by Mary Balogh, Jo Beverley, Sandra Heath, Edith Layton, Laura Matthews
“Why should you want to?” Ian asked curiously.
But now Lord Shelton’s candid blue eyes shifted, he cleared his throat and said evasively, “Normally I should not. Normally I’m thrilled, should I even chance to think of him, to realize that we only have to meet when senior members of the family toddle off this mortal coil and we literally bump into each other at a funeral. But I have my reasons for wishing to be at this house party, this Christmas. So I thought that if I brought along a vastly eligible young man my welcome would be assured. And thus eclipsed by my brilliant guest, my subsequent activities would be—shall we say—ignored?”
“There’s someone you want to seduce and you want me to divert them so you can,” Ian said baldly.
Lord Shelton looked offended. “Pon my word, Hunt! Barking out orders on a battlefield has made you very brusque indeed. You must see to trimming your tongue, my dear fellow. Warfare is one thing, social life another. Shouting a command may save a man’s life, but such bluntness can lose a man his friends. Some matters are best spoken of in a circumlocutory manner, with finesse, with nuance...” He looked at the stern face of his companion and his own face fell. He shrugged, and looked down at his hands. “In a word, then: I have my own reasons.”
“In a word, indeed,” Ian said. He was silent for a moment, and there was no warmth in his voice as he asked, “But why ask me? If I’m known as your friend, why should I be unsuspected—or welcome at all, for that matter? After all, you yourself thought I was grazing in your pastures. So I must have a certain reputation of my own now.”
“My dear boy, you do. But what of it? A reputation is only disastrous for a female; they themselves love rakes—young rakes, that is. All females believe in their powers for redemption. It’s their greatest weakness, did they but know it,” he added on a small smile. “But as for old rakes, few females, however devout, actually believe in miracles.” He laughed—but stopped when he saw that the viscount did not.
“Wait! Before you say no,” Lord Shelton said quickly, “hear me out. I’ll do no harm by what I do, that I promise you. Only great good. No, really. I don’t seduce, I—convince. And I’ve never left anyone worse off than when I met them. That, too, I can promise you in this instance.” He paused to think over what else he had to say. Then he spoke with such unusual seriousness that the viscount listened closely, despite his reluctance to be drawn into any schemes.
“This young person I am thinking of has no future without my interference,” Lord Shelton said carefully. “By which I mean to say that she has only a bleak one, with little joy and less reward. She is, of course, lovely, with masses of brown hair, eyes like honey in the comb, peaches aglow in her cheeks, and the merest dusting of freckles on the bridge of her little nose that saves her from the dullness of perfection. Needless to say, she has a delightful figure as well.”
“Needless to say,” the viscount echoed wryly.
“She’s also intelligent, graceful, and charming,” Lord Shelton went on. “In short: eminently desirable. But she suffers from a dreadful affliction for which there is only one cure, and it is one I am unable to provide her. I’m merely trying to do what I can to help.”
Now the harsh-faced viscount looked surprised. “You—dealing with a wench with a fatal illness?” he scoffed. “Cut line.”
“I didn’t say fatal,” Lord Shelton said testily. “I said dreadful, and so it is. It’s poverty. Or as near as makes no difference. She’s a poor relation, with no prospects at all. Related on Moleswirth’s wife’s side, and distantly at that. She appears at his house for holidays and disappears when the Season comes and they remove to London. Because although Moleswirth’s not a bad man, he has his own daughters to marry off and would be a fool to present them with such competition. Her own family can’t present her. There’s good blood there, but that’s all. Her father’s a scholar, poor as a church mouse and proud as a prince, and though her mother comes from a fine family, she came from it. The marriage was a misalliance; they were neighbors—the poor scholar and the fine lady, that sort of thing. Very romantic, but it doesn’t help the girl at all. They live next to nowhere, up North, too grand for the local folk, too poor for the gentry. She’s near to being on the shelf. Four and twenty, and ready to put her glorious hair under a spinster’s cap. I want to offer her much more.
“I can’t offer her anything at her home, of course. Nor can a man with a reputation like mine invite her anywhere, or ask anyone else to do so, lest word of it leak out. But she’ll be at Moon Manor for Christmas. And so, then, shall I be.”
