by Regina Scott
Justinian stared at her. “Are you trying to tell me that Norrie Pritchett is a social climber, a fortune hunter?”
“I regret to say that I believe so, my lord. I tried to teach her otherwise, but I seem to have failed. I hope you know, Lord Wenworth, that I expect all my teachers, and my students as well, to know their places in life.”
Justinian flinched as she echoed the words Norrie had used only days before. “I can only say that you must be mistaken, Miss Martingale,” he replied. The coolness of his tone was not lost on the head mistress, who paled.
“Of course, my lord. You would know better than I.”
It was all Justinian could do not to close his eyes in frustration at the familiar reframe.
His spirits nearly recovered on the ride home with Dottie, who fairly bounced in her seat beside him in the sleigh. The snow that had started a week ago had continued off and on so that the fields lay under a blanket as white as the countess’ counterpane, with the Mendip Hills in the distance piled as high as her pillows.
“And Jingles is really waiting for me?” Dottie asked him for what was surely the fourth time since leaving the school.
Justinian smiled. “Yes, he is really waiting for you. Your Miss Eleanor has been taking very good care of him.” He paused, eyeing his niece. “Miss Eleanor is very good at taking care of people, isn’t she, Dottie?”
Dottie bit her lip, lowering her eyes, and Justinian’s fears increased. “Miss Martingale and Miss Lurkin say I was unkind to Miss Eleanor,” she murmured. “It isn’t right to make friends with people not of one’s class. It gives the wrong impression and encourages coaching.”
Justinian frowned. “I think the word you’re looking for is encroachment, Dottie. And Miss Martingale and Miss Lurkin are no doubt teaching you what they believe is right; however, you must form your own opinions on that matter.”
Dottie glanced up, a small light of hope in her eyes. “Then it’s all right if I just love Miss Eleanor anyway, even if she isn’t a Darby?”
Justinian’s smile returned, hearing his own hopes echoed in her words. “Yes, sweetling, it’s perfectly all right to love Miss Eleanor.”
“Oh, that’s famous!” Dottie exclaimed, her enthusiasm restored as quickly as it has been lost.
Justinian wished he could recover his good spirits so easily. After the conversation with the head mistress and his niece, it was apparent to him where Norrie got her notions about her place in the world. However, he could not subscribe to Miss Martingale’s, or his father’s if the tale were true, belief that Norrie was a fortune hunter. Everyone kept telling him that his emotions were obvious, yet she had not encouraged him in the least. In fact, she had gone out of her way to discourage him. Of course, if his initial conclusions were right, and she thought he was offering his love but not his position, she might only be holding out for a better offer.
His conviction was put to the test that very afternoon, however, for Faringil was waiting for him when he returned with Dottie. The homecoming was everything Eleanor had worked to make it. Dottie exclaimed over the decorations and ran through the renovated school room, touching this, holding that, and smiling at everyone. When he took her to see her grandmother, she threw her arms about Lady Wenworth and his mother’s eyes shone with tears of joy. Eleanor, however, was nowhere to be found. The idea that she would “keep her place” and not witness the happiness she had worked to bring about infuriated him, but before he could seek her out, Faringil was standing silently behind him. When Justinian frowned at him, he nearly bowed and beckoned. His frown deepening, Justinian followed him into the corridor.
“Begging your pardon, my lord,” the butler intoned in a whisper, glancing up and down the corridor.
“Yes?” Justinian asked, refusing to lower his own voice.
“I don’t like to interrupt Lady Dorothea’s homecoming, but I have been given some rather disturbing news.” He glanced up and down the corridor again, and Justinian had to hold himself back to keep from throttling the man.
“Well, then, out with it,” he commanded.
Faringil drew a sheet of paper from inside his black satin waistcoat and carefully unfolded it. “Betsy found this in the trash, my lord. She originally kept it to use the back side of the paper for writing a letter to her mother, but Mrs. Childs saw it and recognized the handwriting. Or should I say, the attempt at the handwriting.” He handed it to Justinian. “Someone appears to be trying to forge your name, my lord.”
