Homespun Regency Christmas (9781101078716)

by Kelly, Carla; Jensen, Emma

  ‘‘Ah, yes, I recall the order, indeed I handled it myself. Sir Richard sent his man to act on his behalf.’’

  ‘‘And there were two fans concerned in the order?’’ She asked the question lightly, as if she already knew all about it and was just confirming the facts.

  ‘‘Yes, madam, there were indeed two fans.’’

  ‘‘As I thought, and you, sir, have sent the wrong one to me.’’

  ‘‘Oh, that cannot possibly be so,’’ he replied vainly, ‘‘for the letter of authority was quite specific.’’

  ‘‘May I see it?’’

  He stared at her. ‘‘See the letter? Oh, I’m afraid that would be a little irregular.’’

  ‘‘Then be irregular, sir, or else I shall make such a noise that you will very swiftly regret your obstinacy!’’

  He blinked, and then decided that discretion was the better part of valor, for she did indeed look as if she was capable of making a fuss to end all fusses. ‘‘Very well, madam, I’ll go and get it now.’’

  Turning, he went through a door at the rear of the shop, reemerging a moment later with the letter in his hand. As he held it out to her, she almost snatched it from him. Richard’s telltale writing leapt out at her, as did the name of the recipient of the second fan: Mrs. Diana Beaumont. So, the creature in the park and his beloved Diana seemed to be one and the same, indeed the coincidence was too great for it to be otherwise. No wonder Richard had affected such vagueness in Rotten Row when they’d come face to face with his doxy! He must have thought himself undone! Well, he hadn’t been undone then, but he most certainly was now!

  Thrusting the letter back into the assistant’s hand, she turned on her heel and marched out again, slamming the door so fiercely behind her that the little kissing bunch began to revolve on its scarlet ribbons. The mistletoe-seller saw the glint in her eyes and hastily held out the reins of her horse before retreating to what he felt was a safe distance. It was a wise move, for she mounted very swiftly, turning the horse actually on the pavement itself, much to the alarm of the unfortunate pedestrians nearby. Employing her riding crop on the horse’s flank, she urged it away toward Park Lane, riding like a demon through the heavy Christmas traffic.

  Piccadilly paused in amazement to watch the progress of the fury in the lime green riding habit. She rode without any thought for others, weaving her nervous horse between the crowded vehicles and managing to knock a hamper and a brace of Christmas pheasants from the back of a stagecoach. She stopped some carolsingers in mid-song by cutting the corner into Park Lane and thus riding straight through them, and she was very nearly the cause of a spillage of yule logs all over the London street when she forced a heavily laden cart to swerve in order to get out of her way.

  She reined in outside Richard’s elegant town house, only just managing to control her lathered horse, which was now thoroughly upset. Dismounting, she dropped the reins and gathered her skirts to advance furiously on the front door.

  Her angry knocking brought the butler as quickly as his legs could carry him, and he stood aside in astonishment as she strode in.

  ‘‘M-Miss Hamilton . . . ?’’

  ‘‘Have someone attend to my horse,’’ she answered shortly, glancing around the entrance hall with its Chinese paintings and lotus blossom chandeliers. ‘‘Where is Sir Richard?’’

  ‘‘In the conservatory, madam. Shall I announce . . . ?’’

  ‘‘That won’t be necessary,’’ she replied, marching away determinedly toward the rear of the house.

  The butler gazed uneasily after her, for her mood didn’t bode at all well for his master.

  The conservatory was a lofty, spacious place, its many glass panes facing over the snowy gardens. Tropical leaves pressed all around, and the air was warm, fragrant, and damp. Richard was lounging on one of the white-painted wrought iron chairs set by a matching table. A decanter of cognac stood on the table, and he was sipping a glass as he glanced through a newspaper. Hearing her angry steps approaching, he put the glass and the newspaper down quickly, and rose to his feet.

  ‘‘Isabel?’’

  ‘‘Good afternoon, sir.’’

  A light passed through his eyes at her cold, angry tone. ‘‘Is something wrong?’’ he asked.

  ‘‘Wrong, sir? Oh, yes, something is indeed wrong. You’ve been found out!’’

  ‘‘Found out? I don’t understand . . .’’

  ‘‘I know all about your belle de nuit!’’

