A Secret Christmas

by Lauren Royal

  Joseph’s memory flashed to when he’d accused her of being a secret Roundhead at supper. He felt immediately awful for teasing her. But he refused to feel ashamed for the difficult choices his family had made.

  “My grandfather wasn’t willing to risk his heir—or his grandchildren, for that matter. And after he passed, the earldom’s well-being rested on my father remaining alive, at least until I was grown enough to take over if the need arose.”

  She leveled him her with her dark, wide-set gaze. “Meaning you placed the earldom ahead of the country.”

  He didn’t like how that you made him a culprit. For pity’s sake, he’d been a mere boy when they’d come to Tremayne.

  But then he remembered no one was a culprit, because the Ashcrofts had done nothing wrong. How did she keep twisting him around in this manner?

  “I suppose yours is one interpretation,” he retorted as they reversed direction. “Mine might be that while other Royalists were busy killing people, we were protecting people instead. Not only our family, but the hundreds of others who depend on our lands and resources to survive.”

  “You think Grosmont has no dependents?” Her breath was coming faster, from annoyance or exercise or something else, he knew not. “We care about our people, too, but we made sacrifices for our king.”

  He shrugged. “And we chose not to make sacrifices for a hopeless cause.”

  Her mouth fell open in a little O that said more than words how astonished she was that any Royalist would call the monarchy a hopeless cause.

  As he pulled her close for the first lift, his heart pounded in his ears—from exertion, he was sure. His hands encircled her curving waist, feeling the stiff fabric warmed by her skin. When he raised her aloft and twirled, her big white collar fluttered in his face.

  He felt the oddest urge to rip the damn thing off her.

  Following the third lift, it was a relief to part ways. Though the fire in the big hearth was down to embers, he was feeling overheated. His feet taking up the galliard, he wondered if he’d drunk too much wine. Or was it the stress of his impending marriage? Something must be affecting him, because he’d never acted so quarrelsome in his life, much less been afflicted with any violent, inexplicable urges.

  The Ashcroft family motto was Interroga Conformationem, which was Latin for “Question Convention.” Joseph had often thought it an unfitting motto for his family—and wondered when it might have fit and what had happened to them since. For these days, in most things, the Ashcrofts were very conventional indeed.

  In contrast, he had never met a woman who questioned convention as much as Chrystabel did.

  His next partner was his mother. “Lady Chrystabel is delightful, don’t you think?” Mother said as they circled together.

  “Delightful?”

  Mother’s carefully dressed curls bounced with her nod. “She’s so honest and refreshing.”

  “Those aren’t the words I would have chosen,” he quipped.

  “Oh?” When Mother smiled, he noticed she wasn’t a bit out of breath. For that matter, neither was he, and he no longer felt overwarm, either. “Which words come to mind?”

  “Impulsive,” was his first choice. They changed direction. “Interfering. Irresponsible.”

  “That’s a lot of i words,” Mother said with a rare sparkle in her eye. “Have you any more?”

  “Naturally.” He grinned, enjoying this playful side of her. “Irritating, irrational, impertinent—”

  “Irresistible?” she suggested slyly.

  Joseph’s mouth gaped open. “Pray pardon?” Why on earth would she say such a thing?

  “I saw you looking at her while the two of you danced.”

  “I was not looking at her! I happen to find her insufferable.” Blast, another i word. It seemed he couldn’t stop. “Besides which, in case you’ve forgotten, I’m betrothed!”

  “Hush!” Mother glanced around and dropped her voice. “Our guests might overhear.”

  He hushed, since it was time to lift and and twirl her, anyway, which made it difficult for him to speak.

  But she went right on ahead. “There’s a lesson to be learned from this: Mere promises cannot stop one from appreciating beauty or charm when one sees it. I’ve been a content wife for twenty-five years, yet still I’m not immune to the charms of other men. If contentment is enough, choose the woman who will always remain by your side. But if it’s happiness you seek, choose the woman who will always recapture your attention.”

