“Good. So I shall stay here.” He winked at her. “With you.”
She did step back then. Her sense of propriety invaded her amorous urgings for him. “You are tired.”
He cocked her a grin, featuring a marvelous dimple. “I am.”
“So am I. Much ado here with all these guests.”
“Which means, dear lady, I am here to sleep. I’ve night clothes. A robe. Slippers. I shall be perfectly attired.” He pointed toward her bed. “And we shall sleep. Together. Sharing natural heat and the comfort of your sheets. Come now.”
She hung back. “Dear Harlow, much as you tempt me. I will sleep in my dressing room and give you my bed.”
He ran a hand through his curly black hair and sighed. “I see. You don’t trust me.”
I don’t trust myself. And reason calls. “On the contrary. I’ve much to do in the morning. Early, too. We’re off to church at half nine and I wish to ensure all the carriages are lined up. Breakfast in order, too.”
“Ah, Trudy. I was too hasty with my affections. I apologize. I should not be so impulsive with you. I remember with great fondness our holiday in Margate.”
“I do, too, Harlow. But I must be practical.” I care for you too much to simply fall into bed with you again too quickly. And this time, it would be my bed. In my own house. With dozens under my roof capable of learning such indiscretion. Including my staff.
“I understand.” He gave her a chivalrous bow and rose to offer his arm. “Allow me to escort you into your dressing room, Trudy. There I shall leave you to your dreams. So if you will please call your butler to me. Simms, is it? I’m ready for my own night clothes and a rest from that infernal jostling in my coach.”
Chapter 4
“I say, my dear,” Harlow whispered in her ear as his arms pulled her to his chest, “you are as lovely in repose as in a crowded ballroom.”
She opened one eye to peer at the delicious man who’d crawled beside her onto her little divan. His black and silver hair was ruffled, but he’d shaved already and his breath was fresh from powdering his teeth. A considerate lover was a welcome one.
But if he had done his ablutions in preparation to seduce her, she was far from ready to receive his attentions. She checked that Palladian half moon window above her dresser and noted the sky was still black. She’d not slept well, excited that he had come, but mulling over how and when to broach the fact that his son the Marquess of Tain was here.
“Harlow,” she squeaked, her voice cracking with sleep, “did you come to Brighton to play the rake?”
“Play?” He nuzzled his nose beneath her chin. “I don’t intend to play at anything. Not with you.”
She chuckled. But she had warned herself not to surrender to his lure too quickly and so she tangled her legs in her muslin nightgown. She’d be demure, but tease him for his advances. “When was the last time you accosted a lady in her dressing room? On her divan?”
“Only my wife. More than a decade ago.” He lifted her chin and looked deeply into her eyes. “I loved her madly. She returned the passion. I learned mutual regard was the best way to live. Nothing was out of limits.”
“As I knew with my husband.”
“So I’d heard.” He rubbed his thumb over her bottom lip. “I respect that in a woman and man.”
“As do I.”
“It’s rare.” He dropped a kiss to her nose. “As is fidelity.”
“I enjoyed that,” she told him with pride in the widower who’d swept her from her brief career on the stage into his secure world as his countess. “And you did, too.”
“One should give what one expects in return.”
“I do agree, Harlow.” She pulled up the sheets to her throat. “So what would you expect for breakfast, hmm? I’ll ring for it.”
“Here?”
“We can dine in my sitting room. Would you like that?”
“This Christmas morning? I welcome whatever your cook has produced.” He brushed his fingers along the line of her cheek. “More than that, I like your discretion and your choice of venue, my dear. Do ring.”
They were settled into their chairs enjoying their feast spread before them when in the downstairs hall a man with a stentorian voice addressed one of her servants.
“You have Christmas callers at dawn?” Harlow paused over his coffee cup, amused, one dark brow cocked.
“I cannot imagine who it could be.” She frowned at the sounds of people scurrying about in the hall and calling to each other. Was that Griff up so early and laughing with…a woman? And Simms, too?
