Greetings of the Season and Other Stories

by Barbara Metzger

  He went anyway. He was too much the gentleman to keep a lady waiting, and too curious. Marina met him at the door of the neat row house in Kensington and instantly threw her arms around him. One of those arms wore the multigemmed bracelet he had picked as her Christmas-cum-parting gift, and it looked even more garish by the candlelight. Marina must have liked it, because she wore a diaphanous red robe with matching multicolored ruffles at the hem. That gown, what there was of it above the ruffles, could have made the devil blush. She also must have liked the bracelet, he deduced, from the enthusiasm of her greeting. “Darling,” she gushed, “I cannot wait.”

  With her lush curves pressed against him, Bevin’s body was stirred despite his loftier intentions. “I can’t wait either,” he whispered in her ear, trying to free his arm to remove his coat.

  “No, silly, I mean I cannot wait for the wedding.”

  “The wedding?” Those two words had more effect on Britain’s population than any number of cold baths. He took a step back. “What wedding?”

  “Why, ours, of course. Your card made me the happiest of women, darling. I mean, you could have knocked me over with a feather. I never would have guessed. I never dared let myself hope.”

  Bevin wiped at a nonexistent smudge on the sleeve of his bottle green coat. “Ah, what exactly did the card say, my sweet? I cannot seem to recall.”

  Marina chewed on her lower lip in a well-rehearsed seductive pout. “Now isn’t that just like a man, forgetting something so important. The card is already tucked into my Bible, but I swear I’ll remember the exact words to my dying day. I always did have a mind for memorizing, you know. That’s real helpful in the theater. Anyway, ‘Greetings of the season,’ it said, only that was inscribed. And then: ‘To a real lady, with respect and affection,’” she quoted with enough timbre for Lady Macbeth. “And then you wrote, “‘’Ware, I hear wedding bells in your future.’”

  Which was, of course, the note he’d written to Petra, concerning her Season with Allissa on the Marriage Mart. Oh, God.

  “I never thought you’d do it,” Marina was going on, “so starchy you always seemed and all. The other girls said you were too toplofty by half, and here you’ve gone and proved them wrong in the most wonderful way. Respect and affection,” she intoned as if they were her passport into heaven, “and a real lady. Just think, Mary Corby, a real lady. And not just a plain lady. I’ll be a countess.”

  When hell froze over. Obviously there had been a horrible mistake. Obviously there was going to be a horrible scene.

  Bevin could feel a droplet of sweat trickle down between his shoulder blades. He despised disordered freaks and disputations, so he damned the decamped secretary for the hundredth time. The chawbacon must have been so rattled at being found out that he mixed the cards by mistake. If Vincent wasn’t already dismissed, he’d be turned off for the atrocious lapse. “May he rot in purgatory for the rest of eternity.”

  “My lord?”

  Bevin took a deep breath. Following the hunting maxims of riding quickly over rough ground and throwing one’s heart over the hurdle, he opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was the whoosh of the same deep breath.

  “Darling?” Marina—Mary—was ready to soothe his agitation the way she knew best.

  Oh, no. Montravan couldn’t let himself get distracted. Fully aroused, he might promise anything. He put more distance between her ample charms and his traitorous body. “No, my dear Marina, er, Mary. There isn’t going to be any wedding, at least not yours and mine. I am afraid there’s been an error with the cards.”

  Then he was afraid there’d be a visit from the watch, the constable, and the local magistrate, so piercing were her shrieks, so loud was the sound of shattering bric-a-brac and furniture bouncing off walls.

  Marina threw everything at him but the sofa, which was too heavy, and the bracelet, which was too valuable. She was too downy to act the fool twice in one day.

  Montravan tried to appease her with cash, which was a foredoomed effort, since what he had in his pocket couldn’t possibly compare to what he had in the bank, all of which would have been hers along with that title. “But, Marina, you must have known the Earl of Montravan couldn’t marry a wh—an actress.”

  “Stranger things have happened,” she insisted, emphasizing her point with a china shepherdess that missed his head by scant inches.

