A Christmas Keepsake

by Janice Bennett

  “Oh, quite clearly.” St. Ives opened the door. “May I be of assistance to you—Sire?”

  James glared at him, then at Brockenhurst who stood nearby. He didn’t want any of them to touch her. And for all his bravado, if she were to be held hostage, he very much feared he would acquiesce to any demands to keep her safe. He only hoped these men would not guess as much.

  A soft moan escaped her lips, and she stirred in his arms. Farnham pushed past him and climbed into the carriage, then held out impatient arms for her. With reluctance, James released her.

  “What—?” Christy’s eyes fluttered open. “Ow!” she added, as Farnham laid her on the seat.

  “Who hit you, Christy?” James joined them in the carriage, leaving no room for Margaret, who hesitated just outside.

  Christy’s long lashes fluttered, her eyes opened, and she winced. It took a moment before her gaze settled on James’s face. “You’re safe,” she murmured.

  His lip twitched. “Indeed I am. And what of you?”

  “Me?” She shook her head, then grimaced. “I feel like a horse kicked me. A horse!” Her blue eyes widened. “James, that man on horseback—not the one Sir Dominic had watching you, but another. He was lurking among the carriages, and I tried to get a better look at him. Then—someone must have knocked me out.”

  “And shoved you into a carriage so you wouldn’t be seen.” The thought of some villain touching her, manhandling her into the landau, set his fists clamping into punishing bunches of fives. When he finally caught up with this curst rum touch, he intended to supply him with a bit of very satisfying homebrewed. And he was not a man who normally took pleasure in violence. For this, he would make an exception.

  “Did no one see anything?” Farnham demanded. “That hardly seems possible.”

  “The line of carriages stood between Miss Campbell and anyone who might have been watching. If some of the coachmen weren’t with their vehicles, and her assailant caught her as she began to fall—” Brockenhurst shook his head.

  Margaret touched James’s arm. “Let us take her back to Briarly. She will be far better once she is settled comfortably in her own chamber.”

  James glanced at his erstwhile cousin’s wife. Her worry-filled gray eyes appeared unnaturally large against the pallor of her complexion. “You look all knocked to flinders. Come.” He extended his hand to assist her. “Get in, Margaret.”

  Farnham jumped down, and ushered the countess inside. James settled beside Christy, his arm still about her. Margaret positioned herself on the facing seat, and Brockenhurst climbed up and settled beside her. Sir Dominic waved the driver on, and the carriage lurched forward.

  “You are accompanying us?” James raised a questioning eyebrow at the viscount.

  Brockenhurst shrugged. “You need someone to help you assist Miss Campbell down at the other end. Devilish bad ton to leave you in the lurch. You are, I believe, a man who understands duty?”

  “I am.” James watched him with growing distrust.

  Brockenhurst nodded, as if to himself. “Yes, duty. More like than not, it proves an unpleasant mistress. It is not often the observance of one’s duty can bring power and status. Ah, and so many other rewards. Really, you are quite to be envied.”

  “Indeed? Yet my sole specific request, not to have this matter broached until after Christmas, has not been honored by a single person.”

  Brockenhurst stiffened. “If I have given offense, sir—”

  “Major,” James snapped. “Until this matter is settled, I would have you all call me ‘Major.’ ”

  Duty. His gaze strayed to Christy, who leaned back against the squabs, her eyes once more closed. What happened when duty strayed so far from desire? To take a royal bride, when Christy filled his heart, was as unthinkable as Christy said.

  But why should he marry—just yet, at least? He was only eight-and-thirty, and his own father hadn’t wed until he was almost sixty. James could do the same. Then he would have twenty years with his beloved.

  Provided she remained in his time. If he lost her ... no, then it wouldn’t matter to him whom he wed. Duty would be all that would carry him on.

  As they pulled up before Briarly, Christy roused. Stoutly she refused the assistance of either gentleman from the carriage, and descended on her own. “I’m much better,” she assured James, and caught herself as she wobbled.

