“Yes sir!” Quinn barely waited for Cam to take his place beside Miss Fleming before he sprang onto the driver’s seat and shouted, “Get you up, Wellington!”
The horse seemed to catch the urgency in Quinn’s voice and took off. Miss Fleming leaned against the seat’s high back, cradling Hamish to her chest. Beneath the rumble of the wheels, Cam heard her croon to him, as she stroked the dog’s head. A single tear rolled down her cheek and Cam fought a rising urge to shove Quinn aside and take the reins himself. Never had the distance to Hattie Nichols’s home seemed so long.
But soon enough they stopped at her cottage. As though she expected them, the little woman stood outside, her eyes bright with curiosity.
“Miss Fleming’s dog, Hamish, has been injured, Mrs. Nichols.” Cam did not wait for the usual pleasantries. “Can you help him?”
Mrs. Nichols’s expression shifted to one of professional concern and she came forward. “I’ll do my best. Hand him down to me, Miss,” she said, holding out her arms.
Miss Fleming lowered Hamish to her and then, not waiting for Cam to assist her, scrambled down from the cart and followed Mrs. Nichols. Cam did the same.
Inside the cottage, Mrs. Nichols placed Hamish on a large table in the corner and gently pulled back the shawl.
“So you had a bit of an accident, did you?” she crooned, stroking the Scottie’s ears. “Were you dreaming of chasing a stag across the wilds of the moors or just having a bit of a run?”
Hamish’s tail thumped feebly in response, but when she lightly ran her hands over his side, he whimpered, and tears pooled in Miss Fleming’s eyes. “ Will he be all right?” she asked.
Mrs. Nichols’s hands continued their exam and then with surprising speed and skill, gently turned the dog over on his other side. Hamish yelped but Mrs. Nichols began to sing a low, soft tune and he quieted. After a minute, she straightened and smiled at them.
“There’s nothing broken, Miss,” she said. “And his heartbeat is strong. Run in front of a horse, did he?”
“How did you know that?”
Mrs. Nichols grinned. “I’ve had a Scottie or two in my time. If something is moving, they’re going to chase it. What Hamish needs is rest and as little movement as possible. That’s asking a lot for a Scottie, but he’s going to be fine. I’ve a syrup with essence of poppy in it that I can mix up for you. If you put it in some milk, it will help him stay still. Let me get it for you.”
She hurried from the room, and to Cam’s horror, Miss Fleming burst into tears.
“Oh, Hamish,” she sobbed. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” Cam said, his brain scrambling to remember everything his father taught him to do when women cried. He started by a cautious pat on her shoulder with just his fingertips.
“He could have been killed,” she choked out, still crying. “What would I tell Stephen? He adores Hamish! He practices his sermons on Hamish and lets him sleep on the foot of his bed.”
“But he’s going to be fine,” Cam assured her. “You heard what Mrs. Nichols said. Scotties like to chase things, as I can certainly attest.”
A laugh broke through her sobs and she turned to him. Tears still streamed down her face, but she gave him a wobbly smile.
“They do, don’t they?” She gulped. “Did your ankle ever heal?”
“I think I’ll manage,” Cam said. Lord, but she was a beauty. Why wasn’t she married? “I’ve even lost the limp.”
“Good,” she said. “It would be a shame if the Earl of St. Cloud couldn’t dance at his own Winter Ball.”
She started to dry her cheeks with the back of her hand, and Cam pulled a handkerchief from his greatcoat’s pocket, fully intending to offer it to her.
And then a madness seized him. Slowly, carefully, he blotted her tears, moving the cloth over her impressive cheekbones, up to the corners of her eyes. Miss Fleming stood quite still, her gaze riveted on his face, while a warmth spread through Cam’s chest as he breathed in a floral essence that called up springtime.
“It would be remiss indeed,” he said softly, his handkerchief continuing its work, “if I couldn’t dance at the Winter Ball. Perdita would never forgive me if did not open it with her.”
“One should never annoy one’s sister,” Miss Fleming whispered. “We can create quite a fuss if we choose.”
“How well I know,” he answered, halting his hand, and letting it rest on her cheek. “Brothers live in terror of it.”
