Lady Morgan's Revenge: Letitia's Naughty Regency Novella

  Lady Morgan’s Revenge

  Letitia’s Naughty Regency Novella

  By

  Alicia Quigley

  Text Copyright © 2015

  All rights reserved

  This novella is for all of us who’ve been too good for too long. Let your “Bad Letty” out for some fun!

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  In the gloom of a damp and cloudy Welsh day, an elegant traveling carriage, perched on the best springs and pulled by a team of very sweet-goers bowled up to Morgan Place. The dilapidated house was good company for the untrimmed shrubs and poor condition of the gravel drive. The door of the chaise opened and a modishly dressed gentleman sprang out, his fair hair ruffling slightly in the wind. He waited as the coachman pulled down the steps and then handed out an extremely fine lady, wearing a traveling dress of grey silk twill. Her auburn tresses were dressed rather severely and her hands were inserted in a large sable muff.

  “Are there no servants here to assist Grissom with the horses?” wondered the gentleman.

  “There may not be. You know how very reduced Letty’s circumstances have been,” his companion replied.

  The gentleman grimaced. “It seems you will have to wait for assistance, Grissom, while I have the butler find someone to come out to you,” he said to his groom.

  The groom nodded and watched as the gentleman gave his arm to the lady, helping her up the steps to the door. The house was swathed in black crepe, and it exuded a distinct air of gloom. A black bow was tied about the knocker; the gentleman lifted it, rapping firmly twice. The knock echoed hollowly and they waited several moments in the misty rain for the door to open.

  “Upon my word, Isobel, no grooms and now it seems no butler either!” exclaimed the gentleman. “Shall we be required to show ourselves in, I wonder?”

  “It does seem very irregular, Francis. Surely all of her servants cannot have left Letty at such a distressing time.” Isobel Wheaton, Viscountess Exencour, looked worriedly at her spouse and bit her lip. She was just opening her mouth to ask him to open the door himself, when they heard sound of the latch lifting, and an ancient and decrepit servant appeared. He looked inquiringly at the visitors.

  “Lord and Lady Exencour,” the gentleman said, entering the hall. He handed his hat and coat to the servant, and turned to help his wife remove her muff and cape.

  “Where is Lady Morgan, please?” asked the lady, somewhat anxiously.

  “Her ladyship’ll be in the drawing room,” the old servitor responded.

  “Well, show us there, man,” said Lord Exencour somewhat impatiently. “Lady Exencour and I have made a long journey and have no wish to wait any longer to see her. Then find someone to help my groom and the coachman take the horses round to the stables.”

  Lord and Lady Exencour followed the butler across the hall to the drawing room, where he opened the door and announced them in suitably dolorous tones.

  The drawing room had the air of a place where only money was wanting. It was spotlessly neat and clean, and the wood of the furniture shone impeccably, but light spaces could be seen on the wallpaper where pictures had once hung, and the curtains, while well-pressed and made of fine damask, were old-fashioned and growing somewhat threadbare. On a settee a young and very beautiful lady sat wearing widow’s weeds and a black veil, with two small children at her side.

  At the sound of their names the widow leapt to her feet and came forward. Lady Exencour ran to her, clasping her in a warm embrace.

  “Oh my dear, we came as soon as we received your letter. What a shock it must have been to you.”

  “Isobel, you cannot possibly imagine how glad I am that you are here,” said the lady in black. “Alfred’s affairs were in such a tangle, that I cannot think what to do. There is no one I can turn to and the creditors are dunning me, even now.

  “Letty, I hardly know what to say to you,” Isobel began. “I cannot say that I am sorry for Alfred’s death, and it is most improper to point out that you are better off without him.”

  “Oh, Isobel, your candor is so welcome,” said Letty, hovering between laughter and tears. “I have hardly spoken a sincere word in the whole time since Alfred’s death. One can hardly tell the truth of it to the neighbors.”

  “Well, you must tell me the whole story, for I certainly will not criticize. How came Alfred to break his neck in a hunting accident? I thought he was still on the Continent,” Isobel said.

  “He returned very suddenly. I fancy there must have been some contretemps in Spa, which is where he had been staying. Some woman, or gambling debt, no doubt,” said Lady Morgan bitterly. “In any event, Alfred appeared here, and did little but roister about the neighborhood and hunt after his return. Three days ago, his hunter stopped at a stone wall, pitching Alfred over it. The ground lay downhill, magnifying the effect of the fall, and his neck was broken.”

  Isobel was silent as Letitia spoke, but took her friend’s hands in her own and held them tightly.

  “He should have waited for his horse,” drawled Lord Exencour. “It’s much more difficult to come to grief when one stays atop one’s mount.”

  Isobel repressed a laugh and Letitia remained silent; neither had any reason to think well of the late Lord Morgan.

  Letitia, having borne up under the many strains of the preceding six weeks, burst into tears. Isobel held her hand and patted her back soothingly, waiting for the storm to pass. At length, Letty’s sobs grew softer, and she sniffed audibly, searching for her handkerchief. Isobel withdrew a serviceable white linen square from her reticule and handed it to her with a smile.

