“What, indeed?” Griswold queried, glaring daggers at Jordan. “Who in their right mind would favor reachin’ snug Altham House over traveling in snow and ice?’
Jordan smiled and took off his coat. “Not I.”
Lord Harry grinned. “My view exactly.” Then his face fell. “Anyway, it’s to be the only fun I’ll have this Christmas after being bear-led off to stuffy old Lady Altham’s house party.”
Jordan stripped off his neckcloth and shirt and handed them to Griswold. He stood, half-dressed, the candlelight gleaming across his muscular chest. “You might be surprised, halfling. Lady Altham may have invited any number of genuine young ladies to the gathering.”
Lord Harry rose and stretched. “You think so?” He yawned. “Dash it, I hope you’re right, Jordan. But then, I know a bang-up fellow like you wouldn’t dream of spending the holiday without a lady or two to amuse you.” He dropped a wink. “G’night.”
After Lord Harry closed the door to the adjoining room, Griswold helped Jordan out of his boots. “Reckon you’re going to have your hands full, what with Lord Harry’s mischief and the ladies chasin’ after both of you. ’Sides which, I hear that blond fancy piece of goods will be there.”
Jordan removed his breeches and allowed himself to be helped into his nightshirt before replying. “Lily Carruthers’s presence at the house party will enliven it, no doubt.”
Griswold muttered darkly about his lordship not being able to escape the parson’s mousetrap forever, before finally taking himself off to bed.
After blowing out the tallow candle, Jordan leaned back on the lumpy mattress and considered Lovely Lily. Almost immediately, however, her fair countenance was replaced by an ivory face dominated by huge gray eyes and coal-black hair that felt like the smoothest of satins between his fingers.
And that horrid nightgown. Jordan chuckled.
What had he called her? Ah, yes. Miss Whatever-your-name-is. She had not appeared to value the title.
A lazy smile curved Jordan’s lips at the way she had refused his offer of marriage, as he had instinctively known she would. She had spirit, a quality rare in the usually insipid misses of the ton. And her response to the pressure of his lips had been deliciously tentative, then yielding.
He struggled to find a comfortable position on the bed.
Settling the bedcovers about him, his thoughts sobered. Thank God she had refused him. Honor or no, he never wanted to marry again. He wanted nothing to do with being responsible for another’s happiness and well-being. A duty he had failed at so miserably with Delilah.
Still, Jordan reflected before his eyes closed for the night, he possessed a curious nature, and the woman remained a mystery.
First thing in the morning, he promised himself, he would seek her out and determine if she was as enchanting in the daylight as she had seemed in the dim light of the inn kitchen.
* * *
Chapter 3
“I regret to inform you, madam, that her ladyship is still abed.”
“At this early hour, I have no doubt that she is, Mr. Lemon,” Margery said to Lady Altham’s house steward as she and Miss Bessamy were ushered into the grand hall in Altham House. “Miss Bessamy and I were forced to put up at the most appalling inn last night. We could not wait to get away this morning and departed at first light.”
“We are pleased to have you with us for the Christmas holiday, Lady Margery,” Mr. Lemon said formally, and bowed. His cold gaze flicked over Miss Bessamy before he turned away to motion a liveried footman to fetch the guests’ bags.
Miss Bessamy bristled.
Mr. Lemon acted as house steward at Altham House and was quite aware of his consequence. A tall, thin, imposing man with gray hair, he reigned independently and with an iron hand over the servants.
Condescending to lead the women upstairs himself, he threw open the doors to a luxurious chamber dominated by a four-poster, canopied bed. Its hangings were a rich ivory color with a gold floral pattern. A settee placed at the foot of the bed had a matching design.
It had been years since Margery had enjoyed such sumptuous accommodations. Viewing the large chamber, she smiled in pleasure. At her side, Miss Bessamy nodded to herself, as if thinking the elegance nothing less than what her beloved charge deserved.
A young maid rose from the task of lighting the coals to bob a nervous curtsy in their direction.
Although the dark wood furniture gleamed from polishing, and the chamber possessed a fresh, clean smell, Mr. Lemon’s critical gaze swept every inch of the room as if searching for fault. One eyebrow rose at the sight of the beautifully painted coal bin, whose lid was askew.
