Lord Philip's Christmas

by Michele McGrath

  Regency Belles & Beaux

  Lord Philip’s Christmas

  Michèle McGrath

  Lord Philip’s Christmas

  Prologue

  “What will you do now, Mama?” Mrs. Matilda Appleby asked in a shrill voice. “Do we even know where Philip is?”

  The late autumn day was drawing to a close and the atmosphere in the salon at Kirkmore was bleak. It was not relieved by the fact that most of the inhabitants wore the severe black of mourning. The only exception was a tall girl dressed unbecomingly in a dull grey bombazine, with her hair wrapped around her head in thick dark braids. She sat apart from the company, as if she did not consider herself part of the family, as indeed she was not. Miss Grace Talbot had come to reside at Kirkmore, following the recent death of her father and was finding her position more than a little tedious. It was true that the Countess of Kirkmore kept her busy with requests for water, for smelling salts or to call a servant to build up the meagre fire. At other times, her duties included reading aloud, writing letters and any other task her mistress could not be bothered to do for herself.

  When Miss Talbot had been introduced to the family earlier that day, the two eldest of the Countess’s daughters, Matilda and Cecily, looked her over critically and then proceeded to ignore her completely. The youngest and prettiest of the three had greeted her civilly enough but had shot her a puzzled look. It was a puzzlement which Miss Talbot shared. No one was more startled than she had been, when the Countess descended on the quiet vicarage as she was packing. Lady Kirkmore offered Grace a refuge and a position as her companion. At the time, Grace had been cudgeling her brains to decide what to do next, since she had been left almost penniless by her father’s death. So, she had accepted the offer with relief. Now she could not help wondering whether there might be more exciting ways of earning her living elsewhere, for Grace was a dreamer. Her prim costume, worn to please her employer, held no clue to the personality that bubbled beneath the surface. Lady Kirkmore would have been horrified at some of the thoughts revolving in her new companion’s head. Tales of adventure and derring-do, exotic lands and narrow escapes wove their magic and did much to relieve the boredom of a country gentlewoman’s existence. Sometimes Grace wished she could write the stories down but when she tried, it seemed she lacked the ability to transmit them onto paper. Additionally, she would have been ashamed if someone found and read what she had written, so one day she had burned her attempts on the kitchen fire. Occasionally Grace felt guilty about her secret imaginings but her own mother had read novels and her father had not condemned her for doing so. I don’t hurt anyone with my fancies, she thought, and if I did not tell myself fairy-tales, how would I ever be able to bear the tedium?

  Today, however, was not the time to dream. Grace realised she must keep her wits about her, for this occasion was both solemn and fraught with the spectacle of clashing personalities. Grace would much prefer not to be present at this gathering and had been on the point of leaving the room. She was called to order by the Countess and reluctantly resumed her seat. The Earl’s solicitor had just left the grieving family, after reading the late Lord Kirkmore’s will. This document had been written well before the death of his eldest son, Julian, in a hunting accident and never revised. The solicitor pointed out that when he asked the Earl several times to do so, he had been promptly sent about his business. The will contained few surprises. All the minor provisions and bequests were capable of fulfilment but the most important had become totally irrelevant. Julian, Viscount Buchannon, the heir to all the entailed property and titles, had not married or produced a son. He had held the opinion that he was too young to fall into the parson’s mousetrap yet and enjoyed his unfettered lifestyle with no thought for the future. This fact had thrown the assembly into disarray, although it was not unexpected, for the whereabouts of the new successor, his brother Philip, was unknown.

  Lady Kirkmore frowned at her eldest daughter who had posed the question and did not immediately answer. It was her youngest sister, Alice, who replied,

  “Philip told me that he was going to visit Oncle Richard in France.”

  “Pooh! When did he tell you that? You were only a child at school when he ran away and you haven’t seen him for years,” Mrs. Appleby retorted.