  Now he feared his eyes were gaping—never mind that that was physically impossible. Never in his life had he heard his mother speak this way. Evidently she fit their family motto better than he’d thought. Question Convention, indeed.

  After their last twirl, she detained him with a hand on his arm. “I like Lady Chrystabel. She’s a pretty thing, and she makes me laugh. We haven’t had a lot of laughter in this house since your sisters left.” Joseph had three sisters who had all married well, thanks to the generous dowries his father had provided. He wondered if they really knew their mother. “I used to think you and your father were much alike, my dear boy. But now I see you’ve got more of me than I realized.” And with a wink, she danced off.

  Joseph performed the next galliard in a daze. He couldn’t even begin turning over her surprising advice. His mother had winked at him.

  When he found himself partnered with Lady Arabel, he managed to recover his wits. He cast about for a neutral topic of conversation. “Are you looking forward to living in Wales, Lady Arabel?”

  “I’m trying to view it as an adventure.” She danced in a jaunty, light-footed way that matched her cheerful nature. “I just wish I knew some Welsh.”

  “My father knows Welsh.” He felt absurdly relieved to engage in simple, polite chitchat. “Father knows lots of languages, actually.”

  “Are languages his pastime?” Lady Arabel asked, as though she were really curious.

  Joseph chuckled, remembering the discussion at supper. “I would say so. Shall I ask him if he might teach you a few words of Welsh?”

  She squealed when he lifted her and twirled. “Oh, that would be marvelous!”

  Marvelous words from a marvelous girl. For the first time this evening, he felt normal and like himself. Lady Arabel made him smile, while her sister made him…feel hot.

  On a cold, snowy evening, Chrystabel Trevor made him feel hot.

  It was an odd feeling he’d never experienced before, and he didn’t like it one bit, he decided while performing the next set of galliard steps. It wasn’t comfortable at all.

  He was paired again with Creath when Watkins arrived in the great room’s main doorway and cleared his throat. “Sir Leonard is approaching, my lord!” he called over the music.

  SIX

  CHRYSTABEL WATCHED Creath head for the far door at a run, dodging the jumble of pushed-aside furniture as she went.

  “Keep dancing!” Lord Trentingham commanded. “Lady Arabel, take Creath’s place.”

  Chrystabel obeyed, and so did everyone else. Arabel stepped in as Joseph’s partner. Lord Trentingham was dancing with his wife, and Chrystabel was paired with Matthew. She couldn’t imagine what was happening, but she kept dancing, sensing it was best not to ask.

  When the set finished, Lady Trentingham signaled the musicians to skip the galliard and play them through the turns once again. Chrystabel was still circling with her brother when Watkins returned and ushered a stranger into the room.

  Tall with a raw-boned build and blunt blond hair, the man was in his middle years. Though his clean-shaven features seethed with anger, his blue eyes were colder than hoarfrost. “What is the meaning of this?” he bellowed.

  The dancers halted as the music died away. Exchanging a frightened look with her sister, Chrystabel was grateful to see Joseph placing himself between Arabel and the stranger.

  “I could have you all arrested for dancing!” the man roared into the sudden silence. Then, appearing to get himself somewhat und
er control, he lowered his voice to a menacing growl. “And don’t think I won’t if I find out she’s here.”

  Lord Trentingham furrowed his brow. “Are you searching for someone, your worship?”

  Your worship? Evidently the wilderness did have Justices of the Peace—and this vile man was one of them. No wonder Tremayne folk were reluctant to break the law. Chrystabel wouldn’t want to get on this brute’s bad side, either.

  “You know who I’m searching for.” The justice’s lips twisted in a sneer—an oft-used expression, judging from the deep lines around his mouth. “My dearest cousin and betrothed, Mistress Creath Moore.”

  “Good heavens, is the girl missing?” Lady Trentingham made a convincing concerned neighbor. “How long has she been gone?”

  “A night and a day.” The justice advanced several threatening paces toward her. “But I’ve an inkling you already knew that, my lady.”

  The earl put a protective arm around his wife. “We haven’t seen the girl, Sir Leonard,” he said in a tone of warning.

