Mischief and Mistletoe

by Jo Beverley; Mary Jo Putney; Patricia Rice; Nicola Cornick; Anne Gracie; Joanna Bourne; Susan Fraser King; Cara Elliott

  The chaise moved off with a jerk and Marguerite settled back against the padded leather seats. Her toes were thawing nicely on the foot-warmer and she snuggled into the rug, her spirits rising at the unexpected provision for her comfort. For the first time in days, her future didn’t seem so bleak.

  The house was tall and cast in shadows, a gloomy-looking pile darkly silhouetted against the heavy slate gray of the sky. Just the sort of place she’d imagined her elderly bachelor uncle in.

  A motherly looking housekeeper neatly dressed in gray and white greeted her as she stepped down from the carriage. “The master sends his greeting, madam, but he’s away with an ailing beast. But look at you,” she exclaimed as she ushered Marguerite into the well-lit hall. “You’re worn to a thread. You’ll be wanting your bed, I’ll warrant. And your supper on a tray.”

  “That would be wonderful, Mrs. . . . ?”

  “Ferguson.” As Marguerite turned to collect her bags, the housekeeper added, “Never you mind about your baggage. Tom will bring everything up. Come along, now.”

  She ushered Marguerite to a large bedchamber on the second floor. A fire was already burning merrily in the grate, and Mrs. Ferguson bustled across and tipped more coal onto it. “I expect you feel the cold something shocking, being such a wee bit of a thing.”

  Marguerite laughed and held her hands gratefully to the blaze. “I do, but it’s more from living in India these last ten years.”

  “India, is it? Well, I never. Now I’ll be off. I’ll send someone up with hot water and a wee bit of supper. Would you fancy a spot of soup?”

  “I would indeed, thank you.”

  No sooner had Mrs. Ferguson left than Marguerite’s luggage arrived, followed almost immediately by a maidservant with a can of hot water. Moments later another girl arrived with a tray containing a bowl of thick chicken and potato soup, a warm bread roll, a pat of cool yellow butter and a generous slice of egg-and-bacon pie.

  “Anything else you want, miss?” the girl asked.

  “Nothing, thank you. This is wonderful.” As the door closed behind the maid, Marguerite sat down on the bed with a huge sigh of relief.

  It was going to be all right after all. Uncle Alexander was not the curmudgeonly old miser she’d been led to expect. He might be away from home, but he’d obviously instructed his staff to make her comfortable, and not in any grudging manner, either.

  She removed her coat and felt the crackle of Peggy Smith’s papers in their cloth bag. Uncle Alexander might even be willing to take in a couple of small orphaned girls. One could only hope.

  The morning dawned gray and leaden, but Marguerite woke in an optimistic spirit. She dressed and went downstairs in search of breakfast.

  A maid bobbed a greeting and pointed the way. “Breakfast parlor in there, miss. The master has already started. I’ll bring you in some fresh tea.”

  Uncle Alexander. Marguerite smoothed her hair and dress, then knocked and entered the room. A man was seated at a large square table set with fine white linen and silverware. At her entrance he looked up. Marguerite blinked. By no stretch of the imagination could this be Uncle Alexander.

  He was young, perhaps twenty-nine or thirty, with an angular, attractive face, a bold nose and a stern-looking mouth. He was simply dressed in an old tweed coat over an open-necked, white shirt. A small vee of tanned skin was visible at the neck, and he’d quite clearly not yet shaved. His square, firm jaw was dark with bristle. His hair was brown, short, thick and tousled.

  Had he not been taking his breakfast, very much at home at a gentleman’s table, she would have thought him a farm laborer.

  Over the breakfast dishes he stared at her with a frown that seemed to darken as she watched.

  “I, er . . .” she faltered. His eyes were the blue of an Indian summer sky, and piercing. It was most disconcerting.

  He blinked, then rose to greet her, a piece of toast in one hand. He was tall, perhaps six feet, with broad shoulders and long legs encased in well-worn buckskin breeches and high boots.

  Marguerite stared. Oh, my, she thought. Oh, my . . .

