“Why do you do it?” he asked. “Why spend your holidays prettying up other people’s houses?”
She dusted her hands over a plate that held only apple tart crumbs and aimed a bright smile at him. “I simply enjoy decorating for the holidays. For a few weeks of the year, we are encouraged to make our dwellings as cheerful and inviting as possible. I have a knack for it, so why shouldn’t I put my skills to use for others?”
Why? Because the daughter of an earl had no business dealing in trade, and yet, Marcus admired a woman willing to demonstrate initiative and ingenuity. Heaven knew he had no idea how to make a house cheerful and inviting.
“I must be on my way,” her ladyship said, rising. “My thanks for a splendid meal, and I will have my estimate to you by noon tomorrow.”
Marcus got to his feet and held the door for her ladyship. He murmured a brief instruction to the footman tidying up at the sideboard, then escorted Lady Margaret to the front door. The lingering sense of something lacking about what should have been a sociable meal on a winter day would not leave him.
“A week from now,” her ladyship said, “this foyer will look very different. The air will be laden with cloves and cinnamon, the bannisters wrapped in red velvet ribbon.”
Marcus draped her cloak over her shoulders and smoothed the fabric out from the collar. “You even plan the scent?”
“Of course. When you walk into a beautiful old home, then catch a whiff of mildew, your impression of the place is unalterably diminished. Your abode will be fragranced with seasonal joy, my lord. Depend upon it.”
She pulled on her gloves—mere kid, and in this weather—and tied her bonnet ribbons beneath her chin. The figure she cut was stylish, though Marcus noted a bit of darning on her right middle finger.
“I will look forward to our next meeting,” he said, though he wasn’t sure that was true. He had never met a woman less given to seasonal sentimentality. As his own stores of that commodity were thin indeed, he and her ladyship should have got on famously.
Marcus’s guest cast a weather-eye around the foyer. “Before I am through, you will probably dread the sound of my voice, but you will love the impression your home makes on your holiday guests.”
Holiday guests. Marcus mentally shuddered at the very notion.
Her ladyship squared her shoulders and stood back for the butler to open the front door. The town coach sat at the foot of the steps, and Marcus had ordered the floor bricks heated, but he still didn’t like to send her out in such weather.
The footman from the breakfast parlor passed him a paper-wrapped parcel, which Marcus held out to the lady.
“Take a few apple tarts, please, Lady Margaret. Your day is long. Bustling about must be hungry work.”
She looked at him, then at the apple tarts. Some impossible longing flickered in her gaze, and he thought for a moment she’d refuse his gift.
“That is very thoughtful of you, my lord. Thank you.” The tarts went into her satchel, and then she was out the door.
“Shall I build up the fire in the library, my lord?” the footman asked.
A sensible request on such a day. The coach pulled away from the steps, the jingling of the harness muted by the falling snow.
“No, thank you,” Marcus said. “Duty calls, and I am its willing vassal. I am off to practice pitching snowballs at tree trunks.”
“Very good my—my lord?” The footman was young and too new to his livery to hide his consternation.
“The children will be here next week, James. I have just been informed that my pitching arm may be my greatest asset in their eyes.”
“If you say so, my lord.” He bowed and withdrew, leaving Marcus to puzzle over Lady Margaret Entwhistle. She’d been singularly un-charming, as ladies went. Most unmarried women, and a few of the married ones, were bold in their appreciation for his company. Lady Margaret had been appreciative of the soup, the ham, the wine, and the tarts… but she’d assayed not a single flirtation in his direction.
More to the point, she’d made it very clear he need not attempt any flirtation in her direction either.
Which should have been a very great relief indeed.
Chapter Two
Thank God for Lord Marcus’s coach, because Meg’s spirits had sunk lower as the snow had deepened. Neither of her afternoon appointments had shown enthusiasm for her services, but they had both wanted estimates on the spot.
She knew better than to toss out numbers off the top of her head. Her written estimates listed exactly what she was obligated to do, when she’d have it done, and for how much coin. Too many customers expected an extravaganza worthy of the Prince Regent, and then they followed up with a similarly royal inability to pay the resulting expenses.
