A Christmas Keepsake

by Janice Bennett

  “Thank you.” He didn’t miss the formality of the invitation, nor the fact the man obviously had lain in wait for him. With a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, he followed the butler along the familiar route. The man opened the door for him, bowed him inside, then withdrew.

  A blazing fire warmed the apartment against the chill without. Someone had drawn back the curtain over the French windows, revealing a snow-covered prospect and a leaden sky. Six chairs stood in a circle before the hearth. Sir Dominic, Lord Farnham, and Viscount Brockenhurst awaited him, and rose at once upon his entrance.

  James stepped forward, with the distinct feeling he approached his execution, “Before you ask,” he said, “I have as yet come to no decisions.”

  Sir Dominic nodded. “Sensible, very sensible, sir. Major,” he corrected hastily. “Will you be seated?” He gestured to the chair nearest the fire.

  In the center of the circle rested a small table, on which stood two decanters and an assortment of glasses. James declined his host’s offer of madeira, and took his place. Sir Oliver and St. Ives joined them, murmuring their apologies for their tardy arrival.

  Sir Dominic, his expression solemn, nodded. “As I believe we are all aware, time is running short. We may expect the regency bill to be passed at any time, and at this moment there is only one possible candidate of which the members of Parliament are aware.”

  “And you know where that will lead!” Farnham leaned forward, a gleam in his brown eyes.

  “To an excess of execrable taste,” Brockenhurst murmured. Sir Dominic ignored the interruption. “Major, you, who have so long concerned yourself with the interests of the poor, must be aware of the disaster this could mean. The French didn’t believe it could happen to them, yet the sans culottes destroyed the very fabric of their society. We cannot let this happen to us.” Brockenhurst paused in the act of opening his snuffbox, and shuddered. “There is only one other alternative. Major, we must beseech you to save England.”

  “Playing regent will certainly give you increased scope,” St. Ives drawled. “Indeed, my dear—Major, your duty must loom clear to you.”

  “Can one of you not think of a reason why I shouldn’t declare myself?” James asked.

  The others exchanged frowning glances. “None, Major.” Farnham picked up a glass, then set it down again. “Only many reasons why you should. Your birthright—and obligation—remains with you, however much you may believe yourself in command of your decisions.”

  Sir Dominic tapped the head of his cane. “Indeed, once it becomes public knowledge the son of Charles Edward Stuart lives, and is a Protestant, I greatly fear the matter will be taken from your hands. It will surprise me very much if there is not an uprising among the people, a call for you to save them from Prinny’s wastrel ways.”

  James held his host with a steady gaze. “And what if it doesn’t become public knowledge?”

  St. Ives’s jaw dropped. “Do you mean—Dear Coz, would you actually deny your Stuart heritage and continue to claim the Holborn name?”

  “If it meant the safety of England, yes.”

  Sir Dominic poured himself a glass of wine with an unsteady hand, and took a revivifying sip. “That, gentlemen, is what we must determine. In which direction lies the best interest of our great country? Though I believe every one of us here, with but one exception”—he bowed toward James “—has already considered that problem.”

  “In short, then, you merely await my permission to approach the Lords.” James’s gaze traveled around the circle, resting on each serious face in turn. “Have you spoken with people on the streets? Have you asked anyone how they feel about Prinny’s regency?”

  St. Ives leaned back in his chair, swinging his quizzing glass by its riband. “Have you not read the scathing reports in our daily newspapers? Prinny is not popular. Another choice would be hailed as manna from heaven.”

  “Possibly.” James rose. “If you will excuse me, gentlemen? Since you have nothing new to add, I believe what I need most is time for reflection.”

  Somewhat to his surprise, they allowed him to leave without protest. He closed the door behind him, then paused in the corridor, frowning. One of those men in there spoke less than the truth—in fact, violently opposed the nomination of a Stuart. But which one?

