A Christmas Keepsake

by Janice Bennett

  “I feared I should be quite alone, with both Lady Paignton and Lady Sophia withdrawing like that at the last moment.” A tremulous smile just touched the countess’s lips.

  “Were Lady Sophia and Sir Dominic expected?” the major asked. “I do not remember St. Ives mentioning him.”

  “Of course. He was the reason—” She broke off.

  St. Ives strolled over to them and cast his wife a quelling glance. “Sir Dominic has taken ill, I’m afraid,” he told his cousin. “He sends his regards to you.”

  “Does he?” The major frowned. “I do not believe we have met these six months or more.”

  “Nevertheless, he has always shown a vast interest in your welfare.”

  Major Holborn inclined his head. “How very flattering. I must remember to thank him.”

  St. Ives moved off, and his wife rushed into speech. “I understand you have only just arrived from America, Miss Campbell. What adventures you must have had. I should so love to hear about them. But now you must meet our other guests. James?” She directed a pleading look at the major. “If you would be so kind?”

  “My pleasure.” He led Christy away.

  She slowed her steps. “Who is Sir Dominic?” Something nagged at her about the name, as if it were familiar but she couldn’t quite place it.

  “Sir Dominic Kaye. He is one of the Opposition leaders.”

  “Sir Dominic ... Her voice trailed off. Sir Dominic Kaye, recipient of the letter from the regent—the future regent—which had brought her to England. Good heavens, was she actually to meet the man? What an exalted crowd she’d fallen in with.

  She glanced back with renewed interest at Lady St. Ives, who went to her husband’s side and touched his arm. He spoke too softly for Christy to catch his words, but his wife shrank away. Her thin arm encircled her protruding stomach in a protective gesture.

  Christy blinked. “She’s pregnant!”

  Major Holborn directed a pained look at her. “In the family way, I believe you mean.”

  Christy made a face at him. “You and your euphemisms. No wonder she looks so pale. She should get off her feet and rest. It must be an awful strain organizing a political bash like this. Have they had a fight?”

  “I do not know what you mean.”

  “He just snapped at her.”

  The major drew a deep breath. “Even marriages of convenience require a period of adjustment, Miss Campbell. It is best not to interfere.”

  “Convenience.” She glanced again at Lady St. Ives, who had returned to her position before the mantel. “The poor woman.”

  “On the contrary. She is considered very lucky. She has traded her breeding for a title, a considerable fortune, and an enviable position in society.”

  “What a cold-blooded way to put it.” She glared at him. “I suppose you plan to arrange a suitable marriage for yourself.”

  “You mistake. I have nothing to offer a lady of birth and breeding. And how did we come to be discussing me?”

  “Most men find themselves to be a topic of considerable interest.” She awarded him her sweetest smile.

  For a moment, he struggled, then his deep chuckle escaped him. “Miss Campbell, you are incorrigible. Come and meet your fellow guests—provided you promise to be on your best behavior.”

  “If I don’t, can I get out of this?” She hung back, eyeing the gentlemen with misgivings. She could do with a shot of Dutch chocolate courage.

  “You invited yourself,” he reminded her.

  He led her in the direction of a middle-aged gentleman, only to be brought up short by the most impossibly handsome young man Christy had ever beheld. Rich brown hair swept back from his forehead, and his bright hazel eyes held a knowing gleam as they rested on her. Lines of dissipation belied his angelic expression.

  “Holborn.” He nodded to the major. “One hears your efforts on behalf of the poor continue. Really, your energy is quite amazing.” He covered a yawn with one delicate white hand.

  “Brockenhurst!” The older man joined them and shot the other a quelling look, his countenance somber beneath his unruly graying hair. “Good evening, Holborn. Pleasure to see you.”

  James greeted him, then presented Christy. “Viscount Brockenhurst,” he gestured to the younger man, “and Sir Oliver Paignton.”

  Brockenhurst inclined his classically handsome head and moved away. Sir Oliver, as if to make up for his friend’s rudeness, bowed over her hand in a courtly manner and murmured a polite acknowledgment. His gaze rested on her a moment, and a slight frown creased his brow.

