A Christmas Keepsake

by Janice Bennett

  Because he was a gentleman. Abruptly, he turned away, folding his hands into fists to prevent them from returning to her. Confound the woman! Couldn’t she see the effect she had on him? A man of honor did not—could not—so far forget himself with a defenseless female under his protection.

  The door opened, and with a concerted effort he pulled himself together and greeted St. Ives.

  The earl, resplendent in a coat of deep blue velvet and a white satin waistcoat, paused just over the threshold and raised his quizzing glass. After a moment, he allowed it to drop. “Dear Coz, what brings you out on such a night? And Miss—Campbell, is it not? How delightful.”

  He crossed to the chairs and gestured for Miss Campbell to be seated. She perched on the edge of one and leaned forward, elbows on her knees, in a most unladylike manner James found endearing. She raised her gaze to his face with an expression of such uncertainty mingled with trust in his judgment, that James was hard put to it not to kiss her on the spot. Confound her enchanting ways!

  “Well?” The earl lounged back on a sofa, his elegantly pantalooned legs extended before him toward the fire.

  James strode to the window and stared out over the street. A barouche drove by, a crest emblazoned on its panel. Lights flickered from the carriage lamps on the box, glinting off the metal accoutrements of the harness, and the soft jingling of the bells reached him. So very different from Golden Lane.

  He turned back into the room. “As you know, I move among a different order of society than do you.”

  St. Ives raised sardonic eyebrows. “Indeed, Coz? Do you know, it had occurred to me.”

  “What might not have occurred to you,” James said, “is that I hear a very different view of political events from those to which you are exposed.”

  “Is this view supposed to be of interest to me?” The earl covered his mouth with the tapering fingers of one hand and yawned. “Do get on with it, dear Coz. I have guests waiting.”

  James clenched his jaw. “I am hearing a great deal of discontent among the poor and the elderly.”

  A sharp laugh escaped St. Ives. “Dear Coz, not even you can think this is a matter of any remarkableness. It is not in the least unusual.”

  “No, it is not, and that is the problem.” He positioned himself directly before his exasperating cousin. “It is far too usual, and it is also rapidly becoming dangerous.”

  “Do you mean those attacks on you? I have told you repeatedly not to stir up the rabble of this poor city. If you insist on behaving in so unseemly a manner, then you will have to take the consequences.”

  “I doubt it will be me, alone. The discontent may soon go beyond the grumbling stage. You cannot tell me you have never seriously considered the possibility of a revolution?”

  St. Ives’s eyes narrowed. “Do you hear rumors of violence?”

  James glanced at Miss Campbell. “I do,” he said, his voice level.

  “Confound it!” St. Ives surged to his feet, his affected manner dropping away. He strode to the hearth, then abruptly about-faced. “That damnable regency bill!” he exploded. “The masses will never tolerate Prinny’s wastrel ways.” He shook his head, and all expression faded from his face. “Perhaps they are right, after all.”

  “Who? About what?” James demanded.

  St. Ives slammed his fist on the mantel. “Prinny. He’ll be the death of us all.”

  “No!” Miss Campbell’s gaze flew from St. Ives to James. “It’s something else that has to change. I know for a fact your Prinny won’t cause any trouble by being appointed regent.”

  “Do you?” St. Ives raised his quizzing glass once more and regarded her through it. His sneer returned. “By Jove, what a remarkably well-informed young lady.”

  James rounded on her, ignoring his cousin. “What changes? What do we do that makes him acceptable?”

  “We?” St. Ives shook his head. “I, for one, have not the influence.”

  Again, James paid him no heed. “How many possibilities are there?”

  “Only the two, I should think.” She shook her head. “Either you attend a house party or—or you know the other choice.”

  “I don’t,” St. Ives pointed out.

  “Riots in the streets,” James agreed.

  “Then by all means, dear Coz, attend this house party.” The earl’s lip curled. “It seems the most sensible course.”

  James fixed his cousin with his steady regard. “Do you know, Saint Ives, I believe you are right. Somehow, I must attend this house party. There seems little we can do until then.”

