A Regency Yuletide

by Sharon Sobel

  “Kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me,” came her brother’s and sister’s voices.

  Priscilla tried to frown at them, because she had asked them to remain in their rooms until she finished her conversation with Daphne. Even so, she could not keep from laughing when Leah bent Isaac back over her arm and made smacking sounds.

  “Enough, you two!” she said as she held out her arms to them.

  Laughing, they rushed over to be hugged. Daphne relaxed, glad that the scold was over. Soon she was teasing her brother and sister, and they were giggling together.

  “I thought,” Isaac said, his voice rising above the girls’, “that Aunt Cordelia would give him a dressing-down about the proper way to propose.”

  “Mayhap,” Leah said, “she thought she would save the lectures for after they are wed.”

  “I think they are cute,” Daphne added, “even if they are old.”

  Priscilla wagged a finger at her children. “Listen to yourselves! Love does not solely belong to the young and the foolish.”

  “No,” Neville said as he came into the room, “sometimes it belongs to the old and the foolish.” He winked at Leah. “And don’t say what you are thinking, young lady. Your mother is neither old nor foolish. Nor am I, for I was wise enough to fall in love with her.”

  Daphne dropped back onto the settee and draped her forearm across her brow. “Oh, how I wish Burke would say such lovely things to me.”

  “He would rather do the pretty with you,” Leah said, grinning.

  “Mama!” cried Daphne. “Tell her not to say such things about Burke and me.”

  “Next time you should not let Mama catch you kissing him.”

  “Mama!”

  Priscilla waved them both to silence when she noticed the tension along Neville’s jaw. Urging them to go and get ready for the masquerade, because the younger children would be able to attend the beginning of the ball, she took Neville’s hand and sat with him on the settee.

  As soon as the children were out of earshot, she asked, “What is wrong?”

  Neville explained what he had intruded upon in the Eastbridge suite, then said, “You do not look surprised, Pris.”

  “I interrupted them myself. Or so I believe, because I did not see, only heard. Do you think Miss Baldwin is capable of such violence against the countess?”

  “Eastbridge says she is eager to take the countess’s place. He suggested she wanted that enough to be willing to do whatever she must to get it.”

  Priscilla shook her head.

  “You don’t believe him, Pris?”

  “He would not be the first man to try to shift blame on his mistress.”

  Neville began to smile. “For a woman who used to be married to a parson, you have a decidedly wicked turn of mind.”

  “As I have said before, when one is a vicar’s wife, one learns many aspects of what people will do to get what they want or avoid what they do not want.”

  “Then there is the countess’s abigail Jeannette. She must have known that Eastbridge was with his paramour.”

  “With her lady dead, she has been demoted to a general maid again. That could make her resentful.” She got up. “I must get ready for the masquerade. Mayhap you can present a prank, my Lord of Misrule, that will get us the truth.”

  Neville slapped his hand against his forehead as he stood. “Dash it, Pris! I never did ask Eastbridge if he agreed with Lady Symmington’s plans for tonight.”

  “Then I guess there’s no choice. You will have to preside as the Lord of Misrule while I use the distractions you create to see if I can find out some answers.”

  He hooked an arm around her waist and spun her up against him. “How will I ever be more distracting than you, sweetheart?”

  She walked her fingers up his chest. “I know you, Neville Hathaway. You can be extremely distracting when you wish.” She brushed her lips against his. With a sigh as she drew back, she added, “I hope both of us can do what we must tonight to find out what is really going on here. It may be our final chance because the guests will be leaving on the morrow.”

  “Then let’s make the best of it.” He sealed that vow with a heated kiss which made her remember her other one that they would leave the ballroom early tonight.

  She wondered if that would be possible.

  Chapter Eleven

  AN HOUR AFTER the masquerade ball had begun, few of the guests had arrived. Those who had were clustered close to where the footmen were serving glasses of chilled wine. Priscilla noticed only a handful of guests, other than the youngsters, wore masks. The children seemed to be the sole ones enjoying the spirit of the evening. They kept daring each other to go and stand beneath the kissing bough. The space was empty, because even mistletoe and a stolen kiss could not tempt any of the adults.

