How the Dukes Stole Christmas

by MacLean, Sarah

  Except for the post-dinner cooking demonstration in the kitchen. How in God’s name would she manage it? After Duke’s unusual request, she had raced below stairs. She instructed the kitchen maids to gather the ingredients listed on the recipe card and then clean the kitchen as best they could to make it presentable. Mrs. Riley had unfortunately already departed, so Rose hadn’t even been able to ask the cook for advice.

  How hard could it be to make shortbread cookies? All one needed to do was follow the instructions carefully.

  Never mind that her last three attempts at baking cookies had all failed miserably, each time for a different reason.

  “Breathe,” Henry said quietly at her side. The two of them watched the board members from the entryway. “You will figure out the cookies. Just stick to the recipe—and stop staring at Havermeyer. You are supposed to be happily married.”

  She sent him a sharp glance over the rim of her champagne glass. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “You know exactly what I am talking about—not that I can blame you. He is striking.”

  The man was indeed striking. Her skin prickled with awareness whenever she was near him. “And unmarried.”

  “Staked a claim, have you?”

  “Do not be ridiculous. He is my employer. And he thinks we are married.”

  “Good point. Though I must say, I have noticed him watching you when he believes you are not paying attention.”

  Duke Havermeyer, watching her? Probably to ensure she did not screw up his campaign to win back the board. “Sure—and next you’ll say you have a bridge in Brooklyn to sell me.”

  He chuckled. “Doubt if you must, but we shall see. What is the story behind the scar, I wonder?”

  She studied the fascinating mark on Havermeyer’s forehead. “Initially, I thought a circus accident, or perhaps a broken bottle in a saloon brawl. Of course, there is always the angry mob theory. My current favorite, however, is a crystal figurine thrown by a scorned lover.”

  “I can see you have hardly given this any thought at all,” he drawled. “Is your journalistic heart quivering with desperate curiosity?”

  Yes, it rather was. “If not for the scar, he would be too pretty. I just find it interesting, is all.”

  “If you say so. Shall we mingle?”

  “I suppose—oh, I forgot. Havermeyer thinks you made your fortune in silver mining.”

  His body jerked in surprise. “He what?”

  She patted his arm. “To be fair, I told him you were in silver. He chose to interpret it as silver mining. Do not be surprised if he asks you about it.”

  Henry began to sputter, but Rose ignored him, towing him into the room. “There she is,” a booming male voice—Havermeyer’s—said. “There’s our most popular writer.”

  “Good evening,” she said to the room at large. “Welcome to our home.”

  One by one, the guests approached, hands outstretched and smiles in place. They all seemed genuinely happy to meet her, and she tried to play her part. Duke watched from a distance, arms folded over his chest, a proud expression on his handsome face. His eyes, though… His gaze burned with a raw intensity she could not name, one that warmed her in dark places, places an unmarried woman should not yet know about.

  Yes, but you are playing a married woman tonight. Perhaps a little flirtation—

  Heavens, from where had that thought come? Staring at her nearly empty glass of champagne, she handed it off to Henry. No more spirits. She could not ruin the evening with inappropriate thoughts about her employer, even if he was the most compelling man in the room.

  Besides, what did she know about men? She hadn’t ever been seriously courted, too busy with her writing career to bother. There would be time enough for romance later in life, after she and her mother were financially secure. For now, her focus had to remain on her job as Mrs. Rose Walker.

  The board members expressed admiration for her and her column, while the wives peppered her with questions and comments about Mrs. Walker’s tips. Did cayenne pepper really work for mice? Could one truly remove stains on the skin by using the juice from a tomato? What did she think about using kerosene to prevent rust on silver?

  She answered them patiently. After all, all types of women comprised her readers. Rich, poor, middle-class…It made no difference. Women like this were the reason her column had succeeded. The least she could do was share the wisdom she’d gleaned since first posing as Mrs. Walker.

  “Havermeyer, you’ve got quite a marvel on your hands,” one of the board members crowed to Duke.

  “I could not agree more.” Duke toasted Rose with his champagne glass, sending her a wink. “We are fortunate to have her.”

  Her breath hitched, a giddy sensation filling her chest. A wink? She hadn’t seen that coming, not from such an imposing, serious man. She cleared her throat. “Thank you. I only hope you are just as pleased after dinner has concluded.”

  Everyone chuckled, assuming the statement a joke. Rose was utterly serious, however. Mrs. Riley had prepared the entire dinner a few hours ago, unable to stay, seeing as her daughter was about to give birth. A kitchen maid would be managing the warming and plating. It was not ideal, but what else could they do on such short notice?

  There was no room for error tonight.

  Henry leaned in toward her ear. “John’s given me the sign,” he said, referring to the footman who would lead the dinner service. “We should gather everyone to the dining room.”

  A weight settled in her stomach and she struggled not to grimace. “Cross your fingers,” she whispered back.

  As they gathered around the long dinner table, Duke noted he had been placed two seats away from Mrs. Walker. Before anyone saw, he switched the small card bearing his name with the man next to him, the person directly to her right. A pang of guilt went though him. The proper thing to do was to sit in his assigned seat, allow another to be charmed by her.