  He repressed the urge to find Christy. He wanted a long walk outdoors, but he needed to think, not hear her familiar arguments over again. He made his way to the front hall and looked out one of the wide windows. Snow drifted down, silent and thick, wrapping the world in a blanket of white. The serenity of the stillness beckoned.

  “Major!” Sir Dominic came up behind him. “Will you join us in a game of cards? I have often noted the efficacy of a logical pastime while attempting to order one’s thoughts on other matters.”

  “Is this perchance Sir Oliver’s suggestion?” James pivoted slowly, and fixed the elderly man with his penetrating gaze.

  Sir Dominic faltered. “He is very partial to a hand of piquet,” he admitted.

  “Too partial. He loses a great deal.”

  “It has never been a problem for him. The Paigntons are well heeled.”

  “Are they?” James continued to hold his gaze. “Under the circumstances, it might be advisable to have his finances investigated.”

  “You cannot think—”

  “Can I not? In case you have forgotten, someone in this house has a penchant for assassination.”

  For a long minute, Sir Dominic stared in silence at the falling snow. “It is a subject that has occupied my mind a great deal over the past thirty-six hours.”

  “Have you told them, yet? That they are not as unanimous in their thoughts as they suppose?”

  Sir Dominic nodded. “Just now, after you left us.”

  “And what was their reaction?”

  “Dumbfounded.” The aging man shook his head, his expression bleak. “Like me, they cannot believe one of our select number could be disloyal.”

  “Did no one betray himself? Not even by the flicker of an eye?” He should have been present himself when the announcement was made, to better judge their reactions. “Do they understand the significance?” he pursued. “That violent opposition exists to their plans—and within their own ranks?”

  “They do, but one person does not express the sentiments of all England. You will see how your arrival upon the political scene is greeted.”

  Perhaps he could still judge reactions. James allowed his host to escort him back to the library, where the gentlemen now sat at various tables with decks of cards.

  As they entered, Sir Oliver laughed heartily at something Lord Farnham said. “You must not take your encumbered estates so much to heart, my boy. How else can you come about if not by cards or dice?”

  Farnham shook his head. “Your play is too rich for my blood. Take Brockenhurst for your partner. He has the devil’s own luck.”

  Financial problems. More causes were betrayed for gold than any ideological belief. Sir Oliver and Lord Farnham, both living on insufficient income. And what of Brockenhurst? He’d never heard if that gentleman suffered monetary difficulties. Or St. Ives... No, the earl had more than enough blunt. Personal hatred for a lowly cousin being abruptly elevated to a station far above his own, though, might be a very different matter.

  James seated himself across from Sir Dominic, and concentrated on the cards. Yet this occupation in no way assisted his thought processes, and after three hands he excused himself. Before he reached the door, Christy bounced in with her light, dancing step, enveloped in her pelisse, snow clinging to her masses of dark hair.

  Lord Farnham’s gaze fixed on her. “By Jove!” he murmured, his expression appreciative.

  James couldn’t blame him. She was a vision, with her eyes bright and her rounded face flushed with the cold.

  She smiled on them all. “It’s beautiful outside. Why are you all indoors?”

  “Lamentable taste,” James informed her.

  Si
r Oliver regarded her with a frown. “Are you not frozen?”

  She laughed. “I have antifreeze in my veins. Besides, I couldn’t resist making some snow angels. Won’t any of you join me in building a fort for a snowball fight?”

  Farnham’s eyes gleamed. “I will,” he said.

  Brockenhurst rose. “As will I. This sounds a treat not to be missed.”

  “It seems there will be four of us, then.” James turned to the other two volunteers. “Gentlemen, shall we find appropriate garments?”

  The remainder of the afternoon passed all too rapidly, filled with a carefree merriment unequaled in James’s experience. Christy possessed deadly aim, landing her snowballs with precision, then ducking behind trees and shrubs before he could reciprocate. Brockenhurst, despite his expressed enthusiasm, quickly tired of such childish entertainment, and before long drifted back indoors, taking Farnham with him.

