Goosed! or a Fowl Christmas

by Linda Banche

  And then there was Borland.

  The sky dimmed to gray, the air froze solid, and the fields faded to dried mud.

  Exactly what had Borland said? He frowned, dredging up their conversation from his memory. No easy task, with his brain dulled last night from a surfeit of alcohol and still somewhat fogged.

  Borland said he had asked Julia to marry him. He had not said she accepted.

  Robert’s hands tightened on the reins. Damn the man. Borland had deliberately misled him.

  But then…In all honesty, if the situation were reversed, he probably would have done the same. When a woman was involved, men didn’t necessarily play fair.

  The good news was: Borland and Miss Shaw weren’t lovers. Not that he had any right to judge. Her life was her own, and not under his control. Also, they were not betrothed, nor did they have an understanding. They had…nothing. A weight lifted from his shoulders.

  Everything was on Borland’s part. Robert would not poach on another man’s preserves. If they had something even as tenuous as an understanding, he would have bowed out.

  But they didn’t. He released a long breath. So, he had a chance. At the same time he felt a little sorry for Borland. The man was in love. But the twinge passed quickly. All was fair in love and war.

  His instincts of yesterday had been right. Magic had swirled around Miss Shaw and himself. They both were in thrall, he with her, and more importantly, she with him.

  The curricle lurched as the vehicle swayed into a curve. He slowed down and took the bend safely. Ahead rose the house of the Jordans, where he would make his first duty call. The Jordans were a dour lot, people whose company he usually avoided. But today, he would treat them as if they were his closest friends. He grinned. How surprised they would be.

  What a difference a day made.

  Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough. Although his body reacted to Miss Shaw more powerfully than to any other woman, he knew next to nothing about her. But he would soon remedy that.

  He chuckled. One thing he would find out about was the turpentine. He hadn’t smelled the odor in the corridor. The smell clung to her.

  Mayhap she painted watercolors. Most ladies did. She probably used the turpentine to clean her brushes, although watercolors washed out with water.

  He shrugged. No matter. He doubted she would smell of turpentine tomorrow.

  And if she did, he wouldn’t care.

  ***

  “Hey, Mac!”

  Machiavelli cast his gaze heavenward as if in supplication to the Great Goose himself. His scheme to escape dinnerhood had failed. His Mistress was furious at him. His entire life was a ruin. The last thing he needed was Sylvester’s harassment.

  But he composed his features and turned to the fox with a smile. Never let them see your fear. “Good day to you, too, Sylvester.”

  The fox perched on the goose pen fence’s narrow top rail, a precarious position. Perhaps he would fall and put a period to one of Machiavelli’s problems. But after today’s disasters, he couldn’t be that fortunate.

  “I have to congratulate you, Mac. For another year you’ve avoided the roasting spit.”

  “I have no idea what you mean.” Machiavelli kept his voice level, although the word “roast” send ice sliding down his spine.

  “Oh, come now. I may not understand Human speech as you do, but I know the Humans hold a great festival at this time of year. A festival at which they like to eat goose.”

  “Oh?” Machiavelli’s pulse raced, but he forced his face to blandness.

  “Oh, yes. And I don’t have to be a genius to figure out why you went next door and brought back those fancy ducks.” Sylvester hopped into the goose pen. “You wanted a dinner replacement for yourself. But your plan failed.” He sat on his hind legs and shook his head. “You failed, but somehow you still managed to avoid the spit.” He scratched his head with his front paw. “I don’t know. Either you’re very smart, or these Humans are incredibly stupid.”

  Machiavelli seized on the last word. He was not secure yet, but he couldn’t let Sylvester find out. “Humans!” Machiavelli snorted out a honk. “Why, they can’t even understand Animal! They think they’re the masters of creation, but they notice only a fraction of what’s under their noses. To their loss.”

  He marched around the pen, fluffing out his feathers to assume his intimidating aspect. Not that much intimidated Sylvester. “That’s probably why you were able to lure The Keeper into the dung pit, and I lured His Lordship there. Only foolish Humans would fall for that ploy.” He inclined his head to the fox. “An animal never would.” Buttering up his nemesis couldn’t hurt. “Or a bird.” He bowed.

