On A Cold Christmas Eve
By Bethany M. Sefchick
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright ã 2013 Bethany M. Sefchick
All rights reserved
Prologue
"Honest, me lord. I'm just waitin' for a package is all."
Adam St. Vincent, the Duke of Enwright, glared at the man standing on the hand-hewn stone steps below him, not believing that drivel any more than he had the last five minutes worth of conversation that had spewed from the worthless cur's mouth. A package, indeed. As if Adam was stupid enough to believe whatever lies fell from the mouth of someone who looked, not to mention smelled, worse than a footpad from the worst areas of London.
"Be that as it may," Adam finally said, his rage barely controlled, "I cannot allow you to remain here. Fairhaven is a private residence, not a place to engage in trade." He waved a hand in the man's general direction, seemingly not caring what the man was about. At the very least, he wanted to pretend not to care. "Or whatever it is you're about this evening."
The man glared at Adam a moment before casting his eyes downward in a sign of deference, one that Adam was certain the man didn't really mean. "It's your brother what brought me here, your lordship," he tried again, clearly eager to get what he'd come for and be on his way. "Archibald St. Vincent, your brother himself, sent me this letter. Said to meet him here, at his home, and we'd do our business, all proper like. I'm an honest man, me lord, and I just want what's been promised me."
Glancing behind him, Adam noted that the hulking structure that was Fairhaven was mostly dark save for a few candles in distant windows, the skeleton staff he kept on hand doing their duty, and not merely by keeping up the small estate, one of the smallest out of all his holdings. It was his staff, notably the butler, Simmonds, who had sent the urgent message to Adam in London, warning him that Archibald was up to something, probably something nefarious, as was the younger St. Vincent's style. Something to do with an ill-appearing man who clearly had thievery on his mind, a specific date and the arrival of a mysterious package. Those had been Simmonds exact words, and they had worried Adam sufficiently to leave his warm and inviting house in Mayfair a few days before the Season ended just so that he could be here when the man "arrived" to conduct business with Archibald.
Even now, the crudely scrawled note, written by man in front of Adam and addressed to Archibald seemed to want to burn a hole in Adam's pocket. Had Simmonds not kept such careful watch on everything that occurred at Fairhaven, there was a very good chance Adam would have never known that his brother was indulging in questionable moral practices. Again. Not to mention conducting his dirty business on one of Adam's estates.
Adam might not know precisely what was supposed to occur during the transaction, but he knew it wasn't good, and in all likelihood, not legal either. Few things involving Archibald were these days.
"Yes, well Archibald isn't the duke. I am," Adam finally said haughtily, praying that the man would confess to his would-be crime and leave soon, and that he wouldn't be forced to call on his reserves. He was the damn bloody Duke of Enwright. The fear generated by that name alone should have been enough to send this foul creature scurrying back to the rubbish heap from which he came.
However, it hadn't been earlier and, from the nasty glint in the man's eye, it might not be. The man was still here, blast him, darkening Fairhaven's steps, so Adam knew that whatever the "package" was, it was a grand prize indeed. That meant that he might have to call upon Simmonds, who was, in fact, much younger and much stronger than he appeared, as well as Harry Greer, the Bow Street Runner that Adam employed on occasion for just such emergences. It was Harry who had accompanied Adam to Fairhaven on the off chance that things went badly, which, when dealing with men of this ilk, was a distinct possibility.
Given the way the man was glaring at Adam, it seemed that his fears weren't completely unfounded.
"I understand, me lord, but I was promised me payment and the package. Both. Not one or da other." When Adam's eyebrows shot up at the seemingly unusual nature of the transaction, the man quickly backpedaled. "What I meant was that the package was a bit troublesome, is all. So Archie was what gon' pay me fer me troubles. Said he had money now, or would soon, an' lots of it what with the dowry and all." Then, clearly fearing he'd said too much, the man fell silent, watching Adam carefully, trying to judge the level of the duke's anger.
At that, Adam's heart sunk into his stomach and his blood ran cold as a mix of fear and shame stole across him. Not again, he thought as anger rose within him. Please, God, don't let this have happened again. Not again.
However, looking at the man in front of him, his eyes glinting viciously, Adam knew that it had. The first time, he'd been able to smooth over Archibald's misdeed, make things right to everyone's satisfaction. This time? This time the brother of the Duke of Enwright might very well be carted off to prison, if not face the noose, depending on the level of his crime. Not for the first time since the last "event," Adam considered allowing Archibald to be left to his fate. He was tired, weary to the bone really, of cleaning up his brother's messes. This had to be the last time.
Chapter One
Lucy Cavendish clutched her thin pelisse tightly around her, praying that the slushy rain would stop soon, though that was unlikely. This was December in England, after all, and the weather was almost always miserable. She knew she should consider herself fortunate that it wasn't snow, though at the moment, that was little comfort considering how frozen to the very bone she was. Still, as she trudged forward, she could see the split in the road ahead, the one marked by a low stone bridge off to the right and the beginning of a long grove of trees that lined the drive to what she knew, at least based on parlor conversation, was a grand estate. Fairhaven.
