Greetings of the Season and Other Stories

by Barbara Metzger

  “Ice, my lord?”

  “Ice. These are the 1800s, man, and it’s winter. Somewhere in London there must be an icehouse. I need some upstairs in a bowl. And the good cognac.”

  Now the stately majordomo was really shocked. Master Bevin wished to chill the Bouvelieu? Never. Tuttle carried up the ice in a silver bucket and hot coffee in a silver urn. More of the latter than the former.

  Lord Montravan sprawled on a chair before the fire, his shoes kicked off, his coat lying in a heap near the wardrobe, his cravat draped over a bedpost, and his right hand soaking in a bowl of cold water.

  Life was hard, he lamented. A fellow just couldn’t trust anyone. Not his best friend, not his faithful servant, not his mistress. Bevin was glad he didn’t have a dog; it would most likely bite him. He couldn’t even trust the old family retainer to bring him a brandy, and the bellpull was so confoundedly far away. What good was coffee going to be in keeping infection from the cut Haskell’s teeth had opened across Bevin’s knuckles? What good was coffee going to be in dulling the pain of betrayal?

  Hell and damnation, Vincent and Marina. Unless… No, it couldn’t, be. That peacocking twit of a nobody couldn’t be tupping Bibi Duchamps while he, the Earl of Montford, was still trying to fix her interest. Life couldn’t be that hard, could it?

  No. There was still some softness in the world, some tender honor a man could trust. His mother? If she never played his father false, it was because she was too lazy. His sister? Allissa was growing into another avaricious, manipulative harpy. But there was Petra, sweet and pure. Petra, who had never let him down, never went back on her word.

  Bevin laughed at himself. He hadn’t seen Petra since the summer. For all he knew she’d have some local swain just waiting for the earl’s arrival to declare himself. Hell, Petra was only a woman; there was no justification for putting her on a pedestal. For all Bevin knew she already had some gent’s slippers under her bed.

  *

  The next morning did not start until nearly noon. Finster took one look at his master, asleep in the chair, and called for the sawbones. That worthy poked and prodded, only to declare that perhaps the knuckles were broken, perhaps not. As if Lord Montravan could not have figured that out for himself. At least the cabbagehead put basilicum powder in the open cuts and wrapped the hand—in enough linen to shroud a mummy.

  He couldn’t tie his own neckcloth. He spilled coffee on the one Finster had fashioned, trying to breakfast left-handed, and had to have the thing done again. At last, in an even more foul mood, the earl was ready to confront his secretary.

  According to Tuttle, Mr. Vincent was in the library wrapping gifts. This last was said with a sniff, indicative of the butler’s opinion of such a lowly occupation. Vincent obviously did not mind, for he was whistling in a welter of silver paper, tissue, and bright ribbon. Nothing was quite as bright as his parrot-embroidered waistcoat. Montravan paused in the doorway to let his aesthetic sense acclimate itself gradually.

  “Good morning, my lord,” Vincent called cheerfully. “I’ll be finished here in just a bit unless you needed me for something immediately. I heard you had the doctor in to see about your hand, so I wanted to get this done in case you had any additional chores for me. I hope it’s nothing serious, whatever happened.”

  “Marina,” Montravan stated, striding farther into the room and skipping all preliminaries.

  Vincent’s mouth hung open. “Miss Corbett did that to you? Good grief, what did she do? I mean, pardon me, my lord. None of my affair, of course.”

  “Precisely!” Bevin was across the library’s expanse, almost nose to nose with the younger man, and was about to take Vincent by the ridiculously high shirt collar and shake him as a terrier would a rat. Except that he couldn’t bend his swollen, throbbing fingers in their wrapping. “Blast! Have you been seeing Marina, sirrah?”

  “My lord?” Vincent took a step back, dropping the scissors. Then he seemed to reconsider, what with his employer running amok right in front of him. Picking the scissors off the table, he cut a length of ribbon.

  “Answer me, damn you! Have you been seeing Marina?”

  Vincent’s hand started to shake. “I saw her last night in the play. Remember, I told you I was going?”

  “And otherwise?”

