Mistletoe, Marriage, and Mayhem: A Bluestocking Belles Collection

by Mariana Gabrielle

  Wondering how she might cross the street, she observed a crowd of people gathering near a box with colored lights. When the lights changed color, the vehicles stopped and allowed the people to cross. What a good idea, she thought. Something like this would definitely be useful in the London I know. She joined the next group as it gathered to wait for the change in the light, and was able to safely cross the street.

  Now, where to go to find an antique shop? Clearly she would have to ask someone, but everyone around her seemed to be in a hurry to get somewhere. As she strolled along a paved path, she felt a drop of rain of her nose and looked up to see the dark clouds gathering above. Rain was on the way—and rather a lot of it, if she wasn't mistaken. Pulling the hood of her cloak tightly to her head, she glanced around for shelter. The best option seemed a large building with a Palladian portico on the corner of the busy street. Hoping the owners wouldn't mind her taking shelter there, she ran through the painted green gate just as the rain started pouring down in torrents.

  She'd been standing there a few minutes, beginning to feel the sudden chilling of the air through her fur-lined cloak when the door to the house opened and a stout, middle-aged woman gestured for her to come inside.

  "Weren't you told to come in through the back entrance? We've been expecting you for over an hour, you know. Dear me, you must be freezing to death out there. Might have a bit of snow this evening, or so they say."

  Julia's mouth fell open. They were expecting her? No, of course not. She was being mistaken for someone else.

  "I don't think…" she began, but was interrupted by another, taller, woman, who unhooked her cloak and dragged her into a back room.

  "The hair needs some work," she commented as she surveyed Julia's appearance. The dress is the right period, but the freckles! The agency surely knows proper ladies of the Regency did not have freckles."

  Julia's eyes narrowed. She'd heard enough of that nonsense in her early years. "I assure you, they did, madam, if that was the complexion they were born with." Scrubbing them with lemon juice and taking parasols everywhere had never made much of a difference, so she had learned to accept hers gracefully.

  The tall woman raised her eyebrows and mumbled something about the "impertinence of young people these days," and the other woman brought her some coffee and biscuits, and before she knew what was happening, her hair was restyled, her gown brushed and tidied, and she was sent upstairs to the "Striped Drawing Room" to mingle with the guests and talk to them about what it was like to live in "the Regency."

  There was an awkward moment or two before she learned that "the Regency" was the period from 1811 to 1820 when the Prince of Wales ruled as his father's proxy until the king's death in 1820. The Prince had been Regent for nearly two years in her own time, but nobody she knew called it "the Regency." And she hadn't, of course, known the date of the King's death. That caused a tear or two until she realized suddenly that he had been dead for nearly two hundred years, and so was everyone else she knew. Even she herself. Just thinking about it made her head spin.

  But she didn't have long to brood, because there were visitors to talk to. And other interesting things to learn—more awkward moments—such as the name of the house—Apsley House—and its most famous occupant—the Duke of Wellington, who turned out to be Arthur Wellesley, a particular friend of her father's who, in her time, had only recently been made a marquess. From listening to the guides of some of the groups who toured the house, she learned that Wellesley had triumphed against the French emperor in a famous battle in an obscure Belgian town called Waterloo and that he had been showered with lavish gifts from all over the world, and even become Prime Minister. How intriguing!

  Although she found it amusing to speak with the visitors about attending balls and dinners and answering a multitude of questions about the period in which she lived, she was relieved when the young woman whose place she had taken finally arrived, and she could leave to continue her explorations of the London of the future. What else might she discover before returning to her own time?

  Chapter Five

  November 22, 1812

  Pendleton Townhouse

  Grosvenor Square

  London

  "Her ladyship is expecting you," said the grim-faced butler as he took Oliver's coat and hat and gave them to a footman. "Follow me."