That estate was her destination, and, though she'd been walking for nearly two hours, and her legs ached unbearably, she was so close she could almost feel the hope in her very soul. An optimist by nature, she knew that she needed to press on, and not just because she had almost reached her destination. Night was falling rapidly, and she didn't wish to be out on the road by herself at night. Even though she was close to the estate of a peer, that didn't mean there weren't robbers and highwaymen about, skulking in the woods. She was optimistic; not stupid.
However, she was also so very, very wet. And cold. Frigidly cold. So miserable in fact, that she didn't think she'd ever be warm and dry again. If she didn't hurry, there was also the very real possibility that she might freeze to death as well, in which case, it wouldn't matter if she reached Fairhaven or not, as she would likely be dead. There was that little problem, one she hadn't anticipated when she'd begun her journey.
It had been cold but dry when her uncle had deposited her at the coaching inn, and she hadn't minded quite so much. After all, she was looking forward to a decent meal at the inn, something she rarely received in her uncle's home, as well as their trip to Fairhaven by coach. She'd secretly hoped that her betrothed would include a few warm bricks in the coach he sent for her. Though, logically, she knew that the second son of the St. Vincent family, one who, by some lucky change of fate had been granted his own estate to run, was probably far too busy to worry about small things like that. He was a reformed rake, after all, or so she'd been told, and might not necessarily be accustomed to the needs of a lady while traveling. She could hope, however.
So it was to her great surprise when her uncle deposited her at the front door of the
inn and grabbed her reticule out of her hands before she could object. Then he had jumped back into his coach, which promptly sped off back towards London. Leaving Lucy alone in the rapidly falling dark without another word.
She'd had no choice but to go inside the inn then, but she'd found little more help once inside. While the innkeeper was pleasant enough, he informed her that while Fairhaven was indeed the "spring home" of the St. Vincent family, it was also owned not by Archibald St. Vincent, but by his brother, Adam St. Vincent, the Duke of Enwright. In fact, according the innkeeper, no one had seen Archibald for years, and that was a good thing because the man was worthless, sneaky, and an outright rake. He also had a price on his head, one rather quietly back by the Crown itself.
Fear and anger had snaked down Lucy's spine, and any hope she'd had that Archibald had changed his ways vanished in an instant. He hadn't, and she'd been played for the powerless fool that she was. Then she'd looked longingly up the stairs to where the guest rooms were. Rooms she would never be able to sleep in because her uncle had taken what little money she'd brought with her. The rest of her scant savings, along with her few meager possessions, were supposedly following her to Fairhaven in a few days. At that moment, she was certain that not only would they not follow, but there had never been any plan for them to do so. It was then that she was struck by a cold, clear truth.
Whatever scheme her uncle and Archibald St. Vincent had cooked up, for she had no doubt that they were in this mess together, it didn't bode well for her. She was nothing more than a pawn in a game that she did not understand but knew would end badly for her. There was no other possible outcome.
She had two choices, she decided. She could sit and wait for whatever fate might befall her, beg the innkeeper for lodging for the night, or even simply a small meal, in hopes that someone would pay for her keep when they eventually came for her, no matter how inappropriate that might be. For she had no doubt that someone would come to claim her eventually. Otherwise, she would not be here at all.
The other choice was for her to strike out on her own and attempt to reach Fairhaven before Archibald did - if he was even coming at all, which she seriously doubted as the hour grew later and darkness began to cloak the land. Once at the estate she might have some hope of prevailing upon the staff for kindness. They were employed by the duke, and she reasoned that, given that she was both the daughter and ward of a peer, they would probably not turn her away once they heard her story. Since Archibald was involved, they might even sympathize with her and offer her some type of help. She didn't dare hope that the duke was in residence. The last she knew, he was still in London, finishing up business before leaving town for the holiday season. Not that she kept track of him or anything, but ladies did talk, especially about the ton's most eligible bachelor.
At the very least, they might shelter her for a night or two until she could write to a distant cousin in Bath, appealing for help. At best, someone there might be willing to send a courier to the duke with a message on her behalf. The duke, in turn, might be able to offer some assistance in tracking down his brother. Or send him off to Newgate for what he'd done - even though she wasn't quite certain of those detail just yet. She had no idea, really, how far this plan went or what it entailed. At this point, she didn't much care, either, because clearly, Archibald was not the reformed rake her uncle claimed. That was all anyone needed to know.
No, the duke was her best and only hope if she was to stay out of the opera houses and remain a lady. Another woman in her position might not believe that to be the case, but Lucy knew better.
Over the few seasons she'd been out in society, Lucy had heard plenty of stories in the drawing rooms of London about the fierce, fearsome Duke of Enwright. The Devil Duke. He was hard, her fellow debutants whispered, not a man to wish for as a husband. Dangerous, they'd claimed, with sexual appetites not fit for a lady of good breeding. He could reduce a proper woman to tears with just a look, many of her fellow debutants claimed, and then ravish them so thoroughly that they were unfit to wed. Stupid, foolish chits.
