Christmas with the Duchess

by Tamara Lejeune

  Seeing her tremble, Hugh smiled. “It was the one thing I did not bring out in court. When my poor nephew died so suddenly, I knew it was my duty to take his private papers into safekeeping. One doesn’t want such things to fall into the wrong hands, after all.”

  “You have my letter,” Emma said dully.

  He smiled. “I have your letter, madam. I always thought my nephew indulged you too much, but it is to his credit that he refused to let you pass your bastard off as one of his lawful children.”

  “I will kill you,” Emma whispered, her nails digging deep into the palms of her hands.

  He laughed harshly. “I have thought of that, madam. If anything happens to me, your letter will be made public. Your little bastard—what is her name? Althea? Athena? Attila? Unless you heed me, she will learn that her aunt is really her mother. Her little life will be ruined. As for your legitimate children, they will repudiate you, and despise you, too, if they don’t already. I could make your letter public now, of course, if that is what you prefer?”

  Blind panic seized hold of Emma. She struggled to keep her head clear. “No,” she said, biting her lip. “Don’t. Please.”

  The last word was forced from between frozen lips.

  He smiled horribly. “Oh! You’re prepared to be reasonable then? Good. Pay my debts, and I will be reasonable, too. There is no need for your little Agatha to ever know the truth.”

  Emma went rigid with contempt. Helpless hatred poured from her eyes. “You shall have a banknote for seven thousand pounds,” she said icily.

  His fleshy lips curved in a grotesque smile. “Could you find it in your heart to make it ten thousand?” he asked. “One is always so strapped this time of year.”

  Chapter Three

  Otto disliked Nicholas the moment the young man popped his golden head into the billiard room, throwing off Otto’s concentration, and causing him to scratch.

  “Sir, you interfered with my shot,” Otto complained, retrieving the cue ball from the corner pocket. He had removed his coat for the game, but, otherwise he was impeccably over-dressed in black satin breeches and a silver-embroidered waistcoat. His white silk shirt was heavily adorned with lace, and he wore his usual diamond rings.

  “I beg your pardon, sir!” Nicholas stammered, lingering in the doorway. “I am just arrived at Warwick Palace. I was told I might find some of the other guests here.”

  “I dismissed them,” Otto explained. “I do not require an audience.”

  To his surprise and annoyance, the younger man came deeper into the room. “You must be the Duke of Warwick,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Nicholas. Nicholas St. Austell. You have a magnificent home. Thank you for inviting me.”

  Otto merely looked at his hand. “I am not the Duke of Warwick,” he said coldly. “The Duke of Warwick is only twelve years old. This is not my house. I did not invite you.”

  Nicholas withdrew his hand. “I beg your pardon.”

  “As I said, I don’t require an audience.”

  “Quite,” said Nicholas. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but would you mind if I rang for a servant? I keep getting lost! I’ve never been in a palace before.”

  “There’s no need to state the obvious,” Otto said languidly. “By all means, ring the bell.”

  Evidently too stupid to take offense, the young man went on doggedly, “I was in the Admiralty, in London, once, when I took my lieutenant’s exam, but that was nothing compared to this place. It’s hard to believe this is a private residence. I daresay, one could drydock a frigate in the entrance hall!”

  “Yes; but to what purpose?” Otto said dryly. His exacting eye passed over the young man’s ill-fitting coat with critical contempt. “That is not the work of a London tailor,” he said.

  “No, I got it in Portsmouth last year. I know it doesn’t fit me anymore,” Nicholas said ruefully. “My uniform fits me very well. I did have that made in London. It cost me nearly fifteen pounds! You will see it at dinner.”

  “I look forward to it immensely,” said Otto, but it was no fun baiting a man as impervious to sarcasm as this simple, good-natured fellow.

  “I should have liked to have some new clothes,” Nicholas admitted, “but my uncle did not think there would be time before the blizzard.”

  Otto’s brows went up slightly. “Blizzard?”

  “Yes, apparently, there is a blizzard here every year. It makes the roads quite impassable until, oh, well after Christmas,” said Nicholas. “I realize the weather is uncommonly fine at the moment,” he added rather lamely, “but my uncle assures me that is usually not the case. We did not want to risk delaying our departure from Plymouth for anything as foolish as clothes.”

