Jo Beverley - [Rogue ]

by Christmas Angel

  The children ate their bread and milk, and then were tucked up in warm beds in adjoining rooms. Judith took some soup, but then sought her bed herself. She found she and Leander were to share a room and bed, but the matter was overwhelmed by exhaustion, and she was asleep in minutes.

  In the library of Redoaks, Leander and Nicholas shared a bowl of hot punch. "So," said Nicholas, "you think your family is behind these attacks on the boy?"

  "What else can I think? Though it convinces me they are mad."

  "It would be lunacy," Nicholas agreed. "And almost beyond belief. Are you saying the whole family is ready for the asylum? Even as a means of delaying you it makes no sense, and would be unspeakably callous."

  Leander rubbed his hand wearily over his face. "I don't know, Nicholas. It's enough to drive me mad, or do you think it runs in the family anyway?"

  "No," said Nicholas plainly, and topped up Leander's cup.

  Leander sighed."Perhaps they meant no real harm to the child. After all, the poison only made the maid ill, and one would expect that the boatmen would fish Bastian out of the river. A sick child would have tied us in London for another week or so."

  "It would link in with the story of diphtheria," said Nicholas, "and I have found lowly minds prone to tread the same rut.... Still, it doesn't sit right. After all, from what you said, the poison that made the maid ill could have killed a child, and the simple fall from the bridge could have stunned the boy if he'd landed badly. Then he could well have drowned before anyone could reach him. At the very best, your villains have a careless way with human life."

  Leander took a deep draft of the potent punch. "A family is a mixed blessing."

  "Is it?" asked Nicholas with a trace of amusement. "Yours sounds like an unmitigated curse."

  "I mean Bastian and Rosie. I never counted on the weight of responsibility. If one of them is hurt because of me, I will never forgive myself."

  "They'll be safe here. It's you I'm concerned about."

  "I can take care of myself."

  "Haven't you always? But you could be in danger. I'd go with you except that I think I should stay here on guard."

  "Assuredly. I'll take my man, George. He's a handy character." Leander looked into his cup, then up. "Nicholas, if something should happen to me, you'll take care of Judith and the children, won't you?"

  "I'm offended that you need to ask. I promise more. If you are killed, I'll pursue your demented family to the jaws of hell. Not one of them will benefit from the crime, I give you my word."

  It was simply said, but Leander knew it was a binding promise. He took great comfort from that.

  * * *

  Leander woke the next morning beside Judith in the bed. She was still fast asleep, and there were shadows under her eyes that hadn't been there when he married her. He put out a hand to brush a tendril of dark hair off her cheek, then halted the gesture. He mustn't wake her. She needed rest.

  He was sorry they were at outs, and would like to untangle all their problems immediately, but this wasn't the time or place. It certainly wasn't the time for lovemaking, though the warm curves of her body close to his were engendering a distinct inclination. Time enough for that when they were settled.

  At home.

  He savored it in his mind. Temple Knollis, not as the bleak museum he had visited, but as a living home. Temple Knollis at Christmas. Children running through the corridors, filling the air with laughter. Judith hanging green garlands on carved and gilded banisters, and a punch bowl ever ready, so the tang of fir and pine blended with lemons and spice. Servants and family gathered to sing carols by candlelight. Perhaps local people coming up to sing for mince pies and wassail.

  His home.

  But first, he thought with a sigh, he had to win it, and the sooner the better.

  He eased out of the bed.

  Judith woke with his leaving; the bed beside her was still warm. She heard him in the dressing room. Would he leave without a word?

  She hastened out of bed and dressed quickly, even though the only garments to hand were her travel-weary ones. When she heard him leave the dressing room to go downstairs she hurried to join him.

  He turned at the top of the stairs. "Did I wake you? I'm sorry."

  "I always rise early," she said, feeling remarkably ill at ease.

  "I hear noise below, so I judge breakfast to be available." He took her hand to lead her down, and the warm comfort of it spread.

  "I'm sorry," she said softy.

