Christmas in the Duke's Embrace

by Amanda Mariel

  - .... . .-. . / .. ... / -. . .-- ... .-.-.-

  She frowned. Though she’d learned American Morse Code—or Railroad Code—at her father’s knee, it had been easy enough to extrapolate that knowledge to British Morse Code—or Continental Code. It was merely a matter of listening differently.

  The code repeated itself, and would until someone answered.

  - .... . .-. . / .. ... / -. . .-- ... .-.-.- There is news.

  After a quick glance about the office, she tapped on the appropriate keys of her machine.

  Go ahead. --. --- / .- .... . .- -..

  Several thrilling seconds went by before a response came.

  -- . . - / .- ... .- .--. Meet ASAP.

  Eleanor swallowed hard against the frantic beating of her heart as she pressed the corresponding buttons.

  Where? .-- .... . .-. . ..--..

  Oh, dear Lord, just who was she talking with, and why the need for such cloak and dagger tactics? Her fingers tremored.

  ...- .. -.-. - --- .-. .. .- / ... - .- - .. --- -. Victoria Station.

  When? .-- .... . -. ..--..

  --- -. . / .... --- ..- .-. .-.-.- / .. / ... .... .- .-.. .-.. / ..-. .. -. -.. / -.-- --- ..- .-.-.- One hour. I shall find you.

  She listened intently for several minutes following, but another message didn’t come. Since she hadn’t thought to trace the source of the transition, she’d missed her chance to do so. It had been difficult enough transcribing the faint, scratchy message not meant for her station.

  Now what in tarnation did she do with the information?

  After another quick glance about the room, she looked at the clock sitting dead center on the back wall. Seven o’clock on the dot. Quitting time. She pulled the paper from her machine and wadded up the scrap. No need for evidence of the conversation. Trusting the wad in her pocket, she tidied up her work area, shoved her arms into the sleeves of her long jacket of navy blue wool, grabbed up her matching umbrella and then donned her hat—a wonderful confection of navy and mauve ribbons, seed pearls and a big puffy bow on one side. Such hats were her one weakness; she couldn’t get enough of the millinery creations. They made her feel beautiful even when she knew she was most certainly… not. Striking was as close to good looks as she’d ever achieved, but the hats helped to set her apart from the otherwise drably dressed ladies on the street. Though life might have beaten her down, she didn’t need to dress like it.

  She murmured a faint goodbye to Mr. Gibson, who then nodded in reply. And finally, she fled the telegraph offices.

  The quickest way to Victoria Station was by foot. On a good day, even though the streets were jammed with pedestrian, vehicular and equine traffic—and equally dirty—she could make the journey in under ten minutes. Eleanor pulled on a pair of navy kid gloves as she set off. Desultory snow flurries drifted lazily about the air, so tiny they melted before they ever hit the ground. Pity, that, for at least if it snowed, the blanket of white would temporarily cover the soot and grime and filthiness of the London streets.

  Interesting how snow could make the landscape pristine and new. Too bad it couldn’t work the same magic on people.

  She scowled at the crowds going against her current direction as the niggling hope once more came loose of the box she’d shoved it into. Damaged goods were still broken no matter a covering of fluffy, frozen water. Snowflakes against a darkening sky used to speak of romance and magic during this time of year. Now, it only highlighted what she didn’t have, what made her different from most women like a giant, throbbing, sore thumb.

  Bah! I occasionally realize I am lonely—for companionship—not the touch of a man. That is not a crime, nor does it mean I am weak.

  Eleanor clutched the strings of her handbag tighter. Why did Christmas and everything related to the holiday magnify a person’s faults and shortcomings? Why did it drive home the point that being alone was almost as worse as being a street beggar? Where had her wonder for the holiday gone? Before her first marriage, she’d behaved in much the same manner as Mrs. Anderson. She’d been the wide-eyed innocent with the hope of changing the world… of changing her man. Such stupidity on her part to think that anyone could change, especially if they didn’t realize their actions were wrong.

