The Christmas Carrolls

by Barbara Metzger

  The card, of course, was the joker.

  Chapter Eight

  The screams came right on cue. First the viscount heard the whisper of—satin, he guessed from behind his own barely cracked door. Then a knob being turned. He’d have to tell old Barty the doors needed oiling. He couldn’t make out the whispered endearments, just a soft murmur, but he could imagine the satin negligee drifting to the carpet, the white hand reaching to turn down the bedclothes, and the lush body gliding onto the bed, under the covers. Having played the scene so many times, Comfort didn’t need to hear the widow’s next lines, about how her darling could have stayed awake for her, could have left a lamp burning for her, could have welcomed her with a bit more enthusiasm. Mistresses always found something to complain about.

  Aubergine wouldn’t give up, not with so much at stake. She’d rouse her reluctant lover one way or the other. Craighton hoped Barty’d mixed just the right amount of the sleeping draught so Oliver got some pleasure out of the evening. It was going to be his last, unless matters were concluded to Comfort’s satisfaction.

  The clunch made either the wrong response or no response at all. The viscount thought he detected a ribbon of light from under Oliver’s door and started counting. Two ... three ... A banshee’s wail rang through the corridors of Lord Carroll’s country home. Aubergine wasn’t waiting for her maid to come cry rape or whatever she’d been planning; she brought the house down herself.

  In case anyone missed the screech, and to cover up Aubergine’s cries of “You sure as Hades aren’t Comfort!” the viscount added his own efforts. “What’s toward?” he shouted as if to his valet. “Are we under attack? Is the house on fire?”

  Comfort’s valet was long abed in the attics, but a voice down the hall picked up the call. “Fire? Did someone say fire?”

  Doors opened, half-awake guests poured into the hall. The viscount made sure he wasn’t the first in the corridor, so someone else had to say, “I think the screams came from this room.”

  As if he’d read the script. Lord Carroll thundered down the hall, nightcap bobbing, with his wife and daughters close behind. He pushed open the door to Oliver’s room and raced inside.

  “Bloody hell, Oliver. In your own family’s seat? Have you no pride?”

  Aubergine was beating the hapless Oliver over the head with a pillow. “You weren’t supposed to be here, you jackass! This is Comfort’s room!”

  “Thought it was mine. Head’s not quite right, don’t you know.” Oliver was having trouble focusing his eyes, and not just because of the drugged wine. Aubergine was stark naked. The pillow wasn’t the only thing flailing about.

  The chorus in the hall gave a collective gasp. One matron fainted. An ingenue giggled. Lady Carroll quickly ushered her daughters from the crowded room.

  The viscount stepped forward, since everyone else seemed too stupefied to move, and handed the widow her robe. He was right; it was satin. He held it out, eyes averted, so Aubergine couldn’t see his grin.

  “Well, you’ve torn it this time, Ollie,” Lord Carroll was shouting. “You’ll marry the wench tomorrow, b’gad, because you’re not heaping any worse shame on me and my house.”

  The word “marry” cleared Oliver’s mind. “Can’t do it, Cousin. Am already betrothed. Can’t go back on my word as a gentleman.”

  The viscount was at Oliver’s side of the bed, awaiting his turn. Now he leaned over and growled in the flat’s ear:

  “Remember all those vouchers you signed? They’re due tomorrow.”

  ‘Tomorrow? I can’t—”

  “I might be willing to forgive the debts if you do right by the lady.”

  The lady was doing some fast thinking herself. She’d been gulled, all right and tight, for which Aubergine couldn’t even hold the viscount to blame. She’d planned on trapping him into matrimony, after all. Now she needed a husband in a hurry if she was ever to see the inside of a polite drawing room again. Oliver wasn’t much of a specimen, but he was better than nothing. Besides, the viscount had proven too wily for her. Aubergine rather thought she’d prefer a husband with a weaker will, an emptier brain box. Oliver fit the bill. So what if he was a spendthrift and a gambler? He wouldn’t get far with the tight hold she kept on her purse strings. The paltry fellow might be a nodcock, but he was going to be My Lord Nodcock, Earl of Carroll, someday. “Oh, Ollie,” she cooed, patting his arm.

