A Dangerous Nativity

by Caroline Warfield

  Papa looked like steam gathered for another explosion. "Nothing need be decided today," Catherine soothed. "Perhaps Mrs. MacLeish has that tea ready." As if on cue, the woman herself knocked and entered with a tray of tea and biscuits.

  "Oh look, Papa. She made your favorite butter biscuits." Catherine smiled at the woman who had fed her family since Catherine was a tot. Mrs. MacLeish gave her a cheeky wink. "Thank you," Catherine whispered.

  Tea and sweets soothed ruffled feathers, but settled nothing. An uncomfortable hour later, she walked the earl out.

  "Give him time to get used to the idea. He's been estranged for so long."

  The earl took her hand, but instead of bowing over it, he held it firmly and searched her face.

  "What breach keeps him from accepting the support any well-managed estate would give?" His eyes held nothing but sympathy and concern.

  She couldn't deny him.

  "I don't entirely know. I was just twelve years old. My mother and I had been living with an aunt in Scotland. Papa brought us back to Wheatton to see her father, who was vicar here, before he died. The old duke, his father, disowned him when he married my mother, but could do nothing about Songbird Cottage. Papa's mother left it to him. I think the old man resented that."

  He looked as if he meant to ask more; she prayed he didn't. What am I to say? No, my mother wasn't married when I was born? No, Lord Arthur isn't my natural father?

  Before he could, three boys came raging from the woods.

  "The owl, Cath! We saw him," Randy called.

  Once sufficient amazement over the sighting had been expressed, Chadbourn helped the young duke into their phaeton. He bowed over Catherine's hand and took his leave, but his eyes never lost their sympathetic look. It was almost enough to give a woman hope. Damn the man.

  Catherine turned from the sight. The duchess will not like this day's activity, she thought.

  Chapter Six

  "But he came in smelling of cow, Chadbourn! And not for the first time. I told Franklin to burn his clothing, burn it! You must allow Franklin to birch him." Sylvia sat upright, but her hands shook, and her pupils looked large in her rheumy eyes.

  "I will not!"

  "Emery would have," she whined. "He would demand it."

  "Emery was a jackass, and I am not Emery, for which, sister, you should be thankful." Will clenched his hands into fists to keep from wrapping them around the scrawny neck of the tutor who held his nephew by the jacket, held him so high, the boy's feet almost lifted from the floor. Charles held his face in a brave show of courage, but his eyes pleaded with Chadbourn.

  "Unhand His Grace this instant," Will shouted. "You will not birch him today or any other day. Has this happened before?"

  "Only when necessary," Franklin said, chin up, eyes on Sylvia. "Boys require discipline." He gave Charles a shake as he pushed the lad away.

  Will put an arm around the boy's shoulder. He could feel tension vibrating through the young body, but Charles held himself upright.

  "From the state of his math knowledge, I suspect he has had more 'discipline' than learning from you."

  "One cannot teach what he will not learn, my lord." Franklin made the title sound like an insult. "I only follow His Grace'sthat is the late duke's—wishes," the man sniveled.

  "You finally got one thing right. His Grace's father is the late duke. I will not have my nephew beaten, and certainly not over a trivial offense."

  "Trivial?" Sylvia cried, bringing a look of satisfaction to the tutor. "He snuck away from his tutor. He went there, Chadbourn."

  Will ignored her. He looked Franklin up and down. "You're dismissed," he said as calmly as he could manage.

  "Fired?" The tutor shook with outrage. "For following His Grace's orders?"

  "For failing to follow mine, and for failing to teach this boy a blasted thing. Go pack your things." When Franklin glanced frantically at Sylvia and looked as if he would argue, Will held up a hand. "Pack your things without a word, and I'll allow the duchess to provide you with a character reference. Otherwise, I will toss you bodily from the house without it."

  Sylvia cowered beneath Will's tone, and wept.

  "He went there, Chadbourn. Emery forbade it. We do not go there."

  "He went with me yesterday, and he will have my permission to go again," Will said. He watched the tutor wrap his dignity around him and leave.

  Sylvia began to hiccup, tiny sobs emanating from her.

