Under The Kissing Bough: 15 Romantic Holiday Novellas

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “Blake, look at this.” Dalton frowned. “The bastard admits killing General Teversham, by poisoning, and his previous aide de camp, Lieutenant Snowley, with a fortuitously timed bayonet charge, at Barrouillet.”

  “You cannot be serious.” Without ceremony, the duke snatched the parchment and scrutinized the information. “Bloody hell.” Rylan glared at Nicholas. “Do you realize you just signed your brother’s death warrant?”

  “Only if I allow you to use the proof at trial.” And that was what brought Nicholas to the admiral’s study. “I wish to atone, to make amends, to offer redress not only for my brother’s deeds but also for my past failures. For that, I require your assistance.”

  “I do not follow.” Rylan rubbed the back of his neck. “Am I to petition His Majesty on your behalf, that you might retain the title, as I am not certain even I can manage that?”

  “Or do you want money?” Dalton scratched his cheek. “Is the estate in trouble?”

  “Are you expecting leniency for Lord Cornelius Sheldon?” The Crown Prosecutor flipped through the various correspondences. “Because I am honor-bound to tell you that His Majesty is unlikely to grant such a request.”

  “But you are mistaken, Prosecutor Berwick.” Nicholas shook his head. “I want no mercy or money.”

  “I am confused.” Admiral Douglas studied the controversial missive. “What do you want, Lord Waddlington?”

  “It is not common knowledge, but a long time ago, I was engaged to marry.” Standing before the front window, Nicholas clasped his hands, inhaled a deep breath, opened the door to his memory, and braced for the inevitable tidal wave of excruciating pain. “In fact, the lady and I were betrothed from birth, we became fast friends, and we fell in love.”

  “I never knew that.” Dalton narrowed his stare. “What happened to her?”

  “Life.” Awash in agony and regret, Nicholas shrugged. “But for you to truly understand, I suppose I should start from the beginning.”

  In a tormenting recount of his history, omitting names of the involved parties, he shared his darkest secret, which he had held close to his heart since that horrible November day, when he abandoned Mira to a monster. But he could not describe the final tragic moments, when he sat on the bench as she pursued the coach, as even Nicholas had his limits.

  “Do you know where your former fiancée is, today?” Kindness personified, Admiral Douglas handed Nicholas a brandy. “Have you any contact with her? Is she in a position to entertain your proposal?”

  “Yes, but she will not speak with me. We had a minor—no, a massive falling out, and she will not receive me.” After a healthy gulp of liquid courage, he sat. “That is why I need your help.”

  “What can we do?” Perched in his chair, Dalton propped his elbows to his knees and cradled his chin in his palm. “And how do you know you can rely on us?”

  “Because I aided you and Daphne, when you found yourselves in a difficult position, and you owe me.” And Nicholas was desperate. In that instant, he would trust the devil. “More than that, you value love, and in that spirit there is something else I would share, so you might fathom the grievousness of the situation and the magnitude of my offense.”

  From his pocket, he drew the final piece of the puzzle, which he passed to Dalton. The younger Randolph perused the document, flinched, and met Nicholas’s gaze. Then Dalton gave the note to Rylan, who reacted in a similar fashion. The Crown Prosecutor grimaced as he read the contents, and he offered the parchment to Admiral Douglas, who digested the meaning and cursed.

  “Five thousand pounds in payment for one virgin?” The admiral thrashed the blotter. “Never have I seen anything so vulgar.”

  “And your father accepted the money? He told you this?” Exhaling, the duke loosened his cravat. “Even though he knew you loved the lady?”

  “Shortly after the confrontation, I begged my father to engage the services of a solicitor, that I might enforce the original contract, but he claimed he had done so without success, because the lady favored the more estimable title.” What Nicholas would give to travel back in time and have his chance again. He would not so readily accept his father’s explanations. “When I discovered the receipt among his belongings, I realized he lied to me. He sold my fiancée and with her all hope for happiness.”

  “Now you want her back.” It was a statement, not a question, and the duke speared his fingers through his hair. “Why not approach her? Why not clarify the circumstances and seek reconciliation?”

