Christmas With a Scoundrel

by Bethany M. Sefchick

  Christmas With A Scoundrel

  A "Tales From Seldon Park" Novel

  By Bethany M. Sefchick

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018

  Bethany M. Sefchick

  All rights reserved

  For Clippy…

  I’ll miss my long-time writing partner

  Chapter One

  Early December 1820

  Somerset

  Lady Arabella Whitmore was freezing. In fact, she was so cold she was rather certain her fingers would turn black and fall off if she was out in this wretched weather much longer and that was no exaggeration. Indeed, the snow was nearly up to her knees which made walking difficult, and the last of the pale winter sun was slowly sinking behind wind-bent trees covered in a thin layer of frost and snow. Darkness was fast approaching, and a bone-chilling wind now swept down from the north, bring both more cold air and the first hint of more snowflakes in the air. If only there were someplace nearby that she could shelter for the night. Surely someone would take pity on a lone female out in the elements and offer her a warm hearth for the evening.

  Except that clad in boy’s clothes as she was, she wasn’t Lady Annabelle Whitmore, daughter of the previous Viscount Tidmarsh. She was Arnaud White, a poor stable boy of questionable birth seeking work as he attempted to make his way to Bath and had become lost along the way. And poor stable boys of unknown origins were never offered the same sorts of comforts that a lady might be. Still, it was the only way to be safe until she could reach her destination. If she reached her destination, that was.

  Aria, as she was known to her friends, hated that she had been forced to use this ruse, but it was either pretend to be a young stable boy with abysmal hygiene whom no one would look twice at or become mistress to her wretched – and altogether too distant – cousin, Lord Felton Bowles, the current Viscount Tidmarsh. The same man who had only been too happy to ascend to the title after the death of Aria’s father. If only her mother had not passed away in the same carriage accident that had claimed her father’s life, Aria might have had some hope of staying safe from Felton’s libertine grasp.

  Unfortunately, however, both of her parents had succumbed to their injuries within a few days of each other, leaving Aria alone and at the mercy of an already-wed distant relative who believed that there was no such thing as having too many mistresses – especially a mistress he would not have to pay to keep.

  No, cousin Felton had made it plain in Aria’s one and only meeting with him that he had plans for her, ones that consisted of her remaining mostly naked a good part of the day and ready for him to bed her at a moment’s notice. If she did not agree to his wicked plans? Well, a lifetime residency at Bedlam or some similar institution was always an option. However, Felton had made it plain that, no matter what, he would not support her as his dependent. She had two choices – mistress or Bedlamite. Neither option had appealed to her.

  That horrible, hushed conversation had taken place when Aria’s London solicitor had stepped out of his office for a moment. Felton had taken the opportunity to grip her wrist tightly and remind Aria that he controlled her life now and if he demanded that she spread her legs for him, she would damn well do so or else suffer the consequences.

  Felton had also made it plain that he desired the unentailed sugar plantation in the West Indies that had been left to Aria in her father’s will. Felton had assumed – wrongly, as it turned out – that the plantation had been part of the viscountcy and would naturally fall to him once he assumed the full duties of the title, just as nearly everything else associated with Tidmarsh had. Unfortunately for him, the plantation hadn’t been attached, and, as unentailed property, Aria’s father had left it to his only child as part of her dowry and marriage settlements in the event that she ever took a husband.

  If she did not wed? Then the plantation was Aria’s to run or sell off as she saw fit. The profits from the plantation were also hers to keep and, though the coin from them had been funneled into the Tidmarsh coffers in the past, that was no longer the case. Instead, the profits went directly into an account under Aria’s name at a respectable – and therefore un-bribe-able despite Felton’s best efforts – London bank.

  Also, unfortunately for Felton, the plantation pulled in more coin than all of the other Tidmarsh estates combined and Felton was determined to add those funds back into his coffers at any cost – even if it meant having Aria committed to Bedlam if she misbehaved or refused to sign the plantation over to him once her period of mourning had ended.

  A glance at Felton’s wife, Sally, had let Aria know in no uncertain terms that she should not hope for an ally in that corner. If anything, the new Lady Tidmarsh was even more despicable than her husband, quietly wondering how much coin Aria’s virginity could bring if they were to hold a “private auction” amongst their more debauched friends with the winner earning the right to deflower Aria as he saw fit.

  Felton had also dismissed all of Aria’s long-serving household staff and hired new servants who were loyal only to him, ensuring that Aria would not be given an opportunity to escape from his grasp, whether in London or on the country. For it was also no secret that, having spent many of her formative years on that same sugar plantation that Felton coveted so much, Aria was not exactly a proper and genteel young lady and thus could not be trusted to “behave herself modestly and do as she was told” according to both Felton and his wife.

  Aria had to admit that her cousin was not wrong on that count. At least not entirely.

