by Edith Layton
Lord Beverly groaned. His friend was succumbing to another mood. He damned himself for bringing up the topic of prospective wives. And Christmas. Talk of brides and holidays seemed to be bringing out the worst in him. And that, as his friend knew too well, could be very bad indeed. He looked around for something to divert the duke, saw a new arrival coming through the door, and hailed him with gratitude.
The gentleman that joined them was a great favorite of everyone at the club’s, and his entrance caused some desertion of the bow window, leaving that outpost to a clutch of only the most rabid gamesters. The Viscount Talwin was a great raconteur and after he’d been prompted and primed with a glass of fine brandy, he took a seat near the duke and soon had a circle of listeners laughing at his latest tales of the ton.
“…and then the gentleman—no, he shall remain nameless,” the viscount insisted as he went on, “went to visit his bit ’o muslin—a young creature up to the mark in everything, I might add—in expectation of receiving the Christmas present that she’d promised him in her note. A thing, as she’d writ, ‘of rare beauty, and greater worth.’ Well, what could he do but reciprocate? He’d a necklace of rubies and diamonds in his pocket, and was fair trembling that it mightn’t be good enough. Never do to look no-account in front of one’s doxie—especially since he suspected she was deceiving him with two of his best friends, and wouldn’t want to look clutch-fisted to them either.
“Her maid let him in, the lights were low, he crept to her boudoir as he was bade, nervous as a cat about what she was going to give him for Christmas. Well, it was a problem. If it was worth that much, he’d want it to be something he could flaunt without his wife’s being the wiser, and yet something that could make his friends expire from envy.
“‘Come in!’ she caroled, from the general direction of the bed.
“He did. To find his mistress stark, staring naked save for a huge length of wide red ribbon, which she’d used to do herself up, with a bow tied under her lovely I won’t say what! ‘Happy Christmas!’ she cried. Truth! Truth! It happened only yesterday night, and cost him a king’s ransom!” the viscount insisted as they all laughed.
“Truth indeed!” another gentleman said indignantly as he arose from his chair. “Damned unfaithful wench!”
“Peace, my lord,” the viscount said, as the others roared with merriment. “It’s never the same lady. I know your—ah—little friend, and it’s never she.”
“No, no, it’s not,” another gentleman put in, with an embarrassed look, “for I was enchanted to find myself the recipient of just such a gift this morning, and I know your cher ami is not mine. And it was a pink ribbon mine used,” he added sadly, as the other men laughed.
“Oho,” one of the gentlemen said. “Seems like the demireps of London are on to a good thing. Giving nothing and getting something for it.”
“The demireps, and a great many others,” the Duke of Austell commented. “But isn’t that the way of Christmas? Especially when you receive something from a dependent? Only more of the usual, done up in gay ribbons to look like a gift, when it’s only always something you’ve yourself already paid, and dearly, for.”
“Remind me to invite you to my next Christmas party,” the viscount said dryly as all the gentlemen fell silent, pondering the duke’s words.
“You already have, thank you. But sorry, I can’t attend,” the duke answered sweetly.
“I’m sorry for it,” the viscount answered, and he was. Austell’s wit might be lethal, but it was fair. He observed the same rules of conduct in public that a prizefighter did, never using his talent against those weaker or younger or unable to defend themselves. Most of all, the viscount thought, the duke never spoke without provocation, and knew when not to, even when provoked. Impatient with fools because he was so clever, suspicious of his fellow man and woman because he’d been catered to and flattered unmercifully since he’d come into his estate and honors, at the same prematurely young age that he’d gotten his distinctive silver hair, he took tribute as his due and duly disregarded it. Wealthy and elevated in the ton as he was, he’d not hesitated to work for his country in diverse ways during the recent wars, traveling the Continent and risking danger as he did. And he’d been invaluable, not only because he saw beneath the surface, but because beneath his own icy surface, those who knew him knew how much he cared.
