His father was dead. That fierce old man wasn’t supposed to die before Ivo could talk to him. What a wretched way to die—surrounded only by sheep and servants.
Blessedly, Ivo’s nose detected the scent of fragrant, steaming tea. Forcing both eyes open, he noted a faint thin light penetrating the darkness. Holding his bandaged head so it didn’t fall off, he turned to trace the source. Deciding there was a window behind him, he groped on the far side of the bed, grasped a handful of fabric, and yanked it aside.
Gray light entered, illuminating his rumpled greatcoat covering an old sofa, and a china tea set on the side table. Steam wafted from the spout—hot tea, thank heavens.
That blue-painted china meant he really was home. Still steadying himself with one hand on the cushion, he reached for the pot and shakily poured tea into the cup, admiring the way the gray light played across old ivory porcelain and faded paint. The image needed a rose on the tea tray—a rose in winter.
A still life formed in his head as the tea warmed his stomach, and he rummaged around until he found his valise.
Head still pounding with all the hammers of hell, he located his sketchpad and charcoal. Sipping the tea, he began to draw. Sanity was in his fingers, not his head, these days.
Returning home from the market, Sarah Jane Langsdale strode briskly through the wintry December streets. In her basket, tucked between root vegetables, was a package that had cost her more than money.
The lace had come at the expense of her pride.
This past year, independence had emerged from the devastating loss of both parents. She’d learned that she was strong and could take care of herself.
Attending the Holbourne Abbey Christmas ball was as good as admitting to her godmother that Sarah still hoped to find a husband, which she most decidedly did not.
“The lace is a foolish waste,” she told Mary, already regretting the expensive purchase. “I shall return it tomorrow.”
Stout, her dark hair displaying threads of silver, Mary was more mother than maid to Sarah these days. “You cannot ignore Lady Holly’s invitation,” Mary remonstrated, as she had ever since the invitation had arrived. She adjusted her hold on the heavy basket of apples designated for pies for the church bake sale. “It’s Christmas, and our good lads are home safe and sound this year. You must join the celebration.”
Not all Bellsburn’s boys had returned this past year since Waterloo. Many had been left on the battlefields. And some . . .
Sarah had reason to agonize over the new baron’s absence. Abruptly, she turned the corner so they might pass the old Whitney house—the one where she and Ivo had spent half their childhood being tutored by her father, and taught music and dancing by his mother. Those days were long gone, but the memories . . . Should be shoved in a dustbin.
“The orphanage will be a fine thing for the village,” Mary said, understanding their change in direction. “Perhaps you can persuade Lady Holly to donate toward the renovations.”
“I can’t think attending her ball will impress her more than my simply making a call and explaining what we need,” Sarah argued.
“Your mourning is over,” Mary countered. “It won’t hurt to have a bit of a lark before you take yourself off the market. I hear the entire Abbey will be lit with candles.”
Mary would enjoy the jewels and gowns and decorations and a visit with her old friends. Sarah’s loyal companion deserved that bit of holiday fun.
Sarah supposed she could use her godmother’s dreadful matchmaking ball to raise interest in the orphanage. That still didn’t justify the lace expense.
“You know the lace is to catch a man’s eye, and I have donned my cap,” Sarah argued. “I don’t wish to smile and gossip and pretend I’m interested.”
A flash of blue darting down the kitchen steps of the empty Whitney house caught her eye. “Did you see that?” Sarah increased her pace. “I hope no one has broken in. I told the vicar someone should live on the premises.”
“The late baron only left the house to the church, not the funds to keep it up,” Mary reminded her.
“Hoping his son would fund the maintenance.” Sarah tried to keep the bitterness from her voice. She had no right to judge another, even if Ivo Whitney-Harris had turned out to be such a disappointment.
“You can’t go in there, it’s dangerous!” Mary cried, horrified, when Sarah stopped on the stairs to dig into her reticule for the keys. “We’ll ask the vicar to take a look.”
“It is Friday. He will be making his rounds. What if it’s someone who heard about the orphanage and needs our help?”