Since one of her early customers—an older gentleman who owned several coaching inns—had suggested that she have clients countersign a documented estimate, she’d had far fewer “misunderstandings” with pinchpenny beer nabobs.
The coach rocked to a halt at the corner nearest Margaret’s rooms, and she braced herself for another trudge through cold and slush.
The footman opened the door, lowered the steps, and offered her a hand. “Careful, my lady. The snow is piling up.”
She descended, the casual courtesy giving her a pang. Once upon a time, her father’s footmen had treated her with similar care. She’d known them by name, and they’d kept her and Aunt Nan company on every shopping expedition.
Aunt Nan was dead these eight years, and Meg missed her most as the holidays approached.
Another footman in different livery approached Meg as her escort was bowing his farewell. Lord Marcus’s man stepped in front of the newcomer, though Meg recognized the livery all too well.
“Have you business with her ladyship?”
The other fellow bristled like an outraged dowager. “Happen I do. Lord Webberly would like a word with his sister.”
Across the street sat a crested vehicle finished in gleaming black lacquer with red and gold trim. Lucien did like to travel in style. His coach was pulled by four matched blacks, snow melting on their backs and matting their coats with damp. They had apparently been waiting for some time, for the snow at their feet was churned and stomped to mud.
“My lady?” Lord Marcus’s footman remained between Meg and Lucien’s lackey. “What say you?”
“I say, please thank Lord Marcus for his consideration, and thanks to you and John Coachman as well.”
Lord Marcus’s footman took her satchel from her hand and shoved it at the other fellow. “Mind you offer her ladyship an arm crossing the street.”
Meg took the fellow’s arm before fisticuffs erupted, though she was not in the mood to deal with Lucien. Anymore, she was never in the mood to deal with him.
The footman opened the door to Lucien’s coach, and Meg climbed in. The scent inside was leather and damp wool overlaid with clove. Meg had taken her idea for Christmas sachets from Lucien’s fancy carriages, for if anything confirmed an impression of tasteful wealth, it was a coach that smelled like a spice shop.
“My lord, to what do I owe the honor?”
The problem with Lucien was that he still looked like the brother she’d grown up with. Sandy-blond hair, angular features, blue eyes, and a serious nature. Since marrying Lady Evelyn Parmenter, his nature had gone from serious to sour. Lady Evelyn’s settlements had apparently been her most endearing feature, and an earl must have an heir. Marital martyrdom had followed on all sides.
“Do you ride about Town in fancy coaches now, Margaret?”
“You certainly do. Why shouldn’t I?”
He sighed and glanced out the window as if importuning the gray sky for strength. “I am not here to bicker.”
“You aren’t paying a social call either, Lucien. I would receive you, you know. I’d even offer you hot tea and apple tarts.” The tea leaves would be reused, but only once. Or twice. And Meg would begrudge him every tart he condescended to eat.
He rested
his gloved hands on a gold-handled walking stick. “I am here to make an offer, Sister. A most generous offer that I extend despite our differences. My lady wife and I have decided on this course out of Christian duty to Charlotte as her aunt and uncle. You may choose to make a spectacle of yourself, engaging in trade, borrowing some cit’s coach in exchange for heaven knows what favors, but I hope you will allow Charlotte some charity from her proper relations.”
The apple tarts had been calling to Meg all afternoon, but her devotion to Charlotte called more loudly. Charlotte was why Meg worked until all hours, why she bore the malicious pity of her peers, why she maintained a semblance of civility with Lucien and Evelyn.
“Charlotte does not need your charity.” She needed new boots, she needed books to read, she needed friends who did not make sly jokes at her expense.
“Charlotte’s antecedents are irregular,” Lucien retorted. “Her mother has fallen from the notice of polite society and rightly so. In ten years, Charlotte will be of marriageable age and will need all of her aunt’s influence and goodwill. Let Charlotte spend the holidays with us.”