Some thought Austell too high in the instep, but the wily viscount knew better. Nine-and-twenty, going on sixty in his good sense, yet daring as a boy; as high in principles as he was in rank, yet willing to bend to any situation. That odd combination of silver locks and youthful face was very like the man himself, in his attractive, deceptive contradictions. In all, he was, as most men with enough convictions to make great enemies were, an even better friend to have than a foe. And that, his one-time employer, the spymaster viscount thought on a reminiscent smile, was saying a great deal.
“I’m sorry to take my leave now,” the duke said, rising gracefully, “but as I’ve been repeatedly forewarned of Christmas’ imminent appearance, and can already feel its mince-scented breath hot on my neck, I think I’d be best advised to take myself off and armor myself for its arrival. There are diverse shops to visit and monstrous debts to incur in the spirit of the season. So good day, gentlemen, and God rest ye merry,” he said on a bow.
“What? Shopping? In this weather?” one of his audience cried, amazed.
“What weather?” asked the duke, blandly.
That bit of arrogance caused many gentlemen to lose large sums as they crowded at the bow window hoping to see him stumble. But he made his way down the street like a man gliding on invisible skates, until he was lost to their sight, swallowed up by the gloom of the lowering afternoon.
*
It was good to have a plan for the day, these days it was as important to the Duke of Austell as having a menu before dinner. That way, even the blandest offering could be taken with equanimity, knowing other treats beckoned after it was swallowed down. So, the duke thought as he strolled out from his town house the next morning, reviewing his mental agenda, he’d get the chores of Christmas out of the way before it came. This morning he’d complete his shopping for things his secretary couldn’t buy for him, so as to be able to present his secretary and household staff with those gifts before Christmas, since he might be off to a house party then. Then he’d lay other offerings of the season at his next stop, his sister’s house; then, after lunch at his club, he’d pay a visit to Miss Clarissa Dunbar, the latest light-minded and light-moraled young woman to enjoy his keeping. He’d a gift sure to delight her, because it was her favorite thing: expensive. After that pleasurable interlude, he’d return home to dress for the night and take something far less valuable to his latest flirt, the Incomparable Miss Edgecombe. Because something valuable would betoken something more than best wishes of the season, and even though she was the Toast of the Season, he wasn’t yet sure that he wanted to give her what she most wanted from him this Christmas: his name.
The streets of London were always crowded, but the weather had cleared and this morning it seemed that the many people who thronged the avenues were dressed in brighter colors and wore pleasanter expressions than he could recall having seen in a long while. But it was only fitting. The interminable wars seemed to be truly over at last, the sun was out, street musicians played Christmas tunes to do with hope, and joy, and perfect love and peace. Everywhere, there was color and variety that defied the calendar. Even the humblest grocers’ shops displayed bounty for the oncoming holiday: impossibly fat fowls, bright red beef, tender white lamb, berries and nuts and fruits, and things that were green and growing against all reason of the real season.
In the district where the duke paused to browse, the foods displayed were those that were select and savory, but however delectable, the rare treats were just that—those that could be lived without. Similarly, the elegant shop windows were filled with things that glittered and shone; things of great price and li
ttle purpose. His eyes were caught and dazzled by items of magical beauty, seemingly imbued with an Arabian Night’s mysticism and wonder. Imported and ancient, or newly devised and exquisitely executed, the windows displayed silken and satin things, gold and silver thingamabobs of uncertain function, or no function at all. Or common objects made remarkably uncommon: plain things flowered, simple things painstakingly embroidered, everyday things lavished with adornments until it seemed a waste to use them every day—who would dare to use a musical snuffbox? What lady’s foot merited a true glass slipper fashioned of finest blown crystal? And nail scissors made of baroque chased gold—whose toenails but a sultan’s should they address? It was a bazaar of the luxurious and unnecessary, and yet such was their appeal that even to a traveled gentleman such as himself, every foolish trinket seemed to be just what the duke had never known he’d always wanted.
But today wasn’t for himself, although the fever to buy was upon him. He’d a great many things to purchase, and a great many people to gift. Suddenly the expectation of the effort of selecting, acquiring, and then giving of gifts gave him an unexpected feeling, and he paused on the pavements to ponder it. Yes. It was definitely a thrill of pure pleasure such as he hadn’t felt in years. He was home, unoccupied, and alone in London at this season for the first time in a long time. Christmas was coming, and he found himself greeting it as he hadn’t done in years: with a full and anticipatory heart.
