The Fifth Wife Read online

  The Fifth Wife

  Sahara Kelly

  Copyright 2016 Sahara Kelly

  Cover Art Copyright 2016

  Sahara Kelly, P and N Graphics, LLC

  Acknowledgements

  This is for all the readers who sometimes feel they were born into the wrong century. For those who appreciate the pleasures of dressing up and swooshing around in long skirts, or big hats with lots of feathers. For those like me, who love the chance to slip back into the past for a while and play in a different time and place. Long may we swoosh, and may the feathers in our hats always be fluttering in the breeze.

  And for my best friend, who doesn’t do dress-up, but encourages the principle— always, Partner.

  Author’s Note

  If you’ve read some of my other Regencies, you’ll have noticed that most of them are set in and around the New Forest. I spent my childhood rambling many of its paths, picking bluebells by the armful, splashing through bogs in my wellies, and collecting conkers under the horse chestnut trees. (Climbing them as well!) And yes, there are still Agisters. Also Verderers. It is, as my hero learns, a complicated but charming business. I have taken liberties with the area—inventing villages and adjusting distances, and so on—for the sake of the pacing of my stories. Reading about a twelve-hour trip is boring. However, if you ever get the chance to take one through the New Forest? Magnificent!!!

  Chapter One

  “There’s been a terrible mistake.”

  Charles Fontaine stared aghast at the sheet of paper in his hand. “There has to be. It’s impossible. Can’t happen. Not to me. No. No no no.” He shook his head in denial.

  “I’m afraid there is no mistake, sir.”

  “But I’ve barely heard of these people, let alone met them. How can I be related?”

  Stanley Tothill, who looked every inch the lawyer he was, maintained an impartial gaze on the man in front of his desk. “Sir, you know that there is a Lord Penvale, Baldur Asmund, in your family tree.”

  “I believe I’ve heard the name, but I’ve never met him. Don’t even know where the blasted man lives. Lived.” His response was grudging, and he knew it. But at this moment, it was the best he could do because he really couldn’t recall anything about the Penvales or anyone named Asmund.

  Tothill leaned back in his chair and crossed his hands over his ample belly. “Lord Penvale’s mama was your grandmother’s sister.”

  “So she was my great aunt.” He frowned. “That makes Lord Penvale my…what, exactly?”

  “Second cousin, I believe. Perhaps once removed? ” The lawyer frowned as well. “I’m not one hundred percent positive about that, but I can assure you the rest of these documents are clear and accurate. You are the next male in line to inherit the Penvale title. No doubt about it.”

  “I don’t want it. There must be someone else.”

  “There isn’t. Which is why you are here.”

  Charles sighed. “I gave up a trip to spend the week with friends I haven’t seen in quite some time to meet with you, Mr. Tothill. And now you tell me that I’m going to be a Lord? I don’t want to be Lord of anything.”

  “Well I’m sorry about that, Lord Penvale, but as of today, you are indeed the holder of that title.”

  “So the original passed away.” He returned his gaze to the last will and testament of a relative he’d never met. “And without sons, obviously.”

  “Indeed. There was no male issue, or any other male in the direct line. An unfortunate situation. Lord Penvale lost his first wife in childbirth, and also his second. His third succumbed to the ague, and the fourth met her end in a riding accident.”

  “Good God.” Charles blinked at that piece of information. “Marriage to him was a death sentence.”

  Tothill repressed a grin. “Not an inaccurate description, I suppose, although I prefer to think of it as a run of bad luck. However, his fifth wife seems to be quite well.”

  “Five?” Charles sagged against the desk. “Well, I have to hand it to him. I don’t suppose the family motto was ‘Never Give Up’ in Latin or something?”

  “I have no idea. Although if it was, I would assume it would have been in Norse.”

  “Of course. The Viking inheritance.” Once again, Charles sighed. He was well over six feet tall with dirty blond hair, so there was no denying the ancestry that linked him to that line. He also had the obligatory blue eyes and a broad set of shoulders to go with them. It had not been easy at Eton and Cambridge, but once he’d achieved his full height, few dared bully him beyond what was acceptable.

  Right now, he could have done without the height, the eyes and the hair color. But he was stuck with them, as well as this damnable will.

  He gave up, reached for a chair and lowered himself down in resignation, ignoring the sound of London outside the windows and the crackle of the fire at the far end of the room. “Very well, sir. Give me the facts. I’m not hard up, but any financial gain from the estate will always be welcome. What, other than the lordly coffers, do I inherit?”

  “Nothing, I’m afraid. There is no fortune, the actual estate in terms of acreage was sold a generation ago, and it appears that the only things left are the title…”

  “And?” Charles lifted an eyebrow as the man paused.

  “And…er…a wife.”

  There was utter silence for several moments while Charles tried to understand what his ears had just heard. A gust of winter wind rattled the windowpanes and the soft shush of snowflakes made their presence known as they spattered against the glass.

  “A what? I could’ve sworn you said wife.” Charles got his voice back.

  “I did.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “Yes I did. Honestly. A wife. You know…the female you wed when you’re a man. The one who helps you produce offspring to continue the line.”