  "What for?"

  "For blaming you for Bastian's accidents."

  He stopped in the hall to face her. "But it must have been because of me. There's nothing in your life to summon violence."

  "Even so," said Judith, "it was not your fault. It was only that I was so scared. The children are all I have. No," she said, distressed, "I didn't mean that!"

  He gathered her in for a hug. "I know, Judith. Don't distress yourself. I'll clear it up, and then we can settle to bucolic happiness."

  She looked up. "Will you really like that?" she asked rather doubtfully.

  His eyes sent a warm message as he gently kissed her lips. "I expect to like it very much indeed."

  A strange squawk made them spring apart, and they turned to see Nicholas carrying a young child. "Meet Arabel," he said ruefully. "I would have waited discreetly, but she has no manners, and wants her breakfast," He led the way into the breakfast parlor, and put the child down.

  She was already walking, though with the wide-legged uncertainly of a beginner. She happily trotted over to Leander and grabbed his leg.

  "A terribly forward wench," said her father. "We'll have great trouble with her. She also insists on rising absurdly early, and so we have reorganized our household accordingly. Come along, Bel," he said. "Your egg will be here any moment."

  The child looked around and launched herself on a laughing, shaky voyage toward a highchair. Her father settled her there, and gave her some fingers of buttered toast to work on.

  Judith watched this with amazement. She had never imagined a father looking after a child in such a way. When Arabel gaily hurled a piece of toast across the table, Nicholas broke off what he was saying. "No, sweetheart. You mustn't do that." He took the plate away, and resumed his conversation.

  Arabel stared at the plate, then made demanding noises.

  Nicholas turned back. "Very well. But don't throw your food." The plate was returned, and the child settled to eating the toast, albeit in a rather messy manner.

  "Does she actually understand what you say?" asked Judith in surprise.

  "I've no idea," said Nicholas cheerfully, "but acting on that assumption seems to generally have good results."

  A maid came in with a mashed-up egg in a bowl for the child, and hot dishes of bacon, eggs, sausage, and beef for the adults. By that time Eleanor Delaney had arrived. She sat on the other side of Arabel and helped steer most of the egg into the child's mouth, but it was clear that Nicholas would do as much of the work as she.

  Judith felt her whole picture of life was being turned on its head, but she knew this wasn't the normal way to behave. Why, highborn children rarely appeared in adult company until they were old enough to behave. Did the girl not have a nurse?

  Eleanor spoke to Judith. "I thought it best to leave your children to have their sleep out, Judith. A maid is sitting up with them, and will bring them down when they are ready."

  Nicholas was helping Arabel to drink from a spouted cup, but said to Leander, "You probably should delay your departure until they're up to say farewell."

  "They know I'm leaving."

  "Even so."

  To Judith's astonishment, Leander appeared to take this as a kind of order. She eyed Nicholas Delaney surreptitiously as she ate.

  King Rogue. That seemed to be the case in truth.

  He was good looking, though there was nothing spectacular about his appearance. It was more something in his warm, brown eyes, and something else indefinable that coul
d be called charm. That, however, implied a facile, superficial quality, whereas Nicholas Delaney deserved the word deep.

  She found she resented the influence he appeared to have on her husband.

  "They won't mind you leaving without seeing them," she said firmly. "I will explain."

  At that point, the issue became irrelevant, as Bastian and Rosie, neatly scrubbed, came cautiously into the room. Both of them lit with interest at the sight of Arabel.

  Nicholas performed introductions, and Judith would have sworn the toddler smiled directly at each child, a smile of astonishing welcome. This was a very strange household.

  Bastian and Rosie were settled with food, and Judith was relieved to see them on their best behavior, though Rosie giggled when Arabel waved a spoon and accidentally flung egg onto her father's face. Eleanor did not appear alarmed. Nicholas merely gave his laughing daughter a look, and wiped it off.

  When Bastian understood that Leander was leaving for the Temple, he said, "I do wish I could go with you, Papa Leander."