Well, it is a holiday and people were feeling frisky. She’d hoped lovers would take advantage of the happy season, even as they remained discreet. She grinned, dismissed any worries and tucked into her egg.
But a minute later an unnatural pounding shook her outer door.
“Good heavens.” She shot to her feet.
“Allow me,” Harlow said, one hand out to waylay her, a scowl on his face.
He strode to the door and swung it wide.
“Your Grace. Madam,” Simms said as he stared at her over the duke’s shoulder. Did her butler appear not only alarmed…but unkempt? His hair uncombed? His simple cravat, hastily secured? “We have a visitor,” he told her. “The Customs inspector calls.”
“What?” Harlow barked.
She put a hand to her throat. “At this hour?”
“Please, my lady.” Simms turned aside as her step-son Griffith appeared in her doorway.
“Come quickly, Mama.” Griff pleaded, looking as if he’d been up all night, with his hair askew and a dark growth of beard. On a quick nod of courtesy—and no surprise at seeing him in her rooms, Griff acknowledged Harlow. “Your Grace.”
“Marsden,” he returned the greeting.
“A moment, Griff. I’ll be down.” Gertrude took no time to worry that her step-son might think less of her for allowing Harlow into her bedroom. Griff knew she’d never had affairs in all the years of her widowhood. A few gentlemen callers, a blithe flirtation or two, yes. But nothing to cause him embarrassment.
“I’ll accompany you,” Harlow offered, concern lining his features.
“Please remain here to finish your breakfast, Your Grace. I don’t wish to disturb you.”
“Trudy, I’m worried,” he said in undertone.
“No need, Harlow. Do stay. I am fine.” Ashamed of the trouble, Gertrude spun for her boudoir. To present herself to such a distinguished guest on Christmas morning, she needed to don her more formal red silk robe and her new purple turban to give order to her hair.
“Sir Henry.” She sailed into the parlor, her hand out in greeting.
Behind her was Griff.
She heard Simms close the doors upon them for privacy.
The local Customs official was an older gentleman whom she knew well. Sir Henry Torrens took her hand and bent over it. Harried and frowning, he was nonetheless attired in his Christmas best. “My lady, forgive this intrusion at such an hour and on a blessed morning. I would not do it were it not vital.”
“I understand that, sir. Pray tell me what is your matter.” From the corner of her eye, she saw another man standing silently near the door. She presumed he was the Customs man’s bailiff. “I have a warrant for an arrest, my lady.”
Her heart thumped in her chest. This was not the kind of excitement she’d hoped for here!
Griff stared at Torrens. “Here?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Dear me!” Gertrude had wanted this house party full of kisses and waltzes, engagements, wedding plans, a few rendezvous behind a few pillars, but no arrests. “For whom? For what?”
“I have in custody a man of ill repute who was caught with contraband yesterday on the Brighton shore. We’ve searched for him for many months. In fact, it was your niece, Belinda, who alerted us to his activities.”
“Yes, she used to ride at dawn. I’ve strictly prohibited her from doing that.” Gertrude had to appear to disdain the yo
ung woman’s risky adventures on horseback. Having seen the local smugglers in the act of hauling goods ashore, Bee had hoped to collect prize money to rent a home for her and her two unwed sisters. All impoverished because their father had gambled the family wealth away, each sister sought to find a way to buy independence for themselves. Gertrude had designed this very house party to see that each of her nieces was suitably married to the loving man of her choice. No prize money for Bee or gambling winnings from Marjorie or teaching salary for Delphine would ever amount to what they needed to live well. Besides, each was in love with a man who had ridden off to war. Now Napoleon was on Elba, far from them. The wars were ended and it was time for those three men to declare their proper intentions toward her charming nieces. Bee was courageous to even think of identifying smugglers. But she’d succeeded. And Gertrude would praise her evermore for it, too. “I don’t understand why you are here, however.”
Sir Henry smiled sadly. “Your niece’s actions have been useful to us. We’ve tried to catch this particular band of smugglers for more than three years. Never had a clue as to how they worked or who was in charge. But thanks to your niece, we now know. And I am here to arrest the man who is responsible.”
