Christy hugged herself. This was a far cry from the stuffy formality that took place upstairs. She much preferred it—except it made her miss her own family all the more.
The set ended, and James escorted his partner from the floor. With her once more ensconced beside her starched-faced mamma, he bowed and took himself off in relief. It wasn’t any simpering young miss awaiting his hand for the next dance he unconsciously sought, though, but a very different female. He scanned the ballroom and frowned. Christy still hadn’t returned. Now where the devil...
He slipped out the door and glanced about the Great Hall, but could gain no clue as to where she might have gone. He should have followed her at once, instead of giving her time to be alone. She was confused, and no wonder. To accept him and the life he offered meant she must deny her own world as she knew it.
A longing came over him for her, to feel her in his arms, even just to see her. Perhaps the card room...
Only St. Ives and an elderly gentleman played piquet, no sign of Christy. She must have gone to her room. He hesitated, but a need too strong to deny drove him up the stairs in search of her.
He knocked on her door, but she didn’t respond. He tried the handle, found it unlocked, and looked inside. Empty. As empty as he felt himself, without her.
Slowly, he descended the stairs. Where could she have gotten to? Another room? A quiet one? He began a systematic search, but each chamber he glanced into was dark, cold, closed. Their bits of Christmas finery failed to cheer him.
The laughter from the servants’ hall caught his attention as he left the library, the only other room where a fire had burned that night. Would she?
Certainty filled him, followed by a rush of irritation. Here he’d been looking all over for her, worrying she’d sought solitude to ease her aching heart, and all the time she’d been enjoying herself in the one place she had no business to be. That was exactly the sort of thing his Christy would do.
He threw open the door, traversed the short corridor, and entered the long, festive chamber. A scene of carefree merriment met his gaze, as most of the occupants cavorted in a round dance about a lively fiddler. In a corner near the door sat his quarry, her contemplative regard resting on the revelers.
His first thought, to ring her neck, appealed to him. He took an unsteady step toward her. “What the devil brought you in here?” he demanded.
She started, then looked up into his face. “Oh, hello, James.”
“ ‘Oh, hello, James,’ yourself!” he snapped. “Why did you run out of the ballroom like that?”
Her animated expression closed over. “You didn’t need me in there.”
The devil, he didn’t. He bit back the words before he spoke them aloud.
“Come, we’d better go,” she said suddenly. “I think you’re putting a damper on things.”
He glanced up. Two grooms in a corner watched him, their expressions uncertain. Wickes laid his cards on the table, his features their customary blank mask. Nancy bumped into James’s groom, with whom she danced. Laughing, she pulled him on. Kepp stumbled, then continued, studiously ignoring James’s presence.
A small hand grasped James’s arm, and Christy dragged him from the room. “You don’t want to interrupt them,” she said.
“You were.”
She shook her head. “I’m different. Hadn’t you noticed?”
He had, all too much so. She broke every rule he knew, yet he shied at contemplating life without her.
“There’s something I want to tell you, anyway.” She led him to the library. “I thought I had your attacker, but I was wrong.”
“You certainly seem cheerful about that fact. Whom did you suspect?”
“Brockenhurst. Remember I told you how he snuck out last night?”
He nodded, but what he remembered more was that argument they’d had, then retiring to his lonely bed that night aching for her.
“He snuck out of the ballroom, so I followed him,” she said. Dear God, what would she do next? He clenched his jaw. “There’s a small summer house behind this place,” she continued, “and he went out there. He was having a highly improper meeting with some maid here by the name of Nuttall. I couldn’t see in the window, but Nancy told me. She’s caught onto the fact Brockenhurst is nothing but a king-sized rat, at least.”
“The damned loose screw,” he muttered.
“What a delightful way of putting it.” Christy’s infectious grin flashed, only to fade the next moment. “Poor girl. I don’t think she ever really wanted to be his mistress, though. But with Wickes being so snobbish about her pickpocket days, you can’t blame her for falling for Brockenhurst’s rush job.”
James stiffened. “It is not considered proper to gossip with the servants, particularly about their amorous indiscretions.”
“Oh, come off it, James. Quit being so stuffy. The poor girl had to talk to someone.”
“Either you have no sensibilities—” he began.
“Oh, to hell with your sensibilities. Do you have to be such an upper-class snob? What do you do, advocate the rights of the poor and underprivileged—as long as they stay in their place and remember to bow to you?”
“That is quite enough—”
“Obviously it isn’t! They’re people, James, not just servants. Have you even noticed what Mr. Wickes is going through right now?”
“Mr.—Do you mean my valet? What do you mean, ‘what he’s going through?’ ”
“You haven’t noticed.”
Her tone of angry satisfaction grated on him. “You will kindly explain yourself.”
“He could, if you’d ask him.”
“Christy—” He broke off, trying to keep his temper under control. “I’m in no mood for your games.”
“It’s not a game. Mr. Wickes is suffering from the same snobbism you are. He’s fallen for Nancy, but she’s too far beneath him to marry. Why are you looking so surprised? Aren’t you glad his class sense is winning out?”
