Have Yourself a Merry Little Scandal: a Christmas collection of Historical Romance (Have Yourself a Merry Little... Book 1)

by Anna Campbell

“She planned to walk until she came across a hack to hire.”

  “Did she take anyone with her?” Callum, Henry, and Annie were all at the house, so he was terrified he already knew the answer.

  “No,” Lady Eleanor said in a small voice.

  “When did she leave?”

  “A quarter hour ago. Perhaps a bit less.”

  A heartbeat later, he was in motion, taking the stairs two at a time and running for the mews behind the town house. Garrick kept a horse stabled in case Sir Hawkins needed him on urgent business. He saddled the bay gelding in under two minutes and paused for a breath, considering leaving word with Callum, but every second felt precious.

  Garrick swung himself into the saddle and pointed the horse toward Clerkenwell. The streets weren’t crowded, and with any luck he’d make up time on her head start.

  When—he didn’t allow himself to think in ifs—he found her safe and sound, he was going to sit her down and tell her exactly what he thought of her.

  The woman was daft and careless. Loyal and brave. Bold and beautiful. No woman had ever come close to usurping the ridiculous tendre he nurtured for her. He would kiss her again, and this time he wouldn’t apologize.

  Fear mounted. He had seen too much to assume she would be safe because she was a gentlewoman. In fact, as Sir Hawkins’s daughter, she was in even greater danger.

  Chapter 4

  Victoria squirmed on the squab. The springs dug into her bottom, and for the first time, she was thankful for the darkness and her veil so she couldn’t see what smelled so musty. The passing town houses and shops grew more modest the farther they clattered away from her home in Mayfair until they teetered on the edge of squalor.

  Fear urged her to call up to the jarvey to turn around and take her home. Fury at Lord Berkwith stilled the compulsion. That he would ask dear innocent Eleanor to meet him at a less-than-respectable common house was beyond the pale and cemented Victoria’s doubt as to his character. She would ring a peal over his head until he begged for mercy. He deserved worse. The man was a bounder.

  The hack slowed. Victoria twisted the ties of her reticule around her fingers. A small sheathed dagger was inside. She had donned a plain black dress with an equally plain cloak and a veiled hat to mask her identity. Padding around her middle concealed her figure and, along with the unfashionable attire, gave the impression of a plump matron.

  She wasn’t unused to clandestine excursions, but her unchaperoned daytime jaunts to bookshops didn’t inspire the nerves she battled tonight. They had been larks. If she’d been caught buying torrid novels, at worst, her mother would have berated her and attempted to crush her with maternal disappointment. Victoria would have risen from the ashes unrepentant.

  Tonight’s excursion held the risk of ruination. There would be no coming back from that if she were caught.

  “We’re ’ere, miss.” The jarvey’s voice was muffled by the knitted cowl around his neck.

  The remnants of a storied past were still evident on the sign swinging unevenly outside the Bear and the Crown. All that was left were crinkled flakes of red and blue and white muted by coal dust and neglect. The inn was busy on the cold evening, and every time the door opened, light and noise poured out a welcome.

  She exited the hack and looked up at the man, his form shadowy behind the veil. “I’ll only be a moment. Will you wait?”

  “It’ll cost you extra.” The man didn’t look at her but held out his hand.

  She slipped him the coins, not sure if it was too much or not enough, and waited for his brief nod. Then she faced the door and adjusted her veil as if it were a knight’s visor. Even the false protection was welcome.

  She slipped in the door of the common house and scuttled along the wall, scanning the room for Lord Berkwith. It wasn’t difficult to spot the popinjay among the crows. Narrowing her gaze, she strode to the bar where he was drinking an ale, his shoulders hunched and his foot jiggling on the boot rail.

  The man was nervous. Was he nervous that Eleanor wouldn’t show or because if she did, he would have to put his dishonorable plans into motion?

  Victoria tapped his shoulder when she would have preferred to knock him across the side of his head. He spun around and tried to take her hands. “Oh, Eleanor, my love. You came. How bright you are to assemble such a disguise.”