  “I don’t know what you mean, my lord. I took her home that night last week when you had to attend the reception at Carleton House. Recall, you asked me to?”

  “And did you see her in?”

  Vincent squared his padded shoulders. “Naturally. You charged me with her escort. And she asked me to have a glass of wine,” he said with a tinge of defiance. “She is a very gracious lady.”

  “And what about Bibi Duchamps?”

  The bow Vincent was tying became knotted around his finger. “Drat.” He tossed the ribbon aside and cut a new one, not half the length needed to go around the box he was wrapping. Sweat was starting to bead on his forehead. “I…ah…have seen Mademoiselle Duchamps only once, outside of the opera house.”

  The earl was seated at his desk, hefting the weight of the silver letter opener in his left hand. Vincent swallowed audibly and continued: “The one time when you had me send her flowers after her debut.”

  “Send. I said send her flowers, not bring her flowers, you lobcock!”

  “I…ah…thought she’d be more impressed that way. ’Twould show your interest more personally than having the flower seller’s boy just drop off another bouquet.”

  Bevin scowled; Vincent trembled.

  “I swear, my lord, I have done nothing without your direction or your interests at heart. Neither lady has cause for complaint at my conduct.”

  “Well, somebody does. Something you’ve done has given rise to the most damnable rumors, and that’s a fact.”

  “That’s impossible. No one saw us. That is…ah…what rumors, my lord?”

  “No one saw you and…? Great Scott! Belinda? You’ve been sniffing around my intended?” the earl thundered.

  “No, no,” Vincent cried. “That’s not how it was. I never intended…that is, Lady Belinda is… You see, it was the invitation.”

  “No, you miserable mawworm, I do not see. What bloody invitation?” The papers on the earl’s desk went flying, from the gale winds of his rage.

  “The…the one to the house party for New Year’s,” Vincent stuttered. “I thought I should deliver it in person, like the flowers. Only no one was home except Lady Belinda. The footman mustn’t have realized, for he showed me into the music room, where she was practicing. I would have given the invitation over and left immediately, I swear. Young lady with no chaperon and all, I knew it wasn’t seemly.”

  “Then why the hell didn’t you?”

  “Lady Belinda asked me to stay, to tell her about the house party, who else was invited, what activities were planned, that type of thing. I suppose she wanted to know what to pack. I never even thought of…of…”

  “Yes, I know what you never thought of: what every young man spends every waking hour trying not to think of. Go on.”

  “It was the mouse, you see. This mouse ran across the room, and Lady Belinda started to scream and jumped up on the sofa. I jumped up, too, thinking she might fall, and I accidentally dislodged one of the sofa pillows. Did I say we were sitting on the sofa? Well, the pillow hit the mouse and must have stunned the poor thing, because there it was, just lying there, with Lady Belinda starting to turn greenish, so I scooped it up with the coal scuttle and tossed the little blighter out the window.”

  “Lancelot to the rescue,” Montravan commented dryly.

  “I thought I’d done a neat job of it myself. But then—”

  “Ah. The denouement. I am all aflutter to hear the outcome. Do go on,” he urged, rising. “‘But then?’”

  “I promise you I never meant to… Lady Belinda was thanking me, and I was looking around for some brandy or something, a restorative, don’t you know.”

  “For you, the lady, or the mouse?�
� Bevin asked sarcastically, knowing full well what was coming.

  “Then suddenly she was in my arms, and it seemed only natural, and she didn’t tell me to stop, and suddenly we were back on the couch.”

  “And then?”

  “And then the butler came in. But Belinda swore he’d never tell a soul. And…and I am terribly sorry, my lord.”

  “Sorry? You’re sorry you were caught making love to the woman I am going to marry?” Bevin pounded the desktop in fury, then had to catch himself on the edge of the table as the pain made him almost light-headed enough to faint.

  Words failed Vincent. He could only hang his head, staring at the elaborate buckles on his shoes.

  When Bevin caught his breath, he corrected himself. “No, Lady Belinda is the woman I was going to marry. I’d never have the jade now. By Jupiter, did she think she’d play me false with my own secretary? My God!”

