A Christmas Keepsake

by Janice Bennett

  She started forward, running silently over the tiles, searching through the blackness for any sign of movement, any indication where another door might be located. Nothing.

  She stopped and peered about, struggling against her rising anxiety. How many corridors opened off this main room? She couldn’t remember. Three? Or four? Each one led to a different area or wing of the house. And each one might have any number of exits to the outside.

  Why hadn’t she explored the house more thoroughly when they arrived? She knew James would be in danger, she’d even suspected a trap! But all that talk of his being a prince, of his possibly becoming king of England, no wonder she’d slipped up.

  At least James couldn’t be killed yet. Not until he’d written the account of the house party.

  Unless someone else finished the book for him.

  A chill settled in her already aching heart. Was that why the words shifted? Because one of several different people might write one of several different endings? She had to find Viscount Brockenhurst. Maybe he’d left a candle burning somewhere...

  On the third corridor she checked, a dim glow greeted her eyes. Heartened, she hurried down this hall, glad of the soft carpet that enveloped her frozen feet. At the end, a door stood slightly ajar, and within the room she glimpsed the flickering light of a fire burning low in a huge hearth.

  She inched the door wider and slipped inside. A library. And in the wall next to the fireplace stood along French window, with its curtain pulled askew. Christy touched the handle and found it unlatched. Bingo.

  She opened the door, and snow pelted her, whipped inside by a moaning wind. Prudently, she shut the paned glass panel again. Barefoot and wrapped in thin muslin was no way to go outside in weather like this. Yet by the time she put on something more suitable, Brockenhurst would be long gone and his trail buried beneath the new flakes.

  With a sigh, she sank into a chair conveniently pulled up before the fire, its back to the French window, and extended her freezing feet to the lingering warmth. Fat lot of good she’d done. At least she knew Brockenhurst was up to something, if not what. She could make a few guesses, though, and they all boded ill for James. She’d better tell him.

  Going back up proved easier than going down, for she worried less about noise. At last she reached her own floor and went to James’s room. She turned the handle, but it wouldn’t open. Surprised, she tried it again, then realized he had locked it.

  She hadn’t expected him to take such an elementary precaution for his safety, not when he thought he was among friends. Relieved to discover he retained that much sense, at least, she returned to her own chamber and threw another log on the fire, then curled into her lonely, cold bed.

  A persistent banging in the room awakened her some time later. She opened one heavy eye to see Nancy rummaging through a clothes cupboard. She dragged out Christy’s rose-colored muslin and hung it over a chair.

  “What’s going on?” Christy asked.

  Nancy sniffed. “Didn’t think nothin’ would wake you, miss. Dead to the world, you was.”

  “Well, I’m not anymore. What time is it, anyway?”

  “Half past nine, Miss Christy. And what Mrs. Runcorn would say, you sleepin’ the morning away like that.”

  Christy yawned. “Maybe that’s why she’s been so generous about letting you come with me. To keep me in line.”

  Nancy snorted. “There ain’t nothin’ she wouldn’t do for the major. Nor nothin’ the reverend wouldn’t, neither.”

  Nor Christy, for that matter, she reflected ruefully. She sighed and shook off her grumpiness. Nancy didn’t deserve to be snapped at. “I’m certainly grateful,” she said. “I don’t know what I’d have done without you.”

  The maid nodded, though without enthusiasm.

  Christy packed three pillows behind her back, located her hot chocolate and took a sip. It was still warm. “What’s wrong?”

  The girl sniffed again. “Don’t see as where anythin’ should be wrong, miss.”

  “No, but it is, isn’t it?”

  “Men!” She shook out Christy’s shawl with an angry snap and hung it over a chair. “Don’t you never go trustin’ one, miss. They ain’t worth it. After everythin’ ’e promised—” She slammed a drawer shut with enough force to relieve considerable tension.

  Christy’s eyes narrowed. “Your gentleman is someone in this house?” she asked.

