A Duke for Christmas

by Cynthia Bailey Pratt

  Sophie couldn’t hear what they said to each other. Obviously, Lucia urged her sister to come in out of the cold. Angelina shook her head so emphatically that some of her hair shook loose. Lucia gently tucked it behind her sister’s ear and took her hand to lead her into the building. Angelina obviously didn’t want to go, but slowly she began to walk along, her arms wrapped around her middle, Lucia’s arm supporting her as if she were sick or wounded.

  Sophie stepped back through the curtain. Dominic and Kenton were still in conference by the fireplace. She passed out of the room unnoticed, though when some instinct made her glance back, Dominic was smiling at her.

  She hurried toward the servants’ hall. Her mother, coming down the stairs, called to her. Sophie waited for her. “I think Angelina’s ill, Mother. I was going to see.”

  “Dear me. I hope she hasn’t brought anything contagious into this house.”

  “I doubt it. We were all given a clean bill of health when we arrived.”

  “Well, I shall go with you. If she’s ill, she will have to see Dr. Richards at once. We mustn’t risk any danger to Maris at this delicate tune.”

  “No, of course not.”

  After a little effort, they found that the girls had gone to the room they shared on the third floor. Sophie persuaded her mother that it was unnecessary for her to climb the narrow steps that wound from the kitchens to the upper levels. She left her discussing the proper diet for a new mother with Mrs. Lemon.

  Her candle threw weird shadows as Sophie climbed up from one floor to the next. The Danesbys had not lavished so much attention on this part of the house, the carpet being of drugget and the banister a plain run of pine. Though the kitchen below was both warm and airy, the stairs were neither, being drafty and haunted by the smells of long-ago meals. She cupped her hand around the candle flame to keep it from blowing out. Sophie was relieved to see buckets of both water and sand on each landing in case of fire.

  Emerging at last onto the third floor, Sophie looked for the fourth door on the right. This upper hall, though plainly papered and painted, had a welcoming look, if not temperature. A pretty blue vase stood upon a barley-twist table at the end of the narrow hail, adding a bit of color to a utilitarian area.

  Even before Sophie found the door she sought, she heard the sound of idiomatic Italian spoken with great rapidity and a good deal of force. If there had been English people talking that quickly and with that volume, she would have broken in the door, anticipating a murder or at least a violent altercation. It had taken her several months of living in Rome to learn that when someone spoke very quickly and loudly, it didn’t mean that they were angry with her.

  She knocked and the voice, only one, stopped in mid word. After a moment, in which Sophie thought she heard whispering, someone said, “Si?”

  “Mi scusi, Lucia. Permesso?”

  “Ah, Signora Banner,” Lucia said, opening the door a few inches. She wore a dressing gown, held tightly against her throat, her hair pouring like a waterfall over her shoulders. Her smile held no hint of anxiety, only sleepiness.

  Sophie was surprised to see her ready for bed and said so. Lucia started on a long tale of having a headache and wishing to go to sleep early. Not being able to ask for permission from the upper servants and not wishing to disturb Sophie, she’d retired on her own responsibility. “Ma, Angelina aiuterà, signora.”

  “Non è importante, grazie.”

  But Lucia insisted it was important and that Angelina would be down to wait on Signora Banner in not more than half an hour. A voice from within the room made Lucia turn her head to listen. She said something short and sharp which, nonetheless, made Angelina laugh. Sophie heard something about a barking dog, one of those Italian phrases for which she’d never understood the meaning behind the words.

  Sophie wished Lucia a good evening and a restful right. Somewhat puzzled, she picked up her candle from the hall table and descended the narrow back staircase. Perhaps she’d misinterpreted what she’d seen outside. Angelina no longer seemed to be in emotional distress. People were incalculable. Angelina had not seemed like a volatile personality, either in Rome or on the ship. Therefore, if she were laughing now, she probably hadn’t been overset outside.

  Mrs. Lindel having left the kitchen, Sophie went in search of her to reassure her that she had nothing to worry about. No one was ill. There would be no risk to Mans or her child.

