by Ava Stone
A Regency Christmas Pact Bundle
Copyright © 2013 by Jane Charles, Aileen Fish, Catherine Gayle, Julie Johnstone, Jerrica Knight-Catania, and Ava Stone
Cover Design by Lily Smith
Smashwords Edition
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Table of Contents
Prologue
A Bit of Mistletoe ~ Ava Stone
Lady Disguised ~ Jane Charles
Thick as Thieves ~ Catherine Gayle
All He Wants For Christmas ~ Jerrica Knight-Catania
Chasing Lord Mystery ~ Aileen Fish
‘Tis The Season For Surrender ~ Julie Johnstone
The Falcon & the Philosopher Inn, Cambridgeshire – December 1814
Flickering light from the hearth at the far end of the taproom cast a warm glow across the floor, wooden beams, and six very serious gentlemen gathered in a circle around one of the tables. Only an occasional pop or crackle from the fire made any sound in the otherwise vacant tavern.
“Richard would want us to drink to his name,” Rowan Findley announced, lifting a glass of whiskey out before him.
Robert Hurst, the Earl of Northcotte, snorted. “Richard would want to be alive,” he grumbled under his breath, but the others heard him clearly. And on that point they were all in agreement.
Richard Hollace, the late Lord Arrington, had lived life to its fullest. He embodied the sentiment “eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we may die.” And unfortunately, the latter was true in his case. It was the way Lord Arrington had passed that had caused such a pallor to be cast upon the taproom. No man liked to think about his own passing, and certainly not passing before one’s time, but to be killed so viciously, and by one’s own wife…
“Which is why we should drink to his name,” David Hounslow, the Marquess of Preston said softly, lifting his glass of whiskey as well.
“Here, here.” Sebastian Stanwick raised his glass.
The other three men followed suit as Findley said, “To Richard Hollace, a damn good friend.”
“With a generous heart,” Preston added.
“And a wicked sense of humor,” Nicholas Beckford, Lord Edgeworth tossed in.
“The life of every party,” agreed Everett Casemore, the Marquess of Berkswell.
“Knower of all things equine.” Northcotte smiled sadly.
“Knower of all things female.” Stanwick frowned.
That last bit swirled about the room, each man ruminating over the truth of it. Had Arrington known fewer females, he might very well be alive this night. He wouldn’t be lying six feet under with a hole in his head in the shape of a fire iron. The six of them wouldn’t have driven through the snow to Cambridgeshire on short notice. And they wouldn’t have sat through their old school chum’s funeral, wondering how such a tragedy could have befallen the man.
One by one, they swallowed the contents of their glasses, each wondering how the world had stopped making sense. Ladies didn’t murder their husbands. They just didn’t do such things, except… Well, except one did. Something the lot of them would have thought unfathomable a fortnight earlier had become a tragic and quite frightening truth.
“What’s going to happen to her?” Preston asked, his voice just loud enough to be heard over the crackling fire.
“She’s been taken to Newgate,” Edgeworth replied. “I expect they’ll hang her.”
“Richard should have been more careful of her sensibilities,” Stanwick said, raking a hand through his midnight black hair. “He should have taken care that she not find out about his paramours.”
“I doubt he thought his wife was capable of such a thing,” Berkswell returned.
“I doubt any man thinks so.” Findley sighed.
“And yet women are very clearly capable of such things,” Northcotte began, “One only has to look as far as Richard for proof.”
Again, silence befell the six men. One only did have to look as far as Richard to see that women were very clearly capable of murder. Northcotte had never spoken truer words.
“Well, that settles it then—” Findley broke the silence, slamming his glass on the table in front of him a little harder than was necessary “—I’m never getting married. That’s the best and only way I can think of to avoid Richard’s fate.”
It only took half a second for Preston to say, “I couldn’t agree with you more.”
“Well, then, what about you?” Findley glanced from Berkswell to Northcotte to Edgeworth to Stanwick.
Berkswell scrubbed a hand across his jaw and shook his head. “Certainly not worth the risk. My brother can inherit.”
“As can my cousin,” Northcotte added solemnly.
“Never planned on marrying anyway.” Edgeworth shrugged.
“Nor I,” Stanwick agreed.
“Then we’re agreed,” Findley announced, lifting his glass in the air once more. “I, Rowan Findley, hereby solemnly vow to never take a wife.”
The other five lifted their glasses and repeated the vow in unison.
Famous last words, most assuredly…
For every woman out there who has been cheated on or abandoned ~ A few years ago, my husband of 12 years told me he was leaving me for another woman. I know I’m not a novelty in that regard, but when you’re going through a situation like that, you certainly feel like you are. So as unseemly as it is to admit, I do feel a little kinship for Lady Arrington and her fire iron. While I could never harm anyone myself, I certainly understand the emotions that could lead one to that place.
At the time, I had some wonderful friends who promised to help me hide the body should I decide to “knock him off” (in jest, of course). But their friendship, their commiseration, their support helped me through the most difficult time in my life, and I will always love them for it. Every woman should be as lucky to have such wonderful, devoted, and loyal friends. Had Lady Arrington had friends like mine, I’m certain she wouldn’t have ended up in Newgate Prison.