Justinian stared at the parchment. The page was filled with nothing but his name, “Justinian Darby, Earl of Wenworth,” over and over again. The first few times bore little resemblance to the elegant script he had learned at Oxford, but gradually, something resembling his hand appeared. “Where did you find this?” he demanded.
“I regret to say, my lord, that it was under the writing table in Miss Eleanor’s room.”
Justinian felt a chill run through him. He thrust the paper back at Faringil. “There must be some logical explanation.”
Faringil bowed his head. “Of course, my lord. Just as you say.”
“Stop that this minute,” Justinian thundered. Faringil jumped and took a step back, eyes widening. “I refuse to have a man in my employ who cannot or will not think for himself. I am not infallible, for God’s sake! I am asking for your opinion, man. Have you lived so long under the Darby roof that you don’t know how to have a thought of your own?”
Faringil paled. “I would never presume, my lord, that is I have the deepest respect, that is . . .”
“In other words,” Justinian said, “the answer is yes. Small wonder I feel as if I’m the only one making decisions around here.” He eyed his man, who seemed to have been reduced to a quivering pile of Christmas pudding. “Stand up, Mr. Faringil. I appreciate you bringing this to my attention. I will give the matter considerable thought, you can be sure. For now, say no more about it.”
The butler bowed, relief written in his every movement. “Of course, my lord. Thank you, my lord.” He hurried away from Justinian with steps easily twice as fast as his usual measured tread.
Justinian shook his head. He glanced down at the sheet of paper, which Faringil had refused to take, and saw that it was clenched in his hand. Relaxing his grip, he eased the sheet back to its full size. His name stared back at him. And something else.
Along the bottom of the paper lay the smudged track of a kitten.
Chapter Ten
Eleanor waited in the doorway of the dining room, clasping her hands to keep them from trembling. She didn’t need to look up to be reminded of the kissing bough over her head or of the scene that had taken place only days before. The kiss must not distract her, not tonight.
She glanced again about the room, from where the candles blazed in the glittering silver chandelier to the crystal bowl of frothy eggnog on the sideboard. The great table was draped in damask, with six places set near the head, the gilt-edged bone china and gold cutlery glimmering against the expanse of white. A strand of ivy entwined around the base of each crystal goblet, and in the center of the table lay an immense wreath of evergreens, holly, ivy, and dried red roses. Everything was ready for Christmas Eve dinner.
Dottie scampered down the stairs, resplendent in a red velvet dress with a satin bow hanging down her back. Lady Wenworth had decreed that the child could put off mourning, at least through the Christmas season. Dottie stopped before Eleanor and threw her arms around her.
“Happy Christmas, Miss Eleanor,” she proclaimed, pulling her down to plant a kiss on her cheek.
Eleanor hugged her and straightened. “Happy Christmas to you too, Dottie. Thank you for keeping your Uncle Justinian busy this afternoon. Your grandmother and I were also quite busy. Is everything ready in the withdrawing room?”
Dottie nodded, eyes sparkling. “Just as Grandmother and I talked about. Oh, Uncle Justinian won’t know what to make of it.”
“I certainly hope you’re right,” Eleanor replied, keeping her s
mile in place when she wanted to bite her lip in concern. What she was going to do tonight was the most daring thing she had ever done. If it succeeded, she would at last feel that she had done the Darbys a service. If it didn’t . . . despite herself, she shivered.
Dottie apparently didn’t notice, skipping to her place near the head of the table. “Where is everyone?” she complained. “I don’t want to wait.”
“Now you sound like a Darby,” Justinian said in the doorway. Eleanor took a hasty step back, and his welcoming smile seemed to dim. He bowed to her, and she curtsied, fingering the deep green velvet of the gown the countess had found for her. It had belonged to the countess’ mother, who apparently had had a build more similar to Eleanor’s. Accordingly, the waist was far too low and the skirt far too wide for current fashion. The light of appreciation in Justinian’s eyes as she rose from her curtsey made it the most beautiful dress in the world.
