No more confidences was the maid willing to share, so Christy allowed herself to be assisted into the gown of amber crepe. Her hair took some time to arrange to Nancy’s satisfaction, but at last Christy hurried down the stairs to the salon where the house-guests would gather before dinner.
Margaret, Lady St. Ives, sat before the hearth, her pale face bent over the tiny robe she embroidered. She looked up, and a tentative smile touched her lips, which did nothing to alleviate the sadness in her eyes. “Good evening, Miss Campbell. I am so glad you are here. I dread these political affairs, do not you?”
“I’m new to them. Sore back?” Christy brought her a pillow and slipped it into place. “My sister always had an awful time sitting when she was pregnant.”
A soft flush crept into Lady St. Ives’s cheeks. “It is very kind of you,” she murmured, and returned to her embroidery.
Another unhappy woman, Christy reflected. The men of this time had it too much their own way. What with the countess being ignored by her husband, and Nancy being snubbed by Wickes and propositioned by—by whom? She really had to figure that one out.
Lord Brockenhurst entered, poured himself a glass of wine, and glanced about the room. His gaze fell on Lady St. Ives, and with a sly smile he went to her side and said something Christy couldn’t catch. The lady looked up at him, an expression of consternation—or was it fear?—on her face. He laughed softly and moved away, and Lady St. Ives lowered her gaze to her embroidery. It was a very long while before her needle moved again.
One by one, the others put in an appearance, and Christy positioned herself where she could watch as many of them as possible. James started toward her, only to be waylaid by the jovial Sir Oliver. Farnham and Sir Dominic caught him next, and kept him talking until after the butler entered to announce dinner.
The meal passed with ceremonial pomp, and with all due deference paid to James. Whether the servants knew the real identity of their guest of honor, or if they merely had been ordered to accord him every mark of subservience, Christy couldn’t tell. She didn’t like any of this, though. Even the lofty dining room, with its heavy carved furniture, ornate tapestries, and gleaming silver, oppressed her. She’d gladly exchange it all for a pizza in front of the TV set in her own airy apartment.
James, to her dismay, appeared all too much at his ease in his present elaborate surroundings—as if he took the advancement of his status and the respect of the others as his due. Maybe it was, but that didn’t mean he had to seem so at home with it. With a sinking heart, she acknowledged he belonged here—and she very much did not. No matter how much she tried to deny it, the fact remained James was a Stuart, born from long lines of princes and kings, and he now displayed his ability to take his proper place among them.
She wished she didn’t feel so out of place. She glanced around the table, uncomfortably aware of her lack of social training. Lady St. Ives sat opposite her, with Lord Farnham on her left, and Brockenhurst on her right. The countess concentrated on her plate, onto which a footman scooped a serving of fish in a lemon-colored sauce. At the foot of the table, Lady Sophia brought to a close her conversation with St. Ives and turned her attention to Brockenhurst.
If she watched enough, Christy reflected, she might get the hang of this. She turned to Sir Oliver, on her own right, a smile pinned firmly on her lips, only to have it slip awry.
He watched her through half-lidded eyes, a frown creasing his forehead. “You are well acquainted with Major Stuart?” he asked. He didn’t even hesitate over the change in name.
“Not very,” she admitted, and saw the relief register in his face. “I’m sort of a bodyguard,” she ad-libbed. “My job is to protect him.”
Sir Oliver’s eyebrows shot up. “Is it, Miss Campbell? I am amazed.”
“That’s American women for you. We’ll surprise you every time.”
He nodded. “I am very glad, for your sake, then.”
She stiffened. “And why is that?”
He cast a sideways glance across the table, to where James sat at the right of Sir Dominic, speaking to Farnham. “Because he is a Stuart, my dear. Forgive me if I speak out of turn, but it is his duty to marry a princess. It had occurred to some of us—” He broke off with an apologetic smile. “I am glad to hear it is not so.”
“I see. You were afraid I’d upset your little applecart.”