  “But I don’t have a wife.” Charles struggled.

  “I understand. And that’s rather a good thing, actually. Since now there’s no impediment to your taking one.”

  “I don’t want one, thank you. I’d only have to give her back.”

  “Unfortunately, there is no choice in the matter,” pronounced Tothill in grave tones. “Perhaps I should explain.”

  “Perhaps you bloody well should.” Charles gripped the arms of his chair, while apprehension did a rapid waltz up and down his spine.

  “Yes, sir.” Tothill sorted papers on his desk, finding the one he wanted and pushing the others aside. “To give you a bit of necessary background here, the Penvale line began way back during the time when East Anglia was being regularly invaded by hordes of Norse warriors. Angles, Danes, that sort of thing.”

  “Vikings?”

  “More than likely. Although I confess to being a bit vague on the specifics.”

  “No matter. Let’s move through history to now, shall we?”

  “Of course. Back to the late Lord Penvale. Or, I should say, the current Penvale line. Which is, of course, yourself.”

  “I understand that. Could we get to the part where I apparently inherit nothing but a wife? That’s where I get a bit lost.” Charles bit down on his impatience. He was good at keeping his counsel and that talent stood him in good stead at this particular moment. Otherwise he’d have reached across the desk, grabbed Tothill’s head, and used it to crack one or two of the walnuts in the nearby dish.

  “It’s complicated, as some of these bequests that go back for generations can so often be. I’m going to ask you to bear with me, sir. I’ll take it one step at a time.”

  “I will endeavor to follow you. But if you don’t start now, I may arrive ahead of you and you won’t like that.”

  Tothill glanced at him. He surely observed the expression Charles knew was radiati
ng impatience.

  “Indeed, my Lord. Here’s the situation as it’s stated in the records. One of the earliest Lord Penvales was granted a certain amount of land by the Vikings who had conquered it. There was a condition. He would wed the eldest daughter of the Viking tribe, thereby assuring her and their offspring of property and the likelihood of a decent living.”

  “Sounds practical.” Charles nodded.

  “It was,” agreed Tothill. “Many people don’t realize that the Vikings themselves weren’t making war as much as expanding their lands. Here, in England, they found good grazing, good agricultural possibilities and the chance to build new lives and towns.”

  “And estates. Through marriage.”

  “Exactly. And from that point on, every Lord of Penvale married the eldest daughter of that Viking’s line. It became a tradition that was legalized sometime during Charles the Second’s reign. At some point the surnames blended, and thus the recently departed lord was born Baldur Asmund.”

  Charles absorbed the information. “Didn’t that lead to some serious inbreeding? If Penvales always married daughters of the same family, then the children would be marrying cousins or something?”

  Tothill shook his head. “I won’t say that might have happened early on, but since the beginning of the records, the closest relationship has been a second cousin, I think. The Penvale line wandered around a bit…as it has done this time around. And the daughters—well they weren’t always from the same branch of their family line either.”

  “Then how the hell did a Penvale find his bride?”

  “Valid question.” Tothill permitted himself a grin. “I wouldn’t have wanted the job, for certain. But there is a distinguishing birthmark—quite distinctive—that marks the line of Penvale brides, and it occurs in every generation.”

  “Every generation?”

  “Somewhere in that family line, yes. They are scattered widely up and down the east coast, but as you can imagine, information pertaining to a marriage such as this—“

  “It would spread rapidly, I assume.”

  “It’s an unusual situation, make no mistake.” Tothill lifted his shoulders. “But that’s one of the more charming aspects of English law. And not one I run into very often. I wasn’t even aware of this particular business until Lord Penvale passed on. My father had been his lawyer for some time, and before I took over, it never occurred to me that the Penvale estate was anything other than routine.”

  “Well I follow you so far. Though I confess to a bit of confusion here—how did the late Lord Penvale go through four wives? Wait, five wives?”

  “I’m told that the current line of Penvale brides was blessed with daughters.”

  “Let me guess. Five of ‘em.”

  “At least.”

  “All right. Well, logically then, the fifth wife is now the widowed Lady Penvale, and thus I will have to provide for her welfare, I suppose. If there’s no money involved I can certainly see to a modest settlement to ensure she’s cared for. Happy to do that much for the poor thing.”

  “Well that’s the sticky bit, sir. You see the marriage between the late Lord Penvale and the fifth daughter never actually took place.” He leaned forward. “There was a period of mourning after number four passed away, as is to be expected, even though everyone knew the fifth one was next up at the altar, so to speak. But in the interim…”

  “Lord Penvale himself cocked up his toes?”

  “Quite.”

  Charles began to sense the implication of the conversation. “You’re telling me that as Lord Penvale, I am now duty bound to wed the fifth bride.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You are not jesting.”

  “I would never jest about such a subject, my Lord. This is a legal matter tracing its origins back for more generations than I can count. Even if I were not representing the Penvale estate, I would be in awe of such a tradition.” He straightened in his chair. “I am certainly not jesting.”

