Holiday Duet: Two Previously Published Regency Novellas

by Grace Burrowes

  An idea tugged at the back of Antonia’s mind, a possibility. She sipped her tea and nibbled a biscuit to be polite, while she considered that the challenge of how to be rid of Peter might have a solution. Possibly. Maybe.

  She still had no idea how to go on where Max Haddonfield was concerned.

  “I am so pleased you called upon me,” Lady Casriel said when Antonia rose to leave. “His lordship will be sorry he missed you. May I confide your situation to him, or would you prefer the matter remain private between us?”

  Casriel’s discretion was utterly trustworthy. “I consider his lordship a friend, my lady, and had thought to put my situation to him directly. Peter presses me daily for a decision and I lacked the fortitude to give him the answer I must.”

  “And here, I thought you sought Casriel’s aid negotiating settlements on your behalf. Are you free Thursday afternoon?”

  “As it happens, I am.”

  “Would you like to join me for a tea at Lady Bellefonte’s? She’s keen on libraries as is her sister-by-marriage, Lady Susannah. You would get on well with them splendidly.”

  Antonia’s hostess escorted her to the door, and as Antonia buttoned up her cloak, a snippet of conversation popped into her head. Something Max had said about Lady Bellefonte and cats.

  “You are well acquainted with Lady Bellefonte?”

  “Better acquainted recently. Casriel’s next-youngest brother married Lady Susannah Haddonfield, and she is of a literary bent. I think you and she would disappear into raptures about Donne and Shakespeare, and leave all the tea cakes for the rest of us.”

  Antonia pulled on her gloves, ready to use the walk home to think through the possibilities Lady Casriel had raised. Peter needed money apparently, and Antonia needed to be free of his attentions.

  “Haddonfield?” Antonia said, pausing with her bonnet in her hands. She knew Lady Susannah by sight, though they weren’t even what Antonia would call acquaintances.

  “I am gradually getting to know the whole tribe,” Lady Casriel said. “Max, the youngest brother, keeps a distance to elude his sisters’ matchmaking schemes, but Susannah claims he’s the smartest of the bunch.” Lady Casriel took the bonnet and settled it onto Antonia’s head, tying the ribbons in an off-center bow.

  “They sent Max up to Cambridge,” she went on, “when he was fourteen because he’d outstripped his tutors. He nearly blew up the stables when he was eight. The family has many Max stories, all told with the sort of awe reserved for the seafaring adventurer. I look very much forward to making his acquaintance.”

  Antonia had started the day in a welter of anxiety and confusion, but the notion that Max Haddonfield was an earl’s errant son solved at least a few puzzles. He had the manners and education of an aristocrat, while the determination to be of use to society was uniquely his.“He must be a different sort of earl’s son,” Antonia said. “What does this Max do now?”

  “We’re not sure,” Lady Casriel replied, passing Antonia her scarf. “Max doesn’t say much about his scientific pursuits, which also makes him a different sort of man, doesn’t it?”

  “Maybe he’s waiting to be asked about those pursuits, my lady.” Or about a certain delightful interlude behind locked library doors. “I will wish you good day and send you a note regarding Thursday’s tea.”

  Chapter Six

  Galileo’s proposed arrangement of the planets with the sun at the center of the universe had neatly explained the observable data. The Church’s insistence that Earth occupied the center of the universe had, by contrast, required increasingly unsatisfactory corollaries and conjectures. The Church’s theory had been wrong, of course, a fiction convenient for the popes and cardinals.

  Max had no business dining with Lord Hamblin and Miss Huntly for the second time in a fortnight, another inconvenient truth. Some theory was afoot in their minds, some grand, unifying stratagem complete with corollaries and exceptions, and like Galileo, Max would soon be faced with the choice of bowing to their wrongheaded notions or supporting a falsehood.

  “More tart, Mr. Haddonfield?” Miss Huntly asked from the hostess’s end of the table. “Or perhaps another glass of the Château d'Yquem?”

  The dessert was sweet, the wine was sweeter still, the lady’s smile was too sweet by far. “No, thank you. The meal has been splendid. My compliments to your chef.”

