“I do not want it.” Jane kissed his chin. “I am resilient. And resourceful. I like to be doing things, and I do not mean embroidery. Come to think of it, my grandmother never did embroidery in her life.”
“I know.” Spencer nuzzled her hair. “Your grandfather spoke much about her when I met him in London.”
Jane stilled. Very slowly, she lifted her head. “You met my grandfather in London?”
Spencer nodded. “Last spring. I was on another leave-taking, much shorter, to visit my family. I spent a night in London, and at the tavern near my lodgings, I met an amusing old Scotsman who was pleased to sit up with me telling stories. I mentioned my friendship with Barnett, and your grandfather was delighted.”
“He was, was he?” Jane’s tone turned ominous.
“Indeed. But when I arrived last night, he asked me not to speak of our previous meeting to anyone. I have no idea why, but I saw no reason not to indulge him.”
He leaned to kiss her again, to enjoy the taste of her fire, but Jane put her hand on his chest.
“Will you excuse me for one moment, Spencer?”
Spencer skimmed his fingertips across her cheek. “When you speak my name, I cannot refuse you, love.”
Her eyes softened, but she scrambled from his lap. Spencer rose with her, a steadying hand on her waist. “I won’t be long,” she promised.
Jane strode from the room, her head high. Spencer watched her go, then chuckled to himself and followed her.
“Grandfather.”
She found he’d moved to a smaller, warmer sitting room, only this time he’d truly nodded off. The old man jumped awake and then to his feet, the whisky flask he’d been holding clanging to the floor.
“What the devil? Janie, what is it?”
Jane pointed an accusing finger at his face. “You met Captain Ingram in London this past spring.”
“Did I?” Grandfather frowned, then stroked his jaw in contemplation. “Now that you call it to my mind, I believe I did. My memory ain’t what it used to be.”
“I cry foul.” Jane planted her hands on her hips. “You knew he was John’s friend. You put the idea into John’s head to bring Captain Ingram here for Hogmanay, didn’t you? Do not prevaricate with me, please.”
“Hmm. I might have mentioned our meeting in a letter to young Barnett.”
“And you told John to send Captain Ingram into the house first.”
“Well, he is dark-haired. And tall. And what ladies believe is handsome.” Grandfather spread his hands. “My prediction came true, you see? You will marry this year’s First-Footer. I see by your blush that he has accepted your proposal.”
Jane’s cheeks indeed were hot. “Prediction, my eye. You planned this from the beginning, you old fraud.”
Grandfather drew himself up. “And if I did? And if I met Ingram’s family and determined that they were worthy of you? Captain Ingram is a far better match for you than Barnett. My lady ancestors were witches, yes, but they always had contingencies to make certain the spell worked.”
Deep, rumbling laughter made Jane spin around. Spencer leaned on the doorframe, gray eyes sparkling in mirth.
“Bless you that you did,” he said. He came to Jane and put a strong hand on her arm. “You and your ancestors will always have my gratitude, sir. Jane and I will be married by the end of the month.”
Grandfather gave Jane a hopeful look. “All’s well, that end’s well?”
Jane dashed forward in a burst of love and caught her grandfather in an exuberant embrace. “Yes, Grandfather. Thank you. Thank you. I love you so much.”
“Go on with you now.” Grandfather struggled away, but the tears in his eyes touched her heart. “The pair of ye, be off. Ye have much more kissing to do. It’s Hogmanay still.”
Spencer twined his hand through Jane’s. “An excellent suggestion.”
“And don’t either of you worry about Barnett. I’ve already caught him kissing Miss Pembroke.”
Jane blinked. Miss Pembroke was the daughter of her parents’ friends from Kent. “He is quick off the mark. The wretch.”
“Then he can toast us at our wedding,” Spencer said. He pulled Jane firmly to the door. “I believe I’d like to adjourn to the library again, to continue our … planning.”
Jane melted to him, her anger and exasperation dissolving. She needed this man, who’d come to her so unexpectedly to lift her out of her dreary life. “A fine idea.”