  “No!” Oliver shouted, jumping off the bed like a scalded cat. “You can’t do this to me. I’m supposed to get Joia.” He pointed a shaking finger at Lord Carroll. “You can’t preach propriety to me after what you’ve done. I’ll tell everyone about the—”

  Comfort grabbed a handful of the slug’s nightshirt and lifted him clear off the floor, bony bare feet dangling in air. “Do you remember your ‘lucky deck’? It’s in my pocket, sirrah. You’ll be hauled off to prison tomorrow, an’ you don’t wed the lady. Botany Bay, I don’t doubt. A dainty chap like you mightn’t even survive the passage.”

  Oliver’s face was growing red from the constriction at his throat. He couldn’t have answered if he’d wanted. Comfort gave him no chance, just another shake. “You’ll marry the lady, and you’ll keep your mouth shut. If I ever hear you’ve breathed one word to damage Lord Carroll’s honorable reputation, I’ll make sure you are never received anywhere, not in the clubs, not even in the lowest hells. Then I’ll kill you, if Aubergine doesn’t.”

  Comfort dropped Oliver to the floor and wiped his hands as if they were soiled. Lord Carroll was glaring at the onlookers to begone; the widow was tapping her foot impatiently. Oliver was already on his knees. He nodded and mumbled something about the happiest of men.

  “There, now, that’s all shipshape,” the earl declared, not looking his wife in the eye as she led Aubergine back to her own room. “We’ll hold the ceremony right before the ball tomorrow. Dashed if I’m going to give up my hunt for any wedding breakfast. And you deuced well better take a long honeymoon trip, out of my sight.” He looked around to make sure his trusty butler was still in attendance. “We’ll need a special license, Barty.”

  “The riders have been alerted, my lord. They merely await your signature on the letter to the archbishop.”

  “Good man. Oh, and put a footman outside the sapskull’s door to make sure he doesn’t shab off on his blushing bride.”

  “And one below his window, my lord. The men are already assigned.”

  “I daresay you and the viscount thought of everything.” Lord Carroll couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice. They hadn’t thought to tell him what was going on in his own home, as if he were too decrepit to be disturbed, or too senile to see to his own affairs. “I shall expect you, sir, in my office before breakfast tomorrow,” he ordered the viscount. “Meanwhile, take your hands off my daughter, sirrah. I saw you panting after that trollop all night.” He turned his back on them and marched down the hall, so they couldn’t see the wink he gave Bartholemew. “Ten minutes ought to be long enough, eh?”

  “Five, my lord. He’s a bright lad.”

  * * * *

  “Were you?” Joia asked, still in Craighton’s arms from their congratulatory hug, despite her father’s orders. It only seemed natural to celebrate their success together.

  “Was I what, sweetings?” Comfort was finding it difficult to concentrate with such a delightful armful, so near to his bedroom door.

  “Were you panting after Aubergine, sir?”

  “Only in the line of duty, I assure you. She is much too showy for my taste. Like some park prancer, all flash and no go.”

  “That’s not what the on dits columns say.”

  “But it’s what I say. I find I much prefer modest elegance to a brazen display.” He was finding Joia, in her flannel gown buttoned to the chin, with a shawl over it to boot, infinitely more alluring than Aubergine in all her naked splendor. The widow’s yellow hair reminded him of straw, while Joia’s long golden night braid, so virginal, so innocent, begged a man to separate th
e tresses and run them through his fingers, to spread them on a pillow. This loyal and caring young woman stirred his blood like no dasher ever could. He didn’t just want to take her to his bed, either. He wanted to take her to Ireland and to meet his mother. “There’s a place for propriety, after all.”

  Propriety? Joia jumped back, out of an embrace she was enjoying much too much. His lordship would prefer whatever woman was in his arms at the moment, she feared. Still, he’d helped her and her family, so she mustn’t appear ungrateful. She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, which was the least of what she felt like doing. “Thank you, my lord. I don’t know how I can ever thank you enough. I still cannot believe how you managed to get rid of Oliver so neatly.”

