Mistletoe Magic

by Virginia Brown

  Flopping back in a graceless sprawl, Chary muttered, “All this fuss about a peerage. It doesn’t make the person better.”

  “Tell that to a peer,” Aunt Catherine said dryly, pulling off her gloves to lay them on a table. “Shall I ring for our maids to come?”

  “Not yet. I . . . I want to ask you something.”

  “Ah. I’ve been expecting this conversation,” Aunt Catherine said, and came to perch on the tufted velvet ottoman next to Chary’s chair. Removing her emerald earrings, she held them in her palm and gazed at her niece. “This has to do with Lord Nicholas, I presume.”

  “Am I that transparent?” Chary moaned.

  “Only to those who know you well, my dear. Now tell me, is he as awful as you feared he would be?”

  She sighed. “No, he’s not. He’s rather a puzzle, actually. I cannot make him out at times. He seems so forbidding, yet says nice things when I least expect them. And even when he’s being cynical, he hasn’t been at all the sort of bounder I was told.”

  “I believe I mentioned that you shouldn’t believe gossip,” Aunt Catherine reminded with a laugh.

  “So you did. My dilemma is that I’m afraid I have lost proper perspective on this arranged marriage.”

  Aunt Catherine’s smile faded. She searched Chary’s face for a moment, and then said quietly, “You have formed fond feelings for him.”

  “What will I do? I don’t want to spend the rest of my life hoping for crumbs of affection from my husband, wondering if every time he leaves, he’s gone to see a mistress.”

  “Chary, my dear child—you have known one another less than two months. It will be three months before you wed. In that time, you will become much better acquainted, and perhaps he will form feelings for you as well.”

  “Yes, there is that chance. However, he is very experienced in these matters, while I have only felt this kind of emotion once before. And you must recall how that turned out.”

  Sighing, Aunt Catherine nodded. “Yes, I do. But it was seven years ago, and you have been cautious. So cautious, your papa despaired you would marry at all. My dear, you’ve never really been in love before. Charwell was a mistake. This will not end in the same way.”

  “You mean with Papa paying him to go away? No, I should think not. A duke’s son is not as easy to fob off as a greengrocer’s boy.”

  “Charwell’s father owns greengrocer stalls all over London, and while they were in trade, he certainly seemed suitable. At first glance.”

  “It was the second and third glance that ruined it all,” Chary said wryly. “Especially when the third glance found him with a young woman from the Strand.”

  “It was the best thing that could have happened to you, although it certainly did not seem so at the time. Now, rest before we must dress for dinner. As for your dilemma with Lord Nicholas, I believe I have an idea . . .”

  Chapter 8

  “SO, YOU’RE GOING to marry a Cit,” said Mr. Hughes, swaying slightly as he gazed at Nick. “I s’pose what with all the to-do about missing jewels, not even your rank as a duke’s son can snare you a proper heiress, eh?”

  Conversation around them immediately ceased. An uncomfortable pall fell. Nick took another sip of his port and regarded Hughes as one might an unpleasant bug in the corner of the room. Only a half-dozen men remained in the library, and he’d been about to excuse himself from their company before Hughes’s drunken insult. He kept his tone even as he replied.

  “To be precise, it is missing Javanese artifacts, not jewels. And a solid silver tureen from the Lieutenant Governor’s house, a small purse of coins, two dress swords, and a French buckle commemorating Napoléon are also missing. None of these things have the remotest connection to Miss St. John.”

  Something in his tone must have conveyed his disdain to Mr. Hughes, for the man lapsed into silence. Middle-age, medium height, with droopy eyes even when he wasn’t in his cups, Hughes glanced at the other gentlemen, none of whom came to his defense. It was a serious breach of etiquette, even for a man who’d imbibed too much port. While Nick had no intention of letting the impertinence pass unnoticed, he would not have taken great exception had Hughes not involved Charlotte St. John. That went beyond the pale, even for him. An insult to himself he could tolerate for the sake of not disrupting the room, but not to Charlotte.

  Aware that Lord Howard stood nearby, a frown creasing his brow, Nick chose to drop the matter rather than cause his host any discomfort. It didn’t help that Wakefield had joined them, and probably overheard the brief encounter.