“Then they should have gone to the vicarage and not broken into a vacant house,” Mary said dryly, but she followed Sarah up the front stairs.
“Perhaps if they’re thieves, they will run away and not come back if they know someone is looking after the place.” Sarah opened the weathered door.
The lovely papered foyer struck her once more with nostalgia for a more innocent time. She’d always loved the elegance of the blue and gold stripes on the walls. Old Mr. Merriweather would have greeted her and her father with a stiff nod as if they were as important as Lady Holly. His wife, Bess, would have hurried upstairs with a plate of fresh-baked ginger cookies. The house would have smelled of beeswax, and at this time of year—greenery. Lady Harris had loved to fill her house with the outdoors.
But the lovely baroness had died long, long ago. Afterward, her husband had preferred his country estate. He’d closed up the village house after his son Ivo rode off to war. He’d left a skeleton staff these last years, in case Ivo returned, but the scapegrace never had. In the months since the baron’s death, the neglect had left the house smelling badly of must and mice.
“The church never should have let the Merriweathers go,” Mary muttered.
“I agree. At least as long as they were here, the house was maintained. But the baron couldn’t know he would die before his son returned.” Although Ivo could have returned any time these last months since the war ended, if Sarah understood rightly. He just hadn’t.
“I’ll check the kitchen. You look through the public rooms,” Sarah suggested, studying the dim interior. “See if anything has been disturbed.”
“Don’t be foolish. You stay right here, and I’ll go down and see if the door is properly barred. These are dangerous times.” Mary set down her apple basket and lifted a brass candlestick as a weapon.
“The baron’s executor has already removed all the valuables,” Sarah protested, but Mary didn’t heed her. Sturdy Mary would make so much noise clumping down the stairs that any thief would have time to flee, so Sarah didn’t fret.
Once they had the funding, she would move in here as part of her wages for teaching the orphans. That was a far nobler ambition than marriage.
Boldly, she walked through what would soon be her new home, mentally creating offices and schoolrooms of parlors, study, and library.
CHAPTER TWO
Lost in the crash of cannon fire in his head and slash of brush across canvas, Ivo ignored the creaks of the house. Black smoke curled across his skies. He darkened the oil on his palette, and nightmare horses reared, breathing fire.
And then the mice returned.
“We gots to hide in the attic,” the bossier one squeaked.
“They got bread,” the naysayer protested stubbornly.
Ivo realized he was starving. Toast and tea would hit the spot.
Reluctantly setting his brush in the turpentine he’d found in the storage cabinet, he abandoned the canvas and limped for the upstairs corridor.
He didn’t understand why his beloved home echoed like one of Europe’s abandoned churches. He’d always preferred this snug house in town belonging to his mother’s family over his father’s enormous, isolated country seat. He needed people around him, not sheep.
He clung to the bannister, intent on finding the kitchen, but his aching head and gimpy leg both gave out at the landing. Dizzy, he sat down abruptly and pe
ered into the twilight gloom of the foyer below, hoping for some sign of the missing domestics.
An angel materialized in a spectral light from the foyer windows.
Ivo rubbed his eyes. Angels wore white and had wings. They didn’t wear practical gray pelisses and shabby bonnets. But the morning light illuminated porcelain features bearing the perfect demeanor of a heavenly visitor. Huge blue, dark-lashed eyes and rich rose lips turned upward in a smile of pure bliss as she spun about on the black-and-white tiles, then caressed the frame of one of his old paintings.
He couldn’t help a chortle of delight at this welcoming vision. “Sarah Jane,” he cried. “You make a perfectly dreadful angel.”
The blissful smile shattered, replaced by shock as she swiveled from the painting to the stairs. “I—” she started to say, then stiff disapproval froze her expression. “Lord Harris,” she said formally.
The never-used title jolted unpleasant reminders that made Ivo’s head ache more. He preferred nostalgic recollections of the vicar’s daughter—his childhood nemesis. “With your expressive eyes, you should have been an actress,” he told her, his addled brain not processing his thoughts before they reached his tongue. “It’s been how long? Five years? You’re all grown up.”