  Will turned to Charles and smiled into the boy's pale face. "You do look rather a mess, my boy. You didn't tell me you went back and left the schoolroom without permission."

  "Sorry, Uncle Will. Fred and Randy sent a message up with John Footman, and I had to meet them. I had to."

  "Your mother is right about one thing. This suit is ruined. Do you own clothes that aren't silk, something suitable for playing?"

  "No, sir."

  Of course not. "We'll see to it. For now, remove those clothes and have them laundered for the poor box. For leaving without permission, I want you to spend the rest of the day writing out your multiplication tables. Understood?"

  Charles grimaced. "Yes, Uncle Will."

  The boy left, and Will turned to his sister, determined to get to the bottom of the animosity with Songbird Cottage, but she had already slipped into a drug-induced sleep.

  ***

  "You've been busy. I rather think you didn't need my help." The Marquess of Glenaire, who had arrived just as Will saw the tutor on his way, sat at his leisure over port.

  Thank God he came today before I strangled the rotter and did the same to Stowe, Will thought. The man's hostile glares put him in mind to turn off the butler next. I would if he weren't so blasted old. Better to pension him off, and soon.

  "Oh, but I do," he said. "Besides, you'll enliven the winter holidays."

  White-blond eyebrows shot up over ice-blue eyes. "I'm hardly one for the sentiments of the season."

  "Even your hidebound dignity improves the mood of this place, Richard. It is driving me to drink." He downed another glass, while he poured out his woes to his best friend in the world. "What can you add?" he asked when he his tale wound down.

  "Not much. Lord Arthur is, as you surmised, the second son of the seventh duke of Murnane. By reputation, he presented a mild-mannered contrast to his rakehell older brother, when the two came down from university. Lord Arthur actually finished a degree and took a first. He went about during the Season for a few years, sowed a few wild oats—damned few—courted a few chits unenthusiastically, and avoided house parties. He shunned society entirely after his marriage. He supports himself on a meager income from his books."

  "That, and a well-run farm. What about his marriage?"

  "He wed Miss Mary Harlow, daughter of the Wheatton vicar, in 1801. Their son, Frederick, was born less than a year, but more than nine months, later."

  "Catherine?"

  Glenaire's sardonic look at Will's use of her given name spoke volumes, but the marquess didn't comment on it. "About Miss Wheatly, if that is her name, I could find little. Her mother departed Wheatton abruptly late in 1788, and came to live with an aunt in a remote village in Scotland, with an infant, soon after. Of marriage or a father, we found no trace. I have people looking into it, but, if there is no paper, they are reduced to listening at keyholes."

  "Call them off."

  The eyebrows rose.

  "We can assume the obvious. No point in causing Catherine embarrassment or upsetting Lord Arthur any further. The man is fiercely protective of her." Will watched the deep purple liquid swirl around in his glass. "It might help to know, however," he murmured.

  "To what purpose?" Glenaire asked, knowing eyes boring into him.

  Before I take her to wed. He couldn't say the words out loud. Not until he was certain enough of his own feelings to put them to the test. "Something isn't right," he said instead. "Nothing you've said accounts for the animosity. Emery put the fear of God into Sylvia. She seems to
believe Catherine—Miss Wheatly—was Emery's mistress."

  "Perhaps she was."

  "No!"

  Glenaire waited with exquisite patience.

  "I would bet Chadbourn Park on it. If Emery took Catherine, it wasn't voluntarily. It might account for his determination to keep Charles and Sylvia away, though I just can't see it. What of Songbird Cottage?"

  Glenaire leaned forward and put both elbows on the table, cupping his glass. "Songbird Cottage and its acres belong outright to Lord Arthur, left to him by his mother from her settlements. Neither the seventh nor eighth duke had any claim to it."

  Will nodded. "Catherine said as much. She said his father resented it."

  "Some men would dislike loss of control."

  "Isn't that the point of settlements, protecting something for the woman and her children?"

  "True, but some begrudge it. Perhaps, the old duke expected it to come directly to him upon marriage. Perhaps Emery felt the same. Is it a nice piece of land?"

  "Not large, but tidy and productive. The best."

  "There you have it."

