“Ah, but can he protect her against finding out about his illegitimate son?”
Joia laughed. “Don’t be absurd. Papa would never be unfaithful to my mother. You know he adores her.”
“My sweet, innocent cousin. I adore my saffron waistcoat. That doesn’t mean I want to wear it every day.”
“My father is not like you, you swine. And how dare you compare my mother—or any wife, for that matter—to one of your hideous rags?”
Oliver studied the manicure on his right hand. “The boy is eight years old.”
Eyes narrowed, Joia asked, “How do you know? What proof do you have?”
Oliver wasn’t about to admit he’d been rifling his cousin’s desk last year looking for cash when he’d come upon a notebook with odd notations. A bit of digging had uncovered some interesting facts about the irreproachable earl. Oliver wasn’t worried about the boy; he was a bastard, after all. He just couldn’t figure a way to use the information, until now. “Your father supports him. I saw a caretaker’s accounting.”
Joia shook her head. “No. It cannot be.”
“But it is.” Oliver was enjoying himself immensely. The sanctimonious earl and his starched-up daughter were about to be taken down a peg or two. Or three. “Think of your mother. Why, she’d never be able to hold her head up here in Carrolton again, much less London. Think of the scandal—and of your sisters. I doubt if Miss Merry would even be presented. Hoyden that she is, that might be a blessing, except I wouldn’t wish to have such a hobbledehoy female on my hands forever. And Holly. I doubt if even the Rendell cub could be convinced to take her, his grandfather Blakely being such a high stickler.”
Joia needed to sit down. She needed to cry on her mother’s shoulder. “Oh, Mama,” she moaned.
“I knew you’d come around to my way of thinking. I expect you to convince your doting father that our betrothal is your fondest desire. I expect it is, now. The announcement can be made at the hunt ball. If not, a letter will arrive on your mother’s doorstep, and another one at every London newspaper. I’ll leave you to think on it, my heart’s Joy. Just don’t think for too long. My creditors are quite anxious.”
Chapter Five
Someone touched Joia’s shoulder. She jumped up from the crate she’d collapsed onto and turned, hands fanned into fists. Comfort stepped back, his own hands teasingly raised in surrender. “I swear I have no evil intentions. When you didn’t join your sisters I thought I’d just make sure you— Good grief, what happened?”
The viscount had gotten a better look at Joia, her pale face and anguished eyes. He’d seen her go off with one of the ostlers, an odd enough occurrence in itself, then he’d seen Oliver Carroll depart the same alleyway. “Did that bounder hurt you?”
Joia couldn’t speak for the lump in her throat.
“He must have offered you some insult, then. Tell me and I’ll thrash that dirty dish to an inch of his good-for-nothing life this time.” Craighton had her hands in his now and was rubbing them, as if he could feel the chill that had invaded her, body and soul. Joia managed to shake her head in denial. Oliver hadn’t insulted her; he’d only turned her world inside out.
“Dash it, what’s wrong?” Comfort had witnessed wounded men behaving thusly, watching their own life’s blood flow out of them. To see one of the most beautiful women in the world looking like she’d been gutshot wrenched at his own innards. He wanted to grasp Joia to him, to keep her safe. He wanted to wrap her in his arms so no one could hurt her ever again. Shocked by the unfamiliar surge of protectiveness welling up in him, the viscount did, in fact, shake her. “Deuce take it, I thought you had more sense than to go off alone with that blackguard.”
The shaking did what his sympathy couldn’t. Joia found her voice. “I am going to marry the blackguard, my lord.”
“What? You detest him. I’ve heard you and your sisters call him a maggot. You’ve hardly spoken to him all week, and that was after you left him stranded on a horse.”
“Papa will be happy at the match.”
“Will he?” He tipped her face up. “And what about you, my lady? You don’t look like any radiant, blushing bride to me.”
“I am the most... the most fortunate of females.”
“Then why are tears running down your cheeks, sweetings?”
“They are tears of… of happiness.”