  The viscount grinned. “Brilliant if I have to say so myself. Of course, the inestimable Bartholemew deserves some of the credit, but none of your kisses, sweetings.”

  The corridor was too dark for him to see her blushes. “But to have the toad married, settled where he won’t be able to bother any of us, where Aubergine will make sure he doesn’t do anything to make himself persona non grata in Town, far exceeds brilliance. It’s ... it’s miraculous.”

  “I told you I would save the day.”

  “Yes, but it seemed so hopeless and I—”

  “Didn’t trust me. Ah, my sweet, that’s how you could thank me, with a little faith.”

  Joia was biting her lip, not knowing what to say. She wanted to tell him he was the most noble man she’d ever met, that his reputation no longer mattered. But it did.

  And her obstinate refusal to see that a man could change bothered him. Still, he touched his finger to her lips. “Don’t worry, Joia, we’ll talk again tomorrow. You’ll come to see what a steady fellow I am, if I survive the morning interview with your father.”

  “I’m sure he only wants to thank you for the service you’ve done all of us. He was just upset you didn’t tell him of your plans.”

  “I think he was more bothered that you came to me with Oliver’s threats instead of to him.”

  “I didn’t precisely come to you, if you remember. You offered yourself.”

  Somehow the viscount’s fingers were still at Joia’s mouth, brushing her lips in butterfly caresses. “Sometimes I amaze myself.” His own lips were about to replace his gentle touch, giving them both a glimpse of heaven, when Bartholemew cleared his throat. He and a footman were moving a chair down the corridor for the watchman set to guard Oliver’s door.

  “Wretched timing,” the viscount muttered.

  “Excellent timing,” the butler countered, sending Joia flying down the hall in her bare feet, cheeks burning again.

  “Wait!” the viscount called. “Will you save me the waltzes at the ball?”

  “You saved me from Oliver, truly a fate worse than death. You may have anything you want.”

  Bartholemew opened the viscount’s door for him. “Don’t even think it.”

  “The waltzes will do. For now.”

  Chapter Nine

  “What, are you riding to the hounds?”

  Joia’d thought she’d be first in the breakfast parlor that morning, hurried along by anxiety over Lord Comfort’s talk with Papa. Both of them, however, were before her, both in scarlet hunt jackets like her own wool habit, and neither showing any signs of agitation. Papa was already halfway through his gammon and eggs. She’d have to wait till later now, to find out what the men had discussed.

  “My girls often hunt with the pack.” Lord Carroll was answering the viscount’s question. “And I don’t care if it isn’t considered proper in some corners. They’re excellent riders all, mounted on the finest horseflesh my stables can provide, and they are aware of the limitations of the confounded sidesaddle, by George.”

  Joia usually turned back after the first few fields, enjoying the ride, the spectacle, the dogs, and her father’s excitement, without any wish to see the poor fox slaughtered. Most times Merry stayed with the pack until the end, begging for a reprieve. When no one was about, when the fox had given them a good run, Lord Carroll would relent, for truth to tell, he admired the game little creatures himself. But today Reynard would have to depend on his own wits, for half the county was assembling in Winterpark’s carriage drive and on the lawns, to Lady Carroll’s dismay. The countess entered the morning room without her usual cheerful greetings. “If they trample my rhododendrons, Bradford,” she threatened, “there will never be another hunt at Winterpark.”

  Everyone knew she’d never deny the earl his favorite pastime, after raising horses and daughters, of course. While a footman poured her tea and brought a fresh rack of toast, Lady Carroll instructed Bartholemew to send out more trays of sweet rolls and stirrup cups to the eager, early riders outside. Of course, Bartholemew had already given orders to the kitchen, but the countess felt she had to do something before the rest of the company gathered to fortify themselves for their morning’s run. In a bit she would go stand on the front steps waiting for the huntsman to blow his horn, to wave away the riders. Then she could come back and get down to the serious business of planning a wedding for the very afternoon of the hunt ball. Men! Did they never think?

  Comfort thought Joia looked stunning this morning with her hair gathered back in a net and a tiny veiled hat pinned to her head. He also thought she might burst from curiosity, so, as the breakfast room filled, he went to the sideboard and brought back a plate of muffins, taking the seat beside her this time.