  He looked blankly at her. ‘‘I’m afraid I don’t understand. What belle de nuit?’’

  ‘‘Your precious Mrs. Beaumont!’’ she snapped.

  His eyes cleared. So that was it: somehow she’d found out about Diana’s part in his past. ‘‘Isabel, I can explain all about Diana . . .’’

  She flashed him a look so bright and furious that it was as if her eyes were on fire. ‘‘So, you admit it! You admit she is more to you than a person with whom you are vaguely acquainted.’’

  ‘‘Yes, I admit that much, but I assure you she . . .’’

  ‘‘Don’t attempt to lie to me, sir, for it won’t wash. You’ve been found out, and you have only yourself to blame. How foolish and careless of you to address the wrong note to me!’’

  He stared at her. ‘‘Isabel, what on earth are you talking about? What note?’’

  ‘‘I’m not a fool, sir, so don’t treat me like one! You know perfectly well what note, for it can only be the one you penned to your vulgar little inamorata, but which you managed to send to me instead! How dare you deceive me, how dare you keep a mistress!’’

  His face became very still. ‘‘Isabel, I swear to you that I have no idea what you’re talking about. I haven’t written any notes, not to you or to anyone else!’’

  ‘‘And I suppose you didn’t send your man to Duvall & Carrier’s to purchase the two fans you’d picked out?’’ she replied frostily.

  ‘‘No, damn it, I most certainly did not!’’ he snapped.

  ‘‘Then the letter of authority in your handwriting just conjured itself out of nothing? As did the note for your precious Diana? No doubt she is at this very moment gazing upon the billet doux meant for me!’’

  For a long moment he was silent, then he spoke in a quietly incensed voice. ‘‘Are you telling me that someone has purchased two fans in my name, and had one sent to you and the other to Diana Beaumont?’’

  ‘‘Does it amuse you to ask something you know only too well, sir? Of course that’s what I’m telling you! How long did you imagine you’d get away with it? Obviously you meant to continue keeping her after our marriage. . . .’’

  ‘‘Isabel, I am not keeping her, and I never have!’’

  ‘‘Monster! How can you face me and utter such manifest untruths!’’ she cried. ‘‘In the park earlier you said that she was hardly known to you, and yet now it’s rather clear that that was a bare-faced lie. How long have you known her?’’

  ‘‘Over five years.’’

  Isabel stared at him. ‘‘Are you telling me you’ve been keeping her all that time?’’

  ‘‘No, I’m just telling you how long I’ve known her. She was Diana Laverick then, and if I could have married her, I would, but she chose a wealthier husband and went with him to live in Jamaica. She returned to England yesterday, and that is the extent of my recent knowledge of her. She is not my mistress, I’d swear that on the Bible itself! Someone is up to something, Isabel, for I did not write any letter or any notes. I did not order any fans, and I did not send my man to Duvall & Carrier’s.’’

  ‘‘The note I received and the letter are both in your handwriting, sirrah.’’

  ‘‘Then someone has forged my writing!’’ he replied shortly. ‘‘Damn it, Isabel, do you really imagine I’d conduct myself in such a way as to keep a mistress when I am betrothed to you? Do you honestly believe that I’d be so low and deceitful as to see someone else behind your back?’’

  She lowered her eyes. ‘‘Such things have b
een known, sir,’’ she replied softly.

  ‘‘You should trust me more, madam.’’

  ‘‘Should I? Why, when you’ve lied already where that brazen doxy is concerned?’’

  ‘‘Isabel, Diana Beaumont is neither brazen nor a doxy. She is a respectably married woman who has done nothing to warrant being involved in this . . . this whatever it is. Someone has seen fit to meddle in our affairs, and I intend to find out who.’’ He held her gaze. ‘‘Do you trust me, Isabel?’’ he asked softly.

  She met his eyes, still remembering the encounter in the park. ‘‘No,’’ she replied. ‘‘No, I don’t trust you, sir.’’

  ‘‘Then I think our betrothal must be at an end, don’t you?’’ he said coldly.