  Sir Edward Maitland, standing by the fire with one arm propped negligently on the mantelpiece, gave a slight cough which drew all eyes to his tall, elegant figure. “I hesitate to disagree with you, Matilda, but in fact Alice met him as recently as this summer. He indicated then that he was returning to France and to Dauphiné in particular.”

  “France! Is that where he has been hiding himself?”

  Sir Edward shrugged. “So it would appear.”

  “Will you send for him, Mama?” Mrs. Appleby ignored her brother-in-law’s response. “He cannot know about Papa’s death or even Julian’s.”

  “What choice do I have?” The widow replied in an angry voice. “Whether we like it or not, your father’s death makes Philip the new Earl of Kirkmore.”

  “Unless he relinquishes his title and estates,” Mr. Appleby said with rather more eagerness in his tone than was strictly proper to this occasion. “If he does, wouldn’t Matilda inherit his portion?”

  “I don’t see why she should,” Lady Ridlington interrupted. “Matilda may be older than me but she has no son to continue after her, unlike my darling little Jasper.”

  Miss Talbot frowned and looked away. She had been tasked with looking after ‘darling little Jasper’ yesterday while the other ladies had a quiet coze together. It took all her strength of will and imagination to control one of the most ill-behaved and indulged children she knew. When Grace turned back, she noticed Alice’s understanding smile.

  Lady Kirkmore laughed but there was little humour in her voice. “Be quiet both of you. I never considered you needle-witted, Arthur, but please remember that this has been explained to you before. Even if both my sons died, females do not inherit in England, more is the pity. It’s impossible for Matilda to become the Countess of Kirkmore in her own right or to make you the Earl, despite the fact that you are the husband of my eldest daughter. The title and entailed lands would pass to that creature my husband used to call ‘poor Cousin Arthur’.” The widow turned to Alice. “When precisely did you meet Philip, Alice, and why did you not see fit to inform your parents when you did so?”

  Lady Alice Maitland still retained the grace to blush, in spite of her newly married state. She answered her mother, however, with more confidence than she would have done a year ago, before she managed to escape from her home and her overbearing mother and father.

  “I met him in London when I went to make my debut under the auspices of dear Aunt Mary. He appeared at a ball when I was present.”

  “And why didn’t you write to Papa? He would have posted up to London immediately.”

  “Philip asked me not to.”

  The Countess stared at her in astonishment. “Are my ears deceiving me? Am I hearing you correctly? You put the wishes of that miscreant above the interests of your own parents?”

  “Yes I did,” Alice glared back at her mother, her own temper rising. “Philip knew he couldn’t stay in this country, with Mr. Staunton intent on having him arrested for attempted murder. He intended to leave very soon, so what point would there have been in informing you? Philip would be gone long before Papa arrived. I didn’t think it made any difference.”

  “You think! You have never been known to have a sensible thought in your life,” her mother hissed.

  “Mama, should we really be discussing such matters in front of Miss Talbot, who is after all a stranger to most of this family?” Lady Ridlington asked, looking pointedly at Grace. Lady K
irkmore followed the direction of her daughter’s eyes as Grace rose and murmured,

  “Give me leave, ma’am. Indeed, I do not wish to intrude on you at this sad time. I should have left before, if you had not bid me to stay.”

  “Nonsense. I will decide, Cecily, who stays and who is to go. Miss Talbot is a woman of sense, which is more than can be said for most of my children. This is still my house and my decision. Sit down Miss Talbot, if you please.” The Countess swung around to Alice, “As for you…”

  Sir Edward interrupted this incipient row, “I must ask you, ma’am, to consider well before you say anything more. I will not allow you to insult my wife in my presence.”

  “You, you…” as Lady Kirkmore searched for an epithet for her latest son-in-law, he rose to his feet and forestalled her.

  “I don’t believe we need stay any longer, do you, Alice? You have given your mother all the information she needs. Let us thank her for her hospitality and leave now. With luck, we can be several leagues closer to home before full darkness descends.” He held out his hand to Alice, bowed to the assembled company and swept her out of the room before her mother could even utter the word ‘Well!’.

