Winter Wishes: A Regency Christmas Anthology

by Cheryl Bolen

  He didn’t know they were coming?

  Kyla moved up next to her, clutching the doll. Her freckles all but disappeared as she blushed a pretty shade of pink.

  The factor was too handsome for everyone’s good.

  “Mr. Andrews, this is Kyla Forbes, a new maid.”

  “Welcome, Kyla.” He bestowed a kind glance on the girl.

  Filomena shooed her back to work and nudged Mr. Andrews out into the playroom.

  It required a poke to a very firm bicep, a poke that sent a spark from her fingertip all the way to her racing heart. She shook herself and turned to Duff who was slowly arranging the wood.

  “Well, done, Duff.” She couldn’t blame him for dawdling in the nursery, but there was work to be done elsewhere. “Have you finished your pots yet?”

  “Not yet, miss.”

  “Go on then, and come back when you’re finished.”

  As he left, the longing glance he cast back at the toy chest made her smile.

  Mr. Andrews crossed his arms over his chest.

  She stood taller. “Good news. We’ve a cook. She comes highly recommended, and she’s able to read. We discovered a copy of Mrs. Glasse’s book of cookery here. Once settled in, she’ll attempt some fashionable dishes.”

  “I have sampled the cook’s baking.”

  “And?”

  “Satisfactory, so far. Now, please tell me about these children you’re expecting.”

  She chewed on her lip. The agent had said an express had been sent. Surely the duke knew of Penelope’s plans?

  Or…the letter had been misdirected and hadn’t yet reached him? The men had only arrived the day before yesterday, and with the dreadful weather, it was possible the letter hadn’t yet turned up.

  He tipped his head near, filling the air with the scent of the starch used on his neckcloth. “Mrs. Marlowe?”

  She swallowed. He was too close, his lips mere inches from her own. “The duke’s elder brother passed away.”

  “Yes. Which is why he is now duke.”

  “His brother left behind a widow.”

  “I am aware of his widow. She is in India.”

  Another thought occurred to her. “The duke didn’t tell you.”

  He blinked. “Tell me what? I am sure that if the duke knew, I would know.”

  She remembered Mr. Andrews’ casual appearance and his easy confidence the night before. He and the duke were steadfast friends. “Of course. He would have told you.” She let out a breath. “Then he doesn’t know either.”

  “Yes, now you are following along.” He swiped a hand through his hair and a chunk of it stood at attention. “What the devil is it the duke is supposed to know?”

  “Language, sir. The duke is supposed to know that his brother’s widow, Penel—er, Mrs. MacDonal, is on her way to Kinmarty.”

  He reared back and glanced toward the window where late afternoon light streamed in. The green-eyed cat, sunning itself on the window ledge, lifted its head.

  With an arrogant flick, Mr. Andrews attacked an imaginary piece of lint. “It will be months before she arrives.”

  She shook her head. “She left India immediately after her husband’s death. She plans to be here by Christmas. Which is in two days.”

  As she spoke, his eyes widened, and despite the chill in the room, moisture beaded his forehead.

  Her heart thudded. The duke’s factor knew Penelope, or at least he knew of her. And if the duke told him everything, then he knew the duke hated Penelope. He was dreading the duke’s reaction.

  She gripped fistfuls of her work smock. “I’m told the duke’s late brother especially wanted her to bring the children here.”

  His head jerked up. “What. Children?”

  The affable Mr. Andrews had punched each syllable.

  She held in a shiver and lifted her chin. “The duke’s nieces, of course.”

  With another swipe to his head that sent more hair awry, he stomped to the window. The cat jumped away, making a hasty retreat from the fist that pounded the window ledge.

  Mr. Andrews was in a state.

  Not that he frightened her. She’d deal with him. She’d deal with the duke himself. If either man thought to keep children away from their ancestral home—well, she would, she would…

  What would she do? She would shame them into submission.

