by Lisa Kleypas
The underbutler pulled the cord steadily, while West and the footmen pushed from below. Gradually the fir eased upright, its boughs spreading majestically to fan a pungent evergreen scent through the air.
“It smells heavenly,” Helen exclaimed, inhaling deeply. “Did Lord and Lady Berwick have a Christmas tree, Kathleen?”
“Every year.” Kathleen smiled. “But only a small one, because Lady Berwick said it was a pagan custom.”
“Cassandra, we’ll need many more ornaments,” she heard Pandora exclaim from the second-floor balcony. “We’ve never had a tree this tall before.”
“We’ll make another batch of candles,” her twin replied.
“No more candles,” Kathleen called up to them. “This tree is already a fire hazard.”
“But Kathleen,” Pandora said, looking down at her, “the tree will look dreadful if we don’t have enough decorations. It will look positively undressed.”
“Perhaps we could tie some sweets in scraps of netting and ribbon,” Helen suggested. “It would be pretty to hang them from the branches.”
West brushed leaves from his hands and used his thumb to rub off a spot of sap on his palm. “You all might want to look in the crate that was delivered from Winterborne’s this morning,” he said. “I’m sure it contains some Christmas finery.”
All movement and sound in the hall was instantly extinguished as everyone looked at him.
“What crate?” Kathleen demanded. “Why did you keep it a secret until now?”
West gave her a speaking glance and pointed to the corner, where a massive wooden crate had been set. “It’s hardly been a secret – it’s been there for hours. I’ve been too busy with this blasted tree to make conversation.”
“Did you order it?”
“No. Devon mentioned in his last letter that Winterborne was sending some holiday trimmings from his store, as a gesture of appreciation for inviting him to stay.”
“I did not invite Mr. Winterborne,” Kathleen retorted, “and we certainly can’t accept gifts from a stranger.”
“They’re not for you, they’re for the household. Hang it all, it’s just a few baubles and wisps of tinsel.”
She stared at him uncertainly. “I don’t think we should. I’m not certain of the etiquette, but it doesn’t seem proper. He’s an unmarried gentleman, and this is a household of young women who have only me as a chaperone. If I were ten years older and had an established reputation, it might be different, but as things are…”
“I’m a member of the household,” West protested. “Doesn’t that make the situation more respectable?”
Kathleen looked at him. “You’re joking, aren’t you?”
West rolled his eyes. “My point is, if anyone were to try and attach some improper meaning to Winterborne’s gift, the fact that I’m here would —”
He stopped as he heard a choking sound from Helen, who had turned very red.
“Helen?” Kathleen asked in concern, but the girl had turned away, her shoulders shaking. Kathleen sent West an alarmed glance.
“Helen,” he said quietly, striding forward and taking her upper arms in an urgent grasp. “Sweetheart, are you ill? What —” He paused as she shook her head violently and gasped out something, one of her hands flailing in the direction behind them. West looked up alertly. His face changed, and he began to laugh.
“What is the matter with you two?” Kathleen demanded. Glancing around the entrance hall, she realized the crate was no longer in the corner. The twins must have raced downstairs the moment it had been mentioned. Clutching it on either side, they lugged it furtively toward the receiving room.
“Girls,” Kathleen said sharply, “bring that back here at once!”
But it was too late. The receiving room’s double doors closed, accompanied by the click of a key turning in the lock. Kathleen stopped short, her jaw slackening.
West and Helen staggered together, overcome with hilarity.
“I’ll have you know,” Mrs. Church said in amazement, “it took our two stoutest footmen to bring that crate into the house. How did two young ladies manage to carry it away so quickly?”
“Sh-sheer determination,” Helen wheezed.
“All I want in this life,” West told Kathleen, “is to see you try to pry that crate away from those two.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” she replied, giving up. “They would do me bodily harm.”
Helen wiped at a stray tear of mirth. “Come, Kathleen, let’s go see what Mr. Winterborne sent. You too, Mrs. Church.”
“They won’t let us into the room,” Kathleen muttered.
Helen grinned at her. “They will if I ask.”
The twins, busy as squirrels, had already unpacked a multitude of wrapped parcels when they finally allowed everyone into the receiving room.
The butler, underbutler, and footmen ventured to the doorway to have a peek at the contents of the crate. It resembled a pirate’s treasure chest, overflowing with blown glass spheres painted to look like fruit, papier-mâché birds decorated with real feathers, clever tin figures of dancers and soldiers and animals.
There was even a large box of miniature colored glass cups, or fairy lights, meant to be filled with oil and floating candle wicks and hung on the tree.