  "Maybe. There has to be more, and I'm going to find it, for those boys' sake if nothing else. They are a duke's grandsons. The estate owes them better. A gentleman's education, at least."

  Long minutes passed. Glenaire watched Will. Will stared at his port until he finally sat back and let a grim smile show. "I think it's time Lord Arthur visits his childhood home."

  "From what you have said, he won't come."

  "Catherine will persuade him, if only for her brothers' wellbeing. I have her support for that, at least. She hasn't said it, but I know it's there. She'll persuade him."

  He counted on it.

  Chapter Seven

  "Brilliant!" Randy shouted.

  He ran up the hill to greet his new friend. Charles walked down the lane herding three sheep, his uncle close behind. The boys had managed to contrive reasons to visit every other day, and now, the young duke had been dragooned into the animal nativity.

  "I herded them myself," Charles crowed. "I told Uncle Will we needed sheep, and he said they were mine to give, but I wasn't to ask Mr. Archer to bring them. I had to figure out how to get them here."

  "Dead perfect, Charles!" Freddy exclaimed. "These will fill out the nativity nicely. How did you learn to herd?"

  Catherine looked at the earl's amused brown eyes. "Your Grace" seemed to have fled sometime in the last week.

  "I found a book in the library, A Guide for Young Shepherds. It described how to herd them, and a whole lot more besides. Book was exactly right: it's easy. Will these do, then?"

  Randy hugged one sheep around the neck and scratched the ears of another. "Are they ours to keep?"

  "Certainly," Charles said regally. "I'm giving them to you."

  "Can we, Cath? We don't have to give them back after Christmas, do we?"

  She looked at Chadbourn for enlightenment, but his amused expression made it clear she was on her own.

  "Do you think we have enough feed for winter?" she asked even though she knew the answer perfectly well.

  Randy gave it some thought. "Yes, we do. We stocked more than we needed, in case. I guess it was in case we got three sheep! We'll need that book, though."

  "Who will be the shepherd?" Freddy asked. "For the nativity, that is. Do you think we could borrow Lady Guinevere?"

  "You could, but she's too big," Charles said. "Oh, I forgot to tell you. I fed her a carrot yesterday without help." He grinned at the boys. "She's to be my mount, as soon as we become friends," he confided.

  "Excellent, Charles. I told you it wasn't hard," Randy said. The duke beamed proudly.

  The three, and their woolly friends, wandered off to the barn, arguing about what animal might stand for a shepherd. Randy argued correctly that Bertha, who was a sheepdog, would be the logical choice. "But she's going to be Mother Mary. If we make her a shepherd, where will we be?" Freddy insisted, lobbying for the loan of a horse.

  When the barn door closed, Chadbourn and Catherine convulsed in laughter.

  "Oh, my lord," Catherine laughed, tears rolling down her cheeks. "However am I going to keep from laughing on Christmas morning? I will disgrace myself during services."

  "Will."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "My name is William. Two people who laugh so hard together certainly ought to make use of given names, Catherine." His expression held a challenge.

  She looked to the house, as if she could hear her father's fervent admonition about trusting titled blackguards, from the yard.

  "Say it. Say my name."

  "Will," she whispered. She felt a blush heat her cheeks. "For this moment. For the laughter, but not—"

  "—not when I talk with your father? Have you convinced him I'm right about your brothers?"

  She shook her head, a sly smile appearing only briefly. "Not quite. I'm wearing him down, though."

  When he took her hand, she let him. When he drew it toward his lips rather than bowing over her fingers, she let him. When he cupped her cheek and leaned in to kiss her, she almost let him.

  "Unhand my daughter, you damned rakehell!" Papa stood in the doorway in full outrage. She felt bereft when his warmth pulled away.

  "Ah, Lord Arthur, just the person I came to see."

  Papa looked skeptical, but he held the door. "Come in, then, and get at it." He glared at Catherine.

  She watched the door close behind the two men. It was the third such visit. She suspected her father had come to enjoy sparring with the earl, and was holding out just for the fun of it.

  The boys would be in school the following fall. The thought dampened her spirits. The earl would leave sooner. That thought depressed them thoroughly. One attempted kiss notwithstanding, the bastard daughter of a country scholar did not aspire to be Countess of Chadbourn.