“I was seventeen when you left—hardly a babe,” she said in those acerbic tones he remembered with less delight. “What are you doing here? I thought you were a burglar.”
The question baffled him. She was the intruder here. Barging into his home was nosy, even for Sarah. This house had always been his haven from his father’s chronic complaints about his only son’s wasteful pursuits.
Rather than return her question, Ivo remembered his manners and attempted to stand. He saw two of everything, staggered, missed the bannister, and sat down again with an embarrassingly abrupt thud.
She uttered a cry of alarm and flew up the stairs. “You’re injured! How did you . . . ?” Apparently thinking better of the question, she called, “Mary, come quickly!”
“Don’t shout so loud,” he grumbled, pride badly mauled. “I got myself here just fine. Nothing a bit of toast and tea won’t cure. Where are Mr. and Mrs. Merry?” He used their childhood name for the servants.
She hesitated, and then sat down beside him to examine his bandage. She smelled of apple blossoms, and he wanted to lean over and bury his nose in her hair.
“That’s a dreadful black eye and your nose may be broken.” She touched his aching beak. “We should have a physician look at you.”
He shrugged. “I’ve been worse. The mice said you brought bread. I don’t suppose you could toast some.”
“The mice?” Her brow creased in a frown before she replied in the soothing tones he recalled from long ago, when he’d been abed with some childhood illness. “We can do tea and toast and a bit of Mrs. White’s apple jelly. Let’s get you back upstairs first.”
A sturdy woman in black hurried into the foyer. Not grandmotherly Mrs. Merry, Ivo thought in disappointment.
“Lord Harris has been injured,” his angel told the crow. “We need to return him to bed and call a physician.”
“Toast,” he politely reminded her.
“Tea and toast once you’re settled in,” she agreed.
Why wasn’t she home with her husband? Having Sarah Jane flutter around him as she had done in their youth disturbed him on a painfully personal level.
Ivo steadied himself as he stumbled back up the stairs. His gammy knee still gave out at the most inopportune times, but he could walk.
Apparently, these days Sarah smelled of apples and fresh bread and . . . a delicate fragrance all her own that stirred base desires. Good to know he wasn’t dead, he decided, reeling toward the safety of his sofa as soon as they reached the next floor.
“You ought to be in bed. . . .” She bit off whatever else she intended to say. She was doing that a lot.
“No blasted linens,” Ivo finished for her. “House all closed up. Should have written, sorry.” He leaned against the sofa back and closed his eyes to stop the spinning.
“There’s still a few bits in the larder,” the crow murmured. “I’ll see what I can find, then fetch Dr. Jones. You should come away now.”
“Don’t be foolish, Mary. I can’t leave him like this. There’s a teapot up here already. We just need to heat some water and find a bit of tea.”
Ivo heard her checking his mysterious china tea set. He’d not packed china in his valise. He might have packed tea. It was the best medicine for homesickness.
“Tea, valise,” he managed, dragging pillows behind his back so he could sit upright. “No water though.”
“There are a few coals for a fire,” his angel said, exploring the room. “Surely there’s still water in the cistern. This is a fresh pot of tea.”
“Mice made it,” Ivo said in satisfaction. “Not me.”
That produced a quiet round of whispering. He was enjoying the unfamiliarity of feminine company. Although Sarah was gratifyingly familiar—in an unaccustomed way. Gads, his brain was muddled.
He must have dozed off for a while. He woke to warm soapy water cleansing his grizzled jaw. The scent of apple blossoms and tea forced his eyes open.
His angel’s worried frown wasn’t blissful, but the sight of a tray laden with tea and toast was the next best thing to Sarah’s angelic presence.
“I think I love you,” he sighed in gratitude.
Sarah bit her lip at Ivo’s inane comment and concentrated on removing the bandage wrapped around his shaggy dark hair. If he had truly addled his wits, she must not allow him to addle hers.