By this time Joia was in Craighton’s arms, sobbing against his chest. Usually he despised crying females. Usually they were weeping over some trifle or wheedling something out of him. Joia wasn’t like that. She wasn’t like any other female of his acquaintance. None that he knew would take to filling in their necklines with bits of lace and flowers. The silly goose hadn’t realized that her efforts only drew a man’s eyes to her endowments, she was such an innocent. Or was she? “That rotter hasn’t compromised you, has he? Is that why you have agreed to marry him?”
“No, it’s worse,” she said with a sniffle, so he reached for his handkerchief, only then realizing he’d been holding his breath.
“Devil take it, if you’re not breeding, there’s no reason on earth to marry that loose screw.” Who’d just escaped a death sentence. “Go to your father. He’ll straighten out this mare’s nest.”
For answer he received another drenching. His damp coat had already soaked through to his shirt and skin. “Come on, sweetings, you’re the one who said you’d never marry a man you couldn’t trust. Surely you don’t think Oliver will be faithful?”
He thought she whimpered something about no man being trustworthy, ever. That couldn’t be, not with her father’s example. Comfort had watched the earl and his countess this week and seen something so unique he hardly recognized it. The devotion between the couple was enough to make the viscount wonder what he’d been missing in his own life, make him wonder if such an abiding love was possible. His own parents lived on separate estates. If not for the war with France, they might live in separate countries. And hadn’t he dallied with half the wives in London? What the Carrolls had was rare, rare and wondrous. It was no surprise that Joia wouldn’t accept a marriage of convenience. Hadn’t, until now.
“You cannot marry where your heart tells you no, Joia.”
“You don’t understand. I have no choice.” She blew her reddened nose and wiped her swollen eyes.
Comfort thought she still looked beautiful. “So explain. I haven’t had much practice slaying dragons recently, but I am willing to try.”
“It’s not your concern, my lord. You’ve already been more than kind. I... I must join the others at the modiste’s.”
“What, betroth yourself to rock slime, then go off to be fitted? Not so fast, my girl. Besides, I doubt you want to be seen on the High Street quite yet.”
Joia dabbed at her eyes again. “Thank you, you’re right. I’ll just take a minute to compose myself. You needn’t stay, my lord.”
“You might try calling me Comfort, or Craighton. I’ve been known to answer to Craig in my salad days. I mean, after dousing a fellow’s wardrobe, I should think you could be a tad less formal.” When he saw the edges of her lips lift in the tiniest glimmer of a smile, Comfort casually added, “You do know, don’t you, that I’ll beat it out of Oliver if you don’t tell me what’s toward?”
“You can’t!”
“I can and will, if you won’t trust me.”
Somehow she did. Her situation might be hopeless, but if there was anyone who could help, it was Comfort. He didn’t even look so arrogant to her anymore, not with wet spots on his coat and his hair fallen in his face. Without thinking, she reached up to brush the misplaced curls back. He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “Tell me.”
“Oliver knows a secret. It’s a secret so terrible that my mother would be devastated if it were made public, which he threatens to do if I don’t agree to announce our betrothal at the hunt ball. The scandal would destroy my sisters’ chances to make good marriages. Then, when Oliver succeeds to the title, he’ll make all their
lives a living nightmare.”
“A cad who threatens women will make life hell for them no matter what.”
“Yes, I already assumed as much, but I have to try.”
“You would sacrifice your own future, any chance for happiness you might have, for your mother and sisters?” Could any woman truly be so loyal, so generous? Comfort never thought such a female existed. In his experience, the prettier the chit, the more selfish. He gently kissed Joia’s forehead, which seemed to be at the perfect height for such an homage. “I’ll make it right, sweetings, see if I don’t. If worse comes to worst, I’ll call him out.”
“But if you killed him, you’d have to flee the country. You mustn’t do so on my account.”
Comfort was beginning to wonder if there was anything he wouldn’t do for Joia’s sake. Obliterating Oliver seemed tame sport. “Don’t worry, the twit might be treacherous, but he’s too much the coward to accept my challenge. Besides, he cannot shoot. No, I’ll try to find another way. We have two days before the ball, don’t we? That’s plenty of time to come up with an alternative plan.”
“But not much time for a miracle.”