Justinian had spent the better part of the afternoon getting his niece settled. After visiting her grandmother, she had been surprising reluctant to let loose of him, confirming in his mind Norrie’s assertion that Dottie sorely missed her parents. Twice when her attentions were distracted by a new toy or dress he had attempted to locate Faringil to take charge of her, only to be unable to find the man anywhere. Seeing the dining room in all its glory told him how his butler had passed the afternoon. The only remaining puzzles were why six places had been set for himself, Dottie, and Eleanor, and why Eleanor had been writing his name. Once again, however, now was not the time to ask.
“When my mother suggested I dress for dinner, I had no idea I’d be having such lovely company,” he said, his nod taking in Dottie as well. Dottie beamed at him and waved toward the head of the table.
“Take your seat, Uncle Justinian,” she chirruped. “We’re all famished.”
He obligingly moved to do so, chuckling, but Eleanor remained at her spot. When he reached the head of the table and saw that she had not followed him, he frowned. Would the woman persist in keeping her place even on Christmas Eve? “You will be joining us for dinner, won’t you, Miss Eleanor?”
The question could well have been a command. Eleanor curtsied again. “Of course, my lord. As you wish.”
Justinian gazed at the ceiling. “Lord, give me patience.”
“You can’t say grace yet, Uncle Justinian,” Dottie piped up. “Grandmother isn’t here.”
He lowered his gaze to hers. “The countess doesn’t come down for dinner, Dottie,” he said with a gentleness that touched Eleanor’s heart. “You know that. Even though you’ve come home, you mustn’t think everything is going to change.”
“Christmas, my lord,” Eleanor heard herself say, “is a time of miracles. That’s what I’ve always been taught.”
He glanced down at her, pride in her warring with what he knew to be reality. “You’ve been taught a number of things that appear to be in error, Miss Eleanor. But we can discuss that later.”
Eleanor paled.
“Christmas, Justinian,” said the countess from the foot of the stairs, “is no time for one of your scholarly lectures.”
“Hurry, Grandmother!” Dottie urged. “You’ll miss all the fun.”
Justinian straightened, eyes widening in disbelief.
“Patience is a virtue, child,” the countess replied, leaning heavily on a gold-tipped ebony cane and Mary’s arm. “One you will probably not learn until you’re past my age, if you’re like most of the Darbys. Good evening, Eleanor. That dress is just as lovely on you as I thought it would be.” She offered her cheek for Eleanor, who kissed it gratefully, the wrinkled skin soft beneath her lips. The countess winked at her as she labored past, lace-dusted lavender silk gown rustling with each step.
Justinian hurried from the head of the table to take Mary’s place beside his mother. “Mother, are you sure you can do this?”
The countess thumped the tip of the cane very near the toe of his evening shoe. “Don’t ask ridiculous questions. If I was completely sure of everything before I did it, I wouldn’t do anything at all.” She nodded to Mary, who quietly withdrew. Justinian escorted the countess to her place at his right. From the door at the back of the room, Mr. Faringil and a footman silently materialized. Faringil himself held out the chair for the countess to sit.
Justinian turned to see Eleanor standing still in the doorway. He frowned at her, but her face was turned toward the great stair, smiling in welcome. His frown deepened at the sound of footsteps on the stair.
“And then I told Wellington he could jolly well do without me for just one Christmas,” Alexander Darby proclaimed, striding to the door in full dress regimentals. “Good evening, Miss Eleanor.” He offered her a sharp bow as Justinian stared.
“You’ve been in the military far too long, Alex,” Jareth Darby quipped, bumping his elder brother aside with the elbow of an immaculate black evening coat. “One does not bow when one catches a lovely lady under the mistletoe.”
Eleanor blushed as he politely pecked her cheek. The light in those gray eyes, so like his brother’s, told her he would prefer to do far more, but was being a gentleman for his family’s sake. “Happy Christmas, Miss Eleanor,” he murmured, then turned to the room. “Happy Christmas, all.”