  Oh, Aria could act the part of a lady, certainly, for her mother had ensured that she received the best education that money could buy in that regard. Miss Horton’s Academy for Young Ladies in Kent was a top-notch institution with an impeccable reputation. However, Aria had also grown up running free with the children of those who worked the plantation for her father. She had learned how to climb trees and scale fences. She was a crack shot with a pistol and was accounted a superb horsewoman. She could also swim, fence, and knew a bit of boxing. She was also an expert at picking locks and pockets – neither talent she had ever admitted to her parents, but ones that had come in handy at times while living on the plantation.

  However, Felton seemed to have some idea of Aria’s proclivities in certain areas and had done all he could to keep Aria locked away and under constant guard by his loyal servants until he could obtain what he desired from her. He also forbid Aria from contacting her beloved Aunt Tilly. Which was, Aria had to admit, a rather shrewd move on his part.

  Matilda Gravesend – once known as Matilda Whitmore – was the previous viscount’s adored sister. She was also the dowager Countess of Ives and thus still wielded a certain amount of power within the ton. While Aunt Tilly knew that her brother and sister-in-law had passed, she had also been told that Aria was inconsolable and did not wish to see anyone, not even her beloved aunt.

  That, of course, had been a lie but one that had gone unchallenged since the previous spring in the months and weeks immediately following the accident.

  Aria had hoped that eventually, Aunt Tilly would simply sweep up the long, winding drive of Millstone, the Tidmarsh country seat just off the coast in Dorset – preferably with Bow Street Runners in tow – and whisk Aria off to safety. However, by the end of the harvest season, it had become clear to Aria that no one was coming to rescue her. She was on her own. Thus, Aria had decided to rescue herself.

  She had devised her plan of trav
eling as a poor youth on an errand for a nobleman rather quickly, but it had taken some time to both gather the necessary items for the journey she hoped to undertake and to observe the Millstone staff to see when and where an escape might be possible. That particular task had taken nearly a month, but by the middle of November, Aria had been ready, and she had sneaked out of the house at the first opportunity that had been presented to her.

  That had been over a fortnight ago.

  At first, Aria had made excellent progress in her travels. She was headed in the general direction of Bath where Aunt Tilly lived most of the year now that her son had become the current Earl of Ives. Though Aria did not know specifically where Springdown, Aunt Tilly’s country home, was precisely, she had a general idea and believed that once she reached Bath, it would be a simple matter to be pointed in the correct direction, especially disguised as she was.

  If she ever reached Bath, that was.

  Four days after Aria had stolen silently out a side door at Millstone, she had been beset by torrential rains that had quickly turned to icy sleet, slowing her travels. The rivers in the area had risen quickly with all of the precipitation and a bridge Aria needed to cross had been wiped away. That had not deterred her since her sense of direction was generally excellent.

  What had impeded her progress further, however, were the highwaymen whose provisions had been washed downstream when they had attempted to cross the same swollen river at what they believed was a shallow point. Injured and hungry, the robbers had set upon Aria as she attempted to find another river crossing as well. Since she was alone, it had been easy enough for the men to relieve her of her carefully thought out provisions.

  Aria was simply thankful that they had believed her to be a very young boy and thus, had not hurt her. They could have beaten or killed her rather easily, but the one highwayman had felt some tiny degree of sympathy for what he assumed to be a lost youth forced out into the storm on an errand by a cruel and wasteful nobleman. Thankfully, the very sort of nobleman the robber despised.

  The highwayman had remarked that he had been such a youth once and Aria had been grateful for the man’s past. It was that bit of sympathy, Aria knew, that had saved her life – and prevented the men from discovering she was actually female. Instead of killing her, the robber had insisted that if Aria simply handed over her satchel, he would leave her be.

  With shaking hands, she had handed over her small bundle, also thankful that she had been mindful enough to tuck her few precious possessions into a pouch bound about her waist which was safely hidden beneath her coat and served to make her appear bulkier about the middle than she truly was – improving her chances that anyone she met would think her male.

  For a long time after the highway men had vanished, Aria had simply hidden in the trees and taken long, deep breaths, too terrified to move after she had been so close to losing her life – or a fate that, in her opinion, was even worse. However, she eventually realized that she had come far too close to discovery for her comfort and the roads toward Bath had proven far more dangerous than she had anticipated, especially with the inclement weather bringing out the worst sort of humanity. She was simply grateful that she was still alive, even if she no longer had anything to eat and scant few coins to bargain with.

  After that awful day, Aria had stuck to the sides of the roads as much as possible, enabling her to hunker down in the ditch if she sensed danger. While that plan had kept her hidden from most things (and people) that might harm her, that also led to her missing some sign posts along the way and becoming hopelessly lost. Now she had no idea of how long she had been forced to navigate by the sun, watching where it rose and set and where it was at the noon hour – her ability to tell time thanks solely to her father’s pocket watch that she kept safely hidden in the pouch – but still never quite certain she was on the correct road. Or if she had made the correct choice by escaping Millstone as she had.