  “A widow without a handkerchief, my dear? It will not do. People surely suspect how little real grief you feel about Alfred.”

  Letty smiled through her tears. “You are quite correct, it is not Alfred I weep for; more a mere irritation of the nerves.”

  “One can hardly call Alfred a ‘mere’ irritation, Letty,” responded Isobel with asperity. “What happened when he returned?”

  “Oh, it was quite dreadful, Isobel. He burst in here quite drunk last month, and announced he had grown weary of the Continent and intended to reside at Morgan Park again. The children were confused, for even Jamie barely recalled him after two and a half years.”

  “Letty, why did you not tell me?” asked Isobel. “Francis would have been only too glad to run him off again.”

  Letty shrugged. “I didn’t want to trouble you, and thought he would soon leave again. He must have won a large sum of money at play before returning, for he arrived with several horses and a new carriage. He joined the hunt and behaved just as always, until his fatal accident.”

  Letty sniffed again, while Isobel and Francis waited. “But his death is not the worst of it, alas. I have had dreadful news from Grieves, the farm manager. He says that for five years nothing has been invested in the estate and all was turned ove
r to Lord Morgan. He would not listen to Grieves’ warnings, and simply demanded the money and ordered him to be silent. It will be years before the estate is profitable again.”

  “I feared that would be the case,” said Lord Exencour. He saw Letty’s hand tighten on her handkerchief and said reassuringly. “But surely careful management can put things right in time.”

  “I hope so,” said Letitia. “I am not fond of Morgan Park, but I do not to wish to see it lost for James.”

  “Then it shall not be,” said Lord Exencour. “You will manage somehow, and Isobel and I will do all we can to be of assistance.

  Letitia closed her eyes, as he spoke. The only child of a widowed, doting father, she had not been raised to know anything about finances; yet her husband had gambled away their wealth, and now she found herself needing to manage what little was left, or speedily find herself another husband to do so for her. Real tears sprang into her eyes at the thought.

  “No,” said Letitia. “I cannot allow the two of you to continue to pick up the pieces of my life and I certainly cannot take your money.”

  “Letitia, Exencour and I have more money than we can possibly need,” interjected Isobel. “Surely you will allow us to--”

  “No, I will not,” said Letitia. “I will always need your friendship and advice, but Morgan Park must be preserved for Jamie, and it must be done without incurring further debt.” She paused, and then a smile broke through. “How severe I sound. As though I had any idea at all of how to do that.”

  Isobel took her hand and squeezed it. “If you will not take our money, at least we can help you with your plans. Something must--shall--be done!”

  “As I understand it, your jointure is quite generous,” Lord Exencour said. “Your father did not want you to be left without adequate funds. Still, it was intended to support an elderly lady, not a very young woman with small children and encumbered estates. You will be able to live on it if you are careful, but it will not free the estate of the mortgages.”

  Letitia twisted her handkerchief in her hands “My greatest concern is the estate; I would hate to see Jamie unable to take up his patrimony and pass it on to his own heirs.”

  After a brief pause, Francis said, “I believe there is a solution to your problem Lady Morgan,” he said quietly. “This property, while heavily encumbered, produces a decent income, and it is a pleasant home. If you lease it until James is capable of taking charge, the income will pay off the worst of the debts, and you will not have to manage the estate. It would mean living entirely on your jointure though, which may require certain economies.”

  “What an excellent idea, my dear,” replied Isobel briskly. She turned to Letty and said, “It could answer your needs very well, what is your opinion, Letitia?”

  “It sounds workable,” Letitia answered. “I was not looking forward to living in such an isolated spot with only my children for companionship. If the rent will pay off the mortgages, it would be the best solution.”

  “You are welcome to stay with Exencour and me, Letty,” Isobel said earnestly. “Or, if you prefer, we can help you find a house to rent in London. Then you can remain near your many friends and yet have your own home,” she suggested.

  “What a delightful idea, Isobel!” Letitia exclaimed. “A small house in a quiet part of London sounds delightful.”

  Chapter 2

  The Marquess of Eynsford viewed the assembly before him with a jaundiced eye. The rooms overflowed with the cream of the ton; while Almack’s did not have the most spacious rooms or the finest refreshments, it was still a venue in which any person wishing to be accepted by Society must appear. Fresh-faced young girls, newly out, were escorted by their ambitious mothers, while eligible gentlemen eyed the scene languidly.

  “Don’t look so stern, Phillip,” said the dowager marchioness of Eynsford. “People will think that you don’t wish to be here.”

  The marquess turned to his mother and smiled slightly. “They would be perfectly correct, a fact of which you are well aware.”

  “If you don’t care about the future of the Eynsford estate, I do,” said his mother stoutly. “You have been knocking about the Continent for years now, and one would think you would be ready to settle down. You are the last of my sons, and I wish the title to remain with your progeny, not those of your uncle.”

