What A Lady Needs For Christmas

by Grace Burrowes

  “Exactly. I am not a gentleman, so you’d best quit talking while you’re still alive and able to sire children.” Dante rose, before Valmonte’s attempted thieving from Joan resulted in multiple accidents all around. “Either of us can repudiate that contract in the next three business days, but by Friday, that deal is final.”

  Valmonte rose as well, by virtue of bracing both hands on the desk and pushing to his feet like an old man or a young sot. “It says that?”

  “Second page, paragraph seventeen. Prevents an argument of duress, and limits excuses about fraud in the inducement.”

  Which was so much Mandarin to the gentleman blinking at Dante. “We’re done then?”

  “I’m finished with you, unless I or my family hears the first hint of discredit to Lady Joan’s name.” Dante would have to rely on his betters to patrol those borders, because he belonged to not a single club that his lordship would dine in even as a guest.

  Valmonte fingered the fringe of the brocade bellpull, but didn’t summon anybody. “I wouldn’t have signed that other, about the rape.”

  Dante tarried, because Valmonte wasn’t rattling his toy swords—or pokers—at this juncture. “Why not?”

  “Because I didn’t. One imbibes, you know, then imbibes a bit more, and certain functions diminish. Even if I’d entertained such notions—and I’m not admitting that I did, not for very long—Joan could talk about those damned sketches for hours, and it grew late, and well…I didn’t.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Have you ever tried to take liberties with a properly dressed woman? A moat, drawbridge, and portcullis could not defend her virtue more effectively than all those petticoats and bustles and knickers… Particularly in winter. To say nothing of her damned corsetry. Unless she’s enthusiastic about the business too, importuning a properly dressed woman is a futile undertaking.”

  And Joan had not in any way been enthusiastic about the undertaking. That Valmonte knew as much was bad enough, but Dante let him live anyway.

  It was, after all, Christmas.

  “Go to Paris,” Dante said. “And my regards to your mama and fiancée.”

  He collected two copies of the contract and showed himself out, eager to present to Joan the happy developments of the day.

  ***

  “Ye mun stop pacing,” Margaret said. “Dante will get here when he gets here.”

  Hector took a seat then popped right back to his feet, while Joan exchanged a look of mutual exasperation with Dante’s sister.

  “Hector, he won’t blame you,” Joan said. “The holidays throw everything into an uproar, and mills are prone to fires.”

  Dante would blame himself. He’d construct some male fancy of surpassing logic that made him as responsible for the day’s dismal events as if he were laird of a medieval Highland demesne and answerable only to God.

  While Joan, too, felt that the tragedy at the mill was her fault. If she hadn’t distracted Dante from the business upon which he thrived, if she hadn’t added scandal and holy matrimony to his already taxing schedule, if she’d let him focus on finding the investors he’d sought—

  “That’s him,” Margaret said as the front door to Balfour’s elegant town house swung solidly shut outside the family parlor. “Let me tell him, Hector. You’ll muck it up.”

  “I’ll tell him,” Hector shot back. “I’m his man of business, and I’m responsib—”

  Joan rose and went to the door. “Out, both of you. I will convey to my husband this news, and you will stop carping at each other. Things could be much, much worse. Dante is sensible, and he will agree with me on that.”

  Joan had debated wearing black, though. In this holiday season, she’d considered wearing the most somber attire a woman could don.

  “Greetings, all.” Dante positively swaggered into the family parlor, a cozy, comfortable space Balfour had turned over to Joan’s use. “My lovely wife, you’ve joined me a day early, but happy Christmas.”

  He kissed her, his kilt swinging about his knees.

  “Happy Christmas, dear Husband. Hector and Margaret, you will please excuse us?”

  “Yes,” Dante said, drawing Joan closer to the fire. “I have glad tidings to share with my wife. Be off with you two. Find some mistletoe, a wee dram, and a cozy parlor of your own.”

  Hector took Margaret by the elbow and drew her from the room. The door had barely closed before Dante’s arms were around Joan and his mouth on hers.

