Lady Louisa's Christmas Knight

by Grace Burrowes

  The organization Sophie was recommending most enthusiastically was about an hour’s hard ride east, in Surrey. The children were orphans of the Peninsular campaign, whose “English relations” had not the means to care for them.

  A child born in Spain with indifferent English relations was probably an officer’s bastard. Louisa drew a circle around Sophie’s first suggestion. A jaunt to Surrey would make for a fine Christmas outing, and Joseph would approve of her selection—she just knew he would.

  Louisa drew a line under the circled suggestion and rose. “Come along, my dears. We’re off to bake up a special holiday treat to spoil your papa with when he comes home.”

  ***

  “I need a book.” This was the third location at which Joseph had opened negotiations with that statement. “I need a special book, preferably a book of verse, preferably in English, but French or Italian would do, as would Latin or classical Greek.”

  With each language, the shopkeeper’s bushy white brows climbed farther toward the pink dome of his head. He stroked a snowy beard that flowed down his chest in contrast to the climbing eyebrows. “Are we looking for a contemporary tome or something from antiquity?”

  “I don’t know. This book must be special. Beautiful.” Joseph frowned at the hodgepodge of volumes shelved every which way from ceiling to floor, the books so abundant they lent the entire shop a leather-and-paper mustiness. “The words have to be beautiful, but it wouldn’t hurt if the binding was nicely done too.”

  The shopkeeper rocked back on his heels then rocked forward, laying a finger to the side of his nose in thought. He was a rotund fellow, attired in a green velvet waistcoat and a green morning coat worn shiny at the elbows. “Is this a gift, then, good sir?”

  “For a woman.” The fellow’s brows came down. “For a lady. A very intelligent lady of sophisticated literary sensibilities.”

  And because her sensibilities were so sophisticated, Joseph was not frequenting the usual genteel haunts on the better streets of Mayfair. He was instead freezing his backside off in the narrow alleys and lanes of Bloomsbury.

  “You present a challenge, my friend, but Christopher K. North is your man if it’s a book you’re seeking.”

  The old fellow extracted a green handkerchief with a flourish, polished his spectacles as if polishing a shield prior to battle, and ascended one of several ladders about the room.

  “I have a nice collection of French works up…” The ladder creaked ominously, but Joseph said nothing. North’s backside was well padded. If the man were to fall from a broken ladder, injury to anything other than pride was unlikely.

  “Or perhaps Italian.” With a rattling slide, the ladder glided several feet to the side, leaving Joseph to realize the thing was on runners.

  “Or even Flemish. Not many acquainted with Flemish hereabouts.” The ladder caught on a volume protruding from one of the lower shelves, all but pulling the little book out and flinging it to the floor at Joseph’s feet.

  “Dear me.” North came gliding back to Joseph on his ladder. “I thought that one had gone to Moreland last week. I’m afraid that volume is not for sale.”

  Joseph and this particular little red book were old friends, and the book was apparently on good terms with Joseph’s relations by marriage, as well.

  “Not for sale?” Joseph retrieved the book from the floor. “I know somebody who appears to be collecting these verses.”

  Amid creaks of wood from the ladder and groans originating from the proprietor, North descended. “When I come across a copy, I’m to put it back. There’s a duke who snatches up all I can find. It’s got quite a following, that book. My competitor, Mr. Heilig, says he has an earl pestering him for copies, and we’ve an acquaintance in Knightsbridge who claims he too has an earl and a baron asking regularly after those poems.”

  Joseph opened the book to a random page, finding one of his favorites, where old Catullus was making wild claims to his mistress about bringing her off nine times in a row.

  Maybe the man hadn’t been so old when he’d written that one. Maybe he’d been in love for the first time, lying before a blazing fire with a woman whose gaze carried more wonder and passion…

  Sir Joseph stopped seeing the books around him. North’s jovial homilies about the pleasures of finding the right book faded to silence, to be replaced by Louisa’s voice, full of curiosity and redolent with sexual enthusiasm.