  “I would hardly call fighting the French and negotiating with Metternich ‘knocking about,’” the marquess replied plaintively. “Isn’t one scion of the Eynsford line is much like another, after all?”

  “Certainly not! Your Uncle Robert was a fool, and his sons are worse.” The dowager frowned up at him. “You’re two-and-thirty, Phillip, and it is time you marry.”

  Phillip Masham, Marquess of Eynsford, gazed at his mother, annoyance and sympathy in his eyes. Despite the passage of time, she was a beautiful woman, her high cheekbones and fierce blue eyes as memorable as the day she came out. The past five years had been difficult for her; his father had died, followed not six months later by the sudden death from pneumonia of his eldest brother. At that time his mother had decided that Phillip should find a less hazardous career than leading cavalry charges, and he had been assigned to the diplomatic corps. The shocking death of his second brother in a sailing accident had made the diplomat a marquess, a position to which he had never planned or wished to accede.

  “Mother, dear,” he said sweetly, “I came here because you asked it of me. But you can hardly expect me to pick one of these young women at random and hurry her off to the altar.”

  “No, but you can dance with them, and try to find one to your liking,” the dowager answered bluntly.

  The marquess raised his quizzing glass and looked about again. “Who should I lead out first,” he asked teasingly. “The girl with the squint, or the one with the shocking amount of jewelry?”

  “Lord, Phillip, I don’t care,” said his mother. “Surely one of ‘em must be reasonably attractive and able to speak two or three sentences without making a fool of herself.”

  “You set the bar very low, Mother,” said the Marquess.

  “Well, if you had a tendre for a respectable woman, I’d not say you nay,” she replied. “But I’ve never seen you in love, Phillip, so I don’t see why you should worry about that now. You’re far more interested in foreign opera singers and other men’s wives, so it hardly matters whom you marry. I suppose she must be able to put up with your nonsense, so a bit of stupidity might not be amiss.”

  He sighed. “I know I should be shocked at your conversation, Mother, but I seem to be inured to it. How do you know about my opera singers?”

  “All I hear from my friends is gossip about your doings. Do you take me for an idiot?” demanded his mother.

  “Decidedly not,” responded the marquess. “I would never make such a mistake.”

  “See that you don’t,” she snapped.

  “As long as we are here, I will do as I promised, and dance with an eligible child,” he said, giving her a humorous look that belied the tone of their conversation. “Allow me to escort you to a seat.”

  The dowager took his arm, looking up at him with affection. The marquess was an extremely handsome man with thick, burnished gold hair, astonishing dark blue eyes set under arched brows and heavy lids, a thin, straight nose, and mobile, well-cut lips. A passing stranger might well have noticed a resemblance to a painting of a Renaissance angel. This beauty of countenance, however, was marred by the harsh, cynical expression that habitually blanketed his features and his air of ennui.

  “You certainly are handsome enough to charm any woman,” she said stoutly. “Finding a wife should be no difficulty at all.”

  His lips twisted in a cynical smile. “I would have no trouble finding a wife if I were fat, bald, and aged,” he answered. “There isn’t an unwed woman here who wouldn’t take me simply for my title and my fortune.”

  “As you would be marrying her only to supply an heir, neither of you would be robbing the other,”
his mother pointed out. “I see no reason why you should demand devotion from a wife when you have no intention of returning it.”

  “Spare my blushes, Mother,” said the marquess. “One usually pretends that the bride and groom have some affection for one another.”

  “Which is utterly ridiculous. In my day we didn’t tiptoe around the subject!”

  “I’m well aware there are no subjects upon which you will not hold forth,” rejoined the marquess. “But perhaps Almack’s is not the best place for your views.”

  The dowager looked around. “As though I give a button for the thoughts of anyone in this room,” she snorted.

  “I am in complete agreement with you. Yet, if you wish me to marry one of them, perhaps discretion should be the order of the day.”

  His mother snorted, but allowed him to lead her towards a chair by the wall. “Lord, not near Amelia Setterington,” she objected. “I can’t abide the woman.”

  Phillip obligingly changed course, and soon the dowager was settled on a chair next to her old friend, Lady Hambledon. After fetching the strongest refreshment he could find, a claret cup that she greeted with derision, he prepared to leave her to her gossip.

  “Mind you, find someone who won’t cause me trouble,” she said.

  “A respectable, only slightly stupid young woman, who will not cause you trouble,” he said. “I will bear it in mind.” He kissed her hand and strolled away, his gaze raking over the room.

  The past years had given Eynsford ample opportunity to observe how much more attractive he was with a title than without. As a younger son with a competence that could command the necessities but not the elegances of life, he had been anathema to matchmaking mamas, who viewed a young gentleman of great beauty and excellent address, but limited fortune with great suspicion. As soon as he acceded to the honors of the marquisate, however, he became the most pursued man in the kingdom.

  “Eynsford! What are you doing here?”

  The marquess turned to see an exquisite young gentleman with elaborately high shirt points and a turquoise coat approaching him.