  ‘‘As you wish, sirrah,’’ she replied, her chin raised proudly. For a moment she considered making the grand gesture of tossing his ring at him, but then she thought better of it, for the ring was very valuable, and she liked it a great deal. Conflicting emotions crossed her lovely face, but then she turned on her heel and left him. So, he thought to end the betrothal, did he? Well, she didn’t intend to tell the world about it; she just intended to teach him the lesson of his life, making him the laughingstock of society in the process! The shoe was about to be on the other foot, oh, how it was to be on the other foot!

  As she flung from the conservatory, Richard turned to gaze angrily out at the snow-covered gardens. What was going on? Who was scheming against him like this? An obvious name came to mind, Geoffrey Hawksworth, but how would Geoffrey know about Diana? Then he remembered, in the days before Isabel, when he’d been intimate enough with Geoffrey to confide in him. Yes, Geoffrey knew all about Diana, and, coincidentally, Geoffrey also happened to covet Isabel. If that same Geoffrey had somehow learned of Diana’s return to England . . . Richard took a long breath. He’d lay odds that Geoffrey Hawksworth was behind all this, and the best way to start making enquiries was to adjourn to Messrs Duvall & Carrier to see what was what.

  First things first, however, for there was the matter of setting Diana straight concerning the fan she had apparently received in his name. The lord alone knew what message had accompanied it, but . . .

  ‘‘Sir Richard?’’

  He turned to see the butler standing there with a crumpled brown paper package in his hand. ‘‘Yes? What is it?’’

  ‘‘This has just been delivered from Mrs. Beaumont of Pargeter Street, sir.’’

  Richard lowered his gaze to the package. ‘‘Indeed?’’ he murmured, going to take it. As he opened it, he saw the exquisite gray silk fan inside, and the note that purported to come from him. Oh, it was a clever forgery, that was for sure. No wonder Isabel believed it to have come from him. He read the brief but loving message.

  My beloved,

  Let this Christmas be the signal for a new future together. Let us forget the misunderstandings of the past and accept our undying love for each other. I will adore you throughout eternity. Richard.

  He closed his eyes for a moment. Diana had received this?

  The butler cleared his throat. ‘‘Sir, I fear there was an, er, communication from the lady.’’

  ‘‘Communication?’’

  ‘‘The fellow who brought it said that he was instructed to say that Mrs. Beaumont does not wish to receive any further gifts, and that she wishes to be left alone.’’ The man looked hugely embarrassed at having to repeat such a message.

  Richard tossed the package and the note down on the table. ‘‘Have my horse saddled.’’

  ‘‘Very well, sir.’’

  ‘‘I won’t be out for long, but if I’m needed urgently you’ll find me either at Duvall & Carrier’s in Piccadilly, or at 44 Pargeter Street.’’

  ‘‘Yes, sir.’’ The butler withdrew.

  Richard stood looking down at the package. If Geoffrey Hawksworth was responsible for this, he’d pay dearly for such unwarranted meddling! Picking up his glass, Richard drained it of the cognac he’d been drinking before Isabel’s arrival, but as he put it down on the table again, the incredulous realization flooded over him that his betrothal was at an end. He’d severed the engagement to the woman he’d pursued for so long, and he felt nothing, nothing at all.

  Diana was at that moment leaving the house in Pargeter Street to enter the hired chaise that was to convey her, with Mary, to the lawyer’s chambers in Lincoln’s Inn. She wore a peach woolen mantle richly embellished with beaded black embroidery, and a wide-brimmed peach hat adorned with small black plumes. The distress caused by the arrival of the fan and its accompanying note had subsided a little now, and she was quite composed as the chaise drew away to set off east toward the city. Opposite her, Mary sat quietly in her corner seat thinking about Sir Richard Curzon. He’d taken refuge in his hurt pride five years before when he’d ignored Diana’s long, tear-stained letter, and now he was exacting spiteful revenge. In the past Mary had believed him to be all that was right for her mistress, but she’d been forced to make a reappraisal of his character. That second opinion of him was now proving to be only too correct, for he was a mean-hearted, shabby toad to do such a monstrous thing to someone as sweet as Miss Diana.

  The chaise drove swiftly eastward through the Christmas traffic, through streets that tingled with seasonal excitement and anticipation, but Diana kept her eyes downcast. She knew only too well what the lawyer was going to tell her, but she couldn’t help, deep in her heart of hearts, hoping that there would be a little good news as well.

