Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
June 1815
Wentworth Park
Charles Montgomery was of the particular belief that an orderly life was the key to a peaceful existence—or at least one that afforded him a modicum of peace. Having everything in its proper place and done at the proper time made it easier for him to spot the discrepancies that often cropped up in his life.
Like last night, when he had deviated from his routine and ended up having to escort Miss Phoebe Townsend off his lands…
If a simple-minded woman can find her way inside, how much more a skilled assailant?
It was a possibility he could not countenance, which was why he—and the rest of his household—had been forced to stay up for most of the night, searching every nook and cranny in the entire estate to see if any other intruders managed to find their way in, human or feline.
“Are you sure you have looked everywhere?” he asked one of the footmen, a man named Gibson with a stocky build and a face that looked as if it had been handily bashed in one too many times.
“Positive, milord,” Gibson replied as he followed his master from the bedchamber to the breakfast hall. The man did not walk so much as he stomped , his every footfall threatening to put a dent into the floor.
“Have you also checked the rest of the walls? The perimeter fence?”
“Yes, milord. Everything is accounted for—including the hens and every single egg.”
Charles stopped and looked at Gibson, who looked every bit as serious about the eggs as he was the safety of his master.
“Very well then,” he muttered. “Let Ambrose know I will not be requiring his expertise for the foreseeable future, though he is allowed to remain at Wentworth meanwhile. You may return to your post now. I shall proceed to the breakfast hall on my own.”
“As you wish, milord.”
He could hardly contain his sigh of frustration as Gibson attempted to sketch a bow before he left. It looked like the poor man might topple over on his feet. Gibson was the rough and tumble brother of an old… colleague of Charles, and so he had given him employment despite the man’s blatant lack of qualifications for his role. As guileless as he was, the man was a loyal fellow, which Charles could appreciate at the very least.
Shaking his head, he proceeded down to the breakfast hall, where he expected breakfast to have already been served according to his specifications.
However, it seemed as if everyone was intent on tormenting him in one way or another over the last couple of days.
He frowned as he sat down for breakfast, scowling at the eggs, ham, bread, and assortment of jams and marmalades spread out before him. The kitchens always prepared too much food for one person. They could not have possibly expected him to finish all of this, could they?
He glowered at the footman, O’Malley, who hovered patiently by his side.
“I thought I told you to tell the new cook that I despise jams and marmalades of all sorts,” he told the footman in a curt tone. “What,” he gestured at the spread before him, “is the meaning of all this?”
“Cook thought that it would, ah, brighten up breakfast for Your Lordship,” O’Malley replied.
Brighten up the breakfast? What sort of insane notion is that? Charles thought to himself. Breakfast is for eating. For nourishment. For consistency. Not a god-forsaken art explosion on the table.
“Should I, ah, take it all away then, milord?”
Charles regarded the stammering footman with a raised eyebrow as if to say, “What do you think?”
Shaking his head with a sheepish grin, O’Malley called for the other servants to help him dispose of the jams and marmalades on the table until all that was left was a basket of bread, the butter, the ham, and some eggs.
Upon seeing the significant difference, Charles felt something within him ease. As if a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. However, there was something that still needed to be carried out before he could proceed with breakfast.
He cleared his throat and glared coldly at O’Malley.
“Oh, yes, milord!” the footman smiled widely. “Best part of my day, this one.”
Charles watched as the man happily helped himself to a serving of eggs and ham, then generously slathered some butter on his bread before sitting down and scarfing them all down before his master. When Charles looked pointedly at the teapot, O’Malley poured himself a cup of it, added some cream, and drank it with a huge grin on his face.
“You look exceedingly happy for a man who may fall dead at any time,” Charles remarked with a neutral expression.
“Well, milord, I hardly get to sample such fine fare, so I always look forward to this!” O’Malley grinned around a mouthful of ham and eggs. He paused and washed everything down with some tea, before adding, “If I were to die, then I would die a happy and satisfied man, milord!”
“How wonderful of you to put a positive spin on what might have been a more macabre situation,” Charles replied wryly.
“As long as I can serve Your Lordship, my life will be well worth the price!” O’Malley declared dramatically, his eyes shining as he took a large chunk out of the buttered bread.
“How… reassuring,” Charles muttered, before he helped himself to some ham and eggs.
Watching the footman chomping everything down with great gusto before him began to allay his fears. He poured himself some tea, finally at comfort to proceed with breakfast as usual. But he had barely taken a sip from his cup when his stomach began churning in consternation once more.
Slamming the cup down hastily, he turned towards another footman hovering about the edge of the room.
“Williams!” he started. “Has everything been searched extensively?”
The footman stepped forward and nodded. “Nothing was found amiss, milord.”
“Are you sure?”
Williams nodded in reply.
“What about the back door? The windows?” Charles insisted. “Has everything been barricaded?”