  Now? She forced a swallow into her suddenly tight throat. Now, she no longer believed in magic or love. Such things belonged in fairy stories and virgins’ dreams. They certainly didn’t have a place with women over thirty who’d mucked up their lives by believing in hope or romance. Lifting her chin, she gazed up into the sky and let the barely-there kiss of the snowflakes touch her cheeks. Out of the corner of her eye, the North Star glimmered, and seized with something she hadn’t done since childhood, she wished on it.

  I wish a gentleman could magically glue all my ragged pieces together and make me whole, a man who will want me despite my scars and prickles, a man who doesn’t mind fighting for my battered heart.

  As the façade of Victorian Station loomed into view, Eleanor sighed. Wishing upon stars was about as silly as hoping any man would act differently than the ones she’d already met.

  At least she had the opportunity for intrigue ahead of her to chase away dreams that would never come true. With the Morse-coded message fresh in her mind, she marched to the front doors of the station and quickly entered amidst a throng of people bound to catch some of the last evening trains out of the city.

  How in the world am I to find the sender of that message when I don’t know what they look like? Or even if the sender was a man or a woman. Bah! I should have asked more questions. Except that would have given away her position as accidental recipient.

  If this whole thing was innocent, so be it, but innocent people didn’t set up clandestine meetings. If there was urgent global news, it would have been included in a telegraph message like all the rest she transcribed daily. The muscles in her stomach clenched. Have I become unwittingly embroiled in a spy’s game?

  Then she had an obligation to ferret out the culprit. A tiny smile curved her lips as she moved along the first platform. How thrilling. Mayhap the skills her father had taught her from his time in the American War Between the States would come in handy. And if she managed to discern a spy from all the potential travelers? What would she do with them?

  Well, she wouldn’t worry about that now. Propping herself at a stone column on one of the platforms, she set about to scrutinize passersby. Assuming the sender of the message would be a man—of course it was, for men were trouble and untrustworthy, the perfect specimens for such a game as this—would he go about hunched in his coat with a muffler obscuring the lower portion of his face? Would he wear a top hat or a bowler? Perhaps not a hat at all, and there was nothing a spectacular set of mustaches couldn’t hide.

  Her heartbeat pounded as she stared into the faces of passing travelers. Was the message she’d intercepted harmless, or did government secrets even now fall? She crossed her arms at her chest and strove to appear nonchalant. Men with nothing to hide didn’t talk in code.

  Then she saw a candidate who might fit her rather murky assumption of what a spy might look like. A tall man, mayhap a tick under six feet in height, ambled in her direction from the opposite side of the station, but on the same platform she stood upon. Clad in a black overcoat, black trousers and equally black dress shoes, his hands were firmly in his pockets. His head was slightly bowed, and his bowler-style hat of black glimmered beneath the lights, for melting snowflakes decorated the wool as well as the broad shoulders of his coat.

  Ah, yes. That gentleman had the requisite air. He looked up to no good in the worst way.

  Slowly, Eleanor straightened. She walked along the platform in his direction but had no plans to waylay him until she’d gotten another good look at him. The firm tap tap of her heels echoed on the floor, quickly muted by the general pedestrian traffic and chatter around her. As she passed the man, their gazes met and held. Gold wire-framed spectacles glinted, and behind the lenses, steely blue-gray eyes arre
sted her attention. Curiosity blazed in those depths along with speculation, and then, just as quickly, their connection broke as they both went in their respective directions.

  Mercy me. A blaze of heat slapped her cheeks and she resisted the urge to fan her face with a hand. A man with intense eyes like that wasn’t a mere traveler.

  When she reached another column, she surreptitiously circled around it so she could traverse the platform in the opposite way she’d come, and when she peered along the length, the man wasn’t there.

  Her heart dropped into the pit of her belly. Had she lost her quarry so soon? Then there was a flap of a long black overcoat, and the game was afoot once more.

  Minutes went by, marked by the heavy pounding of her heart as she chased, he disappeared, she rediscovered him. They moved in tandem through the station, going between platforms, but then the game of her own making shifted and it was he who did the pursuing. Cold panic climbed Eleanor’s spine. Why in the world was he after her? It was inconceivable that he’d discerned she’d been the one to intercept that message.