  Chrystabel was surprised when the taller man stopped in his tracks. Then she remembered Lord Trentingham was a peer, while the justice was apparently a mere knight or baronet. He might have the advantage in malice and government authority, but the earl was a powerful man, and by no means the weaker opponent.

  But Sir Leonard wasn’t backing down. An inflamed red lump on his head, just visible beneath his thinning hair, seemed to pulse with anger. “I’ve searched all the other nearby estates and found no trace of her,” he snarled.

  He’d saved Tremayne for last, Chrystabel noted. Further proof he was afraid of the earl.

  “You’re welcome to search our grounds,” Lady Trentingham put in, “though the cold—”

  “What I did find,” he interrupted rudely, “was a universal consensus among our neighbors that my cousin was most likely to be found with the Ashcrofts.”

  Joseph stepped forward, his right hand moving to his hip—where a sword hilt would have rested had he been formally attired. “We already told you she’s not here,” he snapped.

  Lady Trentingham held out a restraining arm. “Please excuse my son, your worship. He means no disrespect. But I’m afraid he’s right. Mistress Moore is not with us. If she were, she would have prevented us from dancing.”

  Sir Leonard barked a laugh. “Don’t trifle with me, my lady. I have no illusions regarding my bride’s proclivities. Her intimates are all depraved Cavaliers, every last one of you. If you called on her to dance, she wouldn’t bat an eyelash.”

  “You mistake my meaning, your worship.” Astoundingly, the countess maintained her composure in the face of his insults. “I was merely referring to the balance of the genders. If Mistress Moore were present, we would have one too many ladies.”

  Sir Leonard made a show of balking, but Chrystabel could see him mentally counting heads. “Very well,” he said at last. “I shall expand my search further afield. But if I learn you’re withholding information…”

  “We shall, of course, notify you the instant we hear of her whereabouts,” Lord Trentingham held out his hand. “We’re as worried about her as you are.”

  Chrystabel had a hard time believing the brute ever worried about anyone besides himself. He appeared to lack the required muscles.

  With another of his frequent sneers, Sir Leonard refused the offered hand. “Let me be clear, Trentingham. If it emerges that you are in any way hindering my search, you and your family will suffer dire consequences. Full cooperation will be rewarded. Anything less will be punished—severely.”

  “I understand, your worship.” The earl gave a curt nod.

  “Also understand that you are still under suspicion. Would that I could make a thorough search of your home tonight, but I’m afraid I haven’t the necessary…expertise.”

  Chrystabel wondered what he meant by that. What special knowledge could be required for searching a home?

  The earl cleared his throat. “Begging your pardon, Sir Leonard, but I must remind you that you are on my property. I have not gone so far as to bar you from paying a social call”—Chrystabel nearly burst out laughing at the absurdity of labeling this ‘a social call’—“but such will be the extent of my hospitality.”

  “As I expected.” The justice waved a hand, as if he weren’t bothered. In fact, Chrystabel could have sworn she saw a triumphant gleam in his eye. “I’ve already sent for a force to help me scour the countryside. Shall twenty armed men be sufficient to compel entry?”

  Matthew’s hand tightened around Chrystabel’s—she hadn’t even realized he’d been holding it. Joseph grunted, Lady Trentingham gasped, and Lord Trentingham looked like he was about to be sick.

  And Sir Leonard smirked. “Parliament’s justice will not be subverted. I shall have my men on Saturday, and if my bride hasn’t yet returned, I’ll be bringing them here first. Good evening.”

  With that, he turned on a heel and left.

  SEVEN

  THE MOMENT THE heavy front door thudded to a close behind the Justice of the Peace, everyone in the great room audibly released their breaths.

  “I’ll get her,” Joseph said.

  He strode toward the same doorway Creath had disappeared through. Inexorably curious, Chrystabel trailed him. To her great surprise, no one tried to stop her. She assumed they were too stunned by the news of an imminent attack on the castle to bother themselves over a girl’s inappropriate prowling.

