Lords, Snow and Mistletoe: A Regency Christmas Collection

by Bianca Blythe

  Or Hades.

  Perhaps the earl had not been referring solely to the god of the underworld when he’d named his gaming hell Hades’ Lair. Perhaps he’d been referring to himself.

  Lord McIntyre knew.

  Her heart adopted a faster rhythm.

  She only had to wait until a sufficiently dull break in a conversation, someone else’s casual reference to servants, or perhaps to someone venturing onto the subject of deception, for the earl to mention that Flora was not really French and for her whole world to be shattered.

  It shouldn’t have mattered.

  She was not the only maid here pretending to be French. Everyone knew women paid French servants more than English ones. French maids were bestowed with all the glamor of Paris, even if they came from remote villages in Brittany.

  Flora raised her chin and widened her stance, but the movements did not change the fact that perhaps her falsehood would matter, and the new duchess or her husband would dismiss her.

  The earl still held the despised French grammar book in his hands.

  “The Duke of Vernon has no fondness for liars.” Lord McIntyre’s mouth twisted, and Flora was reminded of rumors that Lord McIntyre’s father had been a poor guardian to the duke. For a moment the earl was a little boy again, raised beside his father’s more lauded charges.

  It didn’t matter. Flora and the earl hadn’t been close as children, and they certainly wouldn’t be now. He hadn’t even recognized her.

  “Is there something I can help you with?” Flora asked, retaining her French accent.

  The earl flushed, perhaps remembering he had no place in the duke’s parlor either. “I’ll leave. I left an invitation to a Christmas ball on the silver platter by the door.”

  “Very well, my lord.” Flora curtsied.

  The earl didn’t bother to smile, and there was no kindness in his eyes. He turned and exited the room. The action should have been calming, but her heart continued to race even after the door to the parlor closed, and it continued to race even after the main door closed.

  Chapter Two

  Wolfe scowled and left Callum’s townhome. Since when did he make a habit of entering into conversations with maids? Especially misbehaved ones? It was his own fault for entering Callum’s home. At one point he’d spent so much time there his presence in the home had been normal, but that had changed once Callum married Miss Charlotte Butterworth, when everyone knew Callum should have made Wolfe’s sister his bride.

  Wolfe trudged from the duke’s townhome on Grosvenor Square toward Hades’ Lair. He shouldn’t have bothered to hand deliver the invitation to Callum. The post was able to move from one section of Mayfair to the other, and early November was not a pleasant time for a walk. The sky had remained a consistent gray this entire year, but the wind blustered with a far greater force, as if until now it had only been practicing. He clutched the brim of his beaver hat, lest it decide to investigate its capabilities for flight.

  The irony of the duke’s perpetual absence was not lost on Wolfe. For years he’d urged Callum to relax, to indulge in vices, and finally, he had done so spectacularly: breaking off his betrothal with Wolfe’s sister and eloping with one of this season’s most confirmed bluestockings. Now he was gallivanting about the capital to attend music performances with his new wife, even though Callum had never shown any interest in music.

  Not like Wolfe. Wolfe adored music. Music had been his salvation once, and now it was his solace.

  Wolfe was conscious of approving glances from people as he strolled through Mayfair toward Hades’ Lair. His attire was impeccable—his valet did a splendid job of maintaining his clothes, despite Wolfe’s habit of wandering through London rather than taking a carriage. He sighed, as if exhaling air might also dispel his boredom.

  No.

  He was still bored.

  Finally he ascended the steps to the grand double doors of Hades’ Lair. Gargoyles guised as devils grinned at him from their perch on the stone portico. Perhaps he might never be a research scientist like Lord Somerville or Lord Bowen, but it didn’t matter. His gaming hell brought him joy, no matter how often people said it was nothing to be proud of. After all, he employed people. He made people happy. Was it really such a dreadful occupation?

  The door opened.

  “Good evening, my lord.”

  “Good evening, Jonas,” he said, addressing the doorman whose skill at oriental fighting methods belied his pleasant appearance.