“A fire will be inevitable,” Kathleen said in worry, looking at the multitude of candle cups.
“We’ll station a pair of boys with pails of water next to the tree when it’s lit,” Mrs. Church reassured her. “If any of the branches catches fire, they’ll douse it right away.”
Everyone gasped as Pandora unearthed a large Christmas angel from the crate. Her porcelain face was framed by golden hair, while a pair of gilded wings protruded from the back of a little satin gown embellished with pearls and gold thread.
While the family and servants gathered reverently to view the magnificent creation, Kathleen took West’s arm and tugged him out of the room. “Something is going on here,” she said. “I want to know the real reason why the earl has invited Mr. Winterborne.”
They stopped in the space beneath the grand staircase, behind the tree.
“Can’t he show hospitality to a friend without an ulterior motive?” West parried.
She shook her head. “Everything your brother does has an ulterior motive. Why has he invited Mr. Winterborne?”
“Winterborne has his finger in many pies. I believe Devon hopes to benefit from his advice, and at some future date enter into a business deal with him.”
That sounded reasonable enough. But her intuition still warned that there was something fishy about the situation. “How did they become acquainted?”
“About three years ago, Winterborne was nominated for membership at two different London clubs, but was rejected by both of them. Winterborne is a commoner; his father was a Welsh grocer. So after hearing the sniggering about how Winterborne had been refused, Devon arranged to have our club, Brabbler’s, offer a membership to him. And Winterborne never forgets a favor.”
“Brabbler’s?” Kathleen repeated. “What an odd name.”
“It’s the word for a fellow who tends to argue over trifles.” West looked down and rubbed at a sticky spot of sap on the heel of his hand. “Brabbler’s is a second-tier club for those who aren’t allowed into White’s or Brooks’s, but it includes some of the most successful and clever men in London.”
“Such as Mr. Winterborne.”
“Just so.”
“What is he like? What is his character?”
West shrugged. “He’s a quiet sort, but he can be as charming as the devil if it suits him.”
“Is he young or old?”
“Thirty years, or thereabouts.”
“And his appearance? Is he well-favored?”
“The ladies certainly seem to think so. Although with his fortune, Winterborne could look like a toad and they would still flock to him.”
“Is he a good man?”
“One doesn’t acquire a fortune by being a
choirboy.”
Holding his gaze, Kathleen realized that was the most she was going to pry from him. “The earl and Mr. Winterborne are scheduled to arrive tomorrow afternoon, are they not?”
“Yes, I’ll go to meet them at the Alton Station. Would you like to accompany me?”
“Thank you, but my time will be better spent with Mrs. Church and Cook, making certain everything is prepared.” She sighed and cast a rueful glance at the looming tree, feeling guilty and uneasy. “I hope none of the local gentry hears about all our festivities. But I’m sure they will. I shouldn’t allow any of this. You know that.”
“But since you have,” West said, patting her shoulder, “you may as well try to enjoy it.”
Chapter 15
“Y
ou’re going to be nominated for membership at White’s,” Rhys Winterborne said as the train rattled and swayed along the route from London to Hampshire. Although their private compartment in the first-class carriage could have easily accommodated four more passengers, Winterborne had paid to keep the seats empty so they could have the space to themselves. Devon’s valet, Sutton, was traveling in one of the lower-class carriages farther back in the train.
Devon shot him a look of surprise. “How do you know that?”
Winterborne’s only reply was an oblique glance. He often knew about people’s private business before they themselves had learned of it. Since almost everyone in London had applied to his store for credit, the man knew intimate details about their finances, their purchases, and their personal habits. In addition, much of what the store employees overheard on the floors was funneled upward to Winterborne’s office.
“They needn’t bother,” Devon said, stretching his legs into the space between the seats. “I wouldn’t accept.”
“White’s is a more prestigious club than Brabbler’s.”
“Most clubs are,” Devon rejoined wryly. “But the air is a bit too thin in such elevated circles. And if White’s didn’t want me before I was an earl, there’s no reason for them to want me now. I’m unchanged in every regard except for the fact that I’m now as deeply in debt as the rest of the peerage.”
“That’s not the only change. You’ve gained social and political power.”
“Power without capital. I’d rather have money.”
Winterborne shook his head. “Always choose power. Money can be stolen or devalued, and then you’re left with nothing. With power, one can always acquire more money.”
“I hope you’re right about that.”
“I’m always right,” Winterborne said flatly.
Few men could make such a statement convincingly, but Rhys Winterborne certainly did.