  Mrs. Lindel had returned to the drawing room. Sophie entered, looking about her. “Where are the men?”

  “They’ve gone to play billiards and probably to smoke, if I know men. How is your little maid?”

  “Perfectly well. I don’t know what made me think she was ill.”

  “I do so hope you’re not going to become prophetic, dearest. I had a great-aunt who used to see visions of great events before they happened.”

  “Did you? I never heard this tale,” Sophie said, sinking down on an ottoman at her mother’s feet.

  Mrs. Lindel laid the Ladies’ Magazine down on her knee, marking her place with her finger. “Oh, yes. My mother’s aunt used to see the most terrible visions at the most inconvenient times. One would be entertaining the bishop or some such person when Great-Aunt Oralie would shout out some nonsense about flying chariots or black clouds of doom hovering over people.”

  “How embarrassing.”

  “To say the least.”

  “Why did she do it?”

  “Who can say? I was so young all I could do was cringe. Now that I’m older, I believe I understand. I think it was a desire to improve a rather dull existence by making herself interesting. She never married nor, I believe, did anyone ever wish to marry her. With so little to think about, who can blame her for inventing a talent for prophecy?”

  “No, I couldn’t blame her. If anything, I envy her,” Sophie said, staring down at the pale gold glint of her wedding band.

  “Envy her?”

  “I wish my life had been that dull. I would rather have imaginary troubles.”

  “And no love?” Her mother’s eyes were kind and wise, deep wells of both love and sorrow.

  “I was happy when I thought Broderick loved me. Perhaps he even did, for a little while.”

  “Did you love him longer than a little while?”

  “Yes, for all the good it did me.”

  “I’m not sure that doing oneself good is the reason we seek after love. Tell me. Do you blame me for not stopping you as I could have done?”

  Sophie glanced up and surprised a tear on her mother’s face. Instantly she reached up to clasp her hand. “No. I never thought that for one instant. Marrying him was my choice. When it went wrong, that was my fault as much as his.”

  “He misled you about the life he saw for the two of you.”

  “No, I think I misled myself. I can’t be sure at this point what Broderick wanted. I only know it wasn’t what I had to offer.”

  Mrs. Lindel patted Sophie’s cheek with her petal-soft fingers. “I didn’t realize Broderick was so blind. How any man, looking at you, could look elsewhere …”

  “Ah, but you didn’t see Catherine Margrave. An olive-skinned, plump brunette with cupid’s-bow lips and the most enchanting beauty spot above her left cheekbone. She had strange, light green eyes, in piquant contest to her coloring. All the men were mad for her at first sight.”

  “You knew her, then?”

  “Certainly,” Sophie said lightly, sitting back on her heels. “We met some weeks before Broderick ever saw her. I actually liked her very much.”

  “Then she betrayed you when she stole your husband.”

  “Broderick was very attractive. And...” she hesitated, cobbling together her thought and philosophy. “I don’t believe that anyone can steal another’s love. She didn’t hit Broderick on the head and drag him off to live with her. He went most willingly, even joyfully.”

  “It’s hard for me to understand such a man. Your father never would have made that sort of break with me, however
many mistresses he had in keeping.”

  “Mother? He didn’t...”

  “I don’t know. I suspected sometimes, but we never spoke of it and actually, now that I look back, I can’t be sure. No one who mattered, at any rate.”

  Sophie could see herself being willfully blind about such matters if Broderick had only let that be an option. “When I look at your marriage and Maris’s, it does give me hope that mine was no more than an aberration.”

  The ormolu clock above the marble fireplace chimed with crystal clarity. “Is it so late? We’d better retire if we are to visit Miss Bowles early.”

  “True.” Sophie leaned on her mother’s chair and stood up. “I think I’ll find a book and read for a little first. I’ve had so little time to read lately.”

  “I’ll go look in on Maris. Kenton said she was very tired tonight.”

  Sophie paused mid-step. “Do you think it will be soon?”

  “Before Christmas, I think. Her silhouette has changed.”