  “All right, I apologize. That comment was unseemly. But you can understand my shock.” Charles reminded himself that Tothill was the messenger. A bit of a pompous one, but a messenger nevertheless.

  “I do understand. I’m sure the Derby family will be just as shocked.”

  “Who are they?”

  “They are the family who is currently producing Penvale brides. They have lost four daughters. They are naturally distraught. And now the fifth…”

  “Derby? That doesn’t exactly sound like a Viking name.” Charles frowned. “Are we convinced they’re genuine? After all, the chance to wed a title…” His voice tailed off as he let the lawyer think about that aspect of this bizarre business.

  But Tothill shook his head. “As honest as the day is long, sir. Besides, there’s the matter of the birthmark. A Norse symbol, it would seem. Some sort of a triangular thing that marks potential Penvale brides. The Derby daughters have it. Verified by the local vicar’s wife. Then there’s the record keeping, which has been incredibly meticulous.” He pointed at a shelf of aged books and flattened papers. “I have been provided with both Penvale and Derby records back to the sixteen hundreds. I’m sure somewhere there is a surname change, but I haven’t actually had chance to locate it. I can try, if you’d like…”

  “No, no.” Charles stared at the shelves. “If you’re convinced that they are legitimate and have this birthmark thing on them, then who am I to question it?”

  “Thank you, my Lord. I appreciate your confidence.”

  Charles stood and walked to the shelving, delicately touching the aged leather binding. He turned to the lawyer. “So the question now is what the hell am I to do with a bride I neither know nor want?”

  Tothill spread his hands wide in the universal gesture that said “I haven’t a clue”.

  “I should see her, I suppose. Discuss this awful mess.” Charles was thinking aloud. “If she has family, I’ll need to consult with them as well. Surely they cannot countenance marrying their remaining daughter to someone they’ve never met?”

  “Well, sir.” Tothill looked a bit apprehensive. “There’s a bit of a problem there.”

  Charles closed his eyes and prayed for patience. “It would appear that this entire situation is fraught with ‘em, man. Let’s have it. Bluntly and with no circumlocution if you please.”

  The other man nodded. “Right then. Here it is. The Derbys have four sons and one more daughter to be wed. Their finances are perilous at the moment, their holdings amount to a modest manor house, a small inn and a stable of decent horses.” He took a breath. “And if you go to see them, they will likely offer you the remaining daughter instead, because the fifth wife has run off rather than wed someone she’s never met. I’m told she was quite adamant about her intentions.”

  As he absorbed this dramatic statement, Charles realized one thing with utter clarity. He should have gone to Gordonstone Hollow. He’d much rather be spending Christmas with Lucius and his new wife and Dev than learning he was now in the most appalling mess to be found outside the covers of some absurdly silly novel.

  *~~*~~*

  There was ample time for reflection on the disastrous choice he’d made to visit London. The roads were not at their best and his trip back to his home just outside Winchester took longer than he’d anticipated.

  Dev and Lucius had probably given him up by now, which was a good thing since once he got back to Fontaine House he intended staying there. Perhaps for the rest of his life.

  He would become the reclusive Lord Penvale. It had rather a nice ring to it, he decided.

  He stretched his legs, pushed the wool blanket away and wished he were riding, despite the cold and the occasional flurry of snow. The enforced inactivity necessitated by traveling in a carriage grated on his nerves. Heaven knew they were frayed enough.

  Upon hearing that the fifth wife—as he’d come to think of this poor young woman—had run away rather than marry him, he’d realized that these weren’t just daughters of a certai
n familial line, they were real people.

  It was too easy to listen to crisp legal phrases and confusing bequests; one forgot that there were humans involved. In this case a young woman ordered to wed a man of whom she knew nothing whatsoever. It wasn’t unheard of in society, but the Derbys didn’t live in the center of the Ton.

  Four of them before her had faced the same fate. She’d lost those four sisters, so Charles couldn’t blame her for running. He’d probably have done the same.

  Her name was Hannah, she was twenty-three years old, and she was destined to be his future wife unless he could find her and talk her out of this ridiculous arrangement. Oh, and she had some sort of birthmark.

  Simple, on the face of it. But the fact that nobody seemed to know where she was, or even care very much, was worrisome.

  No search had been instigated, or alarms raised. Tothill had informed him that the Derbys were making inquiries of their relatives and that the most likely place to find her would be in the New Forest. One branch of the family had a little property there and served as Agisters, taking care of the animals that roamed the area.

  Charles had nodded at this piece of information, but admitted to himself that he had no idea what an Agister was, or did, and one of the first things he intended to do when he got home to his library was find the answer to those questions.

  With that in hand, he might well be able to locate places where Agisters gathered, or congregated, or flocked…or whatever they were called when they got together as a group for a tankard or two. A herd perhaps? No, a scroll? That sounded more appropriate.

  His meandering ruminations took up a good part of the journey and he was almost surprised to see the approach to the House through the darkening shadows. The lights were glowing and he felt a sense of pleasure at the knowledge he’d be home very shortly.

  He then realized something else that shocked him. He hadn’t spared a thought for her in several days.