In the cool of the hall, Spencer bent to Jane and whispered in her ear. “You are beauty and light. I love you, Janie. This I already know.”
“I already know I love you too.”
They sealed their declaration with a kiss that burned with a wildness Jane had been longing for, the fierce freedom of her youth released once more.
Left alone in the sitting room, Hamish MacDonald raised his flask to the painting of a beautiful woman whose flowing hair spilled from under a wide-brimmed hat. She smiled at him over a basket of flowers, her bodice sliding to bare one seductive shoulder. Her eyes were deep blue, her hair black as night.
“I did it, Maggie,” he said, his voice scratchy. “I’ve seen to it that our girl will be happy. Bless you, love.”
He toasted the portrait, done by the great Ramsay, and drank deeply of malt whisky.
He swore that Maggie, his beloved wife, heart of his heart, forever in his thoughts, winked at him.
The End
About the Author
Jennifer Ashley is the New York Times bestselling author of more than 100 novels and novellas. Readers who wish to try her popular historical romance series, The Mackenzies, should start with The Madness of Lord Ian Mackenzie. The series is ongoing, with book 10, The Devilish Lord Will, out in November of 2018.
Jennifer also writes historical mysteries with a touch of romance. Death Below Stairs begins her Victorian mystery series featuring Kat Holloway, a cook to the wealthy; and The Hanover Square Affair leads off the Captain Lacey Regency mysteries she writes as Ashley Gardner.
More information on all her series can be found at
www.jenniferashley.com,
www.gardnermysteries.com,
and www.katholloway.com
The Mackenzies / McBrides Series
The Madness of Lord Ian Mackenzie
Lady Isabella’s Scandalous Marriage
The Many Sins of Lord Cameron
The Duke’s Perfect Wife
A Mackenzie Family Christmas: The Perfect Gift
The Seduction of Elliot McBride
The Untamed Mackenzie
The Wicked Deeds of Daniel Mackenzie
Scandal and the Duchess
Rules for a Proper Governess
The Stolen Mackenzie Bride
A Mackenzie Clan Gathering
Alec Mackenzie’s Art of Seduction
The Devilish Lord Will (forthcoming)
Below Stairs Mysteries
A Soupçon of Poison
(free! In the anthology, Past Crimes)
Death Below Stairs
Scandal Above Stairs
Death in Kew Gardens (forthcoming)
Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries
The Hanover Square Affair
A Regimental Murder
The Glass House
The Sudbury School Murders
The Necklace Affair (and Other Stories)
A Body In Berkeley Square
A Covent Garden Mystery
A Death in Norfolk
A Disappearance in Drury Lane
Murder in Grosvenor Square
The Thames River Murders
The Alexandria Affair
A Mystery at Carlton House
Murder in St. Giles
Death at Brighton Pavilion (forthcoming)
A Knight Before Christmas
By
Grace Burrowes
Dedicated to those for whom the holidays bring extra worries
Chapter 1
“Mr. Farris is back again,” Faith whisper
ed as she reshelved biographies. “He’s lurking among Mrs. Radcliffe’s offerings.”
“Leave the man in peace, sister,” Chloe replied, adding four more volumes to the stack in Faith’s arms. “Many a man enjoys Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels, all the while protesting that his purchase is for a wife, mother, or sister.”
“But Mr. Farris already owns everything Mrs. Radcliffe has ever written.”
“True enough.” Mr. Aidan Farris was a loyal customer, though lately he must have been spending all of his free time reading.
Chloe crossed to the bookshop’s front counter rather than indulge in idle speculation. “Mr. Nelson, have you made your selection?”
Faith sidled away, for Mr. Nelson was a prodigious ditherer. He spent good coin for his books, though, so Chloe came around the counter, patience at the ready.
From the corner of her eye, she watched as Mr. Farris paged through a bound version of The Romance of the Forest. He’d taken Mrs. Radcliffe’s tale to the shop’s front window, where the light was best. Reading glasses sat on a fine blade of a nose, and winter sunlight found red highlights in sable hair. He was gray-eyed, tallish without approaching awkward height, and more sober in his demeanor than Vicar Waites’s holding forth on the topic of irresponsible wagering.
