Margery was having trouble absorbing this information. “You do not think they are—’
“No, no.” Mr. Westerville waved a hand. “Nothing of the sort. Both of them are too honorable for anything that would remotely smack of a dalliance.”
“Miss Hudson is always so quiet,” Margery said. “I confess I never thought...”
Mr. Westerville chuckled. “Perhaps I am speaking to you of matters better left unsaid. Forgive me. Let us talk of you. Are you enjoying the house party?”
Quite without thinking, Margery scanned the ballroom in search of Lord Reckford. She saw him laughing with Mrs. Carruthers. Margery turned back to Mr. Westerville. “I am uncomfortable yet in company. I find the ways of the ton shallow.”
Mr. Westerville had seen the direction of her gaze. The dance ended, and he offered her his arm. “Let us stroll about the room for a moment, Lady Margery.”
She accepted his escort, and he patted her gloved hand. “If you will accept some advice from an older man who has seen much of the ways of the world...?”
At Margery’s nod of acquiescence, he went on, “Unless you are truly prepared to spend the rest of your life isolated in your cottage in—Porwood, was it?—I suggest you attend more ton gatherings, rather than less, so that you may meet a variety of gentlemen.”
“In truth, Mr. Westerville, I am not looking for a husband.”
“In truth, Lady Margery, a beautiful lady of good character and a sweet nature such as yourself will deprive herself and some lucky gentleman of a full and happy life if she remains secluded in a tiny village.” Having made this prediction, Mr. Westerville brought them to a halt in front of an attractive man of about thirty years.
“Lady Margery, allow me to present Mr. Victor Joseph. Victor, this is Lady Margery Fortescue.”
Margery blushed as Mr. Joseph solicited her hand for the set just forming. She found his dark brown hair and eyes and lively sense of humor appealing. He told her his estate was on the far border of the county where he could not bother anyone with his penchant for music. Margery laughed and thus began a comfortable conversation on the topic.
Across the room, Jordan stood apart from the dancers. A frown marred his handsome features. Already, Lily Carruthers’s attentions were becoming cloying, and he found himself seeking out the black-haired temptress who shunned his company. He watched the way Lady Margery smiled at her partner and he reached for a glass of wine from a passing footman.
“Reckford, is that you?”
Jordan turned, astonishment, then pleasure, spreading across his features. “Captain Eversley? Good God, sir, it has been seven years!”
The two army friends clapped one another on the back. Jordan could hardly believe his eyes. Here was the man who had been his first commanding officer when Jordan had signed up immediately after the death of his wife, Delilah. The young viscount had been an angry, bitter person at that time, eager to fight anyone, French or not. His superior had finally dragged the story of Delilah out of him one night after Jordan had returned, bruised and bloody, from yet another night of hell-raking.
“Not captain anymore. It’s Major Eversley now. ’Course I left the army about five years ago and settled down on a tidy estate a few miles from here. But what of you?”
Jordan ran a hand through his dark hair. “I sold out only a year ago. I have been staying in London since then. As a matter of fact, this is my first extended trip to the countryside since I came home.”
“Is Griswold still with you? Where are you staying?”
“Yes, Gris remains faithfully at my side in the capacity of valet or groom, as need be. An acquaintance, Oliver Westerville, secured an invitation for me to Lady Altham’s Christmas house party. Do you know her?”
Major Eversley let out a heavy sigh. “By George, this is a muddle.”
“Muddle? What can you mean, Major?”
Major Eversley motioned him to a quiet corner, away from the crowd. Jordan followed him, noting the major carried himself as proudly as if still on the battlefield. His hair was solid gray now, rather than the brown dusted with gray Jordan remembered, but it served to give the older gentleman an air of rugged distinction.
“Is Oliver Westerville a particular friend of yours, Jordan?”
The viscount’s brows came together. “We have shared a bottle or two, a hand of cards, a few evenings at the opera. Why do you ask?”
“I wouldn’t want to insult one of your friends.”
His curiosity thoroughly aroused, Jordan said, “Major, you and I have always spoken plainly with each other. What is on your mind?”