  Other gaming hells might employ burly guards whose appearance was designed to intimidate, but Wolfe had long learned that intimidating his guests was not conducive to encouraging them to relax sufficiently so that they wagered vast sums. This might be a gaming hell, but he wanted it to serve as his guests’ second home. In a world where men married women for mere practicality, second homes were important.

  Perhaps Father would have behaved better if he hadn’t been living in a remote manor home with a woman to whom he was indifferent, where the only thing he could do was to elevate his status, even by abominable means.

  “It’s a full crowd tonight,” Jonas said.

  “Splendid,” Wolfe said.

  At one point Jonas’s words would have brought him pleasure, but Hades’ Lair’s success was consistent. Wolfe had known many men would appreciate a haven of vice to visit, and Wolfe had been eager to capitalize on their instinct.

  Gambling was not an occupation for the thoughtful. Thought had very little to do with gambling, no matter how much some men might pride themselves on their supposed skills at vingt-et-un or whist. The lack of contemplation had always suited Wolfe before. He’d been in the army. He’d killed for years, and contemplation was not something which brought him joy. Quiet was more likely to instill the images of death in his mind.

  Hades’ Lair was a place where men came to be the worst versions of themselves, freed from the observations of their wives, daughters, and in many cases, mistresses. Not all men wanted to discuss politics in the places their parents and grandparents had frequented. Some wanted to gamble and feel the actions of a night still mattered.

  “Your sister is in your office,” Jonas said.

  “Devil it.” Wolfe swept through the gaming hell.

  He marched past gentlemen in red armchairs drinking brandy and puffing on cigars as they played cards. The guests were filled with that peculiar confidence of people lauded as youths as the most beloved boys of Eton and Harrow, but who found themselves old and wizened, their silvery manes an imperfect change from the blond tousled curls they’d had when they still wore skeleton and sailor suits.

  Music played, its tempo always upbeat, so as to instill exuberance in these men. Energy pulsed unceasingly through Hades’ Lair. Festivity was not something relegated to people under thirty-five, and he was happy to create a haven for his guests.

  Normally Wolfe enjoyed striding through the gaming hell, but normally his sister was not here. He quickened his steps.

  “It’s the earl,” Sir Seymour shouted merrily from his customary seat, and a few men raised their crystal tumblers.

  He murmured a greeting and hurried past. At least the men did not mind he was gaining money from them. Naturally the promises of more wealth thrust over his guests, but since Wolfe also intended to have money, ultimately those promises would be unfulfilled for most. At least he wanted to give them good drink and music. He did that more successfully than other clubs which seemed to prize quiet as a virtue, when it was companionship people craved.

  Wolfe knew. He’d grown up in an isolated area, a home filled with three other children, all slightly younger than he was, but all more gifted. The realization he could play a musical instrument had transformed his life and given him the confidence to throw himself in various forms of studies. The fact he could now look over ledgers and manage a large staff were things that brought him constant joy.

  Wolfe entered a corridor and then opened the door to his office.

  His sister reclined in the le
ather chair behind his desk. Her long legs were stretched nonchalantly over it, and her immaculately coiffed hair swayed as she turned her head toward him.

  “What did I tell you about visiting Hades’ Lair?” Wolfe demanded.

  Isla rolled her eyes and set her legs onto the floor. “You never used to mind.”

  “I was lax in my responsibilities as an older brother. No more.”

  “You’re one year older than I am,” Isla said. “And I was always taller until you were fourteen.”

  “You’ve always been exceptionally tall,” Wolfe grumbled. “And that doesn’t negate the fact you shouldn’t be here.”

  “Are you saying your security is not strong?”

  “Naturally not,” Wolfe said. “It is exceptional. Excellent. Quite ex—”

  “Exquisite?” Isla’s eyes glimmered. “Jonas does wear a nice uniform.”

  “I was going more for exemplary,” Wolfe grumbled.