  “Excellent. Allow me to offer mine, then, if it will prevent these riots you fear. I have two other guests remaining with me this night. Will you not join us?”

  James cast a questioning glance at Miss Campbell.

  “I don’t know,” she said slowly. “This isn’t exactly a Christmas house party, is it?”

  “How grieved I am to inform you it is not. Merely an expedience for two members of the Home Office who do not wish to travel in this inclement weather. Sir Oliver and Lord Farnham. Brockenhurst is with us, as well, but he does not, I believe, intend to remain the night.”

  Miss Campbell glanced at James. “It might be the one. There are certainly members of the government here.”

  “Very well, then.” He nodded. “Thank you, Saint Ives. We will be delighted to accept your hospitality. Only let me send a message to the Runcorns to assure them we are unharmed.” St. Ives’s eyes narrowed. “Have you been having more of that problem?”

  James’s lips twitched into a rueful smile. “In fact, I had promised the Runcorns to remain for the night with them, rather than risk going out after dark.”

  St. Ives tugged gently at his quizzing glass, a frown darkening his blue eyes. “There is no question but that you stay, then. I will I send someone for your man and your things. Miss Campbell’s things as well, of course.”

  “Thank you.” Her voice, though, held a note of skepticism. The earl dispatched a footman on the errand, then led the way down the hall to the drawing room. The faint odor of heady wine mingled with the beeswax from the multitude of candles and the smoke from the fireplace. The chimney needed sweeping. Lady St. Ives sat with Farnham at a small card table near the hearth, and the other two gentlemen rattled a dice box on another topped with a green baize cloth. Sir Oliver Paignton laid down the ivories, and Brockenhurst’s hazel eyes widened at sight of the newcomers. He cast a questioning glance at St. Ives.

  Sir Oliver reached across the table, touched Brockenhurst’s arm, and shook his head.

  “Fresh blood?” Lord Farnham folded his cards, his gaze speculative. He leaned back in his chair and ran his fingers through his windswept black hair.

  Lady St. Ives rose gracefully in a cloud of pomona green silk, which did not quite conceal her advancing pregnancy. A dyed ostrich plume curled from her fashionable crop of blond ringlets and just brushed her cheek. “James? How delightful. But what brings you here so late?”

  “I fear we are joining your party, Margaret.” He took her hand and awarded her an elegant bow. “I believe you remember Miss Campbell? I have placed her in an awkward position, and must beg your chaperonage of her for this night.”

  “Of course I remember, and shall only be too delighted.” A shy smile lit her pale blue eyes. “Would you care for a game of cards? I fear I bore Lord Farnham.”

  “Impossible,” that gentleman declared at once.

  “He does not mind in the least playing for penny points.” Margaret cast him a grateful glance.

  “Like you, dear Coz.” St. Ives’s cool gaze rested on Farnham, and his sneer settled over his narrow features. “Ever the defender of damsels in distress.”

  Farnham awarded him a mock bow.

  “It was very kind of him,” Margaret said, quick in his defense. She turned her resentful regard on her husband. “He—he realized I have no taste for high stakes.”

  “Do you not, my dear?” St. Ives tugged at his quizzing glass. “
Now, why had I not realized this before?”

  “I don’t, either,” Miss Campbell said quickly. “In fact, I don’t think I know any of the games you play here. Is there a simple one you could teach me?”

  Lady St. Ives at once offered her assistance, and Lord Farnham rose and strolled over to the other gentlemen at the dicing table. James, also, joined them.

  Sir Oliver smoothed down his unruly graying hair, then extended his hand. “What a delightful surprise, Major. How are you?” A smile sat uneasily on his lips.

  “Major.” An unidentifiable emotion flickered through Brockenhurst’s bright hazel eyes, and he stood. “Good evening.”

  James raised his eyebrows in mild surprise. “What, not a single comment about my slumming in Mayfair? You must be castaway.”

  Brockenhurst’s slender frame stiffened. “I have never meant to give offense.”

  James shook his head. “You never could hold your wine. For heaven’s sake, be seated. What the devil are you about? You never stand upon ceremony with anyone except Prinny.”

