Yuletide Happily Ever After II: An Original Regency Romance Collection

by Anna Bradley

  A chill raced down his back as a goose walked over his grave. A premonition that this was indeed a very bad idea?

  “Stuff and nonsense.” He gathered both letters and, before his courage could run dry, called for Anders.

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “Please put these in the afternoon post.”

  “Very good, my lord.” The butler took the letters and hurried away.

  Resisting the urge to call the servant back, Nick instead strode to the sideboard and picked up the decanter of cognac. It was still morning, true, but having set something unusual in motion, spirits seemed appropriate to steady his nerves, despite the hour. Nick poured two fingers of the dark amber liquid and downed them in a gulp. Now to go about arranging the rest of his business with the townhouse and set Sommers to packing for his trip to Bath.

  Something told him this would be a Christmas he would not soon forget.

  CHAPTER 3

  The next morning, Portia eagerly entered the breakfast room, hoping to be greeted by her aunt and, more importantly, a letter from Denys. Instead, she discovered the room empty. Frowning, she sat down and laid her napkin in her lap, staring at the vacant place opposite her. The butler brought her breakfast and still no Aunt Phoebe. Should she wait for her aunt’s appearance or not? As a compromise, she began with the toast and jam, leaving the eggs and sausage on her plate, wishing Aunt Phoebe would put in an appearance not only so her breakfast wouldn’t get cold, but so she could find out if she’d received an answer from her uncle.

  She’d just resigned herself to eating alone when her aunt sailed into the room, a packet of letters in her hand.

  “Gracious, child.” Her aunt kissed her forehead and took her place. “You shouldn’t have waited for me. Your food will be like ice.”

  “I wasn’t certain if I should wait or not, Aunt.” Portia cut into the sausage, pleased to find it still lukewarm. And delicious.

  “Never wait if the food is hot.” Her aunt nodded to Evans. “I’ll have my plate now and a fresh pot of tea, please.”

  The butler hurried out and Portia ate a forkful of eggs, her gaze glued to the pile of letters her aunt had laid on the table. “Can you see if there’s a letter for me from my Uncle Denys, Aunt?”

  “You haven’t been here a full day yet, Portia, and you’re in need of new company?” Her aunt sniffed but began to sift through the letters. “We’ve scarcely had a chance to speak three words together.”

  “Oh, Aunt Phoebe, I’ll be glad for us to have a comfortable coze, but as you said, it’s always better with a gentleman around to escort you, or take your packages, or laugh at your jokes.” Portia sipped her tea, but it was indeed cold, and she grimaced. “May I have some more tea, Aunt? This is quite undrinkable.”

  “As soon as Evans brings the new pot, my dear. You’re in such a hurry to do things. That will bring you to grief, as you’ve already found. Thank you, Evans.” The butler had appeared bearing her aunt’s plate, the maid directly behind him with the new teapot. “I think that will be all.” The servants left and Aunt Phoebe poured them both cups then began on her breakfast.

  Twisting her napkin in her lap, Portia had to all but bite her tongue to keep from reminding her aunt about the letters. She had finished her breakfast while her aunt continued to cut small pieces of egg and sausage, all the while talking about the shops in Bath.

  “Tolliver’s is the only place to bespeak a bonnet. This past season I managed to have one made that is quite stunning, everyone said. A turquoise turban with huge peacock plumes. Very elegant.” She stopped long enough to pop a bit of sausage into her mouth. “And of course there are the shops along the Great Pulteney Bridge. We should visit them soon. There are usually quite nice items there you may find you need.”

  Portia chose her time as best she could. “If you do not mind, Aunt…the letters? I would be happy to accompany you to the shops, but I would like to know if I am to expect my uncle so we won’t be from home when he arrives.” That seemed the best way to excuse her rudeness.

  “Oh, dear, of course.” Aunt Phoebe adjusted her glasses and sifted through the letters. “Ah, here it must—” The frown that deepened on her aunt’s usually cherubic face boded ill. “Who on earth has addressed a letter to someone named ‘Pence?’”