  A little later, as they bowled along in Sir Edward’s well sprung chaise, Alice could not help laughing. “Did you see poor Mama’s face? You properly rolled her up. I thought she would have apoplexy on the spot.”

  Sir Edward grinned. “A good soldier understands when to retreat. I’ve wanted to do that ever since we arrived. Yet I must tell you, my love, that ‘properly rolled up’ is a most inelegant expression on the lips of a gently reared female.”

  “As if you don’t use it yourself!!”

  “One of the many privileges of my sex.”

  Some miles further on, he asked, “Did you mind me extracting you from Kirkmore? I could see that the occasion was going to deteriorate further and nothing would be served by staying.”

  “Indeed no! I was never more grateful to escape from there in my life! The funeral was over and the will read. I didn’t want to be part of any more family recriminations. I’m glad to be on my way home.”

  “By the bye, who was that awkward, badly dressed female that your mother insisted on keeping by her side?”

  “Poor Miss Talbot. Anyone would be uncomfortable in such a situation. As for being badly dressed, she is still in half mourning for her father. I kept thinking that if she wore a different colour and her hair was fashionably cut and curled she would be quite pretty.”

  “Perhaps. She has striking eyes, but she looks so stern. I wouldn’t like to argue with her. Who is she?”

  “The daughter of the local vicar. I don’t know her well but the housekeeper told me about her. She was a teacher at a girls’ boarding school until she came home to nurse her mother until she died. Her father didn’t survive her for long and the poor girl doesn’t have many relatives. Apparently, she was about to be turned out of the vicarage with nowhere else to go when Mama swept down on her and brought her to Kirkmore.”

  “That sounds most unlike her.”

  Alice giggled. “Perhaps I should tell you that Cousin Susan, Mama’s previous companion, had recently left to look after her deceased sister’s husband and children. Mama needed someone to run her errands and listen to her stories. She doesn’t like to be alone and now that Matilda, Cecily and I are married…”

  “… you have escaped from her clutches. Poor Miss Talbot.”

  “I pity her too,” Alice replied.

  The following morning, as they settled themselves into the chaise again, after a leisurely breakfast at the posting inn that enjoyed Sir Edward’s custom, Alice asked,

  “Do you remember promising me that we should travel to Paris to meet my French relations?”

  Edward smiled. “I do, but if your French uncle is at all like his sister, I’m not sure that the encounter will be a happy one.”

  “According to Philip he isn’t. He said I’d like Oncle Richard.”

  “What are you asking me, my love?”

  “Can we please go to France, Paris for a start, and then to Dauphiné? Philip could be in one of those places and he may not know that Julian died a few months ago or realise that he is the new Earl. It’s too soon for him to have heard of Papa’s death.”

  “A letter would reach him sooner than we would,” Edward pointed out.

  “I’ll write of course, if only to forestall Mama who will certainly tell Oncle Richard. I would like to see Philip. He has decisions to make and perhaps I… we can help him.”

  “You’re very fond of him, aren’t you?”

  “He’s the nearest to me in age and when we were growing up, he was the only one who liked me. My sisters are cats and totally uninterested in ‘scrubby children’ as they called us. Philip and I were friends, not just brother and sister. I hope everything has been resolved now he has returned to France and he is happy again.”

  “I doubt he is in the circumstances. He wouldn’t be able to marry Celia with her husband still alive.”

  “Staunton is a monster. He used to beat poor Celia. Philip had to save her,” Alice protested. “She would have died if he had left her where she was, as I have told you before.”

  “Nevertheless his actions make it a trifle difficult for him to return to this country and take up his title, if she is living under his protection.”

  “He would never abandon her; of that I am sure. You don’t know him.”

  “I regret that I have not yet had that privilege. Our fleeting acquaintance in London did not admit me to his confidence. That is easily remedied, though, if I agree to your earlier suggestion to go to France.”