  Hughes mumbled something under his breath, then gave a curt bow, and took his leave of the library, stalking past Wakefield. For a moment, there was only the sound of the fire and the infernally loud clock ticking away the minutes.

  As the door closed behind Hughes, Wakefield remarked, “There goes an unpleasant man. I wonder at your patience, Lord Howard.”

  “He’s a second cousin,” Lord Howard said, “and I’ve never cared much for him. Family is not always a blessing.”

  “I can attest to that.” Wakefield glanced in Nick’s direction.

  Nick leaned against the mantel and gazed into his glass of port. Devil take him for that glance of pity. Willem knew far too much about his strained relationship with the duke. Deuced awkward situation. Charles Thornton and Bayard took their leave after wishing their host a good night, leaving just Wakefield, Lord Howard, and Nick in the library.

  “I commend your restraint, Hawkely,” Lord Howard said in a casual tone. “Hughes has a tendency to say the wrong thing. It is his chief talent.”

  “A rather dangerous one, I’d say.”

  “He is a fool to forget your expertise with a pistol.”

  Nick smiled. “It was hardly offense enough for an illegal duel. I have heard worse since I resigned my commission.”

  “No doubt, but not in my house while you are a guest. I apologize.”

  “It is not your place to apologize,” said Nick. “People tend to think the worst when there are accusations of crimes against the Crown.”

  “That was a rum deal,” Wakefield said, catching his attention.

  He studied Willem for a moment before saying, “I do not recall that being your opinion when last we spoke.”

  “I have had more time to think about it since then. Witnesses are not always reliable, and it was a chaotic time.”

  Warily, Nick nodded. “It was. Handing Java back to the Dutch while recovering from a volcanic eruption tends to breed chaos.”

  “The eruption certainly hampered British efficiency,” Willem said dryly.

  “It hampered a lot of things.” Curse him, standing there so at ease after all that merciless interview with the king’s barrister had ended with Will’s complete silence. He should ask Will if he truly thought him capable of stealing valuable artifacts and trivial items, but it’d been made clear by his silence since the accusations surfaced what he thought.

  Then Wakefield surprised him by saying, “I have been going through Raffles’s papers, and there are conflicting accounts of the activities surrounding the rushed loading of cargo. I believe there may be documents that detail what happened to the missing artifacts.”

  “Will Raffles share the papers?” Nick asked.

  “He wants a knighthood, so he already has. They are in my possession. I would ask you to help, but we must incur no suspicion that you may have handled the documents we can present to the King’s Court. I make no promises, but there may be hope to find the true facts.”

  As difficult as it was not to demand to be involved, Nick saw the truth, and nodded. “I’ll wait. I’ve waited over a year already, but now I have hope.”

  Willem nodded. “So do I.”

  “I suggest you check the bills of lading first. That is usually where discrepancies occur most.”
>
  “Duly noted.”

  In the silence that fell in the room, Nick felt a sudden lightening, as if sunlight filled the air. Perhaps he could soon prove his innocence, but he had been disappointed before. At least Will seemed to believe him innocent. That alone was worth something.

  “Gentlemen,” said Lord Howard, “it is late, and we must dress for dinner. My wife will have my hide if I am not ready, I fear. Hawkely, shall we meet after church back here in my library Christmas Day to plot our course for Boxing Day? Weather permitting the hunt, of course.”

  “A bit of snow rarely impedes a true huntsman,” Nick replied. Lord Howard had no intention of allowing conflict to interfere in his house party, it seemed. Quarreling guests could be very unsettling.

  Wakefield parted company with them just outside the library and Nick and Lord Howard ascended the wide, curved staircase together. It was oddly silent, with most of the house having retired to get ready for the evening. The cool air smelled of fresh greenery and log fires, crisp and fragrant.

  “The billiard room will be empty save for a few of my older cousins,” said Lord Howard as they paused at the juncture of corridors leading to their respective wings. “They are at the awkward age, too young to attend a masquerade, too old to linger in the nursery. You are most welcome to take advantage of other entertainments tomorrow evening. Unless you have decided to join us at the masquerade?”