  “I see,” said Otto, swallowing this pack of nonsense unblinkingly, just as, apparently, the young man had. Against his will, Otto’s curiosity had been aroused. “You’re not one of General Bellamy’s men, are you?”

  “General Bellamy? No, sir. I was in the Royal Navy.”

  “And, pray, who is your uncle?”

  “Lord Hugh Fitzroy. Do you know him, sir?”

  Otto smiled grimly. “Oh, yes. What did you say your name was?”

  “Nicholas. Nicholas St. Austell. My friends call me Nick.”

  “Ah! You’re Anne’s nephew,” Otto said, sounding slightly less bored.

  “Yes. I did not mean to mislead you, sir,” Nicholas said quickly. “Lord Hugh is my uncle by marriage. Lady Anne Fitzroy is my aunt. My father was her younger brother.”

  Otto stared at him thoughtfully. “I read about you in the papers. The long-lost Earl of Camford.”

  Nicholas snapped his fingers. “Camford! Of course!” he exclaimed. “That’s the name of the place. I keep getting it wrong.”

  “Do you really?” Otto said politely. “How strange.”

  “I keep calling it Candleford, for some reason.”

  “I suppose you may call it what you like,” Otto said generously. “It belongs to you, after all. I am Otto. Otto Grey. My friends call me Scarlingford. Everyone else calls me Lord Scarlingford.”

  Nicholas grimaced. “Oh, no! Are you a lord, too?”

  “Yes, Camford, I am,” Otto said patiently. “You don’t mind if I call you Camford, do you? Who knows? It may help you remember it. I am the Marquess of Scarlingford. Alas, it is only a courtesy title.”

  “Courtesy title?” Nicholas echoed, ignorant but eager to learn.

  “My father is the Duke of Chilton,” Otto explained. “I am his heir. As a courtesy, I am allowed the use of his lesser title. I should say, one of his lesser titles, for he has several.”

  Nicholas shook his head as if he would never understand. “You were born into the nobility, then,” he said glumly. “At the risk of stating the obvious again: I was not.”

  Otto laughed at him, a light, dry laugh. “Of course you were born to it. How else do you come by the title, if not by virtue of your birth?”

  Nicholas felt foolish. “The title is mine by birth, of course, but I never knew it until a few months ago. I’d never even heard of Camelford.”

  “Camford.”

  “Right! The Gorgon—that’s my ship—” He paused, a fond glint in his blue eyes. “A real beauty! A thirty-eight gunner. I wept when I left her at the dock in Plymouth.”

  “I’m sure you did. But you were telling me how you came to hear of your good fortune.”

  “My good fortune?” Nicholas said blankly.

  “Inheriting the title,” Otto said patiently.

  “Oh, right,” said Nicholas. “We had put in at the Cape for provisions, and there was this letter for me from a London attorney. I thought it was a joke, but Captain Jericho said it looked official. Turns out, it was official. And when we put in at Plymouth for the winter, Lord Hugh and Lady Anne Fitzroy were there on the docks waiting for me.”

  “Weren’t they just,” Otto murmured. Returning half his attention to the billiard table, he fastidiously adjusted the placement of one of the ivory balls. “
All the world loves a rich nephew. And the London lawyer? Was he there on the docks too?”

  “No, he was in London.”

  “Ask a silly question,” Otto murmured.

  “My uncle said it would be best not to go to London until after the first of the year—because of the weather. We set off for Warwick Palace the very next day. And here I am.”

  “And here you are,” said Otto, chalking his cue. “But why? Strictly speaking, shouldn’t you be at Camford—or Candleford, if you prefer? It is Christmas, after all. No doubt, the good people of Candleford—the Candlefordians—will expect their new lord to show an interest. Who will crack open the poor box on St. Stephen’s day, if you are not at hand to do the job?”

  “Uncle Hugh said it would be better—”

  “To wait until after the first of the year,” Otto finished, smiling.

  “Well, yes,” said Nicholas. “One does not want to speak ill of the dead, but, apparently, the estate was not in good form when my uncle passed away. There were debts, and liens, and whatnot against the property. My uncle tells me the house is empty, uninhabitable. The servants have all gone, and, of course, there would be no getting new ones at this time of year. My uncle was good enough to ask that I be included in the invitation to spend Christmas here. Was that not generous of him, considering we had never even met before?”