  Portia’s heart gave a great lurch.

  “What sort of name is that? Are they playing a trick, do you suppose?” Her aunt peered keenly at the folded piece of foolscap, and Portia itched to snatch it out of her hands.

  “That is for me, Aunt.”

  “For you?” She looked down her nose at Portia.

  “Yes, it’s an old nickname Denys always used for me.” Thank goodness he’d written. And so promptly too. “When he was quite young, he couldn’t pronounce Portia very well, so he settled on Pence. I used to call him Demon. We still use those names when we correspond.”

  “Very odd, the ways of the young.” Aunt Phoebe stared at the letter a minute more then handed it to Portia. “There you are. But tell Lord Denys to use your real name the next time he takes a notion to write to you.”

  “Thank you, Aunt.” Portia almost grabbed the letter from her aunt’s hand in her delight. “I certainly will tell him that. May I…?”

  “You may be excused to read your letter.” Aunt Phoebe sipped her tea. “But be mindful of the time. I’ve planned for us to walk to Henrietta Park directly after lunch.”

  “Yes, Aunt.” Portia was halfway out the door as she answered. She ran up the narrow stairs, grinning from one ear to the other. Now she would have her answer. And as it was so prompt, it must be telling her that he was on his way this morning. Perhaps he could have tea then accompany them to the park. She burst into her room and shut the door then sat down quickly at the desk, peeled off the wax seal, and unfolded the letter.

  To the young lady signing herself as Pence,

  Well, Denys was certainly in fine form. What had possessed him to address the letter thus? He’d never done anything so fanciful before. She eagerly read on.

  I am sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings, but I regret to inform you that your Uncle Demon has not received your letter.

  What?

  Portia read the sentence twice, her frown deepening. What was Denys playing at? She turned the letter over again, staring at the direction, then back at the message. The handwriting didn’t look like her uncle’s, but perhaps he was just making a May game of her. Shaking her head, she continued reading.

  I’m the current resident at the address I assume your uncle just vacated. He left no direction to indicate where he may be reached, so I cannot send your letter on to him.

  What in the world? Portia stared at the lines, her mind churning. Unless Denys had decided to play a serious game with her, this letter was from a total stranger.

  She dropped the paper as though it had caught fire and pushed her chair back from the table. Never had she corresponded with someone not of her acquaintance, and certainly not a gentleman to whom she hadn’t been introduced. Such a thing was unheard of. What must she do?

  The simplest thing would be to throw it in the fireplace and say nothing of it. She inched her chair back to the table. Or she could take it to Aunt Phoebe immediately, and she could throw it on the fire and then they could talk about how strange it was for the gentleman to write to her.

  Rather thoughtful of him, actually, to inform her that Denys hadn’t received her letter. Otherwise, when no answer had been forthcoming, she might’ve written to him again and still gotten nothing in return. Although it would be highly irregular, perhaps she should write and thank this unknown gentleman for his kindness. Would Aunt Phoebe allow her that much?

  She picked up the letter again, reading on until she came to words that sent a chill to her heart.

  In passing, I must remark that, having read your letter in an effort to learn something about where to send it on, you should be careful to whom you speak and when and where.

  This man, this…stranger ha
d read her private letter, meant for Denys’s eyes alone? Her stomach churned. She’d assumed as soon as he’d seen the letter was meant for someone else, he’d stopped reading it then written to inform her of the mistake. But no. He’d noticed his error yet disregarded the demands of etiquette and continued reading.

  How dare he!

  Incensed, Portia read on, heart pounding, every flippant word stoking the fire of indignation within her. When she came to the part where he offered his advice on the correct way to gossip, her cheeks heated. She’d never wished to gossip, not really. How could he think she ever had? But then, he didn’t know her. Her anger mounted. Not only was he offering to school her in gossiping but had the impudence to wish her a happy Christmastide besides?

