Chapter Two
It was with rather insufficient grace that Montague Donovan, Marquess of Laidley, stepped into his Brighton townhouse.
Hell’s bells, but he had desperately wanted that woman to take up his offer. The curve of her lips, the sway of her body as she had reared from him…
True, that had not been the most positive of signs. But still. She had wanted him and only damned propriety had prevented it.
And it was true, he had sworn off romantic entanglements for a few years now and only flirted to keep his eye in. But for the first time in a long time, he had been sorely tempted.
Montague threw his jacket down on the console table to the left of the door, hating the heat and hating the stillness of the house. Goodness, he hadn’t painted in ages. Why was it his fingers itched when they went too long without a paintbrush?
And where was that butler of his?
‘You had a productive time in town, my lord?’ said Draveham, appearing somehow out of thin air.
Montague tried not to scowl. It wasn’t the poor man’s fault that he, Montague, had attempted to tempt a beauty back to his bed and so spectacularly failed. ‘Pleasant enough. Is there ice?’
‘There is always ice, upon your order, my lord,’ said the butler smoothly, inclining his head to the drawing room. ‘I can bring up a footbath if my lordship requires?’
‘Your lordship does require. Thank you.’ Montague tried to smile. That was how he had been raised, after all. Always be polite to servants. ‘I’ll take my letters and my newspaper too. I had no time to read them this morning.’
His butler bowed. ‘Very good, my lord.’
There was a bottle of champagne cooling in an ice bucket beside the armchair when Montague stepped into the drawing room, and the careful thought pulled a smile on his reluctant face.
Well, much as he might bewail the loss of a pretty young thing to keep his bedsheets warm, he had to admit the stifling heat of the summer would perhaps make that less enticing than he thought.
The cork was popped, the bubbles deposited in a champagne coupe, and by the time Montague had pulled off his socks and rolled up his breeches, Draveham had stepped into the room with a large footbath absolutely full to the brim with ice water.
A footman was following him with a silver platter, upon which sat his daily newspaper and far too much correspondence, surely, for one person.
Montague groaned as the platter was proffered. ‘Surely some of this can be dealt with by my steward? My man of business? Some of it is surely addressed to you, Draveham.’
Draveham gave him a wan smile as he placed the footbath at his master’s feet. ‘Alas, my lord, I have already dealt with a great deal of business on your behalf. These letters appear to be…ahem. Personal.’
Personal?
Montague stared as the silver platter was placed on the console table beside him. Personal? Who on earth would be writing to him…personally?
He wracked his brains. His sister was on her honeymoon, an advantageous match made to an earl with a fortune who, thank goodness, had managed to fall in love with his sister almost precisely at the instant she, apparently, had fallen in love with him.
A love match. Between peers! Unheard of.
Their parents were gone, his only close friends in the world knew he hated receiving letters…so who else was there to write to him?
Montague looked at the letters with imminent distrust. Letters.
Only bad news could be found in letters.
Like when he had been thirteen and his parents had set sail for Rome.
The letter had come addressed not to his father but to Montague, Marquess of Laidley.
He had not understood what it meant at the time—
‘Is there anything else I can procure for you, my lord?’
Montague blinked. When he looked up, it was to find both his butler and his footman waiting obediently.
Well, he didn’t want to open these godforsaken letters with an audience. He’d made that mistake before. ‘No, thank you. I’ll ring for luncheon. I’ll have it on a tray if Cook does not mind.’
The butler’s smiled politely. ‘Very good, my lord.’
The two servants disappeared almost silently, the quiet in the room broken by Montague’s hiss of breath as he plunged his sweating feet into the freezing ice bath.
Oh, that was the stuff.
He managed to pass at least two minutes muttering about how cold his feet were.
He then managed to waste five minutes more drinking a glass of champagne, followed by a second one.
He proceeded to avoid the letters for another twenty minutes by perusing his newspaper, which held very little interest and nothing of note.
When the third glass of champagne had been emptied, Montague threw down his newspaper and glared at the pile of letters.
Well, there was nothing for it. He could not avoid them for ever.
Sighing heavily, and wondering if there was such a position as ‘personal letter opener’ and how much one would have to pay for such a role, Montague leaned over and picked up the letters.