“Why all the plotting? Why don’t you simply offer her marriage?”
It took a long time for Lord Shelton to stop laughing. When the viscount started to get up from the table, the laughter stopped abruptly.
“It is not a possibility,” Lord Shelton said quickly.
“Yes, I see. Then thank you for the invitation,” Ian said just as quickly, “but I...”
“Wait! Sit, please. I’ve only told you the reason I wanted you there. I haven’t told you why you might want to come. I think you would.”
The viscount slowly sat down.
“A Christmas house party at Moon Manor is the perfect place for a gentleman newly home from the wars,” Lord Shelton said earnestly. “Moleswirth isn’t a bad fellow, only respectable. The manor is beautiful, the countryside pristine; there’ll be guests of all ages, but a great many young ones because of all the sons and daughters. It’s a splendid place to pass Christmas. Idyllic, in fact. I’ve seen the festivities in past years; they’re a delight. There’ll be a Yule log, caroling, sledding and sleighing, dancing and pantomimes, wassail and a grand feast among normal, good, and well-intentioned people who will be delighted to meet you. You might even find yourself a wife, if you’re so enamored of the married state.”
The viscount shook his head and began to rise from his chair again.
“Good Lord, Hunt, do this favor for me,” Lord Shelton cried, “and do one for yourself. I need a friend; you need a diversion. Why not?”
“Perhaps because you need a diversion more than a friend.”
“As a favor, then. I really am in need. And you’ll thank me for it, one day. But I won’t plead,” Lord Shelton said with a wave of his hand, suddenly shifting emotions, looking as bored as he had seemed impassioned a moment before. “What’s the point? If you want to remain in London pursuing your usual pleasures, I quite understand. Who better? Christmas in London is likely more to your taste. Madam Felice’s will be open, as will her girls’ arms. As will be the public masquerades, the theater, and several gaming houses. How foolish of me to forget. After all, now I come to think of it: a quiet rural manor house at Christmas, among decent young people, I agree—a most unlikely place for a rake to be.”
The viscount took a long deep breath and gazed at Lord Shelton with an unreadable expression. “When would you like to leave?” he finally asked.
They rode alongside Lord Shelton’s carriage, which was heaped with their luggage. Lord Shelton’s valet rode alone in it. The viscount’s manservant, who had tended to him in Spain, had been told to go home to his own people for the holiday. After token protest, he’d done so. After all, his master said, a man about town needed a valet in London, but a man who knew his way about the world didn’t need one for a brief visit to the countryside. Most men of fashion might shudder at this assessment, but the viscount was a man after his own fashion. He took care to be neat and clean but didn’t spend more time on his appearance than was absolutely necessary; as an old army man, he knew how to make short of it, unassisted.
It was a cold, dry day, and the roads were frozen hard. The horses made good time. At noon Lord Shelton consulted his watch.
“We’re so far ahead of schedule we’ve time for a leisurely lunch at that inn just ahead,” he told the viscount. “Such places often have the best home brews, and a guest ought to arrive sated so as not to put his hostess in a dither. What say you?”
They gave th
eir horses to the ostler and went into the inn. They acted like common men but fooled no one. Both men were simply but elegantly dressed, and stood out so much in that country place that the landlord himself hurried to serve them. He seated them at a table near enough to the door to show any casual observers what quality of customer he had, but far enough from it to ensure them privacy.
“Excellent,” Lord Shelton sighed with satisfaction when he finally put down his tankard after taking a long quaff. “Why can’t they brew like this in London?”
“They probably do. It’s the country air,” Ian commented. “The same reason the roughest wine in Spain tasted better than the finest French one in London.”
“Such a cynic! I believe the answer is that they are both superior brews, the air and the ale ... but what’s this? Is there to be no peace for me?”
Ian looked toward the doorway to the inn, where an anxious, travel-weary footman was standing, peering inside, squinting against the brightness of the day, trying to see into the relative gloom of the taproom. When he spied Lord Shelton, he looked relieved and hurried to his side. He handed him a paper, saying breathlessly. “This come for you this mornin’, soon’s you left, Lord. Beekins said as to how you’d want to ’ave a look at it right off, so I set out after you. I caught up, and seen yer coach, and here I be.”