  Not in his family, not in his lifetime, Bevin vowed, but was wise enough to keep that thought to himself. He gave up trying to placate the raging woman when she dashed for her little kitchen and returned with a carving knife. The heretofore dauntless earl daunted himself right out the window onto a bare-branched rosebush.

  Shredding his inexpressibles away from the prickers, Bevin had time to think about the second half of the disaster. If Marina had Petra’s note, then come Christmas morning, Petra would be receiving that tripe about past attachments and future plans. Petra was needle-witted enough to recognize the note for what it was—and what type of woman it was meant for—but she was a trump. She’d not fly into the boughs like some others. He’d explain about the mix-up, they’d have a good laugh, and that would be the end of it, except that he’d look the fool in Petra’s eyes. No, things never need come to such a pass that he had to explain about errant secretaries and discarded mistresses to an innocent girl. He’d simply travel to Montravan a bit earlier, as he’d planned anyway, intercept the gifts, and write a new card to his mother’s companion. No one would ever be the wiser, except Bevin, who had instantly learned not to leave everything up to the servants.

  7

  White’s was more a habit than a destination. Bevin’s fuddled brain just took him there, not in hopes of having a convivial evening—it was too late for convivial, convenient, or comfortable—but just a way to pass this wretched night until he could set out for Montravan Hall in the morning.

  The majordomo kept his usual imperturbable expression, but some of the members visibly started to see the earl’s condition. The black look on his face kept any from commenting, however. A few of his usual associates, in fact, suddenly started yawning with the need to make an early night of it, with their own journeys to the country soon to commence.

  Bevin walked through the rooms until he spotted his friend Coulton, who looked as if an ale barrel had rolled across his face. The earl winced but gamely took a seat next to the viscount. Johnny raised his quizzing glass and painstakingly surveyed the porcelain shards on Bevin’s shoulder, the pillow feathers in his hair, and the scratches on his cheek, scratches the earl was only now beginning to feel.

  The viscount held out a clean handkerchief. “I’d beat you to a pulp, my erstwhile friend, but it appears someone has been there before me.”

  “No one up to your weight, so go ahead, take your shot. You’re entitled.” Bevin held up his bandaged hand. “I won’t put up much of a fight.”

  Coulton nodded toward the bandage. “My nose do that?”

  “Your nose or Haskell’s teeth. Makes no nevermind which. You’ve got my apologies, for what they are worth.”

  “’Twas a flush hit.”

  Bevin lifted one corner of his mouth. “That it was.” He waited to see if the big man smiled back, or if it was to be pistols for two and breakfast for one, unless Johnny decided on more immediate, brutal, and bloody retribution. Bevin was debating whether he should throw the first blow or just go down quietly, when the Duke of Harleigh walked into the room, leaning on his cane.

  Bevin stood to offer his gouty grace a seat, pleased that Coulton’s revenge would at least be postponed by the presence of the august peer. The duke looked at Montravan, then through Montravan, and limped on to greet an acquaintance at the next table without even a nod for Montravan.

  The cut was direct, and right in front of half of White’s members. Now that was sure to set the cat among the pigeons. A few of the gambling men were already scrambling for the betting book to change their wagers. The earl shrugged. He wasn’t the one whose daughter w
as playing fast and loose with the servants.

  “Not too popular tonight, are we?” Johnny asked, with more than a tinge of satisfaction.

  Bevin waved his unbandaged hand. “His Grace must have heard of last night’s debacle. He doesn’t like gossip.”

  “Gammon. His Grace wouldn’t turn his back on an eligible parti like you if your name was as black as Byron’s. You must have done something beyond the pale for him to cut you that way.”

  “I merely dismissed his daughter’s—ah, that is, I had to discharge Vincent. I believe the duke thought he was a coming lad with political possibilities,” he temporized, “so His Grace might disagree with my decision. He is welcome to hire the blackguard.”

  “It sounds like you have some fence-mending to do before Harleigh and his family travel to Montravan Hall.”

