ONCE UPON A REGENCY CHRISTMAS

by Various

  He was there inside before she thought he would be, her dangerous American, his eyes today shadowed and distant. He was wearing the homespun navy jacket again and although the bloodstains had been washed from it, it still looked damp. He tried to smile as he saw her watching him, but even that was wary, a labouring man brought into the parlour of an earl and feeling ill at ease.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘No. Thank you, my lady.’

  She saw he swallowed, the skin under his neckcloth moving up and down. The serving maid who stood to one side of the room was watching him closely. In avarice or in caution? Christine wondered. He looked like a man who might slip the family silver up his sleeve if left unattended.

  She liked to think these things of him this morning given the unease he had allowed her last night. If she could have, she would have dismissed him on the instant and gone to her room, but she wouldn’t give her brother the satisfaction of further argument or angry outburst.

  She was as stuck with the man as he was with her.

  Mr William Miller looked big in the dainty over-filled dining room, his head almost skimming the door as he had come within the chamber, but he was not clumsy. He had easily stepped about the pile of books Lucien had left near the head of the table, the same felt hat he had worn yesterday in his hand.

  ‘Your knuckles look a little recovered.’

  The green eyes glanced down and he smiled. This time it was more real. ‘The stable master at Hampton gave me some ointment, my lady. Camphor, I think, with lemon balm and honey.’

  ‘You know your medicinal herbs, then, Mr Miller.’

  ‘That I do, Lady Christine.’ This time she gained the distinct impression that he was goading her, leading her on into saying something she might regret. She swallowed and finished her tea.

  ‘I need to be in town this morning. One of my ladies is ill. What is it you would recommend as a remedy for catarrh?’

  ‘Whisky, and a good measure of it, too.’

  This time she did laugh and the sound startled her.

  ‘She is recently turned to the church after a chequered past. I doubt such a prescription would suit her.’

  ‘In America we sometimes used peppermint and the oil of Cyprus for the lungs.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘My mother.’ Anger flared to be chased by grief. She doubted the American had wished to show her either emotion as he looked away, the muscles to each side of his jaw grinding together, a loss kept in check, but only just.

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-five, my lady. Just turned.’

  Younger than her, then. She was pleased by it. A small triumph to lessen his hold on her ‘wondrousness’.

  ‘Is the Earl of Hampton a kind employer?’

  The question on his brow deepened. ‘He is.’

  ‘Do you have another jacket?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’ Now he looked neither comfortable nor indifferent. If Christine could have named his emotion, she might even have chanced irritated. His left hand was jammed deeply into a fraying pocket.

  ‘I am a woman in charge of a great team of seamstresses, Mr Miller. It would be no task at all to make you a jacket that was warmer, one that was more suited to the cold winds of London.’

  ‘Thank you.’ This was inflected at the end as if in question.

  Not a man to hold a grudge, then. Not a man to stew in the juices of his own ire. She breathed out and forced a smile, hating this person she had become here in the dining room, a mistress in charge of a man’s thoughts and favours. A man who did not look as if he belonged in servility at all.

  Usually she was kinder. Much, much kinder. She seldom annoyed people. She was always the peacemaker, the one to calm temper and to douse argument. But the groom Mr William Miller made her different because she wanted him to fight her back, as he had done yesterday in the park before this job had been foisted upon him with all of its attendant service.

  He didn’t suit the role. She’d seen him look over the Howard paintings around the wall, an art collection of note as he had come into the room. He observed the pictures with a quiet eye, but the passing of his glance had been both slow and careful. As if the subject meant something to him.

  ‘Do you enjoy art, Mr Miller?’ She gestured to the paintings around them.

  ‘I do.’ No explanation or qualification of his enjoyment.

  ‘My brother has the eye of a connoisseur in his choices. Which is your particular favourite?’

  He immediately pointed to a small painting near the doorway. ‘That one. Is it of you?’

  She blushed, horribly. She felt the wash of red rise from her throat like fire and stain her cheeks, but she did not look away from him as she answered.

  ‘I was six when that was done. An artist came from London to Linden Park. It was just before my father and brother drowned.’

  Why had she said that? She never talked of that time to anyone. She was glad when he didn’t pursue the topic, but stood there his arms tucked behind him and legs slightly apart. Watching her. A man who did not feel the need to probe and question and find out all of the disappointments inside her that festered.

  She was seldom still, always busy, always moving on to the next challenge and another creative project. Often she wondered if it was her frantic energy that made her pull away from men. But William Miller was strong and sure in his own right, a man who did not need the good opinion of others to boost his confidence. He was like her brother in that way, certain and steadfast and quietly in control of everything around him.

  An idea that he was laughing at her, however, crossed her disassembled mind and she stood and pushed her chair back, giving her thanks as he came to help her. She’d always appreciated good manners even under duress.

  ‘Well, we need to be off. If you could give me a moment whilst I find my hat and coat, we will go into the city proper first and then to the East End. I have shops to see in both places. My brother said that he would also be talking with the Earl of Hampton today and asking him if you could relocate here whilst you are helping us out. I hope that will not be a problem. Someone can be sent for your things.’

