A Midnight Clear

by Lynn Kerstan

  A year ago the holidays had passed with scarcely a ripple. Eudora, peevish because most of her acquaintances were gone to their country estates, had thrown herself into dictating the first portion of Scandalbroth. They had even worked on Christmas Day.

  But this time, Jane had promised herself, all would be different. She meant to decorate the house with holly and evergreen boughs, set a crèche on the mantelpiece, and choose special presents for everyone in the household.

  Some might think a quiet holiday with only two elderly ladies and a few servants for company rather tedious, but this would be quite the best Christmas she’d ever had. She couldn’t remember a time she had so looked forward to anything. At night she lay in bed selecting the gifts she would buy—a soft warm shawl for Felicia, she had decided, and perhaps a pair of fur-lined slippers for the cold evenings.

  Eudora’s present would be more difficult. What could she find that Lady Swann didn’t already have? All the same she enjoyed roaming through the shops, hoping that something would catch her eye. She’d never before had enough money to indulge her secret passion for shopping, which had burst forth with a vengeance this very afternoon. She could scarcely wait for tomorrow’s expedition.

  Eudora was sitting by the fire when Jane burst into the parlor, two or three small parcels tumbling from her arms onto the carpet. She dropped the others on a side table and went back to retrieve the strays.

  “About time!” Eudora snapped. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  Jane glanced over her shoulder, relieved to see a smile on Eudora’s face. A rather devious smile, she thought after a closer look. “Is it so very late? I lost track of time.”

  “Past three o’clock, you wretched child. And you know how impatient I become when I’ve news to share.”

  “Have you?” Jane threw herself on a chair and propped her aching feet on a leather ottoman. “Tell me all.”

  “Had a good time today, did you?” Eudora peered intently through her lorgnette. “I’ve never before seen your cheeks this flushed or your eyes so bright. You are remarkably pretty, Jane, when you are in high spirits.”

  Pretty? Astonished, Jane untied the ribbons of her bonnet. No one had ever used “pretty” and “Jane” in the same sentence, unless there was a “not” attached.

  “It’s true, you know. When you came to me, no meat on your bones, hair limp as a wet mop, I failed to recognize your potential. Oh, make no mistake, you’ll never be an Incomparable. But you have a fine, shapely body and a vivacious, endearing nature. Yours is the sort of beauty a man rarely notices until compelled to take a good long look. From that time, he finds himself unable to look away.”

  And what brought this on? Jane wondered, beginning to unbutton her pelisse. “The only time I encounter men is when they come here to call on you, and nary a one has ever paid me the slightest attention. How could they, with you in the room?”

  “True,” Eudora said with a laugh. “I am formidable competition. You will be relieved to hear that I am about to take myself off for several weeks.”

  “But you can’t!” Jane’s hand clenched on a button, nearly ripping it loose. “I mean, where are you going?”

  Eudora lifted a sheet of paper from her lap and waved it in the air. “The Duchess of York has invited me to spend Christmas at Oatlands Park! All the best people will be there—Alvanley, Monk Lewis, Brummell—and I suspect they mean to quiz me about Scandalbroth. Felicia will accompany me, but I’m afraid I cannot take you along this time.”

  “Of course not,” Jane replied automatically, visions of her wonderful Christmas slipping away. “Ought you to travel so far, though? The roads will be terrible.”

  “Pah. I positively require a holiday from this house, however difficult the journey. Indeed, I don’t believe I’ve left Upper Brook Street these last three years. Past time, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Certainly.” Jane shaped her trembling lips into a smile. “The adventure will do wonders for your spirits. I expect you will be the sensation of Her Grace’s house party.”

  “There can be no doubt. What’s more, the duchess is dispatching her own carriage to take me there. It must be a decade since I rode out in style, with liveried footmen and crests on the doors. Do you know, Jane, I feel like a mere girl of sixty again.”

  Although her heart was sinking, Jane couldn’t help but share Eudora’s excitement. And what was one more lonely Christmas, after all? She would bake gingerbread men and eat every last one of them herself.

