Mistletoe, Marriage, and Mayhem: A Bluestocking Belles Collection

by Mariana Gabrielle

  The matching green and amber T'ang vases on either side of the hearth held stems of orange bird-of-paradise, the colors and patterns played out in the carpet and drapes. The curios on the shelves were lovely, but none with the value of the vases, only prettily made ceramics and porcelains, a bronze figurine here, a filigree statuette there. A stone bust of some unknown ancestor had either been carved at three-quarter size or the original subject had a suspiciously small head.

  Swiveling at the sound of the door sliding open, he nearly knocked the bust off its pedestal, managing to keep it upright by shoving the palm of his hand into the poor man's nose. Thus, Lord Effingale found him, seemingly caressing a man's cheek.

  "Lord Firthley," his host said, his tone flat, gaze traveling between Alexander's face and fingers. Alexander rapidly set the statue aright and placed his hand behind his back, as though his intent all along had been merely to bow.

  "Lord Effingale, I thank you for agreeing to see me when I've sent no notice."

  "Indeed." Lord Effingale gestured to a seat and took a chair directly across a tea table. "It is not altogether convenient, but I can spare a few moments. I would have called on you in the next few days, in any case, to express my condolences."

  "Very kind." Alexander had every intention of bolstering whatever story Charlotte might have told, and making sure he stayed on good terms with Lord Effingale, though he couldn't explain why it was important. Just now, however, he found himself struggling for words.

  Thankfully, Lord Effingale seemed more inclined to coherent discussion. "My aunt tells me you've shown a great partiality to my daughter since she has been in Town."

  "Partiali—well… Miss Amberly is certainly… I am not entirely sure I would say…"

  "Yet," the man said, sitting back, crossing his ankle over his knee, "my solicitor assures me you had no knowledge of her direction or her plans to escape Brittlestep Manor. 'You have naught but the barest memory of the chit.'"

  Alexander swallowed hard. He had only rarely chosen women with living fathers, and this was why. "Yes… well… er…"

  "How did she do it, Lord Firthley?"

  "Ahem… do what, Sir?"

  "Convince a man who seemed to possess a modicum of intellect to take her to Bristol or Portsmouth or wherever it was you delivered her before you stopped at your estate on the way to London?"

  "I'm sure I've not… That is to say…" Good God, what was I thinking, requesting this meeting? Where in the name of Heaven was that modicum of intellect?

  "I know my daughter, Lord Firthley. Whatever she told you was most certainly a lie, and while most often well-intentioned, she is the most persuasive young lady in Christendom. She spends every penny of her pin money as soon as it is in her pocket, so she couldn't have paid you, nor do you need her quarterly allowance. I cannot believe she would have offered up her virtue, nor that you would have taken it, but there is no denying you complied with her plan, whatever it was; that I can see by the look on your face. So what was it?"

  "She didn't… I mean… I say, this is not at all why I hoped to speak with you." If he had known the direction this interview would take, he wouldn't have even knocked on the door.

  "I will give you some credit, Lord Firthley. Charlotte was not buried beneath a snowdrift by morning, which I'm sure she would have been, had you not forced her stubborn carcass into a carriage. And you didn't take a driver, so presumably, you kept your hands on the ribbons and not her person."

  "I… of course, I…" Alexander's lips just kept flapping, though he could push no more words through them.

  "And to be fair, there is blame to be lain at many feet, mine own included. Was it merely concern for her safety that set you off in your carriage in the small hours?"

  "Well, there is no question… that is… estate business. It was estate business." If he said it often enough, perhaps someone in the room would believe him.

  "It most certainly was not. She is ruined, nonetheless, you understand."

  There was that. If anyone discovered what she had done, the poor girl would be consigned to a solitary life in the country the rest of her life. If anyone discovered his part, he would, rightly, find himself a social pariah—though to be fair, not nearly as long as she would. Assuming, of course, the man in front of him didn't call him out and run him through, which was entirely his privilege. There was no help for it. Alexander had no right to lie to Lord Effingale, nor pretend the situation was anything but dire.