  Victoria slapped his hands away. “I’m not the object of your affection, my lord. Come with me.” She didn’t wait for a response, but spun on her heel and left the common room.

  After the crowded warmth of the room, the cold cut all the deeper. In the time it took Lord Berkwith to walk from the common house to the curb, he had assembled his wits, such as they were. “Why didn’t Eleanor come? Does she not love me?”

  The man sounded truly despondent, which gave Victoria pause. “If you wish to pay your addresses to Eleanor, you need to call upon her father and do it honorably, not by invitation to a common house for an elopement.”

  “Lord Stanfield believes I only want her dowry.”

  “And don’t you? If the rumors are true, you have debts, my lord, rather substantial ones.” Victoria suspected the color flushing his face wasn’t entirely due to the biting breeze swirling around them.

  “I can’t deny her dowry would be most welcome, but please don’t judge my character based on my past actions. I have not crossed the threshold of a gaming hell since meeting Eleanor.” He lay his hand over his heart.

  Blast it. She was inclined to believe him. It would be easier if she could dismiss him as a cad, but her father had taught her that people couldn’t be sorted into good or bad bins. “And what of Mrs. Leighton? Have you professed your love to her as well?”

  “How do you…?” Lord Berkwith cleared his throat. His reaction had provided answer enough, but he continued anyway. “We shared brief dalliance that meant nothing. She is a lady of the world and understands the way of these things.”

  Victoria was inclined to disagree. Mrs. Leighton was a woman of feeling like any other, yet Victoria could do nothing for her. She would, however, protect Eleanor as best she could. “You must prove your steadfastness to Eleanor and your worth to her family. Patience and persistence are required. No more invitations to common houses or plans to elope, my lord. Are we clear?”

  “Quite.” Lord Berkwith’s gaze narrowed as if trying to see behind the veil. Hopefully, the dress and cloak and padding gave the impression of an older lady. Someone stern and not to be crossed, like a beloved aunt.

  Victoria turned toward the waiting hack. Shadowy movement from the mouth of the alley down the lane caught her attention. Two men were moving toward her and Lord Berkwith. They were no doubt headed to the warmth and comfort of the Bear and the Crown. Except…

  They didn’t speak to one another or call out a good evening. Their movements were silent and stealthy and swift. They reminded her of the men who sometimes came to meet with her father. By the time she recognized the danger snapping in the air, the men were upon them.

  She opened her mouth to warn Lord Berkwith, but it was too late. One of the men came up behind Lord Berkwith and thumped a truncheon against his temple. He crumpled like a rag doll. A shot of fear had Victoria leaping into action. She made a run for the hack while fumbling for the dagger in her reticule. The ties were a complex puzzle she couldn’t solve.

  Her breathless scream was snuffed out by the gloved hand that came over her nose and mouth. A hard arm circled her torso and lifted her. Her feet dangled uselessly off the ground. She tried to kick the man behind her, but her efforts were puny without any leverage. Air was at a premium, and primal panic had her pulling at the man’s wrist, any thoughts of escape secondary to the simplicity of taking a breath.

  Her training dissolved in panic. She clawed at the man’s arm and kicked and wiggled against him. He only tightened his hold and dragged her backward toward the alley. Her feet scrabbled for purchase. Her hat was knocked over her eyes. The inability to see ratcheted up her panic to histrionic levels
.

  She snatched her hat off and tossed it aside, the pain from the yanking pins miniscule compared to the burning in her lungs. The hack clattered away from the scene at a high rate speed. No doubt the jarvey knew better than to get involved. The men hadn’t made enough noise to cut through the laughter and conversation buzzing out of the common house.

  Lord Berkwith raised himself to sitting and held the side of his head. Their gazes locked. He goggled at the sight of her being dragged into an alley, but he didn’t make a move to help her. With her hat off and her hair coming loose, he surely recognized her. She tried to scream again, but her lungs were bereft of air. Pinpricks wavered her vision, and weakness invaded her limbs.

  Was this to be her end? The shadows of the alley swallowed them. There was no one to help her. No one to save her.