  “No, I have never been good at manual labor. I think I’ll let these fences stay broken.”

  “But the chickens might fly the coop,” Johnny hinted.

  “And that would be a shame,” Bevin answered with a grin. “A veritable shame.”

  Lord Coulton gestured toward the betting book. “Then I can lay my blunt on the banty cock staying out of the parson’s cook pot?”

  “From the, er, rooster’s mouth. If it will make your fortune, bet the farm. That particular little game pullet will never take up residence in my coop, the saints be praised.”

  “From your noticeable lack of regret, I take it that your heart was not involved.” Newly affianced and deeply in love, Lord Coulton looked at his friend in pity. “Then you are better out of it.”

  “My thinking entirely. Of course, now I’ll have to explain to Mama why I am not filling my nursery posthaste, and then I’ll have to go through the whole tedious business of finding another suitably well-born bride. But I’ll have to attend some of those debutante affairs with m’sister Allissa, at any rate, so I can kill two birds with one stone.”

  “Still in the barnyard?” Coulton shook his head regretfully. “There are other reasons for taking a wife, you know, besides begetting an heir.”

  “Of course, there’s marrying for money. Luckily I don’t need a large dowry, so my choices will be that much wider.”

  “I would have offered for Elizabeth if she were penniless and a cit,” Lord Coulton insisted.

  “My dear romantic friend, you wouldn’t even have met Elizabeth if she did not have entry to Almack’s and the fashionable dos. You’d not have looked twice at her if she dressed in twice-turned gowns or dropped her aitches.” Bevin suddenly recalled—with help from the additional color suffusing his friend’s face—that he did not wish to antagonize the large man any more than he already had. “But, of course, Elizabeth is a gem who would possess the same beauty of soul no matter her social standing. You’re a lucky devil, Johnny.”

  The angry blotches faded, except for the viscount’s nose, of course, and his freckles. “And now you are free to find such a treasure for yourself, if you aren’t blinded by that fustian of finding a ‘suitable’ bride.”

  “I take it Elizabeth has forgiven me, then?”

  Coulton lifted his glass in silent toast. “She thinks I should have mentioned the rumors to you.”

  “A prize indeed. I’ll keep your words in mind, after my narrow escape,” the earl said, getting up to leave before Coulton had yet another change of heart. There was no reason to tempt fate.

  And speaking of tempting fate, Bevin considered confronting the duke on his way out of the club, then gave himself a mental shake. He mightn’t understand Harleigh’s actions, but if they meant that dreaded house party was canceled, the duke could turn his back on Bevin five times a day for the next ten years.

  *

  The duke’s behavior made more sense when Bevin reached Montford House and Tuttle presented him with a wad of tissue on a silver salver.

  “This was delivered earlier from Harleigh House,” the butler informed him.

  Bevin eyed the misshapen lump with suspicion. “Was there any message?”

  “I believe the item is self-explanatory,” Tuttle said with a sniff of disapproval. “But there is a note.”

  Montravan gingerly pushed aside some of the paper to find a gilt-edged card with a border of angels playing improbable musical instruments like floating pianofortes, and inscribed with the message: May the heavenly host make joyous music for you at this season of gladness. At least Vincent hadn’t committed that travesty. On the back of the card was written: Her Grace, the Duchess of Harleigh, regrets that she and her family are unable to accept your invitation. Short and simple, no flimsy excuses. But why? Dash it, he was the one who should have cried off; he was the wronged party, wasn’t he?

  Perhaps Belinda hadn’t thought his gift was substantial enough for the almost betrothal, for surely that had to be the gold filigree fan returned in its crumpled wrappings. Odd, Vincent’s taste was usually impeccable, and Bevin had thought the fan a charming token. Belinda must have thought otherwise, for each and every one of the delicate spokes was snapped in half. A trifle excessive, Bevin thought, for an unappreciated gift. Why, he accepted Petra’s embroidered handkerchiefs every year with all the graciousness at his command, even though he had a drawerful by now. He didn’t rip them up just because he rarely had the need to blow his nose. She went to the considerable effort to create the blasted things, just as he—or Vincent—had selected the fan expressly for Lady Belinda. That made three insults from the duke’s family in one night, still without explanation.