  “Sit down, sit down.” Sir Oliver tugged at the tails of the viscount’s exquisitely cut coat. “Don’t be a demmed fool, boy. Well, Major, what’s your pleasure? Faro? Hazard? Or the bones? I’ll warn you, they’re throwing devilishly contrary tonight.”

  James shook his head. “Don’t let me interrupt. I’ll join whatever it is you play.”

  After some polite deferring to one another, Sir Oliver persuaded Brockenhurst to start a faro bank. Farnham and St. Ives withdrew to another small table, and joined in hand after hand of piquet. They appeared oblivious to the others.

  The remainder of the evening and the early hours of the morning passed in the dedicated pursuit of gambling. Sir Oliver, once in possession of his cards, had eyes for nothing else. Brockenhurst lounged back in his chair, playing as if he had little interest in the proceedings, yet winning a considerable amount.

  They at last rose from the table with Sir Oliver jovial, despite his heavy losses. James found himself some fifty pounds to the better, and was glad for Sir Oliver’s sake St. Ives insisted upon keeping the stakes low.

  Margaret at last gave vent to the yawn she had been trying to smother. Miss Campbell stood at once.

  “You shouldn’t have stayed up so late,” she said. “I’m sorry, you must be exhausted ”

  That lady shook her head, setting the plume jiggling once more against her cheek. “It would be unthinkable to retire before my guests. Come, Mrs. Munchken will have prepared your room long ago.” She crossed to the hearth and pulled the bell rope.

  A sour-faced woman in apron and mobcap entered a minute later, as if she had been waiting just outside for the summons.

  Margaret handed Miss Campbell into her care, then turned to James. “You know your way to the green room? Then I will bid you good night.” With a half-smile of apology, she went to her husband’s side.

  James followed as the housekeeper escorted Miss Campbell to a small chamber at the back of the next floor. Through the door, he glimpsed Nancy dozing by the fire, and relief surged through him at the Runcorns’ thoughtfulness. Miss Campbell would be far more comfortable with someone she knew to look after her.

  He himself occupied a spacious apartment one flight up. Wickes greeted him at the door, and over his man’s shoulder he could see his things arranged with comfortable familiarity.

  Only the mildest reproach showed in Wickes’s face as he stepped aside to permit his master to enter. “Are we settled this time, sir?”

  “We have only moved twice, this night,” James pointed out, amused.

  “Indeed, sir.”

  Wickes set about removing his boots, and in a very short time James dismissed him. After finishing his preparations for bed, he extinguished the candles and settled in a chair with a glass of brandy. Lord, what a night this had been. He wasn’t at all sure what he was doing here, either. Miss Campbell and her preposterous stories. Yet the print in that book ... his book... None of this made sense.

  And there went his primary argument against Miss Campbell’s claims she came from the future. Logic and sense played no part when it came to her. Damn the chit! She had him behaving as if he believed her. And what was worse, he realized the next moment, he actually did.

  He glared into the hearth, annoyed with himself. How could he be so gullible, so—

  The soft creak of the handle turning cut across his thoughts. He rose, reaching for the fireplace poker, as the door inched open. A pale round face, surrounded by a cloud of dusky ringlets, peeped inside.

  With a sigh, Miss Campbell slipped through the opening and closed the door behind her. “Thank heavens! I thought this was your room, but if I’d been wrong—” She giggled, and clutched a muslin wrapper about her. “Wouldn’t you have liked to see Sir Oliver’s face if I’d waltzed in on him?”

  James returned the poker to its stand and glared at her. “Please leave, Miss Campbell. You have no business being here,”

  “Well, that’s a fine welcome. I just came to make sure you were all right.”

  “And why shouldn’t I be? This is my cousin’s house.”

  “That’s exactly why. I don’t trust him. There’s something peculiar going on. All those men, particularly Lord Brockenhurst, kept staring at you. It was enough to give me the willies. I couldn’t sleep.” Her bare feet made no sound as she crossed the carpet to stand before the blazing hearth. She shivered, and inched closer.

