Have Yourself a Merry Little Secret : a Christmas collection of historical romance (Have Yourself a Merry Little... Book 2)

by Collette Cameron

  “I’ll have another one, good man,” Miles said, taking the glass from the silver tray.

  The butler barely blinked. “Very good, sir.”

  “But you haven’t even started that one,” Frances pointed out.

  Keeping his gaze on her, Miles tilted the glass and swallowed every drop in one long draught. It was a superior liquor, and he would have to thank Lady Macroun for stocking it. Managing to set the glass back upon the butler’s tray before the man turned away, Miles hoped this was evidence of his unworthiness. He would try to make it even plainer.

  “I drink too much,” he stated. “And I stay up too late. I gamble, and I enjoy many women. At the same time,” he added, hoping to shock the little princess out of his life. “I would never be a suitable husband for you, unless you don’t mind being made the object of derision.”

  Unfortunately, Lady Macroun entered at the tail end of his words, and Miles feared she’d overheard him through the door left ajar by her butler.

  “Your father would be most unhappy to find you in here alone with Lord Denbigh,” their hostess said, addressing Frances. “Besides, you heard the man as plain as day.”

  Lady Macroun didn’t reiterate to which of his disreputable failings she referred, but Frances, who’d lapsed into stunned silence, having undoubtedly never been spoken to in such a frank manner by a man, turned heel and fled.

  Thank God!

  He and Lady Macroun shared a moment’s awkwardness, but she was a widow and a woman of the world, with a lover who was married, so … she offered a sardonic smile.

  “How is the investigation going?” she asked, brushing aside her friendship with Lady Frances’s father and not bothering to reprimand Miles for his inappropriate words.

  “Unless you’ve come to confess,” he quipped, “then my sleuthing is going nowhere presently. But the hour is young, and there is plenty of time for someone to step forward. Not, however, if the perpetrator hears you in here. She, or he, will want confidentiality.”

  “Naturally, you’ll tell me who it is once you discover the scoundrel.”

  He stared hard at her. “My lady, there was no part of our agreement either demanding or suggesting I disclose anyone whom I might discern has been up to nefarious purposes.”

  She blinked. “Of course, once you discover the scoundrel, you’ll tell me,” she repeated.

  Sighing, he merely nodded. Ultimately, he would tell her nothing but could think no other way to get rid of her other than to lie. Satisfied, she nodded and departed, pulling the door closed behind her.

  Taking his comfortable seat again, he even closed his eyes. A moment later, when the door opened once more, he expected his second glass of brandy. Instead of the butler, Sarah came into view.

  Chapter 11

  Miles’s sliver of hope at her innocence shattered, although he felt a measure of pride at her honesty and courage for exposing herself to him.

  “It was you,” he said, rising to his feet for the second time.

  “It was me, what?” she asked, the slight smile she wore vanishing instantly.

  “You are the robber.”

  She drew herself up, looking insulted. “Of a shawl?”

  “And a ruby broach,” he reminded her. “It would go nicely with your necklace, I suppose.”

  She clasped a hand to her chest where the thin chain rested.

  “You have not let me out of your sight,” she said softly, now sounding hurt more than affronted.

  He preferred her offended to wounded.

  “Not the whole time,” he pointed out, “You’ve had plenty of opportunity.”

  “After what we did together,” she said, a little too loudly, precisely as the butler entered again with another glass of brandy.

  Without hesitating, Sarah took it from the tray and downed a large swallow, then began coughing. Miles stepped forward to pat her back, but she held up her hand, keeping him away. After choking on the strong liquor and having a few tears squeezed out of her, she coughed politely.

  “Another glass, please,” he said to the butler, who sighed and departed. Then Miles gave her his handkerchief.

  “Please recall you’ve given me this,” she snapped, brandishing it in his face before dabbing at her cheeks. “I would hate for you to accuse me of stealing it later.”

  Waiting for Sarah to gather herself, he hoped she wasn’t going to fall into a great tweague. After all, she’d known of his suspicions from the start.

  Putting her free hand on her shapely hip, she glared at him. “After what we did together,” she began again, “I cannot believe you would accuse me so readily.”