  She would have to save herself. The element of surprise was her greatest weapon. If they believed her weak, perhaps she could mount an attack. She let go of the man’s arm and went limp against him, working on the ties of her reticule. The man’s hand loosened enough for her to take a gasping breath. She gripped the hilt of her dagger and waited for an opportunity to present itself.

  A grunt sounded behind her. The hand on her mouth was gone. The arm crushing her lungs loosened, and she dropped to the uneven stones of the alley, falling to her hands and knees. For a moment she allowed herself the joy of filling her lungs with air. Then she gathered her wits and looked deeper into the alley.

  The outline of a horse blocked the far exit. One of her abductors lay motionless on the pavers. The other was exchanging blows with a third man. The newcomer wore a greatcoat and a brimmed hat of a serviceable variety. He grabbed her captor by a lapel and drove his fist into the man’s face. Her captor’s head snapped back into the brick wall. He sank to join his compatriot on the ground.

  Victoria looked from the two unconscious brutes to the last man standing. Was he friend or foe? She scrambled to her feet, clutched the dagger in a defensive pose, and took a careful step backward toward freedom.

  “Thank you for the assistance, but I need to be going now.” She cursed the waver in her voice.

  The man watched her take two more steps from where he stood in the shadows. Just when hope flickered in her chest, he made his move. She flipped the knife into a guarded position and slashed toward him. The dagger clattered to the pavers. He had her disarmed before she realized how he had done it.

  “Not bad. It might have even worked on a common footpad.” The growly voice was only too familiar.

  She couldn’t summon even an iota of indignation toward him. She stepped closer and he gripped her arms. Only his hawklike nose, tight-lipped mouth, and stubborn chin were visible under the brim of his hat. She fought the urge to pepper kisses over every inch of available skin. How would the stubble of his night-beard feel against her lips? She shivered, but not entirely from the cold.

  “Of all the idiotic, foolhardy capers… What in bloody hell were you thinking?” he asked.

  She had been foolish and idiotic. She’d been too confident in her ability to take care of herself and too naive about the threats lurking in the shadows. “How did you know?” she asked hoarsely.

  “It didn’t take much persuasion to get the information out of Lady Eleanor.”

  “You didn’t frighten her to half to death, did you?”

  “Only a quarter to death.” The shard of humor was like a lightning bolt during a storm. “Part of me wants to shake some sense into you. The risks you take, Victoria. You drive me mad.”

  He tightened his fingers around her arms, and she braced herself for the promised shaking. It never came.

  He kissed her. So hard and fast, she didn’t have a chance to even close her eyes. It wasn’t a kiss laced with passion, but proof of something much deeper and more primal. They were alive, and that’s all that mattered. She leaned into his chest and tipped her face to his, her lips glancing across his stubbled jaw, the rasp even more appealing than she supposed.

  One of the men in the alley groaned and rolled over, shattering the strange intimacy of the moment. They each took a step away from one another, opening a chasm between them. She was in a dank alley with two men who wished to do her harm. Now was not the time to commit another folly with Thomas.

  “Let me see if I can finagle some information, then we can depart this foul place.” He nudged his chin toward his horse. The handsome, sturdy bay gelding stood perfectly still in the opposite mouth of the alley. He was as well trained as his master.

  Victoria held her skirts to the side and tiptoed by the men, keeping as much space between her and them as possible. Thomas squatted next to the man who was stirring and lifted him by the lapels. His head lolled.

  “Who sent you?” Thomas asked in a harsh voice.

  The man only groaned. Thomas dropped the man back down and riffled through his pockets, coming up with empty sweet wrappers and a dented watch. He left the watch on the man’s chest and searched the second man, who had not moved since collapsing.

  Thomas stood and muttered to himself before turning to Victoria and his horse. He mounted, then held out a hand for her. She put her foot atop his and let him haul her up behind him. She was astride and circled her arms around him. “What about Lord Berkwith? He could be gravely injured.”

  “It would serve him right for picking such a place for a rendezvous with a lady, the bounder.” Despite the sentiment and the cantankerous manner in which it was delivered, Thomas circled around the common house.

  Lord Berkwith was gone.