  “Would that it were so simple.” Of course, Nicholas neglected to mention he made several failed attempts. “Suffice it to say she is not amenable.”

  “Does she reject you in light of the scandal surrounding your family?” The admiral collected the letters. “Perhaps my wife can speak on your behalf.”

  “I am afraid we are beyond mere conversation, Admiral.” Not even flowers gained him entry to her townhouse. Then again, he did not expect her to make it easy. “And Lady Amanda may not be willing to do so, when she discovers the identity of my former bride-to-be.”

  “Is she someone we know?” Inclining his head, Dalton compressed his lips. “Does she frequent the ton’s ballrooms?”

  “She did, but she no longer mingles in society, given she, too, has lost favor.” And he recalled the reason for her ostracization. To Dalton, Nicholas said, “While I cannot presume an acquaintance on the part of everyone else, you were, at one time, quite intimate with her.”

  “Oh, no.” With a start, Dalton blinked and sobered. “You cannot mean who I think you mean.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” With a huff, Rylan peered at Admiral Douglas, Crown Prosecutor Berwick, and then Dalton. “Well, give over, and name your terms and the woman, that we might fulfill your demands, as I will do anything to protect my wife from your relations.”

  “Very well.” Nicholas nodded and recalled the awful day when Almira was torn from his arms and resolved to persevere. “I will surrender into your possession the entire sheaf of correspondence between Cornelius and my father, I will testify on the Crown’s behalf regarding the authenticity of the letters, including the circumstances of their discovery, and I will aid in the successful prosecution of the crimes my brother committed in exchange for your assistance in reclaiming the woman I love.”

  “And the unfortunate creature?” The duke advanced a step. “We cannot tempt you with a sizeable donation to your estate and a personal guarantee you will retain your title?”

  “None of that matters without the one person who holds my heart, unreservedly, and you will help me win her, or I will burn the evidence.” Composed and unperturbed, Nicholas squared his shoulders. “I will have Lady Moreton.”

  T

  On the rare occasions when children pondered their future, they never aspired to a miserable existence marked by the fear associated with toil, poverty, and homelessness. Indeed, as a starry-eyed girl, Lady Almira, the dowager marchioness of Moreton, often dreamed of a life spent in supervision of a large household, the chatelaine’s keys hanging from her waist, with at least six children, and in anticipation of her adoring husband’s every desire. Of course, there was love invested in each aspect of that cherished vision. But the fantasy died the day she married Lodge, the detestable marquess of Moreton, because her heart belonged to another man.

  Widowed, destitute, and on the verge of losing her home, she stood in line at a local vendor’s counter, drew down the hood to shield her face from view, noted the tattered lace edge of her sleeve, and huddled beneath her threadbare pelisse. When a customer passed, Almira bowed her head to avoid detection, as no one in polite society received her.

  How had she fallen so far, so fast?

  “Next, please.” The shopkeeper beckoned with a flick of his wrist. “Ah, Lady Moreton. You have become one of my best clients.” Mr. MacGregor smiled, and a chill slithered over her flesh. “What treasures have you for me today?”

  “Some lovely items, which should fetch a vast deal
more than decent price.” From her reticule, she pulled a magnificent necklace and a matching bracelet, and she prayed they garnered enough to sustain her until she figured out an escape from her current perilous predicament. “This is a rivière of blue diamonds set in the finest gold.”

  “Very nice.” After donning his spectacles, he scrutinized the pieces. “Very nice, indeed. Only I had trouble selling the last baubles I bought from you, when the prospective purchaser discovered the gems previously belonged to the Moretons, and I settled for substantially less profit than I hoped to recover. So I gather you understand why I cannot afford to offer much in the way of compensation, if I buy the articles, at all.”

  “What?” Gasping, she checked her tone and swallowed the lingering remnants of her battered pride. “Please, I beg you, I must sell the jewels, and the money is not for me. It is imperative I meet the payroll for my staff, you see.”

  “Well, because I like you, I could pay seventy-five pounds.” He peered over the edge of his glasses and licked his lips, and she almost vomited. “For both.”