“Bedamned and blast!” Lord Shelton muttered, frowning as he rapidly scanned the paper. He folded it, thrust it into an inner pocket, and rose from the table. “I’ll return with you; see to my horse,” he told the footman, who went hurrying out again. “A personal matter,” he told Ian, “that cannot, unfortunately, wait. Not a matter of life and death, only of finance, which can lead to the same. I must return to London.”
“Very well,” Ian said, as he got to his feet. Nothing in his face showed his disappointment, but only because he had mastered his emotions long since. Because against all odds, he’d actually found himself looking forward to this impromptu holiday. The clean, fresh air, the countryside, the bright day, the brighter prospects of new people and a welcoming home for Christmas—even if it wasn’t his home—had appealed to him. But he was used to disappointment. He flung some coins on the table.
“Where are you going?” Lord Shelton said in surprise. “Stay, finish that excellent beef.”
“I’m going with you, of course; there’s excellent beef in London, too.”
“London? What are you talking about?” Lord Shelton said in surprise. “You must go on to Moon Manor. They’re expecting you.”
“Without you? I think not.”
“But I’ll be joining you in a day or so. You must go. This will suit my purposes even better, come to think on it. They’ll be so full of the glory of you that they’ll scarcely pay any mind to me when I arrive.”
Ian considered the matter. He was a man who was used to instant decision-making, and so he was bemused to discover that he very much wanted to be persuaded to go on to the manor. “But I hardly think they want a stranger arriving on their doorstep...” he said.
“No such thing! I sent word that I’d be bringing a guest with me. You’ll be no stranger to them. Even if you were, they’d want such a stranger: young, eligible, rich, and noble—you can be sure of that.”
“Yes. But...” Ian said, some imp of perversity making him want to deny himself the treat he’d been promised ... “what if I find your—‘special interest’—to my own taste? You won’t be there to challenge me.”
Lord Shelton hesitated. Then he smiled to himself. “What of it?” he finally asked flippantly. “I’ll be there sooner or later. Life’s been dull of late. I love a challenge. Anyway, she’s not your sort. She’s the type to appeal to an older rake, like me. Because she doesn’t glitter—she glows. And she’s highly moral and very clever. In short: a challenge to a jaded taste like mine, not a lure to a man such as yourself. Younger men like their pleasure simple and straightforward, and are attracted to diamonds of the first water who know their way around. And who shall blame them? A man with healthy hungers seeks a wholesome meal; a fellow who is sated seeks only something to titillate a weary appetite. Go along to the manor. If you don’t fix an interest with her, you’re sure to find another there—it’s an interesting place.”
“Very well,” Ian said, surprising himself, and liking the feeling. It was holiday time, and he hadn’t had a holiday in such a long time. “I will. But you’d better hurry. Because I mean to have a good time.”
“As I do. I’ll see you there—soon as I can,” the older man said.
They left the inn, mounted their horses, and rode off in opposite directions.
It was a pleasant ride for the first part of the day, but as the brief afternoon drew to a close, the wind began to bite. Ian was glad when he saw the gate to Moon Manor, even though he wasn’t sure of his reception there. He was gladder still when he rounded the turn of the drive and finally saw the manor in all its glory. It was everything Shelton had promised. Christmas seemed to sit upon the manor’s ancient brow like a benediction. Set in a pleasant park, the manor was made of red stone that the centuries had mellowed to a dusky rose hue. Warm golden light glowed out from every frosted window of the old house, and the front portico was swagged with fresh-cut fir, holly, and ivy. Ian gave his horse to the smiling stable boy who came running to greet him. Then he went to the front door, feeling as though he were coming home, although he knew too well he was only going among strangers again.
The great oaken front door opened on a rush of warmth and color and laughter. The scent of a delicious dinner cooking as well as pungent wood smoke from many hearth fires greeted him, even as a bowing butler did. There was a brightness of candles and a brilliance of smiles from the servants as they ushered him in, took his coat and hat, and showed him into a huge salon off the great hall he’d entered.
“The Viscount Hunt,” the butler announced.