Mr. Farris maintained that serious demeanor while he read a rollicking tale of thwarted passion, undeserved penury, and misplaced heroism. What sort of story would provoke a man like that to smiling?
“I’ll take this one for my missus,” Mr. Nelson said, using the counter to assemble a stack of loose chapters into a neat pile. “She does love when I read to her of a long, dark evening.”
“We have bound copies,” Chloe replied. “Mrs. Nelson might like one of those. Some of them are very handsome, Mr. Nelson.” And a bound copy would be a more profitable sale for the shop, at a time when every ha’penny was desperately needed.
“Bound copies come dear,” he said, looking uncertain. “Perhaps I’d best buy the first few chapters, and if Missus enjoys them…. But then I’ll have to either buy the rest, or pay for the whole book and the first few chapters.”
Chloe mentally kicked herself. This equivocation could go on for an hour, during which she’d not be assisting other patrons as the day drew to a close and buying on impulse became more likely. The result might be no sale at all, which was exactly what she deserved for trying to inspire Mr. Nelson to make the larger purchase when he’d already come to a decision.
“Or I could buy just the one chapter,” Mr. Nelson went on, “and see what she thinks of that. Missus is particular, not like me, and woe to the man who offers her a tale she doesn’t care for. Hard to tell much from one chapter though. Perhaps the lending library—”
“The lending library is three streets over, and might not have such a popular tale,” Chloe said. “I’d hate to see you travel that far in the cold for nothing.”
Chloe frequently patronized the lending library, reading their inventory to judge what she ought to stock in the shop. Soon, she wouldn’t be able to afford the membership there, but what would that matter if she and Faith lost their home and their livelihood?
“Activity is good for us,” Mr. Nelson countered, sending the chapters in his hand a dubious look. “One should not pay for milk without first making sure it’s fresh.”
Mrs. Draper was standing at the opposite end of the counter, a pamphlet on flower arranging in her hand. A small purchase, but she was an impatient woman. She’d happily leave the pamphlet, the better to get to the cookshop just as the day’s roast was carved.
The light changed and a man came up on Chloe’s right. “Ah, but a rousing tale is not a pitcher of milk, is it?” Mr. Farris peered at the chapters Mr. Nelson held. “Excellent choice. I have the bound version of all six of her novels, and read them frequently. Alas we shall have no more stories from Miss Austen’s pen.”
Mr. Nelson peered up at Mr. Farris. “Did she get married?”
Mrs. Radcliffe had written all of her novels while married. Chloe kept that observation behind her teeth while she caught a whiff of Mr. Farris’s fragrance. Either he’d recently loitered in a bakeshop, or he liked the scent of cinnamon.
“Miss Austen went to her reward before her last novel was published,” Chloe said. “She never married.”
“The poor creature,” Mr. Nelson murmured. “You say you’ve read all six of her novels, young man?”
“I have a handsome set of bound volumes, which I expect will become collector’s items. When an author is no longer extant, one never knows how much longer her works will be available, and her books are some of my favorite stories.”
Mr. Nelson’s bushy white brows drew down. “But one should not buy from the dairymaid without first sampling…”
“Come,” Mr. Farris said, “I’ll show you where the bound volumes are. Milk is for cooling our tea. Stories are for lightening the heart and enriching the mind. The thrill of discovering a tale page by page is more important than saving a few pence, don’t you think? And heaven help a fellow if his lady becomes enthralled with a story and he can’t get his hands on the next installments. Do you prefer red leather or brown?”
Bless you, Mr. Farris. Chloe got back to the counter just as Mrs. Draper had set the pamphlet down.
“Flowers are so cheering this time of year, aren’t they?” Chloe asked. “The illustrations in that pamphlet are worth framing according to Mrs. Dash.”
“Myra Dash said that?”
Mrs. Dash’s son was an aspiring painter, while Mrs. Draper’s daughter was fast approaching spinsterhood. The two held rousing arguments in the print shop across the street, but neither one was of a literary bent.