I am here to say, however, that as hard as it is to believe when you’re recovering from that sort of betrayal, there really are some decent and truly good men out there. I am honored to know a number of them. And after rising from my ashes, I am very fortunate to have found an honorable hero of my own.
Though Lord Berkswell isn’t the soft, cuddly sort – and flawed, though he is - Berks is decent and a truly good man who cares for and loves his family with all his heart. I hope you’ll love him as much as I do.
~ Ava
Outside Wellesborne, Warwickshire – December, 1814
For the entire journey from Arrington, Everett Casemore, the Marquess of Berkswell, could not get the image of his old school chum out of his mind. For God’s sake, the service should have been a closed casket. Despite the undertaker’s best efforts, one could clearly see the puncture wound left in Richard’s head from Lady Arrington’s fire iron.
>
A fire iron, for God’s sake! Apparently, the lady had screamed, “I’ll give you something to poke!" as she dealt her husband the final deathblow.
Berks shuddered at the thought. And it truly was a terrifying thought! Who would have ever imagined Lady Arrington—who was most definitely on the slight side of the scale, all things considered—would have even had enough strength to lift up a fire iron, let alone murder Richard with the bloody thing?
Glancing out of his traveling carriage upon the village covered in freshly fallen snow, Berks willed his disturbing thoughts from his mind. He couldn’t keep dwelling on Richard, not now at any rate. As soon as he arrived at Wellesborne Park, he’d have to be in a much cheerier state of mind, or at least appear as such. His sister, brother-in-law, and new nephew would already be in residence; and his brother and sister-in-law would be arriving the next day. There was no time for maudlin thoughts.
The holidays were upon them, whether Berks was in the mood for festivities or not. And everyone would expect him to play the role of courteous host. He snorted at the thought. More like play the role of peacekeeper between his brother and their brother-in-law. But at the moment, Berks didn’t think he was up for the challenge. How could he be, with the image of Richard’s lifeless body in that casket flashing over and over in his mind?
Lady Arrington had hit him how many times? He’d heard varying accounts. But honestly, being struck once was plenty.
Lady Arrington. He’d never have thought her prone to violence or madness. She’d always seemed to be of the sweetest disposition. Mousy, even. If she was mad, however, it was no wonder Richard had strayed from his marriage vows. Berks couldn’t imagine bedding a madwoman, being tied to a madwoman the rest of his life. Of course, Richard’s life was not long lived in the end, was it?
He spotted the first spires of Wellesborne Park and sighed. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about coming across any madwomen at home. His sister, Pippa, was the gentlest soul. Kind, caring, and not the least bit mad. His sister-in-law, Miranda, was… Well, Miranda might be a bit mad, now that he thought about it.
His brother had met the girl, who’d disguised herself as a fop, inside a gaming hell in London the previous year. A sane woman wouldn’t do such a thing, would she? Berks made a mental note to warn Harry to look for any signs of madness within his wife. After all, doing so just might save his brother’s life. Harry was nearly twice Miranda’s size, but Richard hadn’t been a small man either. A blow to the head from a fire iron seemed to even things out in that regard.
The coach bounced a bit as it started down the long drive towards Wellesborne Park, and Berks tried to shake all the terrible thoughts from his mind. He was never going to marry, so there was no point in fretting any further about the situation. Richard’s death had been a warning, one Berks would heed until the end of his days. But for now, the holidays were here. And he had a family to entertain.
Berks closed his eyes as the carriage drew to a stop. Then he took one last steadying breath. The holidays. He was ready for the holidays.
His coachman opened the door and lowered the steps.
Berks alighted from the carriage, glanced up at his familiar sandstone Tudor manor which seemed to blend with the imposing grey sky above, and then he strode towards the large front door, careful not to slip on the icy stone steps.
Davis, the butler, opened the door with a welcoming smile. “Lord Berkswell.”
Berks shrugged out of his greatcoat. “I take it Lord and Lady St. Austell arrived safely?”
As Davis took the coat from Berks, he nodded in response. “Yes, milord. And Lord Harrison and his guests have arrived as well.”
“Guests?” Harry hadn’t said anything about guests. If that oaf Albie Potsdon was scarfing down every last crumb at the Park, Berks would toss the fellow right out on his…
“Yes, sir. Mr. Pratt and his niece.”
Mr. Pratt and his niece? Berks didn’t have any idea who Mr. Pratt was or his niece, for that matter. Why the devil would Harry invite a pair of strangers home for the holidays? “Where is my brother?”
“The white parlor, milord.”
Berks handed his beaver hat to Davis and then started in the direction of the white parlor, until a somber tune coming from the music room and the faint scent of gardenias halted him in his step.
Miss Theresa Birkin ran her fingers over the ivory keys of the pianoforte. She adored Bach. If ever a composer was inspired, it was him. And the Goldberg Variations was one of her favorites, though Tessie doubted she’d ever master the piece. The hand crossings alone required tremendous talent, patience, and precision. In truth, she only possessed the patience part.