There were a number of laughing people in the room. They turned to stare at him, and then they all smiled. One came forward with hands outstretched.
“My lord,” a portly, balding, jovial older man said heartily, as he sketched a bow, “I bid you welcome to Moon Manor. Our good friend, Lord Shelton, sent word that you’d be coming with him. I am Jasper Moleswirth, and here is my good wife, Belinda. I’ll introduce you to my family and friends in a moment—but where is my wife’s relative?” he asked, peering into the empty hall behind the viscount.
“A message arrived when we were halfway here,” Ian said stiffly. “He had to hurry back to London to take care of some business, but asked me to tell you that he’ll be here as soon as possible. He insisted I go on without him. But if it is too much trouble, I ...”
“Trouble? My dear lord, how could it be? It’s Christmas. Come, let me introduce you round.”
Everyone seemed delighted to meet the viscount. He was introduced to people of all ages. And just as Lord Shelton had said, to many, many lovely young ladies as well. Several were beautiful, and some winsome, too. But instead of being overwhelmed by them, Ian found himself wondering which was the object of Lord Shelton’s personal attentions.
It was not the most stunning dark-haired beauty, he decided. No, Miss Merryman was a toast of the Season, and a more perfect example of cosseted, pampered young womanhood would be hard to find. She was magnificent, and knew it, and even though she flirted, only a very foolish man would take her seriously—unless he was willing to do just that.
Nor was it the most bewitching blond lovely there, either, he thought. Because of the color of her hair. Lord Shelton had specified brown. But neither could it be the best-looking brown-haired beauty, because of her aplomb. In Ian’s experience, poor relations might be many things, but never self-confident. Still, there was a redheaded chit who was amusing, and a petite dark-haired one he found charming ... And then there was such a crush of laughing young charmers crowding around him, asking him teasing questions about London, that he began to forget Lord Shelton’s devious mission. He’d almost forgotten it enti
rely, deciding that the poor relation the old rake had set his sights on must literally be sitting in the cinders somewhere in the kitchens, when he looked up—and saw her coming into the room.
It could be no other.
It wasn’t because of what she wore. She was dressed as well as any young woman there, in a simple ice-blue gown. Nor was it because of the color of her hair. He couldn’t tell that it was brown. From where he stood those loose ringlets coiling about her lovely face looked to be the color of smoke and evening shadows. Nor could he see that her long eyes were the hue of honey in the comb, as Lord Shelton claimed. All he could see was that she was lovely, and that she hesitated to come into the room. She paused at the doorway, looking in. A confident girl would come sailing right into the company expecting a warm reception, no matter what she looked like. And this girl was bewitching.
But she stood in the doorway surveying the merry crowd for a moment before she ventured into the room. She would have caught his eye even if he hadn’t been waiting for her. Slender, with a graceful neck and a well-shaped head—and a correspondingly well-shaped body—she was the sort of female he always noticed. Although she was in no way waiflike—as the Grecian fashion of her gown displayed to perfection—she seemed to him to be fragile and vulnerable as she hesitantly entered the room. Yes. The tentativeness. That settled it. He nodded to himself. That was exactly how a poor relation would come to the feast: as though she were afraid she’d be told to leave it. His heart went out to her—until he realized that it might be in his eyes.
He turned his eyes from her as he pretended to listen to all the nonsense being said to him. But he didn’t stop watching her. She had his complete attention. He was a seasoned hunter, and so no one could know it—especially not she.
Eve came into the room, and stopped near the hearth and held her hands up to the roaring fire. Her hands were cold, but not because her room had been. The squire always had a fine fire lit in its hearth, the same way he kept them ablaze in all the hearths in his home. She wasn’t cold, except in her heart, and her hands were chilled by fear. As she waited for inspiration—or someone to notice her and call for her to join them, or introduce her to the gentleman whose gaze had stopped her in her tracks—she covered her embarrassment by counting. There were twelve days of Christmas. If she added the two before Christmas that she’d yet to get through, and then the one after when she could leave, that left only fifteen more days. Only a fortnight and a day. It could be done, Eve thought. It could even be done with ease—if she could only manage to forget who she was, and why she was better off forgetting it.