“One day,” she said. “One day to rest, get warm, plan my approach, and let MacFergus know what’s become of me. One day, but no more.”
One day—and two nights—would be more than enough for Michael to trespass against her trust, steal from her, and send her into the arms of the family who presumed to sit in judgment of her. They’d treat her like royalty if she were his baroness, regardless of her past, but he was the last man who deserved to be her baron.
* * *
Chapter Four
* * *
Even good girls grow weary of loneliness and poverty. You will realize, of course, that I might have been a tad bit misleading where my comely housemaid was concerned—or perhaps she misunderstood my overtures? Henrietta’s education had been neglected in every regard except how to drudge for her menfolk, poor thing.
I didn’t go down on bended knee, but I might have alluded to wedded bliss a time or two or twenty. She eventually granted me the prize I’d so diligently sought. For some while, all was not-quite-connubial bliss. Never was my candlestick so well polished, as it were… and I didn’t have to spend a penny for my pleasure. I could not boast of my cleverness, trifling with the help being frowned upon, but you must admit, London’s bachelors are a happier lot for my having seen to Miss Whitlow’s education…
“What the hell are you doing?” Liam Logan kept his voice down lest he upset horses who’d earned a ration of oats for their labors.
“I’m plundering a woman’s luggage,” the baron replied from the depths of a large, brass-hinged trunk. “What are you doing out and about at this hour?”
The light of the single lantern made the baron look gaunt when he straightened. Gaunt and guilty. He’d served his guests a fine dinner in Inglemere’s elegant dining room, and should have been abed himself, not wandering around a darkened stable.
“I’m tucking in the boys,” Logan said. “You ought to consider buying these grays. They’re a good lot, and they pull well together.”
His lordship went back to rummaging in the trunk. “Spare me your analogies. Henrietta Whitlow is no longer for sale. I’m not sure she ever was.”
The Quality in a mood were puzzle enough, but Michael Brenner was new to his title, far too solitary, and without much cheer. Liam respected the man and even liked him—the baron was scrupulously fair, hard-working, and devoted to his family—but Liam didn’t always understand his employer.
“Miss Whitlow had something on offer,” Liam said, tossing another forkful of hay into the nearest stall, “to hear half of London tell it. I don’t blame her for that. Dukes and nabobs are as prone to foolishness as the rest of us, and it’s ever so entertaining to see a woman from the shires making idiots of them.”
The baron straightened, his greatcoat hanging open despite the cold. To Liam, a horse barn would ever be a cozy place, but the baron wasn’t a coachman, inured to the elements and dressed to deal with them.
“The damned thing isn’t here.”
“The only damned thing I see in these stables is you, sir. Care for a nip?”
Two other trunks were open, and the latches were undone on the remaining three. The baron accepted Liam’s flask and regarded the luggage with a ferocious scowl.
“I was sure she had it with her. She’s closed up her household in London, and these are all the trunks she’s brought. Damn and blast.”
“Have a wee dram,” Liam said. “It’ll improve your cursing.”
“My cursing skills are excellent, but I try to leave them back in the bogs from whence I trotted. This is good whisky.”
“Peat water makes the best, I say. My brother-in-law agrees with me. What are we searching for?”
His lordship sat on one of the closed trunks. “We’re searching for foolishness, to use your word. Lord Beltram was Miss Whitlow’s first… I can’t call him a protector, for he ruined her. He was her first, and in the manner of besotted men the world over, he wanted to immortalize his conquest. Somewhere in Miss Whitlow’s effects is a small volume full of bad poetry, competent sketches, and maudlin reminiscences. Can I buy some of this whisky?”
“I’ll give you a bottle for Christmas. Miss Whitlow is not in the first blush of youth, if you’ll forgive a blunt observation. Why has Lord Beltram waited this long to fret over his stupidity?”