  “That is highway robbery.” She scoffed at the insult. “My husband, the late marquess of Moreton, purchased the valuables from Rundell and Bridge, on Ludgate Hill.”

  “Impressive but not enough to overcome the taint of scandal, I am afraid.” Then he narrowed his stare. “Is that coral about your throat?”

  “Yes, it is Cannetille Sardinian red coral, to be exact.” Recalling the afternoon Lord Nicholas Sheldon, her first fiancé, gifted her the expensive trinket, she caressed the smooth beads. “But this is not for sale, sir, as it is a precious keepsake.”

  “Are you sure?” The entry bell signaled the presence of another customer, as Mr. MacGregor admired what she considered a priceless memento, and Almira shrank beneath her pelisse. “Red coral is very popular, right now, and I could give you one-hundred and fifty pounds for the entire lot.”

  “One-hundred and fifty pounds?” The number danced before her eyes, yet her heart sank, as she pondered yielding the last possession that harkened to fonder days and the singular link her former self. But that delicate ingénue had been destroyed in a matter of tortuous hours, by Lord Moreton’s incalculable cruelty on their wedding night, and the hard façade she wore emerged over months of extended, unspeakable abuse. Perhaps it was time for a change, time to forswear what she would never reclaim. “And you will pay this instant?”

  “Of course.” He nodded.

  “Yet, I believe one-hundred and seventy-five a more equitable sum.” With a quick check of the immediate vicinity, she reached behind her neck, unhooked the fastener, drew the token of genuine affection from her person, and toyed with the misshapen orbs still warm from her body heat. At a crossroads, she hesitated, as it was so difficult to let go of the final lingering trace of the unspoiled and naïve girl who once believed in fairy stories, knights in shining armor, and a love that spanned a lifetime. “The clasp is fourteen-carat gold trimmed in seed pearls.”

  “But I will have to have it restrung.” The shopkeeper frowned, as she handed him the necklace.

  “The cost of doing business, I presume.” As he collected her belongings, she struggled to maintain her composure, and when he swept the pieces from sight, she bit her bottom lip and stifled a sob of woe. In her ears, her pulse pounded a rhythm of gloom, her knees buckled, and she ached to scream, as he calmly wrote a currency note. “Can you hurry, as I am late for an appointment?”

  “Sign my ledger, Lady Moreton, and our transaction is concluded.” The mere mention of her name inspired whispers from the back of the store, and Almira almost swooned. “As always, it is a pleasure to be of service.”

  “Thank you, Mr. MacGregor.” How she detested expressing gratitude to the miserable cheat, but the situation was of her own making.

  Shielding her face with her hand, she navigated the far side of the shop, to avoid additional patrons. But as Almira neared the exit, someone uttered an invective she dared not acknowledge.

  Outside, she skittered up Bond Street a block and located the hired gig. As usual, the driver did not provide assistance, so she yanked the handle, opened the door of the nondescript black rig, climbed inside, and eased to the squabs. That brought her full circle, returning her thoughts to the cause of her bleak condition.

  The fall from grace.

  At some point after Lodge’s death from suspected heart failure, which she questioned, given she did not believe him in possession of said organ, she attempted to assume control of her fate. In a thrilling quest for power and prestige, she schemed, conspired, and manipulated those who might champion her, which ended with disastrous consequences.

  “You have no one to blame but yourself, Almira.” Sighing, she peeked through a part in the drapes and lamented her mistakes—so many mistakes. The streets of Mayfair bustled with the activity she once enjoyed, but now she hid in the shadows.

  When the driver pulled to the curb, the equipage barely slowed before she leaped to the sidewalk. To avoid further embarrassment, she paid in advance for the hack, so she rushed up the entry stairs and sought shelter inside her home, her sanctuary. In the foyer, a suspicious looking man stood.

  “Lady Moreton, I presume. We meet, at last.” The stranger bowed. “I have heard much about you, but the descriptions pale in comparison to your beauty.”