The house steward’s slight action was enough to make the young maid jump. She darted to the offending bin and quickly righted the lid. Margery noticed the girl trembled as she looked to her superior.
“That will be all, Penny,” Mr. Lemon pronounced in strong accents of disapproval.
Margery thought the maid just barely managed to refrain from running from the room. Her brows came together at the girl’s obvious fear of Mr. Lemon.
“I was told you would be traveling with a companion, Lady Margery, and therefore had this adjoining room prepared.” Mr. Lemon walked through a doorway leading to a smaller chamber than the one assigned Margery, but whose shades of pale green bespoke equal refinement.
Following him, Margery heard Miss Bessamy’s soft intake of breath at the sight of such grandeur.
Mr. Lemon turned toward them and glanced uncertainly at Miss Bessamy. Again, one eyebrow rose. “If I have been misinformed, a room in the servants quarters—”
“These rooms are perfect. Thank you, Mr. Lemon,” Margery said dismissively.
Mr. Lemon bowed and, after assuring himself the footmen had brought up the bags as well as Margery’s trunk, took his leave.
“Pompous, butter-toothed old stick,” Miss Bessamy declared the minute the door closed behind the house steward. “That one is much above himself, isn’t he? Dressed like he thinks he’s a gentleman, only no gentleman’s linen would be so yellowed.”
“I recall Lady Altham telling me he used to be the late Lord Altham’s valet. Perhaps those were his lordship’s clothes.”
“Hmpf,” was Miss Bessamy’s reply.
“We shall not regard him, Bessie,” Margery said bracingly. “Come, let us relish our stay. After all, we are here to have a happy Christmas.”
The two women unpacked their clothing. Miss Bessamy fussed over Margery’s fine gowns from her London days, hanging the silks and velvets in the large clothespress.
Penny returned with a tea tray and, with a wobbly curtsy, told Margery that Lady Altham requested her presence in the drawing room in half an hour.
Margery smiled at her reassuringly. “Thank you, Penny. Would you be so kind as to come back and show me the way?”
“Yes, my lady,” Penny whispered.
Later, dressed in a rose-colored kerseymere morning gown, Margery entered the drawing room where she had visited Lady Altham in the past.
The lady sat upon a blue velvet sofa with her companion, Miss Charlotte Hudson, seated nearby. After Lord Altham’s death, the title had passed to his nephew, a single gentleman content to fight the French and leave the running of Altham House to the dowager countess.
Draped across Lady Altham’s lap was her cat, Fluffy, whose name was no doubt carefully selected by her doting ladyship.
Perhaps aggrieved at her owner’s choice of names, Fluffy wore a perpetual frown on her squashed-in face. Her white fur was indeed long, thick, and luxuriant, denser on her neck and shoulders where it formed a leonine mane. Her tail was extraordinary in its supply of hair, giving the impression of a magnificent plume. She had one orange eye and one blue eye, which together looked out at the world with an unsurpassed air of superiority.
“Lud, Margery, I’m happy to see you. And what a pretty dress. Most becoming. Something must be done about your hair, however,” Lady Altham said as if she were the
Beau Brummell of females.
She groped about her heavy bosom until she found her quizzing glass for a better look. Lady Altham did not see well, but never admitted this consequence of aging. Instead, she declared she preferred a well-lighted room and demanded dozens of candles burning at all times. As for the quizzing glass, it was fashionable.
“Thank you, my lady.” Margery curtsied to her ladyship while tentatively lifting a hand to her hair.
“Do not worry. Colette will know what to do. She’s a Frenchie, you understand, and they have a way with fashions and hair. Of course, I deplore the murderous Frogs, but what can one do?”
Rising from her curtsy, Margery took in the glory of Lady Altham’s toilette. Her hostess was a short, stocky woman in her late fifties. Like Fluffy’s, her face was round, her features somewhat pushed in. Rather than dressing as befitted a dignified matron of her age, Lady Altham wore a pale pink muslin gown embroidered with tiny rosebuds. It was more suitable to a lady Margery’s age.