  "I have not spoken of the matter, nor will I. And I can assure you, she was quite untouched when I left her. You have no reason to fear I will participate in any plan to do harm to her reputation… nor any other part of her."

  "What you will or will not do is irrelevant, Lord Firthley, for the matter is not unknown to all. That, Sir, is why my daughter is not receiving today, nor will she be entertaining any gentlemen in the future." Lord Effingale stood, stepping over to the decanters. "She will be married by the end of the week."

  "What?" Alexander shot up out of his chair, pacing without thinking to the fireplace and back. "Married? To whom?"

  Lord Effingale poured two glasses of brandy and handed one to Alexander, who took it without thinking and set it down on the table.

  "Not that it is your concern, Lord Firthley, but she will be wed to her cousin, Mr. Smithson."

  "Her cousin? That scoundrel?"

  "Yes, that is the one."

  "But she is afraid of him!"

  "With good reason."

  Lord Effingale waved him back to a seat, and Alexander felt his legs fold underneath him, again, purely by instinct. Or inexplicable fear.

  He handed the glass back to Alexander. "My daughter ran off in the night, made her way to London alone, lied to my aunt—and by extension, the Queen of England—to have herself presented without the knowledge of her parents, and has been traipsing about Town like an untrained puppy. Someone has to marry her, and her cousin is the closest available male who will make no objection. And, by the by, he has discovered her various deceptions, and, like any good scoundrel, will use the information to his benefit." He took a long draught of his drink. "And, in this case, there is money to be had."

  "You mean to say he would…"

  "Aye. If there is advantage, he will, and, in this case, there is money to be had. I have only one other option, you see, Lord Firthley."

  "What other option is that, Sir?"

  "I have an unsigned marriage contract with the Marquess of Firthley, and a man so named who played a key role in her ruination."

  Alexander could spit no more than a syllable at a time from his mouth. "But… I… she…"

  Lord Effingale raised one brow. "Yes?"

  "You cannot expect… how you can just hand her over to that havey-cavey… The rumors…"

  "Every one true and more, I assure you. My wife's brother is the worst man I have ever encountered, and his sons have not fallen far from the tree. I do not relish the decision I am forced to, Lord Firthley, but as they say, my daughter has made her bed and now she must lie in it."

  The thought of that beautiful girl in this particular bed was more than Alexander could stand. "I find that remarkably callous, to just hand over your daughter to a man like that."

  "I have but one other option, Lord Firthley, and you seem disinclined to do anything but sputter. Now, as to this other business you wished to discuss? Was it of some urgency, or might we make an appointment for later in the week?"

  "It is… I mean… I suppose we can…"

  "Good." Lord Effingale took to his feet and smoothed down his trousers. "It will prove to be quite a busy week, with my wife arriving in a few days and a wedding to arrange. I will have my secretary be in contact to arrange a time, if I may."

  "Of course."

  As Lord Effingale walked to the door to show his guest out, Alexander quaffed the last of the brandy, thumped his glass onto the table, and said, "I'll do it. I'll marry her."

  Chapter Twelve

  Jan
uary 29, 1804

  London, England

  "Mother!" Charlotte's brows drew together as she threw yet another argument at Lady Effingale's reflection in the looking glass. "Why must I marry at all? No one knows anything, and there are months of parties left in the Season."

  Lady Effingale stopped combing her daughter's hair, looking as though she would speak, but Bella's soft voice started first. From the chair near the dressing screen, where she was brushing Charlotte's slippers, she said, "Because my brother will ruin you if you do not."

  "Quite right, Isabella, dear. Is that a tear in the sole of that shoe?" Lady Effingale snatched the left slipper from Bella's hand, and the two girls performed twin eye rolls in the mirror. "You will marry in two days' time, as your father has arranged, and we will say nothing more about it."

  "But I don't want to!"

  "And I care not at all what you want, Charlotte Amberly. You have had 'what you want' for nearly a month, and the only thing to come of it is an offer to destroy the reputation of this entire family. You have made a mockery of everything I ever taught you, and ruined yourself into the bargain. Let this be your punishment."