Margaret sat calmly in Lucien’s lordly coach, but in her heart, in that place reserved for her most-honest feelings, she fell howling to her knees.
“You mean well,” she said slowly.
“Of course I mean well. We have our differences, Margaret, but I don’t hold Charlotte accountable for your errant ways. The longer she’s associated with you, the harder her path in life will be. Soon, she can be made to understand that, and though you love her—Evelyn insists that you love your daughter—you cannot provide for her as we can. Unless you want that child to make the same mistakes you have made, you will put your selfish needs aside and appoint me as her guardian.”
Meg made a fist, rather than chance Lucien noticing the darning on her gloves. “And if I remarry?” How calmly she posed the question, when her heart was breaking in the loud, angry cracks of a frozen lake casting away winter’s cold.
“I have ever and anon advised you to remarry. All widows should remarry, for the sake of their own well-being and the good of the realm. You aren’t bad-looking. Find a decent fellow from a good family who can provide adequately, explain to him the follies of your youth. Charlotte is a girl child. It’s not like she’s a son. Present me with a groom from a proper family of means, and you will have my blessing.”
Would a marriage into a proper family of means inspire Lucien to withdraw this threat to snatch Charlotte away? Was that what his almighty blessing amounted to?
“I must think on this,” Margaret said. “The holidays are still some way off. How much longer will you be in Town?”
“You must think on the only opportunity your daughter will have for a decent life among decent people? I do not understand you, Margaret. A child is not a possession or a pet to be hoarded away for when you are in a low mood and want to jolly yourself out of it by playing mama. A child is a responsibility.”
Meg took a slow, deep breath. She was cold, tired, and hungry. Lucien had ambushed her, rather than send her a note or even knock on her door. Between his insults and his lordly scruples, he made a rotten kind of sense, but this was not a commitment to make without weighing every possibility.
The heir to the Innisborough marquessate was on the verge of retaining Meg’s services. She had apple tarts in her satchel, and as surely as Lucien attended services every Sunday, if Meg sent Charlotte to bide at Webberly Hall, Lucien would feel it his duty to blacken Meg’s standing with her own daughter.
“I appreciate that you mean well, Lucien, but what is Charlotte’s favorite book?”
“How should I know?”
“What sort of pet does she long to have?”
“She’s too young for a pet, and pets do not belong in the house.”
Lady Evelyn had her husband firmly on a leash. What need had she for a pet? “Is Charlotte better at French or Latin?”
“Why teach a female Latin in any case?”
“You do not know your niece. She might as well be an alien species to you. We cannot love whom we do not know. You can provide in many important regards—connections, standing, material goods—but children need love as well.”
Lucien reached across the coach to unfasten the door. “Every gin-soaked streetwalker in London loves her children. Love will not see Charlotte settled into a happy adulthood. Love will not introduce her to honorable men. You loved Entwhistle. Look where that led. A good man gone astray, a family’s name tainted with your thoughtless behavior.”
“You called Entwhistle your friend once.” You introduced him to me.
“And because he was a friend once, I will not disrespect his memory by allowing this conversation to descend into bickering. Think about your daughter, pray on this matter if your conscience allows you that comfort. You are behaving as little better than a strumpet, flouncing about Town with some man’s liveried servants in train, and that will reflect on your daughter.”
The cold air gusted in, and fatigue all but smothered Meg’s self-control. She remained on the velvet-cushioned seat long enough to fire off one more broadside.
“Lord Marcus Bannerfield offered me the use of his second coach because the weather was turning inclement and our appointment ran long. I am in nobody’s keeping, Lucien, and I’ll thank you not to repeat that insult.”
“Marcus Bannerfield? Innisborough’s heir?” Lucien’s air of affronted impatience faltered, and a hint of surprise colored his tone.
“The very same. I wish you good day and offer my regards to Evelyn and the children. I’ll let you know what I decide for Charlotte.”