The baron sighed, his breath fogging white in the gloom. “He’s decided to find a wife—or cannot afford too many more years of bachelorhood—and this book is a loose end. When they parted, Miss Whitlow asked to have only this book—not jewels, not a bank draft, not an introduction to some other titled fool. All she wanted was this silly journal. Beltram passed it along, thinking himself quite clever for having ended the arrangement without great expense or drama.”
Liam tossed a forkful of hay into another stall, working his way down the row. “So Beltram is a fool, but why are you compounding the error with more folly? Miss Whitlow has had years to blackmail the idiot or publish his bad verse. Why must you turn thief on his behalf?”
The baron took up a second fork and began haying the stalls on the opposite side of the aisle. Horses stirred, nickered, and then tucked into their fodder.
“Once long ago,” the baron said, “in a land not far enough away, with which we were at war, Beltram’s silence saved my life. I promised him any favor he cared to name and only later realized my silence had also saved his life.”
“So he took advantage of an innocent maid, and now he’s taking advantage of you,” Liam said. “And you wonder why the common folk think the Quality are daft. You’re not a thief, my lord.”
The baron threw hay with the skill of one who’d made his living in a stable once upon a time.
“Unless you’ve been poor as dirt and twice as hopeless,” he said, hanging the fork on a pair of nails when the row was complete, “you don’t know how an unfulfilled obligation can weigh on your sense of freedom. Every time I crossed paths with Beltram, I knew, and he knew, that I’d put myself in his debt. I cannot abide being in his debt, cannot abide the thought that ten years hence, he’ll ask something of me—something worse than a little larceny—and I’ll be bound by honor to agree to it. I gave the man my word.”
“Honor, is it? To steal from a woman who’s already been wronged?” MacFergus would have a few things to say about that brand of honor, and as usual, this plan gone awry had been his idea.
“I’ve considered stealing from her, then stealing the book back from Beltram so I can replace it among the lady’s belongings.”
“Clever,” Liam said, wondering what Mary would make of all this nonsense. “Or you might tell Beltram you simply couldn’t find the thing. I daresay lying to his lordship won’t meet with your lofty idea of honor either.”
“If I can’t find it, if I honestly can’t find it, then I’ll tell him that.”
“That you wouldn’t lie to a nincompoop makes it all better, of course. I’ll wish you the joy of your thievery, sir. I’m for bed. Pleasant dreams.”
“Go to hell, Logan. If the book isn’t here, the only other place it could be is in Miss Whitlow’s valise.”
Which was doubtless resting at the foot of the lady’s cozy bed. “And Happy Christmas to you too, my lord.”
* * *
His lordship hadn’t come to Henrietta’s bed last night.
He’d lighted her up to her room, offered her a kiss on the cheek—the forehead would have provoked her to quoting the Bard’s more colorful oaths—and wished her pleasant dreams.
Her dreams had been tormented, featuring an eternity racketing about naked and alone in a coach forever lost in a winter landscape.
“You’re already dressed,” Lucille said, bustling through the door without knocking. “I bestir myself at a needlessly early hour and find my services aren’t required. The baron had chocolate sent up to my room. Fresh scones with butter, and chocolate, kept hot over a warming candle.”
Henrietta knew how that chocolate had felt, simmering over the flame. She decid
ed to leave her hair half down, the better to light the baron’s candle at breakfast.
“What is wrong with me, Lucille?” She shoved another pin into her hair. “I swore off men more than six months ago and in all that time wished I’d made the decision years earlier.” Before she’d met Anselm, in any case. Her memories of him had been a little too fond. “You don’t have to make the bed. The baron has an excellent staff.”
An excellent, cheerful, discreet staff who appeared genuinely loyal to their employer.
“I cannot abide idleness,” Lucille said. “All that feigning sleep in the coach yesterday taxed my gifts to the limit.”
Were pearl-tipped hair pins too much at breakfast? “You were feigning sleep? That was a prodigious good imitation of a snore for a sham effort.”