  Yet he wanted the chance to get to know her better, which confused him. She was married and he had no need for a platonic friendship with a woman. Still, he found her fascinating, this young woman with an incredible wealth of knowledge at her fingertips. And was she not his employee, an HPC commodity he needed to cultivate and protect? He couldn’t have her going off to another paper instead…

  Decision made, he claimed the chair beside her, with no plans whatsoever to move.

  Everyone settled, and Mr. Walker took the customary position at the opposite end of the table. Duke studied the man, purely out of mild curiosity. What sort of gent had the popular columnist wed? Were they happy together? They were solicitous of one another, friendly, but had it been a love match? And why in God’s name did it matter to Duke?

  The man on Duke’s right, Mr. John Cameron, leaned over. “Cannot wait to see what she serves. This dinner party was a stroke of genius on your part, Havermeyer. Mrs. Walker is one of the city’s most famous—and reclusive—residents.”

  “I merely wanted to show the board my appreciation,” Duke said.

  Cameron made a sound in his throat. “Please. We all know you are worried after what has happened. However, you cannot blame us for being concerned about the newspaper’s reputation after such flimflam.”

  Mrs. Walker tapped her crystal wineglass with the tines of her fork. “Now, I must insist on no business discussions at the table.” She lifted a pointed brow at Cameron and Duke. “Tonight we shall have pleasant conversations with which to create harmony at this festive time of year.”

  The guests beamed at her, nodding in agreement. She gestured toward a footman and he began pouring the wine at the table.

  “I hope you do not mind my making an example of you,” she murmured to Duke.

  “On the contrary, the reminder was a welcome one. We should stick to proper etiquette in all things this evening.”

  “Yes, of course. Although I am fairly certain that switching name cards defies proper etiquette.”

  Heat washed over him. “
I hadn’t realized anyone saw.”

  “Likely I was the only one. Do not worry, I won’t tell.”

  He leaned in slightly. “You are not allowed to tattle on the boss. It is actually in your contract.” That got a laugh out of her, and he found himself smiling, pleased he could amuse her.

  “Ah, so is that how you keep your sins private?”

  He opened his mouth to comment on said sins, but then closed it. This…almost felt like flirting. Of course, it had been some time since he’d flirted with a society woman. Perhaps such interactions had changed in recent years, become more casual.

  Somehow he doubted it. He was beginning to suspect that Mrs. Walker in person was not as rigid as the woman from the newspaper column.

  You cannot flirt with her. She is married.

  Thankfully, her attention was engaged elsewhere and Duke was able to focus on his wine. He and Cameron made small talk while they waited for the first course.

  “Are you a fan of horseracing?” Mrs. Walker asked, obviously overhearing the conversation between him and Cameron.

  Before he could answer, Cameron craned his neck toward her. “Havermeyer’s got one of the best stables in New York.”

  One of her brows climbed. “Is that so? I am afraid I know nothing about horses.”

  “Do you ride?” Duke asked.

  “No. Never learned how.”

  A memory haunted him. Hadn’t she written a column with riding tips not long ago? No, he must have read that elsewhere. “Was there an incident in your past, such as what happened to frighten you off dogs?”

  Her mouth opened and closed before she said, “You really do read my column.”

  “Of course. Why would I lie?”

  “I thought you were merely being polite.”

  He could feel his skin heat again and resisted the urge to fidget with his collar. “I’m much too selfish for that. Anyway, I am happy to assist you with riding lessons.” He added, “Along with Mr. Walker, of course.”

  “That is a very kind offer. I’m afraid I spend most of my time indoors, however.”

  “Quite understandable,” another guest said. “Considering the topics in your column. Doubtful many ladies would like to hear about tennis or badminton.”

  Her tone remained polite, yet deep grooves appeared between her brows. “On the contrary, many women are interested in physical pursuits. Yes, I believe you’ve provided me with an excellent idea for my column. After all, how many recipes and cleaning tips am I able to provide? Perhaps an unexpected, unusual topic would be a refreshing change every now and again.”

  “I thought we were to refrain from speaking business,” Duke said, unable to keep from teasing her.

  He was rewarded when she chuckled. “Touché. A thought for another day.”

  The footmen began bringing in small plates. Cameron rocked back and forth in his seat, the man nearly apoplectic with excitement. One would think he was dining with the Charles Ranhofer in the Delmonico’s kitchens—though he supposed that, to many, Mrs. Walker was equally as popular as the renowned chef.

  “These are fresh Blue Point oysters from Long Island Sound,” she announced as the plates were delivered. Each contained five shelled oysters, a lemon wedge, and a sprig of parsley.

  Picking up his seafood fork, he loosened an oyster and brought it to his mouth. The shellfish was briny and firm, with a blast of sweetness after the swallow. Utter perfection.

  Conversation died for a moment as the table commenced eating. “These are delicious,” Cameron murmured, already on his third oyster.

  “I agree,” Rose said. “They are simple and flavorful. Perfect just as nature made them.”

  “We used to buy oysters right off the boats when I was a boy,” Duke said. “Before the boats docked, a line of us would gather there and wait.” Oysters and clams, the Newport cottage, sailing and running with the other lads… Those were good memories, the only few he had from childhood.