“I don’t know Westerville personally, only by reputation. The man’s said to be a roué?” The major’s voice turned gruff. “Ordinarily, I wouldn’t take any notice of his behavior, but he is preying on a dear friend of mine, Augusta, Lady Altham.”
Jordan turned to see Oliver dancing with a simpering Lady Altham. “Begging your pardon, sir, but the lady seems to be enjoying Oliver’s company.”
“Of course she is! Men of his type are experts in pleasuring a female, in and out of the bedchamber.”
A wry grin twisted Jordan’s lips as he thought of his own escapades over the years. “Do I detect the jealous swain in you, Major?” Then, seeing his old friend’s discomfort, the viscount said more seriously, “Is your attachment to Lady Altham long-standing?”
“Gussie and I have been close since Altham died four years ago. She’s gotten flighty in the last year, but I put up with her cavaliers because I know her affections have never been engaged. I always thought she and I... Well, never mind. You don’t need to listen to an old soldier’s troubles.” The major signaled a footman and accepted a glass of claret.
Jordan exchanged his empty glass for a full one. When he spoke, his voice was low and tinged with sadness. “There was a time when you heard mine.”
The major straightened his shoulders. “You’re not still carrying around useless guilt over Delilah’s death, are you, Jordan? For I told you then and I’ll tell you now, there wasn’t anything more you could have done to prevent it. Once opium gets hold of a person...”
The viscount shook his head. “I do not wish to discuss Delilah.”
“By George, you do still hold yourself responsible!” the major exclaimed. Then, seeing the shuttered look that came down over his friend’s face, he said, “Very well. We won’t go over old ground just now. Instead, I’ll enlist your help with my predicament. The thing of it is, Gussie and I had a falling out, oh, it’s been three months ago. Afterward, she hied off to Town. When she came back home, there was a distance between us. Now, this reprobate turns up at her house party, and she’s hanging on his sleeve.”
Jordan measured his words carefully. He owed much more to the major than he did to Westerville. Still, he was not one to impugn the honor of a friend. “Oliver likes the ladies, there is no denying. But I can tell you he is not the sort to be serious about any one of them. Perhaps you can wait it out.”
The major drained his glass and set in on a nearby table. “That’s the rub. Can I take you further into my confidence, Jordan? Staying at Altham House as you are, you may be able to help.”
“Certainly, sir,” Jordan said without hesitation.
“Gussie’s being fleeced,” Major Eversley stated flatly. “Not by Westerville. All she’ll suffer at his hands is wounded pride. It’s that underhanded steward of hers, Mr. Lemon. I tried to tell her my suspicions, but she would not even consider what I had to say.”
Jordan nodded. “I have already conceived a dislike of the man.”
“Mr. Lemon is stealing from her, I reckon, in any way he can. It began after Altham died, and Gussie elevated Mr. Lemon to house steward. Gussie would complain that she misplaced things. They were always things of value—nothing exceedingly dear, but costly nonetheless. The items would never be found, but she would just shrug it off. Later, as my close relationship with Gussie became general knowledge throughout the county, tradespeople would d
rop a word in my ear that they were not getting paid. When they complained to Gussie, they were referred to Mr. Lemon, who paid a portion of what was owed, or refused to honor the debt. I’ve... well, I’ve paid some of her bills just to save her from embarrassment.”
Jordan was appalled. “Why will she not listen to you? As house steward, Lemon has control over all the estate books. He could be robbing her blind.”
“That is exactly my fear. But there’s no talking sense to Gussie. When I bring the subject up, she gets very stiffly on her stiffs, telling me Mr. Lemon has been with the Althams forever and is trustworthy. I have pushed the matter so far already it caused the rift in our relationship.”
Jordan heard the strains of a country dance. It was the second of the evening, the one he had promised to Lady Margery. He glanced around the ballroom until he located her. She was in conversation with a man and did not appear pleased. “Sir, I am obliged for this dance to a lady. May we discuss this topic later in further detail?”
