A Christmas Keepsake

by Janice Bennett

  They next awakened the footman, who yawned and knuckled his bleary eyes. “In the kitchens, it was,” he announced after a moment’s thought. “Already poured and on the salver, with a note saying as how it was for Major Holborn. Thought it might be a cordial, so I took it along to Mr. Wickes.”

  “Where is the note?” James demanded.

  The footman stifled another yawn. ‘Threw it in the fire. Lucky I chanced on it at all, seeing as how I was the last one through there. Don’t know why someone hadn’t a-taken it up afore.” His bleary gaze focused on the gentlemen before him, and a worried expression crept into his eyes. “It were all right, weren’t it?”

  Assured no harm had been done, the footman returned to his bed. James and Sir Dominic headed for the main wing of the building. The elderly man leaned on his cane, his shoulders bent.

  Not until they reached the Great Hall did Sir Dominic speak. “Someone within this house is trying to kill you.” He directed his troubled gaze at James. “We have a traitor in our midst.”

  “Yes, someone has been indulging in a spot of inefficient assassination. Have you any idea who it might be?”

  Sir Dominic shook his head. “None. Each man—I would swear every one of them is completely loyal to you.”

  “Someone is not.” James couldn’t keep the dryness from his voice.

  Sir Dominic led the way up the dimly lit stairs, his chamber stick clutched in his trembling hand. “Which one?” he muttered, over and over. When they arrived at James’s room, they entered together. Sir Dominic crossed to the fire and stared into the crackling flames. “Have you any suspicions?”

  “Sir Oliver?” James suggested.

  Sir Dominic shook his head. “He is my trusted assistant—and has been for nigh on twenty years.”

  “He also has a weakness for the gaming tables, and an ill-luck that is the talk of the town. And do not forget, his years in the Home Office have already been rewarded with a knighthood. I have even heard a barony mentioned as a possibility for him. That might well concentrate his loyalties on the current regime.”

  Sir Dominic, his expression stricken, sank onto a chair as if his legs could no longer hold him. He made no denial. After a moment, he said: “What of Lord Farnham? His estates are grossly encumbered. It is possible, however much we might wish to deny it, he might have been willing to betray our cause for sufficient financial gain.”

  James inclined his head in acknowledgment. Absently, he tossed another log onto the grate. “Viscount Brockenhurst? He has been slipping out of the house, apparently to meet one of your housemaids in the folly.”

  “On an icy December evening?” Sir Dominic demanded, incredulous.

  “Supposedly he doesn’t wish to be detected lowering himself to such a liaison,” James explained. “I thought it sounded a bit dodgy, myself.”

  Sir Dominic clasped his hands together. “You think he is using that maid as an excuse to slip out, in case he’s seen?”

  “It does seem a possibility. I believe he is also guilty of cheating at cards.”

  Sir Dominic flinched, as if that revelation pained him. “That is not a reason to want you dead, though.” He sank back in the chair, his expression thoughtful. “He was brought into our conspiracy by his father. His dedication might not be as real as that of the others.”

  “Why does he work with you?”

  Sir Dominic actually smiled. “He says Prinny is ‘devilish bad ton’.”

  James studied the lines of strain on the older man’s face, and nodded. “He has always mocked my work with the poor. It is possible he fears what I might do, the changes I might bring about, if I possessed more power.”

  “Power. Yes, you said the attacks on you began back in October.” For a long moment he stared into the flames. At last, he looked up. “It was at the end of September, when the discussions intensified over the regency bill, that I revealed it was you who were the Stuart heir.”

  So one of those men at last learned the identity of the hated Stuart—and set about arranging his death. James drew a deep breath. “We cannot forget St. Ives.”

  “Your cousin?”

  James shook his head. “A year ago, on his father’s death, he must have learned I was no blood relation.”

  “But to kill you? Surely—the ties of childhood—” Sir Dominic broke off, appalled.