  “We leave tomorrow morning,” Eudora said. “Felicia is packing my things, although later you might offer to help. She moves as if the air were made of molasses. No, no, don’t get up now. We still have much to discuss.”

  Jane sank back on the chair and applied herself again to the buttons. Did Eudora mean to close down the house while she was away? Oh, dear Lord.

  “I have told the servants to arrange a suitable schedule to visit their families and friends,” Eudora said, “but one or two will always be in residence with you.”

  Jane nodded, relief flooding through her. At least she would have a place to stay. “I can do without servants, you know. Perhaps they should all take an extended holiday.”

  “Most have nowhere to go, my dear. Not for weeks at a stretch, in any case, and Cook may never leave the house at all. As for you, it’s possible you may be kept so busy that you’ll not miss me in the slightest.”

  “I can finish editing the book, of course. When you return, it will be all but ready for the publisher.”

  “Oh, never mind that!” Eudora waved a hand impatiently. “I’ve a new task for you, although it may come to nothing. And if that is the case, you must relax and forget Scandalbroth until my return.”

  Jane shrugged out of her pelisse, regarding Eudora suspiciously. She’d got that feverish look in her eyes again. “What do you wish me to do for you?” she inquired without enthusiasm.

  “Ah, well, I imagine you will not leap at my proposal. But I do expect you to obey me. This has to do with the Marquess of Fallon.”

  “In wh-what way, ma’am?”

  “Ma’am? Tsk tsk. You are in the boughs before I’ve even begun to explain.” Eudora chuckled. “It has been a long time indeed since a man surprised me, but Fallon has done so. I assumed he would come back again to plead his case, but apparently he is even more stubborn than I imagined. Now it seems I must go to him. Or rather, you must do so in my stead, as I shall not be here to handle the business myself.”

  Why, Jane thought, the crafty old woman had arranged that invitation to Oatlands. Who but Eudora Swann could persuade a duchess to cooperate in such a manner! This had to be part and parcel of the scheme she mentioned the day Lord Fallon paid his call, but as she had said not another word on the subject in the two weeks since, Jane had reckoned she’d forgot all about it.

  “You are thinking wicked thoughts, gel.” Eudora tapped her fan on the arm of her chair. “All the same, you will hear me out. I shall dictate a letter explaining my proposal, and you may carry it to Fallon on the morrow. Despite your scowl, missie, you may find yourself pleased with what I mean to suggest.”

  “You will not publish Scandalbroth?”

  “Let us say that I am reconsidering. Largely because you disapprove of the book, I must add.”

  “I have tried not to say so,” Jane protested.

  “Tried, yes. But in unguarded moments, what you are thinking is writ across your face, and I have seen your knuckles whiten as you pen my most salacious anecdotes. Your opinions are of considerable interest, even of value, but they cannot dissuade me. I refuse to be forgot, my dear. And as I’ve borne no children, a book must be my legacy.”

  “I do understand,” Jane said earnestly. She had no children, either, nor any book to write. There would be for her no great passion, nor an abiding love. She often thought that J
ane Ryder would pass through this world without leaving a single mark on it.

  “Do attend me a few moments longer,” Eudora scolded. “The letter will go into greater detail, but here in a nutshell is my proposal. While I require a book to put the seal on my reputation, it need not be Scandalbroth. The history will do well enough, and when ’tis opened—just imagine, in nineteen hundred and eleven!—I shall come to life again.”

  “I believe you are making a wise choice, Eudora.”

  “Ain’t made it yet, missie. The history must be complete, accurate, and engrossing, but so far it’s nothing of the sort. The Fallons will liven it up, I expect, if there is more to their tale than the shopworn escapades of the feckless marquesses. I wish to learn of their wives and what became of the daughters, for there must have been one or two girl children in all those years.” She tilted her head. “Unless I am much mistaken, this new lordling’s story is the most fascinating of them all.”