  “What did my father want with you?” Joia asked, taking one of the proffered muffins onto her own plate. “Was he very angry? Did you tell him about Oliver’s blackmail scheme?”

  Comfort was buttering his muffin. He noted that Joia preferred jam on hers. “He was furious at Oliver, of course. I thought he had a right to know in case the dastard tries to extort money or something from your family again. I think the earl is going to offer a honeymoon in Austria to Mrs. Willenborg as a wedding gift. The beau monde is gathering there, which ought to please Aubergine, and it’s far enough away that your father won’t have to lay eyes on the makebate or his bride.”

  “And was that all Papa had to say?” To avoid Comfort’s eyes, Joia gave her muffin another dab of jam.

  “I think that was the gist of it. Oh, he did give me permission to ask for your hand in marriage.”

  ‘Twas a good thing they were having strawberry jam today. The stains wouldn’t show on Joia’s habit.

  “Botheration, that’s what I was afraid he’d do! With Oliver out of the running, you’re his last hope for the house party.”

  “Never say so. I understand your father invited half the Horse Guards barracks up from London for the ball tonight.”

  “But I understand the odds are heavily in your favor,” she teased back. “Why, the underfootman couldn’t find anyone to take his bet. I’m sorry, my lord. I know you never intended... That is, pay no mind to Papa’s schemings.”

  “Not at all, sweetings. I asked him.”

  Joia’s hand stopped between the plate and her mouth. “You asked him what?”

  “Permission to pay my addresses, of course.”

  Joia threw her hands in the air. Unfortunately, she hadn’t put the muffin down first. Now there were stains on Comfort’s clothes as well, and Lady Carroll was scowling from her end of the table. “Why did you do a hen-witted thing like that?” Joia demanded. “Now he’ll never stop badgering you.”

  “I asked him because it’s the proper thing to do. I don’t mean to put my luck to the touch yet, though, so you needn’t give me any answer yet. I thought we should get to know each other better. What do you think?”

  Joia couldn’t think. Her brain had turned to strawberry jam.

  * * * *

  Joia didn’t see the viscount again until after the wedding. That is, she saw him—he rode at the forefront of the hunt; she turned back at the home farm—but not to speak to, certainly not to demand if he’d contracted a brain fever. What other explanation could there be for his latest
taradiddle? He couldn’t be serious, she told herself. Could he? He was kind and chivalrous once he got off his high horse, good company and surprisingly good-natured, but he wasn’t ready to set up his nursery; he’d said so himself. And he didn’t like proper young women; he’d said that, too. Joia didn’t know what she’d do if he’d changed his mind, nor what she’d do if he hadn’t. What a muddle!

  The wedding was almost as chaotic as her thoughts. As if the household and the neighborhood weren’t set on their collective heels already, Aubergine insisted Viscount Comfort give the bride away, just to roil the waters. She saw the way the wind was blowing and had no reason to provide the viscount smooth sailing, not after the trick he’d played on her.

  “By Jupiter, I swear she was never mine to give,” Comfort told anyone who would listen. “I had my heart set on being groomsman.”

  The earl took that honor, standing by Oliver’s side, making sure his unworthy heir made the right responses without shabbing off at the last minute. He might have had a pistol in his pocket directed at the clunch’s head, for all Oliver’s joy in the occasion. Instead Lord Carroll had a ring in his pocket, the gaudiest trinket in the family vault, where it had lain for ages, the thing was so ugly. Aubergine loved every diamond, emerald, and ruby in the monstrosity.

  The widow had refused to have Joia as bridesmaid. “I’ll be dashed if I’m going to be overshadowed by some milk-and-water miss on my own wedding day. It’s bad enough the groom’s finery outshines anything I own. I’ll have the middle gel—what’s her name?”

  Joia resented the implication on her sister’s behalf, so she spent the afternoon convincing Holly to remove her spectacles, do her hair up in a more modern style under Joia’s own diamond tiara, and touch her cheeks with the hare’s-foot brush. In her ecru gown, Holly looked more like a bride than Aubergine. Her dance card for the ball that night was filled before the first wedding toast was given.