Aghast that a criminal would hide in her own home, she put a hand to her brow. “Forgive me, Sir Henry. I—I am shocked.”
“I understand, my lady. Forgive me for doing this on Christmas morn, too. But I must have this man. I understand he is a guest of yours.”
“Who?” she caught enough breath to ask.
“Tell us,” said Griff.
He frowned. “Lord Carlson.”
“No!” She’d expected it was a footman Torrens would arrest. A stable boy. The gardener’s assistant. Not a nobleman. Not a member of the local community. “I cannot believe it of him.”
“The lord was identified by the man we caught in the act. There is no mistake, my lady. I must arrest him. So if you would be so kind as to bring him to me.”
“I’ll get him,” said Griff.
“Do be careful, my lord,” Torrens said to him. “I’ve brought bailiffs with me but we haven’t surrounded the entire house.”
“I understand.” Griff turned on his heel and left.
“Have you had your morning tea, sir?” she asked her visitor. “I can ring.”
“Please do not bother your staff, ma’am. I will do my duty here and go home to my wife and family for that.”
“As you wish.” She took up inconsequential topics with him to fill the time. He was congenial but tense as he awaited the man in question to appear.
When Griff walked into the parlor once more, he had with him not only his guest but also Alastair Demerest, Bee’s beau, newly returned from the Continent after many months of recuperation from wounds at the battle of Waterloo. Demerest, a second son of a minor lord, had recently succeeded to his uncle’s dukedom, and was as shocked by the honor as everyone who knew him.
“What is the meaning of this?” asked Carlson with umbrage. He cast disparaging glances at Gertrude and the Customs man. “To be called from my bed at this hour is insulting. Torrens, what are you doing here?”
From his inside frock coat pocket, Sir Henry produced a piece of paper. “Lord Carlson, I have here a warrant.”
Carlson cocked a brow, but checked the faces of the others in the room. “And? For whom?”
“You, sir.”
He scoffed. “Absurd.”
“Not so, my lord.”
“On what grounds?”
Torrens repeated the charge.
“You’ve no proof.”
“But I do, my lord. An associate of yours, a Ben Hagen, did identify you as the man who takes the goods he smuggles onto shore and sells them here in Brighton to the shopkeepers and tavern owners.”
Carlson blustered. “He’s lying.”
“I doubt that,” Torrens shot back. “We caught him with four barrels of French cognac.”
“That doesn’t mean he knows me.”
“No. But a tavern keep in the Lanes does know you. We have enough evidence, Carlson, to arrest you.”
The lord gaped, then recovered. “And who has ever witnessed this Hagen with his goods?”
“Miss Belinda Craymore.”
Carlson flinched. “How would she?”
Alastair stepped forward. “Because she had seen this man Hagen bringing goods on shore. Goods that had been dropped by private boats in the dead of night.”
Carlson cursed. “She’s mad. I don’t know this Hagen and I would never consort with blackguards.”
“We have her testimony,” Torrens said.
“I’ll have her accuse me to my face. Bring her down!" Carlson demanded.
Gertrude stood her ground. “There is no need.”
“I say there is!” he bellowed.
Alastair bristled. “That is unnecessary.”
"Lord Carlson!" Gertrude sniffed at the man. "My niece will not be disturbed at this ungodly hour of the morning."
Carlson fumed. "I will not stand here accused of such treachery without the person declaring her evidence to me personally."
Sir Henry grew weary. "My lord, I tell you that we have no need to bring her before you. We have her statement. And as of yesterday, when we caught this Ben Hagen, we have his testimony of your involvement."
"What? You have precisely what? The word of a criminal?" Carlson pulled tight his frock coat and oozed insult. "I'll not accept it."
"You will, sir." Sir Henry summoned his man from the far corner of the room. "Bailiff?"
A burly man strode forward and grabbed Carlson's arm.
"I'll not go."