  Jane recalled the hot-eyed, impatient man who had stalked the perimeters of this room, slapping his gloves against his thigh, now and again remembering his manners only to forget them again within seconds. Yes, he was indeed fascinating, but hardly a man to reveal his secrets even to Eudora, who could pry secrets from a rock. “I’d wager he will tell you nothing,” she said.

  “Not immediately,” Eudora conceded. “All the same, he is a dealmaker, that one. I recognize his sort. He will trade information, you may be sure, on my promise to conceal it for a century. The alternative—Fallon scandals up for sale in the bookshops—he will find insupportable. ’Tis a fair bargain, Jane.”

  “Actually, I think he’d find it a far sight easier to simply murder you. And steal the only copy of Scandalbroth while he was about it.”

  “Ah, but he would have to murder you, too,” Eudora pointed out. “Don’t think I have failed to notice that you remember everything you read or hear. Let us see how he responds to my proposal, shall we?”

  “Very well. But why must I deliver the letter personally? Can we not send it by post?”

  “Oh, indeed no. I expect him to grant you access to the family papers and to dictate his own story to you. That means, of course, that he must take your measure, which will be a simpler matter if you are standing directly in front of him. And if he approves, you will have the next several weeks to begin compiling the Fallon history.” Her eyes narrowed. “I am relying on you, Jane, to see this project through.”

  “And if he refuses?”

  “Then you must change his mind. Let me give you a piece of advice, young woman. When dealing with Fallon, do not behave for a single moment in the manner of a secretary or a servant. You stand in my place, and you well know that I am not to be denied.”

  “No one on the planet can stand in your place, Eudora. And the fact is, I am a secretary and a servant.”

  She waved a hand. “Let us not refine too much on that, missie. I expect you to bring him around, whatever it requires you to do.”

  “Eudora,” Jane said between clenched teeth, “you are incorrigible. Should his lordship set out to murder you, I rather think I shall offer to help him.”

  “That’s my girl! Now go to your desk so that I may dictate the letter. Fallon has moved to a house in Berkeley Square, I understand. Tomorrow, when I am gone, you may call on him there.”

  Jane would as soon skip tomorrow, bypass Christmas, and slide directly into January. On leaden feet she made her way to the desk.

  “Ah, wait!” Eudora cried. “I almost forgot. As I won’t be here on Christmas morn, you shall have your presents this very moment. They are in the drawer beneath the window seat.”

  Jane whirled around. “You bought presents for me? Oh heavens, Eudora, I’ve scarcely begun my own shopping. I have nothing for you as yet.”

  “Just as well. You will find a new reticule among your gifts, and I have put into it enough money to purchase me a gewgaw. The rest will cover any extraordinary expenses you may encounter in my absence.” Eudora wheeled closer to the window, her eyes alight with pleasure as Jane lifted a stack of boxes from the drawer.

  She had never received a gift specially chosen for her. Sometimes her employers had provided an orange, sweetmeats, and handkerchiefs or gloves, but the other servants received exactly the same. She felt like an eager child as she reached first for the smallest box. It contained an exquisite watch, which would fit neatly into her pocket.

  “Oh my,” she whispered, eyes burning. “It’s beautiful, Eudora.”

  “A trifle! Mere silver plate. Now you’ll have no excuse to be late. Go on. Open them all.”

  The next box held gold earbobs in the shape of stars. There was a fur muff and buttery-soft kidskin gloves and warm woolen stockings. She exclaimed over each present, fighting back her tears as Eudora impatiently urged her to be quicker about the business. Before she came to the last box, she was surrounded by delicate handkerchiefs, silk stockings, two lacy night rails, and a tempting assortment of books to read.

  Head spinning with joy, she tore into the largest of the boxes and lifted tissue paper from a carefully folded mound of bright crimson wool.

  “It’s a cloak,” Eudora said. “Try it on.”

  Jane stood and swung the cape around her shoulders. It was exactly the right length, soft and full and deliciously warm, the lapels and hood lined with ermine.

