by Quinn, Paula
On the other side of the partition, the rustling and low discussion about blankets faded away.
She put her lips to Alex’s ear. “Did we do the right thing?”
“Sending a thief to share a room with a suicidal rake?” he breathed. “Funnily enough, I’m sure we did,”
She was content just with his closeness, to lie in his arms until it was light. They had no privacy to give physical expression to their feelings, so she simply enjoyed the sweet thrill of desire, the warm hardness of his body against hers. It had turned into the most beautiful Christmas.
And with that thought, she fell asleep.
*
She woke to the familiar sound of Arthur’s demanding cry and had stumbled toward it from instinct before she remembered where she was. Daylight shone under the door of the stall and over the wall from the other stall where the door must have been open.
“Good morning, my imperious little lord,” she murmured, picking the baby up.
Alex stood closer to the wall in his boots and coat, struggling into his many-caped great coat. He smiled at her. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” she said with unexpected shyness.
“I’ll take Spring for a walk,” He jerked his head in the direction of the other stall. “And take these fellows with me to give you some privacy. Then I’ll see Villin about breakfast on the way back.”
“Good,” she said, going toward him with her face already raised for his kiss, for she refused to lose the closeness, the unspoken understanding of last night. It was brief but held all the promise she could have wished for, and she smiled as he strode away with Spring bouncing on the end of his leash.
She was still smiling as she settled down to change Arthur’s wrappings and feed him. Then, leaving him kicking and wriggling on the bed, she washed her face and hands in the icy water. She was just pinning up her hair with all the scattered pins she could find, when a knock came at the door.
“Come in!” she called, believing it to be her husband. But in fact, it was Villin who walked through the door.
“Ah, your grace!” he beamed. “I hope your night was quiet and not too uncomfortable!”
She couldn’t help her gurgle of laughter. “I couldn’t say it was quiet, Mr. Villin, but it was certainly a comfortable night in the end. Did his grace speak to you about breakfast?”
“Yes, he did. I offered to clear out the coffee room for him, but he says in here would be best.”
“I suppose it would.” Leaving aside Fortescue’s possible dislike of company just now, Mark Strong would be out of place at their table. And yet, she felt strongly he should be there, for one meal at least.
Villin still stood there, leaving her at a loss as to why he had come. Then he took something from his apron pocket and took a step closer, holding it out to her.
“I wanted to give you this for your little one. I know it’s worth nothing, but we came across it the other day, and when I saw you last night looking so tired and sad, I wanted to give him it for luck.”
Surprised and not a little touched, Charlotte took the toy from him. It was a teething stick made of pale pink coral—a somewhat expensive trinket for an innkeeper to own.
“How kind of you!” she said, touched. “But Mr. Villin, you should give this to Lily for her children.”
He shook his head stubbornly. “It’s hers in the first place, but she left it. Lily don’t need such gifts from us. And God knows that girl makes luck enough without coral. It’s for his little lordship, and Lily would agree. You and his grace, your whole family, have done wonders for our house. So here’s a little luck to take with you.”
Charlotte wasn’t sure whether to be embarrassed by Villin having recognized her unhappiness yesterday—to say nothing of the quarrel that must have been obvious from Alvan arriving several hours after her with no servants whatsoever. She glanced at him uncertainly, and for the first time saw the unhappiness in the eyes of her genial host.
She smiled. “Thank you, and Mrs. Villin and Lily! It is a gift we will all treasure. Come and give it to him yourself.”
Arthur was obliging enough to grin at the innkeeper and stretch up his little hands to grasp the coral, which then went straight into his mouth. Villin smiled, satisfied.
“How are you, Mr. Villin?” Charlotte asked.
“Oh, well as you see! And the inn is doing well, always busy these days, and no trouble to speak of.”
She held his gaze, and after a moment, he swallowed. “I miss my girl. I miss Lily.”
Charlotte felt helpless. He knew that girls left home to be married all the time. Some went farther away than others, but they never forgot their parents. She was living proof of that. She had even risked her husband’s ire to come home to them for Christmas. Lily, clearly, had not, or at least not yet, so she didn’t feel it was a great example to give him.
Therefore, she only nodded and gave him the only thing she could think of—a hug of comfort.
It was difficult to say which of them was the more flabbergasted by her instinctive act. Duchesses did not embrace innkeepers.
“She loves you,” Charlotte muttered. “She’ll always love you, and she’ll always come home.” She coughed. “Perhaps that breakfast now, Mr. Villin? My husband and his friends will be back directly.”
Villin’s startlement resolved into a smile and a bow. She might have imagined there was more of a spring in his step as he left, but she didn’t think so. Gratefully, she sat down on the bed beside Arthur, who had lost interest in the teething stick in favor of a strand of hay. Charlotte picked up the coral and placed it on the table beside the button and the gold ring.
“Quite a haul for a little man away from home,” she told him.
“What is?” Alex asked from the doorway. He released Spring from his leash and the dog bounded across the stall to land in Charlotte’s lap and lick her face before lying down panting next to Arthur, who grasped his hair and tugged. It must have been painful, but Spring only licked the baby’s hand and wagged his tail. Arthur grinned at him.