  Sylvester’s eyes narrowed. “You may be right.” The words were grudging. The fox hated to agree with his enemy. “If I wished to protect something, I would select an animal or a bird as a guard. Not a silly Human.” A dreamy smile overspread his visage. “I would love to raid His Lordship’s place. Almost as much as I would love to raid your chicken coop again.”

  “The Keeper stopped you yesterday, and I have foiled your efforts for years, and will continue to do so.” Machiavelli puffed out his chest. “Forget about both, Sylvester, for you will never succeed.”

  “Curse The Keeper. I’ll have to pay him back, and you, too, Mac.” The fox’s laugh issued from between his teeth. “There is always tomorrow.”

  Alarm bells clanged in Machiavelli’s head. Sylvester was up to something havy-cavy, something that concerned the aviary. With His Mistress starry-eyed over His Lordship, he couldn’t let anything happen to those birds.

  “Have you something in mind?” Machiavelli flicked a wing as if he didn’t care, but he was all ears.

  Sylvester’s grin was a baring of teeth.

  Machiavelli’s alarm bells clanged louder.

  “No.” The fox’s posture was almost boneless. Much too relaxed. “Just thinking out loud.” He hopped back onto the top rail and then down to the ground outside the pen. “Enjoy your extra year.” He ran swiftly and silently toward the woods, his white-tipped russet tail flicking back and forth until he disappeared into a dense thicket.

  Machiavelli resettled his wings. He had to keep watch over the aviary.

  Trouble brewed. Bad trouble.

  Chapter 14

  Will paced before the roaring fire in the empty drawing room of Tyndall House. The pungent scent of pine drifted in the air.

  Christmas Eve was the traditional day to decorate with greenery, and a forest-full of pine, holly and ivy overspread the entire ground floor. In every corridor, the maids had twined pine and ivy around the balustrades and strung garlands of the seasonal foliage along the walls. Each footman had pinned a sprig of holly to his lapel, and the maids wore ivy in their hair.

  Here, pine boughs graced the fireplace mantel and holly hung over the windows. A large kissing ball dangled from the chandelier in the center of the ceiling. The mistletoe and ribbon creation was so huge, two couples could kiss under the decoration. Mistletoe also swung from each doorway he had passed.

  Someone wanted as many chances as possible to kiss his lady.

  Tyndall and Julia?

  Will balled his fists. Not if he had any say.

  The fire hissed and spat, the long case clock in the corridor ticked away, and steps tapped down a far passage, but no one entered the room. He trod to the window. No evidence of a coach, either.

  He resettled a fold of his cravat. Tonight he would ask Julia for her answer. He had intended to visit her farm today, but several sick birds required his attention. He had given all but one of the underkeepers the day off, too, so he had very little help.

  His conversation with Lord Tyndall buzzed in his head. Tyndall was interested in Julia. If Will wanted to keep her for himself, he had to find some way to prevent them from furthering their acquaintance

  What if she refuses me?

  His blood iced. He would have to convince her to accept him. But that might be difficult with Tyndall in
evidence. When she arrived, he had to talk to her first and secure her answer. An answer favorable to himself.

  Footfalls sounded from outside the doorway, and a smiling Tyndall entered. “Good evening, Borland.” His black velvet tailcoat fit across his shoulders so smoothly a wrinkle wouldn’t dare intrude. He had left the top two buttons of his cream brocade waistcoat open to display the frills of his blindingly white evening shirt and the complicated folds of his high, starched cravat. That cravat knot probably had a name, one Will didn’t know. White satin breeches, white silk stockings, and polished black pumps with bows completed the outfit. His hair, cropped and tousled, was probably in a style that must be le dernier cri.

  A rooster on the strut. Ready to show off for Julia.

  Will’s mood darkened further. “Your lordship.”

  Although they were exquisitely polite, he and Tyndall competed with each other for Julia, a fact they both knew.

