by Lauren Royal
He blinked. “Why on earth should you want to do that?”
“You and I must go out walking to find a yule log for our secret Christmas. Creath said she longs for the outdoors, and if we disguise her as a boy, she’ll be able to come with us. You’re too tall to loan her clothes, but I’ll beg some off the younger Cartwright boy.” The Cartwrights were the two musically talented brothers in their household.
She expected Matthew to call disguising Creath a harebrained scheme, since he often berated her ideas—but instead he just looked concerned. “I didn’t hear any of the Ashcrofts agree that you might disguise her.”
She shrugged that off. “They didn’t disagree, either. The viscount said it would have to be a very good disguise, and I will make sure it is.”
“Very well, then,” Matthew relented with suspicious speed, walking right over to the wardrobe cabinet to pull out a hat. “Let me know when it’s time to leave.”
He wasn’t arguing? He wasn’t criticizing? He was just looking forward to their walk?
She took that as a very good sign, indeed.
Now it was time to get to decorating, just as soon as she got one of her staff to locate the Cartwright boy.
When her bedchamber yielded no trace of Mary, Chrystabel groaned. She didn’t have time for this. With a sigh, she went back downstairs. Hat in hand, she began to wander in and out of rooms, in search of one of the Trevor servants. Any of the Trevor servants. Anyone who knew the Cartwrights, so she could task someone else with finding the younger brother.
In the fourth room she tried, she came across Creath, seated with a book. The chamber was lined floor to ceiling with dark-stained wood shelves. Tremayne’s library.
Since she did need to speak with Creath, she approached the young woman, who didn’t seem to notice anyone was there, so involved was she in her book. “What are you reading?” she asked, put in mind of Arabel.
“Oh!” Creath startled a little and looked up, then turned to the book’s first page. “‘Artemenes, or the Grand Cyrus,’” she read aloud.
Chrystabel saw that the book was written by someone named Madeleine de Scudery, and underneath the title it said, That Excellent Romance. “Goodness, that sounds interesting.” She didn’t often read books, but then again, the Grange’s library included nothing that could be called romance. “What is the book about?
The girl’s eyes lit up. “So far Cyrus Artemenes is searching for his love, Mandana. She was abducted by the king of Assyria, and then again by a man named Mazare.” Up until now, Chrystabel hadn’t seen Creath so enthusiastic about anything. She was obviously enjoying this book. “Mazare was found dying on a shore after a shipwreck, and Mandana was believed dead, too. But she hadn’t perished—she was actually taken by the king of Pontus, who is now holding her captive.”
“How many times can one woman be kidnapped?” Chrystabel wondered.
“Apparently at least three,” Creath replied with a little smile.
Chrystabel was glad to see the story was taking Creath’s mind off her troubles. Having troubles of her own, she thought a distraction like this might do her good, too. “May I borrow that book when you’re done with it?”
“You can read the first volume now. This is the second one. But I don’t know if you’ll have time to finish the whole story before you leave.”
Creath didn’t know that Chrystabel wasn’t leaving, of course. Once Joseph fell in love with her, she’d have plenty of time to finish reading this book and many more. “How many volumes are there?”
“Ten. The whole book is over thirteen thousand pages.”
“Thirteen thousand pages? Oh, my. I shall have to think about that.” Actually, she would have to forget the whole idea. Chrystabel doubted she’d read thirteen thousand pages in her entire lifetime, let alone in just one book. And she certainly had more important things to do right now.
And so would Creath, soon enough.
“I’ve borrowed this to disguise you as a boy,” Chrystabel said, holding up Matthew’s wide-brimmed Cavalier hat. “So you can come out walking.”
“Out of doors?” Creath bit her lip, looking torn between guilt and longing. “I don’t think I’m allowed.”
“You’re allowed if you’re disguised,” Chrystabel said blithely. “I obtained permission from the viscount.”
“He said that?”
“He did. And we would so enjoy having you along.”
“We?”
“My brother and I.” Chrystabel watched closely for a reaction.