As the others trudged in behind Alex, Charlotte indicated Arthur’s gifts on the hay table. But Mrs. Villin, the ostler, and the maid were on their heels with a trestle table and chairs which they set up near the door. The brazier was refueled, and a vast array of breakfast was brought in. Mrs. Villin might have glanced askance at Mark Strong, but clearly decided it was up to their graces who they chose to breakfast with, for she made no comment.
Mr. Villin bustled in with pots of tea and coffee. “Good news, your graces!” he exclaimed, setting his burdens down on the somewhat rickety table. “Looks like the road to Audley Park will be passable by midday. The sun’s striking it directly, and the snow’s vanishing. Probably flooding the ditches and the fields, but that’s a problem for another day!”
Alex glanced at Charlotte. “Merry Christmas. It seems our luck is holding.”
Charlotte turned impulsively to Fortescue. “Come with us, if you have no better plans. It will be chaos, for my young brothers will be there at the very least, and probably my sisters, too, but everyone will be glad to welcome you.”
Fortescue looked startled and glanced instinctively at Alex for guidance.
“Come,” Alex advised. “There is nowhere quite like the Maybury residence in festive spirit. And you need not fear imposing.”
Fortescue bowed. “Then I accept with gratitude. On the understanding that Lady Maybury evict me as soon as she wishes.”
Spring chose that moment to land in the middle of the table. Even Charlotte was taken by surprise, and several cups were spilled and a whole slice of ham vanished into the canine maw before she caught him and threw him on the floor with stern warnings.
Wagging his tail, Spring sat and licked his lips.
“Give him some of mine, if you want,” Mark Strong said, pushing his plate back. “My eye’s bigger than my belly, and I can’t eat another thing.”
“Well, you might have to soon enough,” Ale
x said casually. “The cook at Audley Park does a huge Christmas dinner for the servants’ hall, too.”
Mark blinked.
“If you want a fresh start,” Alex said, “you can look after my horses for now and come back to Lincolnshire with us. I need some laborers, and in time, there could be a tenancy available if we suit each other.” His lips quirked amiably, but there was just a hint of flint in his eyes. “I don’t need to explain the conditions, do I?”
“No, sir,” Mark said fervently.
After everything was cleared away, Fortescue went to the inn to collect his belongings, and Mark Strong went off to become acquainted with Alvan’s horses and John Coachman.
“I think we are having a kind Christmas,” Charlotte observed, going to pack her own belongings away, but Alex stopped her, pulling her into his arms instead for a long, hungry kiss. “I’m glad now we were stopped here,” she whispered against his lips. “The Hart is a lucky house.”
“It’s we who are lucky,” Alex said, and she had to admit he was right.
Until Spring, who was jumping at the stable door, finally discovered how to make it open, and with a yelp of delight in his freedom, bolted out in search of trouble.
THE END
Additional Dragonblade books by Author Mary Lancaster
Imperial Season Series
Vienna Waltz
Vienna Woods
Vienna Dawn
Blackhaven Brides Series
The Wicked Baron
The Wicked Lady
The Wicked Rebel
The Wicked Husband
The Wicked Marquis
The Wicked Governess
The Wicked Spy
The Wicked Gypsy
The Wicked Wife
Wicked Christmas (A Novella)
The Wicked Waif
The Wicked Heir
The Wicked Captain
Unmarriageable Series
The Deserted Heart
The Sinister Heart
The Vulgar Heart
About Mary Lancaster
Mary Lancaster lives in Scotland with her husband, three mostly grown-up kids and a small, crazy dog.
Her first literary love was historical fiction, a genre which she relishes mixing up with romance and adventure in her own writing. Her most recent books are light, fun Regency romances written for Dragonblade Publishing: The Imperial Season series set at the Congress of Vienna; and the popularBlackhaven Brides series, which is set in a fashionable English spa town frequented by the great and the bad of Regency society.
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Starlight Night – St. Clairs Christmas
Alexa Aston
Chapter One
London—December 1820
Lucy’s stomach rumbled noisily as she sat on the cold, uneven wooden floor of the boardinghouse. Jem sat to her left. Boy sat on her right. The three children awaited instructions from Driskell. Or rather, Mrs. Driskell. Even at six years of age, it hadn’t taken Lucy long to understand that Mrs. Driskell was the true power in this household. She barked and everyone followed her orders, from her husband to the lowest member of their band of thieves. Mrs. Driskell wasn’t any kinder to the working girls in the house. Lucy still didn’t understand exactly what they did for work but she knew it involved taking their clothes off and making lots of noise.