  “I can see this news has upset you.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Surely the duke won’t refuse to take in his sister-in-law and nieces? Once he recovers from the unexpected surprise—if it is a surprise and not just a failure of the duke to inform you—he’ll be pleased. Children are a blessing, and they bring such innocent joy to feast days. Someday the duke will fill this nursery and this glorious castle and grounds with his own babes. Why not start with hospitality to his own flesh and blood?”

  His back went straighter, indignation radiating in hot waves.

  Mr. Andrews had shown kindness to both children she’d just employed, but no doubt the duke wouldn’t, and he knew it.

  She sighed. “Very well. We will do our best to make sure they’re not underfoot.”

  A log cracked in the fireplace and the silence stretched on.

  Ignore her, would he? “I was told the duke and his sister-in-law were not on good terms. Is that the reason for your displeasure?”

  The glare he sent over his shoulder sliced through her.

  She crossed her arms. “I was told the duke didn’t favor the marriage and went so far as to disparage the lady…” She took in a tight breath. “And all of her family, causing a rift with his own brother.”

  When he turned, he’d schooled his face into an unemotional mask, as frozen as the ice crystals coating the window. “The duke doesn’t plan to stay at Kinmarty through the entire Yuletide.”

  That would be just as well. But…

  Oh, this selfish cad. Now she understood a part of the problem.

  “You had hoped to have no one but staff underfoot?”

  He scowled. “What?”

  “The duke will give you the charge of Kinmarty when he leaves. You are the factor here, are you not?”

  He studied her a long moment before clearing his throat. “Castle Kinmarty conveyed with debt and little income. It may have to be let.” He grimaced. “Why am I telling you that? Do not share that with the servants or they’ll be out of the door tomorrow.” He nodded curtly and stomped out.

  Filomena let out a long breath. She’d seen the poverty of the adjoining village, but letting this glorious castle to strangers… It was too sad.

  Not only might the duke be unwilling to help Penelope, he might be unable to.

  With her own small income, they could all squeeze into a cottage, perhaps in Leith or Dalkeith, on the outskirts of Edinburgh. She’d find a way.

  If Penelope wanted to live with her. If they could reconcile.

  She pressed a hand to her chest. The children would at least spend Christmas and Hogmanay here. The duke wouldn’t find a tenant before then, and he just couldn’t send the children or their mother away. He couldn’t be that dishonorable.

  She went to check on Kyla, who had all the dolls lined up on the bare mattress of the narrow bed.

  “Just a few repairs needed, ma’am.” She pulled out the full skirt of a dark-haired doll. “If you’ve a needle and thread, I can sew up these small tears.”

  Filomena grabbed an empty basket and handed it to the girl. “Gather them up. I’ll fetch my sewing kit and look for some linens to make up these beds.” At the door, she turned back. “I’ve brought a supply of ribbon up from London. We’ll give them each a festive bow, shall we?”

  “Red, ma’am?”

  “Yes. And tomorrow, we’ll begin decorating the great hall for Christmas.”

  Penelope’s children might have only one Yuletide at Castle Kinmarty, but she would see that it was a memorable one.

  And the duke? He could enjoy himself, or not.

  Andrew flew down
the stairs, his heart pounding.

  You are the factor here, are you not?

  For a moment he’d thought Mrs. Marlowe had caught him out, she with her smug self-assurance about blasted Penelope MacDonal’s arrival.

  With children. His brother and the heartless harpy had produced children and had never told him.

  Of course, Evan wouldn’t have told him. They’d had a terrible row after Evan’s betrothal, and again, the day of his wedding, which he’d refused to attend. And then one more time, after the wedding, when Evan accused him of besmirching his bride’s reputation at White’s.

  Everyone thought Penelope was a sweet girl, too sweet for Evan who they’d whispered had ruined her, and too poor to marry a duke’s heir. As it had turned out, she was not too poor to pay their passage to India, and neither was she too sweet to corner Andrew before the wedding and rail at him about refusing to support their nuptials.

  A pox on her and the sickly cousin who’d hid at home while Penelope swanned about London entrapping his foolish brother.