“No, no. You’re a sensible young lady, and he is a man of honor. I just wanted to make certain—Well, that is neither here nor there, is it, for you tell me there is no such question between you?”
“No,” she agreed, her voice hollow. “How could there be?” How, indeed? Emptiness seeped through her, robbing her of her appetite, leaving her cold and lonely. She ached for James, for the reassurance of his arms about her.
She turned away, to St. Ives on her other side, but he paid her no heed. His gaze rested on James, his expression intense. Almost, Christy thought, as if he waited for his erstwhile cousin to make some gauche mistake, thereby proving himself unworthy of the high estate to which he had been born, if not raised.
The meal at last drew to a close, and Lady Sophia rose, giving the signal for the ladies to withdraw. Christy trailed after the other two, glad to escape, yet wishing she could remain near James.
She needed him—and she needed to know what they would say to him, what arguments they would present that she wouldn’t hear. And how willing was he to listen to them? She desperately wanted to know the answer to that question.
The ladies entered a drawing room where several card tables had been laid out, and a pianoforte and harp stood at the far end, away from the hearth. Lady St. Ives seated herself at the pianoforte, leafed through the music, then began to play. Lady Sophia settled on the sofa, picked up her embroidery, and invited Christy to take the seat at her side.
“Have you found everything to your comfort?” The elegant little woman set a neat stitch.
“Yes. What lovely work,” she tried, desperate to keep the conversation away from herself.
The needle flashed as her hostess set another. “I do hope my husband’s guards have not discomfitted you unduly.”
“Oh, no. I much preferred them to the ones with the guns and knives.”
Lady Sophia clicked her tongue. “There, I do not know how those dreadful men were able to get so close to you. Dominic’s guards should have spotted them and gotten to you first.”
“Fortunately, the assassins were equally as inefficient.” Apparently, good help was hard to find in any day. Christy drew a deep breath. “I hope Sir Dominic has something more effective in mind for the future.”
To that, Lady Sophia murmured an assent, and they fell silent, listening to the countess playing a ballad on the pianoforte and singing quietly to herself.
After about a quarter of an hour, the gentlemen joined them. Sir Dominic, with the able assistance of Sir Oliver, arranged his guests at the various card tables, and within minutes the sound of the pasteboards being shuffled filled the room.
Christy rose and went to stand behind James’s chair to watch him play with Sir Dominic. Piquet, she remembered from a previous evening. She looked at the others and frowned. Lord Brockenhurst beckoned to Lady St. Ives, but she refused to meet his gaze. Instead, she accepted Lord Farnham’s invitation with patent relief.
Sir Oliver drew out a considerable pile of coins and placed them at his side, then glanced about, his expression hopeful. After a moment, Lord Brockenhurst took the chair opposite and followed suit. St. Ives joined them.
Christy watched the intensity with which they played for a few minutes, then returned her attention to James. He lounged back in his chair, a glass of wine at his side, and studied the cards in his hands. It appeared little would be accomplished this night aside from gambling. She stifled a yawn.
James glanced up at her. “Why do you not retire for the night, Miss Campbell?”
“Are you sure—” She broke off. She could hardly ask him if he thought he was safe.<
br />
Amusement lit his eyes. “Quite sure. You may relax your vigilance for once.”
She wouldn’t mind escaping this party. Even aside from her worries about James’s safety, and her distrust of these conspirators, she wasn’t enjoying it. She could spend her time far more delightfully in planning her next assault on James’s defenses.
She excused herself to Lady Sophia, smiled a good night at Lady St. Ives, and made her way up to her room. She prepared for bed without summoning Nancy, then settled before her mirror, experimenting with her unruly hair. She would have to ask James if he preferred it up, in the local prevailing fashion, or loose about her shoulders.
She regarded the current result, but a vision of James’s strong features hovered in her mind. Dear James, what a day this had been for him. To learn he was a Stuart, of royal blood. Not plain Mr. Holborn, but Prince James Edward Stuart.
