Wolf set his napkin on the table. “I am not fond of the idea of being wed for my fortune.”
“I doubt those debutantes are, either, my lord. Perhaps you should consider that when you finally decide to go courting.”
“It would seem I have a great deal to consider.”
“And I shall consider a just punishment for the flower-nappers, and how I am to make restitution to the colonel.”
“Do not bother with that. His bouquet will be returned this evening, and I have asked his horticultural society to move their meeting forward to tomorrow afternoon, so they might all see the blooms. It will not be quite what the colonel had envisioned, but now the collectors will have funds for a small conservatory of their own.”
“You did that? For us?”
Wolf shrugged. “It is Christmas. I could not see visiting your imps in Newgate over the holidays.”
Before she could think, Margaret stood on tiptoe and kissed Wolf’s cheek, then ran for the stairs. “I do like you, sir.”
*
First Margaret closed her nieces in their bedroom, for a month, she swore. Then she lectured them on almost all of the Ten Commandments: lying, stealing, coveting, and dishonoring their parents—or their guardians, as the case might be. They had incited to blasphemy and possible murder—their own at Lord Wolf’s hands—to say nothing of adultery, which last Margaret did not say, naturally.
Then she locked herself in her own room and cried herself to sleep.
Her nieces made gingerbread.
Chapter Five
In addition to flowers, sweets are suitable for a gentleman to bring when he goes courting. Sweets for your sweetheart, confections to convince her of your worth, comfits to convey your intentions, bonbons to win a bonny bride. Best of all, a mannerly female is bound to share.
—George E. Phelber, A Gentleman’s Guide to Courtship
Wolf awoke to the smell of Christmas. If his memories of holidays past had an aroma, it was that of gingerbread. The scent pervading his house and his bedroom reminded him of his childhood, when holidays were always spent at Wolfram Hall in the north. His parents and his sisters would all be at home, along with all the friends and neighbors for miles around coming to help celebrate and decorate. The nursery was full of cousins and schoolmates, all excited by the games and surprises and promised treats. Everyone hoped for snow and finding a charm in a cake or a package with one’s name on it. There was love and joy and anticipation in the air.
Wolf had not known that feeling in years. He’d thought it was for children, outgrown by adults who took their pleasures more seriously.
But gingerbread brought it all back. The spirit of Christmas was alive and in his own house, by Jupiter.
After the holiday came a new year and new possibilities, perhaps a few surprises. No, definitely a few surprises.
Wolf smiled, eager to start the day. Then he laughed out loud when he realized that he was indeed looking forward to another day of Miss Todd and her nieces, and the chaos they brought to his all-too-organized life.
Last night he’d decided to take up his old ways, now that the scratches on his face were not so raw and the gossip was not so personal. Back in his own milieu he could get his houseguest out of his mind, and out of his dreams.
First he’d gone to his club, thinking that if cards and conversation did not work, he could drown Miss Todd—the aching for her, anyway—in drink. Even with most of the gentlemen away at their country estates or house parties, the stench of cigars and unwashed linen still draped the rooms like a shroud. The pasteboards held no interest, and his fellow members had nothing new to say.
Wolf ordered a bottle of brandy, not a glass. Then he recalled that he had children at his house. He could not be staggering home at dawn, unshaved, unsteady. What if he met Miss Todd walking Lady Bartlett’s dog?
He left the club and went to the weekly musical gathering at his friend Montague’s. The soprano was too shrill, the chairs too hard, the room too warm. The listeners ought to be singing Christmas carols, anyway, instead of trying to hide their yawns. He reminded himself to tell Miss Todd that she could use his music room any time she wished.
The ball he attended next was full of silly twits and their self-serving sisters. All of the most attractive females must have gone to the country, Wolf decided. The ones who stayed used too much perfume, bared too much bony chest or bovine bosom. And they simpered at everything he said. Bah! None of them could hold a candle to Miss Todd.
He thought of going to a house of convenience or visiting one of his former mistresses. That would take care of those unwarranted and unworthy urges toward his houseguest. His head was convinced she was beyond his reach, off limits, but his body was still lusting. It was not lusting for a light skirt, though. Try as he might, he could not stir any enthusiasm for a paid companion—other than Lady Bartlett’s, Miss Todd, Margaret, Maggie. Damnation, the only woman he wanted was the one he could not have.