Lucy, however, knew better, for she was not as empty-headed as her fellow debutantes. She had seen Enwright many times over the years, and each glimpse of him had warmed Lucy to her toes and beyond. That much was true. But he was not evil. He was not the devil either, as his reputation claimed, but rather a dark god, one borne of smoke and ash, and all things sensual. He was appealing as well, probably more than he should be to a lady of good breeding. Lucy knew she had no business noticing the way he filled out a waistcoat or the way his breeches clung to his thighs or how his raven black hair fell over one eye, just begging to be pushed back. No, someone like her had no business noticing a man like the duke at all.
That didn't stop her from doing so, however. Dark and dangerous he might be, but the raw power of him appealed to something deep inside Lucy, a part of her that she had pushed aside when she'd returned to England for her debut. Not to mention that when she looked at him, she saw something else, something that she wasn't certain the other women were even capable of noticing. Perhaps she did only because she had seen that same thing before - starting back at her in the mirror each time she sat at her dressing table.
There was a soul-deep hurt in Adam St. Vincent's eyes, one that Lucy knew resided in her own as well. It was the look of someone who had seen the worst of life, who had expected great things as a child and been harshly disappointed as an adult. Oh, he covered it well, just as she did, but it was there, lurking beneath the air of jaded danger and disinterest that he projected to the ton.
Lucy had also heard the men at the various balls she'd attended speak highly of the duke's sense of honesty and fairness. He was held in high esteem by many, including the Prince Regent himself, and it was well known that Prinny held very few men in such regard. There was a sense of morality about the duke that few men of the ton could match, and it was that sense of ethics that Lucy would appeal to, if she could. It was her last, best hope before being cast into the streets or attempting to find a position some place in the home of a peer. At the moment, that scenario was the best she could hope for.
If nothing else, life with her uncle had taught Lucy several very harsh life lessons, chief among them that she could only truly rely on herself. Her uncle might put up a good front for the ton, making sure she was appropriately clothed and that she appeared in all of the "right" places when it was socially demanded, but he didn't truly care about her. All he wanted was her fortune, the one left to her by her father, the former Earl of Wellsford, a title now held by her uncle. The very fortune that Lucy herself couldn't touch until she was over the age of thirty or married, whichever came first. The same fortune that would fall to her uncle if she died, or was disgraced in some way before she reached her majority.
And she had no doubt in her mind that somehow, someway, her uncle and Archibald St. Vincent had joined forces in an attempt to get their hands on her fortune. A fortune that she knew her uncle needed, given his profligate spending, and a fortune that she suspected the not-so-reformed rakehell second son of a duke probably needed as well.
In the end, whatever the reason, Lucy would be the one to pay the price for the men's machinations. They would remain untouched while she became some kind of fallen woman, even if she was somehow able to remain chaste.
So rather than leave her fate up to chance, Lucy had quietly slipped out of the inn while the innkeeper's back was turned and took the first road to the right that she'd seen, one a mere half a mile, or there abouts, from the inn. That road, she knew, based on her uncle's discussions with his coachman, led to Fairhaven. And that was where she would go.
Adam saw the small, slender figure trudging up the winding drive to Fairhaven before either Simmonds or Harry did, and he was out the door before either of the other men could react, heedless of the driving rain which was rapidly changing to snow. After his short, but rather bloody, conversation with the man, whose name Adam had learned was Ezekiel McTavish, or just
Mac for short, who had come to collect the "package" from Archibald, Adam knew to expect a woman. A lady. The daughter of a peer.
Damn it all to bloody hell.
A well-placed fist to the nose had assured Adam of Mac's cooperation, especially when Simmonds and Harry had held the man down as Adam prepared to pound the flesh from his body a bit more. There was a reason Adam was called the "Devil Duke," and it wasn't entirely because of his way with the ladies.
Adam had grown up quickly after his father, the previous duke, had died when Adam was a scant nine years old. As the eldest, he'd learned early that strength, both physical and mental, was essential for a peer of his stature. Too many people, even family members, were out to take what they didn't earn, and that included other members of the aristocracy, especially those who thought they could prey upon the insecurities of a young, green noble suddenly thrust into power. By the time Adam had reached the ripe old age of fourteen, the ton had learned that no one tangled with the young Duke of Enwright and escaped without some type of injury, be it mental, physical or financial.
It was, Adam reflected, too bad that Archibald hadn't learned that lesson as well.
Now, he was once more left to clean up his brother's mess. This time, however, the woman was still an innocent, or at least he assumed she was. That was more than could be said for the last one.
As Adam ran through the rain to intercept the woman, he was quick to note several things. First, she was tall, much taller than any of the London chits he'd been introduced to previously, though there was a slightly familiar air about the way she walked, slow as she was moving at the moment. The second was that she was blessed with a woman's curves, which, given the way her soaked clothes clung to her wasn't too difficult to see. Last, and certainly not least, was that she was thinner than her fame suggested she should be, indicating that she would most likely be prone to illness if kept out in this weather much longer.
On A Cold Christmas Eve Page 1