"You will, sir," said Sir Henry with no nonsense. "My apologies, my lady, my lord, Your Grace. I hope I've not spoiled your Christmas."
Griff inclined his head toward the Customs man. "Nor we yours, Sir Henry."
"Thank you, my lord. Nasty business. But we're happy to have end of it."
After Simms had closed the door upon the lot of them, Griff spun to hug her, then shook Alastair's hand. "We need a brandy."
"Thank you, but I must run tell Bee what's happened. She's been worried that they'd never identify him."
He hurried away.
Griff and she sipped their brandy in shocked silence. Later, she’d say thanks for the peace in church.
Alastair charged back into the room. "Bee is missing."
“What?” She glanced from him to Griff. “How can that be?”
Alastair panted. ”She’s not in her room. But gone. Her maid is mystified."
Griff froze. "Where would she be?"
“She’s got her riding habit on but,” Alastair asked, “why would she go riding in her dancing slippers?"
Gertrude plunked down her brandy glass. "Riding? Riding? In her slippers?”
Griff strode to the bell pull, yelling that they’d need every man in the house. All the guests.
Harlow suddenly appeared on the threshold. Dapperly dressed for this Christmas morning, he was agog at the chaos of Griff attempting to sidestep him. “What’s awry here?”
“My cousin’s missing,” Griff replied and ran off to rouse other house guests.
Harlow winced. “Dear god. When?”
“Just now,” said Gertrude, trying to put logic to madness. “She’s in the stables or so we think.”
“Should we get weapons?” Harlow offered.
“A fine idea.” Gertrude pointed a finger at him. “I do have guns. In a cabinet at the back of the house.”
“Let’s get them,” Harlow beckoned her, then swung around.
There stood the marquess of Tain. Big as his sire, his shoulders broader, but fair-haired, he was nonetheless a Goliath in the hall. He blinked at the sight of the man before him, then inclined his head to acknowledge the duke. “Father.”
Harlow dipped his head in courtesy but narrowed his eyes in question at his son’s appearance.
“What’s wrong?” Tain asked, his face drawn in alarm at the sou
nd of shouts upstairs. “Why the commotion?”
“My niece is missing. Maybe abducted.” Gertrude noted that Tain had come from the direction of the library not down the stairs from the floor above and the guest bedrooms. Why was he dressed in a banyan? And why had he not come from his own bedroom?
She wasn’t sure if she should smile or groan!
“Marsden,” said Harlow of Griff, “is rousing the men to help.”
“I’ll join them!” Tain picked up the hem of his vermilion banyan, but instead of heading up the stairs, he raced down the hall and entered the library.
Gertrude frowned. Oh, dear. Now there’d be a storm. Harlow’s shock at his son’s appearance could shake her rafters.
Harlow spun to face her. “He’s been here at your party?”
She might be a society leader. A hostess of fine repute. She might’ve been accused of being a gossip…or at least, listening too often to it. But she was no coward. She could admit her failures. Even if they were…hmm, well, small ones of omission. Like her failure to reveal Tain’s presence. She winced. “From the first night, yes.”
“You knew he would come.” He marched toward her and stopped, his eyes narrowed in disbelief. “That we’d have this problem?”
“No, I did not. Ten days ago, he wrote to ask if he might invite himself.” She searched for a shred of her dignity and found regret. “I would never refuse him such a request.”
He firmed his jaw, working at some response. “And is she here also?”
There was only one woman Harlow was referring to. Gertrude nodded.
He stared at the ceiling, the far wall, the floor, then her. “You planned this.”
Not entirely. She lifted her head high. Some things she would not apologize for. “I always knew she would come. She is family, a distant cousin, you see. She often spends her Christmas holiday with us.”
“Yet you invited me?” He arched a black brow.
“I did. Mostly for myself because I wanted your company. But I do confess I thought you might become acquainted with her and discover she was more than worthy of your son’s affections.”
“And what has happened between them?”
Aunt Gertrude's Red Hot Christmas Beau: Christmas Belles Page 3