  Bevin was contemplating the ruined fan when Tuttle lifted a few shreds of silver paper and a bow to reveal his employer’s own calling card, the one with its holly edge and simple message of season’s greetings. This, too, was decimated, torn into halves and then smaller bits, but not so small that Bevin could not piece the thing together enough to read: With fond thoughts of our past shared pleasures, and best wishes for better luck in your future relations.

  Marina’s message. So the one for Petra and the one for his ex-mistress did not simply cross each other’s paths. All of the cards were somehow confused.

  This was so unlike the methodical Vincent with his attention to detail that the mingle-mangle had to be deliberate, the bounder. And what an unintentional favor he’d done, Bevin thought, freeing him of unwanted houseguests and an even more unwanted fiancée. The earl went up to bed, freer of dreary thoughts than he’d been in an age, he realized, or at least since he’d contemplated making Lady Belinda his wife.

  As Finster was helping him remove his boots, however, Bevin suddenly recalled that the gifts to his entire family, gifts that the dastardly scribe had already sent on ahead, might also have mismatched greetings, not just Petra’s. One of the boots and Finster went flying across the room. “The devil take it!” Heaven only knew what a mare’s nest that would stir up!

  Bevin still had a few days’ leeway before his acquisitive sister would dare open the box to find her tiara, so he wasn’t really worried. As long as he got to the Hall before Christmas Eve, with enough time to spare to rewrap the gifts, he’d be safe. And if he left tomorrow as planned, he’d have time to speak with Petra about finding a new secretary, too, before the festivities began. There, the dibs were in tune again, despite that gallowsbait, and the earl could finally rest easy, except for having his hand so swaddled, Finster had to button his nightshirt.

  In the middle of the night Montravan woke with a start. Zounds! He’d forgotten all about Bibi! How in the world could he have forgotten that she might have another’s message? He desperately tried to remember what he’d written and to whom, but he’d just dashed the things off, never suspecting anyone else but the so-discreet Vincent would ever see them. Now he’d have to wait until late afternoon to go make amends to the alluring demirep. He couldn’t very well call on a woman at three in the morning, even if she was a Cyprian. She wasn’t his Cyprian yet, and might never be if Vincent took it into his vengeful mind to wreak more havoc on his late employer. What if the cad had written
his own message? What was to stop him from doing more than switching the cards, now that Montravan’s bullet couldn’t reach him?

  Blast, he couldn’t even call on the woman until after luncheon. Birds of paradise never strutted their plumes until the sun was well up. And what the bloody hell was Bibi’s card supposed to read anyway?

  Certainly not Here’s what you wanted, you greedy little hoyden. Next time I’ll warm your backside instead. That was meant for his sister Allissa and her tiara.

  Bibi was not open to explanation or apologies. Bevin’s ears were ringing to her screams of “I’m not that kind of woman,” and his cheeks were stinging from the resounding slaps she’d administered.

  She’d thrown the earbobs back at him, too, being either more highly principled or less intelligent than Marina. She had also kept him waiting for two hours, so it was too late to set out for Wiltshire that day.

  8

  He still had plenty of time to reach the Hall by Christmas Eve. That was the latest Bevin could be, for every year his sister cajoled the countess into letting her open the gifts that night after church, instead of waiting till the next morning. The dowager never held out much resistance to Allissa’s wheedling, since she was equally impatient to rip into her own pile of packages.

  When Montravan confidently figured his travel time, though, he had not taken into account the damage to his hand. The blasted thing couldn’t be trusted to tool the ribbons of his curricle’s spirited matched bays, and going on horseback the whole way holding the reins in his awkward left hand sounded cold and painful. Besides, Finster was full of dire warnings about splintered knucklebones grinding away at each other and the muscles around them until the fingers never moved again. Worse, according to Finster, a fragment of the broken bone could work itself loose and travel with the blood flow until it pierced his lungs.