  Nancy opened another cupboard door, apparently for the sole purpose of slamming it. “A title don’t make no man a gentleman.”

  A title. “Lord Brockenhurst?” she hazarded.

  Nancy nodded. “And don’t you never believe anythin’ as that flash cull tells you.”

  “No, I don’t think I will,” Christy said slowly.

  “Didn’t bother to come see me last night, like ’e said ’e would, and after that pretty speech ’e made me.”

  “When was that? That night we stayed in Portman Square?”

  Nancy sank down onto a chair. “What with Mr. Wickes lookin’ down ’is long nose at me, I was blue deviled, I was. Then along comes ’is lordship and calls me a saucy piece and makes me an offer fit to stare.” She sighed. “I should’ve knowed it was a take-in.”

  “Did he ask you questions about the major?”

  Nancy shrugged. “Nothing much.”

  So, that fine, mocking dandy had been cultivating Nancy in order to spy on James. And last night he stood her up—because he had a more pressing engagement, perhaps with an accomplice who wanted James dead? Anger welled in her anew. Brockenhurst. At least now she knew in which direction the danger to James lay. She set down her cup and climbed out of bed. “Do you know if the others are up yet?”

  “That lot?” Nancy sniffed. “Shouldn’t wonder if we don’t see ’ide nor ’air of ’em till dinner.”

  Christy nodded, and went to wash her face with water from the pitcher that stood before the fire. Twenty minutes later, dressed and with her riotous hair arranged with some semblance of propriety, she hurried down to the breakfast parlor. As prophesied by Nancy, that apartment stood empty. Christy helped herself from one of the dishes, ate enough without really tasting it to stave off hunger, and went in search of any life.

  She found James in the Great Hall along with Lady Sophia, two footmen, and armloads of holly, ivy, and mistletoe. Christmas Eve, she realized. Her spirits lifted, only to plummet the next moment. Christmas Eve, and her family was thousands of miles and almost two hundred years away. She missed them all terribly. And she’d alienated the only person she had in this time—which would be making her miserable if she weren’t so mad at him.

  No, she would not indulge in self-pity. She would concentrate on settling matters here as soon as possible, make James finish that snowdome for her, then use it, somehow, to take herself home.

  Away from James.

  He looked up, saw her watching him, and his brow snapped down. He handed the holly garland he held to a footman, and strode up to her. “I want to talk to you.”

  She nodded, mustering her defenses against the awareness that surged through her at his nearness. She needed to talk to him, too, to tell him what occurred during the night, warn him one of Sir Dominic’s select little conspiracy might well be a traitor. She glanced at the closed mask of his face and shuddered. He looked set to deliver a tirade.

  She managed a false smile. “It’s Christmas Eve. Shouldn’t we enter into the spirit?” She scooped up a handful of mistletoe.

  “An excellent suggestion. There’s a front room over there we can decorate.” He retrieved his holly and led the way to the nearest door.

  She hesitated a moment, then followed. After shutting the door behind her, she crossed to the window to stare out over the snow-covered landscape. The soft jingle of carriage bells reached her, carried on the icy wind. She braced herself.

  He tossed his greenery on a table. “I meant no insult to you last night, Christy,” he said without preamble. “I fear the problem lies in the conven
tions of our different times. Forgive me for expressing myself in a manner that was not acceptable to you.” He held out his hands to her. “How, in your era, does a gentleman deal with his love when he cannot offer her the protection of his name?”

  She swallowed. “I would support myself. But we would share a home, and every aspect of our lives...” Her voice trailed off.

  “Do you think I do not desire that?” he demanded, his voice harsh. “Christy—” He closed the space between them and gathered her into his arms.

  She pulled back, found herself captive, and abandoned the struggle. She leaned her cheek against his shoulder.

  He drew a deep breath. “My world seems to have turned upside down in the past twenty-four hours. Don’t send me away from you again, my love. I need you with me.”

  She clung to him, knowing this was what she wanted. If her only option in this time was to be called his mistress, then so be it. His royal mistress...