  “Very generous indeed,” Otto agreed pleasantly.

  “We’re to stay through Twelfth Night, then travel to London. I have to take my seat in the House of Lords when Parliament opens,” he added, a cloud passing over his face. “Life is so much simpler in the navy!” he lamented. “One has one’s orders. One knows what to do, and when to do it. Uncle Hugh says I shall have to be presented at the Court of St. James, too.”

  Otto bent to study his shot at eye level. “Just imagine them all naked; you’ll do fine.”

  Nicholas laughed nervously. “You mustn’t tease me, sir. This…This is a whole new world for me, and I’m not sure I’m up for it.”

  “It is not without its hardships, I daresay. Tell me, have you met the girls yet?”

  Nicholas blushed. “My uncle has warned me that I shall be pursued relentlessly by adventuresses,” he said, “but so far, I have only met my cousins. All five of them. Or is it six? It seemed rather like six at times on the journey.”

  “I meant your cousins,” Otto said dryly, “of which there are only five, you’ll be happy to know. Octavia, Augusta, Cornelia, Flavia, and, last, but not least, Julia.”

  Nicholas stared at him with admiration. “You know their names! I confess I can’t seem to remember them all, try as I might.”

  Otto leaned on his cue stick. “Oliver’s aunt cooked five jellies,” he said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Oliver’s aunt cooked five jellies,” Otto repeated patiently. “That is how I remember their names. From eldest to youngest, in order of precedence, as it were, they are: Octavia, Augusta, Cornelia, Flavia, and Julia. Oliver’s aunt cooked five jellies.”

  “I see,” said Nicholas. “That’s very clever. But why not Otto’s aunt?” he asked, smiling.

  “I don’t have an aunt.” Dissatisfied with his cue stick, Otto went to the rack to select another. “I should probably tell you there is some talk of Octavia’s being engaged,” he went on. “I’ll believe it when I see it. But, if so, that puts Miss Augusta on the chopping block. She’s not a bad sort, really. As far as I can tell, there’s nothing in her head but dogs and horses. What say you to Miss Augusta?”

  Nicholas stared at him, bewildered. “I do not understand.”

  Otto looked slightly surprised. “Naturally, you’ll be expected to marry one of your cousins. It’s the usual way of things. Didn’t you know?”

  Nicholas gave a startled laugh. “Marry one of my cousins? You are joking me!”

  “I never joke about the human tragedy. As the Earl of Camford, your first duty is to marry and produce an heir,” Otto said patiently. “After all, there’s no one behind you, is there?”

  Nicholas actually looked over his shoulder before Otto’s meaning dawned on him. “You mean there’s no one to inherit Candle—Camford—if I were to die unexpectedly? No. No, I’m the last of the St. Austells. But I’m only twenty!” he added hastily. “I’ve plenty of time!”

  “Youth is no protection against the Angel of Death,” Otto told him bluntly. “Accidents happen all the time. Forgive me, but you could die at any moment. Any one of us could, after all. If you were to die without an heir, that would be the end of it. Camford would revert to the Crown.”

  “I had not thought of that,” Nicholas said haltingly. “As a poor lieutenant, I never thought I’d have the opportunity to marry, let alone the duty to marry! I am not against the idea of marriage, of course,” he added, “but I—I hardly know my cousins. I am sure they are good girls, but I only met them a few days ago. I can’t even remember their names. Oliver’s aunt cooked five jellies. Octavia, Augusta…Cornelia…” He grinned suddenly. “I say! It does work.”

  Otto did not smile back. “You’re caught in a trap, boy. You just don’t know it yet.”

  “I am not in a trap,” Nicholas protested.

  “Quiet, please,” said Otto, leaning across the table.

  At the exact moment he took the stroke, the door opened, causing him to scratch again.

  “Damnation!” he growled as his sister ran into the room.

  Emma was in tears. Sobbing, she threw herself at her brother, oblivious to everything else. “Thank God you’re here!” she babbled in German. “I don’t know what to do. He’s here. He arrived in the night. He knows about Aleta!”