“Happy Christmas, Uncle Jareth, Uncle Alex!” Dottie exclaimed. “Come sit by me!”
“As there is only one seat beside you, infant, that is architecturally impossible,” Jareth replied, strolling up the room. “And since Alex is far more comfortable with the infantry, I shall leave the honor to him.” He took the chair beside his mother’s, bending to kiss her cheek as well. “Bravo, old girl. You’re in fine looks. Makes me wish I wasn’t related.”
The countess rapped his knuckles where they rested on the back on her chair. “Jack-n-apes! You promised to behave tonight.”
He pulled back his hands, grinning. “And so I shall. A Darby always keeps a promise. Isn’t that so, Justinian?”
“Certainly,” Justinian managed, although he had not fully recovered from seeing them in the same room. What could have possibly induced his brothers to appear on Christmas Eve? His gaze seemed drawn down the table to where a lovely young woman stood under the mistletoe.
Eleanor watched his amazement with amusement and no little trepidation. The countess had confided that her sons had not been together for Christmas in over fifteen years. Eleanor was a little afraid how they might react to seeing each other again. She hadn’t thought they would agree to come in the first place. Yet everything seemed to be going well.
Alex made his way stiffly up the table, stepping to Dottie’s side and saluting. “Captain Dorothea, requesting permission to sit.”
“Permission granted,” Dottie replied with a solemn bow of her head. The giggle that escaped as he did so spoiled the effect.
“In polite society,” the countess said to no one in particular, “the host generally escorts a guest in to dinner.”
Justinian shook himself. Their guest deserved far more than his escort for what she had done this night. He came down the table toward her, watching her smile waver on her face, her hands clasping and unclasping. The only desire in his heart was to make her feel welcome in this house she had made into a home once again.
Eleanor watched Justinian as if from afar. All three of the brothers had inherited the thick golden Darby hair, the tall slender build, the planed features. While Jareth was a little rounder and far more dapper in his stylish cutaway coat and trousers, and Alex a little leaner and far more commanding in his uniform, they were in her eyes shadows compared to Justinian. He moved with the power and assurance of his position, his family, his own accomplishments. The light in his eyes made the black evening clothes seem all the more elegant. He bowed and offered her his arm.
“Uncle Justinian,” Dottie sang out, giggling. “Remember what Uncle Jareth said about ladies under mistletoe.”
Eleanor gasped, then shook her head at him, begging him with her eyes not to kiss her again, no
t in front of the countess and Dottie, Alexander and Jareth, Mr. Faringil and the footman. Justinian looked up as if he had just noticed the bough swinging overhead.
“I remember, Dottie.” Following his brother’s lead, he bent and placed a chaste kiss on Eleanor’s cheek, which she knew was turning as red as the velvet of Dottie’s dress. “Happy Christmas, Miss Eleanor,” he murmured.
The words seemed stuck in her throat, but she managed a watery smile as she accepted his arm and let him lead her to her place next to Alex.
It was as merry a meal as Eleanor had prayed it would be. The countess was in rare form, teasing all of them until even Justinian was laughing. Dottie’s enthusiasm was infectious. Jareth kept his quips kind, and Alex made an obvious effort to refrain from military cant. The food Eleanor and Mrs. Childs had decided upon was delicious, and Mr. Faringil went so far as to whisper, “Well done, Miss Eleanor” when the dessert, a steaming Christmas pudding, was served.
The countess rose as the last dish was cleared away, and Justinian and his brothers rose with her. “Do not tarry long over your port, dears,” she commanded them, moving slowly down the table with Dottie beside her. “We have need of you in the withdrawing room.”
As Eleanor rose to follow them, Justinian moved around the table to catch her arm. “Thank you,” he murmured, conscious of his brothers’ gaze on him. “What you did tonight makes me believe you are right about Christmas. It is indeed a time of miracles.”
Eleanor swallowed, blushing under the warmth of his regard. “We are not finished yet, my lord,” she replied, pulling gently away. “Please join us as soon as you can.”