  For at least back at Millstone, Aria had been relatively safe and likely would have remained that way until after Twelfth Night when Felton was scheduled to return to check on her. A few more days within the safety of her home might have given her more time to anticipate the dangers of travel she had clearly neglected to take into account. Or perhaps she might not have, because had she stayed, Aria likely would have continued to dwell upon what fate would befall her when Felton arrived after Twelfth Night, which he had informed her, was to be the official end to her mourning period.

  Meaning that changes were coming whether Aria liked it or not.

  No, she likely would not have been any more prepared and, if anything, maybe even too terrified to escape later, had she remained.

  However, Aria would have had plenty to eat, something she no longer did. As she wandered the English countryside – which was now almost constantly beset by varying intervals of both rain and slushy snow – alone, Aria found herself growing weaker as the days slipped by. She had not eaten a proper meal since that long-ago dinner at Millstone and the lack of food was beginning to take its toll on her body.

  Her mind was often cloudy and her thoughts unfocused, though she remembered well enough to keep away from groups of people that might have been search parties looking for her. One night about a week ago, she had overheard some men talking near a coaching inn about a reward being offered for her safe return.

  Aria had no doubt who had offered the reward. When the servants at Millstone discovered she was gone, the first thing they likely would have done was notified Felton. And her cousin likely would have been furious – furious enough to send out search parties and offer rewards for her return. Which meant that she could not go back even if she had wanted to, for there was no doubt in her mind that he would punish her severely if she were ever at his mercy again.

  That meant she could only go forward, even though well over a fortnight on the road with no food and no shelter in frigid weather was taking its toll upon her.

  Aria was growing weaker with each hour that passed, her legs aching earlier in the day than they had at the beginning of her journey. She had rationed her remaining coins for as long as she could, but now there was no money left and she refused to lower herself to stealing. Still, she had to be close to Bath by now, surely! In fact, she could feel it in her bones.

  Or perhaps what she was feeling at the moment was the pain in her right leg from the knife wound she had suffered last evening. She had accidentally strayed too close to a wooded campsite and been chased off by one of the camp’s guards. She had fallen over a log buried in the snow and the guard had slashed at her leg. When she had kicked at him in response, the man had fallen backward and knocked himself out on another downed tree, allowing her time to get away.

  After that, Aria had managed to find shelter for the night in a small mud hut that was likely a poacher’s shack. Half buried in a hillside, the one-room dwelling was damp and cold but it had allowed her some privacy to tend to her wound as best she could. It had also provided a respite from the wind and snow, even though she feared making a fire and risking discovery. Not that she could have made a fire anyway since the hut lacked just about everything necessary to make one.

  This morning, she had awoken, half-frozen and yet also feverish, to the sounds of voices just outside the safety of the hut. Though she could only make out a few words and phrases, she understood enough to know that they were Felton’s men and they were looking for her. So she had somehow managed to drag her tired, hungry, and aching body to her feet and, when the voices died away, quietly slipped out the door and disappeared into the snowy forest, not knowing what direction she was going in and not really caring either, for the thick, gray clouds had obscured the sun’s rise, leaving her directionless yet again. Still, she had trudged on, hoping that eventually, she would stumble upon a signpost or marker to indicate direction.

  Aria had also hoped that eventually she would catch a glimpse of the sun and be able to discern in what direction she should head, but the clouds had only incre
ased as the day went on, as did the fatigue in her weary body. Her leg had also started to bleed again and the skin around the knife wound now felt hot to the touch. When she could touch the injury at all, that was, as the pain in her leg was now almost more intense than she could tolerate.

  She was lost and she was dying and now, Aria wondered if that might not be such a bad thing. At least if she were dead, she would no longer be cold. At least she hoped she wouldn’t be. She would also see Mama and Papa again. Maybe. She wanted to believe that she would anyway.

  Squinting at the clouds, Aria was disheartened to see that the snowfall was only increasing by the minute. At this rate, she would be completely covered by snow within the hour and most likely freeze to death before the clock struck midnight. Forcing herself to move forward again, she clambered slowly over downed trees and crawled over hills, praying that she would find some hint of civilization soon.

  Mama. Papa. Please help me. Much as I wish to be with you again, I don’t want to die. Not yet. Not like this.

  Aria made her silent pleas over and over in her mind as the wind picked up and began to howl through the trees. Still, she saw nothing ahead of her but thick, blinding mounds of white and gray, shapeless masses in the growing darkness.

  Then, as if out of nowhere, Aria thought she saw a light flicker in the distance. Just once and then steadier, as if the light was moving. Not towards her or away from her but in a straight line in front of her. It also seemed as if the small golden glow had appeared out of nowhere. A house perhaps? Then again, if that light was from a house, could she trust the occupants not to turn her over to her cousin? On the other hand, if she perished out here in the snow, would it matter either way?

  Perhaps being forced to become Felton’s mistress was better than freezing to death, Aria rationalized. But only by a little.