Meg ducked out of the coach, mindful of her steps, because Lucien’s footman stood staring straight ahead as she descended, the snow falling on his shoulders and hat. Margaret didn’t recognize him, but then, in recent years she hardly recognized her own brother.
She took up her satchel, trudged around the corner, and climbed the stairs to the apartment she and Charlotte called home. No sooner had she set down her burden than Charlotte came rocketing out of her room, shawls flapping.
“Mama, do you know what Sunday is?”
Margaret snatched up her daughter and hugged her stoutly. “A day of the week?” Charlotte was growing too old to be hugged like a toddler, but particularly after that exchange with Lucien, Meg needed to hug her.
“Not merely a day of the week.” Charlotte wriggled to her feet. “Not this Sunday, but the next Sunday is Stir-Up Sunday.” She adopted a thespian’s pose, hands folded at her breast. “‘Stir up, we beseech thee, O Lord, the wills of thy faithful people!’ We can make a Christmas pudding, and play snapdragon, and make wishes and everything!”
Charlotte’s braids were coming undone, a casualty of fine blond hair and the child’s tendency to gallop from one end of the apartment to the other. She wore a pair of knitted stockings, the ends of which were flapping several inches beyond her toes, and the older of Meg’s shawls was now dragging on the floor.
But Charlotte’s smile, oh, her smile. Such glee and joy, such merriment and hope. Such trust.
“Christmas puddings are very dear,” Meg said, unbuttoning her cloak. “We might have to make do with hot buttered gingerbread from the bakeshop, but do you know what we’re having for supper tonight?”
Daisy, the girl who watched Charlotte on days when Meg had to go out, took Meg’s cloak. “We’re having a snowstorm, apparently. Hasn’t let up all afternoon.”
“You can’t eat a snowstorm,” Charlotte said, twirling and making her shawls bell out. “Not unless you’re in a Greek myth or a titan or something.”
“We’re having apple tarts and cheese with a fresh pot of tea.”
Charlotte came to a halt. “Apple tarts for dinner?”
“A special treat for my special girl.”
Charlotte squealed, Daisy scolded her, Meg took the chair near their tiny parlor stove. Her feet were frozen, her heart leaden, and she would have to go back out tomorrow to deli
ver Lord Marcus’s estimate, but tonight, she’d made her daughter happy, and that would have to be enough.
“Lady Margaret Entwhistle and friend, to see you, my lord.” Nicholas, the butler Marcus’s mama had chosen for his London house, made this announcement as calmly as if some old army comrade had dropped by.
“Her ladyship came in person, in this weather?” Outside the library, the day was gray, frigid, and windy, the sky still spitting intermittent snow. Marcus could not imagine more wretched, dreary weather.
“I believe her ladyship came on foot, sir. She says she needn’t trouble you, she’s only delivering a document for your consideration.”
Lady Margaret had been troubling Marcus, troubling his sleep and his curiosity. His shopping expedition yesterday had been entirely fruitless—this was somehow her fault—and Marcus had been certain she’d miss her noon deadline, given the foul weather.
“Show her and her friend in.” Marcus capped the ink, sanded the letter he’d been composing, and rose. “And a tea tray would be appreciated, all the trimmings, and three cups.” If Lady Margaret had brought a companion of any standing, then that lady should be included in the civilities.
Nicholas bowed and left Marcus to examine his reflection in the mirror opposite the fireplace.
Simon, the firstborn and original heir to the Innisborough title, had been handsome, witty, charming, and a tailor’s delight. He’d had the sense to stop growing just before he’d topped six feet, and his eyes had been the traditional Bannerfield green. Compared to him, Marcus had always felt like exactly what he was—a spare. Serviceably intelligent, tolerably well put together, unobtrusively competent.
He’d been a good officer, and he was a dutiful son, but he had no earthly idea how to be a proper uncle to two little girls. He was thus entirely unprepared for Lady Margaret’s friend to be a small girl who clung to her ladyship’s hand and gawked alternately at the library and at her own booted feet.
Holiday Duet: Two Previously Published Regency Novellas Page 12