  He paused at the study door, his hand on the latch, and took in a deep breath.

  Hell. He’d tried to persuade Penelope to cast Evan off. He’d tried a cold dash of the truth—that his brother had no temperance with either gambling or drink and especially not with women. She’d refused to listen. She’d set her cap firmly. She was in love.

  In love with his brother’s chance at a dukedom. Evan had needed a bride with money. A rich society widow craving a duchess’ coronet would have done, one young enough to produce an heir, and worldly enough to let Evan go about his own worldly ways.

  How many children was Penelope conveying to his care? Had Evan left means to support them or would they now add to the burden of the Duke of Kinmarty? Because of course, of course he would do his duty to them.

  Someday he’d want to fill the nursery with his own babes? He shuddered.

  Marlowe had said they were girls. That must be, or else it would be the new duke arriving in Kinmarty for Yuletide.

  He entered the study and sighed in relief that George wasn’t here.

  With a glass of the fine local whisky to stiffen his resolve, he opened the deep drawer of the desk, lifting out piles of correspondence, the same piles of paper he’d wrenched out of Haskill’s hands before he’d kicked him out.

  He’d caught the man preparing to burn them.

  Flipping through papers he found second and third requests for payment, heaps of them, some for tailors and candle makers, others for grocers and mercers, drapers and blacksmiths. Hadn’t the tradesmen talked to each other before advancing the man credit?

  He rubbed his eyes and glanced at the stack of ledgers. Likely these totals matched those marked paid. During the months of Old Horace’s illness, Haskill had bought goods on the duke’s credit, sold them, and pocketed everyone’s money.

  Damn it all. The old duke deserved better than the shame of these old debts.

  Perhaps he really must find a tenant for Castle Kinmarty. Though he’d discussed it with George—and promptly rejected the notion in his heart, he’d only spouted that bit of bravado to wipe the smug look from Mrs. Marlowe’s face.

  It had succeeded, more shame to him. What sort of man wouldn’t see to the needs of his family, albeit an unpleasant sister-in-law who hated him?

  He shoved away from the desk and went for another drink. He should have locked Haskill in the cellar instead of letting him go, to hell with the scandal. The man had an account somewhere with Kinmarty money. Everyone had suffered, the duke, the servants, and especially the tenants and local tradesmen. He’d need a sharp factor to help him. In the interim, he could rely on George’s assistance, but this wasn’t George’s problem. It was his own.

  A shallower drawer held more letters. This correspondence he’d removed from the duke’s frigid bedchamber and stashed here himself.

  There were notes from the neighbors, messages of sympathy at the death of Mrs. Ramsey. His neighbors had known how close the old duke was to his housekeeper. The old duke had saved these, and Haskill, apparently hadn’t discovered them.

  Under all those he found it—a letter from his brother, addressed to the Duke of Kinmarty many months earlier.

  Chapter 7

  His heart thumped at the familiar signature that lurched across the paper more violently than when Evan was younger. Fortunately, the letter had been penned by someone with a slightly better hand. He squinted, deciphering it.

  * * *

  My dear duke,

  I write to inform you that I am ill, gravely ill, according to my physicians, and am not likely to return home. I think with great fondness upon the holidays spent in your good and patient care. I beseech you, as a man speaking from his deathbed, to offer hospitality to my wife. It is my fervent wish that my children be raised at Kinmarty with you and the good Mrs. Ramsey, and Penelope has agreed to take them there.

  * * *

  Penelope had agreed to take them there. How oddly worded that was. They were her children, were they not?

  Or…He read through the letter again, but found no evidence to confirm what could only be an unfounded suspicion.

  More shame ate at him, opening the door for a wave of grief. Evan hadn’t written to him, his own brother, for help. He’d died without once contacting him. Evan was gone, as was Mrs. Ramsey, and the crusty old man who’d been their only father figure.

  The people he’d cared for.

  George came through the door calling a greeting. “Tackling that correspondence, are you? Well, here’s another piece, just delivered.” He slid over a square of folded paper. “Why the long face? You look like you’ve seen the family ghost.”