  Wasn’t it?

  Yet it could be mere coincidence. That man probably wasn’t a spy, and her regard might have made him wary. Perhaps I should continue searching for the contact.

  As her heart climbed her throat, she wove her way in and out of people milling about the nearest platform. The next time she glanced over her shoulder, he’d vanished once again. If those weren’t the actions of a guilty man, she didn’t know what were.

  But that niggle of doubt persisted.

  The shrill blast of a train whistle echoed through the station and she cringed. Before the train slowly pulled away, she caught another glimpse of the man in black on the opposite platform, and then the moving train obscured her vision of him.

  Drat! There was every possibility he was a passenger after all. On the off chance he was not, and she somehow apprehended him, she’d yank him toward a patrolling member of The Met doing his rounds. Her civic duty would be fulfilled, and she’d return to her boarding house knowing she’d made a difference. In what and how, she had no idea, but at least it was something.

  Wasn’t it?

  A longing for the unknown circled through her belly. If he boarded a train, never again would she see those intense eyes… Then she mentally berated herself. Men were not to be trusted, and men with unforgettable eyes even more so. If that weren’t enough, men who were spies were absolutely off limits, no matter how enthralling for the moment, no matter how much the intrigue of the situation set her heart pounding or her blood flowing.

  Forget about him. Giving her head a shake, Eleanor angled along the platform as she hunted for another likely candidate. In a station crammed with people who all, perhaps, could harbor motive, the undertaking was vast and overwhelming. Still, she had intercepted that message, and she owed it to herself to follow through.

  Excerpt

  Amanda Mariel

  Looking for another great Christmas tale? Turn the page for an excerpt from Stealing a Rogue’s Kiss by Amanda Mariel.

  Chapter 1

  Stealing a Rogue’s Kiss by Amanda Mariel

  London, England

  One, two, three, four…Lady Daphne Rosamond counted her steps as she paced the length of the lady's retiring room at the Hawthorn ball. She should be in the ballroom. Gentlemen should be paying her attention. She should be dancing and flirting. Three seasons, for three long tedious seasons Daphne had sat on the sidelines hoping and praying that some worthy gentleman would take notice.

  “There you are. I’ve been searching for you.” Daphne’s cousin, Lady Natalie St. Vela strolled into the room with Miss Lulia Vasile at her side. Natalie paused, drawing her brows together as she studied Daphne. “Is something the matter?”

  “No…yes…I don’t know,” Daphne stuttered, attempting to collect her thoughts.

  Natalie narrowed her gaze.

  Daphne’s cheeks warmed under her cousin’s scrutiny. “I’ve grown weary of sitting on the sidelines. Perhaps it is time I accept my fate and give in to being an old maid.”

  Lulia drew closer, her violet eyes skeptical. “How do you know such a fate awaits you?”

  Daphne waved her hands over her body. “Look at me. I’m plump and shy; not at all the type of woman that gentlemen take notice of. In my three seasons, I’ve only danced a handful of times. No-one has ever come to call, let alone court me.”

  “Oh Daphne,” Natalie rested a hand on her shoulder, “you are lovely. Any gentleman would be lucky to have you. Do not be so hard on yourself.”

  Daphne closed her eyes fighting back tears. How she wished Natalie’s words were true, but they unequivocally were not. Daphne possessed a kind and reserved nature, but she lacked all of the other qualities a man looked for in a wife. She’d never be an English beauty, nor would she ever be comfortable in a crowded room. She shook her head. “You’re wrong.”

  “Take off your glove.” Lulia notched her chin. “Let me have a look at your palm.”

  Daphne swallowed as she stared at the woman, confusion muddling her thoughts. “My glove?”

  Lulia nodded, her raven curls bouncing. “Yes, your glove.”

  Natalie reached for Daphne’s hand then began unbuttoning the white satin glove that covered it. “Lulia reads palms. Let her have a look and she will tell you what your future holds.”

  Daphne jerked back her hand, her gaze flittering from one woman to the next. She did not believe in such nonsense. Fortunetellers were nothing more than frauds—that’s what mama had always told her.