  "To be married to a man I hate for the rest of my life?"

  "Yes."

  "But—"

  "Not another word, Charlotte. You might have stopped this before it started by exercising the slightest bit of restraint. Isabella, please check that the lace has been properly tacked onto the green gown. There wasn't time to see to it before I left."

  Bella took the dress in question to the corner, where she settled herself on a shepherdess chair almost the same green as the bodice. Once the lace was reattached, she tightened a seam.

  "Must I really attend a party and pretend to be happy about marrying in haste and repenting in leisure?"

  Lady Effingale let out an exasperated huff and wrenched the brush through Charlotte's hair, inspiring a yelp. When Charlotte reached up to discover whether she now had a bald spot, her mother slapped her hand away.

  "You will attend the party. You will stand up for every dance with your new betrothed and make enough lovesick calves' eyes to put a herd of beeves to shame. And you will marry in two days' time, whether you like it or not!" The boar-bristle brush caught on a tangle and brushed through it with no concern for Charlotte's wincing.

  "But—"

  Lady Effingale grasped Charlotte's hair and pulled her head back to glare upside-down. "You will do exactly what I say, Charlotte, or I will turn you out with nothing. Do you understand me? No dowry, no money, not even a pelisse to keep you warm. You wish to run away from your family? Very well. I will let you go, but you will not use Amberly or Effingale money to do it. We will see how long you last on the streets of London."

  Shoving Charlotte's head forward, she used the brush to turn a curl around her hand, tipping her head to gauge whether it was too wide to frame her daughter's face. Apparently, she decided it was, as she separated it into strands, using a pin to secure one ringlet to the crown of Charlotte's head. Charlotte's mutinous expression in the looking glass finally resolved itself to resignation and despair.

  "Perhaps it will not be so bad, Charlotte," Bella offered. "You will be living close by. You can visit any time you like."

  "Easy enough for you to say!" Charlotte shouted as she turned, locks of hair flying about her face like driving rain. "You'll be living in my room, in my house, with no unspeakable husband to tell you what to do!" At that, her screeching turned to sobs, and she put her head down on the dressing table and cried.

  Bella sat quietly with her needlework, waiting for the storm to pass. Charlotte's fits of temper, while fiery, had no lasting heat.

  Lady Effingale, on the other hand, would have none of it.

  "That is the outside of enough, girl. I will have no truck with this unseemly behavior. Stop that sniveling, sit up straight, and act like the lady you were raised to be."

  Finally, after several long minutes of her mother's toe tapping in an angry rhythm, Charlotte sat up and glared at Bella in the mirror.

  ***

  Two hours later, Charlotte was handed down first from the carriage, holding her emerald green silk skirt and black velvet cloak just slightly higher than her slipper, to avoid the muddy street. Throwing her shoulders back, head high, she marched to the front door of the Popham's town house, not stopping until her father snapped sharply, "Charlotte, you will wait for the rest of us."

  Once Lady Effingale, and finally Bella, were on the walk, straightening their clothes from the carriage ride, Lord and Lady Effingale joined arms and led the two girls to the door. Immediately upon entering, before she had even removed her cloak, a familiar voice spoke in her ear as a set of large hands helped her off with her outerwear. She shuddered at the contact.

  "You look charming, my dear, and so lovely in green. I believe this shade perfectly matches your eyes."

  Tossing his hands off her shoulders, spinning on her heel, she narrowed the eyes that matched her outfit and her jewels and snarled, as quietly as she could manage, "You do not have permission to touch me, Sir, and I do not appreciate your forward behavior."

  "But, dearest…" Lord Firthley smiled in that infernally appealing way, one side of his lips turned up, and his eyes sparkling the way they did when he laughed. "Surely you cannot object to your betrothed merely touching your arm."