  “I was so naughty, Wife. You’ll have to spank me for it, I’m sure. I did not follow Spathfoy’s instructions. I did not behave with anything approaching prudence. We’re in debt. Wonderfully in debt. For the first time in years, I’ve taken on substantial debt.”

  He kissed her again, as if this debt was the best gift the holidays might have produced.

  Joan kissed him back, because for one moment, she wanted to imprint on her memory this impression of Dante Hartwell suffused with joy. Whatever had transpired with Valmonte, Dante had acquitted himself well, and he was magnificent in victory.

  “Dante, I have some news.”

  He linked his hands behind Joan’s neck, his arms a heavy weight on her shoulders. “Are ye well? You look pale. Valmonte shared with me some news, too. I think you’ll want to hear it.”

  “Dante, you should hear my news first.” She drew him close and hugged him fiercely. “The mill you call Love has burned to the ground. The structure is a complete loss.”

  The shock of it went through him the way cutting off the gas doused a bright lamp to nothing more than a lingering whiff of smoke. One instant he was alive with joie de vivre and full of his accomplishments, the next he was relying on Joan simply to keep him upright.

  “A fire?”

  “Christmas Eve. We’re not sure how it started. Hector will leave for Glasgow tomorrow, if you ask it of him.” As would Joan; she hoped he knew that.

  Dante lifted his forehead from Joan’s shoulder, his gaze terrible. “And our people? What about our people? I employ a hundred women and girls at each mill, and—how many lost, Joan?”

  “Not a one. You closed the mills for Christmas Eve. Your people were home stuffing themselves with ham, neeps, and tatties.”

  He sank onto a sofa as if he’d taken a bullet from an unseen assassin. “Not a one?”

  “Not a watchman, not a mouser, as far as we know.” Joan took the place beside him and let him absorb that miracle, which, as endlessly wondrous as it was, might be the last good news for some time.

  “They’ll not go hungry,” Dante said fiercely. “We can add a second shift to the two mills remaining, or a third shift for those who are willing, and the insurance settlement will let us rebuild come spring. Rebuilding will employ more than a few of the menfolk, and we can finally modernize the facility.” He looped an arm around Joan and drew her close, kissing her temple. “We’ll manage. We’ve had setbacks before, but we’ll manage.”

  And now, she had to tell him the rest.

  “There won’t be any insurance money, Dante. Hector found the payment for the policy in Balfour’s library after it had come due. Today was the first day he could send it, and it’s in the post, but the policy will have lapsed.”

  Hector and Margaret had explained to Joan how insurance worked, Margaret in particular using terms and examples Joan could comprehend.

  “The bloody insurance has lapsed?”

  “Hector said that’s what happens when a payment isn’t made on time.”

  Dante stared into the fire, his expression intent rather than thunderous. “Hector would know, though I’ll want to check for myself. Each mill has its own policy, and Love is the newest acquisition. Its policy might read differently. This complicates things.”

  This complicates things.

  The only asset Dante owned outright and a significant source of his income went up in smoke, and to him, it was a complication.

  “I love you,” Joan said. “I know that doesn’t help, it won’t rebuild an
y mills, but you know my settlements are available if you need them. Tiberius won’t fight me on that, in fact, he might—”

  Dante kissed her. “Hush a moment, dear heart. I’m thinking.”

  The moment became five minutes, then ten, with Dante staring into the fire, while Joan’s eyes grew heavy. She dozed off against his side, relieved he’d taken the news so well, but hurting for him, that his endless hard work had earned him only…

  More hard work and a wife who’d needed something as simple as insurance explained to her.

  Eighteen

  “Fiona says Frederick’s not peaked and wan when Babette is with him.” Phillip stroked a small hand over Frederick’s furry back.

  The rabbit did, indeed, look more cheerful as he reclined against the wainscoting of the nursery’s playroom. His eyes were bright, his nose in constant motion, and though Babette was at present paying a call on Joan’s lap, Frederick had a contented air.

  A smug, contented air.

  “Frederick will be a papa,” Dante said. “This settles a fellow down.”