Prince James ... A chill crept through Christy, and she stared at her reflection with unseeing eyes. A prince, who by birth was so far above a lowly Miss Christina Campbell that it created an insurmountable barrier between them. It was hopeless...
Sir Oliver’s gentle warning had been no mere expression of what he thought best, but a statement of inescapable fact. James had no choice in the matter. He owed a duty to his name, to his heritage, to marry a princess...
She turned away, hugging herself, sick at the thought. James, tied in a bloodless marriage to some German frump of high birth, producing children with her to carry on the line. That was no life for him, not for a man of his passion and spirit, of his generous character. He deserved so much more. Surely somewhere there must be a princess of passable looks and temperament, who could make him happy.
The possibility he actually might come to love his princess tore her apart.
Yet even if he hadn’t been a prince, what could there ever have been between them? Had she honestly been so foolish as to expect them to share something permanent? No matter how much she loved him, they were the products of different times, raised in different worlds.
And at any moment, she might be dragged back to her own, separated from him by nearly two hundred years.
Blindly, she pulled the pins from her hair and sought her empty bed. For a very long while, she huddled beneath the covers, hugging a pillow, and finding no comfort.
The clicking of her door handle disturbed her some time later. Her eyes flew open, but the fire had burned low, and it was too dark to see. Slowly, she dragged herself up onto one elbow.
A dim shape slipped into her room, enveloped in a flowing garment. She’d recognize the broad shoulders anywhere. A pang of yearning shot through her.
“Christy?” James’s soft voice reached her. He felt his way to her bed and sat down on the edge. “It’s ten minutes until three. Officially Christmas Eve morning. I thought we should celebrate.”
He’d come to her...
“It’s cold in here.” He crossed to the fire and tossed on another log. A taper stood on the mantel, and he lit it, then brought it to the table beside her. “I want you to see something.” From his pocket he drew forth a dark lump, and held it out to her.
The light flickered across the carved figure. A woman skating.
“Me. You’ve started the snowdome to bring me back.” That knowledge warmed her.
He set it aside, and his serious gaze rested on her face as he once more sat on the bed. “Have you considered the possibility it might also take you from me?”
A way home. It was what she wanted, what she had to want. She shivered, and didn’t meet his steady regard. “I wish I knew if I had a one-way or a round-trip ticket.”
“So do I.” Apparently, he had no trouble deciphering her meaning. “I have done a great deal of thinking during the past several hours.”
“Have you?” she asked, cautious.
He brushed her curls from her shoulder, and his hand cupped the nape of her neck. “This—my being a Stuart—changes a great deal.”
“I’d noticed. Your name alone could start that revolution we have to prevent.”
“Which makes it all the more important for me to have you with me—to discuss my best course of action.” His mouth brushed the sensitive skin behind her ear. “How is that for a first step?”
Her lips twitched into a sad smile. Obviously, he hadn’t thought things through. Longing overcame sense, and she ran her fingers through his hair, loving the tousled result. “I thought you didn’t approve of this sort of thing,” she murmured.
He slid the thin muslin of her nightgown aside and kissed her collarbone. “The situation is different, now.”
She tried to ignore the sensations that rippled through her. “Yes, it’s worse, not better.”
“Why? I resisted before because a liaison with a gentleman could only have brought you the contempt of society. But a liaison with the Stuart pretender will bear no such stigma. You will hold a position of importance and influence.”
“I see. The Stuart heir’s mistress.”
“I promise you, even though I must make a marriage of convenience, I will assure it makes as little difference to us as possible. I will set you up in a house in a fashionable quarter of town. You may have a carte blanche, anything you wish, and I will visit you as often as I can.”
She stared at him for a long moment, as the full, insulting reality of his words sank in. “Your mistress,” she said at last, and fury ignited within her. “You mean your expensive prostitute. Is that what you think of me?”