  “One thing has nothing to do with the other,” he said, no matter how splendid that one thing had been. “I don’t want to accuse you, not of anything. If you need … assistance with your financial accounts or if you simply like other people’s pretty things, perhaps I can help.”

  Her eyes opened wider and wider as he prattled. Looking horrified, she shook her head.

  “Stop, please. You’re ruining everything. Tell me, why aren’t you considering the other guests?”

  “Why would I?” he asked, “when I have you as my prime suspect?”

  “Argh!” she exclaimed. “Don’t be a blunderbuss, Denbigh, or you’re apt to miss what’s really going on here.”

  “Why did you come to the library, then?” he asked. “If not to confess?”

  Rolling her eyes, she took another sip, smaller this time. “I wondered if I could help,” she said at last. “I noticed when we left the drawing room Lord Evingdon—”

  There was a tap on the door, too quick to be Lady Macroun’s beleaguered butler with the brandy. Sure enough, the very man whose name had been upon Sarah’s lips entered.

  As soon as the Earl of Evingdon saw Sarah, he blanched, halted, and looked over his shoulder, but he continued into the room, nonetheless.

  “May I have a word with you? Alone?” Lord Evingdon asked, glancing sideways toward Sarah.

  “Of course,” Miles said. “Lady Worthington, thank you for your concern.”

  Sarah shrugged slightly, but what could she do except leave? She supposed Lord Evingdon would make clear to Denbigh what she’d been about to tell him. With a nod to each of the gentlemen, she left. In the hallway, she realized she was strolling along with a brandy in hand, probably something a refined lady didn’t do.

  They certainly didn’t spend a lazy hour in bed with a man who wasn’t their husband, no matter how charming and salty a dog in the doublet he was. And Miles Denbigh was all that and more.

  Sighing, she finished the drink and set the empty glass on a plant stand before making her way upstairs.

  She needed to cease being bewattled and buffle-headed over the viscount and figure out how to rid herself of the last two pieces of jewelry. With all these hysterical claims of thievery causing Denbigh’s threat to search their rooms, if he actually did so, she would find herself begging out of Newgate.

  Perhaps she should attempt one of the returns that instant. Where was Lady Abingley’s room?

  Mr. Asher materialized in front of her, and she gave a startled gasp.

  “My apologies, Lady Worthington. I’m no bugaboo. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  “Quite all right. My fault. I was lost in my thoughts.”

  “Good ones, I hope,” he said politely.

  If he only knew. Still, his presence and the reminder of how many guests were milling about thwarted her idea. Tomorrow, the men had determined to try the hunt once more. All the women had agreed to go again, too, but Sarah was determined to have a sudden headache or upset stomach at the very last moment, when it was impossible for Denbigh to bow out.

  By the time they returned from tormenting some fox or vixen, she hoped to have returned everything to their rightful owners. In the meantime, she expected Denbigh to come crawling and begging her forgiveness for suspecting her in the matter of the silly shawl.

  Sarah had half-hoped, half-dreaded t
he tap at her door late that night.

  During a festive hour of drinks before dinner, Denbigh announced the matter of the stolen shawl with attached broach had been solved. Into the immediate rush of questions, poured out like scandal broth from a teapot, he declared it had been a misunderstanding. Everyone noticed, however, that the Evingdons had departed Forde Hall.

  After another evening of amusements, when all the guests were retiring, Denbigh had caught Sarah’s eye and nodded his head, giving her a clue he would be knocking at her door.

  Quickly yanking it open so he could slip inside before being seen, she took a step back, immediately overcome by his presence and his heady scent, which would always remind her of their lovemaking.

  “I suppose you’ve come to apologize,” she guessed.

  “In fact, I have.” With his expression sheepish, he bowed his head. “I accused you wrongly. Evingdon had given his wife’s shawl to one of Lady Macroun’s parlor maids for, shall we say, services rendered, not knowing the broach was attached.”

  “What a cork-brained cod’s head!” Sarah declared. “How could he think his wife wouldn’t notice when an article of her clothing went missing—broach or not?”