“As well you should,” she said, placing her hand over his. Golden lights shimmered in her eyes, pulling him into their jade depths. “Never underestimate a sister—or a woman for that matter.” Her lips beckoned him.
“I’ll try to remember that.” Cam leaned forward until his mouth hovered over hers and—
“Got it in a nice tight bottle with a dropper,” Mrs. Nichols’s voice called, and they sprung apart. Good God, what was he thinking? Kissing the rector’s sister? Cam turned away, shoving his handkerchief back in his pocket, but not before he noted the blush that covered Miss Fleming’s face.
“If you’ll give him a dropper full in some warm milk during the day, he’ll rest just fine,” Mrs. Nichols instructed as she joined them. “Two droppers full at night and he’ll sleep right through. I’ve put some on a treat to give him right now.”
She produced a tiny biscuit from her apron pocket and gave it to Hamish, who gobbled it up, thumping his tail again.
“I think he must be feeling better,” Miss Fleming said, keeping her eyes on her pet. “Hamish never says no to treats.”
She looked at Mrs. Nichols with tear-bright eyes. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Nichols,” she said, her voice husky. “I’ll never be able to repay you for this.”
Mrs. Nichols gave her a gentle smile. “He’s just badly bruised, that’s all, Miss. But I’m glad to help. Maybe this will help Hamish learn not to be so ready to give chase.”
“Perhaps it would be best if Miss Fleming took him home now,” Cam suggested. It would not do for him to be alone for much longer with Miss Fleming. Her mouth offered too may temptations. He should be grateful he’d insisted on Quinn bringing them instead of doing the driving himself.
Only after Miss Fleming and Hamish were delivered to the rectory, and Cam safely ensconced in his study, did realization strike him hard and swift. What a lucky escape. He must be very careful not to be in Miss Fleming’s company again without a roomful of people—preferably several hundred, such as his own wedding reception.
Otherwise, who knew what would happen next?
Chapter Seven
“It won’t do, Mr. Fleming, it won’t do at all. I’ll not have my Grace upset by the likes of Hattie Nichols, or your sister neither.” The man’s angry voice carried out from Stephen’s study and into the parlor.
Not again. The knitting needles stilled in Amanda’s hands and she turned her head to wait for her brother’s reply. From his basket in the corner, Hamish snored in blissful slumber.
“I’m sure Amanda meant no harm, Mr. Hopewell.” Recognizing Stephen’s clipped tone, Amanda’s heart quickened. Not many things annoyed or angered her twin, but someone questioning her character was on the top of his list of Thou Shalt Not’s. “She’s a generous soul and would never hurt anyone.”
“You’d best be sure she doesn’t hurt my Grace’s feelings again,” Mr. Hopewell insisted. “All Souls isn’t the only church around these parts. I can take my tithes someplace else.”
“You are free to worship God wherever you choose,” Stephen said. “And of course take your tithes with you.”
A door slamming, then angry booted feet making their way from the study to the rectory’s front door was followed by a second door’s slam. It echoed through the house and Amanda put down her knitting. She’d dropped a stitch anyway.
She went to Stephen’s study and tapped on the door. Inside, she found him at his desk, elbows propped on its surface, his head in his hands. “Stephen?” she called anxiously. “Ha
ve I done much damage?”
He raised his head and smiled. “No, you have not. Saint Cloud told me yesterday about you asking Mrs. Nichols to repair the altar linens when I went to thank him for helping with Hamish. Mrs. Hopewell had already complained to him, but I gather his suggestion to her to talk to one of us didn’t take root. I’d have told her the same thing. Silly business, making such a fuss about repairing the altar linens. But Mandy—”
Amanda swallowed. “But?”
“Try not to anger the Altar Guild,” he urged. “They’ve helped run All Souls for years. I know the triumvirate of Tarwater, Baker and Hopewell seem an immovable force, but for my sake, try to be nice to them. Please?”
“How did you guess I call them, ‘the triumvirate’?” Amanda asked. “And don’t tell me it’s because we’re twins and we think alike.”
His familiar grin replaced his worried expression. “It’s the only reason I can fathom for it. It wouldn’t do to suggest to our neighbors that we’re mind readers.”
“No indeed,” Amanda agreed. “What about Mr. Hopewell?”