  “Can one do this repeatedly? Successively? Nine times in a row?”

  The three volumes in her purse.

  The copy in Westhaven’s library, which had been summarily removed from Joseph’s notice.

  The sheer brilliance of the translations and the odd innocence of the terms chosen for the most vulgar concepts.

  The passion conveyed in the words, despite the occasional innocent phrase.

  Joseph stared at the little book. “Oh, my dearest, most brilliant wife.”

  “Getting an inspiration, are we?” North was back to polishing his glasses. “It’s a work of genius, I say. Others aren’t so liberal in their appreciation, no pun intended. I’m sorry I can’t let you have it.”

  Joseph considered telling the man Moreland was his father-by-marriage, but North was apparently the chatty sort, and these were racy poems indeed.

  “How much does Moreland pay you?”

  North’s eyes narrowed as he named a figure.

  “I’ll pay you ten times that amount, and I can assure you I will never let this book leave my family’s possession.”

  North studied him, all vestiges of a shopkeeper’s bonhomie falling away. “For whom did you say you were buying this present?”

  “I didn’t.”

  North crossed his arms over his chest, widened his stance, and lifted his bearded chin. “For whom do you procure this verse, good sir?”

  The shopkeeper had gone in an instant from a cheerfully vague, slightly bumbling old fellow to the embodiment of the north wind, ready to obliterate the unwary in a sudden gust of disapproval.

  “I want to give it to my lady wife. Her tastes are learned and unusual, and she would delight in this volume for all her days. She would delight in me for having found it for her.”

  The north wind slipped away from the old man’s visage, to be replaced by a twinkle in his eye. “I confess my own wife has borrowed a copy of this little tome from the shop on occasion. I refuse to allow the loan at my peril. In her honor, I make you a gift of this book—for your lady wife.”

  Joseph scrawled the direction of his Surrey property on the back of a calling card and extracted a promise from the bookseller to alert him to any copies of the little red book that might turn up in future.

  “I’ll not be out to Surrey until Christmas Day at the earliest,” Joseph explained, “but you’ll have payment in full before the New Year if you direct your invoices to that address.”

  Booksellers were apparently an odd lot. As Joseph visited one obscure little shop after another, one jovial old fellow in holiday velvet after another pressed little red volumes into his hands, and with a wink or a smile, wished him and his lady wife felicitations of the season before imparting exact directions to the next shop.

  By the time he left for Surrey in the morning, Joseph had a dozen copies secreted in his saddlebags, though by the time he’d arrived home in Kent—by way of a clandestine sortie to the Earl of Westhaven’s carriage house—he’d made sure his saddle bags were again empty.

  Thirteen

  So many insights had come barreling at Louisa in the course of a few days that she’d resorted to a tactic she’d given up five years previously: she resumed keeping a journal.

  How had her parents raised ten children? Of course, His Grace shouted occasionally. Of course, Her Grace had learned how to quell adolescent rebellion with a single raised eyebrow—and how to encourage with a quiet smile.

  Of course, her parents were close allies, there being no sensible alternative when that many children required love and care.


  And this prompted a recollection that was truly amazing: Louisa’s first dream, before she’d wanted to run the observatory at Greenwich, before she’d longed to join the Royal Society, before she’d aimed her sights at lectures for the scholars at Cambridge—doomed aspirations, all—her first dream had been to have a large family of her own.

  The details had always been vague, involving bedtime stories in the nursery, little tales written for her by her small children, letters sent home to Mama from visits to aunts and uncles—always books, always writings—but mostly, always family.

  A large, loving family.

  When had she cast this simple, prosaic dream aside for things no woman could realistically aspire to?

  Louisa wanted not only to raise Joseph’s daughters with him, not only to be a dutiful wife and helpmeet, but also to be his partner in the rearing of more children.

  Their children.

  “Fleur and Amanda are our children,” Louisa informed a rotund cat that went by the name of Limerick. The beast’s fur was mostly black but shot with enough red to make her coat gorgeous.