  “Indeed, I suppose, as with most men, including myself, a shawl seems a trifle.”

  She shook her head in disgust. “He confessed to you his transgression?”

  “He did, man to man, of course. I sought out the appropriate maid and retrieved the shawl and broach, which she’d already put in a keepsake box.”

  “I bet she had. It was well-earned, poor thing.” Sarah recalled the portly figure of Lord Evingdon, who suffered from a constantly dripping nose and dry lips, which might have been due to the cold, but nonetheless made him less-than-ideal as a paramour.

  “She’s lucky she didn’t lose her post,” Denbigh pointed out. “She would if Lady Macroun had become involved. I returned the shawl to the earl, who gave it to his countess, who is not a cork-brained cod’s head and announced she was leaving upon the instant. Everyone knows Evingdon has a mistress in Mayfair, but to flaunt his sugar stick here in the country was too much for her ladyship, especially when he did so with a mere maid.”

  “I suppose if he must have a mistress,” Sarah surmised, “the countess prefers her husband betray her with a high-flier. I can see how she might be insulted by his dalliance with a servant.”

  He shook his head, which she hoped indicated his disapproval of the earl’s transgressions, for she, like Lady Evingdon, wouldn’t take kindly to such goings-on, neither with a maid, nor a with well-heeled mistress in Town.

  “Not all men act thusly?” she said, although it came out as a question. She hadn’t had a chance to find out if her erstwhile husband kept a mistress.

  Denbigh looked astonished. “Certainly not. I like to think the majority of men do not. Perhaps there is a higher percentage of rakes and bucks in the ranks of the ton than in the general population, but it is not a requirement, I assure you. You simply hear of the worst offenders.”

  “That’s true,” she said with relief. His outrage bespoke his condemnation of the indecorous behavior.

  “I learned of the maid’s receipt of the shawl from Dorie,” she offered.

  “Which is why you came to the library,” he said, then offered another apology.

  She waved it off. “And Lady Macroun believes this was all a misunderstanding?”

  “Just so,” he confirmed, “and her reputation as a hostess is still of the highest caliber.” He took a step closer. “I, for one, think this is the best Twelvetide I’ve ever attended.” Ending his words with a grin, he took her into his arms.

  With her pulse racing and her insides melting, she looked up into his adorable face. She’d decided she wasn’t going to make him grovel. The fact he’d come to her door and admitted his mistake was sufficient.

  “It’s passing fair, I suppose,” she conceded.

  He put his head back and laughed. “If that’s the case, my lady, let me try to make it the absolute tip-top of Yuletide events.”

  Leaning down, he claimed her lips at the same time as his broad hands slipped down to her bottom, each grasping a round cheek. Squeezing gently, he tilted her hips against him.

  “Mm,” she murmured.

  “Is your pudding-faced maid liable to interrupt us?”

  “Don’t be unkind,” she admonished, “and definitely not.” Sarah sank her fingers into his hair and felt him shudder.

  But he drew back a moment. “You know you hardly need a lady’s maid. When the staff was off the day after Christmas, you managed to recover and get all prinked up directly after our … dalliance, looking as fine as ever you do.”

  She felt her cheeks warm. Having lived most of her life as a parson’s daughter, she could certainly do her own hair, but she supposed it was a skill those of his class never mastered.

  “I am a woman of many talents,” she told him.

  Instantly, his eyes darkened. “Oh, I know that. And I love each one you’ve demonstrated.” He led her toward the bed. “If there are any others you’d like to share, please, feel free to do so.”

  Sarah let him begin to undress her.

  Chapter 12

  Why was she being such an addle-pated ninny? Wandering the hallway, Sarah attempted to recall the door she’d seen her next lucky recipient go in and out of. She could hardly ask a servant which room belonged to Lady Abingley, yet short of doing so, Sarah was at a loss. The lady, herself, was fairly forgettable, too. A baroness who enjoyed needlepoint and sherry, and little else. Somehow, the woman had acquired a breathtaking necklace of emeralds and pearls, which had inevitably caught Sarah’s sister’s eye. If only the baroness’s room was as easy to determine.