  “It wasn’t like that, my lord! Belinda is a lady! We didn’t… That is, the butler…”

  “No? Were you waiting for after the wedding to plant horns on me? Should I be thankful? Or were you going to take up with Marina where I left off once Lady Belinda and I were leg-shackled? Or was it Bibi whilst I was honeymooning?”

  Montravan sank wearily back into his seat. “No, don’t answer. I wouldn’t believe anything you’d say.” He toyed with the letter opener again, making Vincent anxiously measure the distance to the door while his lordship pondered his fate.

  “I would thrash you to within an inch of your life, you know,” Bevin told the other man, speaking conversationally now, “were my hand not already knocked to flinders. Instead I’ll give you until dark to gather your things and get out. If I see you after, or if anything but your own possessions is missing tomorrow, there is no answering for the consequences, for I still have my left hand, by Jupiter. You’ll have no references out of me, not that it makes much difference; your name is already a byword in town. No sane man would ever hire you, not if he had a wife, daughter, or mistress.”

  The earl reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a purse, which he tossed onto the table amid the ribbons and wrappings. Standing, he said, “Go as far as this takes you and don’t come back. Consider it an early Christmas gift. Greetings of the season, you bastard.”

  *

  Vincent hadn’t wanted to be a secretary anymore anyway, he told himself after the library door slammed behind the earl. He wanted to be a gigolo. Now he had the wherewithal. He lifted the purse, thinking. He’d need a new name, of course. Perhaps a mustache for a disguise. Yes, a military-style mustache, with sideburns, maybe even a hussar uniform. Women couldn’t resist a man in uniform, especially if he had a slight limp or a scar for sympathy’s sake. Besides, he would look a handsome devil in the scarlet regimentals, if he had to say so himself. Who’d ever check the rosters for a retired captain? No, a major.

  The future was not dim at all, but the present certainly had a shadow over it. This was no way to treat a chap after all those years of faithful service, booting him out on his ear the week before Christmas. Vincent poured himself a healthy dose of the earl’s brandy. He had done a deuced fine job for old sobersides. He really was quite good at all the details that made Montravan’s life much simpler, and he never left a task uncompleted. Vincent simply hated to leave a job undone, so he finished wrapping the earl’s gifts, then regretfully locked the unchosen jewelry et cetera away in the earl’s desk. He carefully printed each recipient’s address on the outer wrapping, matching direction to gift, and just as carefully switched all of the cards.

  He handed three to a footman to be delivered that very day in London. Then Vincent ordered a groom to set out for Montravan Hall immediately with the rest of the parcels, saying that the earl might delay his departure because of the accident to his hand and wished to make sure the presents reached his family in time.

  Now Vincent was ready to go upstairs and pack.

  And greetings of the season to you, too, my lord.

  6

  Lord, what was he to do now? Bevin could only think of things he couldn’t do. He couldn’t write to the Harleighs claiming their visit had to be canceled due to an influenza epidemic or such. They’d be sure to twig that faradiddle. Besides, he couldn’t write at all with his hand all swollen, and he had no blasted secretary to write for him! And Bevin couldn’t let Miss Harleigh’s name be bandied around town—he was a gentleman, after all—as would be sure to happen if he suddenly claimed an emergency at his Scottish property. He’d be lucky if Harleigh didn’t get a hint of the current gossip and come demanding an explanation.

  If not, Belinda and her family would be off for the ducal seat in Dorset in a day or two; from there they’d travel on to Montravan Hall to wait for the earl’s offer, an offer that he couldn’t, wouldn’t make. Zeus, what a house party that should be! What a damnable coil.

  And he couldn’t stay drunk for the rest of the century either. His innards were already protesting. Besides, he had to hire a new secretary. An old, ugly secretary. Vincent had seen to the Christmas gifts, heaven be praised, but there was new mail every day that needed answering: invitations, bills, and personal letters, to say nothing of the household accounts and all of the correspondence appurtenant to Montravan’s vast and varied holdings. The first man the agency sent over was so old, he could have transcribed the Ten Commandments. Bevin was afraid he’d expire before the sennight.

  The second smelled so bad, the earl knew he couldn’t share the library with this man, much less his personal life.