“Chin up, sweetings. Saint George is riding to the rescue. In fact, there’s another dragon that I need to be slaying for you, that worm who led you to this alley in the first place.”
“No, getting rid of that particular reptile will be my pleasure.”
* * * *
Tom Beacon was shoveling manure. Tom Beacon was always shoveling manure. Mucking out twenty-odd stalls, twice a day, was no picnic. Now, with all the horses from the Winterpark swells, he’d have another mountain of droppings to pick up and move. A bloke couldn’t be blamed for trying to make the extra shilling or two, especially when his dear old mum was feeling poorly. Tom laughed to himself. His mother had left him on some church steps when he was an infant, or so he’d been told.
The laugh turned into a cough when he looked up to find Lady Joia standing at the gate of the stall he was cleaning. With insolent slowness, Tom pulled the filthy cap off his head. “What can I do for your ladyship now? Would you be wantin’ your mare already?”
“What I am wanting is you gone from town. I’ll never feel safe when you’re around, you dastard.”
Tom scratched his head. “Well, since I’m a free man and no highborn bitch can tell me where to go, I don’t s’pose your feelings count for much.”
Joia had her arms crossed over her chest. “And what about my father’s feelings? He’ll shoot you down if he gets wind of what you did. Then there’s Mr. Humphreys, your employer, who put me on my first pony. One word from me and he’ll take the horsewhip to you. I’d say my feelings, my right to get a peaceful night’s sleep, count for more than your worthless hide. What do you think?”
“You can’t do that!”
“I can, but I don’t want your death on my conscience.”
Tom was strong, but Humphreys was the blasted blacksmith. The mort had the right of it. “But me mum is sick an’ she depends on me.”
“Pond scum doesn’t have a mother,” Joia said, hitting too close to the truth for Tom’s liking.
“But I didn’t do nothin’ wrong ‘cept try an’ earn some extra blunt,” Tom whined, still trying to win her pity.
“At my expense. I can and will go to Humphreys if you’re still here when my party returns for our horses. And don’t think anyone else will help you or hire you, for the villagers all depend on Winterpark’s patronage. I want you gone, far gone, where I never have to look on your foul presence again.”
“But I ain’t got coach fare, nor the blunt to rent a horse. Ain’t been at the livery long enough to get paid, even. I been lucky to get room an’ board.”
“Your luck just changed.” Joia reached into her reticule and pulled out a handful of coins and pound notes, which she tossed onto the nearest pile of manure. “You won’t mind, I’m sure. Your hands are already dirty.”
Joia marched out of the stable, holding her skirts away from the dunghills, and her chin as high as a queen’s. Comfort wanted to applaud from his position near the door. He’d been standing by, forcing himself to let the indomitable young woman handle the situation for herself. He knew she wouldn’t welcome interference, just as he realized she needed to feel in command of something, anything, to restore her confidence and composure. Much as it went against his grain, Craighton was letting a willowy, wispy, not-quite-defenseless female fight her own battle. He’d allow her this skirmish, at any rate, as long as she was winning.
She’d departed triumphant, as the groom scrabbled in the manure heap for his buried treasure. The hedge bird would take the brass and fly, the viscount was sure, though he did intend to check back with the livery owner later. Comfort was about to follow Joia when he heard Tom mutter, “Bloody toffs. The French had the right of it.”
So the viscount planted one well-shod foot on the groom’s posterior and pushed. Saint George would be proud
Chapter Six
There was nothing the Earl of Carroll liked quite so much as a fine dinner among his family and friends, unless it was a cozy dinner with just his wife and daughters. Or a very private meal upstairs in their sitting room with his beautiful Bess. Tonight she was in some purplish taffeta gown that looked stunning with the amethysts he’d given her on their last anniversary. Damn if she didn’t get more lovely every year. And damn this foolishness that had her at the opposite end of a long expanse of silver and centerpieces and serving dishes. Lord Carroll wanted to ask her opinion of the strange undercurrents he was sensing at the table. He’d just have to wait till later, he supposed, when they shared a last sip of wine before bed.