  “Oh, my word,” she murmured, unable to hold back her tears a moment longer. She flung herself at Eudora and embraced the old woman, sobbing uncontrollably.

  “There, there, missie,” Eudora murmured, stroking her head. “You’ve had few enough presents in your time, I warrant, but that’s no reason to turn into a watering pot. I feel badly enough, leaving you alone at Christmas and sending you on an errand you would as soon forgo.”

  Jane lifted her head. “I don’t mind. Truly.”

  “Yes, you do. But it’s all for the best, if my instincts are still in working order, and they ain’t failed me yet. Go to your desk now, m’dear, and sharpen your pen. We’ve a letter to write.”

  Chapter 3

  FALLON CRUSHED the sheet of paper in his hand and lobbed it into the trash basket. Some days he couldn’t remember his own name.

  He had inadvertently signed the letter “Rowan,” the courtesy title by which he’d been known for nearly all his four-and-thirty years. As for Charles Everett Lawson Phillip Padgett, those were merely words on a parish registry in Essex. Not even his mother had ever called him Charles. From here on out, of course, he would bear the vile Fallon name and, most probably, a good part of the vile Fallon reputation.

  Larch appeared in the doorway. “Luncheon is served, m’lord.”

  Fallon set his pen in the holder, stoppered the ink bottle, and followed his extremely proper butler to the dining room.

  Like all the other rooms in his newly purchased town house, it was decorated with elegant furniture chosen by a hired expert in such matters. A polished mahogany table stretched out before him, long enough to seat thirty guests. At the very end, one place setting awaited his presence.

  Two footmen and a maid were lined up by the sideboard, ready to take hot platters from the dumbwaiter and offer him more food than any ten men could possibly eat. A footman hurried to pour wine in the first of several glasses arrayed on the table.

  A luncheon fit for a marquess awaited him. An expensive French chef had prepared it. The agency that supplied his staff had also provided a wine steward to stock his cellar. All was exactly as it should be.

  He found himself wanting to be seated cross-legged before a campfire, a crispy jungle fowl roasting on the spit, exchanging bad jokes and old stories with his friends.

  In London, he had no friends, no one to invite to his new house and his new table.

  But things were about to change, he reminded himself while a servant pulled out his chair and opened
his napkin, as if a marquess were incapable of doing so unassisted. Now he had a house in Berkeley Square, a fashionable wardrobe, and the most arrogant valet who ever ironed a neckcloth. He had bought the finest of everything, from horses to servants. He was ready to begin his new life.

  Lobster bisque was dished into a shallow, gold-edged bowl, and the servants visibly relaxed when he tasted it and nodded approval. They fear me, he thought, amused. On the whole, he found the lot of them devilishly intimidating, especially Larch.

  He felt like a great looby, putting away his soup with four pairs of eyes fixed on him. Well, not precisely fixed, for the servants were too well trained to stare. But they remained on full alert, in the event he looked as if he might want something. He’d have preferred a tray in his room, but knew he must keep up the standards expected of the new Marquess of Fallon. His predecessors had kept to standards that would shame a pigsty.

  As the soup dish was removed and the next course set before him, he mentally rehearsed his plans for the day. Cards had been dispatched to anyone he could remember meeting whilst in India, and most had replied cordially. Now, armed with a list of people to call on, he meant to start with the ones who could do him the most good.

  First up was Richard Wellesley, who had been governor-general of Bengal when they met some years ago. Now he served as foreign secretary under Perceval and was doubtless kept busy indeed. But he’d expressed interest in seeing his old friend again, probably hoping Fallon would ally himself with Tory factions in the Lords. Wellesley rarely gave without expecting to receive. Nor, for that matter, did he.

  They both knew how the game was played and would get on splendidly together.

  Fallon speared a chunk of turbot and forked it into his mouth. With any luck Wellesley would propose him for membership in one or more of the clubs. That was his next goal, and his timing was all but perfect. In December, with nearly everyone of importance gone to the country, even the Fallon heir might survive the voting without a blackball.