The Christmas Visit: Comfort and JoyLove at First StepA Christmas Secret

by Moore, Margaret

  Though he’d been invited to stay at the manor, Drew had refused. He was pleased to attend these particular festivities, but he would want a quiet place to retreat. The English were so infernally gregarious and nosy, always meddling in others’ business. He usually preferred the quiet of his hunting lodge in the Scottish Highlands and, as soon as the wedding was a fait accompli, he would return to that blissful solitude.

  He straightened the lapels of his dark jacket and stepped farther into the hall. With no direction and no host on hand to greet him, he was undecided how to proceed. Right, to a room from which squeals of laughter emitted, or left to a room where the strains of a piano and violin could be heard? If there was a library with a bottle of good malt whiskey, that’s where he’d find Edward Mackay. But first he’d take the lay of the land.

  He turned left, opting for the less socially demanding music room. He entered and stepped to the side, fancying that he’d made himself nearly invisible against the wall. Glancing around, he found the assembly even less formal than he’d imagined. A violinist occupied the opposite corner, tuning his instrument, and an astonishing blonde sat on the wooden bench, her graceful hands positioned on the keys of the pianoforte as an attentive young man turned the pages of a music book for her. They seemed congenial, almost intimate. Drew suppressed an unexpected twinge of envy.

  The man glanced toward the door, then dismissed Drew as inconsequential and returned his attention to the girl. She blushed fetchingly, and Drew realized her companion had likely given her a compliment. And why not—the woman took his breath away. Golden hair had been swept to her crown, fastened with a bow of French blue velvet to match her gown, and left to tumble in a cluster of curls down the middle of her back. The swanlike arch of her neck exposed one of the most tempting throats he had ever seen—a throat that begged kisses. His kisses.

  Lord! How long had it been since he’d been so taken with a woman’s appearance? A demure blush? Years? Decades? Ever? He could not look away, even when the man lifted one of her hands from the keys to press a gallant kiss on the smooth back.

  Ah, this, then, was a full-blown courtship. Something un-characteristically possessive shot through him. Too bad.

  The woman glanced at an ormolu clock on the mantel near the piano and gave a little start. She withdrew her hand, giving the appearance of reluctance to let go, and stood. Her voice was soft and musical. “I must hurry to Olivia’s sitting room for a fitting of my attendant’s gown. Will I see you later, Mr. Lingate?”

  “Count upon it, Miss Wardlow,” the man said.

  The lovely Miss Wardlow hurried toward the door. Her gaze met his for a moment and her cupid’s-bow mouth curved upward in a fetching smile. She passed him at a near run, leaving a delicate floral scent in her wake. Drew felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach—a little breathless and utterly dismayed at having been caught unaware by the full force of her attention.

  Miss Wardlow, he could tell, was not a green ingenue, but a woman with a depth of emotion evident in her soft blue eyes. The smile she had given him was a mixture of surprise and curiosity, and Drew found himself wondering what might have happened if she had not been spoken for.

  As he stood there musing the oddities of fate, another woman hurried into the room and joined Miss Wardlow’s companion. She also blushed prettily and murmured some apology for being late for their appointment. She was lovely in her own right, but a pale copy next to Miss Wardlow. Mr. Lingate took her hand and pressed an ardent kiss on the back—a trifle more ardent than the one he had given Miss Wardlow. Interesting. Mr. Lingate must be a very popular young man, and not nearly as shy as he appeared. Much to Drew’s amusement, the man in question gave him an annoyed glance—a clear invitation to leave. Well, then, all was fair in love and war, and perhaps Miss Wardlow was fair game after all. With nothing further to hold his interest here, Drew decided it was time to explore a little further and find his host.

  Charity Wardlow hurried through her fitting and then skipped down the back stairs and along the corridor toward the front of the manor, anxious to rejoin the festivities. There was talk of a skating party at the pond across the meadow tonight. She was a poor skater, but there would be an opportunity for her and Mr. Lingate to have a few minutes alone. Perhaps he would catch her if she contrived to fall.