  So this was she. Ronan stared at the woman for a long moment. She was younger than he’d expected, a little bit of a thing, all big eyes and hair, with an air of fragility—well, that would be the illness, he supposed. It was an uncomfortable thought.

  She gazed up at him with wide, gray eyes and a flush slowly crept across her face.

  Damn, he must be staring. He dragged his gaze off her and realized he was still holding his toast. He dropped it on his plate. “Mrs. Smith, I see you got here at last.”

  “Yes, I—er, but I’m afraid it’s not—” she began, her gaze lingering on the open neck of his shirt, and he realized his dishabille must be causing her embarrassment.

  He said brusquely, “My apologies for my attire, but I’ve been up half the night with a sick mare.” And she wasn’t out of the woods yet.

  He pulled out a chair and the woman hesitated, then allowed herself to be seated. She looked worried. Her soft brown hair was drawn back in a loose knot, revealing a pale, slender nape. There were delicate lilac shadows beneath her eyes.

  “You look tired. Did you get no sleep?”

  “No, I slept well, thank y—”

  “I was surprised when I received your letter saying you were coming by stage. Why choose the stage when you had a more comfortable option?”

  She glanced up with a look of surprise, and seemed not to know how to respond.

  “Never mind,” he said. “It’s done now. I suppose you had your reasons. Do you want tea? Or hot chocolate?”

  “Tea, please, but—”

  He yanked on the bellpull to summon a maid. The bell jangled in the distance. Still standing, he drained his cup and picked up his toast. He needed to get back to the stables, but he couldn’t just run out on her the moment she’d arrived.

  What to say? He’d never been much good with chitchat. How was your journey? No point. The stage had been delayed by several days and she was clearly still exhausted. How are you? She was dying. Not exactly comfortable breakfast conversation.

  She, too, seemed not to know what to say. A faint frown marred her smooth brow. Several times she opened her mouth as if to speak, then seemed to think better of it, pressing her pale lips firmly together.

  Ronan finished his toast. “The minister will be here at eleven. Will you need any assistance?”

  “Minister?”

  “Yes, for the wedding.”

  “Wedding?” The gray eyes widened.

  It was probably crass of him to arrange it for her first day, but damn it, he wanted this thing done and out of the way. The sooner it was done, the sooner she would be gone. “Aye, Mrs. Smith, the wedding. It’s the reason you’re here, after all.”

  His voice sounded gruff. It was worse, now, seeing her obvious fragility, knowing what she faced and still taking advantage of it. No matter that she’d agreed to it.

  “But—” Her jaw dropped. “I think—”

  But he didn’t have time to listen to what she thought. Jem was at the doorway, looking worried. “Sir, it’s the mare again.”

  “Blast!” Ronan hurried toward the door. “Sorry, Mrs. Smith, I’ve got to go. If you need anything, ask Mrs. Ferguson or one of the servants. I’ll see you at eleven.”

  The door banged shut behind him. It was as though a storm had passed from the room. Marguerite sat back against the hard chair back on a long, slow exhale, her mind in a whirl. Mrs. Smith. The first time he’d said it, she wasn’t sure she’d heard him right—she’d been distracted by the faint burr of his accent, like rough, dark velvet—but now . . .

  Did he think . . . ?

  He did. He surely did. He’d called her Mrs. Smith and he’d spoken of a wedding.

  Peggy Smith had mentioned Edinburgh Castle, so Marguerite had assumed Edinburgh was her destination and hadn’t inquired any further. It would be too incredible a coincidence if they were both bound for the same small vill
age.

  But they must have been. And Marguerite had been collected at the inn in mistake for Peggy.

  And now he—the man with blue eyes, whose name she didn’t even know—thought she was Mrs. Smith. And he was expecting to marry her at eleven o’clock. She glanced at the clock on the mantel. Two hours.

  And in the meantime, Uncle Alexander would be wondering what had happened to her.

  What a terrible mix-up. If only she’d spoken at once, the moment the first question had risen in her mind. Instead, unable to take her eyes off him, dazzled by those piercing blue eyes, the stern, unsmiling mouth and the way his shirt had revealed a strong masculine throat, she’d mumbled and stammered like a ninny.