  Priscilla felt odd to be at the gala without Neville. As Lord of Misrule, he would be making his entrance later. Neither Aunt Cordelia nor Duncan had arrived yet either. She wondered if they would attend the ball. Aunt Cordelia would not want to miss the opportunity to show off her new betrothed. Or was her aunt planning to stay out of sight until she could announce her tidings at an assembly of her own?

  Lord Eastbridge had been in the ballroom when Priscilla and her children walked in. He had been sitting in a corner, and he remained there with a glass that was never empty. Each time he took a sip, a footman appeared like a djinn to refill it. Lord Eastbridge had glanced in her direction once, then quickly away.

  Miss Baldwin was not present either. At least, she was not on the main floor of the ballroom. Priscilla had noticed a woman who might have been the late countess’s companion lurking in the gallery above. Mayhap the earl had decided to accede to proper appearances in the wake of his wife’s death.

  Daphne appeared at Priscilla’s side. The smile she had been wearing in anticipation of the gathering was gone.

  “I wish Burke was not so nice,” Daphne muttered.

  Startled, Priscilla asked, “What do you mean?”

  “That.” Daphne hooked a thumb toward the center of the ballroom as the orchestra struck a loud note.

  Lord Symmington and his wife stepped out onto the floor, acting as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened in the days leading up to Twelfth Night. Trailing them came Miss Symmington with her hand firmly on Lord Witherspoon’s arm. The young woman flashed a triumphant smile in Daphne’s direction.

  Instead of flaring up as Priscilla had expected, Daphne said, “She is deluding herself if she thinks Burke means to be anything more than gracious.”

  “People do enjoy creating their own perceptions.” Priscilla chose her words with care, because she did not want her daughter to discern her astonishment at Daphne’s maturity that had seemed impossible only the day before.

  “I understand what you have been trying to tell me, Mama. If I want more than calf-love with Burke, I need to know when to trust him. I have watched you with Uncle Neville, and you have dared to trust him when the rest of the world has warned you not to. And because you trust him, he trusts you.”

  “Of course, Neville trusts me. We have been friends for many years.”

  Daphne smiled. “But he trusts you with his heart. He never has trusted anyone else with that. I want Burke to trust me the same way.”

  Slowly some other couples went out to join the Symmingtons and Lord Witherspoon. Even so there were not enough to complete the line needed for the country reel, so several of the younger children partnered. The dance fell into chaos after a few steps, and Lady Symmington looked ready to dissolve into tears.

  Taking sympathy on her, Priscilla took her children out onto the floor. She stepped into the pattern among the children. She motioned for them to copy her and Isaac who was her partner. Daphne and Leah faced each other and began to follow the simple pattern. With their help, t
he other children quickly learned the steps, and the dancers were able to move along with the music.

  “Thank you,” Lady Symmington said as she passed Priscilla in the dance.

  Priscilla smiled and nodded before she linked her arm with Isaac’s and twirled. Mayhap the night could be salvaged.

  Her hopes dimmed when Priscilla noticed Miss Baldwin coming into the ballroom. She was dressed as a young shepherdess, her ruffled hem rising too high along her legs. The young woman made a beeline for the earl. As Priscilla stepped through the pattern of the dance, she kept her gaze on Lord Eastbridge and Miss Baldwin who sat on the chair next to his. When the companion boldly picked up his glass and took a sip from it, Miss Baldwin scanned the room to see if anyone had noticed. Her gaze locked with Priscilla’s for only the length of a single heartbeat, then slid away.

  Was that look a challenge, or was Miss Baldwin less confident than she tried to appear? Priscilla drew in a quick breath when Miss Baldwin spoke to Lord Eastbridge and pointed at the kissing bough. He began to smile.

