Chapter 1

Chapter 1

The candle burned lower in the gloom of the notary's office on Gracebury Street.

Robert, Duke of Montbury, knew the deal was sealed. Now Napoleon had been defeated, the fashion for French red wine had returned, and his vineyard investments were returning considerable profits.

The elderly French émigré, sitting opposite him, no longer had money to maintain his vineyard near Dijon.

He noticed tears forming in the marquis' eyes as he took the quill pen from Mr Norris, the notary, to sign away his estate.

For a moment, he felt a pang of compassion for the Marquis of Perigord, about to lose his family property in this business deal.

I worked hard to pull my own family's fortunes back from the brink of disaster. The marquis gains funds to support his own family.

He knew he had the edge in this deal, but still, both parties benefitted.

He gazed at the rain falling in rivulets down the window. Dark, dull days, and there had been little else for some weeks. Robert longed to spend time in a warmer climate, feeling the hot sun on his back. There was an unusual excitement about this business transaction.

I own a vineyard, he thought, a vineyard in a beautiful valley in a region of France I remember from my childhood. His grandmother's estate had been close to the Burgundy vineyard he was about to purchase. Memories flooded back, and a desire to return to France after so many years away.

After the marquis left, Robert shared a glass of fine Madeira wine with Mr Norris.

"A fine day's business, Your Grace," said Mr Norris, gathering legal papers from the table. "The Chateau du Clos de Vauvet and its estate gives promise of a rich return. The vineyard is renowned across Europe for the quality of its red wine. It's a shrewd acquisition now that war is over and France is stable again."

Robert nodded. "I plan to acquire a significant holding in that region. My grandmother grew up in Burgundy, and I long for a warmer climate." He looked out the window at the driving rain, knowing that in the summer he would be in France, surveying his vineyard.

"I thought at one point that the marquis was about to pull out of the sale. You did well to get his signature on that document, Mr Norris," he congratulated his legal adviser.

Mr Norris smiled, offering Robert another glass of wine. Robert nodded his thanks.

"I plan to visit the vineyard in the summer," he said, handing Mr Norris a wad of paper.

"These are the neighbouring properties. I'd like to acquire this whole valley and get the wine imported to England." He pointed to three names on the list. "I know these are approaching ruin and won't want to sell, but they will realistically have no alternative. Offer them a decent price, but you know I expect to make a handsome profit."

Mr Norris nodded. "I'll make enquiries."

"The sooner we act, the better. It's the right time to buy land now that Napoleon has gone. They won't want to sell, but in this climate with France torn apart by the war, they have little choice. I feel a nostalgia for this part of Burgundy."

This was just business, but for once, he felt more of a thrill of excitement, knowing that he'd strengthened his family fortunes and increased his holding in the valley. The Montbury star was ascending. He wished his grandmother was alive to see her family lands being reclaimed and expanded. She had escaped the terrors of the Revolution and Madame la Guillotine and ended her days quietly in exile in England, but she always missed her homeland.

When his grandmother, the Marchioness de la Rochaille, told him stories of her childhood home, he created a picture of it in his mind. He saw the chateau in the golden sunlight, the deep green of the forest covering the hillside, and rows of vines ripening in the hot summer heat. A dream grew that he would someday revisit the valley and reclaim his family heritage.

At least two of the names on the list of properties he planned to acquire had denounced the marchioness, leading to the loss of not only lands but the arrest of his grandfather and uncles and their deaths in the Place de la Concorde with Madame la Guillotine.

This reclamation of the Val de Vauvet was a personal mission. He might be the Duke of Montbury, but he now also held the Marquis de la Rochaille title. He had now acquired an additional vineyard with not just a lake but the additional advantage of a forest producing very highly profitable wood needed for reconstruction after the war.

After returning his horse and phaeton to the stable mews at Wendover House he planned on taking a light supper, then joining a card game at his club. The rain hadn't stopped for days, and everything was dismal and damp.

Mr Woodley, the butler at the townhouse, greeted him, taking his dripping frock coat. He ran his fingers through his wet hair, wishing this endless rain would stop. Perhaps he'd stay at Wendover House after all and take supper by the fireside in his study before reading a book.

Mr Woodley handed him a silver tray with a letter.

"A messenger arrived from Castle Montbury. One of the under-grooms rode post haste. He's been on the road for four days, so I've sent him to Cook for some supper," Mr Woodley informed him.

"How unusual. I'd best read this and reply immediately. I'll take supper in the study."

Robert waited till he was alone before opening the envelope, hoping his mother was well. She usually got on with managing the estate and let him live his life in London.

Castle Montbury, his childhood home, the place he had expected to live his life and raise a family. That was before Rosalind. Now he couldn't think of Montbury without her memories, and none were good.

I gave my heart to Rosalind. I thought she loved me.

Since the loss of Rosalind he avoided contact with the Montbury estate as much as possible.

Enough, I won't think about that time. It's over.

He couldn't avoid this letter, though. His mother wrote that Michael Morley, his land agent and the steward of the estate, had been taken grievously ill. No one knew the estate and the annual calendar of planting, harvesting, and maintenance as well as Michael.

His mother wrote that Peter, Michael's nephew, was dealing with affairs daily, but they needed to make arrangements to replace Michael. Robert's mother, Helena, Dowager Duchess of Montbury, didn't ask for much from him. He lived his life mostly in town and went to Montbury for Christmas festivities or a shooting party in the summer. She had asked for help, and he would return, albeit with extreme reluctance.

He called to Mr Woodley, "I'll be leaving in the morning for Montbury. Tell Grayson that I'll need the carriage."

"Is all well, Your Grace?" enquired Mr Woodley.

"Sadly not, Woodley. Michael Morley has been taken ill and won't be able to resume his duties. I need to oversee arrangements for a replacement. Her ladyship, the dowager duchess, insists I'm involved."

"Michael Morley is a good man. He's managed the Montbury estate as long as I can remember. That's a big change."

"Indeed, so I must go where I am needed. If I set off in the morning, then I should be there by Friday."

Memories were just memories. Rosalind had jilted him, then jilted his younger brother Simon and married the elderly Duke of Wyndale. He had heard she was now a widow and becoming close to his brother Simon again. His mother had warned him there was a likelihood of an engagement between them. He had no desire to see Rosalind, Duchess of Wyndale ever again.

She accepted my proposal, told me she would love me forever, and then, within a month, she was engaged in a liaison with my brother.

Yet often in quiet moments, Robert remembered those perfect features, with blazing blue eyes, surrounded by a halo of gloriously long golden hair. If he imagined meeting a fairy tale princess in a forest, he knew she would look like Rosalind.

But Rosalind was long gone, and Simon rarely visited Castle Montbury. He needed to enjoy his childhood home again. He hadn't seen his mother, sister Elinor, or nephew Frederick for many months.

The memory of Rosalind had kept him from his family for too long. It was time to return and ride across those wild northern moors again.