  “Jess planned the whole menu,” Hamblin said, beaming at his niece. “Very clever lady, my Jess.”

  Miss Huntly rose. “I am also a lady who knows when the gentlemen are ready for their port. If you will excuse me, Mr. Haddonfield.” She extended a pale, slender hand, over which Max bowed, then she moved around the table to kiss Hamblin’s cheek. “Don’t keep Mr. Haddonfield up too late, Uncle. He has much important science to be about.”

  She left the room, the footman closing the door in her wake, and Max was unaccountably relieved she’d gone.

  “Let’s have our nightcap in the library,” Hamblin said, as the footman began to clear the dishes from the sideboard. “I’m sure you are as ready as I am to be up and moving.”

  Max was ready to be home, to be checking the day’s calculations, a cat purring at his elbow, Dagger snoring in the inglenook. He was ready to resume staring off into space, pondering the riddle of Lady Antonia, and wondering why no engagement announcement had been posted to the papers.

  Perhaps the settlements were proving problematic.

  Perhaps Nagle had lost his nerve.

  “I’m told you enjoy libraries, Haddonfield,” Hamblin said, closing the library door.

  “Every man of learning should enjoy libraries,” Max replied. “You have a sizable collection.” The room was surprisingly warm for such a large space, suggesting both fireplaces had been kept roaring all day.

  “M’wife bought the books. An estate sale here, a shop going out of business there. Said a library needed books, and she had a nose for a bargain, so the shelves are quite full and my pockets weren’t emptied in the process. I miss Lady Hamblin’s practical nature almost as much as I miss her hand guiding the domestics.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss, my lord. Has she been gone long?” And what had this to do with anything?

  “Five years, and there’s my darling Jess, no auntie to oversee her come out. My sisters did what they could, but Jess has been a bit lost, poor lamb.”

  The poor lamb had her uncle wrapped around her dainty finger. “Miss Huntly is lucky to have such devoted relations.”

  “Let’s sit, shall we?”

  They’d sat for the better part of three hours at supper, and Hamblin himself had declared a desire to move.

  “In a moment,” Max said. “I’d like a closer acquaintance with your collection first.” He pretended to peer at the nearest shelf full of books while Hamblin poured two glasses of brandy. The collection was in no order—a volume of poetry next to an herbal, a book of sermons between two of Mrs. Radcliffe’s works.

  Any learned treatises were hopelessly lost in the wilderness of bound volumes, tracts, and pamphlets. Antonia would be horrified.

  Hamblin brought Max a glass of spirits. “To your little experiments, Haddonfield.”

  If any pair of words had the power to sour Max’s digestion, it was little experiments. He’d been hearing it from indulgent sisters, taunting brothers, jeering classmates, and sneering tutors for as long as he could remember.

  “To truth, wherever that leads us,” Max countered, for the aim of his science was to enlarge upon known truths for the betterment of all.

  “Yes, that too, of course, and one truth I must discuss with you is that Jess needs a husband.”

  Max set down his drink untasted. “You have alluded to this topic before. While I wish the lady all good fortune, I cannot see that her situation is relevant to mine.”

  “Her situation, as you term it, has grown desperate.”

  The fire roared softly in the hearth, the clock on the mantel ticked quietly. “Desperate, sir?”

&nb
sp; Hamblin collapsed onto the sofa and took a hearty swallow of his drink. “You are an intelligent sort, Haddonfield, for all you lack a certain polish. Jess was indiscreet with an unsuitable party. She needs a husband whom society will accept. You are a fourth legitimate son. The likelihood of your progeny ever inheriting your brother’s title is nil, and you are in want of a wife. Somebody to see that your neckcloths are starched and your meals regular.”

  Max abruptly understood the theorem under consideration. “That’s your summation of a wife’s value?”

  “Creature comfort is no small contribution to a man’s well-being, Haddonfield, not that you’d grasp that yet. Jess will do her part by you; she knows she’s in a precarious position.”

  “May I ask who put her into this precarious position?”