  Oliver, after a sleepless night, had been working on his second cup of coffee when a footman had brought him a message on a silver tray. Recognizing the handwriting as that of his future mother-in-law, he'd broken open the seal and scanned its contents with increasing apprehension. The note was brief and hastily scrawled, referring to "an urgent matter," and summoning him to come immediately to the Pendleton townhouse. Oliver stared at it in disbelief. What could possibly have happened to require his presence only a scant three hours before the ceremony? Her ladyship was not the type to have fits of anxiety over catering mishaps, so he knew whatever it was had to be truly disastrous. Wedding day or no, he'd thrown on some clothes, called for his horse, and set off for Grosvenor Square, his mind reeling with the fear that something dreadful had happened to Julia. She was ill. She had called off the wedding. Even worse, she had died and he would have lost her forever.

  The butler led him up the stairs to the master suite, where Lady Pendleton was waiting for him in her sitting room. She was pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace, still in her dressing gown, her silver-blonde hair in a loose braid behind her back. Upon the announcement of his presence, she raised her eyes, and he was shocked to see how little this frightened woman resembled the strong, confident, often imperious countess he'd known all his life.

  "Oh, Oliver!" she cried, rushing toward him. "I'm so sorry! I should have known it wasn't just bridal jitters, like with her sisters. I suspected things between you weren't what they ought to be, but I thought, well, I was so certain it would all turn out well once you were wed. You've loved each other forever, after all. It was only a matter of time before you both comprehended it."

  Oliver grasped her extended hands, his mind racing to discern the meaning of her words. Julia loved him? The way he loved her? He wished desperately to believe it, but that, if true, didn't explain the cause of Lady Pendleton's distress. He looked around the room.

  "Where is Julia?"

  Lady Pendleton squeezed his hands gently. "Come," she said, taking a deep breath, "You should be seated when you hear this. We both should. Cox, do fetch more coffee. I daresay Mr. Stanton will be glad of it later."

  Oliver resisted, refusing to budge from the spot where he stood, his posture stiff and his jaw clenched.

  "Agatha."

  Lady Pendleton's eyes widened. The fact that he dared to call her by her first name when he'd never done so before must have done something to steady her nerves because she let her hands fall to her sides and straightened her spine as she made strong eye contact with him.

  "She's gone, Oliver. I don't know where. I'm terribly afraid…" She bit her lip. "There will be no wedding today."

  Oliver's stomach clenched. "Gone? Where has she gone? Has something happened?"

  It made no sense. Julia didn't want to marry him? Why had she accepted his offer, then? If she'd had doubts, why hadn't she mentioned them before? Although, he recalled, they hadn't had much time alone together in recent weeks, what with all the wedding preparations and all… No, it was more than that, he realized. He'd deliberately kept himself from her, blaming it on his work at the bank when it was really all about Kate and his guilt. He pushed back those feelings and followed Lady Pendleton to a pair of chairs in front of the bow window. A lovely sunny day, rare in November, he thought sadly. A perfect day for a wedding.

  Lady Pendleton wrung her hands. "I didn't think it was important at the time—wedding jitters, you know—but the more I think on it, the more certain I become that I should have known there was more to it, that Julia would never have behaved so, not on the eve of her wedding to you, Oliver, the man she's always wante
d."

  Oliver flinched, wondering if he'd really heard that last sentence correctly. Could it be true that Julia loved him, that she had done so even before his marriage to Kate? As much as he wanted to believe it, he didn't really want to think how much pain it must have caused her when he wed her best friend instead. He never would have, had he known.

  But it couldn't be true, because Kate would have known. The two of them were like peas in a pod in the years after he left for school. Surely Kate would not have begged him to marry her if she'd known.

  Oliver ran his hands through his hair. "Calm yourself, Agatha, and start at the beginning. What happened last night to cause Julia to have, er, second thoughts about our wedding? You believe she did wish to wed me, then?"