“I did hear something to that effect,” Chloe replied as Mrs. Draper passed over two small coins. “And Mrs. Dash has such good taste where the visual arts are concerned. I wonder if she’s solicited her son’s opinion of the illustrations?”
Mrs. Draper tucked the pamphlet into a voluminous beaded reticule. “Lord knows the boy has opinions on everything else.”
“Perhaps if he were invited over for a cup of holiday punch and some fresh biscuits, he might share those opinions with you and Miss Draper. Have a pleasant day, ma’am, and enjoy your pamphlet.”
Chloe dropped the pennies into the drawer beneath the counter, where they joined a precious small collection of coins and a few worn notes.
“I was so sorry to hear about Mr. Thatcher,” Mrs. Draper said, leaning nearer as she drew her reticule closed. “I hope you young ladies can manage.”
So do I. “Thank you for your condolences, ma’am. Grandfather is at peace, and we are doing all we can to protect his legacy.” Chloe said those words at least a dozen times a day, but like the coins in the drawer, they weren’t enough.
A few platitudes did not convey the grief she and Faith endured, or the sheer terror they’d faced as the extent of Grandfather’s indebtedness had become plain. They kept the shop heated, they didn’t dare burn so much as a lump of coal in the upstairs rooms where they lived.
For their customers, they wore smiles and made cheerful small talk. Upstairs, they wore three shawls and dropped exhausted into bed without saying much of anything except prayers that by some miracle they’d be able to prevent Mr. Barnstable from foreclosing on Grandfather’s shop.
“Where has our Mr. Farris go off to?” Joshua Penrose asked.
Joshua Penrose paced when he was thinking, a singularly bothersome habit in Quinn Wentworth’s opinion, because Joshua was so very prone to cogitation. Worse, he did much of his thinking in the partner’s conference room, the largest private space at the Wentworth and Penrose bank.
Quinn finished tallying the column of figures before him, which balanced to the penny with the sum he’d totaled across the page. No matter how wealthy he became—and he was very wealthy—he’d always take pleasure in figures that behaved as they ought.
“I sent Farris to inspect the premises at the corner of Willoughby and St. Jean’s,�
� Quinn said.
“We’ve had this discussion,” Joshua replied, taking the high-backed, cushioned chair on the other side of the polished mahogany table. “A second location for the bank to do business makes no sense.”
“Smart bankers have been establishing operations at locations convenient to their customers for centuries. The Italian banks did business in France 500 years ago, and earned a tidy profit from their neighbor’s trade. Consider a branch location an experiment.”
Quinn should not have used that word. Joshua was suspicious all of things speculative, which is why he and Quinn made a strong, if contentious, partnership. They were opposites in appearance too, with Quinn being dark-haired, blue-eyed, and quick to foreclose on a delinquent account. Joshua insisted the bank’s contractual terms always include a thirty-day grace period, and relied on charm while Quinn cited contract wording.
“You simply want Farris to have a project so he won’t leave us,” Joshua said. “He’s been with us since you found him picking pockets in Covent Garden, and we’ve promoted him from messenger to teller to supervisor to bank solicitor. If he’s smart, he’ll take a post with a rival institution because we have nowhere to promote him.”
Quinn capped the ink and laid his pen in the tray, for once Joshua embarked on a difference of opinion, he was like a rat with an apple core. Then too, Joshua’s arguments tended to have an annoying grain of truth about them.
“Farris was not picking pockets. He was trying to pick pockets and failing.” A signal distinction. “He will never willingly leave Wentworth and Penrose and you know it.”
Joshua propped his boots on the corner of the table and tipped the chair back. “Instead of sending Farris to spy on Barnstable’s property, why don’t you for once leave the ledgers and do some Christmas shopping for your siblings? Stephen loves all books, Constance would enjoy a volume on French portraiture, and Althea….”
Quinn took off his spectacles and gave them an unneeded polishing. “Althea can buy whatever silly stories she pleases to read,” he said. “I have no use for books, and don’t see a need to bring any more into my home.”
'Tis the Season: Regency Yuletide Short Stories Page 5