  And Priscilla’s stomach sank. Had they taken a knock in the cradle? There was no other explanation for them even to consider such a foolhardy idea. If one of them stood beneath the kissing bough, and the other took advantage of the tradition, would tongues wag? Or would the ton accept as inevitable that the lord would marry his mistress as soon as the proper amount of mourning had passed for his obviously unmourned wife?

  She got her answer when the earl asked Miss Baldwin to stand up with him. That he was dancing when his wife was so recently deceased was outrageous; that he danced with her companion was even worse.

  Priscilla groaned when she saw Lord Witherspoon lead Daphne out close to the earl and his paramour. Both of them should know better. She tried to signal to her daughter, but Daphne’s gaze was focused on the marquess’s face.

  Finding her son by the buffet table, she sighed when she saw his face was covered with icing from the cake at the far end. The cake should not have been touched until the Symmingtons invited their guests to dine. She snatched a cloth from one of the footmen’s arm and cleaned Isaac’s face.

  “Go and tell Daphne I wish to talk with her,” Priscilla said.

  “She is dancing with that moonling marquess.” He grimaced. “She will not heed me.”

  “Tell I wish to see her now, and do not take no for an answer.”

  His eyes widened, and he sped out onto the dance floor. Priscilla walked to where she could watch while he spoke to his sister. If necessary, she could emphasize her request with a stern expression.

  Lady Symmington stepped between her and Daphne. The baroness’s smile was brittle and her eyes glittered with annoyance. When Priscilla tried to peer past her, she shifted so she blocked Priscilla’s view of anything but her.

  “Where is Sir Neville?” Lady Symmington asked, all hint of her gratitude to Priscilla gone. “He should have made his entrance as Lord of Misrule by now.”

  “Neville follows his own rules.”

  That fact only vexed the baroness further. “Is this his way of showing that he does not intend to fulfill the role?”

  “Neville told you that, no matter how reluctant he was, he will serve as your Lord of Misrule. He is a man of his word.”

  “Then where is he? My guests expect him to entertain them.”

  “I believe they are entertained enough right now.” She looked past the baroness.

  Lady Symmington looked over her shoulder and saw the earl and Miss Baldwin in the middle of her dance floor. Alone now, Priscilla noticed, grateful to her son for persuading his sister of the social danger of seeming to give countenance to the earl’s actions, when the baroness stormed out and motioned for the orchestra to stop playing.

  Priscilla scanned the ballroom and saw Daphne and the marquess talking with her other children. Aunt Cordelia stood there, too, and Priscilla breathed a sigh of relief. Her aunt would not allow Daphne to chance making another enormous mistake. Priscilla hoped the guests had assumed that Daphne and Lord Witherspoon had simply cut across the dance floor to greet her great-aunt.

  Then everyone’s attention riveted on the middle of the ballroom. Lady Symmington’s voice rose enough to reach the edges of the room.

  “Mayhap you would like something to eat, my lord,” she was saying to Lord Eastbridge. “You look hungry.”

  “I am neither hungry,” fired back the earl, his words slurring, “nor am I drunk, as you seem ready to accuse me of being. I wish to dance with Annalee.”

  A gasp rushed around the room as he spoke Miss Baldwin’s given name.

  “My lord,” Lady Symmington tried again, “I know you are deeply saddened by your wife’s passing. Why don’t you come with me, and we can—”

  “I wish to dance.” He called to the orchestra. “Play! Annalee wishes to dance.”

  “My lord—”

  “Either get a partner or get out of our way.” He took a single step and wobbled.

  Priscilla had seen enough. Going out onto the dance floor, she linked her arm around Miss Baldwin’s. With a gentle pull, then a stronger one, she tugged the young woman toward the nearby chamber where ladies could repair any damage done to their appearance during the country dances. Behind them, Lady Symmington still was trying to convince Lord Eastbridge to see sense.

  “Where are we going?” asked Miss Baldwin.