“Whatever have you been doing to yourself?” she asked, nervously distracting his attention, which seemed focused on her bosom. Ivo was the only man of her acquaintance who loomed over her sufficiently to look down her dress.
He winced and reached for the toast. “Don’t exactly remember, but I made it home. That’s a good thing, ain’t it?”
That was a matter of opinion, if he thought this was still his home. But Ivo had always been a charmer, and she wasn’t immune to his grin.
“The war was over last June,” she said. “A Dr. Seton wrote that you were injured, but you’d be well enough to travel in a few months.”
“Doc Seton! He saved Kim, y’know.”
She pressed her lips closed. From all she’d heard, the Countess’s son didn’t appreciate being saved, but now wasn’t the time to tell Ivo about his friend.
“This cannot be a war wound.” She examined the swollen gash that the bandage had hidden.
“Likely not,” he agreed through a mouthful of toast. “Recollect a bit of a dispute with ruffians. Traveled all Europe without mishap. Forgot good old-fashioned English highwaymen.”
That explained a bit. “You were on your way home when you were attacked by ruffians? Then you did receive the letters from your father’s solicitor?” She held her breath, hoping he understood the situation and was just ignoring it in his own inimitable way.
Ivo wrinkled up his aristocratically straight—but broken—nose, and winced again. “Letters, yes,” he said without conviction. “They all caught up with me in Paris. Read the one about my father’s death and thought I’d best come home. Haven’t made it through the others.”
He rubbed at his temple and looked bereft. “He was a surly old goat but too young to die. What happened?”
Oh, dear. Sarah kept her sigh to herself. He didn’t know about the house. “It was very sudden. A heart spasm or some such. You couldn’t have saved him. You were exploring the Continent and that’s why it took so long for the letters to find you?” she asked neutrally.
He brightened. “Museums. The artwork—just incredible. Makes my own efforts seem feeble in comparison. You’d like Italy,” he said. “Palaces! They lived in palaces filled with sun and air!”
“You never liked England’s winters,” she recalled.
“Killed my mother,” he agreed through more toast.
His father’s de
ath had been a few months after Waterloo, while Ivo had still been convalescing. She could see how mail might have wandered.
She didn’t want to be the one who told him about his father’s will.
“What about you?” he asked abruptly. “Didn’t you marry that Brown boy Lady Holly introduced you to?”
“That was five years ago and all in my godmother’s stubborn head,” she exclaimed. “He married Agatha Wilson and has two little boys. Their farms marched together, so it was a good match.”
Bob Brown hadn’t been the one to break her heart.
“Good,” Ivo said fervently, before frowning. “Then Lawrence came to his senses and captured your interest?”
“Lawrence?” she asked with incredulity, wondering at the odd path of his thoughts. “He’s heir to a viscount and needs an heiress to keep him in horses. I don’t wish to marry anybody.”
“Ha, the dowager countess is wrong again.” He settled back and closed his eyes with what looked oddly like peace.
Worried about his befuddled mind, Sarah finished cleaning around the scab.
“She should give him apples,” a tiny voice whispered from the walls.
Startled, Sarah froze. Had she heard an apple crunch?
“Ma said they’s good for what ails you,” another small voice agreed.
Before she could investigate, she heard Mary returning with Dr. Jones. Sarah breathed a sigh of relief. Now things would be set straight, and Ivo could be removed to his home in the country, where servants anxiously awaited his return. Then she could look for voices in the walls.
Mary ushered Sarah out of the salon so the physician could examine the new Lord Harris. The maid frowned as they waited downstairs in the foyer for instructions.
“Dr. Jones said head wounds are very dangerous,” Mary whispered. “The baron could have scrambled his wits, and we must wait to see if he recovers them.”
Sarah barely held her gasp. “Not Ivo, surely! He was always so bright and . . .” And there she went again. She returned to pragmatism. “The baron has no heir. For the sake of the people on his estate, we’ll hope Dr. Jones is wrong, and he won’t be incapacitated.”
The Last Chance Christmas Ball Page 12