  “I would expect nothing else from you,” Isla said in a soothing tone. “Besides, I wanted to surprise you.”

  “Not a worthy goal.”

  “I take it I’ve achieved it,” Isla said. “Now sit down. No good having you tower over me, even if you are trying to make up for lost time.”

  Wolfe frowned but he took a seat in the rather less luxurious chair opposite Isla. Despite his irritation at his sister’s careless regard for safety, he was happy to see her.

  “What brings you here?”

  “I’m going on a trip,” Isla said. “And I wanted to say goodbye.”

  “You’re leaving London?”

  “I’m leaving Britain.” Isla stretched her arms nonchalantly.

  Devil it.

  Wolfe glanced at the drawer that contained the remaining invitations. “And where exactly are you going?”

  “The French Riviera,” Isla murmured, as if it were utterly natural for an unmarried woman to declare an intention to visit that cesspool of French immorality.

  “I forbid it,” he growled.

  Her eyes widened in feigned innocence. “But brother dear, the French Riviera will be good for my health.”

  “Your health is already excellent.”

  “Maintenance, my dear.”

  “You shouldn’t be gallivanting on the continent. You need to marry and be taken care of by someone.”

  If he’d any doubts in the intelligence of holding a Christmas ball, they vanished. His sister needed to find a new betrothed. The holiday she proposed was dangerous.

  “My last engagement hardly went well. I have no desire to while away in some acquaintance’s country home.”

  He sighed. Her broken engagement had left her adrift, but he would solve that. “When do you intend to leave?”

  “Next week.”

  Devil it.

  “That’s very soon,” he remarked.

  His sister shrugged. “Perhaps.”

  “You are an unmarried woman.” He forced himself to sound casual. “Whom do you intend to travel with?

  “Mrs. Fitzroy,” Isla said. “She’s married to Admiral Fitzroy, who rather emanates safety. Even though you were in the army, you must be aware of his reputation.”

  “Naturally,” Wolfe admitted, and his shoulders relaxed somewhat. At least his sister had not lost all reason.

  From what he knew of Mrs. Fitzroy, the admiral’s wife was not prone to such instances of logic. She was far younger than the admiral and was hardly known for being serious.

  Still, Isla was correct. She would be safe under the admiral’s care. The man didn’t lack money and his protective instincts were strong and honed by the Royal Navy.

  Isla rose and gave him a wide smile. “I will see you for Easter.”

  He cleared his throat. “You mustn’t forget the Christmas ball.”

  “What Christmas ball?” Isla toppled back into her seat.

  He strode to his desk, opened a drawer and found her invitation. “Here you go.”

  She undid the scarlet seal and scanned the contents. “You’re arranging a Christmas ball in Scotland?”

  “Indeed.”

  “I haven’t been to McIntyre Manor in a long time,” she said wistfully.

  “Nor have I.”

  She paused but then shook her head. “Who will attend? People won’t want to make the long journey.”

  “Oh, they will for this,” he said confidently, “and we will have the very nicest ball.”

  “Truly?”

  “It’s a new tradition,” he said blithely. “So it’s important you be there for the grand beginning.”

  She pursed her lips. “But I couldn’t possibly travel to the French Riviera and then go to Scotland so quickly. I’ll have to join Mrs. Fitzroy after Christmas.”

  “That does seem reasonable,” he said lightly.

  Isla frowned and reread the invitation. He could see she was curious and he suppressed the instinct to grin.

  Isla always did care for festivities. A ball was an occasion for her to select a beautiful dress, look divine and swathe herself in the inevitable praise. And heavens knew, he wanted to give that to her. Wolfe knew running Hades’ Lair only tarnished his sister’s reputation. He should have insisted Callum marry her earlier, if only so the duke could have come to the realization then that a match with her was impossible.

  Perhaps he even could have convinced Callum that whatever Wolfe’s father’s sins had been, they were none Wolfe desired to repeat himself. It hadn’t worked like that, and now Callum was blissfully, happily married to someone else, and Isla was unwed and speaking nonchalantly about crisscrossing the continent.