  “Oh. Oh, I see, I think.” Sophie leashed her thoughts, not wanting to travel down that path. Though she had once believed herself pregnant for several weeks the summer after she was married, she had never imagined the details of childbirth. Though her disappointment had been intense at the time, she’d soon realized it was all for the best. Now she was torn between excitement at the birth of her niece or nephew and sympathy for what Maris would soon suffer.

  A book had suddenly become a necessity. She took up one of the chambersticks waiting for the household at the bottom of the stairs. Dimly, she heard the men laughing in the room sacred to sport. It sounded as though Dominic has succeeded in raising Kenton’s spirits. She felt an impulse to go in there, to spend a few minutes in cheerful company. Women, her beloved family, seemed to want to turn her over and shake out all the loose bits, as if she were a broken clock. Dominic—that is to say, men—didn’t do that. They were content to talk about impersonal matters.

  She walked toward the sound of their voices. Before she’d gone very far, however, she thought the better of it. No doubt they had their coats off, their cravats undone. She would only disturb their comfort.

  She turned back. Book, then bed. In the morning, she’d have the exhausting duty of consulting about dress. Sophie wished she could pretend to be a mere doll, a female-shaped object to be dressed as wiser heads decreed. Knowing herself, however, she foresaw that she’d struggle fruitlessly against her mother and sister’s advice.

  The library fire had died down to a mere glow. Which explained perhaps why Sophie shivered when she walked into the room. Her candle flickered, casting shadows that: raced over the walls in a dame macabre. Cupping her hand about it, she stepped to the bookcases. Somewhere there must be a book that would calm her thoughts.

  A rustle registered only as a sound to be expected in a library, the sound of paper or curtain. Yet an instinct deeper than civilization allowed spoke. Sophie felt her whole body tighten. With utter care, she turned her head.

  The dark was cave-like. Her single flame penetrated only a few feet and had the sole effect of making the darkness darker yet. Sophie suddenly realized that having the only light was not a good thing at all. She couldn’t see, but stood exposed to the hostile eyes she instinctively knew were focused upon her.

  “Sophie?”

  When a deep voice spoke her name, a strangled scream broke from her lips and her hand flew up. The candle dropped, snuffing itself on the carpet. “Dominic,” she whispered hoarsely. “Someone’s here.”

  A swirling blast of frigid air tore through the room, driving spicules of ice against her skin. The French door at the far end of the room slammed, breaking a pane of glass.

  Dominic ran past her, touching her back fleetingly, and pursued. Sophie fell back to the doorway and shouted for help and light. As if echoing her demand, she heard a dog barking wildly somewhere beyond the walls of the house.

  She had no notion that Finchley held so many souls. People seemed to pour out like ants when their nest is stirred by a stick. Half a dozen maidservants appeared, including Lucia and Angelina, some screaming before even knowing what was happening. Boots and footmen came storming from behind the green baize door, youngest and oldest alike dancing with excitement and alarm. The haughty month-nurse who kept strictly to herself in the empty nursery ran down the stairs and added to the confusion by tripping on the first step and riding down the rest on her tailbone.

  When Tremlow appeared, stately as a great galleon scattering lesser vessels in the way, the cacophony died away to near quiet, punctuated only by the whimpering of the poor month-nurse.

  Sophie grabbed Kenton’s arm. “He’s gone out after him.”

  “Who?”

  “Dominic. There was someone in the library. He frightened me. Dominic ran after him.”

  “Who was it?”

  “I don’t know. It was dark.” She drew in a shaky breath. “I went in for a book. There was someone there.”

  “All right,” he said. “Men, search the grounds. Tremlow, send someone to alert the stables.”

  “Very good, my lord.” He pointed two lordly fingers at the boots. “The stables, at once.”

  “Yes, Mr. Tremlow.”

  Kenton seized a branched candelabra from the cook’s trembling hands and led the way into the library. “Throw some logs on the fire, someone.”

  “Sophie, what’s toward?” her mother asked, making her way through the milling servants. Her gray hair lay in waves on her shoulders, her wrapper caught to her bosom with one hand. “Are you all right?” she demanded, putting her arm about Sophie’s shoulders.