  ‘No.’

  She looked up.

  ‘I would rather collect my belongings myself, my lady. This evening. When you no longer require me for the day.’

  It wasn’t a request. ‘Very well. I will tell the Earl.’

  ‘Tell me what?’ Lucien had come into the dining room and, helping himself to a piece of fruit bread, he slathered it with the housekeeper’s last summer’s strawberry jam.

  ‘Mr Miller will retrieve his own things from the Hampton stables, Lucien.’

  ‘Then my sister has spoken to you about living here. I hope it will only be a short-term thing until we can find the group threatening us. Hampton was sad to lose you, though he asked me to tell you that your position will be there when you have finished with us. He also said you were the best man he had ever seen handle horses.’

  ‘I have had practice, my lord. In Richmond. It’s a town near my home in Virginia.’

  ‘Hampton said you held references from the Melton family. Is that who you worked for in the Americas?’

  He nodded.

  ‘I wonder if they are any relation to the Duchess here. Elizabeth Maythorne. She is still alive at the grand old age of eighty-seven and runs the dynasty with an iron glove. Rumour has it she has come to London just recently and this is an odd thing indeed because she has seldom ventured out of the family lands in the north for decades. But I digress,’ he said suddenly. ‘A room has been set aside for you in the garden wing of the town house. I think you will like it there.’

  ‘I am sure I will.’

  Lucien chuckled. ‘That is what I like about you, Mr Miller. Your certainty. Too many
people these days have lost their confidence, I find.’ Then he was gone.

  The fleeting dash of humour on the American’s face both surprised and worried her. He’d almost found the measure of Lucien and that was something few people ever did. The complexity of that thought confused her further. If he was not quite the man he appeared, this Mr William Miller, then who on earth was he?

  Perhaps her brother had employed a fox to watch over the henhouse, was her next thought as she brushed past him and felt a tingling awareness inside her even at the tiny contact.

  * * *

  London was full of noise and movement and bustle, Will thought darkly, and Christine Howard seemed to hold no sense of the danger whatsoever. Anyone could have hidden a weapon in the copious layers of clothing, anyone could have turned on her amidst the distractions of traffic and colour and noise on the busy throughway as they walked from the carriage.

  Death came in a second, unexpected and brutal. One moment this and the next one that. How could she not know this? It was as if she moved through a different world from the one he did, softer, trusting and kind.

  He felt the heavy shaft of steel in the sleeve of his right arm and another lighter blade tucked into his left boot. He could hit a moving target at fifty yards easily, more if the winds were light and the sun was up. His father had taught him the trick of it and he had honed his skills in all the days since his death.

  He held his breath as a man approached them just before the doorway of the second shop, letting it go only as he passed by and was gone.

  ‘If you want to wait outside...’ She watched him as she held open the door. Without answering he came within.

  She had that way with her that all beautiful women seemed to innately know. It was in her smile and humour, he thought, and in a confidence that was both beguiling and irritating at the same time. For the whole morning he had wanted to take her by the arms and shake her, make her listen, make her understand that this was not a game being played and the note held by the man in the park expressly for her was no boyish prank, but a serious threat of intent.

  Or else...

  Her stalker had been armed, too, but Will had not told them of this. He’d easily taken the knife from the man and disposed of any resistance, but not before understanding that there were others who wanted Lady Christine Howard’s shops closed down and that they were gathering to deal with her.

  Life could be split between the takers and the givers. His father had told him that again and again as he had grown up. Like a mantra that his father had based his life on after leaving England, running from his demons on a ship bent for the Americas and the freedom to be whoever he wanted to become.

  Will leaned against a wall and watched Christine Howard do business. She listened and she was most practised at making decisions. She smiled a lot with everybody else except him, he thought, and closed his eyes for a second. With him she was wary and prickly and distant and he wanted back the trust he’d felt in the first few moments of meeting her in Hyde Park.

  The blister on his right foot hurt when he moved, the new boots stiff and unyielding, like this place, this town, this country, these people.

  The Duchess of Melton was in London just as she had said she would be, then? The ring with the crest of the family felt as if it was burning a hole in his pocket but he did not dare to leave it anywhere else save for on his person. The letter that had arrived in Richmond, Virginia, last February was addressed to Mr Rupert Melton, stating the Duchess would be in London for the coming Christmas season and could be contacted at the family town house in Portman Square. It gave the address and the directions and was signed personally by the Duchess, a signature both formal and carefully penned.

  Christine Howard was speaking to him now and his interest snapped back into focus.

  ‘This fabric would suit your colouring, Mr Miller. Is it a shade you would consider?’

  The thick tawny wool looked a lot warmer than the homespun cotton jacket he had on and he nodded.

  She turned back to the man beside her. ‘And a shirt and trousers to match, too, I think, Mr Beaton. Perhaps you might measure our client now so that we could get started.’