  “I’ve added their late mother to the list of people for whom I pray each night,” Louisa said. “I will love those girls all my days, but I’m coming late to the ball with them.” She fell silent, while the cat rose from its place on the corner of Joseph’s desk and stalked close enough to bop the underside of Louisa’s chin with the top of its head.

  “I never held them as babies, never rocked them to sleep. I had nothing to do with choosing their names. I never paced the floor with them, or saw them smile at me even before they had teeth.”

  Louisa glanced at the slim epistle that had arrived from her husband by messenger after sunset:

  Ended up in London for a day. Off to Surrey in the morning, missing the ladies of my household. Stay warm until next we meet.

  Love,

  Joseph

  Love. Love could mean many different things, from the long-suffering patience Her Grace frequently exhibited toward the duke, to the shy smile Maggie wore when she admitted she slept in the same bed as her earl every night. Love could be the smoldering passion for his wife Westhaven was unable to conceal, or the quiet glances Valentine earned from his baroness.

  From Joseph, it was a single, unadorned word in a terse epistle, but how fitting that he should convey the word to Louisa for the first time by putting pen to paper. There was boldness in wielding his pen for such a purpose. Louisa of all people knew how long the written word could linger in evidence.

  And he had written that word for her, to her.

  Good God, she wanted a baby—ten babies—with Joseph.

  “I miss a man to whom I’ve only been married for a handful of days, cat. What do you suppose that signifies?”

  She hefted the cat to the side, opened her journal, pulled Joseph’s dressing gown closer around her shoulders, and fished in a drawer to find a penknife.

  Only to find a ledger. The same ledger she’d seen Joseph poring over all the way through Kent. A ledger she might even have seen on his desk in Town, a thick green volume with red bookmarking ribbons sewn into the binding. Embossed on the cover in gold lettering was an address.

  The cat settled on the desk, its front paws resting over Louisa’s open journal.

  “I shouldn’t.”

  Except Joseph would no doubt show her the contents if she were to ask. He’d been forthcoming to the point of bluntness regarding their finances generally, and the desk drawer was hardly a place to keep secrets.

  She peered more closely at the book where it lay in the drawer. “This address…” Was familiar. She bestirred her tired brain for where she’d seen it before, written out in a flowing, feminine… “This is the same address as the orphanage Sophie put at the top of her list earlier today, the one in Surrey.”

  The cat began to purr, a soft rumbling that made a contented counterpoint to the snap and crackle of the nearby fire. Louisa lifted the book from its resting place and opened it on her lap rather than disturb the cat.

  The entries went back more than five years and recorded myriad household expenses drawn against a substantial monthly deposit. The household was large, complete with footmen and maids. The expenses for coal were prodigious, as were the outlays for food, bedding, clothing, shoes, copybooks, pinafores…

  Pinafores?

  Pinafores?

  “That man.” Louisa flipped a page and ran her fingers down the entries as something warm coursed along her spine. “That dear, dratted…” She paused at the entries from the previous December. Any Windham daughter knew well what it took to make a Christmas pudding, and the amount of candied fruits and sugared almonds procured for the household was staggering.

  “Jump ropes—the boys love those—and dolls, spinning tops, oranges, two complete cricket sets—likely one for the boys and one for the girls—quilts of flannel and down—and shoes. Gracious God in heaven, the place must keep an entire workshop of cobblers busy.”

  She closed the ledger and went to put it right back where she found it, except a single sheet of foolscap fell from between its pages. The hand was not Joseph’s neat, bold script, but a backhanded scrawl:

  Assuming you survive the field of honor, what would you be willing to pay to keep your new wife in ignorance of your profligate adultery in Spain?

  “What on earth?” She picked up the page between thumb and forefinger, as if it bore a noxious scent. Reading it again did nothing to change the vile sentiments the words communicated.

  “Somebody is threatening my husband.”

  The cat squinched up its eyes in response.