She needn’t have feared missing it.
“Oh!” Creath turned pale, then pink, then managed to drop her book and lose her place. “I, um, I’d be delighted to accompany you and your brother.” Her words came out muffled as she was doubled over, feeling for the book.
“Wonderful.” Chrystabel had to resist shoving her whole fist in her mouth to stifle a laugh. “I shall borrow a boy’s breeches for you, too.” She eyed the girl dubiously. “Have you a suitable cloak?” At breakfast she’d noticed Creath was wearing the same tawny dress she’d worn the day before. And she still had yet to change clothes.
Straightening, Creath shook her head. “I ran away from Sir Leonard with nothing but this gown I had on.”
Chrystabel had guessed as much. “Oh, but Arabel and I have plenty of clothes! Some in our rooms and much more in our luggage.” Luckily, Creath looked to be a similar size. “After our walk, we’ll find you an elegant gown to wear for Christmas Eve.”
“Would you? Lady Trentingham’s gowns are too small and short for me. You’re so very kind, Lady Chrystabel.”
“Oh, pish, it’s nothing.” She waved the hat. “Breeches and a warm cloak, then. I’m off in search of that slippery Cartwright boy.”
Surely she’d find him soon. Or find someone else who could find him. And then she’d start decorating.
Ten
“WHERE’S CREATH?” Joseph asked when he entered his father’s linenfold-paneled study and closed the door behind him. Glancing about, he frowned. “And where’s Father?”
“Your father will be along any moment, dear.” His mother waved him into the overstuffed leather chair beside hers. “As usual, Creath is in the library. The poor thing still seems shaken up from her narrow escape. I thought it best not to disturb her without reason.”
“Without reason?” Joseph’s frown deepened as he lowered himself to sit. “Then are we not discussing—”
“We are discussing, you and I. Your father will join when he arrives, and Creath will surely go along with whatever decision we make. Such an obliging girl, that one,” Mother added in a different tone.
A tone that made Joseph rather suspect she hadn’t meant it as a compliment.
Which made no sense. Creath’s obliging nature was one of the things he liked best about her—she was so easy to get on with. He must have mistaken Mother’s meaning. In any case, she was right about one thing: Creath would happily go along with whatever he and his parents decided.
Shrugging, he leaned back and relaxed into the comfortable chair. “I gather you wish to settle on my wedding date, now that the weather has broken. My preference is Friday, in order to see the deed done before Sir Leonard returns on Saturday. Better he finds us married rather than missing, don’t you think? At that point he’ll have no recourse.”
“There’s a third option,” his mother said, tapping her chin.
“Oh?”
“Sir Leonard returns to find you neither missing nor married—and Creath, he never finds at all.”
“I…pray pardon?” He lurched upright in his chair, thinking he couldn’t have heard her right. “Are you suggesting we postpone the wedding, or—”
“I’m suggesting you forget it altogether.” Mother released a heavy sigh. “The truth is I’ve had doubts about this scheme ever since you announced your betrothal. I know you wish to save Creath. We all want to help her. But this isn’t the only way. Why sacrifice your own happiness when instead—”
>
“I won’t be sacrificing my happiness,” he said through gritted teeth. Why did both of the women in his life think he’d be sacrificing his happiness? “I’ve known Creath since I was ten years old. We’re the best of friends.”
“Precisely. You’re friends. And as her friend, you ought to help rescue her, quite certainly. A friend would help facilitate her escape. A friend would help her find someplace to hide.”
“Where?” Losing patience, Joseph took to his feet and began pacing. “You think Sir Leonard won’t search our other properties? Or are you thinking to hide her with friends? Who do we know who would put a stranger’s welfare above threats to their own family? Where do you imagine she’ll be safe?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere far away or unexpected or—Wales!” His mother’s eyes suddenly brightened. “Send her to Wales with Lord Grosmont. The Trevors are good people, and Sir Leonard won’t look for her there.”
Joseph opened his mouth to argue…then closed it. His pacing stopped short as an incredible notion struck him.