  The elderly man nodded, a box of pins in one hand and a tape in the other. Depositing a notebook on the table, Beaton asked him to remove his jacket and shirt.

  Swallowing with the damned unexpectedness of the request, Will turned for the door, settling himself once outside in the cool of the wind, the smell of snow in the air, and finding the balance of it all.

  Lady Christine was there instantly.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Her hand touched his arm as she said it, the kindness in her words nearly undoing him and the feel of her shooting want into every single part of his body. Still reeling from his panic, he faced her.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine.’ He heard a tone in his voice that was strained and awkward as plainly as she probably did but a sound from behind had them both turning as a man hailed her. A lord by all appearances and most finely turned out.

  ‘Lady Christine.’ His hand came out to take one of hers and he was looking at her fondly.

  ‘Warrington. I thought you were up in Scotland hunting.’

  ‘Well, I was indeed, but family matters have brought me back here and a trying day of comedy and error has just got better. Could I walk you to your carriage? Your man here may go.’

  She glanced around and William caught her eyes, the faint anger in them surprising. She did not like this newcomer.

  ‘I am sorry, my lady,’ he said quietly, ‘but your brother the Earl asked me to escort you home personally, so...’

  He let the inference hang in the air.

  ‘Who is this?’ The question came sharply.

  ‘A safekeeper. I have had a letter threatening my person and my brother is taking the danger most seriously. Mr Miller here is accompanying me on my business to make certain of my well-being.’

  ‘Then as I cannot waylay you I shall bid you farewell, though I do hope I might see you at the Canning-Browne ball on Saturday night.’

  In the carriage she was quiet, though Will could see she was trying to determine exactly what to tell him. Finally she spoke.

  ‘Each of us has our secrets, it seems, ready to pounce at the smallest of warnings, you with your reticence to have new clothing fashioned and me with my dislike of Rodney Warrington. Shall we retire to our respective corners today and call it a truce?’

  Will dipped his head, hoping to hide the shock of the name, but she went on unabated.

  ‘Warrington is the second son of a viscount. He asked me to marry him once and I refused for he is a man of strong opinion and a great deal of arrogance.’

  ‘Sounds difficult to live with.’

  ‘And impossible to love,’ she returned, smiling now so that her dimples caught the light as deep shadows. ‘He does, however, have great tracts of valuable land and much in the way of money in his family coffers should he inherit. He also has the hopes to hold a lofty title very soon so someone undoubtedly will take him as a husband and happily. Just not me.’

  ‘Money speaks here with a very loud voice.’ He had not meant to say that, but he did and she frowned. There was a certain protection in servility that he had not felt before. In Virginia it was not what you wore but who you were and he wondered at the Melton acreage. His own land covered twenty thousand square miles, reaching from the fault line on the James River back into the Shenandoah Valley. As far as a man could see and further. If he closed his eyes he could smell the clean scent of the Virginian pines and the red cedar and hear the birdsong of the striking bright cardinals in the trees at dawn.

  Shaking his head, he fought for breath. He’d had to come to England. He needed to know all the things his father had not told him. He needed to bury old demons and find the truth burnt in the ashes of lies. He
did not expect the promise of the phoenix, but he hoped for peace at least. Only that. A peace to lay on the grave of his father so that his spirit might find a place in the afterlife allowing him some respite from anger, some understanding that he had not found in his troubled lifetime.

  ‘You are quiet, Mr Miller. I hope I have not exhausted you? I shall not need your services for the rest of the afternoon as I am spending the day at home, designing a gown for a woman who is hard to please. It will take a while.’

  ‘You enjoy it, though? The sewing, I mean?’

  She nodded. ‘It saved me once when I was so sad I thought I could not live.’

  Such a truth brought the equal measure from him. ‘Horses did the same for me.’

  ‘Then we understand each other. It is why I cannot just close the shops, you see, even though my brother would wish me to.’

  * * *

  She could not believe she was talking to him like this and telling him things that she had let no other person know. She was usually so very private.

  ‘Is that what you did in the Americas? Worked with the horses?’

  He shook his head and the beauty of him hit her anew with his strong jaw and his dark green eyes and his hair the colour of every brown under the sun, from gold light to shadow dark.

  ‘I am a farmer.’

  He used the present tense as though the work he did here in England was only temporary.

  ‘Where is your land?’

  ‘On the upper reaches of the James in Virginia, a river that flows from the headwaters of the Appalachian Mountains to the ocean at Chesapeake Bay.’

  ‘You were born there?’

  His eyes flared and shuttered. He does not like to answer questions, she thought. His hands were bare again today, the ring gone, the grazes on the knuckles of the left one healing. They lay unmoving in his lap and she could see in the lines of them competence, labour and strength. The nail on the fourth finger of his left hand was missing completely. An old accident, she imagined, the opaque scars running down the skin aged and indistinct.

  She wondered if anyone had ever simply held him in softness and in love, that thought so shocking she turned away to look out of the window.