“Of course, milord.”
“Adequately, I should hope?”
“Certainly, milord.”
Charles sighed inwardly and began to cut into his ham. Everything was in order. Yet he could not bring himself to feel at ease.
Why did it feel like something terrible was about to happen?
Or had already happened.
Something unusual. Something out of the ordinary. Something he could not quite put a finger to…
Huxley, his butler, suddenly burst into the breakfast hall with the daily column in his hand and Charles felt a sense of gloating triumph in his heart.
He knew something was afoot!
Immediately, he made to his feet, his every sense on high alert as he regarded the panicked man before him with a newfound sense of assurance.
“What is it?” he asked the butler, who had turned nearly ashen now. “Was something stolen from the lands? I was made to understand everything had been properly inspected and barricaded—”
The butler shook his head fiercely. “It is not that, milord.”
“Ah, the harvests have been—”
“Not that either.”
“Then… an intruder?”
The butler shook his head again.
Charles frowned. “Not an intruder? Are you sure?”
“Yes, milord.”
“Well, Huxley, what could possibly warrant you bursting in through the door like this if it is not something so imminently life-threatening?” he snapped.
He watched as O’Malley furtively poured the man some tea, but apparently, Huxley did not possess the same audacity his footman did when it came to partaking in the breakfast of their master.
Taking huge gulps of air, Huxley was finally able to steady himself before he managed to croak out, “The papers, milord.”
“What about the papers?” Charles muttered, grabbing the daily column from his butler’s trembling hands.
His eyes swiftly scanned the printed words, and slowly, his expression began morphing into one of shock and rage. He caught his name mentioned several times and along with that, a more familiar one— Miss Phoebe Townsend .
“What in tarnation is this drivel?” he bit out.
“My thoughts precisely, milord,” Huxley nodded breathlessly. “How dare they tarnish your fine reputation? Why, you have served the—”
The quelling look that Charles sent his way effectively halted the butler in his tracks, but it did nothing for O’Malley, who peered over his shoulder in a manner that was hardly subtle.
“What do you mean tarnish His Lordship’s reputation?” the footman asked in confusion. “What do— oh .”
Oh, indeed!
There, printed upon the broadsheet was the titillating story of a secret love affair between a mysterious, reclusive nobleman— him —and a young lady deemed by all to have been verifiably on the shelf— Miss Phoebe Townsend .
According to the papers, this had been going on for quite some time already, and that the two of them were to be married soon. In fact, they had even gone into great detail about his daily routines.
By the end of it, Charles did not know if he should be aghast that someone had a thorough and intimate knowledge of his daily activities, or the fact that someone had concocted an extremely ludicrous story regarding himself and a certain young lady who lived next door .
I knew something was bound to happen , he thought to himself. I just never expected it to be this!
Having lived most of his adulthood detached from the ton and its shenanigans, he could hardly grasp the meaning of having his name plastered on the papers in association with a certain young lady’s. He knew well enough, though, that such a story could ruin not only a lady’s prospects, but that of her entire family as well.
Society, as vain and shallow as it was, was also quite quick to judge its members and there was nothing it liked to feed on more than the tattered reputations of young ladies.
He thought of the young woman from last night, her eyes wide and clear as she rambled on about her cat and the mice in his estate. Somehow, she did not strike him as someone who would be capable of maneuvering the dangerous waters of public opinion, and a piece like this could very well pull all her sisters down, as well.
Those damned sharks are going to eat her alive. That much is certain .
“What are we going to do about it, milord?” O’Malley wailed.
“Of course, we must protest it,” Huxley scoffed. “Such a libelous falsehood printed for all the world to see! Why, they should be ashamed to call themselves a publication!”
“We must stop getting our papers from them!” the footman agreed.
The butler nodded. “Certainly! Right after we shut down their business and throw every single one of them out by the ear!”
As his butler and footman argued about how they were going to tear that so-called respectable broadsheet apart, Charles still could not get Miss Phoebe Townsend out of his mind.
He thought of her wide, brown eyes staring back at him and for some reason, he knew he could not leave her to deal with whoever was hateful enough to drag her name and reputation into the mud by printing such falsehoods.
He had never been one for chivalry. His brief stint in the ballrooms of London also taught him that he offended more ladies than he could charm.
But that paper had woken up something deep and latent within him.
With a solemn finality, he closed the paper. Almost immediately, Huxley and O’Malley ceased their childish argument and turned towards him.
“We are going to do no such thing,” he told them. “Have my carriage readied. I will be going to Townsend House right now .”
It was the first time in a long while that he had stepped out of Wentworth Park, and he wondered just how much Miss Phoebe Townsend was going to upend his life and his precious routines.
He had a hunch that this was only the beginning, and unfortunately, his hunches were rarely ever wrong.