  All the horrors that such a position would entail descended on her, and her tantalizing glimpse of happiness evaporated.

  “James—” She shook her head. “It wouldn’t work for me, you know it wouldn’t. I don’t fit into your society. These stuffed shirts make me uncomfortable. And I don’t want to be the subject of constant gossip, of caricatured cartoons. I’d make gauche mistakes, and everyone would think me inferior and unworthy of you.” Pain seeped through her. “I—I’m not cut out to be a Stuart prince’s mistress.”

  “But you are cut out to be my love.” He kissed her forehead. “I’ll purchase a small country estate, and you can earn your own keep by managing it for me. It will be our private retreat, and I won’t let any of these bores come near us.”

  “Would they let you?” She covered his shoulders with her hands, and pushed herself away so she could look up into his face. “It sounds like they’re mapping out your life for you. If they make you regent, could you escape to be with me? And even if they don’t ... Another reality returned to plague her, which she’d tried to thrust from her mind. “It’s not that simple, James. I’m only going to be a complication in your new life.”

  “A very delightful one.” His mouth sought hers.

  She avoided his kiss. “No, don’t you see? You said it yourself. As a Stuart, it’s your duty to marry.”

  “Into a royal line,” he agreed, his tone one of distaste.

  “But she’d be your wife. How could I be so cruel as to play the role of the ‘other woman’ to make her life miserable? And you wouldn’t want me to, either.” Tears burned her eyes, and she blinked them back. “When you make your dynastic marriage, you know perfectly well you’ll want to make the best of it. Whether or not you come to love her, you’ll be faithful to her. You’re too damned noble for anything else. And you’d better believe they’re out there, right now, making up a list of candidates.”

  “My duty,” he repeated. “How am I ever to give you up?”

  She pulled free from his slackened hold. “You already have,” she said with more firmness than she felt.

  “Now look who is being noble,” he said softly.

  She tried to ignore his words. “From now on, I’m just your bodyguard and advisor. We have a revolution to prevent, remember? I’m here in your time for a reason.” She had to concentrate on that, keep her thoughts from her hopeless love, from all she was losing. Last night—“James! I—I actually forgot! I think I know who’s trying to kill you.”

  He froze. “Who?”

  “Brockenhurst.”

  For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he startled her as a reluctant chuckle broke from him. “That dandy? My love, you’ve had some wild notions, but this one knocks the others all to flinders. What possible reason would Brockenhurst have for wanting me dead?”

  “He mocks your helping the poor, doesn’t he? He’s probably afraid any country under your regency would play Robin Hood.”

  His brow snapped down. “You are being absurd.”

  “Am I? James, if you become regent—”

  “Oh, no, Christy, not today. I have enough to assimilate as it is, without considering my next actions.”

  “No, just listen to me. Brockenhurst went out last night. And he was sneaking. And he’s been cultivating Nancy. Why else would he do it if he wasn’t trying to spy on you?”

  “Possibly because Nancy is a very pretty girl.”

  “James—”

  “Not today!” He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair. “Not today. This is Christmas Eve, Christy. Let’s try to enjoy the season, while we can.”

  She drew a steadying breath. “I wish we were back at the Runcorns with the boys. Christmas should be spent with children.”

  He looked away, but not before she glimpsed the bleakness of his expression. Her heart went out to him. Poor, dear James. He suffered, sacrificing his personal happiness to his sense of duty. He was so vulnerable—and right now, so was she.

  She picked up her mistletoe. “ Tis the season to be jolly,” she said, and tried to smile.

  “Then let us try.” He also gathered his greenery, and determinedly they set about decorating the room.

  She lacked any joyous spirit, though. At least she could be near James, know he was safe and unharmed. That would have to be her comfort.

  By the time she trailed him back to the Great Hall, Lady St. Ives had joined the group there. While two maids sorted the piles of greenery, the countess assisted her hostess in weaving garlands. Already, several long strands waited.