Was it possible this wasn’t such a bad idea?
Neither Creath nor the Ashcrofts had any ties to Wales, meaning Sir Leonard was unlikely to follow her there. And even if, somehow, he learned of Creath’s whereabouts, the bastard would wield far less power in Wales than he did here. His authority was for the most part restricted to this corner of England. His ability to intimidate—and to corrupt—would be far more limited across the border.
And the Trevors were good people. Despite their short acquaintance, Joseph felt confident in trusting them. Lady Arabel was naught but clever and kind—she would make a good friend for Creath. Not as good a friend as he was, of course, but far from lacking. And Grosmont had proved himself a decent sort, especially with his efforts to comfort and protect Creath. No matter that the fellow’s misguided persistence was irritating, the compassion beneath it was obvious and admirable.
Even Chrystabel, interfering and insufferable though she was, seemed to be worming her way into Joseph’s good graces. Her impassioned entreaty this morning had revealed a new side to her. If she hadn’t quite convinced him of the wisdom of celebrating Christmas, at least she’d proven her heart was in the right place…
…that place being her bosom, which his male brain was now visualizing in its enticingly low-cut, figure-hugging red brocade bodice.
And now he felt hot again. Holy Hades, what was happening to him? He was either running a fever or losing his damned mind.
Wrenching his thoughts from that bizarre and unsuitable topic, he realized Mother had taken advantage of his silence to continue arguing her point. “…you see it’s perfect? Sir Leonard has no idea who they are. He never asked their names. If Creath remained in Wales but a month, well past her eighteenth birthday, you’d both be free of him.”
“You know it’s not that simple, Mother.” With a fresh surge of annoyance, Joseph resumed his pacing. He’d explained all of this before, and he had always hated repeating himself. “She’d be free of his guardianship, but he might still force her submission. Only a legal marriage can fully free her from his grasp.”
“Then let her marry someone else,” his mother snapped. “She’s pretty and has money and land, which means she’ll have her pick of men.”
“Then why on earth shouldn’t I pick her?” Joseph stopped pacing again, his fists clenched at his sides. “I promised to marry her, and I’m a man of my word. And given that there aren’t any other suitable young women in this godforsaken wilderness—”
“Really, Joseph?” Mother looked heavenward. “You’re twenty years old. Far too old for this silly pretending.”
Joseph’s mouth went dry. “What do you mean?”
“There certainly is another suitable young woman.” Mother’s brows arched, daring him to name her. “The one who thinks we live in the wilderness.”
“The one who thinks…you mean Lady Chrystabel?” he asked incredulously, licking parched lips. “Are you mad? You think she’s suitable?”
His mother cocked her head. “I think she interests you in a way Creath never will.”
“She doesn’t interest me.” Joseph’s cheeks flamed, along with other parts of him he refused to acknowledge. “She irritates me.”
Mother grinned. “Because she’s impulsive, irrational, and irresistible?”
“Yes. I mean, no! She’s not irresistible!”
His mother’s eyes shone even brighter, as though she’d somehow taken encouragement from his flat refusal. “She’s refreshing and delightful and will keep you on your toes, my dear boy. You need a woman like her. I adore Creath, but she won’t challenge you. She’s so terribly good-natured that she’ll go along with whatever you want.” When she pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve to dab at her eyes, he realized their brightness was the result of happy tears. “And while I love your father, I don’t want to see you follow in his footsteps and become an old fust-cudgel.” After blowing her nose, she managed a watery smile. “I want to see you with someone who questions convention.”
Before Joseph could formulate so much as a thought, his father banged into the study. “What’s going on?” he called out, thumping the door closed behind him. “Did you start the discussion without me?”
“Of course not.” Mother wiped the last traces of damp from her eyes before favoring him with a pleasant smile. “Do sit down, dear, and let us begin. When do you think our son ought to take his lovely bride to Bristol?”