  She hoped he hadn’t invited many people to the wedding. How embarrassing if he had. But if he’d paid Peggy to marry him, he surely wouldn’t want a lot of witnesses. She hoped not.

  She sighed and reached for the teapot. She might as well have breakfast before she confessed.

  “That’ll be cold by now, miss. Besides, the master likes his tea terrible strong,” the maid said from behind her. She set a fresh pot of tea and a silver rack of toast on the table.

  Marguerite thanked her. “Would you know if there’s a gentleman living hereabouts by the name of Alexander Murfitt?”

  The girl gave her a curious look. “Old Miser Murfitt? Yes, he lives on the other side of the village, about ten or twelve miles from here. Do you know him, miss?”

  “No, we’ve never met. I’ve heard of him, that’s all. So he’s a miser, is he?”

  “Biggest skinflint in the county,” the maid said cheerfully. She gestured to a buffet on which was arrayed a row of covered silver dishes. “There’s porridge and eggs in the dishes there on the sideboard, and Mrs. Ferguson ordered kedgeree special for you, you having lived in India and all. Anything else you need, just ring for it, miss.”

  Marguerite thanked her and helped herself to kedgeree and eggs. She wasn’t particularly fond of kedgeree, but it was a kind gesture. She ate her breakfast slowly.

  The thought of having to leave this cozy, friendly house and take up residence with the most notorious skinflint in the county made her stomach sink with dread. But there was no help to it—they thought she was Peggy Smith and—

  And Peggy Smith was dead.

  Peggy Smith, who’d promised to marry a man for money and then disappear from his life, no questions asked.

  What if . . . ?

  Marguerite bolted the rest of her meal, and hurried back up to her bedchamber. She pulled out Peggy Smith’s cloth bag and tipped the contents onto the counterpane: a worn leather wallet containing some banknotes, a gold locket containing a miniature painting of a man in military uniform—Peggy’s late husband, Marguerite supposed, the little girls’ father—and a long lawyer’s envelope with a broken wax seal.

  Marguerite opened it and scanned the document rapidly. She closed her eyes, swallowed and read it again, paying attention to every word.

  In it, one Peggy Smith agreed to marry Ronan James McAllister for the sum of five hundred pounds.

  Five hundred pounds! It was a huge sum. With five hundred pounds Marguerite could purchase a small cottage and still have enough left over to support herself and two little girls for ten years at least, if she was careful. And if she could earn a little extra . . . They could keep chickens, grow vegetables . . . She could take in sewing, and washing . . .

  All sorts of possibilities danced in her mind.

  Marguerite Blackett-Smith, Peggy Smith. Peggy was another name for Margaret. Smith, Blackett-Smith—there was not a lot of difference. And they were both free to marry. It would not be such a great lie, surely? What had Peggy said? He doesn’t want a wife. Just a marriage certificate.

  She could give him his certificate. And his money could give her a future.

  It was that or Uncle Alexander. Miser Murfitt, the biggest skinflint in the county. The bleak prospect of a life of unpaid drudgery and no love, or a home and two little girls to love and care for.

  Put like that, there was no choice at all.

  It seemed too easy to be true. All she had to do was to marry that tall young man with the stern, beautiful mouth and the summer blue eyes.

  But could she do it? Make promises—sacred promises in front of God and His minister—that she had no intention of keeping.

  It was what Ronan James McAllister wanted, she reminded herself. Why, she had no idea. That was his business.

  And if it hurt no one.... Her gaze dropped to the drawing of the two little girls. And her mind was made up. She would take their mother’s place in all ways. She would marry Ronan James McAllister.

  Her eyes fell to the second part of the lawyer’s document.

  Following the wedding, Peggy Smith had agreed to live with Ronan James McAllister at HighTowers for thirty days, after which she would return to London and neither she nor any of her kin would make any further claim on Ronan James McAllister or his kin, and he would make no further claim on her.

  She swallowed. Thirty days. What might he want of her in those thirty days? The document didn’t specify. Would he expect . . . ?

  And so what if he did, Marguerite decided. Only a few hours ago she’d fully expected to live out her life a virgin. If Ronan James McAllister wanted to consummate the marriage, she’d welcome him.

  And if she fell pregnant as a result?