To crown it all, the dowager countess sported recently acquired brassy-colored curls. The last time Margery had seen her, her ladyship’s hair had been a graying brown.
As if detecting her guest’s thoughts, Lady Altham chuckled. “I don’t look a day above five-and-twenty, do I? We spent the autumn in London, and Colette found another Frenchie who did my hair. Gives new meaning to the phrase ‘Town bronze,’ don’t it?”
“Indeed, it is quite different from your usual style,” Margery replied truthfully. She walked over to where Miss Charlotte Hudson was seated, shook that lady’s hand, and then sat upon a nearby chair. “Miss Hudson, did you enjoy the trip to London?”
Before Miss Hudson could open her mouth, Lady Altham said, “Zooks, no need to stand on ceremony with Charlotte. Call her by her given name.”
Margery glanced at Miss Hudson, who smiled and nodded her consent. Charlotte Hudson was a member of that despised class, the poor relation. Although the connection was quite distant, Lady Altham had taken her in some four years past, when Lord Altham died. Lady Altham had a kind heart, but a strong personality, which had quickly cowed Miss Hudson’s already meek character.
Unfortunately, Miss Hudson bore the additional burden of possessing an appearance that was not well favored. She had the sort of face one instantly forgot. Her hair was a sandy color, her eyes a faded blue, and her figure unremarkable. The only time she showed any animation was when she spoke of America, which she viewed as a sort of Promised Land where something exciting might happen to a spinster of eight-and-forty.
Margery tried again. “Charlotte, how did you pass your time in London?”
“I went from one circulating library to the next, Lady Margery.” A sparkle came into Miss Hudson’s eyes. “You know, London boasts so many books on America. After reading some of them, I can almost feel myself in Virginia. I long to see Williamsburg and the plantations.”
“We’ve got farms aplenty right here in England, you silly goose,” Lady Altham said in a dampening tone. She picked up a brush from a nearby table and began plying it along Fluffy’s back. The cat squeezed her odd-colored eyes shut in contentment.
“What plans have you ladies made for the Christmas guests?” Margery said quickly, in an attempt to cover Miss Hudson’s chagrin at Lady Altham’s comment.
While Miss Hudson took up a pile of needlework and made herself busy, Lady Altham rambled on about how Cook was beside herself with worry over the menus.
Mr. Lemon, it seemed, had the preparations for the guests’ chambers well in hand for, as Lady Altham said, “Mr. Lemon is such a gem. I daresay I don’t know what I’d do without his capable management. He handles all the accounts and oversees the servants. But he cannot be depended upon to plan the menus or provide entertainment for the children, you know.”
“What children are those?” Margery asked.
“Oh, my dear,” Lady Altham cried, fairly bouncing in her chair, an act which discomfited Fluffy to the extent that she twisted her head and let out a meow of reproach directed toward her mistress.
“Settle down, my pet.” The dowager countess soothed Fluffy’s ruffled fur. She resumed brushing and said, “My two daughters will be coming with their families. There’s my elder, Prudence, and her husband and their daughter who is just turned seventeen. And my younger daughter, Blythe, with her husband and their three children. The two girls are seven and eight, and the boy is twelve and home from Eton for the holiday.”
No one noticed the flush that rose on Miss Charlotte Hudson’s face at this listing of the guests.
Margery’s eyes lit with anticipation. “How wonderful to have children about at Christmastime. I am sure we can contrive something for their enjoyment. They are bound to be excited over the season, at any rate.”
“Yes, all children are,” Lady Altham agreed. Then a sly look crossed the dowager countess’s features. “Can you imagine? Me, a grandmother. Some might think I am the mother instead.”
Lady Margery gazed at the wrinkled expanse of flesh shown above the low cut of Lady Altham’s muslin gown and charitably held her tongue. Whatever else she might be, Lady Altham had a good heart.
“Well,” Lady Altham said in a low, theatrical voice, a roguish look coming into her small eyes. “Enough about the children’s entertainments. Let me tell you what I have planned for our amusement.”
Margery could not like the predatory look on the older woman’s face. “Pray, what might that be?”