He had presumed, based on their bulk, that there were several but now he held them, Montague could see there were in fact only three. One of them was from his buyer in London.
He had not managed to secure a Glenarm. Again.
‘Blast it all to—’ Montague managed to prevent himself from completing the curse, but it was most galling. That was the third time this year and they so rarely came up for sale.
The moment he had first seen a Glenarm, he had known he must possess one.
The artist was truly talented, exquisitely so, and their work was so coveted that private sales were more common than public auctions.
The man’s utter anonymity, the fact that no one had ever seen the artist’s face, only added to the allure.
It had been strange indeed that a landscape had come up for sale in Christies, and Montague had instructed his man in London to pay anything up to a thousand pounds for the piece.
It was an extravagant price.
It had not been enough.
Montague only looked along the letter long enough to spot the phrase ‘terribly sorry but another bidder was most insistent on paying an extortionate price’ to throw the letter onto the carpet.
To be foiled, for a third time!
Well, he would just have to pay even more next time—though goodness knew when the next time would be. The artist must still be living, he was producing new paintings, but not that many. Perhaps three a year.
Perhaps he had missed his chance this year.
His bad temper ever increasing even as his feet continued cooling, Montague picked up the next letter. From the seal, he could tell it was from his solicitor.
Never good news.
Breaking the seal and unfolding the paper, Montague’s gaze dropped onto the neat handwriting of his solicitor.
My lord,
Following the recent information from your cousin, the Earl of Trefusis, it is my suggestion we meet at your earliest convenience to ascertain just how dramatically you would wish to make changes to your living arrangements, financial undertakings, last will and testament, etc.
Although the news has undoubtedly come as a shock to you, it is my first duty to ensure the safety and security of your estate and with such a goal in mind, I would advise you to not rush into any decisions at this present time.
Arrangements are being made as I write and you should expect both of us in the coming days.
I remain your ever faithful servant…
Montague stared.
Recent information—and from his cousin, Trefusis?
What on earth had Trefusis written to his solicitor…
and why? They had barely spoken in the last ten years, a childhood of bitterness and resentment spilling over into adulthood and causing more than one fisticuffs.
After Trefusis had almost broken Montague’s arm, they had agreed never to see each other again.
His eyes scanned over the neat lines from his solicitor once more. You should expect both of us in the coming days.
Both of us? Dear God, Trefusis wasn’t coming here, was he?
Montague groaned. That was the very last thing he needed. He was unpleasant, which was sometimes considered a requirement in a peer, but his unpleasantness went further to cruelty. Worse, Trefusis was pompous, irritating and far too aware of his own fortune and position.
The fact that Montague had a greater fortune and a greater title had always irked his cousin.
Both of us.
Sighing heavily and hoping to goodness his cousin’s visit would not be of long duration, Montague leaned over and tugged at the bellpull.
‘Yes, my lord?’
Montague started. Did his butler actually wait behind the door just so he could step into the room so swiftly? ‘Draveham!’
‘Yes, my lord?’ repeated his butler smoothly, inclining his head. ‘You rang?’
Just for a moment, Montague’s focus darted back to the letter in his lap. Blast it all, but he could hardly refuse a visit from his least favourite family member—not that there was a great list. It was only his cousin and his own sister, now he came to think about it.
‘We will be welcoming a guest in the coming days,’ he said aloud. ‘Two guests. My solicitor, and…and my cousin, the Earl of Trefusis.’
If Draveham was surprised to hear that the man who had thrown out his master at the age of eighteen was now about to be welcomed into the fold for a visit, he did not allow his face to reveal this. ‘Indeed.’
‘Make the two guest chambers up, will you? And tell Cook. And tell Mrs Draveham,’ Montague added, trying desperately to think of the practicalities as his heart burned at the injustice.
Who just invited themselves to one’s house?
‘I suppose we’ll need more candles, and food prepared, and linens washed, and… and such things.’
He met his butler’s eye and was relieved to see Draveham was not going to laugh at him.
‘Indeed,’ his servant said smoothly. ‘And would my lord like some more ice for his footbath?’
‘No, thank you, the recent news has given me a chill all of its own,’ said Montague with a sigh. ‘Thank you, Draveham.’