  The thick mass of her hair fell well below her shoulders, the tight curls haloing about her head in a riot that made him long to run his hands through them. What else it made him want to do registered itself in a very marked manner.

  A rush of heat surged through him. Lord, she was lovely, so full of life and vitality. And so very desirable. Unable to resist, he brushed her hair back from her eyes. Such beautiful eyes. A flame danced in their depths. Reason told him it was the reflection from the firelight, yet his heart cried out it was her passionate nature. His hand buried itself in her curls, clasping the back of her neck. Those lips...

  His mouth brushed hers, testing with a feathery soft touch. She swayed toward him, her arms encircling his waist, her fingers tracing a tantalizing pattern up his back. Her lips caressed his chin, and a low groan rose from the depth of his being as his control wavered on the brink.

  With an enormous effort, he set her aside. “You have assured yourself as to my well-being, Miss Campbell. You may now leave.”

  He turned away, cursing himself for a fool. Never had he wanted a woman so much, never had he faced so wrenching a choice between honor and passion. The females who usually stirred his desire belonged to a very different order, were his—or any man’s—for the taking. But not Miss Campbell. Not ... Christina.

  From behind him, her arms crept about his waist once more, and he stiffened. “Miss Campbell.” He grasped her hands and loosened her hold, knowing his action was the opposite of what he wanted, and knowing his willpower—and his self-respect—hung by a very thin thread. It would be so easy to give in to the need that raged through him—and so unforgivable for taking advantage of a lady under his protection.

  “This isn’t why I came here.” Her cheek pressed against his shoulder blade, and her body molded itself to him. “I honestly only meant to check on you. But—James?”

  The huskiness of her tone battered the walls of his defenses. “No.” His voice rasped in his throat. “You can have no idea where this will lead, my dear.” He faced her, clasping her hands between his own. “No lady should ever come to a gentleman’s room. The situation can get out of control far too rapidly.”

  “Good.” She barely breathed the word. “James, I—”

  Once more, the eerie creek of the handle reached him. He grasped Miss Campbell’s wrist and shoved her behind the curtains which surrounded his bed. “Keep down and keep quiet!” he hissed. He grabbed up the discarded poker and swung around to face the door as it inched silently open.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN
>
  Christy opened her mouth, then shut it as the soft rustle of satin reached her. Someone entered the room.

  She tensed, then drew her legs under her so she crouched. The bed curtain might provide a hiding place for her, but if this intruder dared harm James...

  “Ah, you are still awake?” St. Ives’s silken drawl reached her. “Dear Coz, I thought you would have been asleep by now.”

  “Did you? What a peculiar time to call upon me, then.”

  St. Ives laughed, though it sounded somewhat tense. “I fear it was not the pleasure of your company I sought. Rather, to assure myself of your safety.”

  “Indeed?”

  The earl sighed. “Yes, as odd as it may seem, I do find I have a certain fondness for you. And a certain interest in keeping you alive. I came because I thought I heard someone moving about the house. The stairs are in the most dreadful habit of creaking, you must know. Has anyone come near your door?”

  “My man came a few minutes ago,” the major lied easily. “Might it have been him?”

  “I suppose it is possible, but the person I heard used the main stairs, and I did not hear him leave.”

  “Ah. A mystery then. A ghost, perhaps? After all, it is Saint Thomas’s Eve.”

  “More likely the house settling. Very well, if you are quite safe, I shall bid you good night.” His muffled footsteps crossed the rug. “Lock your door after me,” the earl advised. A soft click indicated his departure.

  Christy rose from behind the bed to see the major turn the key in the lock, then toss it on the table. He placed his ear against the door and waited. She inched forward, wondering if the earl peered in through the keyhole. Just in case, she stayed out of the direct line.

  The major waved her back, and she stopped, then sank down on his bed. Two minutes passed, ticking by their slow seconds, and at last James nodded to himself. He gestured Christy to silence, crossed to the fire and poked at the embers. He threw on another log.

  At last, he came to her side and bent close. “I didn’t hear any retreating footsteps.” His voice made the merest thread of sound. “It will be best if you wait for a few minutes before leaving.”