He’d gone home and thought about her all night. And decided he just might be wrong, for once.
After their conversation at dinner, he thought they understood each other. A long night had told him he did not even understand himself. This morning everything was changed.
Christmas was in the air, along with the smell of gingerbread. He sniffed. Perhaps a batch was burned around the edges. No matter. And no matter that he and Miss Todd had politely agreed that there would be no expectations, thus no disappointments. Wolf had expectations aplenty, and refused to be disappointed again. He hurried through his dressing, not bothering to ring for his valet.
He had supposed the gingerbread would be served at tea, along with clotted cream. Instead, there it was on his plate at the breakfast-room table, and not a slice of cake, either. A large, lumpy gingerbread man, all decorated with currant eyes and icing mouth, smiled up at him. One of the chap’s arms was longer than the other, and the feet had been too close to the fire, so it appeared he wore boots. Wolf thought he was handsome—too handsome to eat, although the viscount was hungry, having left most of his dinner last night.
Nothing else arrived. Phillip did not bring his eggs, toast or coffee. Wolf broke off a tiny bit of the gingerbread man’s longer arm to eat while he waited. And waited.
“Phillip? Mrs. Olive?” No one answered. No one brought a muffin or a rasher of bacon. What, did they expect him to eat a gingerbread man for breakfast? He started to do that very thing, lifting the pastry, only to find a card underneath.
YRS., MT, it said. He was not surprised. The girls, of course. Wolf thought he might enlist the infant intriguers to his cause, after he lectured them about forgery, naturally, and interfering in the affairs of their elders. They would be able allies, he knew. But were they able cooks? He looked at the gingerbread man, and then he looked at his bare table and empty sideboard. The pang he felt was no longer hunger.
He went to the kitchen.
He would be getting no breakfast this day. No dinner, either, it seemed, for Cook had taken one look at her domain and given notice. Mrs. Olive was unconscious in the corner of the kitchen, while the Indian animal-trainer fanned her with a skillet. Phillip had his arms around Dora, who was weeping. Or maybe that was the smoke in her eyes. Wolf could barely make out the form of My-lo, lapping something off the floor.
A band of marauders must have invaded the premises, flinging pots and pans to the ground, spilling every sack in the pantry, looking for treasure…or cooking gingerbread. Every surface was sticky, including the floor, except the areas encrusted with burnt batter. A bowl was broken, a knife was stuck in the table, flour dusted it all.
“MISS TODD!”
*
Being a mother was a great deal harder than being a hired companion. If her position turned untenable, a companion could leave. She could take her chances on another position, or another type of work. She could even throw herself on the mercy of her relatives, if she had any. A parent—or aunt, in this case—could not quit.
Ma
rgaret could not leave the children, so she could not leave Lord Wolfram’s household, no matter that it was the wisest course. Her precious nieces would be miserable in the tiny rooms Margaret could afford, with no servants or luxuries.
Margaret was miserable now. She even thought, as she dragged Lady Bartlett’s fat pug through the park, that she would be happier if she had fewer scruples. Then she could be Wolf’s mistress. She knew he wanted her, and she knew he made her feel wantings she had never supposed, in places she had only suspected. She was five-and-twenty, and this was the first time she had ever wished she were not her mother’s daughter. Someone else’s child would have chosen a more lucrative means of support, and someone else’s daughter would have taken Wolf’s unspoken invitation. He could not marry her, but he could offer her a life of ease, in a small house away from Mayfair, or in the country. She would have a carriage of her own, an allowance, credit at the shops, and the company of the most attractive, appealing gentleman in all of London.
Margaret’s mother was a lady, though, and Margaret was born and bred in her image and moral understanding. She carried her mother’s legacy in her narrow, proper, righteous veins. She carried her sister’s legacy on her shoulders. How could she think of becoming Wolf’s mistress when the dear girls needed her? Margaret could never bring her nieces into a house of ill repute, even if she owned that house and was its sole resident.