  He turned to the major. “Dreadful business, this proposed regency,” he said. “They’ll bring it to a vote soon, you mark my words, Major. Then we’ll be in a dreadful fix.”

  Christy looked up quickly, fascinated. “Do you think so?” She’d read in the library about there being some controversy. “The king’s son seems the only possible choice. He’s his heir, after all. Who else should have the nominal rule when his father is incapacitated?”

  With one forefinger, Sir Oliver Paignton tapped the small enameled box he held, and his serious gaze fell on her once more. “You mark my words, my dear,” he repeated. “The people will never accept Prinny as regent. His extravagances, his morals!” He shook his head. “I greatly fear what the outcome will be.”

  Another man joined them. “A revolution in the streets, after the manner of the French, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  Christy spun about to see an impeccably attired gentleman of about the major’s age, with a tall, muscular build and thick black hair barely touched by gray. An air of energy hung about him.

  The steady gaze of his frowning brown eyes rested on Sir Oliver. “The bill must be defeated when it is brought to a vote.”

  “Why?” Christy looked at each of the men in turn, and encountered their surprised regard. Warm color crept into her cheeks. “He isn’t that unpopular, is he? I mean, he doesn’t really have anything to say in government policy, does he? I thought your kings weren’t much more than figureheads...” Her voice trailed off.

  “Lord Farnham.” A slight tremor of amusement sounded in Major Holborn’s voice. “Permit me to introduce Miss Campbell. An American, as I believe you may have guessed.”

  “Indeed?” Lord Farnham fumbled at his breast, grasped a black ribbon and raised the eyeglass that hung from it. Through this, he regarded Christy. After a moment, he allowed it to drop, and his features relaxed. “You must forgive us, Miss Campbell. It is far too easy to discuss matters important to us, even in the presence of ladies. We forget our conversations can be of little interest to your fair sex.”

  “Actually, I find it very interesting. But what makes you think there’ll be a revolution? After all, your prince will inherit soon enough, anyway, and no one will be able to prevent it, then. What does it matter if he takes over a few years earlier?” She glanced at the major.

  He set his jaw, but still it quivered. A gleam of suppressed laughter lit his eyes. “Indeed, she has a point.”

  St. Ives turned from his conversation with Brockenhurst and strolled over, his lip curled. “Now is the time for a Stuart to once more claim the throne.”

  “Very true.” Sir Oliver Paignton exchanged a glance with Lord Farnham. “A new Pretender, as Sir Dominic is always saying, would meet with far more success than did Bonnie Prince Charlie.”

  Christy blinked, and ran her limited knowledge of British history through rapid review. Charles Edward Stuart, whose claims to the throne had been denied at Culloden Moor in the 1740s. Over sixty years ago.

  “What, Jacobite sympathies?” Major Holborn shook his head, mocking. “It is a shame Prince Charlie’s only son was stillborn.”

  “So there isn’t a Stuart heir?” Christy looked from one serious face to another.

  “On the contrary, Miss Campbell.” St. Ives drew a small chased silver box from his pocket, flicked it open, and helped himself to a tiny pinch of the powder within. “Prince Charlie had a brother—Henry—but he i
s a bishop.”

  “Catholic,” the major explained. “His religion makes him unacceptable for the British throne.”

  The other men exchanged glances again, and Christy’s foreboding grew. She didn’t trust them, any of them. Did they hope to turn Prinny’s unpopularity into a coup, not for the Scots but for the Catholics? Something, perhaps, similar to the modern struggle between England and Ireland?

  Dear God, was this what changed James Holborn’s book? Cold, sick, she turned away. Did these men incite the lower classes of England against the profligate Prinny? Did they then bring Henry, the last Stuart, from wherever he lived in exile?

  She closed her eyes, and visions of an unquenchable revolution rose to haunt her, even bloodier than the one prophesied by Sir Oliver. And everyone would join in, with the poor rising against their oppressors, and fighting in the streets...