“Mostly feigning. You and his lordship got along well. These are the loveliest flannel sheets.”
For winter, they were more luxurious than silk, which was difficult to wash. Henrietta had never thought to treat herself to flannel sheets, but she would in the future.
“The baron and I got on so well that after supper he left me for the charms of his library. Perhaps I retired in the nick of time.” Was that a wrinkle lurking beside her mouth? A softness developing beneath her chin?
Henrietta had never worried about her appearance before—never—and now… “I have left my wits somewhere along the Oxford Road.”
Lucille straightened, a brocade pillow hugged to her middle. “This is what you put the gents through, Miss Henrietta. This uncertainty and vexation. They didn’t dare approach you without some sign you’d welcome their advances. Do you fancy his lordship, or merely fancy being fancied?”
“Excellent question.” Henrietta began removing the pins she’d so carefully placed. “I fancied being respectable. I know that’s not likely to happen for the next twenty years, but I can aspire to being respected. Then his lordship goes and treats me decently, and I’m… I don’t care for it as much as I thought I would.”
The respect was wonderful. The insecurity it engendered was terrifying.
She cared for him, for the boy who’d had no toys, the wealthy baron who didn’t know how to entice his sisters to join him for Christmas dinner. She cared for a man who’d not put on airs before a cranky maid, who regarded Henrietta’s past as just that—her past.
But she also desired him, which was a fine irony.
“He did invite us to bide here today.” Lucille smoothed thick quilts over the sheets. “Have you seen his library?”
“I have not. After supper, he brought me straight up to bed, and I confess I was happy to accompany him. Then off he went, and I’m all in a muddle, Lucille.”
“Fallen women get paid for accommodating a man’s desire,” Lucille said. “Un-fallen women aren’t immune to animal spirits. They simply know how to indulge them without being judged for it. I wasn’t always a plain-faced, pudgy old maid, you know.”
“You are not plain-faced, pudgy, or old. I have it on good authority that men like a substantial woman between the sheets.”
Thank God. Though maybe Michael Brenner preferred the golden-haired waifs and blue-eyed princesses of the Mayfair ballrooms, drat their dainty feet. Henrietta’s feet were in proportion to the rest of her. Her father had called her a plow horse of a girl, and the baron might see her as such.
“I hate this uncertainty,” Henrietta said. “I’m wondering now if men value only the women they must pay for.”
Lucille tossed the brocade pillows back onto the bed, achieving a comfy, arranged look with casual aim.
“You have it all wrong, miss, which is understandable given your situation. What the men value, what they respect, is a reflection of what we value in ourselves. You did very well in London because after Lord Beltram played you so false, you never allowed another man to rule your heart or your household. Respect yourself, and devil take the hindmost. You told me that years ago. What are you doing with your hair?”
Henrietta’s hair was a bright red abundance she’d refused to cut once she’d arrived in London. She’d also refused to hide it under a cap, and her bonnets had been more feathers than straw.
“I’m braiding it for a coronet. I used to favor a coronet, though my father said that only accentuated my height.”
“He didn’t like having a daughter nearly as tall as he was,” Lucille said. “What will you do about the baron?”
Henrietta finished with her braid, circled the plait about her crown, then secured it with plain pins.
“I’d forgotten my little speech to you all those years ago, but I was right then, and you are right now. I respect myself and will regardless of how the baron regards me. I also respect the baron, though, and hope when we part, that’s still the case. With all the other men…”
Professional loyalty to past clients warred with the knowledge that Henrietta was no longer a professional. Society might never note the difference, but Henrietta suspected that six months ago, she would not have given Michael Brenner a second look. A mere baron, merely well-fixed, merely decent.
What a sorry creature she’d been.
“With all the others,” Lucille said, standing behind Henrietta at the vanity, “your respect was tempered by the knowledge that they paid for your favors. You were compensated for putting up with them, and they knew it, and still sought you out.”