  “Some fool, probably the same fool who sent me that execrable epistle last week, is attempting to threaten my husband.”

  She put the nasty little paper back in the ledger and the ledger back in the drawer, then got up to pace. On her feet, Joseph’s wool socks slid along the polished wood floors at each corner of the room.

  “I cannot believe the effrontery… Joseph has enough to manage with duels and orphans and marriage to me… the nerve… the gall… the…”

  She picked up the cat and cradled its heavy, furry body close. “We must begin as we intend to go on, cat. These threats and secrets simply will not do. For Christmas, I will give my dear husband nothing less than complete honesty, and we will sort through our difficulties as a proper couple.”

  Which sounded like a fine sentiment indeed, particularly when her dear husband was in the next county over and Christmas still several days off.

  ***

  Westhaven considered himself a reasonably bright fellow, but the circumstances causing him to put pen to paper puzzled him exceedingly.

  Gayle, the Earl of Westhaven, to Their Lordships, the Earl of Hazelton, the Earl of Rosecroft, Lord Valentine Windham, and Wilhelm, Baron Sindal…

  Gentlemen,

  Have received an anonymous gift of twelve copies of a certain small book left by stealth in my carriage house. Will confer with you further at Morelands on Tuesday next.

  Westhaven

  “Husband, you do not look happy.”

  Westhaven looked up to find his countess eyeing him from the estate office doorway. “I am happy but flummoxed, as well.”

  “Then it has to do with family, doesn’t it?” Anna crossed the room to peer over his shoulder, which meant the dear, sweet, trusting lady was of course pulled onto his lap. The door was closed, after all, and Westhaven’s son was in the midst of that most blessed of familial institutions, The Napping Hour.

  “My bewilderment has to do with Louisa’s books,” he informed a tender spot just below his wife’s delectable ear. “The number of circulating copies was just cut by about half, but I’ve no idea whom to thank for this development. Perhaps Father Christmas is taking a hand in Louisa’s affairs.”

  Anna looped her arms around his neck, bringing to his nose the scent of honeysuckle and luscious female. “I have an idea,” said his fragrant, warm, and curvaceous countess. She whispered
a few words in his ear, words that made his eyebrows knit.

  “By God, Wife, you do astound me. I’ll send along to him, something ambiguously worded but comprehensible, if he’s our benefactor. Intriguing like this would be just like him too.”

  She leaned in and whispered something else to his lordship, and he was astounded all over again—so astounded he rose with his wife in his arms, deposited her recumbent on the sofa, then locked the door.

  ***

  Sonnet picked up the pace as Joseph turned him up the drive, which proved the gelding was in better condition than his owner. Rather than be sensible and tarry another night in Surrey, Joseph had pushed himself and his horse to get home, taking advantage of the illumination of a waxing moon on snow.

  He’d promised a return to the Surrey household on Christmas Day—which would be a delicate undertaking, indeed—or on Boxing Day. Boxing Day was more likely, but his Christmas visit was something of a tradition—one he’d miss sorely should he have to sacrifice it.

  The grooms took the horse, leaving Joseph to stand for a minute on the back terrace and consider what awaited him inside.

  Tarrying at the door yielded a pretty moment, for all it was also nasty damned cold. The world was silvery white, still, as only a winter night could be, and profoundly quiet. Peaceful.

  Inside, there might not be peace. Inside, Joseph was going to have to explain to his very new wife that even though matters in Surrey proceeded without any more threatening correspondence, if a nasty note was any indication, there was a threat. A threat to the family’s peace of mind, and possibly to the safety and wellbeing of the children.

  “Joseph?” Louisa appeared at the back door, wrapped up in one of Joseph’s old dressing gowns. “Come in here this instant, Husband. You will catch your death, stargazing on such a chilly night.”

  She crossed the terrace and went up on her toes to kiss him.

  Warmth, sweet and unstinting, greeted his chilled lips. She sighed and slipped her arms around him, laying her head on his shoulder. “I trust your journey was uneventful?”