  But after passing through a drawing room and into another corridor, she looked back and realized everyone else was coming along, too.

  They all turned a corner to find a maidservant standing there—standing guard, it would appear. She acknowledged Joseph with a nod, then pulled a crowbar out of a nearby cupboard and handed it to him.

  Chrystabel followed Joseph into a bedchamber and across it, where he unlatched the double doors of a wardrobe cabinet that looked exceedingly large and heavy. Fitting the crowbar into one end of the base, he used it to pry up the bottom. The panel of wood came loose, revealing an opening in the floor that had been hidden.

  Chrystabel gasped when she saw Creath ascending what looked to be a very steep staircase that led down into a dark space below.

  “Watch out for the third step,” Joseph said, reaching a hand to help her up and out.

  “I remember.” As she stepped out of the cabinet, Creath’s legs were trembling and her breathing looked labored. She let Joseph support her over to sit on the bed.

  Despite the grave circumstances, Chrystabel couldn’t help disliking the sight of his hands on another woman. It reminded her of how it had felt to have his hands on her a little while ago. She didn’t want to share that feeling with anyone else.

  Creath drew deep, calming breaths. “I’d forgotten quite how dark it is down there.”

  “We never closed the entrance before,” Joseph said, sounding concerned.

  “I cannot believe we used to play in there for fun.” Creath held a hand to her chest, as if to slow her heartbeat. “Has he left?”

  “For now.” Joseph’s fists clenched. “He said he’d bring men to search the castle if he hasn’t found you by Saturday.”

  All the color drained from her face. “Oh, God.”

  Lady Trentingham moved closer. “We’ll make sure you’re gone by Saturday, dear.” She reached to pat Creath’s shoulder. “That’s four days from now. Surely the weather will improve by then.”

  Creath just nodded, as if she hadn’t really heard.

  Chrystabel had to sympathize with the girl, even if Joseph had just been touching her. “Are you really betrothed to that awful man?” she blurted out.

  “Yes.” The girl choked back a sob. “I hadn’t any choice in the matter. Believe me, if I did…”

  Chrystabel’s heart squeezed. How devastated would she feel at being forced to marry a man she didn’t love—let alone one as odious as Sir Leonard?

  Lady Trentingham sat and wrapped an arm around the anguished young woman.
“Our dear Creath grew up on the neighboring estate,” she told Chrystabel and her siblings. “Her parents and only brother died of smallpox last year, and her father’s brother was killed in the war, so a distant cousin of her father’s inherited the baronetcy. And Sir Leonard Moore assumed Creath’s guardianship, as well.”

  “And he was made a Justice of the Peace,” Joseph put in with a look of disgust. “A post awarded to him by his Parliamentarian cronies. He boasts that he has the ear of Cromwell himself.”

  “The man enjoys power,” Matthew said softly.

  Lord Trentingham grunted. “And he wields a fair bit of it in these parts.”

  “So do you,” his wife reminded him. “You’re the most prominent lord in the county.”

  He snorted. “Once swords and pistols are drawn, I think you’ll find my prominence offers little in the way of physical protection.”

  “Pray pardon,” Chrystabel said, “but won’t the castle provide physical protection? Are not castles built for the purpose of defense?”

  Matthew rolled his eyes. “We live in modern times, Chrys, not the Middle Ages. Lord Trentingham cannot simply sound the trumpets and summon his knight-vassals to the battlements.”

  Chrystabel’s face heated. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Besides which,” Arabel chimed in, “given its large windows and lack of proper fortification, Tremayne is plainly not a true castle. Isn’t that so?” She glanced up at Joseph expectantly.

  “Quite so,” he replied, looking impressed.

  “Tremayne was intended to be a palace within a defensive castle,” Lord Trentingham added. “But the outermost walls were never finished, the bastions and turrets never furnished with cannon armament.”

  “Very interesting,” Chrystabel told him distractedly. She was still focused on her own blunder, followed by Joseph’s reaction to her sister’s astute observations. Did Joseph admire Arabel’s intelligence? Did he think she was smarter than Chrystabel?