  James steadied her, his hands cupping her upper arms, guiding her up the stairs. Brockenhurst trailed after them. With a murmured excuse, Margaret hurried ahead, anxious to reach her own chamber. The probable date of her confinement loomed barely weeks ahead, James realized. She must feel the strain terribly. The carriage set off down the drive, returning to the church for more passengers.

  “What happens now?” Christy asked as they entered the house.

  “You rest,” James said.

  She shook her head—though with care. “Do you think I intend to miss a single minute of Christmas? I’m a lot better, now. I want to stay here, where I can see you.”

  And where he could see her. He led her to a sheltered alcove, partially hidden by a trailing tapestry, and settled her in a chair. She leaned back, eyes closed, and becoming color once more crept into her cheeks.

  The servants, who had walked back from the church, swarmed into the Great Hall. They rearranged tables, brought out bowls of punch and plates heaped with delicacies, lit the decorated Christmas candles, and straightened the bows and berries which were strewn amid the holly, bay, and ivy. A maid hung fresh bunches of mistletoe while a footman placed more logs in the hearth. No winter chill would long linger here.

  The house party had barely returned to the festive hall when the first of the visitors arrived. James folded his arms and stood beside Christy like a dog guarding his mistress, while about them, the country gentry mingled with the government officials, exchanging pleasantries and devouring the elaborate collation. This would go on for hours, he realized, with more guests stopping by, until at last the growing dark or the renewed snowfall brought the celebrations to a close.

  Christy leaned forward, and he looked down at her at once. Lines of strain marred her features, and pain pinched her brow.

  “Are you all right?” he asked quickly.

  “Just a headache. What I wouldn’t give for some aspirin.”

  James let the strange word pass. “How about some plum brandy? I believe I saw some a few minutes ago.”

  He caught a passing footman, who obligingly fetched him a couple of glasses—poured, the lad assured him, from the same decanter from which the other guests drank. The servants, it appeared, had been alerted to James’s danger.

  He carried the crystal goblets filled with their deep purple liquid to where Christy waited, and he toasted her before taking a sip. The sweet liquid burned down his throat, warming, easing his tension. She managed a half smile in response.

  “What do you think of our Christmas?” he asked.

  “It makes me homesick.” She twirled the stem between her fingers. “If I were at my mom’s, we’d be building snowmen and taking presents to friends and decorating more cookies because Matt and the kids would have eaten all of them. Then Jon and Gina would get out their guitars again and we’d sing—” She broke off and shoved her hand toward the side of her gown, but apparently couldn’t find what she sought. “Damn, I wish I had some chocolate.”

  “I am sorry if you have been disappointed in our celebrations.”

  She shook her head. “It’s not that. I’m enjoying your Christmas, but there are things I miss. My traditions. I want to string cranberries and popcorn, in spite of the fact I always prick my fingers and get salt in the cuts, and get sore from forcing the needle through the hard berries. I want a tree, and I didn’t get to hang up a stocking for Santa Claus. I didn’t even make my annual new decoration this year.”

  He reached toward her, then allowed his hand to smooth over her unruly hair. “You have happy memories.” He could wish the same for himself.


  Her lips twitched. “I suppose that’s all they’ll be, now, unless I can find a way home. At least I can have a tree—once Victoria marries Albert, of course.” Her half smile slipped awry. “She hasn’t even been born, yet.”

  Against his better judgment, James asked: “Who is Victoria?”

  “She’ll be queen after her father William dies. He’s king after your Prinny.”

  “And she’s responsible for some of the customs you like?”

  Christy nodded. “There’s nothing that says I can’t do them on my own, of course.”

  He regarded the impeccable shine of his glossy Hessian boots. “And what if your Victoria never becomes queen?”

  Very slowly, Christy turned to look up into his face. “James, do you really want to be king? History manages very well without you.”

  “Did you, in your time, know of my existence? As the Stuart heir, I mean?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “But then I never studied much British history, either. I only know the regency is given to Prince George, with no trouble attached. You weren’t mentioned in any of the books I checked.”