  “Miss Campbell?” The major’s quiet voice sounded in her ear. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, of course.” She managed a shaky smile. “I’m sorry.”

  Doring entered, announcing dinner. The major firmly took her arm and led her after the others down the hall and into a magnificent apartment. Christy stopped just over the threshold, taking in the elegance, the rich furnishings, the abundance of gold and silver plate.

  The blurring lines from the major’s book forced themselves once more into her mind. Would this be one of the houses stormed by the angry mobs? Would St. Ives and his unhappy lady be dragged into the street to be beaten and stabbed?

  Major Holborn led her to a chair and pressed her into it. She sat without protest, then looked about the table at her fellow guests. Had they any idea of the horrors their plans might produce?

  It didn’t appear likely. Throughout the protracted meal, talk around the table continued to center on the debates raging through the houses of Parliament. Christy listened to the fears of these men, and found her own growing. They all looked sensible, not at all like alarmists.

  What if they were right? Was that the action Major Holborn must perform, to somehow make Prince George more acceptable to his people?

  She glanced up the table to where the major engaged in earnest conversation with Brockenhurst. Apparently, the major took this talk seriously, for he joined in the discussions, his manner concerned.

  Did all this lay the basis for the ending of his next book? To hear these government officials talk, all it would take for utter catastrophe would be one unpopular decision by the houses of Parliament. She barely tasted the various dishes, so intent was she on the reactions of the men.

  At last, Lady St. Ives cast an uncertain glance at her husband. He paid her no heed. After a moment’s hesitation, she rose and looked toward Christy.

  Christy cast a frantic glance at Major Holborn. With the slightest jerk of his head, he indicated she should go with her hostess. She did, following that lady from the room and down the hall.

  Accompanied by the soft rustling of her silk gown, Lady St. Ives led the way to a spacious, richly appointed apartment, not the one where they had gathered before dinner. A piano and harp stood at one end of the room, and a grouping of sofas and chairs stood before the hearth. The countess seated herself in one of these and gestured for Christy to join her. Christy did, feeling distinctly uncomfortable.

  “I am so glad James brought you.” The countess managed a shy smile. “I always feel so very much alone, especially when I am the only lady present at one of these functions. But I must not expect him to arrange parties for my pleasure.” Color flooded her too-pale cheeks, and she looked away. “Have—have you known James long?”

  “We only encountered each other a couple of days ago. I am—rather new to this country.”

  “Of course.” Lady St. Ives regarded her clasped hands, as if she found making even the most trifling of polite small talk to be a chore. “Are you involved in his work?”

  “I am assisting some of his friends—the Runcorns. Are you acquainted with them?”

  “I—no. St. Ives says they are not at all the thing, and I am not to call upon them.”

  “I see.” Christy clamped her teeth together to keep her unruly tongue in check. The Countess needed a lesson in liberation, not to mention a short course in self-assertiveness. And St. Ives needed a good swift kick in the seat of his chauvinistic pants. The “convenience” of this marriage obviously had been designed for the earl, to assure him a timid wife who didn’t dare possess an opinion not of his choosing.

  “Do you play the pianoforte?” Lady St. Ives asked after a moment’s silence. She regarded her guest with a shy hopefulness.

  “No, I don’t,” Christy admitted. “I would love it if you would, though.”

  The Countess flushed with real pleasure. “Would you? It has always been a favorite pastime of mine.”

  With all the air of one making good her escape, the countess retired to the instrument. She didn’t bother selecting any music, she simply started to play with a facility that indicated long hours of dedicated practice.

  Christy sank back against the cushions of her chair in relief, and closed her eyes. Slowly, the knots of tension untied themselves.

  She had almost drifted off to sleep when the gentlemen joined, them at last. She roused herself, opening her eyes to find the major standing before her, frowning. The strains of Mozart still filled the room. Apparently, her hostess had not noticed her inattentiveness.

  “We had best be leaving.” Major Holborn turned to his cousin. “Both of us must be up betimes on the morrow. Thank you for a most interesting evening, St. Ives.”

  “Delighted, little cousin, quite delighted.”