“No, I—” He broke off, trying to gather his startled thoughts. “I’d never thought of him marrying, that is all.”
“Well, why not? Where do you think the next generation of valet-lets will come from?”
“The—” He struggled for a moment. His ill-temper faded, and a reluctant chuckle broke from him. “And maid-lets, too, I suppose?”
“Certainly. But not pickpocket-lets. Nancy promises me she’s reformed, and I don’t think Wickes would permit it. Providing she can overcome his snobbery.”
“You obviously think he should,” he said with considerable feeling. The girl had no concept that she behaved and thought with a complete lack of decorum. Nothing put her to the blush. Yet neither did her manners betray vulgarity—only a completely different approach to life based on honesty rather than appearances. He found it decidedly refreshing—yet also a continual reminder she came from an alien world. How she would hate to be hedged in by conventions she could neither understand nor approve.
And where did that leave them? His gaze rested on her, and visions of a quiet life, of a small country estate and several children rose to his mind. Of Christy at his side, as his wife...
Yet he was a Stuart, with all the incumbent obligations and demands. And he had no guarantee she would even remain in his time. No, the life he envisioned was a hopeless dream. He studied her upturned face, saw the question in her huge blue eyes, and fought the temptation to stroke back her riotous curls. She stood so close, the scent of violets drifted about him, increasing his yearning.
“We’d better go back before we’re missed.” He moved a safe distance away. Not safe enough, he realized the next moment—not as long as he could see her.
“Are they still dancing?” She hung back, her expression reluctant.
“I thought you made a very apt student.” He wouldn’t mind leading her through the movements once more. With her, the whole concept of dancing had taken on a new—and very alluring—meaning.
She drew a long breath. �
�There’s a card room, isn’t there? Would you teach me to play piquet?” Just a touch of wistfulness colored her voice.
“Of course.” It would make one more ability that might help tie her to his world, make her realize she could be happy here with him.
They returned her borrowed cloak to the small salon, then made their way to the drawing room set aside for cards. St. Ives and his elderly companion were no longer alone. At another table, directly before the hearth, Sir Oliver Paignton broke the seal on a new deck while Lord Brockenhurst set glasses of wine before them. Apparently, the viscount had completed his tryst and focused on another of his favorite pastimes. Christy stiffened at James’s side.
He gestured her to silence, and ushered her to a table a little distance from the others. After pouring them each wine from the holly-decked decanter, Christy took her seat opposite him. James opened a deck, sorted out the lower pips, and shuffled.
“The key,” he said, “lies in developing mastery of a suit.”
Christy nodded, her expression intent, and he explained the complexities of scoring. A frown of concentration formed on her lovely brow, but at last she pronounced herself ready to give it a try. He dealt out a sample hand face up, and explained which cards she should discard and why.
She drew replacements, and he showed her how to arrange her hand. Together they tallied her scores for points, set, and sequence, then did the same for his. He played it out to its end, showing her which cards to use from each hand, and wound up taking the majority of the tricks himself.
A slow smile touched her full lips. “Let’s give it a try.”
Pleased with her quickness, he shuffled and dealt again, then allowed her time to puzzle out her cards on her own. St. Ives and his partner, James noted, watched them in some amusement. Unlike Sir Oliver and Brockenhurst. They had eyes only for their own game.
Christy fumbled with her discard, he dealt the replacements, then did the same for his own. While she determined her points, his gaze once more strayed to the other table. Brockenhurst shuffled, holding the cards near his body, his fingers flying over the pieces of pasteboard.
James’s eyes narrowed. Something didn’t seem quite right. Absently, he played his hand, all the time watching that other game. Did Brockenhurst nick the cards, or was he mistaken? The viscount had won the last hand—the last several, in fact, judging from the small pile of vowels lying before him.
Christy’s cry of delight recalled his attention to his own game, and he realized either through luck, through an innate talent, or through his inattention, she had won. He gathered the deck, shuffled, and dealt again.
Brockenhurst and Sir Oliver continued to play, and the pile of papers grew steadily before the viscount. He made half-apologetic noises, which Sir Oliver waved aside with impatience and returned to the game with the feverish intensity of the addicted gambler. To Brockenhurst’s suggestion they quit, he turned a deaf ear, demanding only that his opponent deal once more.
Sir Oliver, James remembered, had something of a reputation for being a gamester, though not one for having luck. This time, it ran even worse than usual. Or did luck play any part in this? James frowned. He might be letting Christy’s suspicions of Brockenhurst prejudice him against the man.
The viscount’s nocturnal ramblings had proved innocuous enough—unless, of course, he met someone besides the obliging Miss Nuttall. That possibility warranted further consideration. His gaze lingered on the man’s overly handsome countenance, his brown hair artistically brushed into the Windswept, the bright hazel eyes with their knowing gleam. Definitely, he didn’t trust Brockenhurst any more than did Christy.