  He picked up the new missive. “You remember I spoke of my elder brother?”

  “Of course. The deceased heir. I never had the pleasure of meeting him.”

  “His wife is returning to England. She’s traveling to Kinmarty for Christmas.”

  George raised an eyebrow and his mouth quirked. “As I recall, you said you were not on the best of terms with the happy couple.”

  That didn’t bear a reply. He cracked the wafer on the latest letter and scanned the brief note, his stomach churning.

  “More bad news?”

  “The promised visit from the nabob. He and his daughter will pay a call tomorrow. Is the messenger still here?”

  “He flew back down the road as soon as he handed it off. Why not just have done with it? You must meet them sooner or later.”

  “Later it will be. I won’t be home tomorrow. Perhaps you could—”

  “I won’t play the duke for an influential neighbor who may well be your future father-in-law. Send the housekeeper off to the village to find more servants. I noticed she hasn’t yet been able to conjure a butler. What happened to the old one? Did he die as well?”

  His mind had stalled on the word father-in-law. The last thing he’d do was allow George to arrange a marriage for him. He’d find his own bride when the time was right. What else had George said?

  Oh, yes: the old butler. “Forbes is retired, not dead.” There’d been a note of condolence from him in the pile. “Now, go.” He picked up a letter and flapped it in a shooing motion. “Go back to the stables, or up to your bedchamber. Or go down to the weapons room and see what the old duke has for our stalking.”

  George grinned. “I believe I’ll visit the kitchen and tell the cook to hurry with dinner. I’m famished.”

  “Don’t spoil your appetite on the biscuits.”

  George laughed. “I heard that enough as a child.”

  He rubbed at his aching jaw. “You’ll hear it again. My sister-in-law is arriving with children.”

  “Well.” George’s eyebrows shot up. “Girls. You’ll have dresses and ribbons and coming out balls to think about. Beaus to fend off and marriages to arrange.”

  “Bite your tongue.”

  George wagged a finger. “You’ll set thing straight with the housekeeper before then. Don’t thin
k I will play uncle to them.”

  Andrew sighed. “Is it so horrible being me?”

  With a laugh, George shook his head and departed.

  George was right. It was time to end his charade. He’d bollocksed things up with Evan those many years ago, and now, with Mrs. Marlowe, a worthy woman if ever there was one. Handsome also, with worthy curves. And he was never allowed to touch them.

  He let out a long breath. He must set things straight with her as soon as possible and hope for the best. He’d need her help if he was to fend off an angry sister-in-law.

  How the devil was he supposed to support everybody with a bankrupt estate, in a crumbling castle?

  A fairy tale castle. Women loved their romantic ruins, and everything here was certainly old and worn.

  The toys, as well. The visit to the nursery had raked up fierce memories. The soldiers tumbled into the box under the window after pretend battles, the rocking horse that so often had thrown them off laughing, the creaky window he’d dangled from, Evan clutching his ankles. Even the blasted cat who now wandered the corridors trying to trip him—Ramsey had always had one or two cats to take on the mice.

  Grief snared him, circling his heart and squeezing. He eased in one breath, and then another before settling back in his chair.

  Enough of self-pity. He must deal with the worthy Mrs. Marlowe. He’d seek her out after dinner, raise her wages if need be, and somehow explain his asinine deception.

  * * *

  A manservant served their beef roast and peas, and between courses tugged at his tight gloves and his ancient ill-fitting livery. If he wasn’t mistaken, this was one of the men who’d been stacking wood. In addition to a butler, Kinmarty would need proper footmen, no matter who lived here.

  When the table was cleared, they shared more of the spirits from Old Horace’s stores and discussed the condition of George’s horse and the prospects for a good hunt in the next few days. Then George went off to see to his own correspondence, and Andrew went to find Mrs. Marlowe.

  The kitchen had been cleaned, the fire banked, and no one was there. No chatter came from the servants’ hall either. He’d have to ask Marlowe where she’d put all the servants.