  Will adjusted his cuffs. He had pulled back his shoulder-length hair, and tied the strands with his dress blue velvet ribbon. His blue, full-skirted frock coat, only a little frayed at the cuffs, had belonged to his father when he was a young man. The light color was a beacon of unfashionableness now that most men dressed in somber hues. He wore his best shirt, of fine lawn, with a simply tied cravat. He didn’t know the latest cravat styles, and probably couldn’t tie them if he did. His dark blue waistcoat, in keeping with the style of the frock coat, reached to his thighs. His breeches were of fawn stockinet, and he wore white stockings. He had polished his buckled shoes himself to a high gloss. His right shoe had a hole in the sole, but no one would notice, and that was of no consequence as long as he stayed inside.

  He looked like a poor relation. A poor relation from the previous century.

  He had never paid his clothes much mind as long as they were clean, but his indifference had caught him now. If clothing was part of the competition, he had lost this round.

  Tyndall stopped at the sideboard, which held a selection of crystal decanters. “Would you care for something to drink? Something non-alcoholic?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Then I will have a sherry, if you do not mind.” Tyndall poured himself a glass. As he picked up the tumbler, he pulled a folded piece of paper out of his coat pocket. “Happy Christmas.” He gave Will the paper.

  Will unfolded the foolscap. Inscribed within were a name and address.

  Tyndall took a sip of his drink. “I talked to Mr. Thaddeus Wilson of Index Publishing. He would like to see your book.”

  Will might have written to publishers for years before one wanted to see his book. “Thank you. I am most grateful.” His conscience pricked that he would compete with a man who presented him with such a gift. But I won’t give up Julia.

  Tyndall lifted a shoulder. “The least I could do. The parts of your work I perused are very good. Others should read your book, too.”

  The jingle of harness and the neighing of horses sounded from the drive.

  “I daresay my guests have arrived.” Tyndall set his glass on a table and quit the room.

  Will followed. “How many? I thought you had invited only Miss Shaw and her aunt.”

  “One other. I asked Lady—ah, here they are.”

  The butler had already opened the front door, and two ladies swaddled in heavy, hooded cloaks entered. Their backs to Tyndall and Will, they removed their gloves and passed them to the waiting footmen.

  Julia’s midnight hair immediately identified her. But the other lady?

  “Good evening, ladies.” Tyndall bowed. “I am delighted you came. Was the carriage I sent satisfactory?”

  “Of course, Robert, as you well know.” Tyndall helped the second lady off with her cloak.

  Oh, no. Will’s stomach dropped to his shoes.

  “I look forward…” The lady turned. Lady Ellison, Tyndall’s aunt. Her gaze immediately latched onto Will. Her face lit up as if Father Christmas had delivered exactly the gift she wanted.

  If Will could bolt, he would. But no open doors or holes in the floor were nearby. Instead, he pasted a smile on his lips.

  A handsome woman of a certain age, Lady Ellison had been a Diamond of the First Water in her youth. Men had groveled at her feet then. She had remained slim, beautiful and full of life, and men her own age still groveled at her feet. But she liked younger men, and Will was the younger man she wanted. And she would have him, if she had any say. He avoided her, but that fact only strengthened her resolve. She was supremely confident that eventually she would succeed.

  Up to now, he had evaded her advances. Tonight he might not be so lucky.

  Trouble was, he liked Lady Ellison. She was intelligent and witty, a delightful lady. But the predatory gleam in her eyes, as if she wanted to devour him—in more ways than one—was distinctly off-putting. He didn’t care if a prospective paramour was older than he, with one exception: The lady had to be younger than his mother. Lady Ellison wasn’t.

  Trapped like the proverbial sitting duck, Will could do naught but smile as Lady Ellison galloped up and offered her hand. He kissed the air over her knuckles and then let go.

  She grabbed his fingers back with surprising strength. “I had no idea you were invited, Mr. Borland.” Her voice was a purr worthy of any feline.

  Will’s smile tightened. He tugged his hand out of her grasp, not without some effort.

  The lady’s lips curved down into a pout, which she immediately converted into a smile.

  Tyndall looked from him to Lady Ellison. “You two know each other?”