  But best of all, she just knew he would propose before they had all gone back to London after Olivia’s wedding. She had seen the signs—damp palms when he held her hand or asked her to dance, tongue-twisting nerves when he tried to talk to her, his inability to meet her gaze head-on. Yes, he would blurt out his proposal very soon now. And when he did, she would be ready with her answer. Yes! She had been waiting earnestly to say that word for the past three years. Her father would have been so proud, and her mother would simply smile in that vaguely interested way that said she really didn’t understand.

  As she passed the library, her blue silk shawl slipped from her shoulders. She turned around and knelt to retrieve it. In that moment of hesitation a voice carried from the library. Lord Edward Mackay, Olivia’s intended, was speaking in an angry tone. She was poised to rise and continue on her way when a single word stopped her.

  “…baby! What gall,” Edward was saying.

  “Unquestionably,” Edward’s brother, Lawrence, agreed. “But the problem remains. You will have to tell Olivia.”

  “Never!” Edward vowed.

  “But the babe’s mother is here in Great Tew for the wedding and—”

  “Nothing must mar this wedding or—”

  “—and is threatening to—”

  “—or delay it,” Edward finished. “I’ve waited too long for this. I will not tolerate any interference.”

  “Interference? Did you hear me, Edward? She is here, and threatening to cause a scandal. She gave me this as a token to prove her claim. I’d say that is more than mere interference.”

  Charity covered her mouth to stifle a gasp. A baby! Edward Mackay had an illegitimate child. And Olivia did not know. The man was an utter cad! She peeked through the crack of the door to see Edward accept a lace-edged handkerchief from his brother. He glanced down at it, then opened his desk drawer and dropped it inside before turning back to his brother.

  “Pay her off,” Edward said. “Give her what she wants.”

  “You know there’ll never be an end to it if we submit to blackmail,” Lawrence said. “Tell Olivia. She will understand, Edward. Surely you can trust her to understand?”

  “I cannot risk it.”

  “It’s the only way. Even illegitimate, this baby is the closest thing the Mackays have to an heir at the moment. Olivia is bound to find out.”

  “Later. After the wedding,” Edward insisted.

  “Would she cry off if she knew?”

  “She is frayed at the edges from all the planning and arrangements, and now the activity and the guests. Who knows what might set her off?”

  “If such a thing could change her mind, perhaps she is not the woman for us.” Lawrence sighed.

  “Us? Have ye gone daft, Lawrence? You are not the one standing before the preacher, are ye? It isn’t your heart she holds in her hand, is it? No, it’s mine, and I’ll be the one to make the decision. Olivia will not be troubled with this bit of ugliness. At least until our vows are said.”

  Oh, would she not? Charity thought. If the knowledge that her husband had an illegitimate child would make a difference in her decision to marry, then Olivia had a right to know before it was too late and, as her friend, Charity had an obligation to tell her if her fiancé would not.

  She stood, her shawl trailing from her hand, and whirled toward the front hall. She nearly fainted when she found that disturbingly intense stranger from the music room leaning one shoulder against the corridor wall, his arms crossed over his chest. Obviously he’d been watching her the whole time.

  He gave her a lazy, somewhat cynical smile and said, “Your eavesdropping, Miss Wardlow—is it habitual or occasional?”
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  He knew her name? She was certain she didn’t know his. She would have remembered that crooked smile, the sparkling eyes of such a dark blue they could be called midnight, the deep, rich voice with a trace of a Scottish burr. And she certainly would have remembered the width of those shoulders and the dark chestnut hair. But that insulting tone! How dare he speak to her in such a manner?

  “I was not eavesdropping, sir,” she whispered, glancing over her shoulder to the library door. “I dropped my shawl and stopped to retrieve it.”

  “And just thought you’d have a peak in the library? Or was it the sound of scandal that drew your interest?”

  “Shh! I…I inadvertently heard something mentioned that could be of concern to someone dear to me.” She couldn’t for the life of her think why she was bothering to defend herself to this stranger.