  Otto had been trying to stop the flow of words, but at the mention of Aleta, he frowned.

  “What?” he said sharply.

  “He has my letter. He wants money. What are we going to do?”

  “Emma,” he said.

  “I shall have to pay him, of course,” she yammered on, unheedingly. “That’s all there is to it. And you wanted me to be civil!”

  “Emma!” he barked, giving her a hard shake.

  She blinked up at him. “What?”

  “We are not alone,” he told her.

  Emma turned slowly, grinding the tears from her eyes with the heel of her hand. Nicholas stood at the other end of the billiard table, looking down at his feet, his hands folded behind his back. Slowly, he raised his eyes to her. Slowly, he bowed.

  Silently, Emma answered his bow with a curtsey. “I beg your pardon, sir,” she said breathlessly. “I did not—I did not see you.”

  “Do you see me now?” he asked, with a quick smile.

  Emma caught her breath. “Oh, it’s you,” she said, recognizing him. “That is—it is you, isn’t it? You are Lord Camford, are you not?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

  They stared at one another for a long moment. The germ of a diabolical idea entered Emma’s mind. Hugh’s nephew obviously was attracted to her. There must be some way she could turn that fact to her advantage.

  Nicholas broke the silence, stuttering, “Forgive me, ma’am. You are obviously in distress. I would have left the room at once, but you are between me and the door.”

  Emma laughed faintly. “I am not in distress,” she said merrily. “What on earth gave you that idea? I was just looking for you, as a matter of fact.”

  Nicholas gave a start. “Looking for me?”

  “Yes! I thought—I thought you had gone to breakfast. Did you become lost again?”

  “No, ma’am,” he answered. “Well, that is to say, I did become lost, but not until after breakfast.”

  “You must have eaten very quickly,” Emma remarked. “You must have eaten like a hungry wolf.”

  He blushed. “In the navy, ma’am, we are obliged to eat our meals in a hurry.”

  “I heard you were in the navy,” said Emma. “You must tell me all about it some time.”

  “Emma,” Otto interrupted, catching his sister’s arm.
“What are you doing?”

  He spoke in German, under his breath.

  Emma smiled widely at Nicholas. “Otto, it’s very rude to speak German in front of Lord Camford,” she said. “Er…you don’t speak German, do you, my lord?”

  “No, ma’am. If you would like to be alone with this gentleman,” Nicholas added, “I will gladly…gladly go.”

  Emma laughed. “Oh, this is just my brother,” she told him, elbowing Otto away from her. “We can practice our German any time. Otto, this is Hugh’s nephew.”

  “I know,” Otto said dryly. “We have been talking.”

  “Oh. Then you won’t mind presenting him to me.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Otto said, with a touch of exasperation. “I thought you knew one another already.”

  “We met briefly,” Emma explained, “but we were not properly introduced. You may do so now, brother.”

  “Nothing could possibly give me greater pleasure,” Otto said irritably. “May I present the Earl of Camford? My lord, this is my sister, Emma. Emma Grey.”

  “Emma Fitzroy,” Emma corrected him instantly. “And that is no introduction!”

  “You are only a Fitzroy by marriage,” Otto argued. “You were born a Grey, and you’ll always be a Grey to me. Oh, dear! Look how sad Camford is to hear of your marriage, Emma! Don’t look so woebegone, sir. My sister is a widow, you know.”

  Again, Nicholas could not help his obvious change of expression.

  “Well, that’s cheered him right up,” Otto dryly observed. “And what’s more, my good fellow, her year of mourning is nearly over. In just a few days, she will throw off her widow’s weeds entirely and emerge like the butterfly from the chrysalis. She has already, as you can see, lightened her mourning considerably.”

  Emma’s gown was of smoke-blue muslin, cut in the latest style by the finest modiste in Paris. A huge cornflower-blue sapphire on a thin ribbon of black velvet hung at her throat. She often touched the cold stone, particularly when she was nervous.

  “I think your husband was a very lucky man, ma’am,” Nicholas said solemnly.

  “Not a very nice thing to say to a widow,” Otto chided him. “It implies the lady’s husband is better off dead! Though I’m sure Camford didn’t mean it that way.”