  “Yes.” Will gritted his teeth as Tyndall assisted Julia with her cloak. Another round to his opponent.

  Lady Ellison clasped Will’s arm with a grip that would make a vise wince. Then she tapped his arm with her fan. “We met soon after this delightful man arrived. We see each other every time I check on your estate.”

  And every time she did her best to corner him.

  Hunger burned in her eyes. “I am certain this evening will be splendid.”

  ***

  “Shall we wait in the drawing room until dinner is ready?” Robert would have proffered his escort to Aunt Amelia, but that lady had clamped onto Borland as if she had won a hotly contested competition. By contrast, Borland’s strained smile proclaimed a desperate wish to be anywhere else.

  His aunt’s proclivities were general knowledge. Many a young man had succumbed to her wiles, and willingly so. According to the tattle, she was a skilled seductress. But not everyone was so inclined. Borland apparently wasn’t.

  Robert gave an inward grin. If his aunt monopolized Borland, he himself would have more of a chance with Miss Shaw. What luck.

  He squired Miss Shaw to the drawing room, the others following. Once there, he offered drinks to all. Miss Shaw asked for a sherry. Borland again refused.

  His aunt, did, too. “Oh, no, nothing to drink for me.” She fastened a covetous gaze on Borland. “I am already drunk on the attentions of Mr. Borland.”

  Borland winced and shifted an inch away from his aunt. Not that he could escape her.

  Her smile widening, she moved closer to him.

  Their interaction might prove amusing, but Robert had other things on his mind. He poured the sherry and presented the glass to Miss Shaw.

  Gone were the tattered dress and stained smock. The high-waisted gown glided over her slim figure, and its deep pink color elicited a rosy tinge from her alabaster-like skin. Her matching Kashmir shawl hung loose at the crooks of her arms, baring her lovely neck. She had wound her glossy hair into a simple chignon, but tendrils had worked free to frame her face.

  She was magnificent.

  Their fingers brushed as she took the glass. Lightning arrowed up his arm.

  She took a sip of her drink. “Thank you again for inviting me to dinner.”

  “Christmas is a time to make merry.” I have looked forward to this since yesterday. “I regret your aunt could not accompany you.”

  Her lovely face
clouded. “She is old, and does not care to visit.”

  “Does she need a physician? I can send one over.”

  Miss Shaw’s grip on her glass tightened. “No. She is not ill, merely aged.”

  A strange reaction. But he would deal with her aunt later, if necessary.

  Phillips entered and bowed. “Dinner is served.”

  Robert took Julia’s arm again. Her gentle touch on his sleeve was a better treat than any Christmas pudding.

  She smiled as if he were the only man on earth. She evinced no hesitation in accepting his escort, didn’t cast any surreptitious glances at Borland, or seek to release Borland from his aunt’s clutches. More confirmation that she entertained no tender feelings in that direction.

  Borland scowled, but then Aunt Amelia started forward and dragged him along with her.

  At the table, Robert seated Miss Shaw on this right.

  He then pulled out the chair on his left for his aunt. Borland could sit wherever he chose. Probably next to Miss Shaw. He himself certainly would. In the spirit of the season, he would give the man a chance.

  His aunt, still with Borland in tow, took the proffered seat. She didn’t release her captive, though.

  Borland, his fingers scrabbling to remove her hand from his sleeve, leaned over her for a fraught minute.

  Miss Shaw’s cheeks reddened.

  Robert glanced to the side.

  The servants looked down.

  Silence hung loud in the air until, with a muffled curse, Borland gave up and sank into the empty seat beside Aunt Amelia.

  “Is this not cozy?” His aunt batted her lashes at Borland, a triumphant gesture if ever Robert had seen one.

  Borland smiled, but the blaze in his eyes could strip paint off a wall.

  Aunt Amelia was certainly determined, probably because her quarry wasn’t interested. Robert had witnessed her antics many times, but never had she fastened herself so tightly to one of her targets. Borland must be a hard nut to crack. If he ever did.

  He gave a mental shrug. Borland was on his own. Robert beckoned to the servants, and the butler approached with a footman who carried the soup tureen.