“Christy.” He caught her agitated hands. “How else to you expect to live if I don’t provide for you? You have no family, no money, no one else to turn to.”
“So I should join the oldest profession to support myself?”
His brow snapped down. “I didn’t say that.”
“It’s what you mean, though, no matter how you try to disguise it.”
“It’s a perfectly acceptable arrangement. In this time—”
“This time isn’t my time.” She inched back, farther away from him. “And you don’t have to worry about me. Do you think I’d stay in this time, where you lousy chauvinists have it all your own way? Marriages of convenience and mistresses! Honestly, don’t you ever think of a woman as a person? Someone to share your life with?”
He stiffened. “As a Stuart—”
“Damn your royal blood! As a Holborn, you at least showed a sense of decency.”
“I cannot expect you to understand the obligations that have descended upon me, or the—”
“Oh, no, how could I? I’m just a mere woman, a plaything for you important men.”
“Christy—”
“Oh, get out! Or are you planning to give me a hundred bucks or pounds or whatever to pay for tonight?”
His mouth thinned, and he surged to his feet. “I would not so demean either of us. I will be far better employed finishing these figures.” He snatched up the one that rested on the table. “Perhaps that snowdome really will take you home—away from me.” He spun about on his heel and stalked out the door.
Damn him, damn him, damn him! Christy fell back against the pillows, choking back furious tears. How could he so cheapen everything they’d shared? She offered love, and he talked in terms of a business arrangement.
The sound of a door opening down the hall reached her, and she realized James hadn’t fully closed hers. Who else would be up and about at this hour? She certainly didn’t want them looking in on her. She climbed out of bed, and peeked into the hall in time to see Lord Brockenhurst creeping toward the stairs, his greatcoat gathered about him, his hat on his head, and his boots in his hand.
The peculiarity of his actions penetrated her unhappiness. He was going out, obviously. At three-thirty on a very cold and snowy morning. Not on any legitimate business, of that she felt certain.
Images of knife throwers and gun shooters sprang to mind.
Fears for James’s safety drove her hurt from her mind. For his sake, she had better learn more.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Christy crept down the stairs, leaning on the banister to keep her weight off the aging boards. If one squeaked, and Lord Brockenhurst turned—or worse, waited for her on the next landing ... She shivered, and was glad the oil lamps burned so low, barely providing sufficient illumination for her not to stumble. They also kept her in deep shadow.
An eerie creak from below broke the stillness of the night, and she gasped and drew back. For several heart-stopping seconds she clung to the rail, her mind screaming retreat, her legs too wobbly to move. Silence surrounded her, like a comforting blanket, and she drew a shaky—but noiseless—breath. She descended another cautious step.
At the next landing she crouched low and peered over the railing. Brockenhurst’s coated figure cast a dim shadow which wavered, then vanished as he reached the Great Hall. Not so much as the whisper of his stockinged feet on the bare tiles reached Christy, not a clue as to which direction he might have gone. Yet the boots and coat indicated he must be going out. And apparently not by the front door.
Christy continued down, until her bare toes encountered the icy chill of the marble floor. Why couldn’t she have worn slippers? Or something warmer than her muslin dressing gown?
How did people survive this insufferable, everlasting cold? She missed forced air heating. And hot showers. And an electric blanket.
She wanted to go home, back to her familiar comforts, away from James!
She blinked away the moisture that filled her eyes. If only Sir Dominic had kept his rotten revelations to himself for just a little while longer, she might even now be in James’s arms, celebrating the joyous season, instead of freezing in this dark hall.
Which brought her back to the question of why Lord Brockenhurst crept about in the middle of the night. Not for any good purpose, of that she felt certain. He must be going out to meet someone—and what, tell whoever it was that James now knew his real identity?
Christy clutched the newel, her thoughts racing. Before, there had been no hurry to murder James. Now, though, he might step forward at any time to claim the throne. And someone, possibly some loyal supporter of Prince George, might well go to any length to prevent that.
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