  She turned away from his low bow with a harrumph. When he offered his elbow to lead her to the ballroom, she stared at it like he was hiding a snake in his sleeve, until her mother grasped her hand and placed it under Lord Firthley's arm, hissing in her ear, "You. Will. Not. Make. A. Scene. Smile, Charlotte Amberly, or I will make you wish you had."

  With a beleaguered sigh, she allowed herself to be led away by the horrible man who had offered for her without once mentioning his intentions.

  When they entered the ballroom, the buzz of conversation stopped, then restarted, all eyes trained on her. Jeremy had clearly begun his campaign to see her ruined, but Lord Firthley merely patted her hand, smiled down at her with genuine pleasure, and said, "If nothing else, we will be amused all evening by the assembled lords and ladies who cannot decide whether to vilify you or fawn over me."

  Charlotte hardened her face into the sharp smile she had perfected years ago, and said, "Perhaps the rest of the assemblage will toady to you, my lord, but if I am to be your wife, you should not come to expect it from me."

  With a chuckle, he brushed his gloved hand across her cheek and whispered in her ear, "I will expect many things from you as my wife, my sweet; toadying is not one of them."

  At her gasp, watching the blush fill her cheeks, he nodded in satisfaction and led her to the dance floor.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Bella took up her usual position in a quiet corner. She had been acting as Charlotte's companion so long she was quite familiar with being ignored, though being ignored in London was new. She should not even be here, as she would not have a come-out until next year, if at all. It was rather a ridiculous exercise, in Bella's opinion, because she wasn't pretty enough to attract the attention of potential husbands, and her dowry was laughable. Not to mention she had no idea what to say to strangers of either gender. She would rather clean chamber pots for pirates than speak to people she didn't know.

  Still, it was not so much a trial to sit and listen to the music, watch the pretty gowns and jewels, steal glances at the handsome gentlemen who would never ask her to dance. Her feet mimicked the steps of the cotillion, so ensconced in Mozart, she didn't notice the man coming up to bow before her. When she did, she shot up out of her seat, searching the crowd for her uncle.

  "Dear Sister," Jeremy sneered, grabbing her elbow before she could run. "I believe we must dance, lest the company believe there to be bad blood between us. There are already unavoidable questions about why the Smithson chit does not reside at home, nor enjoy the escort of her loving brothers who would, of course, stop at nothing to protect her from harm."

  Blood draine
d from her face, and she dredged up a fake smile. Bella felt so sick she thought she might cast up her accounts in the ballroom. She tried to back away, saying, "You must let me go, Jeremy. I've had the headache all day and am afraid I will be sick."

  His cold eyes bore into hers, setting her cowering before she could remind herself not to react. "You will do nothing of the sort, for if you cause a commotion, I will remove you from the party and take you directly home to Father. Which is where you will go soon, in any case, most likely to prepare for your own wedding." She shrank to the size of a walnut. With no further argument, she followed him onto the floor.

  As always, Jeremy was masterful at appearing to enjoy the entertainments, while making her life unbearable under his breath, anytime they came close enough in the dance to hiss vile words into her ear.

  "I do not appreciate being made to look a fool, and you may say so to our lovely cousin."

  As she started, "But I have nothing…" the dance parted them.

  At the next turn, he said, "I will not sleep until she is finished in England."

  No argument would satisfy him, but if he believed Bella compliant, he might leave her alone a while, without convincing their father she required 'correction.'

  "I will decry her until her precious marquess cannot stand the sight of her."

  As Bella stepped away in the figure of the dance, her brother was jerked out of the formation with a yelp, his face shocked and arms pinwheeling backward. While Lord Firthley marched Jeremy toward the doors to the terrace, Charlotte grasped Bella's arm from behind, whisked her away to the ladies' withdrawing room, and locked the door behind them. Before they had taken two steps off the dance floor, the entire room had fallen silent, including the string quartet.

  "Charlotte, you cannot allow him to make such a scene! Aunt Minerva will—"

  "There is no taking back the scene now, and my mother will button her lip if the marquess tells her to do so, and he assures me he will. Jeremy was making threats against me, I suppose, and to take you home to your father if you didn't comply with some dastardly plan?"