  “There is no love between us. He is the elder by nearly ten years, and his father lavished attention on me.”

  “Resentment,” Sir Dominic murmured. “Or even jealousy. But why would he wait so many months before making an attempt on you? He knew the truth long before the others.”

  “Perhaps he bided his time until a sufficient number of men to cloud the issue were presented with a motive.”

  Sir Dominic nodded. “Or perhaps it didn’t really matter to him until your becoming regent became a likelihood. I believe you should have your man spend the night in here. You should not be alone.”

  “I doubt my enemy wishes to reveal himself. I will do very well if I lock the door.”

  James escorted Sir Dominic to the corridor, and his host waited until James not only turned the key in its hole, but also removed it. As Sir Dominic’s footsteps retreated, James strolled to his washbasin and drank the remaining water.

  This changed things. No longer did the attacks on him loom as a personal grudge. His assailant wanted the Stuart heir dead, and it was only coincidental that James Holborn was that heir. It depersonalized the matter somehow, but at the moment, James wasn’t certain if that made it any better. More understandable, perhaps, but no, not better.

  He climbed into his great, cold bed, and left the curtains back. Lord, what he wouldn’t give for the sweet comfort of Christy’s arms. She’d come to him if she knew about the wine—but he wanted her there by her own choice, not because he roused her protective instincts. Thoughts of her burned through him until at last, desperate to distract his mind, he concentrated instead on her words.

  Torn by uncertainty, he stared into the fire, watching the flames dance along the logs. She swore Prinny’s regency, despite his wastrel and profligate ways, would not cause the revolution so much feared by Sir Dominic’s cabal. Yet he knew how much good he himself could do as regent, then king. He cared for the welfare of the people, unlike Prinny. He could make all he worked for reality.

  Christy claimed Prinny did become regent. Yet history could change, the shifting type in his book proved that. And the alteration of events depended on one catalyst. Him. What did he—or didn’t he—do?

  Or was everything Christy had said and done a lie? Was she truly from the future—which was blatantly impossible—or did a faction who knew him for a Stuart, and opposed him, plant her on him? Did they provide her with a copy of his notes, printed into a book, so she could convince him by pretending to have brought it with her from her own supposed time? Was she the source of that poisoned wine?

  Yet he wanted to believe in her, in the love for her that filled him. There had been a magic between them when she shared his bed. How could anything that perfect be a lie?

  But if he did believe in her, then he had to accept the possibility that the appearance of a Stuart, and one advocating social reform, would cause the very revolution he hoped to prevent.

  Restless thoughts jostled against one another, confused and confusing, blending into fragments of memory and dream. Restful sleep evaded him, yet when he opened weary eyes once more, soft light filtered into the room. A world so still and silent greeted him, he knew without looking that snow fell once more. Christmas morning.

  A gentle tapping sounded at his door, and he realized it was a repetition of what had awakened him. Wickes’s worried voice called to him, and he rose, drew on his dressing gown, and found the key so he could admit his man.

  The entire house party gathered for the morning meal, greeting one another with wishes for a merry Christmas. Plates and trays heaped with food lined the sideboard, and the decorated Christmas candles burned bright a
mid their greenery. The footmen moved with care about their duties, as if they nursed sore heads after their night of revelry.

  James checked which dishes the others had sampled, then made his selections from these, filling his plate with slices of rare beef and smoked herring. The eggs he avoided; the chafing dish appeared to have been freshly replaced, and no one had as yet scooped a serving. The butler offered him spiced cider from a large pot, which he deemed safe to accept.

  It would be the very devil, wondering if every dish or cup presented to him contained poison. Settling at the table, he regarded his fellow guests. For a moment, all gazes rested on him, then with an excess of politeness, the men looked away.

  Did they wonder if he were in a mood to listen to their entreaties? All except one, of course, who must be dismayed to see him still alive.