  His finger automatically went to the scar above his eyebrow, feeling the puckered skin. It served as a reminder of his recklessness.

  “Would you care for more wine, sir?” asked a footman at his elbow.

  He nodded, grateful for a break from his maudlin thoughts. When his eyes met Rose’s, there was a question there, as if she were about to start interviewing him. Straightening, he frowned and swallowed a healthy mouthful of wine.

  He did not need anyone asking about his past. He presided over the largest publishing empire in the nation, damn it. That was all the world was required to know about him. The newspapers were what mattered, not his childhood or his scar.

  He vowed to keep his attention on his agenda this evening…and nothing else.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “What is your background, Mrs. Walker?” the man on her left asked. “How did you become such a talented writer?”

  Rose smothered a grin. Her mother said she had been born with a pencil in her hand, continuously writing as a small child. She had studied the classics and pored over newspapers to soak up as much information as possible. Then she saw an ad in the Gazette for a reporter and applied. Pike balked at hiring a woman reporter…but he had been interested in an advice columnist. After they had concocted the idea of Mrs. Walker’s Weekly together, Rose relished the challenge. She spent long hours researching answers, as well as using her mother and the other members of the Lowes’ well-trained staff as resources for the column.

  Not that she could share all of that with the HPC board.

  Instead, she lifted a casual shoulder. “Oh, I’ve always been writing down my thoughts. Forever scribbling, my mother said. I had some patient teachers and studied hard.”

  “Will you ever branch out and write on some real topics?” Cameron asked as he finished his wine.

  Real topics? Of all the dashed nerve… Her right eye began twitching. “I am not certain what you mean, Mr. Cameron. My topics are quite real.”

  Cameron leaned back and clasped his hands over his stomach. “I mean no offense. But they’re filled with just women’s issues. You must admit, stains and recipes are hardly as important as politics or the market—”

  “I believe what Mr. Cameron is trying to say,” Duke broke in with, “is that your writing shows tremendous skill and should you ever want to explore other stories and issues, you only need let me know. Havermeyer Publishing is happy to support you, regardless of topic.”

  She unclenched her jaw and murmured her gratitude. The publisher’s keen gaze took in her expression and he gave her a short nod, as if to reassure her. She appreciated it. No one had ever disparaged the topics of her column before, at least not to her face—the blessings of anonymity, she supposed. The experience was not one she’d care to repeat.

  Yet she was loath to let the issue drop. If her topics were so frivolous, she wanted to ask Cameron, then why was she the most popular HPC columnist? Why did her words sell more papers than other writers’?

  She pressed her lips together and swallowed her argument. She needed her job and antagonizing one of the HPC board members—no matter how much he deserved it—was unwise. Thank goodness Duke had switched placards to put Cameron farther away from her.

  The second course arrived. Soup bowls were distributed while John, one of the Lowes’ footmen hired for the night, rolled the tureen in on a cart. When all the bowls were full of soup, Rose picked up her soup spoon—only to drop it when an unholy crash resonated from the floor beneath them.

  Good heavens. That had come from the kitchens. Her gaze locked with Henry’s, and her fake husband appeared equally startled.

  Trying to maintain a calm veneer through her panic, she pushed back from the table and rose. “If you will excuse me. Please, continue your dinners.”

  The men all stood, including Havermeyer. His brows were lowered in concern over his precious dinner party.

  She shared that same concern.

  Hurrying into the corridor, she caught up with MacKenzie, the groom they’d recruited to serve
as the butler, on his way toward the kitchen. “What was that noise?” she hissed.

  “Canna say, Miss Rose. I hope there weren’t food on those trays that dropped.”

  She pushed through the swinging door and rushed down the servant staircase. The heat and aromas grew stronger as she descended. In the kitchen, three maids were cleaning soup off the floor. A second tureen had shattered, the porcelain smashing into tiny pieces and its contents now all over the ground.

  “What happened? Is everyone all right?”

  “I am so sorry, Rose,” Ida, one of the maids, said. “There was a rat.” She held out her hands wide, then wider, as if sizing a dog. “It was huge. Ran right across my foot.”

  Rose pinched the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger. “Ida, you’ve seen a rat before. This is New York City, for heaven’s sake.”

  “Yes, but one’s never run across my foot! Gave me the shivers.”

  “We still have a little more soup.” Bridget, Henry’s fiancée, showed Rose a smaller bowl. “I’ll take this up in case someone wants seconds.”

  “Thank you, Bridget.” Rose turned to the other two women. “Should I be worried? The kitchen must be spotless after dinner. The entire group is descending to watch me make those ridiculous cookies.”

  “It will be, I swear.” Ida kept sopping up soup. “Don’t you worry, Rose.”

  “What about the next course? Are we still on time?”

  Ida pointed to the platter, still covered on the counter. “Broiled salmon, ready and waiting.”

  “Thank goodness. Would you like any help cleaning up?”

  The two young women glanced at Rose as if she’d lost her mind. “And ruin your borrowed dress?” Ida said. “No, indeed. Tonight you are the mistress of the house. We’ll deal with this.”