  "Not this time, Bastian."

  Bastian glanced at him. "Will the man who pushed me in the river be there?"

  "I don't know. I hope so. I'll draw his cork. Any more details of what he looked like? Or the man who gave you the sweets?"

  Bastian shook his head. "I didn't see the man who pushed me. The man in Westminster Abbey was all niffy-naffy. High shirt points and a fancy cravat, with a hat tilted down so I couldn't see much of his face. He just looked ordinary really, though I thought perhaps I knew him from somewhere."

  That didn't sound like young James Knollis, thought Judith, for he had dressed with country simplicity.

  "Did you perhaps think he looked like me?" Leander asked, pursuing the same line, though there was little family resemblance either.

  Bastian looked at him and emphatically shook his head.

  "Well, it was probably some complete stranger behaving in a peculiar manner, but while I'm gone you are to stay close to the house unless you are with an adult."

  "But I was going to hunt for mistletoe."

  Nicholas responded to that. "Don't think you're going to leave us behind on that trip, young man."

  This sense of encircling peril terrified Judith, but she found she was more terrified for Leander, setting off alone, than for her children, safe in this house. "Leander," she said suddenly. "I want to come with you." Then she shook her head. "Oh, how foolish. I cannot leave the children with the Delaneys...."

  "We don't mind, if Bastian and Rosie don't," said Eleanor.

  To Judith's surprise, Bastian said very firmly, "I think Mama should go."

  She looked at Leander, who said, "It could be dangerous...."

  "Precisely why I should go with you. An accident to a man alone could be believed. To the two of us, much less so."

  "On that basis," said Leander sharply, "we should take the children, too."

  "No," said Judith sharply, then collected herself. "But I would feel much better if I were with you, and perhaps I can help with your family. I have more experience than you with families."

  Leander frowned, but eventually he nodded. "Very well. I confess, I would welcome someone by my side."

  "A helpmeet," said Judith softly.

  "'It is not good that the man should be alone,' " quoted Nicholas from the Bible. " 'I will make him a helpmeet for him.' I think it an excellent idea."

  As soon as it was agreed on, Judith began to have second thoughts, but she knew she couldn't bear to see Leander heading into danger and wait behind. She was surprised, however, by the ease with which the children had accepted the plan.

  When she was ready to leave, warm in her Russian mantle, Judith asked Bastian why he had been so set on her going.

  "You'll make sure he comes back, Mama."

  For a moment she thought he meant she could keep Leander safe, which seemed ridiculously optimistic, but then she realized that the children were still not sure of their future. It had been an unsettled time, and they still seemed to think that it might disappear like fairy gold.

  She hugged them both. "Marriages can't be broken, dears. We'll be back in a few days, then we'll all go on to the Temple for our first family Christmas."

  Chapter 17

  They made the journey in Nicholas's curricle, with George up behind. It was cold, but swathed in wool and fur Judith did not mind it. Her nerves were chilled, however, for she did not know what to expect and half feared a pistol shot from every bush.

  The journey was uneventful, however, and in early afternoon they crested a gentle hill to see Temple Knollis on its promontory. The day was overcast, so no magic lights played over the dusky-pink stone, and yet the beauty was there all the same. With its perfect proportions and turrets, it was a fairy palace reflected in a glassy lake.

  A drive wove through parkland which looked rather bleak and neglected, up to the causeway which led through an arched gateway into the large courtyard.

  Though the park had no wall to mark its boundaries and hide the house from the road, there was a gatehouse, built in miniature of the Temple. It was empty and clearly deserted. The blank windows gave Judith a chill down the spine.

  They rolled down the potholed, graveled drive. On either side, the parkland was as neglected as it looked, though sheep were busily keeping the meadow neat.

  There was no one to be seen. Judith told herself that wasn't surprising in December when there was little outside work to be done, but she wondered if the family had already fled, and the staff dispersed. In many ways she would be glad of it, but she wondered in what state they'd find the house.