  “Oh?” Although etiquette required her to extend a hand in welcome, she retreated to the hall tree, doffed her pelisse, and tugged off her gloves. “Are we acquainted, sir? As I do not recall a connection, and you are not familiar to me.”

  “My name is Jenkins, and I have come to propose a business arrangement with you.” Something in his demeanor gave her pause, and she held tight to her reticule. “I own the Alhambra, in Marylebone, and several of my gentlemen patrons have expressed an interest in you.”

  “I beg your pardon.” Her blood ran cold, and she stomped a foot. “Get out of my home, this instant.”

  “Now, now.” The bastard chuckled. “Do not be so quick to turn your nose up to me, Lady Moreton. I have it on good authority that your situation is grave, and you could use the money. Believe me, I am prepared to be very generous, as you are quite in demand, and we could strike a mutually beneficial accord, in exchange for your services.”

  “I would live on the streets and plead for crumbs before I deigned to entertain the likes of you and your so-called business, sir.” With a firm grasp of the knob, she hauled open the oak panel and then pointed for emphasis. “Get out, and do not dare darken my doorstep, again, you blackguard.”

  “As you wish.” On the threshold, he halted, and his brandy-tinged breath almost knocked her to the ground. “If you change your mind, you can reach me at my establishment, given I am not too proud, and we could negotiate a lucrative arrangement.”

  “That will never happen.” Shrieking in disgust, she slammed the door on him.

  “My lady, I did not hear you return.” The only remaining servant in Almira’s employ, Mildred waved from the landing. “Why did you not ring the bell, that I might greet you, child?”

  “I did not wish to bother you.” Rolling her shoulders, Almira walked into the drawing room, which now functioned as the primary living quarters, given she could no longer afford to heat the entire residence. “But I succeeded in securing the money we need to survive for another few months, so we will eat this holiday season, and I made a decision that will carry us into the New Year, my dear friend.”

  “Shall I pour you a sherry, my lady?” The longtime lady’s maid, more a favored old aunt than an employee, hobbled to the side table, lifted a decanter, and filled a glass. “This should ease your chill.”

  “What were you doing upstairs?” At the hearth, Almira grabbed the fireplace poker and stoked the blaze. “How many times must I tell you that I do not want you overtiring yourself?”

  “I try to keep the second floor tidy and dusted, and it is my job, my lady.” Mildred humphed. “What did that surly character want with you, if you do
not mind my asking?”

  “Presumably, to offer me an occupation in his house of ill-repute, as if I would ever consider such a heinous proposition.” It hurt Almira that Mr. Jenkins thought her so low. Turning, she surveyed the ripped and frayed damask upholstery, the worn velvet drapes that covered the front window, and the faded rugs. “Mildred, what say you to a charming little cottage in the country?” Hugging herself, Almira assessed another gift from Lodge, Vermeer’s Girl with a Flute. “I wonder how much this painting would fetch at auction?”

  “Lady Almira, you have sold so many of your treasured possessions, already, just so you can survive in this sorry state.” The maid frowned, as a tear streamed her cheek. “How your family could abandon you after what you endured is beyond me, but I will never leave you, sweet child.”

  “Please, you must not cry, as I rely on your strength to persevere.” Throwing decorum to the wind, Almira hugged Mildred. “I am going to contact my solicitor and list the townhouse, and the proceeds should provide more than enough to purchase a modest residence in some quiet town on the coast, where we can bid farewell to all the ugliness of the past and live in peace. Until then, we will guard the money I secured today, and we will not go hungry, but I fear ours will be a not-so-happy Christmas.”

  Pounding at the door brought them apart.

  “Now who could that be?” Sniffing, Mildred pulled a handkerchief from her apron pocket and blew her nose. “If that Mr. Jenkins thinks he can insult you in my presence, I will beat him over the head with my cast-iron skillet, that I might knock some sense into him.”

  “You are a dear, and I almost feel sorry for the scoundrel.” Almira laughed and warmed herself by the fire. In her mind, she organized her thoughts, formulated a strategy, and composed a list of tasks. For the first time since Lodge’s death, she coveted hope.