  Outrage shot through her veins. She jumped to her feet and paced the room. She wanted to pound something or throw something at the wall to rid herself of the pique that now possessed her. But she could do neither of those things lest she bring this despicable letter to the attention of her aunt. That would never do. The fewer people who knew about this scandalous correspondence the better. However, she must do something or go mad. But what?

  At last, her steps slowed to a halt and she stood staring at the letter on her desk. Slowly, she stalked toward it, sat down, drew out paper and pen, and began to write.

  CHAPTER 4

  “Benberry. Well met!” Lord Daventry extended his hand, a broad smile on his face.

  “Daventry. Thanks awfully for inviting me. Deadly dull in Bristol. Don’t know a soul I would speak to.” Clasping his friend’s hand, Nick shook it heartily then followed Daventry into the splendid, terraced house at number 12 on the Royal Crescent.

  His heels clicked loudly on the black-and-white tiled floor of the entryway as Daventry led the way upstairs to an elegant drawing room, done in fashionable whites and yellows. “Please have a seat. Would you like some tea?” Daventry raised his eyebrows. “Something stronger against the cold journey perhaps?”

  “Wonderful suggestion.” Nick made himself comfortable on the striped sofa. “Nice digs.”

  “My father’s doing.” His friend waved away the compliment, bottle in one hand, stopper in the other. “Gave me the pick of his properties for a residence, and since I love Bath, this was the one I chose.”

  “Well, it’s a grand choice. Always something going on here, I suppose?”

  Daventry shrugged then poured the drinks. “Bath society flourishes when London is out of Season, so I would say so. We won’t lack for entertainment, I can tell you. Here you go.” He handed Nick the crystal tumbler and sat opposite him in a tall-backed Queen Anne chair. “Did you have anything particular in mind to do while you’re here?”

  That question Nick could answer in a variety of ways. On the one hand, no, he had nothing in particular he wanted to do other than renew his friendship with Daventry. On the other, he very badly wanted to discover the identity of the elusive Pence, now residing right under his nose, so to speak, in Bath.

  Apparently mistaking his silence for indecision, Daventry spoke up excitedly. “There’s the Upper and Lower Assembly Rooms if you fancy dancing with pretty young ladies or wish to play cards. We can go to the Pump Room and take the waters or to the baths themselves if your bones are aching.”

  Nick chuckled and his friend went on.

  “There’s the Sydney Pleasure Gardens, a myriad of shops, and, of course, my club.” His friend took a sip of the cognac and smiled at him. “Surely somewhere on that list is an item or two of interest.”

  “And a very thorough list it is.” Nick leaned back, trying to figure out exactly how to bring up the subject of Pence’s letter. “The thing is, I’ve got a bee in my bonnet about…well, about a letter I received the other day.”

  “A letter? From whom?”

  “I don’t exactly know.”

  Daventry’s eyebrows rose somewhat higher than usual. “You don’t know who the letter was from? How can that be?”

  “Because it wasn’t intended for me at all.” This did sound rather mad, all of a sudden.

  Daventry’s skeptical look wasn’t at all new to Nick. “I think you should start at the beginning of this story, Benberry.”

  With a sigh, Nick settled back into the sofa and began his tale. When he’d finished, he leaned forward, staring straight into his friend’s eyes. “So you can see why I wish to find this lady.”

  “Not exactly certain that I do, old chap.” His friend shook his head. “She seems quite unschooled. First, she gossips and gets the vicar’s wife into trouble, now she’s sent as punishment to Bath, without even the privileges of attending the Assembly Rooms.”

  “That’s the worst part, don’t you see?” Nick got to his feet in pursuit of another libation. “If she could attend the dance, I could simply meet her at the Assembly Rooms. As it is, I have no way to meet her at all.”

  “Why would you want to? She seems rather a hoyden, if you ask me.”

  “But that’s her very charm.” Nick had to chuckle. “She’s an innocent who got into trouble because of that innocence. As she writes it, she said what she did not from malice or to besmirch the reputation of the vicar’s wife. She truly didn’t know why the child had a different hair color. I don’t know, Daventry.” Nick poured his drink and returned to the sofa. “There’s just something about her that compels me to make her acquaintance in the worst way.”