  Her ladyship put a hand to her forehead and took a long breath. "Of course she did, Oliver. Why do you think she's turned down so many eligible offers over the years? It was you—it was always you. I was so happy for her when you finally came up to scratch, but I must confess to having some misgivings when you were so busy working to offer much in the way of a courtship. I shouldn't wish my daughter married to a gentleman who spent more time away from her than with her. I had a similar problem with his lordship until I put my foot down and demanded that his family be his first priority."

  Oliver shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He should have given her more of his attention. Bloody hell, he should have told her everything from the start, so that she would have no reason to doubt him and they could have been married today as planned.

  "Come in," replied Lady Pendleton to the scratch at the door. A footman opened the door, and the maid carried a tray into the room to set down on the table in front of them. Her ladyship poured and handed him a cup.

  "I daresay what is really called for is brandy, but under the circumstances, we'd best keep our heads clear while we consider what is to be done."

  She took a long sip and set down the cup and saucer.

  "Now then," she said, giving him a direct look. "What I choose to say to you will depend on your answer to this question. Oliver, do you love my daughter? Or do you have other—shall we say, more practical?—reasons for offering to marry her? Don't lie to me," she warned. "You've never been a good liar. I could always tell when you were lying to me as a boy, and I daresay I haven't lost the knack of it."

  Oliver sat up straight and returned her look without flinching. There was no point in prevarication. "I love Julia. I've always loved her."

  Lady Pendleton shook her head in disgust. "A pity you never told her that."

  When Oliver opened his mouth to explain, she put up a hand to stop him. "Don't. That's between the two of you. The important thing right now is to find Julia. Once we have her back, you'll have to make your case with her. I, of course, will support her in whatever decision she makes."

  "I should expect nothing else, my lady. Where is Julia?"

  She rubbed the back of her neck and gave him an assessing look.

  Oliver wanted to get up and shake her.

  "Do you know where she is? Has a search been ordered? Tell me, Agatha! I must know that Julia is safe, above all!"

  Julia's mother rose from her seat and resumed her frantic pacing before the fireplace. Finally, she shook her head and stopped directly in front of Oliver, who rose and clasped her hands.

  "I suppose there's nothing else to do but to trust you, Oliver. I believe you love Julia, and if you do, you'll take the risk… and perhaps there is still hope for a successful match between you."

  "Tell me," he demanded. "Tell me where she is, and I promise I will bring her back."

  Lady Pendleton looked at him steadily. "I believe she has traveled to the future, Oliver. Will you go after her and convince her to return to us?"

  ***

  Two hours later

  Lady Pendleton's library

  Oliver downed the entire glass of brandy, nearly choking at the potency of the liquid heat as it slid down his gullet. His preference was claret or port, but under the circumstances, he thought something stronger was called for. Outside of heating his blood and making his heart pound faster, the spirits had no effect in clearing his head of the myriad confusion of thoughts and emotions that had come over him at hearing Lady Pendleton's incredible story about traveling through time.

  It was preposterous, of course. People did not travel through time any more than fairies granted wishes or witches conjured spells. Such things were nothing but superstitions, created by simple-minded people with wild imaginations, or lunatics who had lost touch with reality. Time wasn't something you could jump across, because if you could, the world would become a jumbled mess with no sense of order or reason. A world without reason reminded him too much of his father's chaotic life, from which Oliver had been rescued by his grandfather's intervention. No, he couldn't allow himself to believe in such things. All he'd ever wanted was a steady life with a respectable home and family… with Julia, of course. Without her, it would be spiritless. He'd marry again—Violet needed a mother—but it would be a dull, colorless life without the lovely, fiery Julia in it. His heart protested at the thought. He couldn't do that again, at least not before he had exhausted every effort to win her back to him.

  He forced his mind back to the tale Lady Pendleton had told him of her own travel to the future more than a decade ago, after she and her husband had had a serious falling-out. And how Julia had discovered it later through reading her journal and demanded to know all about it.