  “I brought no costume as I did not plan to attend.”

  “No matter. Laurentia has a room dedicated to costumes and all manner of accessories if you change your mind. It is on the fourth floor, and in great need of renovation, but suitable for a temporary costume shop. Last room on the left at the north end.”

  Nick smiled. “If I should change my mind, I may well attend the ball. I appreciate your forbearance.”

  “Not at all. Although I think you will miss what promises to be an entertaining evening. My wife has persuaded your betrothed to join her and Lady Shepworth to wear what I fear will be startling costumes.”

  “Indeed? I suspect there will be an abundance of shepherdesses and Queen Elizabeths in attendance.”

  “No doubt. I am not at all certain our ladies will be among them, however. My wife has a tendency to be rather daring at times.”

  Nick tried to envision Miss St. John in a daring costume and failed, but the possibility was admittedly intriguing.

  Georges awaited his arrival in the room, and after helping him out of his dinner jacket and into a more casual coat, Nick dismissed him. “I will not need you for a while, but please see that Drummond has his supper and any medications. Seabury staff is incredibly busy preparing for the masquerade and late supper tomorrow night and I do not want him to have to wait or inconvenience any staff.”

  “As you wish, my lord,” sighed Georges in a long-suffering tone.

  Sitting on the edge of a chair, Nick glanced up. “Surely it cannot pain you too greatly to see to a fellow traveler on this planet, Georges?”

  “No, my lord. Drummond, however, is another matter.”

  “Dare I ask what offends you so greatly that you resent seeing to his needs when he is bedridden?” Really, his patience was nearly at an end. Their feud was beyond annoying.

  “It is not my place to complain,” Georges began, and continued, “yet he is terribly rude and insulting. This morning he knocked the cup out of my hand when I took him tea.”

  “Purposefully?”

  After a hesitation, the valet admitted, “Perhaps not. I awoke him and he thrashed about, but then he claimed it was my fault for standing too close to the bed.”

  Nick sat back in the Windsor chair and looked at him. “I suggest the two of you find some common ground on which to interact, or I may be posting a sign in the shop windows to fill two vacant positions.”

  Georges nodded, but his eyes widened and he looked alarmed. “I perceive your concern, my lord. There will be no more complaints.”

  “Let there be no more enmity. It is the season of goodwill, after all. Find a path to peace.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  As the door closed behind Georges, Nick stared into the fire, watching the flames dance. The chimney drew well, as did most of the fireplaces he’d seen at Seabury. It was a house well-kept and well-ordered. Perhaps he should hire a full-time housekeeper for his estate to see that the manor was fully staffed and well-run. Or should he leave that to Miss St. John? She may have staff she preferred to hire, although he hadn’t been very impressed with the butler and new footman on his single visit to Berkeley Square. Marriage incurred a lot of changes in his life as well as his household. Being at sea so often and long had not required a full staff at his country properties or Albany House where he had a flat, but now that would drastically alter. Everything was about to change, it seemed.

  THE DAY BEFORE Christmas Eve dawned with the promise of better weather. Low clouds thinned, and snow flurries drifted erratically. A few more guests had arrived, and Seabury was full to the rafters with servants, baggage, and the peerage. Not even unprecedented snowfall could discourage Christmas revelers.

  There was so much talk of the upcoming Masquerade Ball that evening, Nick sought solitude outdoors. Alas, not even the frozen pond was free of guests. Children in wool mufflers and ice skates darted like fuzzy dragonflies across the icy surface, and to his surprise, Miss St. John skated among them. He started forward, then halted when he recognized her partner: Will. What on earth was he doing skating with Charlotte St. John?

  It shouldn’t bother him. Theirs was an arranged marriage. And yet—and yet it did prod him with an unfamiliar emotion. Charlotte belonged to him, not to Wakefield, and should not be allowing him to hold her so close while skating. Ridiculous to let it bother him, so why did it irk him so?

  Torn between walking away and acting the fool by going out on the ice to fetch her, he decided the former was the more dignified choice. Nothing would be helped by astonishing his hosts with a fit of jealousy. And he wondered, as he walked back up the snowy path to the house, where this sudden strong emotion came from about Miss St. John. It was disconcerting.