  He paced a few steps away, then back. “History could follow a completely different course.”

  She nodded. “To revolution instead of empire.”

  “Christy—” He broke off. There it was again, their irreconcilable point of contention. He could forget it—briefly—in the pleasure of her company—and of sharing Christmas with her. But always it would loom up again between them.

  Margaret came down the stairs, and James took the excuse to escape Christy. He needed time to think. Assured Margaret did as well as could be expected, he saw the woman into the care of Sir Oliver, who stood in conversation with Lord Farnham. St. Ives glanced in their direction and nodded, as if satisfied his wife stood in no need of him. James remained at her side, his polite smile in position but his thoughts drifting far away.

  This Christmas season stood apart, unlike any in his past, unlike any he might experience in the future. No happy recollections lay behind him—but what loomed ahead? What would his Christmases—his entire future—be like, now he knew himself for a royal Stuart? The life he had known, he realized with a sense of anger, had been irrevocably taken from him.

  Throughout the remainder of Christmas day, visitors continued to flow through Briarly. James kept Christy constantly in sight, though she shied away from him, avoiding any resumption of the intimacy they had shared earlier. He would win her back, he vowed, convince her she harmed no one by being in his arms, in his bed. With an effort, he wrenched his mind from the conjured image. Right now, he needed to concentrate all his attention and energy on keeping them both alive.

  When at last the final guests departed, and only the house party remained, Lady Sophia regarded the scraps of food remaining on the once laden tables. She shook her head. “I believe it might be an excellent idea if we all rested before dinner.”

  Sir Dominic patted his wife’s arm. “A period of quiet will be just the thing. Gentlemen?”

  Sir Oliver nodded. “A hand or two of cards, perhaps? Brockenhurst? Saint Ives? Will you join me?”

  ‘That’s the ticket,” Brockenhurst said. He beamed at the assembled company. “And you”—he hesitated “—Major?”

  “Yes, thank you.” James glanced toward Christy. She remained in her corner, eyes half closed. Her head must ache terribly.

  As if she felt his gaze on her, she looked up, then rose. “May I watch?” she asked.

  At least he wouldn’t have to worry about where she was—and in what danger she might be. Relieved on that account, he followed the men into a salon, where card tables remained. Christy drew up a chair by the blazing fire and seemed comfortable enough.

  Sir Dominic rang for fresh decks, and within minutes Lord Brockenhurst had set up a faro bank. James took a seat, placed his bet on red, and his gaze traveled about the assembled company. One of them wanted him dead.

  And Christy had suffered because she tried to protect him. They played through the deck, and Sir Oliver watched every turn of a card with abject concentration. Not so Sir Dominic, though. Before Brockenhurst could begin once more, the elderly gentleman rose.

  “Saint Ives, a hand of piquet.”

  The earl agreed, and the two men excused themselves and withdrew to another table. James doubted Sir Oliver paid any heed to their departure.

  “Come on, man,” he urged Brockenhurst. “Turn the cards.” At the end of the second round, Farnham also excused himself. “Not enough of a challenge,” he explained, with an apologetic smile. “Major, will you honor me?”

  They, too, retired from the faro bank, leaving only Brockenhurst and Sir Oliver. James glanced at Christy as he took his new chair, but she remained by the fire, staring into the depths of the flames. He stifled his impulse to go to her to discover where her mind wandered. Instead, he studied the men at the other table.

  Farnham dealt, then followed the direction of James’s steady gaze. “Sir Oliver enjoys his game,” he said after a moment.

  James nodded, then dragged his attention back to his own cards. In Farnham, despite the man’s free imbibing over the course of the day, he found a worthy opponent. Still, he found it difficult to concentrate on the pastime he normally enjoyed. Not when betrayal and deceit lurked in the room.

  Sir Oliver was addicted to gambling. Would he betray James—and Sir Dominic—for money? It was a possibility they could not overlook, And then there was Brockenhurst, smiling so affably at him while he fiddled the cards. Cheating, though, did not make him a traitor to the cause—necessarily. Unless betrayal was a basic part of his nature. Nor could James forget Farnham, who even now demonstrated his cunning, and St. Ives, so bound up in politics he ignored the obvious needs of his wife.