“If he wants to leave and take his tithes with him, then he’s welcome to do so,” Stephen said firmly. “I’ve had a look at the church’s accounting books, and Mr. Hopewell needs to be reminded that tithes are supposed to be ten percent of one’s income. He’s one of the wealthiest men in the area, but you’d never know it from the amount he’s given to All Souls over the years. I think if that piece of news got out, his days on the Vestry might be numbered.”
His grin turned wicked and Amanda could not stop her laughter. “I know that grin,” she accused. “You’re plotting something, aren’t you?”
“I’ve been struggling with the topic for this week’s sermon. It’s the first Sunday in Advent, so I want to be especially memorable.” A satisfied gleam entered Stephen’s eyes. “I think I’ll talk about the widow’s mite along with a gentle reminder that sometimes it’s not how much you give, but the intent and spirit with which you give it. Yes, that will do quite nicely, but it will probably be wasted on Mr. Hopewell.”
“Oh, Stephen,” Amanda said through her laughter. “I do love you.”
“That’s good, since I’m your only brother.” He picked up the quill and pointed it at her, assuming an expression of mock sternness. “I love you too, but think about a way to get on the triumvirate’s good side. Ask for their help with something and try to sound sincere when you do.”
“Yes sir.” Amanda gave him a smart salute. “Have you given any more thought about starting a Sunday school for the
tentants’ children?”
“Yes, but I want to wait until after Christmas,” Stephen said, dipping his quill into the inkpot. “You can begin planning the lessons if you like. But write those invitations first and send them out before you go to bed tonight. Oh, and one more thing. I’ve had a letter from my friend George Winterson. He’s accepted a living in Hampshire after the holidays, but being a bachelor with no family, has no place to go for Christmas.”
“Invite him here,” Amanda said. “We have plenty of room.”
“There we go with our mind-reading again,” Stephen said. “And it’s a good thing I knew you would say that, because I’ve already invited him. Now, go write to the triumvirate.”
Laughing, Amanda left him to his sermon and returned to her knitting. She tried to concentrate on her stitches and force the conversation between Stephen and Mr. Hopewell into the back of her mind, only to have it replaced by her persistent thoughts about Cameron Hunt—thoughts that try as she might to banish, would not leave her. Cameron riding beside her as Quinn drove them to Mrs. Nichols’s home. Cameron standing with her as they watched Mrs. Nichols examine Hamish. Cameron drying her tears and nearly kissing—
“The Earl of St. Cloud and Lady Perdita Hunt,” Alice announced from the parlor doorway.
Amanda rose, dropped the knitting into a nearby basket, and curtsied, grateful her trembling knees didn’t give way and send her to the floor. “Good afternoon, my lord, Lady Perdita.”
Merciful heavens, it should be a sin for a man to be so handsome. In his coat of dark green superfine, buff breeches, perfectly tied neck-cloth, and gleaming boots, the Earl of St. Cloud would have given Beau Brummell a run for his money. Amanda’s throat tightened as she imagined him in wedding finery while he stood waiting at the altar for Lucy. He would be too splendid for words.
“Good afternoon, Miss Fleming,” St. Cloud said, executing a perfect bow. “I hope our calling without an invitation is not inconvenient, but we wanted to see how Hamish was progressing.”
“He is well, thank you,” Amanda said. “Alice, would you bring us some tea please?”
“Yes, Miss Fleming,” Alice said cheerfully. “Mrs. Crawford must be a mind reader, ‘cause she just took his lordship’s favorite Dundee cake out of the oven.”
She left, leaving the door open and Amanda gestured at the sofa. “Won’t you sit down while we wait?”
“Where is Hamish?” Perdita asked, her face grave with concern. “Did he sleep through the night? Did Mrs. Nichols’s poppy syrup help?”
Amanda pointed to the corner. As if on cue, Hamish’s snores stopped and he exited from his basket. His steps were unsteady, but upon seeing Perdita, he staggered forward to sit at her feet and give her a mournful look.
“Poor Hamish,” she cooed, gently scooping him up in her arms. “Mean, awful rabbit to tempt my Hamish into chasing him. Must tell St. Cloud to get rid of all rabbits!”