  As Christy crossed the marble tiles, Lord Farnham bore down on James. That gentleman stopped short and awarded the major a deferential bow. “Sir,” he said. “We have much to discuss this day.”

  “We have nothing to discuss today. This is Christmas Eve. I intend to spend it in an appropriate manner.” He selected one of the finished garlands and began to wind it about the mahogany banister.

  Farnham shook his head, his gaze resting thoughtfully on James. Slowly he turned and saw Christy, and his brow furrowed. He strode up to her, and when he spoke, he kept his voice low. “Miss Campbell, it seems the major is reluctant. He must be convinced, for the sake of our great England.”

  “You’re telling me.” She didn’t bother pointing out, though, that they hoped to influence him in opposite directions. She said nothing more, and after a moment, he wandered away.

  Next down the stairs came Brockenhurst. Christy stiffened as he approached James, but he merely greeted the major with a marked degree of respect and moved on. Christy watched him, her gaze narrowed, but he made no other move toward James.

  At last she relaxed her vigil and joined in the decorating. Within the hour, the other members of the house party joined in the morning’s labors. Sir Dominic called for his valet, who was an accomplished fiddler, and soon the Great Hall filled with the strains of Christmas carols. Christy listened, trying to identify the unfamiliar tunes.

  Where were her favorites? She needed them to cheer her, to remind her of home—and happier times. “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” though, began life as a Victorian memorization game, and Franz Gruber didn’t get around to composing “Silent Night” until 1818. At last the man played one she recognized, and she blended her voice with the violin strains on “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen.” After a few seconds, the others joined in, as well.

  This was more like it. Almost, if she closed her eyes, she could envision her sister Gina playing her guitar, her family about her instead of these strangers. It was Christmas, a season of hope. She looked toward James and saw his brow less furrowed, his expression less troubled. He, too, it seemed, found a measure of comfort in the message of the season. She hoped it would sustain them both through the difficult days ahead.

  Sir Oliver handed her a sprig of mistletoe. “Can you find a suitable place for this, Miss Campbell?”

  “Indeed, I can.” She tucked it into a bare spot in a holly garland. “There, that looks better.”

  “A very capable young lady, I see.” He eyed
her in a contemplative manner.

  Another one. Her heart sank. “Not very.”

  He shook his head. “Now, I feel quite certain, if you put your mind to it, you would be able to use your influence with the major to encourage him to declare his right to the throne.”

  “Do you? That’s funny. I get the distinct feeling he isn’t easily influenced by anyone.” At least, she hoped so. She gave Sir Oliver a false smile and moved away, joining the violin with “Adeste Fideles.”

  She had barely reached what she mistakenly thought of as safety when someone touched her arm. She broke off her stumbling rendition of the Latin words and turned to see Viscount Brockenhurst.

  A serious expression marked his undeniably handsome countenance. “Miss Campbell, you count yourself a friend of Major Stuart’s.”

  She managed a smile. “Too much so to bring any pressure on him at the moment. Give him time.”

  Or should she suggest they pursue him with relentless vigor? Her lips twitched. That might turn him against the whole scheme. And somehow, he had to be turned against it. With a sigh, she wondered if all of them would try to get to him through her.

  She learned the answer to that question all too soon. Before the party retired to the breakfast parlor for a cold collation at two o’clock, every person present had approached her, including Lady Sophia. Lady St. Ives, admittedly, did so with reluctance, but her pleas held a discouraging ring of sincerity. To each of them, Christy returned a polite refusal, and no longer blamed James in the least for demanding a day or two of peace.

  She could, of course, tell them the truth, that they were on the wrong track. Yet without proof of the success of Prinny’s regency—of the potential danger of James’s very existence—no one had any reason to believe her. And on one point she had to agree with these men. James would make a far more worthy ruler than Prinny in every respect.

  But would he ever get to prove it? What if, after all, only the two possible versions of history existed? Then either James would quietly disappear, unheard of by anyone outside these walls, or his appointment as regent would trigger a revolution that would destroy the England they all loved.