  Somewhere within the deep recesses of the house, the gong sounded, announcing time to change for dinner. James saw Christy to her room and into the surprisingly competent hands of Nancy before retiring to his own chamber and the ministrations of Wickes. An evening of merrymaking lay ahead. For once, he dreaded it.

  Dinner, to his relief, proved a lively affair. Farnham had polished off a considerable amount of spiced wine and rum punch during the course of the afternoon, and was now well above par and inclined to indulge in scraps of song. In this he was aided by St. Ives, also in his cups, and while the footmen cleared the second course, the two dignified members of the House of Lords edified the company with a racy ditty culled from a musical farce. When the covers at last were cleared, the wassail bowl made its rounds, with each guest sipping from the large goblet.

  “A play!” Lord Brockenhurst cried as they rose from the table en masse. “We must have a play. Sir Dominic, you must be Roast Beef. I have a fancy for the role of Mince Pie.”

  St. Ives swept an inebriated bow in the direction of James. “Gentlemen, may I present our Lord of Misrule?”

  James tensed, though he accepted the honor with grace. As the party headed, somewhat unsteadily, to the drawing room, Christy caught his arm.

  “What did they mean?” she whispered. “I thought they wanted you to be regent!”

  James guided her forward. “The Lord of Misrule is the traditional master of ceremonies for the Christmas revelries.”

  She shivered, her distress patent in her lovely eyes. “James, that’s exactly what you’ll be! A Lord of Misrule, with your kingdom rioting. If you live that long. Please, you’ve got to listen to me. You heard Saint Ives’s tone. He doesn’t want you to be regent.”

  James’s gaze traveled to his cousin. No, he reminded himself once again, not his cousin. The barrier of his true identity had risen between them, destroying what little fellow feeling they might ever have shared.

  And what remained? Hatred? So intense, perhaps, that he would betray the cause he had been raised to uphold? Loneliness crept over him, at this sundering from the life he had known, had thought was his birthright. He had no family, no one to rely on except himself, and the odds stacked h
eavily against him.

  Only Christy stood by him—and found herself in grave danger for her loyalty. He couldn’t bear to have her at risk. Yet how could he protect her, let alone himself, when he had no idea from which direction the threat loomed?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Boxing Day dawned cold and overcast, with the threat of more snow heavy in the air. It matched James’s spirits. If he were the sky, he’d indulge in a rousing good blizzard.

  His first impulse, to remain in his chambers, he refused to indulge. He could no longer delay the discussions of his future—and that of all England. He was no coward, but the enormity of the decisions that must be made during the next couple of days could not but weigh heavily upon him. Duty loomed over him like a two-edged sword of Damocles, and the thread by which it hung wore very thin.

  Duty. He slowed as he reached the last landing. He had been raised in the certainty that one performed one’s duty, however unpleasant. That belief had carried him through more than one horrific campaign. He had believed it the motto of the Holborns.

  Well, he wasn’t a Holborn, after all. He was a Stuart. And he was being offered an opportunity the likes of which his royal father—a man he had never known—would have given anything to possess. His duty to his name, his duty to England—he could only hope they lay along the same path, despite Christy’s fears.

  No one, to his relief, occupied the breakfast room. He went to the sideboard, then hesitated—and cursed himself for a cowardly fool. No one would dare poison food which might be consumed by the others. Yet he found himself unwilling to sample a single dish.

  The arrival of Farnham, followed closely by St. Ives, both nursing aching heads, solved his problem. If so many of them had yet to eat, surely his enemy would not dare to act. James helped himself to a substantial meal, though he found little enjoyment in the eating of it. The other two finished long before he did.

  As he at last exited the breakfast parlor, the butler approached him, bowing with a deference that should have flattered him. “Sir Dominic awaits your pleasure in the library, sir,” the man said. “If you are ready?”