  When the third man spoke, he whistled through ill-fitting false teeth, and the fourth took a coughing fit and nearly fell off the chair. Bevin felt guilty over not hiring one of the decrepit oldsters, but he sent each home with hackney fare after a snack in the kitchen.

  And he canceled his previous specifications for prospective employees, this time requesting a middle-aged misogynist. The first man smelled of lavender, and the second man lisped.

  What about a scribe who was happily married? the hiring agent wanted to know. Bevin doubted that there was such a thing, but he said he would consider the applicants, who would have to be paid more, living out. Mr. Browne blanched at the idea of handling love-nest leases, and Mr. Faraday was newly wed; he couldn’t leave his bride alone in the evenings. Stedly had shifty eyes and four sons who were willing to do any manner of work, most likely including purse snatching and housebreaking. The earl made sure Tuttle escorted this last applicant out the door.

  “Damn and blast,” Lord Montravan exclaimed when Tuttle returned, this time alone. “This should be Vincent’s job.”

  “Ahem.” Tuttle stood in the doorway of the library, looking more disapproving than ever.

  “Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it. There must be hundreds of other employment services, or I can put an advertisement in the newspapers.”

  Tuttle cleared his throat again. “If I might be so bold, my lord, may I suggest you ask Miss Sinclaire?”

  “What, ask Petra to move into Montford House and become my secretary? Have your wits gone begging altogether, old man? You mustn’t go senile on me quite yet, Tuttle. I couldn’t face having to hire a new butler, too.”

  “What I meant, my lord,” Tuttle continued as if Lord Montravan had not spoken, “was that Miss Sinclaire most probably knows of some likely lad from Wiltshire, a young man on the scholarship lists at Oxford that you support, or perhaps one of the tenants’ sons returning from the war. You must already have their gratitude and loyalty, and knowing their families have roots in your holdings should keep the young men from overstepping the boundaries.”

  “Tuttle, you are brilliant!”

  “Thank you, my lord. I find that younger men are easier to deal with, more comfortable about taking advice.”

  “I am convinced, Tuttle. Petra will know just the right man, and if not, her brother-in-law, the curate, might. He’s not that long out of university.” Lord Montravan was delighted. His problem was as good as solved, once
he dumped it into Petra’s lap. Not that he was ungrateful, nor that he thought Petra would consider his difficulty another burden. Petra would see the situation as a welcome opportunity to help some worthy lad. She was just like that. And he’d make it up to her. Why, he’d find her the finest gentleman in town to wed, not one of his own rakish friends.

  “That’s what I’ll do, Tuttle. I might even travel to the Hall a day or two early. There’s nothing pressing here, after all, so close to the holidays.” And it just might be politic to stay out of Johnny Coulton’s proximity for a while, and to give the gabble-grinders a chance to find another juicy morsel. Devil take it, soon enough after New Year’s they’d be talking about the ring that was not on Belinda’s hand. Perhaps, the earl mused when Tuttle went to advise the agency that no more applicants would be interviewed, he could stay on at Montravan after his mother and sister left for Bath, sit by the fire, read books, ride around the countryside, and talk to Petra. He was tired of this drinking, wagering, and wenching. Then again, Petra would travel to Bath with the others, and Bibi would be waiting for him here in London. Country pursuits palled so quickly. Still, the sooner he left, the sooner he’d have a competent secretary. He almost rang for Vincent to make all the arrangements. Hell and confound it!

  Then Tuttle came back wearing a censorious frown and bearing a letter on a silver salver. The smell of jasmine wafted halfway across the room, identifying the sender even before Montravan recognized the curling script on the address. He waited for Tuttle to remove his condemnatory but curious phiz before slitting the wafer to see what Marina had to say.

  “What the bloody hell?”

  The second reading made no more sense than the first. Marina was effusively grateful for his gift and his note. What had he written? Montravan tried to recall. Something like “Thank you for our past association and the pleasant times, and best Wishes in your future relations.” How could that send her in alt unless she was happy to be shut of him? But, no, she wrote that she couldn’t wait to see him, just knew he’d be calling on her after the theater tonight since they had so much to discuss. For the life of him, Montravan couldn’t think of one thing a cove discussed with his discarded mistress.