  Christy ignored their departure, and began packing the base for a good-sized snowman. James joined her, and together they sculpted a three-tiered creation with creditable results. By the time they finished, dusk crept across the already darkened sky.

  “He needs coal for eyes and a carrot for a nose. And sticks for hands.” She stood back, eyeing their masterpiece. “Do you think we could find a hat and scarf for him? He looks cold.”

  She raised her laughing face to his, and he caught his breath. Slowly, the smile faded from her lips and she gazed at him, longing filling her expressive eyes. Lord, this was what he wanted, endless days filled with Christy’s love, a small estate outside of London where he could continue his work and set up his nursery...

  But duty decreed his children be born of another woman. His every instinct rebelled. Christy should be his wife, not his mistress, and her children—their children—should be his legal heirs, not his royal bastards.

  “What’s wrong?” Christy touched his cheek. Her warm breath huddled in a cloud between them before dissipating.

  Only by tremendous effort did he keep from gathering her into his arms. He was as confused as she, wanting her, yet foreseeing only heartache. “I’ll send a footman for what we need.” He forced himself to stride away, leaving her with her icy companion.

  The footmen rounded up the necessary items, and all too soon—or was that not soon enough?—he returned to where Christy waited in the rapidly failing light. She at once set about making the additional improvements to their snowman, then stood back to admire the effect.

  “Well?” she demanded.

  In spite of his disturbed state of mind, his lips twitched. “Charming.”

  She drew off her drenched gloves and slid her hand around his arm. “What would you like to do next? I wish it weren’t too dark to stay out here.”

  “I have to reach some decisions, answer some questions in my own mind.” He raised her chilled hand to his lips. “You prove too great a distraction.”

  She returned no reply. She continued to stare at him for a long moment, then turned and led the way into the great house. They found Margaret and Lady Sophia sitting together in the Blue Salon, embroidering, and he left her, silent and solemn, with them. At least he would not have to worry about her safety while he occupied his mind with other matters.

  After securing Sir Dominic’s promise to keep his other guests safely within doors, James set off for a long tramp over the icy grounds. Early darkness closed about him, but the few stars peeping through the clouds bathed the paths in a faint but sufficient glow.

  Here, in the tranquillity of the garden, the threat of an assassin seemed more imagined than real. Avery good chance existed he had temporarily eluded his assailants, and that none lurked within Sir Dominic’s inner circle. His riding accident might have been caused, as originally conjectured, by poachers. The wine might merely have been bad.

  Still, he couldn’t quite convince himself. He strode through the leafless remains of the rose garden, down the graveled paths between neatly pruned branches. His thoughts raced in circles, over and over, until it seemed to him they followed a rutted track. He made no progress, no sense out of this morass, out of what he should do...

  Before him he glimpsed a glimmer of white: the folly, where according to Christy, Brockenhurst had dallied with that maid. He headed in the other direction.

  Here, a gardener had swept the stepping-stones clear of all but the most recent snow; apparently he now followed a well-trodden path. A shrubbery arch loomed ahead, trained from what appeared to be a giant, ancient hawthorn. Darkness spread out on either side, as if walls had been erected to channel a chance passerby into the leafy hold.

  They were walls, he realized as he drew closer, living walls of branches and leaves. He stepped under the bower and found himself facing another wall, with walkways on either side. A maze. Unhesitatingly, he turned to the left and placed his hand against the scratchy surface. Maybe finding his way through this puzzle would help lead him through his own.

  It must be winding him about, he decided after about fifteen minutes. He’d taken only left turns, yet still he hadn’t reached the center. He came to another junction of paths and headed left again.

  From somewhere all too near came the sound of footsteps crunching over the snow-covered gravel. James froze, every sense alert to danger. Someone had followed him into the maze. He glanced over his shoulder, but could see no likely shelter beyond the darkness and the unpredictability of the paths. His pursuer would be following his tracks, but would catch on to the continual left bearing in a very short time. Then he would undoubtedly quit straining his eyes and proceed with less caution.