  “Concern, eh?” The man chuckled, a sound both suspicious and genuinely amused. “Now there’s an excuse for meddling that I haven’t heard before.”

  “I am not meddling,” she sniffed.

  “From where I am standing, Miss Wardlow, it looks very much as if you are a typical Englishwoman, always meddling in other people’s business.”

  Charity couldn’t decide which insult to reply to—the general one to meddling Englishwomen or the more specific one to her. Instead she lifted her nose in the air. He caught her arm as she brushed past him and a frisson of excitement raced through her at the unaccustomed familiarity of his strong fingers circling her forearm. Not even Mr. Lingate took such liberties without her consent.

  “If you are not meddling, Miss Wardlow, what do you intend to do with the information you have just acquired?”

  “Why, as distasteful as it is, there is only one thing I can do. Tell Olivia, of course.”

  “I wouldn’t, were I you.”

  Something in the dark tone held a warning, and she was in no mood to let such a thing pass. “Is that a threat?”

  “If it were a threat, you would not have to ask.” The man leaned closer, intensity in his eyes. “I would simply caution you to consider the consequences of your disclosure before you make it. It could be far-reaching and life altering.”

  “The same could be said of keeping the secret, sir. Olivia Fletcher is my friend. What sort of friend would I be if I allowed her to wander into a disastrous circumstance which she had every right to know, but which I had kept from her?”

  “You may not know anything. You chanced to overhear a few words that may possibly have sounded worse than—”

  “May possibly?” she asked. The man was infuriating! “Are you asking me to disregard the evidence of my eyes and ears?”

  “Things are not always what they seem, Miss Wardlow. Your eyes and ears can deceive you.”

  “Things are usually exactly what they seem, sir. Lord Edward has lied.”

  He dropped his voice and glanced toward the library door. “If you do not want to jeopardize your friend’s future, keep your silence.”

  “If you knew what I overheard, you would not ask that.”

  “I have excellent hearing. I know precisely what you heard.”

  “Yet you’d have me betray my friend?”

  “I know my friend. Edward Mackay would never build his life on a lie. Whatever is afoot, he is blameless.”

  She shrugged, finding his loyalty admirable if a little naive. “Nevertheless, my obligation is to my friend.” She glanced down at his restraining grip on her arm.

  He released her and stepped back, raising one dark eyebrow in a challenge. “Would you consider a wager, Miss Wardlow?”

  Charity frowned. “A wager?”

  “Aye. I will give you odds that my friend is not guilty of what you think. My judgment against yours.”

  Tilting her head to one side, Charity narrowed her eyes and said, “How would you prove such a thing, sir? You cannot simply ask him. He has already damned himself as a liar by keeping the truth from his intended.”

  “I see your point, although I do not agree that omission constitutes a lie. Very well, then. We shall not ask Mackay. Have you any suggestions for proving your case, Miss Wardlow?”

  Charity gave it a moment’s thought. “I could investigate the circumstances,” she mused. After all, investigations were her forte with her bluestocking friends, the Wednesday League, and they hadn’t had a good puzzle for months. “Yes,” she said, “a little investigation should get right to the bottom of this.”

  “Do you swear you will not tell anyone what you’ve overheard until you can verify it?”

  “No. If we have not uncovered proof, one way or the other, by the wedding, we must tell Olivia before she says her vows. That is only fair.”

  “We?” he said, raising a disbelieving eyebrow. “Am I to understand that you expect my assistance in this…this investigation?”

  “Of course. We only have five days, and the next is the wedding, and it was your idea.”

  “How was it my idea?”

  “You are the one suggesting the wager and requiring more proof than my eyes and ears. Were it not for you, I would be telling Olivia this very moment.”

  The stranger heaved a long-suffering sigh. “You could show a little charity in view of the season, Miss Wardlow.”

  She smiled. “It’s a bargain, then. Five days, sir. We had best get busy. I shall catch up to you later this afternoon and we shall plan our strategy.”