  Christy’s tales of warm family gatherings at Christmas stood out in sharp contrast to this motley assortment of political intriguers. Each one of them, using the holiday to advance his plans, and very probably his power. If these men brought a Stuart to the throne, they might well expect numerous favors in return.

  Lady Sophia smiled a welcome to him, not a trace of constraint or worry on her gentle brow. Her husband, it seemed, had told her nothing of the night’s occurrence.

  His gaze met Christy’s, where she sat between Lady St. Ives and Lord Farnham. For a long minute she studied his face, until James looked away, not wanting to reveal too much. The sparkle in her magnificent eyes faded, and Christy directed an aimless question to Farnham. That gentleman beamed at her, and murmured something that brought a smile once more to her full lips. Irritation stabbed through James, which he recognized as jealousy.

  He ate his beef with savage force, then excused himself from the table. An hour still remained before they were to depart for church, and he wanted to take some more notes for the next chapter of his book.

  When the handle on his door turned, he tensed and muttered curses at himself for leaving it unlocked. His fingers closed about the letter opener that lay on the small writing desk, only to relax as Christy slipped inside. If only she had come last night...

  Not passion, though, but worry, marked her expression. She advanced into the room, only to stop two paces from him. “Are you all right? You looked like death warmed over at breakfast.”

  “Thank you.” His lips twitched. “What a delightful description. As you see, I continue tolerably.”

  “Oh, cut it out, James.” She perched on the edge of the desk. “You were looking at everyone around the table as if you had X- ray vision.”

  “As—what?”

  “Like you were looking right through them,” she amended. He leaned back in his chair, his gaze held by the sparkling determination in those bright blue eyes. Such lovely eyes. No, he couldn’t believe she worked against him. Not his beloved Christy.

  “Well?” she demanded.

  He brushed the thick curls from her cheek. “Someone sent a glass of poisoned wine to me last night.”

  “Someone—” She broke off. Her lips parted, and her complexion paled, her usual becoming color fading to an unnatural pallor. The hand she reached toward his cheek trembled. “You didn’t drink it,” she managed at last.

  “No more than a sip, and I rinsed away all traces.”

  “Oh, James—” Her voice broke on a sob.

  Temptation proved too great. He gathered her into his arms, holding her close. She clung to him, as if she feared he would be dragged from her at any moment. He buried his face in her curls, breathing deeply the scent of violets that clung to her. Dear heaven, he wanted her...

  “It’s all right,” he murmured against her hair. “Christy, it didn’t work, and I’m warned, now. I’ll take all precautions.”

  She drew a shuddering breath. “I—I’ll stay with you.”

  She was his for the taking—but for the wrong reason. Hunger for her wrenched his heart, but he shook his head and forced a smile. “You should go, now. You know perfectly well it’s shocking for you to be in my room. If anyone saw you, you wouldn’t have a shred of reputation left to you.”

  “What does it matter?” Her voice sounded hollow. “I don’t exist in this time.”

  Only in his heart—and that was one place she didn’t want him to keep her—yet. He escorted her to the door, promised he would see her downstairs in a few minutes when they departed for the village church, and shut her out in the hall. If only she would come again...

  He turned back to his notes and glanced over the account of the house party. He wrote it just as Christy predicted. But would it stay that way? He had thought ail he had to do was get this down on paper, and the possibility of revolution would be avoided. But what if the print in his book altered because he wrote first one account, and then the other? Frustrated, he gathered the pages together and shoved them into the drawer.

  Twenty minutes later, the party departed for the small church located less than a mile from Briarly. Sir Dominic and Lady Sophia rode in their carriage, along with Sir Oliver and Margaret. The rest elected to walk through the snow to enjoy the crisp morning air. They passed others, all of whom waved and exchanged Christmas greetings. The peeling of the bells rang clear and loud, summoning them to worship on this joyous morning.