Lady Altham giggled “My dear, I have met the most fascinating gentleman during my trip to London. He is exceedingly handsome, and while he might be a trifle old for me, being on the long side of fifty, his manners are everything a lady could wish for.”
“He is the same age as you and a known rake,” Miss Hudson muttered under her breath.
“He is nothing of the sort!” the dowager countess said angrily, glaring at her companion. “His name is Oliver Westerville, and he has promised to come.”
Lady Altham turned back to Margery. “He gave me the name of a friend of his to invite as well. And that gentleman”—her ladyship’s dramatic tone reached its peak—”is a viscount and reportedly all the crack. He is rich as Croesus besides. Every matchmaking mama has been throwing her daughter at his head since he returned from fighting that monster on the continent.”
Margery experienced a sinking sensation in her stomach.
The thought dawned on her that Lady Altham had used the excuse of needing her help with the house party as a ruse to get her to attend. Altham House was obviously well run, albeit by a man who might well be a tyrant.
It seemed she had been asked to come early so that her gowns might be looked over, and her appearance judged and improved upon by Colette, the French lady’s maid. Lady Altham, Margery realized, planned a little matchmaking of her own. The lady’s next words confirmed this suspicion.
“And Margery, my dear, the viscount has just sent me his acceptance! Could anything be more splendid?” Lady Altham finished brushing Fluffy and placed the hair-laden brush on the side table. Both she and the cat stared at Margery with self-satisfied expressions.
Margery thought she heard a soft tsk-tsking from Charlotte.
She managed to suppress a groan. After all, Lady Altham meant well. Although, Margery thought miserably, she had previously made her position quite clear to the lady. She wished nothing more than to live in her cottage in Porwood with Miss Bessamy. She would not marry again and wanted nothing more to do with gentlemen. Unbidden, her thoughts went to the gentleman at the inn who had kissed her, how pleasing it had been—Margery pushed these thoughts from her mind.
At any rate, she considered it was early days, and she was fond of the dowager countess. Her suppositions regarding the lady’s intentions might prove false.
Despite her anxiety, Margery forced herself to smile at her hostess. “I am sure we shall all have a very happy Christmas.”
* * * *
Two days later, Jordan, Viscount Reckford, found himself
with only a few miles left to travel to Altham House.
Griswold drove them through snow-covered roads bordered by tall hedgerows made heavy with snow. A weak sun shone through the clouds but was not nearly enough to warm the day, or the carriage.
The hot brick placed at Jordan’s feet at the last coaching inn had cooled over an hour ago. Even his heavy greatcoat could not keep out the bitter cold.
Lord Harry sat across from him, an expression of extreme boredom across his youthful features.
“A good fight, wasn’t it?” he asked.
As they had, in Jordan’s estimation, discussed every aspect of the mill they had attended at least one hundred times since leaving the village where it was held, he merely nodded in reply.
“Miles from anything now, aren’t we?” Lord Harry asked, obviously downhearted at the thought.
Jordan sighed. “Halfling, had you kept up at the rate you were going in Town, your father would have been mortgaging his estates by Boxing Day. A little rustication will do you good.”
Lord Harry looked mulish. “How was I to know such Captain Sharps abounded in London?”
“Not going to the lower gaming hells might have helped,” Jordan pointed out, causing Lord Harry to slouch down on his seat and assume a brooding look. “Come, now, ’twill not be so bad. I would not be attending if it were. While we are there, I shall try to broaden your education.”
A wide grin suddenly spread across Lord Harry’s boyishly handsome face. Twin dimples appeared on either side of his mouth. “Will you? Famous! And Mr. Westerville? Will he help me as well? You did say he would be at Lady Altham’s. A man couldn’t find two better teachers than you and Oliver Westerville.”
“Er, over the next two weeks Oliver and I shall contrive to school you in the ways of the world,” Jordan said carefully, not without a twinge of discomfort. Harry’s father, Thorpe, might not approve of having London’s two most notorious rakes teaching his son all their secrets.
Apparently satisfied, Lord Harry leaned back against the velvet squabs and closed his eyes, humming a tune and tapping his foot.
How the Rogue Stole Christmas Page 4