  "I warned the girls—my husband insisted, and I concurred—that such travels can be dangerous and are not to be undertaken without serious consideration. I burned the journal, but of course, she'd already read it by then." Lady Pendleton had pulled the edges of her dressing gown closer together. "Of all my girls, Julia is the most like me. I should have guessed that she would react in a similar manner when confronted with a painful blow."

  "What blow?" Oliver had burst out. "What the devil happened to make her run away? Did someone say something to her? Some sort of malicious gossip? And why wouldn't she come to me about it?" Even as he said it, he wished he'd bit his tongue first.

  Well, of course she wouldn't come to you. You've made yourself conspicuously absent in her life up to this point. Even after the betrothal. How could she possibly trust you after you've been so neglectful?

  Her ladyship didn't seem to notice. "The first sign of hysteria I noticed was last evening, when I found her outside the kitchen after conferring with your father's cook about the wedding breakfast—good heavens, what are we going to do about all the food?—and I saw Julia in a dark corner, looking so distraught, so agitated—I've never seen her like that, now I think on it. What a nodcock I am! I assumed it was just nerves, bridal jitters. But that's not Julia at all!"

  A sudden coldness hit Oliver somewhere in the direction of his stomach. "My father's house? Julia was at my father's house last evening?"

  Lady Pendleton had ceased pacing and lowered her head to stare at him. "Of course. Where else would his cook be? But Julia did not follow me as far as the kitchen. I never thought to ask why, but—that must be it! Something must have happened—something significant to distress her so. Do you know what it might have been?"

  Oh yes, Oliver did. She must have overheard some of the drunken speeches in the library, the worst of which had come from his father. Oliver had been appalled to hear it, and if Julia had overheard it as well—it was no wonder she had run scared.

  But he couldn't blame it entirely on his father. She knew his father's character. He'd always been open about his disdain for the man's dissolute behavior, nor was it a secret to polite society, whose doors remained firmly closed to him.

  No, the fault was his. He'd allowed his guilt over Kate's death to prevent him from revealing his true feelings to Julia. And before that, the difference between their stations. If he'd declared himself then, after that first ball, when he knew he wanted her, they could have been happily married for years, and Kate… well, she'd still be
alive, more than likely.

  He looked longingly at the brandy decanter, but deliberately turned away. Enough with the bloody remorse! He'd allowed it to rule his life for far too long. The past was what it was, and couldn't be changed. Or could it? Lady Pendleton's time travel assertions gave him pause to consider the implications. If he could go back in time, knowing what he knew now, could he undo the mistakes of the past? But even as the thought flashed through his mind, he knew he'd never do it. Primarily because of Violet. He loved his little daughter. No matter what other regrets he might have, she wasn't one of them.

  And who was to say the immature, self-doubting young man of the past wouldn't make similarly poor choices? No, the mistakes of youth were what made him the man he was. And now, he would do whatever he had to in order to find Julia and convince her to marry him.

  Even if it meant traveling through time. He winced. Had he really agreed to do such a thing?

  Lady Pendleton bustled into the room, wrapped in a purple mantel lined with fur and a matching bonnet with enormous peacock feathers.

  "The carriage is ready. Higgins has gone to fetch your coat."

  She narrowed her eyes at the sight of the empty brandy snifter. "I do hope you haven't over-imbibed. You're going to need a clear head once we get to Gracechurch Street."

  Oliver raised his eyebrows. "Not at all, madam. I am eager to meet this woman, this gypsy. What did you say her name was?"

  "Madame Herne. She's certain to be the one Julia would have gone to if she'd had a notion to bolt. A bit peculiar, of course, but no more than one would expect of a—a conjurer of sorts."

  And so the pair of them set off in the Pendletons' crested carriage to Gracechurch Street to meet a conjuring gypsy lady who helped people travel through time. Oliver looked at his watch. Just past ten o'clock, when he'd expected to be at St. George's exchanging vows with his bride.