Just as that thought entered her mind, she hit a wrong note that seemed to reverberate around the room.
“That was a bit sharp,” came an unhappy voice from the threshold.
Tessie leapt from the bench and turned to face the interloper. “I—um—” Whatever she meant to say died on her tongue as her gaze landed on a most handsome gentleman, just a few feet away. The gentleman was tall, though not as tall or broad as Lord Harrison. Still there was a family resemblance. He had the same chiseled jaw and a strong, aristocratic nose. But it was the gentleman’s eyes that most struck her. His warm brown eyes, tinged with a bit of skepticism, settled on Tessie, robbing her of her breath.
The gentleman’s brow lifted. “You were saying?”
Was she saying something? Tessie shook her head. “I—um—wasn’t,” she stumbled over her words, feeling like the biggest ninny every born.
“You must be Mr. Pratt’s niece.”
Tessie nodded quickly. “Yes. Theresa Birkin. Lord Berkswell, is it?” she asked, though he couldn’t be anyone else. Wellesborne Park was the marquess’s home and this gentleman did favor Lord Harrison. The two were most definitely brothers.
“Birkin, you say?” His brow rose even higher as his eyes swept across her form. “Miranda’s friend?”
Heavens. He’d heard of her before. That couldn’t be good. Still, no matter what she’d gone through the last few years, she wouldn’t deny her own name. “Yes, my lord. Miranda Casemore is my dearest friend.”
“I see,” he clipped out. “Well, then—” he frowned “—I’ll let you return to Bach. Do watch the sharps.” Then he turned on his heel and continued down the corridor.
Tessie’s heart pounded a staccato in her chest. Lord Berkswell hadn’t said much to her, but his commanding air and condescending gaze had left her a bit breathless. She sank down to the piano bench and tried to catch her breath. She was fairly certain the marquess’ frown would haunt her dreams.
No matter how Miranda tried to assuage Tessie’s fears, there had to be talk about her in Town. There had to be. Why else would Lord Berkswell frown at her as though she was the lowest bit of gutter trash? He must have heard the rumors. The rumors Miranda and Lord Harrison had promised her were not making the rounds in London.
So much for returning to Town in the spring for the Season. She couldn’t take that same condescending look from every lord, matron and debutant in London. She just couldn’t. It had taken quite some time before she could meet her own eyes in a mirror.
Berks didn’t stop until he reached the white parlor. Why the devil had Harry and Miranda invited that Birkin chit to his home for the holidays? Insane women were dangerous to be around, and though he’d never met Miss Birkin until now, he did know she was insane. Mad as a March hair. After all, no sane woman would involve herself with that ne’er-do-well Stalbridge. No sane woman would share the wastrel’s bed and get herself ruined. No sane woman…
“Berks!” Harry’s booming voice caught Berks off guard as his brother rose from his spot on the settee, beside his very expectant wife. “We were just wondering about you.”
“Were you, indeed?” He quickly scanned the parlor, his gaze seeking out the other inhabitants. His sister, Pippa, sat in a wingback chair, cooing over her infant, while her husband lounged a few feet away tal
king to a grey-haired gentleman who coughed into his fist. Mr. Pratt, no doubt. Berks returned his attention to his brother. “I didn’t think you were due in until tomorrow.”
Harry left Miranda’s side and crossed the room in just a few strides. “Ah, well, Miranda isn’t feeling her best these days and didn’t want the journey to drag on longer than was necessary.”
“Much better to drive through the night, tempting highwaymen and the wintery weather? Is that it?” Berks asked. After all, it wasn’t possible they could have made the journey any other way. What a foolish thing for his brother to have done.
“Well,” Miranda began to explain, “we didn’t want Tessie to arrive before we did, you see.”
Of course not. It made much more sense to drive recklessly through the snowy countryside, despite Miranda’s delicate condition. Berks let his gaze linger on his olive skinned sister-in-law. His earlier estimation was most definitely correct. The chit was mad. Harry would be wise to watch his back and his fire irons.
“Oh, Berks.” Harry gestured towards the grey-haired fellow beside his brother-in-law, Jason York, the Earl of St. Austell. “This is Martin Pratt. He’s Miss Birkin’s uncle.”
“Yes, I just met Miss Birkin. She was stumbling over Bach.” It was why the duo was at Wellesborne Park that still remained a mystery. Still, he nodded to the old fellow anyway. “Welcome. Very nice to meet you.”
“Thank you for having us.” Mr. Pratt smiled gratefully, which did make Berks feel the tiniest bit guilty for his uncharitable thoughts, but only briefly.
He looked once again at his brother. “When Davis said we had guests, I was afraid I’d find Potsdon inhaling every morsel in the Park.”
Harry chuckled, a warm sound that reminded Berks of all the happy times he and his siblings had shared together in earlier years. “Albie’s in Bombay.”
“Most likely inhaling all of the morsels in India.” Pippa’s green eyes twinkled with mirth. “Do come look at Edmund before I have to put him down for his nap. I’ve been holding him off until you arrived.”