  Lady St. Ives turned from the instrument. “You cannot stay?” Honest regret sounded in her voice.

  Christy shook her head. “I’m afraid not. I had a wonderful time, though.”

  Becoming color flooded the countess’s cheeks. “You must come again, Miss Campbell. James, I cannot thank you enough for bringing her.”

  The major’s mobile eyebrows rose. “My pleasure,” was all he said.

  Amid repeated thanks, they escaped the room and headed down the stairs to the front hall, where the efficient Doring waited to assist them with their things. He offered to send a footman running for a hackney, but the major waved this aside. They would find one at the corner, he assured the butler, and escorted Christy outside.

  “Thank heavens that’s over with,” she breathed as the door closed behind them.

  “Bored?” he asked.

  “No. How could I be? Look, is everyone really worried about a revolution, or are they just working themselves up over nothing?”

  The gentle amusement faded from his face. “It is a distinct possibility. Prinny has not endeared himself to the common people. He—” He broke off and glanced behind them.

  “What is it?” Her tiredness evaporating, Christy spun about.

  The major turned more slowly, and his grip tightened on her arm.

  Three men approached, all garbed in dark clothing. Even their faces appeared unnaturally shadowed. The next moment, Christy realized they wore masks covering their eyes and noses.

  Her rapid heartbeat pounded in her ears, and her hand closed over the major’s in sudden fear. “What—”

  One of the men raised his arm, and the deafening explosion of a pistol filled the air. The major’s hat flew from his head, and he staggered backward.

  Christy froze, too shocked to react. Another man raised a pistol and her paralysis vanished. She grabbed the major’s arm, and together they ran, bending low, maneuvering in a zigzag pattern. Either that first man was one colossally good aim to be able to miss at so short a distance, or this was a serious attempt at murder that very nearly succeeded.

  The other gun fired behind them, its explosion deafening in the snowy stillness. Christy ducked around a corner a bare pace ahead of the major, ran a few yards, then darted through a narrower opening.

  The major passed her, grasping her hand as he pulled into the lead. Hi
s long-legged stride would have outdistanced her, but her panic pumped adrenaline through her system, sending her racing along at his side.

  “Here!” The major’s voice reached her through the pounding in her ears.

  He veered sideways through an opening in the darker shadows she hadn’t noticed. Where they were now, she had no idea at all. She ran on, stumbling over piles of rubble.

  She stepped on a jagged brick, and bit back an exclamation of pain. Her slippers must be in shreds. Her toes were so numb from the cold she could barely feel them—which was a blessing, under the circumstances.

  “Steady.” Major Holborn caught her as she tripped again. His tension sounded in the grim note in his voice.

  Her heart pounded in her chest and she gasped for breath, but still she ran after him, twisting and turning through a maze of back alleys. Behind them, the sounds of pursuit dropped away, fading, as their trail eluded the men. Abruptly, the major lunged to the left again. Christy staggered after him, and they stopped at last.

  She leaned against an icy cold wall, panting, her fingers clutching the uneven surface in an attempt to keep her strained leg muscles from collapsing under her. Numb as they were, her feet ached. She stood on something uneven. And sharp. She kicked aside a large chunk of broken brick—one of the many strewn in untidy heaps—and rubbed her injured feet.

  She leaned back again and realized she trembled, with both the exertion and the fear of what would happen if they were caught. She glanced at the major. “This—”

  He clamped his hand over her mouth and drew her closer to him. “Quiet.” The word sounded on the merest breath of air.

  With difficulty, Christy forced herself to breathe slower, so her ragged gasps wouldn’t be audible. Then she, too, heard the crunching of the snow, the footsteps the major’s quicker ears must have caught. Somewhere close—too close—a cat hissed and howled, and a small dog let loose a volley of high-pitched yapping. A deep voice muttered words Christy couldn’t quite catch, and another answered.

  She tensed, pressed against her wall. As her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, a dim, rectangular shape took form beside her—a door into the building. Blackness engulfed their surroundings, making it impossible to see farther away. For all she knew, they had chosen a dead-end alley in which to hide.