  “Where I may speak with you without every ear in the house listening in.”

  “About what?”

  “I will explain when we get there.” Priscilla added nothing more until she opened the door, motioned for Miss Baldwin to lead the way into the room, and then closed the door behind them.

  The room had two chairs and a looking glass. A tufted bench was pushed against the wall beneath the room’s only window. A washstand with a ewer and a bowl was set next to a second door, one Priscilla knew was used by the servants.

  “Please sit, Miss Baldwin,” Priscilla said.

  Miss Baldwin did, rearranging her ruffled skirt around her. “Say what you believe is important, my lady. I wish to return to dance with Hora—with my lord.”

  “I hope that what I have observed means Lady Symmington is correct. That both you and the earl are half-mad with grief at Lady Eastbridge’s passing. I prefer that explanation to any other when I see him flirting with you while his wife’s body is on its way to be buried in the family’s churchyard.”

  “If you have concerns about Hora—Lord Eastbridge’s actions, you should speak to him.”

  “But my concerns are not only with his actions, but yours. That is the second time in as many seconds that you have almost spoken his given name. Are you addled to flaunt your affaire d’amour in everyone’s faces? Where do you think it will lead?”

  Miss Baldwin raised her chin. “To the altar.”

  Priscilla restrained herself to keep from laughing in the young woman’s face. Miss Baldwin was, Priscilla reminded herself, not much older than Daphne. Without someone to remind her of proper behavior, Miss Baldwin had allowed her heart to steer her into these dangerous waters. Or was the companion the calculating woman that the earl had named her?

  “Do you truly believe that an earl will marry his late wife’s companion, especially when he has paraded his paramour openly before these people? Is that the way a gentleman treats a lady he loves and respects?”

  Miss Baldwin stood. “I have listened to as many of your comments as I wish to, Lady Priscilla. I had never imagined that a vicar’s wife would speak so.”

  “Just as you never imagined that your lover has suggested you played a part in his wife’s death.”

  “He would not do that!”

  “No? Listen to what he told Sir Neville.”

  The young woman’s face grew pale, then a sickish gray, as Priscilla repeated what Neville had told her
. She pushed past Priscilla and threw open the door.

  “Wait!” called Priscilla.

  Miss Baldwin did not heed her. She stormed into the ballroom and right to where Lord Eastbridge still argued with Lady Symmington.

  “How dare you!” Miss Baldwin slapped the earl’s face so hard that the sound echoed throughout the room. “How dare you accuse me of killing your wife! You know I was with you when she died!”

  Lord Eastbridge’s scowl matched the anger in his voice when he snarled an oath before saying, “Remember your place, chit!”

  “Don’t call me that!”

  “Would you rather I called you what you truly are? A pug-nasty doxy!”

  “That is not exactly true.” Neville’s voice from a doorway halted Miss Baldwin’s retort.

  Uncertain applause met Neville’s entrance into the hall over which he was supposed to rule. He was dressed in a bright red cape and silver breeches that caught the glow from the candles overhead. A crown that was painted gold and glittering with paste gems was perched on his black hair.

  Looking neither left nor right, he walked directly to where Priscilla stood. He offered his hand, and she put hers on top of it as if he truly were a great king.

  He led her to where the earl, the baroness, and Miss Baldwin were staring in silent shock. He bowed his head toward the baroness. “Lady Symmington, I stand before you as your Lord of Misrule.”

  “Y-y-yes, I can see that,” Lady Symmington replied.

  “Eastbridge,” Neville said with the slightest nod, then he turned to Miss Baldwin. “And you, fair shepherdess, shall be in great trouble once Mimi discovers you have stolen that costume. It was her favorite amongst all her performances in Covent Garden. Were you her dresser before you decided to seek a change in your fortunes?”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about,” Miss Baldwin said primly.

  Priscilla caught the young woman’s gaze. “It might be easier later if you tell the truth now. It is simple enough to check with Mimi about your costume.”