Strains of a Christmas carol drifted into the room, replacing those of the chamber orchestra. They finished their hand, and Christy led the way back to the ballroom. There they found the dancing had stopped, and the guests, voices raised in song, gathered about the Yule log which still burned brightly. Christy closed her eyes, her expression somber.
“What is the matter?” James leaned close to speak softly in her ear.
She shook her head, and her lashes glistened with unshed tears. “My family,” she said simply.
Longing stirred in him. He had never known a home life that could produce such a warmth of feeling like she seemed to experience. He was jealous, he realized. He would give a great deal for some of the happy childhood memories she must have known.
He touched her shoulder, almost a caress, and she managed a bright smile. When the next carol began, she joined in, although here and there she sang a different word or two. Somehow, it comforted him to know that no matter what else of history might change, Christmas remained, as did its songs.
“Do you have Yule logs?” he asked suddenly.
“Some people do. We always have one.”
“And games and mumming?”
She shook her head. “Not really. We have—other traditions. The spirit is the same, though.”
He would like to know what her customs were. Yet at this moment he didn’t want to ponder on their differences, but on the similarities of this timeless season.
After the next carol, the ball guests trailed into the Great Hall and prepared to take their leave. Christy hung back, as if loathe to let the evening end. Softly her husky voice rose in a carol unfamiliar to him. Something about a silent night and all being calm. He liked it. She continued it with a second verse while he escorted her to her chamber. He bade her good night, and sought his own apartment.
Wickes awaited him, with his night rail already laid out over the bed and the water warm in its pitcher before the blazing fire. James looked about the room made comfortable for him by his devoted valet’s hand, and realized how much he took this man’s services for granted.
He transferred his gaze to the valet’s impassive face. Wickes appeared impeccable, from the top of his receding blond hair to the toes of his polished slippers. As if he had nothing else on his mind except to tend his master’s needs.
Deftly, the valet assisted him from his close-fitting coat of emerald velvet. Not a sign of discontent marred his features. If James didn’t have Christy’s assurances, he would have no clue the man suffered inner turmoil.
Love, that damnedest of all human emotions. If Wickes really cared for Nancy, then why the devil didn’t he admit it? Because of her dubious background and uncultured speech? The valet could be as stiff-rumped as the next man, and knew the importance of his position better than most.
Alone at last, he settled in the chair by the fire where he could warm both his tools and his wax. From its soft cloth he unwrapped the figure of Christy, now complete, and studied the rounded face. He hadn’t quite captured her laughing expression—nor her soul. Yet the graceful curve of the figure brought her lively movements forcibly to his mind.
He quelled his impulse to go to her. She needed time to accept his altered position, time he could only hope they would have. Abruptly, he returned the carving to its protective cover, unfolded the other chunk of wax, and began a crude rendition of himself.
A knock sounded on his door, and he looked up. If Christy had come ... Desire surged through him and he rose, setting the wax aside.
“Master James?” Wickes’s voice sounded from the hall.
The depth of his disappointment dismayed him. She really had become part of him—and one he couldn’t live without.
“Master James?” The valet knocked again.
James let him in. “What is it, Wickes?”
“Your wine, sir.” The valet swept past him, carrying a glass on a salver. He set it on the table by the hearth and, with a slight bow, wished his master good night.
James thanked him, then settled once more in his chair. An excellent man, Wickes. This was just what he needed. He took a sip, and rolled the heady liquid in his mouth.
After savoring it for a moment, he swallowed—and choked on the bitter aftertaste. Suddenly suspicious, he held the goblet up to the branch of working candles and examined the ruby contents. Clouds s
wirled in a liquid that should have been clear, and his mouth and throat burned.
Poison.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Sir Dominic Kaye, wrapped in a dressing gown of deep purple satin, held the ruby wine before his candle, sniffed the contents, then dampened his tongue. A shudder shook his thin frame. “My dear sir, that this should happen, and in my house. I am appalled.”
James’s brow snapped down, and he straightened from where he perched on the arm of an overstuffed chair. “I wasn’t mistaken, then?”
“I wish you had been.” The elderly man set down the glass. At that moment, he appeared to need a restorative—though one of a healthier nature. He crossed to a bureau, where a decanter stood on a tray with two glasses. He poured a dose of amber liquid into each, and handed one to James. He sipped it, then sighed as he stared into the fire. “How can I ever apologize?”
James waved that aside. “What do you think is in it?”
Sir Dominic hesitated, and the frown marring his brow deepened. “I wish I knew. Not laudanum. I very much fear something deadlier, something that might eat away at your stomach.”
That same thought had occurred to James—had continued to do so, in fact, during the whole fifteen minutes he had spent rinsing out his mouth and drinking water.
“That an attempt should be made upon you, and here—!” Sir Dominic raised his haggard face to look at James.
James rose and set down his glass, untouched. His mouth still burned. “Let us question my man, first. Someone must have set it out for him to bring to me.”
Yet Wickes, when roused from his slumbers, could shed little light on the subject. Shortly after he had retired to the chamber allotted to him, a footman had knocked on the door with the information that his gentleman required a glass of wine. The young man had brought one with him.
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