Amanda started to laugh but St. Cloud’s expression of profound tenderness as he watched Perdita stopped her. He obviously loved his little sister very much.
His gaze flickered in Amanda’s direction and a smile slowly spread over his face, knocking the breath from her lungs. She had never seen him smile before.
Sinfully handsome indeed.
“Shall we go see Papa?” Perdita asked Hamish. “Would you like that?”
Hamish’s eyes rolled in contentment and he snuggled against Perdita as if to say, “See? This is how a Scottie should be treated.”
“Is your brother at home, Amanda?” Perdita asked. “I have a question I want to ask him.”
“He’s in his study, preparing this week’s sermon,” Amanda said. “But I’m sure he’s just waiting for a chance to have tea.”
“Then Hamish and I shall go tell him we’re here,” Perdita said.
She left, still talking nonsense to Hamish, leaving Amanda and Cam alone. Her pulse began a little skipping dance but she managed a smile and asked again, “Won’t you be seated, my lord?”
“First, there’s this.” Coming forward, he pulled a cream envelope from inside his jacket’s inner pocket and gave it to her. A large neat hand had addressed it to her and Stephen.
“It’s your invitation to the Winter Ball,” St. Cloud said. “Perdita and I have almost finished delivering them.”
“Do you always deliver them yourselves?”
“Yes, my late mother insisted on it. But we’ve not held the Winter Ball since she died five years ago.”
“You had no hostess?” Amanda guessed. “Is that why?”
He gave her a rueful smile. “Yes. Neither of my parents had any living sisters and the only other female relative, an elderly cousin on my father’s side, would have insisted the men wear powdered wigs and have the women dress in farthingales. Not my idea of a good time.”
“I should think not,” Amanda said, gesturing toward the sofa. When they were seated, she opened the envelope and drew out the embossed card covered in elegant script. “December fifteen,” she noted. “The Friday before the third Sunday in Advent and a week before Christmas Eve. Is this another tradition?”
“Yes,” he said. “So many people want to spend Christmas in London, my parents always thought it wise to hold the ball the week before, allowing for plenty of time to travel. One never knows about the snow in Surrey.” He cleared his throat and fixed his gaze at some point over Amanda’s head. “Miss Fle
ming, my forward conduct toward you yesterday at Mrs. Nichols’s home was more than inexcusable and I do beg your forgiveness.”
“It’s quite all right,” Amanda said hurriedly. “You were only trying to calm me in my distress over Hamish. No harm was done and the most important thing is that Hamish is going to recover. Perhaps it would be best not to speak of it again.” She stared down at the invitation, trying to think of a safe subject. “Tell me about the Winter Ball.”
“The Winter Ball is the most awaited local event of the holiday season here in Huntingdown,” Perdita said, coming back into the room, still holding Hamish, with Stephen right behind her. They settled on the opposite loveseat with Hamish nestled between them.
“Do you have a Little Season here?” Stephen asked.
“Not exactly, but we have lots of parties for the small society that come from London for the holidays,” Perdita said. “Cam is letting me plan the Winter Ball, even though I’ve never done it before. He asked Lucy Guest to help me, but she said the other day she thought I should to it all myself, so that’s what I’m going to do.”
“I’m sure you’ll do it beautifully,” Amanda said as Alice entered with the tea tray and left it in her care. After they were all served, St. Cloud said, “What did you want to ask Mr. Fleming, Perdita?”
“I wanted to ask him if we can have lily of the valley on the altar for Christmas Eve,” Perdita said, giving Hamish a bite of her cake. “We did when Mama was alive. I always wanted to ask Mr. Tomlinson and Mr. Smythe when they were rectors but Mr. Tomlinson was so stern and Mr. Smythe so silly, I could never bring myself to ask them.”
“I told her lily of the valley would be a most appropriate flower to celebrate Christmas,” Stephen said. “I’m sure the Altar Guild won’t mind either.”
Only because she’s the earl’s sister. “I agree,” Amanda said. “Do you have it at the greenhouse at Heart’s Ease?”
“Yes,” Perdita said. “Our head gardener, Mr. Foust, always keeps pots of it growing for me because he knows how I love it. I think this is going to be a splendid Christmas, don’t you?”
Christmas is in the Air Page 17