“Of course, Jordan.” The major waved him away. “Go ahead then. I’m leaving anyway. I won’t stand around watching Gussie make a cake of herself.”
“I shall find out what I can and send word to you.”
“Excellent. Just like the old days, planning a campaign, eh?” the major said. “I do appreciate your help, Jordan.”
Jordan grinned at his friend and crossed to Lady Margery’s side. He noticed the relief in her gray eyes when he approached. The gentleman with her looked annoyed.
“Lord Reckford,” she said, her voice tight, “may I present Alfie Cranston? Mr. Cranston was a friend of my husband.”
Jordan shook the man’s hand, gazing with distaste at the man’s beringed fingers.
Lady Margery looked uncomfortable. “Mr. Cranston is by way of being a distant relation to the Foweleys. He normally lives in Town but, like you, Lord Reckford, has traveled to the country for Christmas.”
The viscount addressed Mr. Cranston. “I do not believe I have seen you at any ton gatherings.”
A lock of the man’s blond hair fell into his eyes. “We do not travel in the same circles.”
Jordan ignored the comment and held out his arm to Lady Margery.
She accepted it, but not before addressing a final remark to Mr. Cranston. “Good evening, sir. I do not think we shall meet again.”
“It will be just as well, Lady Margery. I am only reminded of dear Simon’s unhappiness when I see you.”
Jordan glared at the man and was about to demand an apology for what his words implied, but he felt Lady Margery’s fingers dig into his coat. He led her onto the floor without further comment.
The steps of the dance kept them apart a great deal, but he could sense a wariness about her. Had Mr. Cranston’s presence put it there? Or was it directed at himself? Earlier in the evening when he had solicited this dance, she had given him a wonderful smile along with her acceptance. Now she looked as if she would rather be dancing with the devil.
“When will you decorate Altham House with the greenery we gathered, Lady Margery?” he asked, hoping a neutral topic might ease the tautness in her face.
“Do not concern yourself with such trivial matters, my lord. I am sure you will be too busy entertaining Mrs. Carruthers to engage in such a domestic pursuit.”
They separated again, and when they came together he said, “Alas, you are correct. Mrs. Carruthers does not need to be taught how to deal with the holly as you did.”
Her face flamed. “No doubt, Mrs. Carruthers is experienced in all things prickly.”
The dance ended before Jordan could say another word. The frustrating lady glided away from him toward a dark-haired gentleman he had seen her dance with before.
Jordan sighed and walked off the floor. Lady Margery’s moods were unpredictable. No, that was not quite true, he decided. It could always be predicted that she would cross swords with him.
Lily wiggled two fingers at him, but he affected not to see her. Instead, he crossed to Oliver Westerville’s side.
“It is a dull affair, is it not, Jordan?” Oliver inquired.
“Maybe compared with Town entertainments, yes. Where is Lady Altham?”
Oliver waved a careless hand. “Over there, just accepting Squire Foweley’s hand for this dance. He does toady dreadfully, you know. But his daughter is a taking little thing. She has our Harry dancing attendance on her, much to Miss Georgina Norwood’s consternation. I do so enjoy watching the machinations of others.”
Jordan looked around until he saw Miss Norwood flirting with two officers in red coats, all the while looking over her shoulder to see if Harry was watching. But Harry was dancing with Miss Foweley, and all his attention was centered on her. Good God, Jordan thought, the puppy better not have danced with the ambitious miss more than twice, else they would be in the suds.
He turned back to regard Oliver. “I never got round to asking you why you accepted Lady Altham’s invitation. It is not your custom to leave Town even in the winter, is it?”
Oliver tapped his fingers on the rim of the glass he was holding. “A sad story for a happy time of the year, Jordan. You see, I was involved with a young married woman who had recently presented her husband with an heir. Nothing could be more convenable. Alas,” Oliver lamented, “her husband took exception to the affair, and there was talk of a challenge. Silly man. I thought it prudent to leave Town for a while.”