She could hear the girls hollering sometimes. The men, too, who went into the upstairs rooms with them. Walking down the hallway late at night, Lucy could hear the squeaking of bedsprings and wondered why men paid Mrs. Driskell to let them jump on the beds with naked women. Jem, who was two years older than Lucy, said the men did more than jump on the bed but he wouldn’t tell her exactly what went on. She’d heard Driskell talking about jumping a woman’s bones once but she didn’t see how that might work. Asking Boy was no good. He was ten but never said a word. No one knew his name, which was why he was called Boy. He could understand what was said to him but he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—talk. Jem said Boy’s father had cut out Boy’s tongue but Lucy didn’t believe that because she’d seen Boy stick his tongue out at Mrs. Driskell when the woman’s back was turned once. She’d giggled, something she couldn’t remember doing in a long time. Mrs. Driskell had wheeled and beaten Lucy senseless.
She didn’t even think of giggling anymore.
Driskell came shuffling in, his face red from either the cold or his drinking. Probably both. Lucy knew all about drinking because her papa had sipped strong spirits all day long and far into the night. He’d told her it was because he was sad that her mama and baby brother died. Papa must have loved them very much because he drank an awful lot. Driskell smelled like her father did. When both men drank too much, they went from being happy to sad to downright mean, the liquor spilled the drink down the front of their clothes. Lucy hated the smell of alcohol and how it made men act.
It made her wonder where her father was now. She supposed he had decided he hurt too much to love her and that’s why he’d sold her to Driskell and his wife. Sometimes, Lucy saw her father coming out of a tavern while she and Jem and Boy did their work on the streets. Once, she even thought he saw her but he quickly turned away and she decided she’d been mistaken. Then a few weeks ago, she’d seen him lying at the mouth of an alley. His eyes stared at the sky and he had blood all down his front. She’d hurried away, not telling Jem or Boy that the man was her father and he was now dead. She didn’t really miss him, though. She didn’t miss Mama, either, because she couldn’t remember her. It didn’t matter. Driskell had told her he was her new papa now and Jem and Boy were her brothers. The work they did helped them stay a family.
Even if Lucy knew it was wrong.
Jem and Boy were already living at the boardinghouse when she arrived. Boy had given her a sad smile and a hug after Driskell introduced her. Jem hadn’t been as trusting but he’d come around and now was protective of her. It was Jem who had told her they used to work with another girl, Becky, but she worked upstairs now for Mrs. Driskell. Jem had promised Lucy that when the day came and the Driskells wanted Lucy to work upstairs instead of out on the streets, they would run away together. He told her bad things happened to the girls upstairs and he didn’t want it to happen to Lucy. She asked if Boy could come with them. Jem had said he would think about it.
Mr. and Mrs. Driskell kept whispering and then finally Mrs. Driskell said, “Fine. Just make sure they bring back more than they did last night.”
Lucy’s stomach growled noisily and Mrs. Driskell glared at her. She shrank into herself, trying to become as small as she could. She wanted to say she couldn’t help it. That she was hungry. She was always hungry. The three children never got enough to eat. They supplemented the meager fare they received at the house when they were out on the streets. Stealing an apple from a cart or stall. Digging through the trash for something edible that had been discarded before being totally finished. If they didn’t scrounge, they wouldn’t survive.
“We’re working a new part of town today,” Driskell told them after his wife stormed from the room. “You three are becoming known. It’s time to cover new territory.”
Driskell then put them through their playacting. They had several stories they used, pretending different kinds of situations. All them ended one way—stealing from their mark. Jem had told her they followed the Rule of Three, where three pickpockets ganged up against a si
ngle mark. Lucy hadn’t known the name of what they did. She was never the one to do any of the stealing herself. Her role was to distract whatever mark Driskell chose for them. He would follow them along the streets and, by now, they knew every signal he gave, immediately understanding who should be approached and what story should unfold. Sometimes, Lucy would pretend she was lost and begin crying. Or that she’d just been separated from her mother and she was trying to catch up to her. Sometimes, Boy would play her brother and pretend to be hurt as Lucy cried and asked passing strangers for help.
Jem did all the real work. While Lucy and Boy distracted the mark, Jem moved in and took whatever the mark had in his outer coat pocket. Jem dipped his hand into a man’s pocket and kept the pocket open by spreading his fingers wide, then used his forefinger and thumb to retrieve what was of value. At times, he would remove the entire pocketbook itself. Or if a woman was their target, whatever she might carry in her reticule. Driskell told them it was merely a game and how they earned their keep but Lucy had known from the beginning that it was stealing. And that it was wrong. Still, she was just a little girl and a dutiful one who did what she was told. If she didn’t, the Driskells might sell her again, as Papa had. She didn’t want to be separated from Jem or Boy—so she’d do whatever Driskell ordered her to do.
“Go put on your clothes,” the older man barked.
The trio pushed to their feet and went to where Mrs. Driskell kept their special clothes. These were nice outfits and made the children not only blend into the crowd better but made the marks more willing to approach them. If Lucy and her brothers had been dressed in their usual rags, she doubted any of the finely-dressed men and women would give them a second glance, much less stop and offer them help.
She faced away from both boys and Mr. Driskell and lifted her threadbare dress from her body. She could feel Driskell’s eyes bore into her back and she dressed as quickly as she could, pulling on the fine dress, stockings, and shoes and tying the pretty blue cloak strings around her neck. She wished she had gloves because winter had already hit London, bringing a biting cold to the early December air.