He was one of those rare individuals who had been born in the perfect time and place to suit his abilities. In a staggeringly short time, he had built his father’s ramshackle shop into a mercantile empire. Winterborne had an instinct for quality and a shrewd understanding of the public appetite… somehow he could always identify what people wanted to buy before they themselves knew. As a well-known public figure, he had a vast array of friends, acquaintances, and enemies, but no one could truthfully claim to know the man.
Reaching for a decanter, which had been set on a railed shelf affixed to the teak paneling beneath the window, Winterborne poured two malt whiskeys and handed one to Devon. After a silent toast, they settled back into the plush seats and watched the ever-changing view through the window.
The luxurious compartment was one of three in the carriage, each with its own set of doors that opened to the outside. The doors had been locked by a porter, a standard railway practice to prevent unticketed passengers from sneaking aboard. For the same reasons, the windows had been barred with brass rods. To distract himself from the vague feeling of being trapped, Devon focused on the scenery.
How much smaller England had become, now that it was possible to cover a distance in a matter of hours rather than days. There was scarcely time to absorb the scenery before it had rushed by, which inspired some people to call the railway a “magician’s road.” The train crossed bridges, pastures, public thoroughfares, and ancient villages, now passing through deep chalk cuttings, now chugging by open heath. The Hampshire hills appeared, slopes of dark wintry green hunkering beneath the white afternoon sky.
The prospect of arriving home filled Devon with anticipation. He had brought presents for everyone in the family, but he had deliberated the longest about what to give to Kathleen. At one of the jeweler’s counters in Winterborne’s, he had found an unusual cameo brooch, an exquisitely carved scene of a Greek goddess riding a horse. The cream-colored cameo was set against an onyx background and framed with tiny white seed pearls.
Since the cameo was set in onyx, the saleswoman at the counter had told Devon, it was suitable for a lady in mourning. Even the pearls were acceptable, since they were said to represent tears. Devon had purchased it on the spot. It had been delivered to him that morning, and he had slipped it into his pocket before leaving for the railway station.
He was impatient to see Kathleen again, hungry for the sight of her and the sound of her voice. He had missed her smiles, her frowns, her endearing frustrations with impropriety and pigs and plumbers.
Filled with anticipation, he contemplated the scenery as the train struggled to the summit of a hill and began the downward slope. Soon they would cross the River Wey, and then it would be only a mile to the station at Alton. The railway cars were only half full; a far greater number of passengers would travel the next day, on Christmas Eve.
The train’s momentum gathered as they approached the bridge, but the forward-hurtling force of the engine was upset by a sudden jerk and lurch. Instantly Devon’s ears were filled with the metallic shrieks of brakes. The carriage erupted with violent shudders. Reflexively Devon grabbed one of the brass window bars to keep from being bounced out of his seat.
In the next second, a tremendous impact jolted his hand loose of the brass bar – no, the bar itself had come loose – and the window shattered as the carriage wrenched free of the rails. Devon was thrown into a chaos of glass, splintering wood, twisting metal, and unholy noise. A wild heave was accompanied by the snap of the couplings, and then there was the sensation of plunging, tumbling, as the two men were thrown across the compartment. Blinding white light filled Devon’s head as he tried to find a fixed point in all the madness. He kept falling, helpless to stop the descent, until his body slammed down and a spearlike pain burst in his chest, and his mind reeled and sank into darkness.
Chapter 16
T
he violent cold brought him back to awareness, pulling gasps from the bottom of his lungs. Devon rubbed his wet face and tried to hoist himself upward. Foul-smelling river water was gushing steadily into the train compartment, or what remained of it. Climbing over splintered glass and wreckage, Devon maneuvered to the gap of the shattered window and stared through the brass bars.
It appeared that the locomotive had plummeted over the wing wall of the bridge, and taken three railway carriages with it, leaving two remaining vehicles poised on the embankment above. Nearby, the broken bulk of a railway carriage had settled into the water like a felled animal. Desperate cries for help swarmed through the air.
Turning, Devon searched frantically for Winterborne, shoving aside planks of teak until he found his friend’s unconscious form beneath a chair that had broken free of the floor. The water had just begun to close over his face.
Devon hauled him upward, every movement sending an excruciating stab of pain through his chest and side.
“Winterborne,” he said roughly, shaking him a little. “Wake up. Come to. Now.”
Winterborne coughed and let out a ragged groan. “What happened?” he asked hoarsely.
“The train derailed,” Devon replied, panting. “Carriage is in the river.”
Winterborne rubbed at his bloody face and grunted in pain. “I can’t see.”
Devon tried to pull him higher as the water inched
steadily upward. “You’ll have to move, or we’ll drown.”