  She shot up in her seat and clapped her hands. “Oh, Edward, really?”

  “Provided you love me even more than you do now.”

  “Impossible. I love you so much already. But will you take me soon?”

  “Yes, my dearest, if only to annoy your Mama.”

  Chapter One

  Lord Philip Sutherland leaned upon the hilt of his smallsword and sighed. Being a fencing master was a poor way to earn a living. Unfortunately, it was the only employment he had been able to find ever since the government of France changed. The Baron de Vezey, ennobled by the Emperor himself and a translator at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, was no longer welcome in the corridors of power. Philip, who had fled to France under a cloud and adopted the French sobriquet, was in no position to return to his own country and one must eat, after all.

  “Are you ready, Monsieur?” The Englishman came towards him, swishing his sword from side to side as if it were a flail. He was big, far taller than Philip and with a longer reach. Lord Worthington considered himself to be a formidable swordsman, as he quickly pointed out, despite requesting teaching in the Italian style. When Philip showed him the differences between the two techniques, he barely paid attention, proclaiming that the English fashion undoubtedly superior. Philip, a master of many styles, thought the man a dolt, only interested in boasting that he had taken instruction in one of the famous Salles des Armes while visiting Paris. This pastime had become fashionable among those English nobles who swarmed into France now the wars were over and the king was safe on his throne again.

  Philip never argued with paying customers although it was sometimes difficult for him to hold his tongue. His position in the Salle des Armes depended on pleasing his clients, so he repressed his irritation and suggested a bout to test Lord Worthington’s theory.

  “At your service, sir.”

  They bowed to each other, crossed swords and the fight began. Cut and thrust, parry, riposte, first one way then the other. The clang of metal and the patter of their footsteps. At the beginning Lord Worthington tried to overcome his slighter opponent by using his strength, a common mistake, betraying his lack of skill. Philip, lighter on his feet but with a wrist of steel, danced away from him, his sword a whirl of silver in the well-lit fencing hall. Given his efforts, the Englishman started to tire and, as a consequence, his te
mper seemed to desert him. Philip attacked, forcing his adversary towards the other side of the room. Lord Worthington kept panting and muttering under his breath, as he attempted to regain the initiative. Philip was both impressed and angered by the stream of his invective.

  He assumes that I cannot understand him, Philip thought, a pity for him that I do. No gentleman should endure such insults from another. I won’t bear this. He must be taught a lesson. Marco will forgive me when I explain.

  Remorselessly, Philip increased his pace. The fury of his attack pushed the Englishman towards the wall. Philip lunged, blocked the following parry, a sudden twist and Lord Worthington’s sword leaped from his grip and slithered across the floor of the salle. Philip stepped back and bowed. At first he thought that his opponent would leap at him. He stood still waiting, keeping eye contact. Marco, the owner of the fencing school came hurrying over, carrying the Englishman’s weapon in his hand. He held the hilt out to him, over his arm.

  “Marco, this man of yours…” Worthington got no further.

  “A fair fight in all respects, Monsieur,” Marco interrupted him. “I was watching you both. The Baron has demonstrated the Italian Technique perfectly, just as you requested. Should you wish for further tuition, you will no doubt return.” Marco waved a hand and a lackey brought over a silver salver with crystal wineglasses. Lord Worthington snatched one and downed its contents, slamming it back onto the tray. His eyes roamed across the crowd of spectators. All the other bouts had ended in order to watch his humiliation.

  “A cold day in hell before I return, Marco. As for you, Baron, if you cross my path again, you will be sorry.” He stormed out.

  “Why was he so out of reason angry, mon ami?” Marco asked.

  “He didn’t like to be beaten in front of witnesses. When he arrived, he boasted of his swordsmanship, such as it is, and likely enough he has done the same before to others. He did not want it to be shown to be inferior.”

  The two men looked at each other. “What did he say to you to make you use the cross-block? That was not a kind thing to do, with a man of his accomplishments.”