  “We need some traditions,” he said. “You won’t want to be with another family for Christmas. It’s not the same thing.”

  “But we never celebrated Christmas.”

  That was true. In truth, he’d never had much interest in the holiday. His newfound love for it had more to do with its convenience in the calendar.

  He didn’t want to subject his sister to a season. She would be far older than any of the debutantes. No. She needed to find a husband soon. Christmas was the time to do it, whether he cared about the holiday or not.

  He’d already invited the most eligible bachelors of the ton. Anyone who couldn’t brave the cold would be automatically discarded, since it didn’t bode well for continued visits. There was no point procuring a brother-in-law if it meant he’d lose his sister. He’d invited Callum and his new wife, just so everyone would see Isla was not despondent, no matter what the gossip magazines proclaimed in salacious, fabricated details.

  Isla sighed. “I suppose I can consider it.”

  “You can accept,” he said. “You can join Mrs. Fitzroy and her husband in the new year. I know you just want to avoid the season.”

  She gave a wobbly smile. “Very well. I’ll attend.”

  He grinned. “I’ll escort you from here.”

  His sister stood reluctantly. Wolfe offered her his arm, and his sister took it. They exited the office.

  “I didn’t know you had such fondness for Christmas.” Isla moved her gaze over Hades’ Lair, and Wolfe’s cheeks warmed. Usually the only emotion Wolfe felt when he saw the place was pride. He may have been raised in an isolated region of Scotland, but the club was never quiet. His guests laughed and gossiped, and every night, Wolfe was richer than he’d been before.

  For the first time, the constantly flickering candles perched in regularly polished gilt candlesticks seemed...garish. The laughter was at coarse jokes, and the money they lost might matter to them. Perhaps he should not feel pride at having created this gaming hell. He didn’t want this to be where he met his sister.

  She tilted her head and scrutinized him. “I hope you don’t intend me to organize your Christmas ball.”

  Devil it.

  Wolfe had never hosted a single ball, much less one that contained centuries-old traditions. He knew nothing about Christmas.

  “You don’t want to? I’d rather hoped you would.” Wolfe flashed hi
s most charming smile, but though it worked on debutantes and wallflowers, it was rather less successful on his sister.

  “I’ll agree to attend, but I have no desire to prolong my visit. I haven’t forgotten the cold in Scotland.”

  “You can showcase your talents at organization.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I hope you don’t desire to use the ball as an opportunity for me to find another fiancé.”

  “Er—naturally not. I—er—simply adore the holiday.”

  “Adore?” She laughed. “What do you even know about Christmas?”

  “There’s pleasant music and mulled wine and—er—maybe garlands?” His voice rose uncharacteristically as he uttered the last word. He’d never actually attended a Christmas festivity before.

  She smirked. “What sort of pleasant music? People will have high expectations. Some of the guests will care about the holiday.”

  “A surprise, dear sister,” he said and assisted her into his coach. He waited until his driver had hooked up the horses and started on the journey to bring her to his London townhouse.

  Wolfe reentered Hades’ Lair and called for his secretary.

  Isla was correct: a Christmas ball was a large venture, and their parents had never expressed fondness for the holiday, dismissing it as unnecessarily German, just like the current royal family.

  Isla had made her disinterest clear, and he wasn’t going to plan it himself. What did he know about Christmas?

  No. He needed help. He needed a...Christmas consultant. He’d hire the very best expert in Christmas there was.

  Harrison soon appeared. “My lord.”

  “I would like you to hire a Christmas consultant for me.”

  “A Christmas consultant, my lord?” The man’s eyes widened.

  “Indeed.”

  “Forgive me,” his secretary said, “but I am unfamiliar with that occupation. It is possible no one with those qualities exist.”

  “Then we must hope that person exists.”

  Harrison nodded and left the room.

  Wolfe sorted through some sheet music and began to play a song on the piano. The melodic notes distracted him, and he found joy in gliding his fingers over the keys.