  ***

  "Will this do?" the earl—she would not let herself think of him as Will—called from the top of the tree. He waved a large sprig of mistletoe triumphantly.

  "It certainly will. Now, come down before you break your neck," Catherine said in her best older-sister voice. He had visited her father twice more. The second time, he brought his friend, the marquess, who frightened both of her brothers into awed silence, no small feat. The elegant and reserved marquess confirmed Catherine's belief that the earl's world lay far outside of her experience or ambition.

  The marquess also leant a firm hand and logic to the earl's persuasion of her father, however. Papa, she thought, was poised on the brink of capitulating.

  When Chadbourn heard they were going to gather greens to decorate Songbird, there was nothing for it but to invite the young duke along. His uncle had to accompany him, of course. The marquess wisely declined. Her father snorted about nonsense, but didn't forbid it.

  "Isn't he grand, Cath?" Randy exclaimed. "He climbed up there like he does it every day, not like some stuck-up earl." He did, at that. She tried to imagine the Marquess of Glenaire at the top of the tree and failed miserably.

  The not-so-stuck-up earl grinned down at her. "Catch!" he shouted, and she scrambled to obey. He climbed down with the same grace and alacrity with which he climbed up. Catherine watched in rapt fascination, mistletoe clutched to her breast.

  "Cath won't usually let us get the mistletoe. We make do with holly," Freddy told Charles. At least the earl's efforts kept her brothers from breaking their foolish necks.

  Will leapt down from the lowest branch, landing on his feet, with laughter in his eyes. "Mistletoe is the best part, Freddy," he said. "Let me demonstrate." He moved toward Catherine, a predatory look taking the place of laughter in his expression.

  Catherine took a step back, still clutching the mistletoe. She tried to control panic. Don't be a ninnyhammer. What can he do in front of the boys?

  When Will pulled her hands forward and took a sprig, she couldn't take her eyes from his. "When a lady finds herself under mistletoe," he told the boys without looking away fro
m Catherine, "she must pay the forfeit." He leaned in, and her eyes focused on his lips, his fine, chiseled lips. Her mouth parted in amazement just as he closed the distance between them. He took her lower lip in his gently, before moving over her mouth in a caress that took her breath. Before she could disgrace herself by clutching his neck and drawing him closer, he pulled back and smiled knowingly.

  "That, my boys, is how it's done," he said hoarsely, without taking his eyes from her face.

  "Take the mistletoe back," Freddy crowed, while Randy made retching noises. The duke looked from one of his friends to the other and joined in the mockery.

  "Oh, very well," Chadbourn said. "You may use this option, too." He leaned in and kissed her cheek quickly. Only then, did Catherine realize his arm on her waist steadied her. If he hadn't held her, her knees might have buckled.

  He looked at her, as if to confirm she could stand, and turned briskly.

  "Let's get these greens to the house," he said, and organized the boys for the trek back to the kitchen. When they got there and unloaded greenery all over Mrs. MacLeish's worktable, Will announced he would pay his respects to Lord Arthur.

  Catherine bolted to her room before he could ask her to join him and have a private moment along the way.

  Two hours later, she stood in her father's study in shock. Not only had Lord Arthur agreed to the boy's schooling, he had agreed to come to Eversham Hall to discuss arrangements.

  "Boy's right. I may as well face it sooner rather than later."

  He would face his childhood home. And Catherine? She would face dinner with a hostile duchess, a toplofty marquess, and an earl who made mush of her senses and left her unable to think. Damn it, anyway. She couldn't wait.

  ***

  For the most part, it went well, Will thought later. Sylvia, fortified by two weeks of dinners with the marquess, and mindful of Will's orders to be welcoming, had behaved. It didn't hurt that her new lady's maid had been watering her 'tonic,' gradually decreasing the drug's effect. Will determined to give the woman a bonus.

  The evening began well. Randy and Freddy, scrubbed and dressed in their church clothes, followed a footman to the nursery floor, where Charles had planned more War of the Roses. Will hoped they confined themselves to the army of toy soldiers he had liberated from the attic, in a box labeled "Master Arthur." No crashes, screams, or other catastrophes indicated otherwise.