Eleven
WHILE HANGING a wreath above the great room’s enormous fireplace, Chrystabel watched her sister artfully drape garlands along the mantelpiece. “What shall we give everyone for Christmas?” she asked the top of Arabel’s head.
“Everyone?” With quick, practiced movements, Arabel tied off a neat red bow. “I’ve only got gifts for you and Matthew.”
Careful not to trip on her skirts, Chrystabel made her way down the ladder. “Well, I haven’t even got that much,” she grumbled.
Her order for two pairs of handsomely embroidered gloves should have been delivered yesterday—to Grosmont Grange. She’d been planning to scent Matthew’s with musk and Arabel’s with rose oil. But now her lovely gifts were probably warming the hands of some blasted Roundhead and his dreary wife, while Chrystabel was forced to ransack her own trunks in search of last-minute substitutes.
And now she was adding gifts for the Ashcrofts to her lengthy list of tasks.
She must be mad. After wandering about the house for ages, she’d finally come across a harried-looking Thomas Steward to send on her errand for boy’s clothes. As a consequence, she and Arabel had begun the decorating far later than she’d intended.
“Do you think our hosts expect gifts?” Arabel asked dubiously. “They know we didn’t intend to spend the holiday with strangers.”
“I’m certain they have no expectations.” Backing up to admire her handiwork, Chrystabel smiled. Perfectly centered. Though something was missing… “But it’s Christmas! And the Ashcrofts are no longer strangers. They’ve been awfully kind to us.”
“They won’t have anything to give us in return.”
Chrystabel shrugged. “They’ve already given us their hospitality, which is more than enough.”
“Holly.”
“Pray pardon?”
Arabel held out a handful of loose sprigs. “The wreath needs more holly.”
Chrystabel grinned. “My thoughts exactly.”
Her sister helpfully gathered Chrystabel’s skirts to one side so her stockinged feet could find the ladder’s rungs. It was their usual arrangement, since Arabel disliked heights.
“I’m at the top.”
Arabel let go and stepped back. “It’s very thoughtful of you, Chrys.”
“What?” She leaned forward to tuck more holly in amongst the pine, making sure the red berries showed.
“I said,” Arabel called up to her loudly, “it’s very thoughtful of you!”
Chrystabel giggled. “I’m about three
feet off the ground. I can hear you just fine. What is thoughtful?”
“Oh.” Her sister giggled, too. “Your thinking of gifts for the Ashcrofts. I do believe you’re right that we ought to show our appreciation—”
“Stop.”
Arabel immediately jumped away. “Is it the ladder? Is it breaking?”
Chrystabel rolled her eyes. “No, but I’m glad to know that if it were, you’d run instead of catching me. Can you repeat what you were saying before?”
“That we ought to show our—”
“No, before that.”
“That it’s thoughtful of you to—”
“No, after that.”
Finally getting it, Arabel groaned.
“Please? I may never get to hear you say it again.”
“Oh, very well.” Planting her hands on her hips, Arabel heaved a great, overburdened sigh. “I do believe you’re right.”
“How I love the sound of that.” Chrystabel closed her eyes in feigned bliss. “And I do believe I may be the older sister, after all.” Her eyes snapped open when something brushed her ear. “Well, that settles the question,” she added with a laugh. “Only children pelt their siblings with holly berries.”
As she backed down the ladder, another berry bounced off her arm.
“If you want to be the responsible sister,” Arabel said, “perhaps I shall leave it to you to sort out all the gifts.”
“Ha!” Safely on the ground, Chrystabel smiled up at her wreath. Now it looked perfect. “I was thinking of making perfume for Lady Trentingham and Creath.” Yet another thing to find time for today: creating two new scents. “Any ideas for Lord Trentingham?”
“I’ve been told he enjoys studying foreign languages.” Arabel seemed to be getting into the Christmas spirit. “If I can find where our library is packed away, I believe there is a set of histories written in Italian.”
“Perfect! Especially since we cannot read those books anyway.”
“Speak for yourself,” Arabel said archly. “I do read a bit of Italian.”