  Thomas grunted, his disgust palpable. “Strike that. He isn’t a bounder but a cowardly arse. He didn’t even attempt a rescue.”

  He pointed his horse away from the common house. The pace he set was almost leisurely. They clopped through a maze of side streets and alleys.

  A half dozen turns later, Victoria was utterly turned around. “Are we almost home?”

  Turning his head so his face was close to hers, his breath was a puff of white in the air. “It’s too dangerous to return.”

  The implications were starkly clear. “You don’t think those men were two ruffians looking for easy coin?”

  “Did they riffle through Lord Berkwith’s clothes for his valuables?”

  The men had treated Lord Berkwith like an inconvenience. They’d been focused on her. She’d been followed. But why? “What did they want?”

  “I don’t know, but we have to assume it involves your father.” He tugged on the reins, and the horse deftly turned down yet another narrow alley.

  “Where will we go?”

  “We’ll stop to send a warning to your father.”

  It wasn’t an answer, but Victoria didn’t press him further. She trusted Thomas.

  An hour passed. The tightly packed buildings of London gave way to cottages with fallow gardens and bare trees. Unimpeded by buildings, a brisk wind found its way beneath her collar and under her skirts. She huddled behind Thomas’s bulk and shivered.

  Clouds hid the moon, and no lanterns lit their way. Thomas didn’t seem bothered by the darkness and navigated them to a small cottage with an untidy front garden. Brown weeds bent over in supplication to the cold, and a trellis covered in a leafless vine marked the entrance.

  Thomas dismounted and helped Victoria off. Her bottom was numb, and her lower back ached from the unusual experience of riding astride and double. Garrick loosely wrapped the reins around the rotting fence post.

  “Are we not staying?” she asked as she followed him under the trellis.

  “Only long enough to get a note to your father.” The pattern of his knocks on the door was complicated and unique.

  “A secret knock? Isn’t that rather obvious?” She shot him a look.

  “It’s simple but effective.”

  “Unless the enemy has infiltrated your safe house and is waiting for anyone with an overly complicated knock.”

  Thomas shifted toward her, and she mimicked his stance until they were fac
e-to-face. “Do you think you know better than Britain’s finest agents?”

  “I think I possess enough common sense to point out the weaknesses of your system.” She held his stare.

  His lips twitched. “Touché.”

  Footfalls and a grumbling voice came from the other side of the door. It cracked open. A candle in an old brass holder was held aloft. The sudden light, as weak as it was, made Victoria squint. The man behind the light came into slow focus. He wore a dingy nightcap, a nightshirt of the same hue, and a claret-colored, threadbare banyan.

  “Is that you, Hawk?” The man’s blue eyes were highlighted by white eyebrows with hairs that hied off in all directions.

  “It is. I need you to rouse one of the boys to run a note back to town.”

  “Who is the baggage with you?” The man gestured toward her with the candle. It wavered and was almost snuffed out.

  “I’m not baggage,” Victoria said tartly.

  “She’s no one of import,” Thomas said, speaking over her.

  She glared at him but didn’t argue. Her clothes were dowdy, her hair was trailing out of its few remaining pins, and she was traveling with an unmarried man. Their host had every right to assume she was worse than baggage.

  “Come in then. You know where everything is.” The man handed Thomas the candle and retreated down the dark, narrow hall while Thomas led her into a small receiving room. While the grate was unlit and the room chilly, it felt comfortable compared to being outside.

  She plopped into an armchair. A poof of dust tickled her nose and made her sneeze. Exhaustion crept over her and tugged her eyes nearly closed. The shuffle of paper and the scratch of a nib registered. Thomas was huddled over the small writing desk.

  “I suppose you’re writing in some elaborate code?” She was half teasing.

  “Of course.” He was deadly serious.

  “Mother and Father were dining with Mr. and Mrs. Carlyle.”

  “Yes, I know. I am aware of all your father’s plans.”

  “Are my parents in danger?”

  Thomas was biting his lower lip in concentration. The paper he wrote on was small, the markings tiny. The missive could be easily concealed and, knowing her father, who enjoyed games of strategy and logic, would be difficult to decipher.