The arrangement between man and mistress was as simple on the surface as it was complex beneath. The usual bargain was complex for the mistress and simple for the man. Henrietta finished with her coronet—adding a good two inches to her height—and draped a shawl about her shoulders.
“I know two things,” she said, facing the door. “I do not want his lordship paying me for anything, and I’d rather he spent tonight with me than in his library with his books. I’m not sure what that makes me, but breakfast awaits, and I’m hungry.”
“Desire for the company of a man you esteem makes you normal,” Lucille said, tidying up the discarded pearl-tipped pins. “I daresay he’s a normal sort of fellow himself. Be off with you, and if you need me, I might be back in bed, munching scones and swilling chocolate. Or I might suggest the staff do a bit of decorating. The holidays are approaching, after all.”
Many a day, Henrietta would have regarded lazing about in bed as a fine reward for her exertions the evening before. Today, she wanted to spend as much time with Michael Brenner as she could, either in bed or out of it.
Normal wasn’t so very complicated, though neither was it for the faint of heart.
* * *
“I think I’m in love,” Miss Whitlow said, taking another book from the stack on the table beside her.
She’d spent most of the day in Michael’s library, and he—with a growing sense of exasperation—had sat at his desk, watching her write letters or read. When she looked up, he made a pretense of scribbling away at correspondence or studying some ledger, but mostly, he’d been feasting on the simple sight of her.
When he ought to have been rummaging in her valise.
She wore gold-rimmed spectacles for reading. They gave her a scholarly air and gave him a mad desire to see her wearing only the spectacles while he read A Midsummer Night’s Dream to her in bed. She favored shortbread and liked to slip off her shoes and tuck her feet beneath her when a book became truly engrossing.
Would she enjoy having her feet rubbed?
The worst part about this day of half torment/half delight was that Michael’s interest in the lady was only passingly erotic. He wanted to learn the shape of her feet and the unspoken wishes of her heart. He wanted to introduce her to his horses—which was pathetic—and memorize the names of her family members.
Heathgate would laugh himself to flinders to see his efficient man of business reduced to daydreaming and quill-twiddling.
Michael and his guest had taken a break after lunch, and he’d shown her about the house. Inglemere was a gorgeous Tudor manor, just large enough to be impressive, but small enough to b
e a home. The grounds were landscaped to show off the house to perfection, though, of course, snow blanketed the gardens and park.
Michael had shown Miss Whitlow his stables, his dairy, his laundry, and even the kitchen pantries, as if all was on offer for her approval.
He wanted to be on offer for her approval, and yet, she never so much as batted her eyes at him. Smart woman.
“You are in love?” he asked, rising from his desk. He probably was too, but could not say for a certainty, never having endured that affliction before.
“You haven’t merely collected books for show,” she said, hugging his signed copy of The Italian to her chest. “You chose books that speak to you, and the result is… I love books. I could grow old reading my way through this library of yours, Michael Brenner.”
Not my lord. “Have you no collection of your own?”
She set the novel aside and scooted around under the quilt he’d brought her. “I patronized lending libraries. They need the custom, and they never cared what I did for my coin. They cared only that I enjoyed the books and returned them in good condition. Perhaps, when I purchase a home, I’ll fill it with books.”
While her protectors—Michael was coming to hate that word—had treated her bedroom like a lending library. She’d been well compensated, but he still wished somebody had made her the centerpiece of a treasury that included children, shared memories, and smiles over the breakfast table.
And wedding vows, for heaven’s sake.
Michael settled in beside her on the sofa. “You’re in the market for a house?” He could help with this, being nothing if not well versed in commercial transactions. He’d searched long and thoroughly before settling on Inglemere for his country retreat.
“I’m in the market for a home,” she said. “This is another reason I’m determined to reconcile with my father. All the family I have lives within a few miles of Amblebank, but if he refuses to acknowledge me, then settling elsewhere makes sense.”
The Virtues of Christmas Page 6