ‘I want Rivenhall managed properly, its people cared for, and I know you will do that. No one could do it better. Also I want you to marry Amelia; then your children will be true Rivenhalls through the distaff side.’

  Dickon was about to protest but Richard gripped his hand fiercely.

  ‘You swore, you gave me your word you would do this. I want to die knowing I have secured my title and my estates. Promise me you will do it.’

  He had no choice. ‘I promise, Richard, I shall keep my oath.’ The hand holding his went slack and his friend was gone, leaving him with a double burden; his grief and an impossible task.

  With extreme distaste he removed the epaulettes from his friend’s jacket and replaced his captain’s insignia with those of a major. The first easy part of the deception was accomplished. Next he buried his friend and taking up the discarded saddle left the cottage. The battle sounds had faded, it was full dark and no one saw him mount the major’s horse and ride away into the night.

  In the aftermath of the battle in which so many of Wellington’s personal staff had died it was easy to report to a commander who did not know him personally. He was given leave to resign his commission and return to England and take over his estates.

  When he presented himself to Blake and Sons they accepted that he was Richard Marshall and were pleased to hand over the sealed envelope they had held for so long. Inside Dickon discovered all the certificates and proofs that he needed and, thus armed, he visited the Rivenhall lawyers, Metcalf and Metcalf.

  The older Mr. Metcalf greeted him with unbridled enthusiasm. ‘My dear, Lord Rivenhall, we have been searching for you for over eighteen months. We had begun to despair of finding you alive.’

  Dickon shook the man’s extended hand. ‘I am pleased to be here, Mr. Metcalf. I am only sorry I did not realize you were looking for me sooner.’

  ‘Sit down, my lord, and let us complete the formalities at once.’ He paused and frowned. ‘However I am sorry to have to inform you, my lord, but a senior clerk wrote to a certai
n William Rivenhall telling him that he is now the heir to the estate. Unfortunately this young man now believes that he is Lord Rivenhall and is at this very moment on his way to claim his inheritance.’

  Dickon smiled thinly. ‘A trifle embarrassing for both of us, Mr. Metcalf, but I am sure the young man will understand he is under a misapprehension.’

  The elderly lawyer beamed. ‘Good, I can leave you to sort this out?’ The new Lord Rivenhall nodded. ‘If you have need of any assistance in this matter please do not hesitate to send a messenger. I shall come directly.’ They parted on good terms, both well satisfied by the meeting.

  As his friend had predicted the lawyers had been happy to accept his claim and so armed with letters of introduction and the necessary documents, Dickon left London that afternoon and drove like a mad man to Hampshire, determined to arrive before his rival.

  *

  Richard stopped talking. The silence hung heavy in the room. He finally raised his head and dared to meet her eyes.

  ‘Well, Millie, there you have it. I hated to lie to you, to everyone, but I had no choice, I made a vow to a dying man. I had to do my best to fulfil it. But I have failed in everything. I have failed Richard and I have failed you;

  Without moving consciously Amelia found herself kneeling at his feet. ‘No, Richard, you have failed no-one. You can still succeed; I beg you, do not give up now.’

  Damp eyed he stared down at her, hardly able to believe his ears. ‘Amelia, my love, can you not see, even if you do not expose me, in two days my colonel will be here and it will be over.’

  ‘But it need not be. Do you love me, Richard?’ Her outrageous question made him laugh in spite of his misery.

  ‘What a question! Of course I do and I shall show you how much.’ He scooped her on to his lap and Amelia received her first real kiss. When he finally placed her back on her feet she was adrift on a sea of pleasure. She had had no idea being a woman could be so wonderful.

  ‘Then let us get married - now - today -- if you are obtain a special licence. Then we can depart for an extended honeymoon and when Colonel Dewkesbury arrives we shall be gone. He will not wish to wait for our return and hopefully neither will that odious man and his lawyers.’

  Richard flushed. He had already considered that option and had obtained, some weeks ago, a special licence. However he had rejected it. He could not ask Amelia to risk everything for him; she deserved better.

  She saw his distress at her suggestion and it convinced her that she was right. ‘Richard, we have no choice. If we do not, Rivenhall will go to William. And how long do you think the estate will survive with him at its head? He will ruin it. Do you think that Papa, Mama, Uncle Edward or Richard, would want that?’

  This was a masterstroke; a reason he could not push aside. He straightened, his vitality restored; once more in command of himself and the situation.

  ‘Very well, my love, if you are sure then we will do it.’ Smiling he dropped before her on one knee and clasped his hands to his chest in a theatrical manner. ‘Miss Rivenhall, will you do me the great honour of becoming my wife?’

  ‘Oh La, your lordship, this is so sudden! You will have to speak to my guardian and I am afraid he is a tyrant and likely to refuse.’ She had always loved playacting.

  ‘For you I would do anything, my dear Miss Rivenhall,’ Richard bleated, his voice an uncanny replica of the absent Rivenhall. He surged upright and promptly asked himself permission to marry the young woman collapsed in hysterical giggles, in a most unseemly way, upon the sofa.

  He reached down and pulled her, breathless, to her feet. Holding her at arm’s length his expression sobered, but Amelia could feel his love surrounding her, holding her safe, whatever happened.

  ‘My darling, listen to me. We shall be wed, but it will be a marriage in name only, do you understand what I mean?’

  It was Amelia’s turn to flush. ‘Yes, I am not a child, Richard. But….’ she hesitated; even with their closeness she could not discuss a subject of such intimacy.