  Dante’s thoughts would not settle down. He’d spent yesterday in Glasgow, sorting out the aftermath of a fire and watching Hector work himself to exhaustion, while Margs acted as his lieutenant, and Dante…

  Tried to make himself useful.

  No insurance would be forthcoming. Hector had made certain of that.

  “Why is Frederick to be a papa? Because he married Babette?”

  Dante picked the rabbit up and settled in beside his son on the hearth rug. “Yes, more or less. Rabbits do these things a bit differently, but Babette will be the mother of his babies.”

  Frederick was soft to the touch and shamelessly willing to be stroked and petted. No wonder Joan enjoyed the company of her rabbit.

  “Lady Joan is going to have a baby,” Phillip said, running a single finger down Frederick’s back. “I heard her talking about it when the ladies were knitting.”

  No, she was not. She wasn’t to have a baby or a dress shop or much in the way of luxury. Dante had until the following day to repudiate the contract with Valmonte, and while the chore needed to be dealt with, he didn’t look forward to it one bit.

  “I don’t think there will be a baby showing up any time soon, lad. Not for us, though Frederick will be a papa by spring.”

  If a dance competition were held the length and breadth of Scotland, Frederick and Babette would have won top honors in the Bunny Fling.

  Phillip left off petting the rabbit. “Lady Joan will have a baby by autumn. She said she might name a boy Christopher, because she got exactly what she wanted for Christmas.”

  Oh, Joan. Dante had lost a mill—mills could be replaced—but Joan had been nearly certain she’d at least have a child to love. While Dante was relieved Valmonte would have no continuing connection to Joan, he also knew she’d already grown attached to the notion of motherhood.

  “Maybe by next Christmas,” Dante said. “Though that will take some fast work. We should put Himself back in his box.”

  Phillip gave his father an impatient look. “It doesn’t take a year for a baby to grow.”

  “What would you know about it?” Dante teased. “Are you considering holy matrimony? Perhaps the scullery maid who sneaks you biscuits will be waiting for you under the mistletoe?”

  Phillip produced one of his rare, sweet smiles. “I’ll never get married. Girls are silly and bossy, and they never like to get dirty. May I hold Frederick? Lady Joan said if she has a girl, then you should choose the name.”

  Dante passed the rabbit to Phillip, who sat cross-legged before the fire. “Do you recall every bit of gossip you overhear?”

  “I heard them this morning. I can remember what I heard this morning.”

  “This morning?”

  “They were giggling. Girls giggle too.”

  A sensation rippled down Dante’s spine, a sparkling sense of possibility, of hope. “You’re sure you heard the ladies this morning?”

  “Lady Quinworth, Lady Balfour, Lady Joan, Fiona’s mama. They were quite silly. Lady Quinworth said she refuses to have a granddaughter named Babette. I like the name Babette, and Frederick does too. His favorite girl name in the world is Babette.”

  Dante rose, his thoughts hopping about like so many loose rabbits. “Put Frederick back in his box, my boy. I can’t think you’d fancy a sister named Babette.”

  “Babette Bunny Hartwell. It’s better than Charlene.”

  “It’s awful. Don’t you dare mention it to Lady Joan.”

  “I’m to call her Mama. She said we could if we wanted to.”

  Dante kissed the top of the boy’s head, because Phillip was smiling again—twice in one brief conversation. “Then so you shall, and I shall be the papa.”

  The rabbit wiggled his nose, one papa to another, and Dante left the nursery at something close to a sprint.

  ***

  “Leave off raiding Balfour’s decanters long enough to answer some questions.”

  At Dante’s command, Spathfoy paused mid pour at the library’s sideboard.

  “You’re a member of this family for little more than four weeks, and already you’re giving orders. Your atrocious manners suggest Joan has been remiss in her uxorial duties, Hartwell, and I’m sure my mother—”

  “Cease yer bletherin’, Spathfoy,” Balfour said, passing the glass to Dante. “How is the situation in Glasgow?”