  “I’d rather not say, but you will deduce the guilty party easily enough. Mr. Nagle took advantage of a young woman’s innocence, though Jess was by no means forced. She wanted to elope with him, thinking I would have to acknowledge the union then. Nagle refused to elope and wanted settlements in hand before he committed his future. When I offered only a modest contribution to his income, he changed his story.” Hamblin took another sip of his drink, no longer the jovial lord. He looked old, weary, and more than a little disgusted. “Nagle said Jess had thrown herself at him, as if he was powerless to resist. All very sordid, but not that rare a tale, I’m sure.”

  Couples anticipated their vows often, if not a majority of the time. That part wasn’t unusual at all.

  “Why not simply settle an adequate income on Nagle? Keep the principal tied up in a trust and put him on a short leash?”

  Hamblin finished his drink, pushed to his feet, and sighed. “Because I have lived my three score and ten, Haddonfield, or very nearly. When I expire, who’s to stop Nagle from plundering Jess’s inheritance? She’s all I have, and I have failed her.

  “Nagle will make my shortcomings look princely by comparison,” Hamblin went on. “He has gambling debts, keeps company with the wrong sort, and has squandered his own inheritance as well as his sisters’ portions. I’ve had a look into his situation, and the details are most unbecoming. If I’d been more careful, he and Jess would never have met, much less. . .” Hamblin waved a hand toward the cherubs cavorting on the library ceiling.

  And Nagle was the man Antonia had chosen to marry?

  “I am sorry for the burden this must be to you, my lord, but—”

  “I will pay you,” Hamblin said. “Handsomely. Very handsomely. You can explore the Amazon, visit the steppes of Asia, learn Mandarin and Hindi, and catalog bird species in the Antipodes. Whatever your scientific heart desires, as long as you make a credible pretense of being a husband to my niece. I am a wealthy man, and I am determined to see my Jess well cared for.”

  And there it was, the entire theorem, all but the quod erat demonstrandum. Max allowed himself a moment to consider the basic syllogism.

  Max Haddonfield is passionate about science.

  Well run experiments cost money.

  Therefore, Max Haddonfield’s entire future can be had for a large enough sum of money.

  A month ago, Max himself would likely have considered the logic valid. “Miss Huntly is still in love with Nagle?”

  Hamblin scrubbed a hand across his brow. “She thinks she is, and the harder I try to convince her otherwise, the more she won’t hear my criticisms of him. She’s young, Haddonfield, and so very stubborn. A white marriage would likely suit her, but she won’t insist on it.”

  Max did the only thing he knew to do when his calculations wouldn’t come right and his conclusions were thrown into disorder.

  “I must have time to consider your offer, my lord, though I doubt I will accept.”

  “Haddonfield, you are accounted a decent fellow. Nobody has a word to say against your integrity, and Jess is really a very sweet girl.”

  “I’m sure she is, but I am not her choice.” And she is not mine. “I bid you goodnight. You will hear from me within the fortnight.”

  He left his host pouring another brandy in the cozy library full of cheaply bought books, and stepped out into the cold night air. Hamblin had set a puzzle before him, one with multiple variables. Jess wanted Nagle, Nagle wanted Antonia’s fortune, and Max had no idea whatsoever regarding Antonia’s wishes.

  He did, however, have an increasingly firm grasp of his own.

  Max had taken to playing the scarf game with the kitten after the day’s calculations were complete. While the wee beast pounced, scooted, and leapt about, Max weighed possibilities and considered options.

  He’d finished double-checking Dagger’s math from the previous day—the boy seldom made errors any more—when it occurred to him that Beelzebub was nowhere in evidence. Dagger had gone out to dispose of the day-old breads—or sell them, which Max considered more likely—leaving Max to the calculations.

  “Beelzebub?”

  No paw appeared from under the sofa. Edward remained on Dagger’s cot, snoozing in a heap with Hannibal; the other three cats were draped in their usual perches.

  “Bee-elzee-buuuub!” Max called. He got down on all fours and peered under the sofa.

  No cat.

  Dagger had left bearing a sack, which meant. . . Max found half the day-old breads on the balcony, a flock of pigeons feasting on the lot. He was tossing the breads one by one to the cobbles on the alley below when Dagger trudged around the side of the building, his sack empty.