  Richard took her almost roughly into his embrace. ‘Little idiot! Listen to me. If things do not go as planned and I lose the title then the marriage can be annulled. You will not be tied to a disgraced infantry captain.’

  ‘It is you who are the idiot, Richard. Do you think I should care what others think of you? I love you, Lord Rivenhall or not. You told me you have sufficient funds to buy a small estate; then that is what we shall do if we lose Rivenhall.’

  ‘And if I am clapped in jail, what then?’

  For instant Amelia’s determination faltered. She shook her head. ‘I do not care. I shall be a true wife or no wife at all.’ She glared at the man she loved more than her heritage and her good name, daring him to disagree.

  He reached over and tenderly pushed her hair from her flushed cheeks, held captive by her sparkling green eyes. He was lost. He could refuse his enchanting, courageous cousin, nothing. ‘I

  do not deserve you, my little love; and I know I should stand firm, but how can I? I love you too much to risk losing you. Let us be dammed to the consequences!’

  Amelia laughed, aware that she would have to get used to his robust speech if she was to become his wife. She tilted her head to receive his gentle kiss then reluctantly he put her away from him.

  ‘Enough, Millie, I pray that we have the rest of their lives for this. Go back to your bedchamber but be ready to leave for the church at nine sharp. Take Martha in the carriage with you. I shall meet you there.’ Richard escorted his bride-to-be to the door, unlocked it and Amelia slipped through.

  She wanted to run and shout she was so full of joy but instead returned to her room as stealthily as she had left it. She would keep her happiness contained until she was Lady Rivenhall, or Mrs. Jones, she really cared little which it turned out to be.

  Chapter Nine

  Amelia was too excited to sleep. She rekindled the oil lamps and all the candles and decided to begin sorting the garments she would need for her honeymoon. There would be little time for packing if they were to leave directly they returned from church.

  Soon her bed, and the chaise-longue, cascaded with billows of material, a rainbow of colour - silk, damask, dimity and muslin. Amelia had not realized how many gowns she had in her closet.

  By dawn her enthusiasm for packing had wavered and she made herself a nest on the bed and fell asleep. Martha found her the next morning. Her maid was so startled by the chaos the breakfast tray almost joined the muddle of material on the floor.

  ‘Miss Millie, whatever is all this?’

  Amelia rubbed her eyes and surveyed the catastrophe of clothes she had caused. She stretched luxuriously and smiled radiantly at her bemused abigail. ‘I was sorting my wardrobe for my honeymoon, Martha, and fell asleep.’

  This time the tray did slip and with a deafening crash fell to the floor, scattering sweet rolls, butter pats and hot chocolate across the already overcrowded carpet. Martha’s hands covered her face in consternation. She could see that at least two gowns had been soiled by her clumsiness.

  Amelia scrambled out of bed, still smiling. ‘Please do not look so worried, Martha dear, it does not matter. I should not have told you my news like that.’

  ‘Oh, Miss Amelia, I am so sorry. It was such a shock! When are you to be wed, Miss Millie?’ She spoke as she stooped to collect the shards of broken pottery.

  ‘This morning, by special licence, and you are to be my witness.’

  ‘So soon?’

  ‘Yes, Martha. Why should we wait? I have no parent to consult; no friends to ask for advice and Richard and I want to be together.’

  Martha appeared unconvinced. Amelia needed her support for if Martha had an inkling of the real reason for the hasty ceremony she would try and stop it, send for Rivenhall, and all would be lost. Whatever Richard said, if he was exposed as an impostor and disgraced before the world he would never marry her. His pride would not allow it.

  ‘Martha, listen to me. Lord Rivenhall a
nd I are deeply in love and yesterday we kissed.’ She had Martha’s hiss of disapproval. ‘I know, we were very wrong, but Richard immediately proposed and,’ she paused, blushing a little, ‘we both knew it would no longer be possible for him to remain under the same roof as me, not unless we were man and wife.’

  The woman's face creased in sympathetic smiles. ‘Very right and proper, I’m sure. You did wrong, both of you, but are putting it right now, and I’m proud of you. Dear Lady Rivenhall would be pleased too, Miss Amelia.’

  ‘I hope so. Now please help me bathe and dress, for we do not have long. The carriage

  will be outside in little over an hour and we still have to pack the trunks.’

  Between them they made sense from the chaos and in good time the trunks were packed and waiting by the bedroom door. Amelia was dressed in a deep rose velvet walking dress, edged with cherry braid, and a matching pelisse; a pretty bonnet decorated with cherries, completed the ensemble.

  ‘You look a picture, Miss Millie. I wish your dear mama was here to see this day.’

  Amelia nodded, and smiled mistily. She had no need to check her appearance in the mirror, she felt beautiful, from the top of her carefully coiffured hair to the tips of her cherry-red kid boots. She had the glow only brides can achieve.

  Foster held open the door and the young footman handed them in to the waiting carriage. John was on the box, the groom beside him. He had winked, in a most familiar way, when she caught his eye. She smiled, as she settled back on the seat, happy her two favorite people were part of her secret.

  The journey to Rivenhall Church was brief. Her bridegroom was waiting outside with Peters and a rather nervous vicar, who must have thought the whole business distinctly odd, but would not wish to offend his new benefactor by asking awkward questions. Amelia thought Richard looked splendid in his regimentals, every inch a lord.