  What did it matter? She’d be married.

  And Uncle Alexander? Would she tell him where she was? No. Better to burn her bridges once and for all.

  She sat down at the desk, took out a sheet of notepaper and began to write: Dear Uncle Alexander, thank you for your offer of bed and board, however I have found a more suitable position . . .

  Marguerite rang the bell, gave the letter to a servant to post and requested hot water for a bath. It might be a sham wedding, but it was the only one she was likely to have and she was determined to make the best of it.

  She went through her clothes. There was depressingly little choice. The light muslin dresses she’d brought from India were too flimsy for winter wear and she’d had no money to purchase anything new, so Cousin Ida had instructed her seamstress to cut down two of her old mourning dresses for Marguerite.

  It was more than a year since Marguerite’s father had died, but Cousin Ida was very strict about observing mourning. Cousin Ida also abhorred bright colors: It is vulgar to drape oneself in bright colors, Marguerite.

  Marguerite’s choice for her wedding gown was therefore one of two gray woolen dresses, both equally plain and unadorned. One she had worn on the coach, and it was a little travel-worn, so her wedding dress would have to be the other. It didn’t matter—she hated them both.

  The bath and hot water arrived, along with some scented soap and eau de cologne, for which she was very grateful. “And the master said to give you this, miss,” the maid said, handing her a leather pouch.

  A wedding gift? Marguerite opened it after the girl had left. It was a thick roll of banknotes. Five hundred pounds, to be exact. Marguerite had never seen so much money in her life. She hid it carefully in her trunk.

  She bathed, washed her hair, dried it in front of the fire, put it up and dressed for her wedding. She put on the gray gown and pulled on her only pair of white gloves, rather worn and carefully darned at the fingertips.

  Was it to be a church wedding? If so, she would need to cover her hair. She looked at her only hat, a plain gray felt thing. She plonked it on her head and stood in front of the looking glass. Her reflection stared back at her, drab and dull. A plain woman, in a plainer gown.

  Rebellion bubbled up from deep within her. Her youth and any pretension to good looks might be in the past, but she would not be such a drab creature at her only wedding.

  She lifted the lid of her cheap wood-and-canvas trunk and from the bottom pulled out a bundle wrapped in dark cotton and scented with cedar chips. It contained her treasures, the few things she’d brought back from India and hadn�
��t been able to make herself sell.

  She opened the bundle and shook out the shawl Papa had brought back from Kashmir when she was eighteen. Scarlet with a riot of gold embroidery, it was a bright splash of glorious color.

  She draped the soft fabric around herself and twirled in front of the looking glass. The shawl covered her to the waist in front and fell almost to the hem of the hated gray gown at the back. More importantly, the scent of cedar and the faint hint of sandalwood reminded her of India, and Papa and the sandalwood soap he’d favored.

  She searched through her bundle and drew out a scarlet gauze scarf threaded through with silver thread. She laid it carefully over her hair. How to keep it on? Of course, the silver headdress. Another one of Papa’s impulsive marketplace buys, it was not real silver but some cheap imitation. Marguerite at sixteen had loved it. Marguerite at twenty-five loved it even more.

  She lifted it up and a dozen tiny bells jingled.

  You’re not a gypsy, Marguerite, Cousin Ida intoned in her head. Marguerite laughed and settled the intricate, jangly silver headdress over the gauze scarf. It framed her face with tiny silver bells along her hairline and weighted the gauze scarf to the back of her head perfectly.

  She glanced at her reflection in the looking glass. Oh, yes, that was much better.

  Chapter 3

  The wedding was to be held in the small private chapel that was part of the estate. Ronan would have preferred a civil ceremony in the house, except his aunt’s will had specified a proper church wedding. His lawyer had also stressed that it should look, as far as possible, like a normal wedding. That would have meant dozens of relatives descending on him, and plenty of awkward questions, so he’d put it about that the bride was in mourning and it would be a small private ceremony, and no great reception afterward.

  This morning she’d worn the plainest of sober gray gowns. Whether she was in mourning or simply some kind of puritan, he didn’t care, as long as it gave the right impression. He just wanted to get the thing over with and get on with his life.