Besides, the viscount would have to marry eventually. He would have children of his own, and Margaret and the girls would be sloughed off, as a snake’s skin was shed. They would all be heartbroken—and in worse straits than they were now. Now only Margaret’s heart was aching.
They ought to leave. The solicitor’s return was too far away for her to batten on Lord Wolfram so long, or to tempt the fates and Margaret’s tenets so badly. Her reputation would suffer, if nothing else. Her employment with Lady Bartlett was already in jeopardy, as that old crab grew more petulant by the day, left to her own—unpleasant—company so much. Margaret took it upon herself to add a line to a letter to her employer’s ne’er-do-well nephew, suggesting a visit. Perhaps that would relieve the lady’s boredom, for she could rip up at the nephew for hours, then revile his profligate ways for days after.
If Lady Bartlett could have found a cheaper replacement, Margaret was sure, and at no effort on her part, she would have sent Margaret to the devil, without references or a Christmas bonus. Not that Margaret expected much, not from the cheeseparing baroness, but every farthing would help.
For now, Margaret thought her part-time position was safe, at least until she finished hemming the Christmas handkerchiefs for Lady Bartlett’s staff. The old woman would not want to finish them herself, or pay a seamstress for the work.
Of course, if word got out that Miss Todd was having private dinners with Lord Wolf, if gossip made the rounds that Margaret was residing under a rake’s roof without proper chaperonage, Lady Bartlett would have no choice but to dismiss her companion. Then Margaret might as well be Wolf’s mistress, for no one would believe otherwise.
She should leave. The girls were looking forward to Christmas at Wolfram House, though, and Margaret could not bear to disappoint them. As it was, their new warm capes had taken too much of her savings for her to afford lavish gifts, but she was secretly sewing new frocks and matching doll clothes. There would be a feast, Margaret was certain, and caroling and good English traditions they ought to experience. Then they really ought to be here on Boxing Day, to give presents to Lord Wolfram’s small staff in return for their friendly, caring service. New Year’s came soon after, and then the solicitor would be back in Town, with their fate and fortune in his hands.
Resolved if not happy, Margaret brought Charlie the pug back to Bartlett House and went home, without pondering why she considered Lord Wolfram’s house home, instead of the place where she had resided these past six years. She was staying, that was all that mattered.
Heavens, she should have left! For that matter, she and her nieces would be leaving in an instant, from the fury in his lordship’s voice. This time Margaret did not immediately suppose calamity had befallen her little angels, but she raced up the stairs anyway, to check. There they were, asleep in their narrow beds, looking like cherubs. She tucked the covers more carefully around them before returning below to see what had Lord Wolfram in such a state.
“You took your blasted time,” was all he said.
Maybe she would not be so heartbroken after all, Margaret decided, if he was as curmudgeonly in the morning as Lady Bartlett.
“Your nieces made me a gingerbread man,” was all he said as he led her toward the service stairs, to the kitchen.
Margaret sighed. “I suppose they signed my name to it. I will have another talk with— Good grief. What happened?”
“Your nieces, ma’am. Your nieces.”
*
As punishment, Margaret made the girls clean the kitchen, with no breakfast. Everyone helped, though, including Margaret and his lordship, so soon the chore was more like a party, with carols and laughter and cups of chocolate to make the task go faster.
When they were done, the kitchen and pantry nearly restored to Cook’s standards, Wolf wanted to take Margaret and the girls out to a coffeehouse for a hearty meal.
“That would be a reward, not a penance,” Margaret insisted. “How are they to learn from their misdeeds?”
So Wolf drove them first to where Cook and her sons lived, to apologize and beg her to come back. The children’s apology was sweet and heartfelt. Wolfs gold coins were twice as effective.
Margaret made sure her nieces noticed Cook’s tiny flat in a boarding house that smelled of cabbage, down a narrow, litter-filled street. They could be forced into such lodgings, her look told them, if they continued to wreak havoc on Lord Wolfram’s house.
For good measure, she asked Wolf to drive them to an orphanage, where she made the girls deliver the rest of the gingerbread men. She made her point. Wolf made a generous donation, and said, “Good. Now we can put that behind us. What about luncheon?”