  Nick pushed all thoughts of Miss St. John to the back of his mind and went to visit his coachman. Drummond was improving but not quite able to put weight on his leg, yet Nick had to dissuade him from rising too early from his bed.

  “I’ve never let you down, Captain,” said Drummond firmly as he swung his feet over the edge of the bed in the small room under the eaves. “I won’t start now.”

  “Nonsense. I have no intention whatsoever of allowing you to do permanent damage to yourself. It is perfectly fine that we remain here for you to heal and the roads to clear. I see you have Christmas greenery of your own to mark the season.”

  Glancing at the wreath of holly, ivy, and cedar hung over his bed, Drummond grinned. “Aye, so I do, Captain. Compliments of Miss St. John, it were, delivered to me by her own hands with a wish that I should enjoy the season as best I can.”

  Startled, Nick didn’t know what to say for a moment, then he nodded. “That was very thoughtful of her.”

  “Aye, and even more thoughtful was the wee gift she tucked into the holly.”

  Amused, Nick laughed when Drummond held up a small flask. “Scotch, I assume?”

  “Just a wee dram. She’s a guid lass, and glad I am that you’re to wed her, Captain. A man needs a warm-hearted woman in his life.”

  That last satisfied statement hung in his mind for the rest of the day, until Nick found himself pondering it alone in his guest chamber, sprawled on a settee near the fire as outside light faded. He’d spent the day avoiding Charlotte, playing billiards or cards with random partners in the billiards room. Perhaps a warm-hearted woman was just what he needed.

  Struck by a sudden desire to see Miss St. John, he stood up. What, exactly, did Laurie have planne
d for the ladies to wear this evening? Something shocking, he was fairly certain. It was her nature. Perhaps he should attend the masquerade ball after all. It would be intriguing, at the very least, to see what costume Miss St. John chose to wear. If he were to wager, he’d bet a gold guinea she appeared as a demure, virginal shepherdess. But he detested masquerades . . .

  MUSICIANS PLAYED a lively reel by the time Nick arrived in the ballroom. Mirrored walls reflected dancers and a horde of eighteenth-century costumes. Masks ranged from plain to peacock feathers and rhinestones. As predicted, he counted two shepherdesses complete with crooks and flounced petticoats before he traversed the entrance. He peered at each one, trying to ascertain if Miss St. John hid inside the white muslin and pink ribbons that no self-respecting shepherdess would dare wear to herd sheep. It was the aristocratic notion of innocence, he supposed. And wildly inappropriate on Lady Mountebank, who seemed to wield her shepherd’s crook with too much forceful vigor. Her bonnet looked like an upturned soup bowl, fastened with a wide pink sash under her chin. There were four Queen Elizabeth costumes, with the high starched ruff around the neck and farthingales, as well as wigs in tight red curls; two Mary, Queen of Scots, one holding a little dog in a basket; several more elusive historical queens roamed regally through the ballroom. It seemed royalty was the theme to this masquerade, at least for the women.

  As he scanned the room in search of his quarry, he spotted Lady Leighton. She, too, wore a shepherdess costume, but was the only woman present to do it justice. It fit her beautifully. It was a rare woman who could actually wear such a costume, and yet she did not seem out of place or inappropriate at all. Next to her stood a young woman in a more audacious costume, arresting his attention.

  This woman also wore the costume of a queen, although the ancient Egyptian queen and famous courtesan of Julius Caesar was daring for this company. A gold headdress covered her head and hair, draped down on both sides of her face in layers that shifted with every movement; a wide collar of gold, studded with imitation precious stones and lapis lazuli circled her slender neck and covered her chest to the edge of the gold fabric of her bodice. Arms bare of gloves bore wide armbands that matched the collar with gold and imitation stones, as did a girdle around her hips. The wispy fabric was no thinner than most evening gowns, but seemed transparent, and when she lifted her long staff, a pleated gold cape attached to bracelets matching the armbands swooped gracefully around her all the way to her ankles. A mask covered her eyes and cheeks, decorated with Egyptian designs and more glittering jeweled stones. It was exotic. It was stunning. It was temptation. . . . What man could resist Cleopatra?