  “Smoky,” Dante said. “Subdued chaos at the remaining mills as we sort out how to fill all the orders, keep everybody employed, and stop Hector from clothing himself in a hair shirt. They’re managing, though. That’s not what I wanted to ask you about.”

  “A toast,” Spathfoy said. “To the New Year.”

  Balfour lifted his glass. “Not very original, Spathfoy. But Hartwell can likely use any excuse to take a tot. If you won’t allow us to invest outright, we’ll lend you whatever you need.”

  Dante paused, his glass halfway to his lips. “I wasn’t about to ask for a loan.”

  “Of course you weren’t,” Spathfoy said, shooting a glower at Balfour. “But we heard about the insurance. Miss Hartwell mentioned it to Lady Quinworth, who told my father, and—”

  “What did you want to know, Hartwell?” Balfour interjected.

  Dante took a fortifying sip of a smooth, fruity whiskey. “How soon do the ladies know they’re carrying?”

  The quality of the very air in the library changed.

  “Long before they tell us,” Spathfoy said. He took up a slouch against the mantel, above which, the Highland laird still strutted about on a life-size canvas. He’d been a papa, that laird. Dante could tell from the twinkle in his eye.

  “I think they know at the very moment of conception,” Spathfoy added.

  “They suspect, anyway,” Balfour said. “My countess, who would fill every room with bouquets, abruptly took the scent of most flowers into strong dislike. I didn’t put the signs together until the child was born, but that was the first clue—and not two weeks after conception, as nearly as I can calculate.”

  “That soon?”

  “My mother claims to have conceived me on her wedding night, and said she was queasy within a week,” Spathfoy volunteered with a smugness that suggested the timing was his doing.

  “Mary Frances’s situation with Fiona was apparently different,” Balfour said, reaching above the estate desk to yank down a wilted sprig of mistletoe and toss it into the fire.

  “Your footmen won’t thank you,” Spathfoy observed as the greenery blackened and curled to ashes.

  “Next Christmas we’ll all descend on your household, Spathfoy,” Balfour muttered. “We’ll see who has the happiest footmen.”

  “About the ladies,” Dante interjected. “They can tell within two weeks?”

  “I should think so,” Spathfoy said.

  “As loath as I am to agree with yon Lord of Mistletoe about anything,” Balfour said, finding more mistletoe over the sideboard and another sprig affi
xed above the library’s globe, “my sense is most women can tell fairly quickly if they’ve conceived. I came to that conclusion when I practiced medicine, and my experience as Lady Balfour’s husband confirms it. Now I have a question for you.”

  Balfour had been trained as a physician. Dante had forgotten that.

  “They can tell,” Dante murmured. Rowena hadn’t been forthcoming about such matters, and Dante hadn’t dared interrogate her.

  “Hartwell, finish your drink. One senses you need the fortification,” Spathfoy said, pushing off the mantel and steering Dante to the couch.

  Balfour came around with the decanter.

  “As for my question, and please pay attention, Hartwell: If you weren’t inviting us to invest in your mills, and you won’t accept a loan now, then why were you willing to disrupt your entire holiday to accept my invitation to Balfour House?”

  Perhaps they would name a daughter Babette after all.

  “I don’t think he heard you,” Spathfoy said. “The Scots can have very poor hearing.”

  “I heard him. I did want investors, or thought I did.”

  But he’d found so much more.

  “Then why don’t you want them now?” Balfour asked, taking an armchair by the fire. “Shipping is a chancy business. We’re seeing only the first hints of what steam can do, pirates continue to plague us, nations go to war, navies get unpredictable when attempting to justify themselves in times of peace—”

  Spathfoy resumed his place at the mantel. “And the New Year will be here before you make your point.”

  “My point is that diversification is sound business. I would like to invest in your mills, Hartwell.”

  “As would I,” Spathfoy added. “I’m half-Scottish, and nobody works harder than a Scot in pursuit of coin. Investments in Scotland strike me as a sensible use of my wealth, and my parents agree.”

  “You both need to know something,” Dante said. “I never got a signed confession from Valmonte, nor would I ask for one now. Of all his transgressions, the one covered in that document was apparently not among them.”