  There were gates in the gateway, but Judith guessed they were never closed. Instead of going through them, Leander turned the curricle to follow a carriage path that went along the outside of the walls.

  "Where are you going?" she asked.

  "It looks as if we'll have to fend for ourselves," he said, "so we might as well go straight to the stables."

  "But where are the stables? There are no extra buildings here."

  He pulled up beside wide double doors in the wall, and George jumped off to open them. "There are chambers all around the wall," Leander explained. "Storerooms, dairies, tack rooms, stables, et cetera. They all have openings into the courtyard, but the main openings are onto this lane. So that the perfect courtyard need not be disturbed by servants, don't ye know." He steered the carriage into the relative warmth of a carriage house, and George closed the door behind.

  Judith almost wanted to protest that they might need a quick escape, but brought herself to order. No matter what horrible tricks they had been up to in London, the family were hardly likely to attempt a cold-blooded massacre.

  Anyway, with luck, they were gone.

  She prayed earnestly that they be gone.

  The carriage house could hold ten vehicles, but the only inhabitants were an ancient traveling Berlin and a dogcart. Leander assisted Judith down and they went to explore.

  Next door was a tack room, and beyond that the stables. One horse, a sturdy cob, turned curiously to look at them, alone among twenty or more stalls.

  "There were half a dozen or more horses here when I visited," said Leander, going over to the cob. "But this fellow is being cared for, so there must be someone about."

  "I don't suppose they'd leave the place entirely empty, would they? I must say, this is a very fine stable." Judith looked around at the Dutch-tile walls, and a ceiling whimsically painted with a scene of Pegasus heaven.

  "Nothing too good for the Temple," said Leander dryly. "Come on, let's explore and discover the worst."

  They left George to care for the horses, and began to work their way through the wall chambers of Temple Knollis. "All the rooms link," said Leander, as they passed through a fodder room. His voice echoed in the tiled magnificence. And this was simply the workrooms. "Absolutely no need for servants to venture into the courtyard, as you'll see."

  Judith peered through a grimy window at the co
urtyard. "It's so big. A little enclosed park. It must be pretty when all the plants are in bloom."

  "Yes, it is."

  "And," she pointed out, "I'm sure the servants appreciate not having to go outside in cold or wet weather."

  He laughed. "Ever practical. I'm sure you're right. Come on."

  They passed though rooms used for storage, and then rooms used to keep fruit. Judith stepped aside to inspect the racks of apples. "No bad fruit," she said. "These haven't been neglected for long."

  "The family were here only days ago."

  A grape room, with grape bunches being kept fresh in their glass holders, and then a larger door. "The house," Leander said. "Though only, if my memory serves me, the servants' hall and kitchen. Do you want to go that way, or do you want to nip through the courtyard and enter by the front door?"

  For indefinable reasons, Judith felt that Leander should enter his home for the first real time through the front door, and said so.

  "Right," He swung open the narrow door onto the courtyard. Judith walked through and looked around admiringly. It was a beautiful space even on a dull day—a private, enclosed heaven. The walls were not square, but an irregular shape, probably following the peninsular, and they were covered by skeleton branches, probably of roses, wisteria, laburnum, and other such plants.

  One little tower contained a dovecote, and she could hear the throaty cooing of the birds. She smiled at Leander. "It's lovely."

  "Yes, but at what cost?" He led the way up to the carved oak doors and hesitated. "I'll be damned if I'll knock for admittance to my own home." He turned the knob and opened the door. He smiled with a touch of his boyish humor, and swung Judith into his arms to carry her into the house.

  She was laughing when he put her down, but her laughter turned to astonishment when she looked around. "My goodness."

  "Exactly."

  Judith would have been hard-pressed to express what she thought of Temple Knollis. It was undoubtedly beautiful. The entrance hall ran the depth of the house, with large windows at the end letting in light, and an exquisite view of the river. The upper lights of the windows were stained-glass flowers in shades of yellow and gold, which cast magical lights about the room.