Something was afoot, though, he was sure. Joia hadn’t joined the guests for sherry before dinner, and when she took her place at the table she was pale and unsmiling, turning down most of the dishes offered to her. Maybe the lass was sickening for something after all. Comfort kept staring at her from across the table, too, as though he was trying to send some kind of silent message, to the obvious displeasure of his dinner partner, that Willenborg female. The earl might have been heartened by Comfort’s interest in Joia, but the chit never returned the viscount’s glance. Lord Carroll supposed that meant they’d be going to London at the end of the month, yet again, dash it.
Blast, he groused to himself, Joia would never find a more eligible parti, and her poor father’s gout was acting up, for all she cared. Of course, if the gout got so bad that he couldn’t travel ... The earl signaled a footman to pour him another glass of wine, ignoring his wife’s frown from the end of the table.
In contrast, that clunch Oliver was looking well pleased, though how a man could enjoy his meal with his shirt points poking him in the eye, Lord Carroll couldn’t comprehend. Maybe Oliver’s valet had found a golden boy in one of the noddy’s pockets, for he wasn’t getting any more funds from the estate to keep him happy, cousin’s son or not. No, it was more likely that the gudgeon was in alt over a new waistcoat. The earl went back to his plate so he didn’t have to look at the orange and green monstrosity.
The chef had outdone himself tonight. Lord Carroll couldn’t decide if the lobster in oyster sauce was his favorite or the vol-au-vents of veal. Perhaps the—
Just then Joia jumped to her feet, tossed her napkin on the table, cried, “Papa, how could you?” and fled the dining room. With a nod from their mother, Holly followed her, begging the company’s pardon.
Lord Carroll looked from his guests’ shocked faces to his wife’s equally dumbfounded expression. Then he looked down at the forkful of meat in his hand. “Damn, I thought she got over that nonsense about venison years ago. If we don’t shoot the deer, they’ll overrun the woods and start on the farmers’ crops.”
* * * *
Neither sister returned to the dining room, nor were they in the drawing room when the gentlemen left their port and cigars to rejoin the ladies. Lord Comfort had the nagging notion that he’d find both venues equally as boring, without a certa
in blue-eyed beauty. He was quite disgusted with himself for automatically searching the room for Lady Joia when he came in, like a mooncalf. Obviously he must be coming on sick also, which had been the earl’s excuse for his daughter’s odd behavior.
Comfort knew better, and knew he had to act quickly before his damsel in distress gave in to the pressure of her cousin’s threats. She was liable to announce the betrothal immediately, just to get the deed done, or else confront her father.
While he was closeted with the gentlemen, the viscount had studied his host, wondering about a scandalous secret that could destroy such a close-knit family. Joia’s heart-wrenched “Papa, how could you?” certainly led one to guess the nature of the skeleton in Lord Carroll’s closet, or its gender, at least. How could he? the viscount wondered, angry on the countess’s behalf. Lady Carroll was the kindest, gentlest lady of his acquaintance, patently devoted to her husband and daughters.
Infidelity might be the norm in tonnish marriages, but Craighton hadn’t thought it was part of this marriage. His own mother never cared about her husband’s numerous liaisons; Lady Carroll would care all too much, according to Joia and what he could see for himself. He wouldn’t let Joia be forced into a loathsome match—he’d feel the same about any female being coerced, he almost convinced himself—but neither could he let the charming countess be hurt. He might just have to put a bullet through Oliver after all.
If that wasn’t enough in his dish, the ripe young widow was eager to fall into his lap. Comfort could recognize the signs; the lady was growing impatient for him to make a move. Aubergine meant to snabble herself a title by hook or by crook. The near bare-breasted bait hadn’t worked, so Lud knew what she’d try next. Comfort had a good idea, so he made sure his door was locked every night. He wasn’t born yesterday, but he was born with women chasing after him.
* * * *
“But what did Papa do to overset you so?” Holly wanted to know. She was standing by her sister’s bedside, wringing out another towel soaked in lavender water to place over Joia’s eyes. “Did he actually go ahead and accept some gentleman’s offer for your hand without consulting you?”
The Christmas Carrolls Page 4