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“There is just one more thing, Majesty.” The Duke of Montrose—his Lord Chamberlain for over two years now—shuffled a few papers, looked down, then looked up. “The Earl of Crowland has died.”
George blinked. “That’s a pity.”
“He was in possession of five daughters.”
“No sons?”
“Not a one. There is no heir. The title has reverted to you, Majesty.”
“This was recent?”
“Earlier this month.”
“Ah, well.” George yawned. “We shall have to give the widow ample time to grieve before we reabsorb the property.”
“Very kind of you as always, Majesty.”
“There is little point in—Wait a moment.” George’s brow furrowed. “Crowland, you say? Wasn’t he involved in that dreadful Wyndham matter?”
“His daughter was engaged to the duke. Er, the first one.” Montrose cleared his throat. “But there is the matter of the earldom. With Crowland available—”
“How is Wyndham?” George cut in.
“Er, which one?”
George had a good laugh at that. “The new one. The real one. Eh, the other one, too. He was a good sort. We always liked him. He quite dropped out of sight, didn’t he?”
“I believe he is recently returned from Amsterdam.”
“What the devil was he doing there?”
“I do not know, Majesty.”
“He married the Crowland girl, though, didn’t he? After the whole mess with the title.”
“He did.”
“What a strange girl she must be,” George mused. “Surely she could have done better.”
“My wife informs me it was a love match,” Montrose said.
George chuckled. It was so difficult to find proper amusement these days. This was a fine tale.
Montrose cleared his throat. “We do need to settle the matter of the empty earldom. It can certainly sit, but—”
“Give it to Cavendish,” George said with a wave.
Montrose stared at him in shock. “To…”
“To Cavendish. The former Wyndham. The Lord knows he deserves it after all he’s been through.”
“I don’t believe his wife was the eldest daughter. The precedent—”
George had another laugh over that. “We daresay there is no precedent for any of this. We shall wait six months. Give the family time to grieve before the transfer.”
“Are you certain, Majesty?”
“This amuses us, James.”
Montrose nodded. The king only rarely used his Christian name. “He shall be most grateful, I’m sure.”
“Well, it isn’t a dukedom,” George said with a chuckle. “But still…”
Seven months later, at Crowland House, London
“Oh, I do not think I can call you Lord Crowland,” Amelia said, taking a sip of her tea. “It makes me feel as if I am talking to my father.”
Thomas just shook his head. It had only been a month since they were called down to Windsor, and just a week since the news had been made public. He’d only just got used to not turning every time someone said Wyndham.
A footman entered the room, bearing a large tray. “The newspapers, sir,” he intoned.
“Oh, it’s a Wednesday, isn’t it?” Amelia exclaimed, immediately moving toward the tray.
“You are addicted to that gossip rag,” Thomas accused.
“I can’t help it. It’s so delicious.”
Thomas picked up the Times and looked for political notes. He supposed he’d be back in the Lords now. He would need to be better informed.
“Oooh,” Amelia murmured, positively buried in her news sheet.
Thomas looked up. “What?”
She waved him off. “Nothing you would be interested in. Oh!”
“Now what?”
This time she ignored him entirely.
He turned back to the paper, but he’d only got three sentences in when Amelia shrieked.
“What is it?” he demanded.
She waved her gossip rag in the air. “We’re here! We’re here!”
“Let me see that,” he said, snatching it out of her hand. He looked down and read:
From Wyndham to Cavendish to Crowland…
This Author offers a point to whomever correctly identifies the man married to the former Lady Amelia Willoughby. And indeed, after five years amongst the untitled masses, surely the new earl would take Mr. Shakespeare to task. That which we call a gentleman with a title, estate, and thirty thousand per year smells infinitely sweeter than a mere mister.
Surely the new Lady Crowland would agree. Or would she? Despite her longstanding engagement with the man who once was Wyndham, she married the fellow when he had barely a farthing to his name.
If that isn’t a love match, This Author shall eat her quill…
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 4 FEBRUARY 1824