  “Need I point out she is also apparently in the market for a husband. You’d best watch out or you’re going to find yourself caught in the parson’s mousetrap.”

  “I’ll take my chances.” Nick grinned.

  His friend shrugged. “Perhaps she’ll write you back.”

  Nick shook his head. “I seriously doubt it. Not only would it not be allowed, but after what I said to her, she’d probably just as soon shoot me as write to me.” He swirled the brandy in his glass until it threatened to splash over the rim. “But I do know her address. Well, her aunt’s address. It’s right there on the letter.” He took a large gulp that burned all the way down his throat. “I could go to the house, beg an introduction, and apologize for my rude words.”

  Daventry jumped to his feet. “Have you gone mad? Go to a woman’s house and ask to speak to her niece—like a peep-of-day boy— when you don’t know either lady? Dash it, Benberry, that’s simply not done, and you know it.”

  “Then what am I to do?” Nick threw his hands up, nearly spilling his drink. “I very much want to meet this young lady, but I have no idea who she is or how to procure such an introduction.” He looked pleadingly at his friend. “What do you suggest?”

  Daventry glared at him. “That you give up this lunatic idea and come with me to my club. A little spirited conversation with other gentlemen or a lively game of cards will dispel this bag of moonshine and make you see reason.”

  With a heavy sigh, Nick set his glass down. His friend was right. What had he been thinking? It had been a madcap idea to begin with. Fanciful for him to have even written the lady. He should’ve simply redirected her letter back to her with a notation that the gentleman no longer resided at that address. Her letter, however, with the feisty way she’d written about her predicament, had engaged his imagination as nothing else had for quite some time. But Daventry, true friend that he was, had spoken rightly. To try to force an acquaintance on ladies one did not know was bad form. “You’re right, as usual. It would be very un-gentleman-like to do such a thing.”

  “Praise God, he sees reason.” Daventry strode over to him and clapped him on the back. “I was beginning to think I’d need to use my skills from Jackson’s to restrain you.”

  Nick chuckled. “That would’ve been quite a match, although I believe I could’ve taken you. Is there a boxing club here in town?”

  “A small one. I go there once or twice a week to keep my skills up.”

  “You shall have to take me there while I’m here.” Nick grinned. “Then we can see who would’ve won.”

  “Indeed.” Da
ventry laughed and motioned Nick toward the door. “For now, let’s head to The Pulteney, my regular club. I’ll introduce you around, we can play cards, then get dinner there. Best beefsteak in town.”

  “Lead on, MacDuff.” Laughing, and in much better spirits, Nick headed out the door. Best to put all thoughts of that letter and its author out of his mind. There were so many other pleasant diversions in Bath, and Daventry could show him all of them.

  * * * *

  Monday morning dawned clear, the sun streaming into the breakfast room when Nick came down before nine to find Daventry already seated behind a plate piled high with a variety of viands.

  “Do you put this spread out for all your guests or do you eat this much every morning?” Nick picked up a plate and helped himself to sausages, bacon, eggs, grilled kidneys, and hot rolls.

  “Only the best for my guests.” His friend paused in cutting a sausage. “Would you prefer coffee or tea?”

  “Tea, please.”

  “Bentley, a fresh pot of tea for Lord Benberry.”

  The liveried footman standing by the doorway nodded and immediately disappeared.

  Nick sat down opposite Daventry and laid his napkin on his lap. The scent of the hot rolls assailed his nose and his mouth watered. He reached for the butter and marmalade. “Do we have plans for the day or are we simply going to knock about the city looking for an occupation?”

  “I’d as soon leave you in idleness as I would a horse in a field with an open gate.” Daventry popped a bite of egg and bacon into his mouth and chewed then held up his empty fork. When he’d swallowed, he continued. “This morning we’re going around to look at some cattle. I’ve a notion to extend my stable and as I found nothing that suited me in London, I’m going to see what Johnson’s got available. Hoping for a matched pair of bays.”