Margaret had to get back to complete Lady Bartlett’s correspondence, though. And her nieces had lessons. She also refused his offer of dinner at a hotel, a visit to the theater or the opera, or a drive in the park.
“People will talk,” was all she said.
So the children found her a chaperone.
Chapter Six
When a gentleman goes courting a young lady, he must remember that he is also courting her family. Their opinion will influence her choice of husband, so he must convince them not only that he is capable of adequately supporting their daughter; he must also show he can make her and them happy.
As often noted, a suitor is not merely marrying his chosen bride, he is also marrying her family.
A husband can choose to keep his wife apart from his interfering in-laws, money-borrowing brothers, spinster sisters, and grumpy grandparents. Such a course, however, is bound to upset a sensitive young gentlewoman—and lessen the chances of any inheritance. Being kind to the relatives is a better bet.
—George E. Phelber, A Gentleman’s Guide to Courtship
“Oh, dear. I am dreadfully sorry, but I cannot.”
Margaret stopped pouring the tea. “Chocolate, perhaps?” she offered her unexpected guest in the nursery sitting room.
“Tea is perfect. Especially in the winter, I always say. And the afternoon. And I do enjoy a cup before bedtime.”
“Then you cannot have another macaroon?”
“Oh, no. They are my favorites,” the white-haired old woman said, quickly selecting another from the dish before Margaret could set it aside. “I cannot… That is, I would if I could,” she said, looking nervously over her shoulder and at the door.
Thinking the elderly lady might be fearful of the big cat, Margaret reassured her. “My-lo is out with my nieces.”
“I know, that is why I came. I thought his name was John, though, not Milo.”
Gracious, the v
iscount’s aunt was daft. That was why he kept her shut up in her rooms. Slowly and softly, Margaret said, “Lord Wolfram’s name is John, although everyone calls him Wolf, I understand. My-lo is the cat. They all went for a walk, the girls, his lordship, and My-lo’s handler.”
“I do love cats,” Mrs. Bolton said, suddenly dabbing at her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief. “I miss my little friends.”
Margaret doubted the hunting cat was what she had in mind. “I am sure your nephew would not care if you kept a kitten in your rooms. He seems fond of animals.”
“Oh, I could never ask. And now, when the dear girls ask me for a favor, I have to be so disobliging. It is quite distressing, I swear.”
Margaret could see that it was, from the tears falling down the lined cheeks. She wished someone else were around, to tell her how to deal with the anxious, attics-to-let auntie. Then she realized what Mrs. Bolton had said. “You know my nieces?” Until this afternoon, Margaret had never met the viscount’s Great-Aunt Glorianna. When she had scratched on the door the day they all moved in, a whispery voice called back that she was suffering the headache and could not be disturbed, ever. “I told them not to bother you! I am so sorry.”
“Oh, no, they are no bother. I quite enjoy their company, you know, and all their tales of India. I am teaching them whist and they have taught me spillikins.” She leaned forward, lest her reedy voice be overheard. “I think the younger gal cheats. That is why I owe them the favor. I lost, you see.”
Margaret saw nothing but red. Her darlings disobeying again? Gambling? Cheating a poor addled old lady? “I shall repay whatever they won.”
“Oh, we do not play for money. And they already owe me an hour of sorting my embroidery threads, my eyes not being what they used to be, you know. This time I promised to act as your chaperone so you could attend the theater and the opera and dinners and perhaps”—she sniffled—“a ball or two with Lord Wolfram. But I cannot.”
“Would you not enjoy getting out?” The entertainments sounded all too inviting to Margaret. She had attended the theater and the opera a few times with Lady Bartlett, but that woman was too frugal to keep a box of her own, and only went when someone else invited her. Seldom was the invitation extended to the lady’s companion. As for the handful of balls Lady Bartlett chose to grace with her presence, Margaret had to stand beside her employer’s chair, ready to fetch refreshments, warmer wraps, or a fan, while Lady Bartlett gossiped with her cronies. To go to a ball as a guest was beyond her hopes. To go with Wolf was beyond her dreams. To go because he actually wanted to take her was beyond wonderful! “I must admit the notion is appealing to me.” Which might have been the biggest understatement of Margaret’s life.
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