The tall, lean, gray-haired gentleman was a shopkeeper’s delight. His secretary, Pritchard, would appreciate that calfskin wallet initialed in gold—yes, it would be a nice touch to give him his Christmas bonus in it. His London housekeeper should love the fine tooled leather belt for her chatelaine keys—no, no, that intricately seedpearled and enameled brooch, instead. Totally useless except for decoration, but who had given Mrs. Raines a useless gaud for years, if not in the whole of her virtuous, hardworking life? A snuffbox for Alec, the butler? No, let it remain his secret vice. That handsome ivory-handled walking stick instead. Yes.
Too soon the gifts had been bought, wrapped, and sent back to his house—for a gentleman never carried anything but his quizzing glass and walking stick. All Christmas presents purchased, since Pritchard had ordered the dozens of others for the staff on all of the duke’s farflung estates, as well as those for his family and friends…yet the duke was loathe to get on with the rest of his day. The shops drew him as if he were a brainless dandy with a full purse on his first day in town. But after all, he thought, it had been so long since he’d experienced leisure at this season. And after all, as he didn’t wish to think, there was in this business of buying to please others some of the joy and warmth he’d missed at this season in all the years since his sisters had wed and he himself had fled his home and the idiot his mother had replaced his father with.
His attention was caught by a display in a window, and before he could think of what he was about, he’d gone into the toyshop and spoken for one of the most beautiful dolls he’d ever seen. She was French, the proprietor announced, as if in apology for her outrageous pricetag. And had sky-blue eyes and silky black hair and a pouting mouth and a magnificent set of clothes on her porcelain back.
Then the duke remembered that Pritchard had already bought his niece a perfectly charming toiletry set. But mirrors, combs, and brushes were practical, heartless things, and he’d the sudden notion of giving his niece something to remember her uncle with, something specially fine. A thing as lovely and unforgettable as this magnificent toy, whose beauty bordered on art. Imagining her glee settled it.
“She’s beautiful, one of a kind, expensive, but worth it because of the pleasure she’ll bring,” the proprietor continued to urge, seeing that the duke paused with the magnificent doll in his hands.
“Very like many living examples of the sex that I know,” the duke commented agreeably. “Very well, wrap her, please, I’ll take her with me now. And for my nephew, that set of tin soldiers,” he added, motioning to a mock battle set up on a countertop. “No,” he decided, looking at the uniforms and suddenly seeing all the figures fallen, broken, and bloody in his mind’s eye. “No,” he repeated softly, “they’ve been too lately seen in reality to charm in tin—that set of medieval knights, instead. And for the infant, that clown music box, I think. The babe’s too young to even turn his head to the music, but a pleased mama is the only gift for an infant, after all, isn’t it?” he added, as the proprietor hastened to comply, scarcely listening, grinning at whatever he said for the price he was about to pay.
And though a gentleman never carried anything through the streets of town, and a nobleman certainly not, the Duke of Austell, cumbered with packages, grinning to himself at the thought that he looked like a demented, if extremely well-dressed Father Christmas, walked lightly toward his sister’s house in the heart of town, his own heart unaccountably high.
*
“It is very beautiful, Uncle Cyril,” the child said graciously, tucking the doll back into her papers in the box, “Thank you very much.”
“And?” prompted her mama before the duke could answer.
The child turned questioning eyes, bluer than the doll’s, to her mama. She bit her lip and then brightened, remembering, “And Happy Christmas, Uncle,” she said, almost as enormously pleased as her mama was with her cleverness.
“The proprietor at the toyshop said she was French,” the duke explained, surprised to find himself deflated by the way the doll had been taken out, inspected, and then packed up again. “But you needn’t worry about playing with her, I’m sure she’ll take to an English girl.”
“I’m sure she will,” the child agreed.