  The sight of her mother’s concerned frown made Sophie pull herself together. “I came in for a book and I surprised an intruder. That’s all. He ran away as soon as Dominic appeared.”

  “You’re not hurt? He didn’t touch you?”

  “No, I’m fine.” She smiled at her mother with a courage that ceased to be feigned after a moment or so.

  Kenton was by now examining the broken window, stepping gingerly amid the pieces of glass, some crushed to powder by Dominic’s racing feet. Sophie came closer, stopping on the end of the carpet, where the glass and the blowing snow hadn’t reached.

  “That happened when the burglar ran out”

  Kenton steadied the door, which had a tendency to swing in the icy breeze. He frowned at the white woodwork. “I think...” he began to say.

  Mrs. Lemon lifted a wavering hand, pointing over Kenton’s head. “Look, look there.”

  A man appeared, wraithlike on the other side of the windows. Everyone stared, even the master of the house. Then Dominic pushed against Kenton’s hold. “Let a fellow in. I’m colder than a fish.”

  “What happened?” Ken demanded, throwing open the door. Dominic and Tip entered, spattered with snow.

  Sophie looked around and saw the figured silk-and-wool shawl Maris had been wearing earlier in the evening thrown over the back of a settee. She took it up, feeling the weight and warmth with pleasure. Without saying a word, she reached up on her toes to drape the shawl around Dominic’s shoulders. The fabric of his coat showed darker spots where the snow had melted. His hair, too, had turned darker, especially where he raked it back from his forehead. He grasped the shawl and threw her an absent smile before his attention was once more captured by what Kenton was showing him.

  “There’s blood here,” he said.

  That was too much for the cook. She gave a piercing scream, startling every one, and tottered, first one way and then another. Though far from the overly plump cook of common knowledge, she nonetheless knocked down the tweeny and Lucia when she collapsed.

  Dominic met Sophie’s eyes and his lips twitched uncontrollably. She felt the laughter rising up like champagne inside a shaken bottle. A few giggles escaped and she coughed to disguise it, lest someone assume she was hysterical.

  “It’s not my blood,” Dominic said, holding up his hands one after the other to show that there were no wounds anyw
here.

  Poor Mrs. Lemon had roused just enough to hear the word “blood” again and promptly crashed down. This time the tweeny managed to sidestep her and avoid being flattened.

  “Therefore, it seems as if we must look for someone with a cut on their hand,” Kenton said, turning his head briefly at the noise of the fall. “I’ve sent the men out to search.”

  “They won’t find anything. I was following the footprints, but the snow is blowing around and wiping them

  out.”

  Sophie spoke up. “Let’s discuss this elsewhere before Dominic—and poor Tip—catch their death.”

  They all looked down at the dog. He looked up, his sherry-colored eyes alert. A rag hung from the corner of his mouth. “What’s that?” Kenton said, bending low. “Come on, boy. Give it up.”

  He held it out on his palm. An irregularly torn piece of fabric, two inches square, of some rough material, it had evidently been ripped from some larger piece; “Our poor burglar is an unlucky devil. First he cuts his; hand, then Tip gets a hold on his best trousering.”

  “You’d better keep it. That’s a valuable piece of evidence,” Dominic said, shivering.

  “You go change your clothes and dry your hair,” Sophie demanded. “I’ll make tea, as Mrs. Lemon is indisposed.”

  He snapped to attention, saluting sharply. “You have but to command, ma’am.”

  Chapter Nine

  “It seems I missed all the excitement,” Maris complained, waiting for the carriage the next morning. “I cannot believe that no one bothered to awaken me, not even Kenton.”

  “Did you scold him for it?” Sophie asked.

  “Indeed. I hold that a man has certain responsibilities toward his wife, one of which is certainly to awaken her when the house is under siege by bandits.”

  “Just one bandit,” Sophie said, “And he, it seems, didn’t steal anything.”

  “Now that’s very curious. As almost everything at Finchley is an heirloom, I may as well admit that we have a plethora of beautiful things. Quite a lot of it is portable, as well.”

  “Yet he stole nothing. That is odd.”