  In Piccadilly, which was soon far behind the chaise, Richard reined his horse in outside Duvall & Carrier’s, and, as chance would have it, tossed a coin to the same mistletoe-seller to look after the animal while he made enquiries inside. The very same assistant came to wait upon him, and evinced an ill-placed air of bewildered irritability on being asked yet again about the order for the fans.

  ‘‘Sir, I am not at liberty to . . . !’’

  His words were choked in mid-sentence as Richard leaned across the counter to seize him by his immaculate blue-and-white-spotted neckcloth. ‘‘Now listen to me, my fine fellow,’’ breathed Richard through clenched teeth, ‘‘someone has been playing fast and loose with my name, and I intend to get to the bottom of it. Either show me the letter I am supposed to have written, or I will suspend you from the ceiling alongside that damned kissing bunch! Do I make myself crystal clear?’’

  ‘‘Yes, sir!’’ squeaked the assistant, closing his eyes with relief as Richard relaxed his grip.

  A moment later the letter had again been produced, and a nerve flickered angrily at Richard’s temple as he read it. Geoffrey Hawksworth’s name still came to mind, for somehow it had that sly gentleman’s disagreeable mark all over it. He looked at the red-faced assistant, who was rubbing his throat as if he’d been half-strangled. ‘‘I understand my man is supposed to have brought this?’’

  ‘‘Yes, Sir Richard.’’

  ‘‘Describe him to me.’’

  ‘‘Well, sir, he was small and wiry, like a groom or a jockey, and. . . .’’

  Hawksworth’s valet to a tee! Without another word, Richard turned on his heel and strode out again, leaving the assistant to stare thankfully after him. The kissing bunch swayed a little in the draft from the doorway, and the man’s eyes moved nervously toward it. There had been something in Sir Richard’s tone that had suggested most strongly that the threat hadn’t been uttered idly.

  Richard rode to Geoffrey’s residence in North Street, but was told that he wasn’t at home. He was also told that Geoffrey’s valet wasn’t in the house, although if the truth were known that nervous fellow was at that very moment peeping down through the marble bannisters from the floor above, from whence he’d been about to descend with some of his master’s clothes. Hearing Sir Richard Curzon’s name announced, and detecting the anger in his voice, the valet had stayed wisely well out of sight. It was obvious that Sir Richard had put two and two together, and had come up with the correct answer, which meant that it had all
suddenly become a little hazardous for the likes of the Honorable Geoffrey Hawksworth’s unfortunate man.

  Thanking his stars that the footman who’d answered the door really did believe him to be out of the house, the valet emerged from hiding as Richard rode away again. A gentleman in such a justifiable fury was to be avoided at all costs, so maybe now was the perfect moment to pay a visit to the family in Newmarket. The valet drew a long breath. Yes, London was a dangerous place now, and Newmarket a haven of peace and tranquility! He’d leave as soon as he possibly could.

  At Pargeter Street, Richard’s next destination, he was told that Diana was keeping an appointment with her lawyer in Lincoln’s Inn and wouldn’t be back for at least another hour, so he returned to Park Lane. As he entered his house, Geoffrey Hawksworth’s carriage was at that very moment turning from Brook Street into Hanover Square, having at last returned from the lengthy and unwanted visit to Hampstead. His great-aunt hadn’t been content with merely insisting upon being driven home, she’d made it plain that she’d be very displeased indeed if he didn’t stay for a while. He’d therefore had to kick his heels drinking tea and nibbling wretched wafers until at last she’d relented and allowed him to leave. The Devil take the old tabby, for if ever there’d been a day when he’d wished her on another planet, this was that day!

  But at least he’d now managed to complete the preparations for his stratagem, having stopped at Cranford’s in Bond Street to attend to the business of the sunburst brooch. There hadn’t been time to return to North Street for his valet, so he’d had to do it himself. He’d astonished his coachman by demanding the use of his box coat and wide-brimmed hat, but it was a necessary precaution in a shop where he’d recently made two purchases, and might be recognized. Disguising his voice, he’d pretended to be Richard’s man, and had handed over a second letter of authority, together with a purse and another sealed note. The shop had readily agreed to despatch the brooch to the lady concerned, and now he was at liberty to proceed with the rest of his plan.