“Perhaps,” the duke wondered in an undervoice to his sister, “she’s too old for dolls? Ten, after all.”
A trill of laughter was his answer.
“Elizabeth, take your uncle upstairs to your room, and show him your dolls, will you?”
Elizabeth smiled. Genuinely, this time.
“I see,” the duke drawled as he stood in his niece’s bedchamber and found himself the cynosure of at least a hundred eyes: painted, enameled, glass, and beaded. The wall of dolls stared back at him.
“I think I’ll put her on the third shelf, to the left,” Elizabeth said officiously, bustling over to that area of her doll collection, “because she hasn’t got open-and-close eyes, like the ones near the window, and she’s dressed for court, like these over here, do you see?”
“Oh yes, I see.” He sighed. “And I suppose instead of a name she’s to be given a designation. She’s to be filed under F for French, is that it? Or B for blue eyes?”
“Oh!” giggled his niece after a moment, when she understood—Uncle Cyril was always making odd jests, “No, under C for Christmas,” she replied, playing along with him. And then wondered why he wasn’t amused with his own game, because he only sighed.
“And I suppose your brother will put his knights next to his Armada, or on top of his Crusaders, when he gets home from the park and finds them?” the duke asked quietly.
“Oh no,” Elizabeth said on another giggle, “in his castle, of course. His silver castle, that is,” she corrected herself, remembering her brother’s habits, “because the others are already filled.”
“I think,” her uncle said as he turned to leave, “it would have been better, no matter what your mama said, to have waited until Christmas to open the presents.”
“Oh no,” Elizabeth said, horrified. “Because then I wouldn’t have had time to notice her at all, and how could I have remembered what to put on the thank you note?”
“A problem, certainly,” her uncle replied as he left.
*
Miss Dunbar’s lodgings weren’t far in distance from those of the duke’s sister, but they were, by tacit mutual agreement of all concerned, leagues apart in every other respect. Gentlemen of the ton, married and not, often had need of female companionship of a nature only too natural to be discussed, or provided, in polite circles. Young pers
ons such as Miss Dunbar supplied such needs when they weren’t dancing at the theater or otherwise displaying their wares. They were in turn supplied by their protectors with lodgings nearby to their own, for convenience, yet far enough away for conscience’s sake. The Duke of Austell was one of the few gentlemen of the ton who scarcely cared if the entire kingdom knew of his arrangement, but there was, in fact, little other place for him to keep Miss Dunbar. Respectability mattered in most polite neighborhoods, either of his own class or below it. And the impolite neighborhoods, where young women such as Miss Dunbar often found themselves when they grew older if they weren’t exceptionally frugal and prudent, were places where no one with any sense would care to live, much less visit.
Clarissa Dunbar was neither frugal, prudent, nor especially wise, but she was lovely in her fashion, and clever enough to conceal her lack of wisdom. If the duke, in his innermost heart, disliked the idea of keeping her as though she were an appliance provided for his occasional pleasure, and so sometimes found himself disliking what he most enjoyed because of the mercenary, impersonal nature of that most personal act of all, he disliked that act with complete strangers even more. Clarissa was not as witty as Harriet Wilson, but neither was she as cruel; she wasn’t as beautiful as Julia Jeffries, but she wasn’t as foolish; and she was never as fashionable as Lucille LaPoire, but she wasn’t as mercenary either. She was young, buxom, and merry, and the duke told himself she was original and charming. And sometimes, he almost believed it.
Now, as he waited in her front parlor, he found himself wondering what rig she was up to. Her maid had admitted him, and then instead of directing him to her room, as always, bade him wait and, suppressing a giggle, dashed away to attend to her mistress, and his. His spirits lifted. Trust Clarissa to come up with something novel, something more than the usual, although the usual would have been good enough for him today. He was oddly blue-deviled, losing himself in something as elemental as what Clarissa provided was what he was after. Lovemaking with wit to spice it and lift it from the basic squalor of such an arrangement as they had would be a more bountiful present than he’d expected, and by the time the maid finally reappeared, he was expecting something delightful. Even more so when she curtsied and simpered,