  That morning, Sarah had managed to evade another torturous carriage ride with ladies who despised her for being a young widow. Or for being one of the dreaded nouveau riche. Or both. In any case, after the gentlemen mounted their hunters for the morning’s escapade, and all the women had been assigned a carriage, she fell terribly ill with both a stomachache and a megrim, being unable to choose.

  For one dodgy moment, Lady Macroun had offered to stay. However, it was a half-hearted offer as their hostess desperately wanted to attend the hunt and enjoy the picnic with her guests. The countess hadn’t put up a fuss when Sarah insisted she should go.

  “Don’t get up to any mischief,” Lady Macroun had called back to her.

  Oddsbodkins! Sarah shivered. What a perceptive thing to say! And now here she was, doing her best to move swiftly since she was all but certain Denbigh would return to spy on her as soon as he realized she was not in any of the carriages. Still, it could be a full hour, at least, before he appeared.

  In a quarter of an hour, she’d managed to surprise two maids-of-all-work and a ladies’ personal maid. She’d found out none of those bed chambers belonged to Lady Abingley, but was no wiser as to where the baroness lay her grizzled head each night.

  Tapping lightly on another door, upon hearing no answer, Sarah pushed it slowly open. No maid—that was a relief.

  Having taken note of the gown the lady was wearing the night before at dinner, she was determined to place the necklace in the room in which that gown was hanging. Moving swiftly to the armoire, Sarah swung open the tall double-doors. A brief perusal yielded nothing in the way of the familiar dress.

  Quick as a July cricket and in hurried succession, she slipped out of the room, knocked on the next door, and entered. Her luck was holding with no one in the room, not even a maid. However, the instant she opened the armoire, she heard someone at the door behind her.

  More annoyed than scared, she stepped inside the large wooden cupboard and pulled the door closed behind her. Unlike the longcase in the hall, she was able to peer through the crack between the doors to see a man enter—Mr. Asher. How strange!

  For a moment, she considered confronting him, and swiftly disabused herself of the idea. Firstly, he ought to be hunting with the rest of the guests.
Secondly, he must be a thief. Thirdly, he might be violent and not take too kindly to her popping out of the armoire denouncing him.

  Mr. Asher glanced around the room, looking squarely at the armoire for a moment, making Sarah nearly gasp—when his gaze passed over it.

  Then he strode to the draperies and pushed them aside. Next thing she knew, he was upon his knees, looking under the bed. He seemed to be searching for something … or someone. The Devil take him! He must have spied her entering the room.

  When he started toward the armoire, she cringed. There was no hope now. She would be caught, and no amount of pressing herself back into the lady’s gowns would hide her.

  A maid’s voice came to her rescue. “Here now, what are you doing in her ladyship’s room?”

  Sarah was as eager as the servant to hear Mr. Asher’s answer.

  “I thought I heard someone in here as I was passing by,” he began, and Sarah rolled her eyes.

  “I thank you kindly, but it appears there is no one here, sir, except you.”

  Sarah was impressed with the maid’s no-nonsense tone. Along with all the servants, the young woman had probably been told to keep an eye out for anyone suspicious and probably thought she’d discovered a sneaking budge.

  “Perhaps I should call upon a footman,” the maid added.

  “No need,” Mr. Asher said, and he ran, harum scarum by the sound of it.

  “And good riddance,” the maid muttered, mirroring Sarah’s exact thoughts.

  After taking another look around and smoothing the counterpane, the servant left. Still, Sarah waited another minute before pushing open the armoire door, unfolding herself, and stepping out. Turning, she realized she’d been crouching against the very gown for which she’d been searching.

  Sighing with relief, she drew the necklace from the watch pocket of her dress, in the seam directly under her right breast, where it had caused an unsightly bulge. Now, where to hide the wretched sparkler? Glancing again at the armoire, she realized the lady had three shelves of shoes on the left side—half-boots and ankle-length boots made of kid leather, taller leather boots with a wool lining, and at least a dozen pairs of pointy toed silk and satin slippers in every color.