  “Where’s Beelzebub?” Max called.

  The boy gazed down the alley as if contemplating flight. “With Lucifer, purring away in some old biddy’s lap. She were calling him Mr. Beetles when I left. Lucifer’s run to fat and they call him Lukey-pie.”

  “Get up here, Dagobert.”

  “You said Beelz was getting too stout to be pathetic.”

  “I will not ask you again.” Max returned to the warmth of his apartment, half-amused, half-furious.

  Dagger came foot-dragging up the steps five minutes later, chin jutting, mouth a sullen line.

  “Why did you do it?” Max asked, taking the chair behind his desk.

  “Because somebody had to, and you weren’t getting on with it. She’s pretty—Miss Antonia, that is. She smells good too.”

  “I know she’s pretty, but you shouldn’t have to deliver the cats to their new homes. That is for me to do.”

  Dagger tossed his hat in a perfect arc, the cap landing neatly on a peg near the door. “You wasn’t—you weren’t doing it. Lucifer isn’t coming back. It was time. Who’s next?”

  The boy was avoiding Max’s gaze, avoiding Edward and Hannibal on the cot. They were awake and looking about as cuddly as a pair of stone sphinxes.

  “Please take off your coat.”

  Dagger complied, never a given with him, but instead of hanging up his jacket, he draped it over the back of the sofa and slouched over the armrest onto the cushions.

  “I never seen that many books. Never saw. Miss Antonia talks fancy. I could listen to her all day. Can’t understand half what she says, but she sounds all tidy and kind. She said Dagobert was an important French king.”

  Dagger sneezed, and for the first time in Max’s memory, took out a handkerchief—a pretty white linen handkerchief with red and green embroidery about the border.

  “Don’t you dare,” Max said, bolting across the room to snatch the cloth. “You nicked this from Lady Antonia, didn’t you?”

  Dagger folded his arms and looked away. “She asked about you.”

  “So you stole from her?”

  Something about the boy’s posture, the martyred set of his bony shoulders, the diffidence of his idle hands. . . A hypothesis popped into Max’s head and nearly broke his heart.

  “You think if you stop stealing, I will consider you ready for a post somewhere else, in a livery stable, as a porter, as a boot boy. You barely eat enough to keep a bird alive, lest I think you too healthy to bide here.”

  “You send them on,” D
agger said, sniffing loudly. “Six of ’em so far, and no end in sight. They think this is their home and then you’re tossing ’em out on their furry arses. Poor little mite can’t hear, and he’s dumb as a rock, and you’re probably already thinking how to ditch him.”

  Lancelot chose then to plummet from the desk to the floor. In the next instant, he went pronking sideways across the carpet, pivoting to attack the sofa.

  A tear tracked down Dagger’s cheek, even as he smiled at the kitten. “Shoulda called him Dunce-a-lot.”

  This mutiny was not about cats, or not only about cats. Max passed Dagger his own handkerchief. “That handkerchief is yours to keep. Lancelot is yours to keep, and you are mine to keep as long as you choose to bide here. You will doubtless grow up on me all too soon, and lead some famous expedition up the Nile and become fabulously wealthy. That cannot be helped, but for the present, I would very much appreciate your continued services.”

  Dagger appeared fascinated with Max’s handkerchief.

  “Every time I walk out that door,” Max went on, “I worry that I’ll come home and find you’ve done a bunk on me. I was sure you’d bolt before winter set in, now I’m hoping you don’t pike off come spring.”

  “Me? Leave?”

  “Like a cat, coming and going as you please, until one day, it’s all going and no coming home. You’ll get bored with the experiments, tired of watching the cats find new homes, bored eating bread three times a day.”

  Dagger tucked the linen into a pocket. A silence built, punctuated by feline rumbling.

  “I have a sister,” he said, as casually as Max might announce that the sky looked like rain. “She’s little. At the charity hospital. I take the bread there.” He heaved a very large sigh for such a small boy. “I won’t get bored, sir. Sissy is doing better since I started working for you.”

  Lancelot clawed his way up the sofa and into Dagger’s lap, then kept right on climbing, up Dagger’s shirt, until he was nose-to-chin with the boy.