  “What have you got to lose?” Natalie reached for her hand again.

  Daphne interlocked her finger’s stopping the assault. “Mama says—”

  “Blah, blah,” Natalie interrupted. “Stop stalling and remove your glove.”

  Lulia smiled, her eyes sparkling. “Your mama says that fortune tellers are frauds. She’s right you know.”

  Daphne stared at her in shock. How could she admit to such at the very same time she was attempting to read Daphne’s future?

  “Most of them are, but a well-trained gypsy hones her craft. I spent years working on mine.” Lulia flipped her hand over and began tracing the lines of her palm. “This one is my lifeline. This is my love line. Our hands reveal much about our fates.”

  A spark of hope swelled in Daphne's chest. Perhaps Lulia did possess a true talent. Maybe she really could tell Daphne's fortune. If so, wouldn’t she wish to hear it? Daphne fumbled with her glove, pulling her hand free of the satin confines.

  Lulia took Daphne’s hand in hers and began studying the lines. She trailed her fingertip across one, down another. Daphne tried to relax, but her heart beat fiercely as she watched. What if Lulia only told her what she wished to hear? What if she confirmed her fears? Either way, Daphne feared what would be said. She pulled her hand free. "This is a mistake. I don't want to know."

  “Nonsense.” Natalie shook her head. “You’re just afraid of what Lulia will find. Get your head out of the sand and take control of your life.”

  Daphne’s blood warmed, anger sweeping through her at Natalie’s harsh words. “You have no idea what you speak of. I beg you to keep your opinions to yourself.” Daphne snatched her glove from Natalie and tugged it back on.

  How unlike her to act is such a brash manner. She never raised her voice. Never grew so angry that she could not cancel the emotion.

  “Are you sure you do not wish to hear what I have to convey?” Lulia asked.

  Daphne hesitated, her mind swirling with uncertainty. Part of her desperately wished to hear what Lulia saw; the rest of her feared the outcome. Natalie had been correct; Daphne was a coward.

  “Of course she wants to know,” Natalie said.

  Lulia gave a gentle smile. “Daphne?”

  Daphne drew in a slow breath, exhaling it even slower. “Yes. Tell me.”

  “You are not destined to be alone. Love may enter your life, true love. The deeply seeded kind that inspires poems and
endures for all time." She recaptured Daphne's hand then peeled her glove off. “See this?” She trailed her fingertip over the line below Daphne's pinky.

  Daphne nodded, tears pricking her eyes once more. The hope welling within her was nearly too much for her to handle.

  “This is your love line. It’s straight and long indicating a deep and long love.”

  Natalie rested one hand on her hip, cocking it slightly as a smug grin spread over her face. “See, Daphne, I told you there was nothing to fear. You need only get out of your own way. Stop hiding in corners and welcome love to find you.”

  Daphne could not argue for she’d long been a wallflower. Her cousin understood her well and knew her even better. All the same, Daphne would never be comfortable in crowds the way that Natalie was. She simply wasn’t the outgoing social butterfly that her cousin was.

  Lulia gave a gentle squeeze to Daphne’s hand before releasing it. “I’m afraid your situation is not as simple as all that. Love will not just land in your lap.”

  Daphne pulled her lower lip in, nibbling on it. This entire conversation was lunacy. She should not be engaging in any of it. Mama would not approve, and the emotional toll on Daphne was quickly proving too much.

  “Your time is coming to an end. If you do not receive a kiss by Christmastide, you will continue through life unwed.”

  “Christmastide?” Daphne’s hands shook, her heart crumbling as any hope she’d had fled. “That is impossible. It’s but a fortnight away and I haven’t a single admirer. Worse, I will be leaving for the country on the marrow.”

  Natalie took her elbow and leaned closer. “Stop being so dramatic. It’s not at all like you to behave in such a way.”

  “You’re right and I’m sorry, but you know I speak the truth.” Daphne would be spending the holiday at Natalie’s family home, Harington Gardens. Her uncle, the Duke of Sheridan insisted the entire family grace him with their presence, and her mama and papa had readily agreed.