Jordan looked at his friend as if seeing him for the first time. Oliver did not seem to notice as he went on, “’Tis of no consequence, for all turned out rather well. Augusta fancies herself in love with me, but then, how are we to engage in our little amusements without the illusion of love, eh, Jordan? She will soon rid herself of the notion.”
Jordan felt a chill. Was Oliver’s path one he himself was headed down? “I would ask that you clear any misconceptions Lady Altham has about your affections, Oliver.”
“Why?” Oliver asked, surprised. “She is amusing me, and she understands the game.”
“I do not believe she does understand. There is another gentleman involved, you see. One whose intentions are honorable. I cannot say any more on the subject without betraying a friend.”
Oliver appeared to consider the matter. “If it is important to you, Jordan, I will disentangle myself from Augusta. But I must warn you I shall immediately look about for other sport. I daresay I shall not have far to look,” he said, indicating Lily Carruthers.
Jordan grinned. “Be my guest. She is known as Lovely Lily.”
“What? You would give her up so easily?”
“I do not have her. Yet.”
Oliver laughed. “I do love a contest.” Then he sobered. “I am glad you are still interested in Lily. You have not paid court to her much tonight, and I grew worried that your interests lay with Lady Margery instead.”
Jordan raised a brow. “Whatever attention I pay Lady Margery is none of your concern.”
Oliver held up a hand. “Steady, boy. It is just that even we rakes have our code of honor, do we not? For example, as you rightly pointed out to me, we do not cause false hopes. A rake takes only from a female who knows what she is giving and to whom. Lily is such a woman. Lady Margery is not.”
“I know,” Jordan said curtly, ending the discussion.
He spent the remainder of the time at Squire Foweley’s assembly conversing and flirting with Lily Carruthers, causing much whispering to go around the country ballroom.
Standing with Georgina, Margery could not prevent herself from stealing glances at “Reckless,” as her brain kept reminding her he was known, and Lily Carruthers.
“That blond chit is throwing herself at him,” Georgina fumed.
“Lord Reckford is encouraging her,” Margery said.
“What?” Georgina cried. “Lady Margery, I am speaking of Sabrina Foweley’s behavior with Lord Harry. Who are you... oh, Lord Reckford and Mrs. Carruthers. She reminds me of a spider spinning her web.”
“A poisonous
spider, no doubt,” Margery said.
“She must be of the same species as Sabrina Foweley,” Georgina stated. “Fortunately, the party is about over.”
They had come to the assembly in two carriages. When it was time to leave, Margery contrived to be in the one containing Blythe, Keith, Mrs. Norwood, and Georgina. Suffering through the short ride sitting across from Mrs. Norwood’s forbidding countenance was preferable to watching Lily Carruthers’s honeyed looks at Lord Reckford.
Once safely in her bedchamber, Margery found Penny waiting to help her undress.
“Why, Penny, I told you it was not necessary for you to deprive yourself of sleep to—” Margery broke off, her hands coming to rest on her cheeks. “Penny, what happened to your jaw? It is bruised most dreadfully.”
“’Tis nothin’, my lady,” Penny whispered. “I fell, is all. Mr. Lemon says I’m clumsy.”
Margery did not believe her for an instant. “Penny, did Mr. Lemon strike you? Is that what happened?”
The young maid’s eyes grew round. “Please, Lady Margery, don’t ask me such a question.”
Margery fought down the need to get to the truth. It was late, and the maid was obviously distressed. “Very well, Penny. But in the morning perhaps you might confide in me.”
Penny helped Margery into her gray flannel nightgown without saying a word, then bid her good night, her head bowed.
Margery’s brow was creased with worry when, a few minutes later, Miss Bessamy scratched at the door connecting their chambers.
“Oh, Bessie, I am glad you are still awake. I need to talk with you.”
“Did you have a good time at the assembly?” Miss Bessamy inquired eagerly. “Were there many gentlemen there?”
Margery smiled. She would not tell her dear companion what a shock it had been to see the odious Mr. Cranston, who only served to remind her of her travesty of a marriage. “With some exceptions, I had a fine time and danced almost every dance. But I do need to speak to you.”
How the Rogue Stole Christmas Page 11