  James gave himself over to the pervading spirit. For a little while, at least, he lost himself in the celebration, and raised his rich baritone to join in the anthems and carols that filled the church. Closing his eyes, he listened to the vicar’s words of hope, and almost he could forget the difficult decisions awaiting him on the morrow—or the possibility of death which awaited him at every turn.

  All too soon, the organ struck the final chords of the closing Christmas hymn, and with regret he returned to his present concerns. With the others, he filed down the aisle, exchanging felicitations with total strangers. It gave him a warm feeling. Christy, though, would be missing her family—and probably blaming him and his muddled affairs for taking her from them during this season.

  He glanced back, to where she had been walking with Sir Oliver, and saw the old man alone. In fact, he realized after a few minutes of searching the crowd, he didn’t see her anywhere. He turned, his fears rising, and found Sir Dominic watching him.

  “Is something wrong?” The elderly gentleman hurried forward.

  “Christy. Miss Campbell. Do you know where she is?”

  Lady Sophia, who had followed her husband, shook her head. “She was with me a few minutes ago. Then I believe she went toward the carriages.”

  James set off in pursuit, following the line of motley assorted vehicles. He reached the end without catching so much as a glimpse of her. Had she started back to Briarly? She might have experienced the melancholy which came from spending Christmas so far from those she loved, and sought solitude.

  A few of the churchgoers broke away from the milling crowd and headed for their carriages. James circled about the ancient stone building, making one last check before starting the trek back to the manor. Still no sight of her met his searching gaze. As he reached the front, a piercing scream rent the serenity.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The fear for Christy James had held in check broke loose, and he took off at a run, his heart pounding in his chest. Christy ... If something had happened to her—He rounded the corner of the church to see the milling crowd turned in the direction of the carriages. He pushed through, oblivious to everything except reaching the landau with several people gathered about it.

  “Cor’ blimey, is she dead?” he heard an uncouth voice ask.

  Unceremoniously, he thrust a little man aside and reached the carriage’s door. A middle-aged gentleman knelt on the step, looking at a crumpled figure within, wrapped in an all too familiar pelisse of brown wool. In his hand, the man held a vinaigrette, though he didn’t seem certain what to do with it.

  “Christy?” James took it from him and clambered into the vehicle. His fingers found the pulse point in her neck, and relief flooded
through him at the gentle beat.

  Sir Oliver’s head appeared in the doorway. “What—” He broke off. “I’ll fetch Lady Sophia.” He disappeared.

  James checked Christy for obvious injuries, and found none.

  By the time Lady Sophia and Margaret joined him, he had opened the vinaigrette and held it to Christy’s nose.

  “How did she get in here?” Margaret chafed Christy’s wrist.

  “I don’t know.” He looked out the door. “Sir Dominic, is your barouche ready?”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” The man looked about, uncertain. “I’ll get it.”

  St. Ives, who stood just outside, strode down the line of vehicles to the Briarly conveyance. James gathered Christy into his arms, then realized he couldn’t maneuver them both through the carriage door. Lord Farnham appeared below, and together they eased her inert form outside. James took her once more, and Farnham accompanied them to the now-readied vehicle.

  “What happened?” Farnham demanded.

  “There’s a swelling on the back of her head,” he said.

  “My God,” Farnham breathed. “First you, and now—” He broke off.

  James clenched his jaw. “I presume this was in light of a warning to me. Will you be kind enough to spread it about that nothing that happens to Miss Campbell will affect my decisions?”

  Farnham gaped at him. “Do you mean you would allow some ruffian—”

  “The devil with some ruffian!” James stopped at the Briarly carriage door. “This is the work of a member of our house party, not some mohawk. If I give in to this sort of intimidation, there will be no stopping it.”

  He glanced around and saw Lord Brockenhurst and Sir Oliver just behind them. “You may be very sure I will find out who did this, and whoever is responsible will regret it very much indeed. But neither this, nor any possible future attack on Miss Campbell, will be allowed to influence my decisions. Is that understood?”