  A grim smile touched James’s lips. He would backtrack, with care, and take that last right fork instead of the left, and wait...

  He positioned himself, crouching low, ready to spring. The footsteps approached at an uneven rate. Sometimes they faded from hearing, only to come louder as the winding passage brought the person near. Once, it sounded as if he must be directly opposite the wall beside which James waited. Then a dark shape emerged, little more than a shadow, enveloped in a dark cloak against the blacker shrubs.

  James coiled his muscles and sprang, knocking the figure to the ground. He knelt over him, pinning his shoulders to the gravel, and dragged away the hood that covered his face.

  Not his. Her. With a sigh half of exasperation, half of relief, he stared into Christy’s terrified eyes.

  “James.” Her voice came out ragged, hoarse. “You scared me.”

  He shook his head. “You deserve to be beaten! What the devil are you doing out here? I thought Sir Dominic was keeping everyone inside.”

  “I just needed to see you. James, I—” She broke off.

  The yearning in her expressive eyes said more than enough. He brushed the tangled curls from her face, then trailed his finger along her cheek to her lips. Their soft moistness brushed against his flesh in a kiss. The temptation proved too urgent to be ignored.

  Slowly, he lowered his head, seeking her mouth. She pulled free of his hold, wrapped her arms about him, and dragged him down to her side with a desperation that sent fire shooting through him, overriding any other thought or consideration. He only knew how much he wanted her, that despite his duty, despite her coming from another time, they belonged together.

  The crunch of gravel, right beside them, brought James to his feet in one swift movement. Christy scrambled after him, and he caught her hand. On the other side of the hedge, he realized. Someone else approached—and must have a fairly good idea where they were. He’d moved with amazing stealth until now. This time, he feared, an ambush wouldn’t work.

  Gesturing Christy to silence, he drew her along the path, away from that junction. If he could leave her where she would be safe, he might be able to lay another trap. He rounded a corner, realized they had taken several jagging turns, and knew himself to be lost within the maze. If their stalker was familiar with the key, that placed them at a severe disadvantage.

  “I didn’t mean to lead anyone to you,” she whis
pered, and her grip tightened on his hand. After a moment, she added: “You haven’t been writing anything lately, have you?”

  “Why?”

  “Well, if you haven’t finished the section about the house party, then you should be all right. Shouldn’t you?”

  He drew a deep breath, and a chill crept along his skin. “I’ve been making notes. I’m afraid a publisher could easily polish it up after my death.”

  Her hand clenched on his, and a quaver sounded in her voice. “Oh, God, James, what if that bloodbath I saw in your book is averted only because you’re killed?” They reached the next intersection of paths, and a shadowy figure completely enveloped from head to toe in a dark cloak stepped in front of them. Faint light flickered off the metal tracings on the flintlock pistol he pointed. The slightest click sounded, and fire flashed from the pan as a deafening explosion filled James’s ears.

  Christy heaved herself against James, knocking him sideways. A cry escaped her, and she crumpled to the ground.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Complete numbness gripped Christy, then pain exploded through the side of her head. The snow-covered gravel flew up to slam into her face—only she lay on it, the icy sharpness of the tiny rock digging into her hands and throat. Something heavy dragged over her legs—a boot, as someone stumbled over her.

  Her senses whirled, and sound, even awareness, grew hazy, as if caught in an ebb and flow. Grunts, the sickening thud of fists beating into midriffs and jaws, the scrape of heavy shoes finding uncertain footing on loose gravel, all rose and receded as the two men struggled on top of her. She couldn’t move, she couldn’t help James, she couldn’t even drag herself out of his way ... Silence closed about her like a muffling cloak of cotton wool, and she floated, weightless...

  The pounding of running feet burst into her world, and she lay once more on the icy ground, something sharp digging into her shoulder blade. Branches snapped as someone crashed through them, forging a new path, and she floated once more, spinning in circles, high above the landscape.