  Strategy? Who was this nosy little English miss? Drew watched her walk away, the sway of her blue gown hinting at the curve of her hips. What a delectable morsel she was, all haughty principle and moral high ground. As distasteful as the idea of nosing around Mackay’s business was, keeping Miss Wardlow’s company could be worth the price.

  This gathering had just become more interesting. Yes, indeed. Miss Wardlow had a lot to learn about the “gray” world most of society inhabited, and he was just the man to teach her. Who was more familiar with moral ambiguity than he?

  And, if what he suspected was true, Miss Wardlow was about to learn a more devastating lesson than any he could teach her. Her Mr. Lingate would, evidently, lie to her—well, mislead her, at the very least. There was trouble brewing there, but damn if he’d interfere—it was none of his business.

  As the hem of Miss Wardlow’s skirt disappeared around the corner, he had the sudden premonition that he should have made a strategic retreat and allowed Edward Mackay to handle his own business. Good Lord! Had he just become a meddler?

  Chapter Two

  Charity’s mind whirled as she set her teacup aside and stood. Olivia Fletcher, the radiant bride-to-be, smiled and patted the sofa cushion beside her. “Do not run off so soon, Charity. You’ve barely sat down. We have yet to discuss the Christmas Eve supper. Edward thought it might be fun to have a medieval feast and a Lord of Misrule for the festivities that night. I believe Edward said the Scottish called him the Abbot of Unreason. I know it isn’t done anymore, but for just one evening, it cannot hurt. Who do you think we should ask?”

  “I—” she glanced around at the other ladies “—I have not met all the guests, so I really have no idea who would make the best jester.”

  “Someone with a droll humor,” Grace Forbush contributed. Ever precise, she whisked the cake crumbs from her skirt to her palm and transferred them to her saucer. “Surely one of your fiancé’s friends would meet that criteria, Olivia. Edward himself is wickedly amusing.”

  Olivia smiled dreamily. “He is, I confess. I can imagine the sort of chaos he would cause. But I believe it is considered bad form for the host to be Lord of Misrule.”

  Charity did not care if they appointed the devil himself. She simply wanted to find the handkerchief that Edward Mackay had hidden in his desk drawer. At the moment it was her only clue to the identity of the woman Lord Edward had wronged. With more and more people arriving daily in town and at Wyecliffe Manor for the wedding, it might be impossible to locate the woman. She needed to begin her investigation at once.

  “I would
love to stay and chat, Olivia, but I am deplorably late in my correspondence. Mama will be waiting to hear that I’ve arrived safely, and I want to make the afternoon post.”

  “Go on, then, but return to us as soon as possible,” Olivia conceded. She squeezed Charity’s hand before letting go.

  As Charity entered the hallway, she caught sight of Julius Lingate lurking near the doorway. He was holding her heavy shawl and signaled her to follow him outside. She pushed thoughts of the handkerchief aside as excitement raced through her. Was this the moment? Had he finally screwed his courage up to the sticking point? Would he declare for her now? She glanced over her shoulder before following him. Yes, they were quite alone.

  A light dusting of snow revealed Julius’s footsteps around the side of the house to a small terrace. A stone bench sat between two large arbor vitae, insuring a degree of privacy. Julius must have picked the spot just for its intimacy.

  He stepped from behind one shrub and wrapped the woolen shawl around her shoulders. “There you are, my dear Miss Wardlow. I would not have you catching a chill on my account.”

  She felt a blush heat her cheeks. He really was the most thoughtful of men. They were going to be so very happy. She could almost picture his joy when she informed him, after his proposal, that she was not the pauper he thought her.

  “You must be wondering why I drew you out here, eh?”

  “Well…” she demurred.

  “Deuced difficult to find a private place to talk with all this hubbub going on.” He brushed the snow off the bench and indicated that she should sit.

  Charity could feel the chill creep through her gown to invade the backs of her thighs and her bottom as she sat. But none of that mattered now. The only thing that mattered was that Julius was about to declare for her! “You wanted to be private, Mr. Lingate?”