Chase Family Collection: Limited Christmas Edition

by Lauren Royal

  “It was a harmless prank, dear.” Chrystabel calmly plucked violet petals and tossed them into her distillation bowl. “And you did say Rowan wants to go back.”

  “Yes, but I cannot understand why.” Pacing to one of the window niches, Violet perched a knee on the bench seat and leaned to look out. “How can he like her after this? Especially when he didn’t like her before?”

  “I’ve never understood how men’s minds work. Does your philosophy give you no clue to that?”

  Everything below was a blur. “‘It may be said of men in general that they are ungrateful and fickle,’” she quoted.

  “And who said that?”

  “Machiavelli.” She turned from the window. “Now Rowan wants to go tonight to see the stars. And I fear he’ll want to go back again tomorrow.”

  “Isn’t that what we’ve been hoping would happen all along?” Mum’s fingers flew as she pulled purple petals, more graceful than Violet could ever hope to be. “What, pray tell, is your problem with this development?”

  Violet seated herself at the table and grabbed a bunch of flowers. “He doesn’t want to go alone. And I don’t want to go with him.”

  “Now, Violet. Who said that thing about being charitable? You read it to me last week.”

  “Francis Bacon again,” she said with a sigh. “‘In charity there is no excess.’”

  “A wise man. It would be a charity, for certain, for you to bring Rowan to play. He’s bored here in the countryside with Benjamin away.” The only boy Rowan’s age within walking distance, Benjamin was his favorite playmate. “And a charity to Jewel as well, stuck in that house with no other children. And you’d be giving Lord Lakefield some respite. Surely he has better things to do than watch that girl.”

  Agitated, Violet started plucking petals. “So I should do it instead? Am I not allowed to have better things to do?” The scent of her namesake flower failed to soothe her. “Can’t Rose go?”

  Mum frowned at Violet’s busy hands. “Rose is too young, I’ve told you.” She tossed a bare stem into a basket. “Besides, she has no sense where men are concerned, and we’ve all heard her jabbering about the ‘handsome viscount.’”

  “And he’d take advantage of her, but not me. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”

  “Violet—”

  “It’s true, Mum, and we both know it.” She plucked faster. “I’m plain next to Rose and Lily. And men pretend to be deaf rather than listen to me prattle about my interests.”

  Chrystabel touched her arm. “Violet, your father really is hard of—”

  “No male will ever show interest in me unless it’s for my inheritance.” Ten thousand pounds. Added to her dowry of three thousand, it would tempt many men to wed a mule.

  “Violet—”

  “I’m not a featherbrain, Mum.” Her hand fisted, crushing a flower. “I know I don’t turn men’s heads.”

  Because Violet had seen her parents’ own successful marriage—because she would settle for nothing less than their true love for herself—she was sure she wouldn’t ever wed. But Mum would never stand to hear such a thing. And as Violet had said, she wasn’t a featherbrain, so she knew better than to say it aloud.

  She sighed, knowing that mere weeks from now, when she turned one-and-twenty and came into the money her grandfather had left her, the offers could very well begin to come fast and furious. She’d have a harder time putting Mum off then.

  But she would persevere. And someday—many years from now when she was a content, aged spinster—she would use her inheritance to fund her dream.

  “Violet.” Her brown eyes filled with concern, Chrystabel gently pulled the bruised bloom from Violet’s hand. “You may not look like your sisters, but you’re a very pretty girl. Especially to those who love you. Which philosopher said that beauty is brought by judgment of the eye?”

  “That wasn’t a philosopher. It was Shakespeare in Love’s Labour’s Lost.”

  “Oh.”

  “But he was paraphrasing Plato. ‘Beholding beauty with the eye of the mind.’”

  Chrystabel grinned. “See, dear? Listen to Plato.”

  Rose and Lily burst into the room. “Look, Mum!” Lily waved a letter. “A messenger just delivered this from Lakefield. And he said he was instructed to wait for an answer.”

  “The oldest messenger I’ve ever seen,” Rose added. “He’s bald.” She said it as though that were the most disgusting physical trait she could imagine.

  “That’s not a messenger,” Violet said. “That’s Harry, Lord Lakefield’s houseman.” As she’d hurried Rowan out the door, she’d seen Hilda’s husband cowering in a corner while his wife scolded him for his part in Jewel’s prank. The man was quite definitely bald, although Violet hadn’t found that at all off-putting.

  Maybe beauty was in the eye of the beholder.

  She rose and went to her sisters. “Let me see the letter.” She snatched it from Lily’s hand.

  “It’s not for you,” Rose said, grabbing it from Violet. “It’s addressed to Rowan.” So saying, she slipped a fingernail beneath the sloppy red wax seal and snapped it off.

  “Rose!” Chrystabel chided.

  “You wouldn’t want to give him a letter without reading it first, Mum, would you? It could be improper for one so young.” Without waiting for her mother’s answer, Rose scanned the page. “The handwriting is rather messy,” she commented, then began reading. “‘Dear Rowan.’” She looked up. “Rather familiar salute, don’t you think?”

  “Goodness, Rose,” Lily said, uncharacteristically impatient. “Must you criticize every word?” She snatched the letter back from her sister. “‘Dear Rowan,’” she repeated. “‘I am sorry about your clothes. But it was funny. I hope you will come see the stars. Love, Jewel.’”

  “‘Love, Jewel?’ Love?” Violet rolled her eyes toward the elaborate plastered ceiling. The blurry curlicues up there seemed in keeping with the little girl’s intricate seduction.

  Lily smiled dreamily. “Yesterday when you brought Rowan back, you said Jewel was in love.”

  “I was exaggerating. And to write it…” She couldn’t imagine declaring herself so casually on a piece of paper. Writing was permanent, important. Once something was in writing, it was there forever.

  That was one of the reasons she burned to publish a book.

  “I’m in love, too,” Rose declared.

  Violet blinked. “With whom?”

  “With Lord Lakefield, you goose. He’s so handsome. And to instruct his niece to write a letter to Rowan…well, it just goes to show he’s a true romantic.” Looking rather theatrical, she laid a graceful hand on the cleavage exposed in the low neckline of her periwinkle gown. “Why, it’s almost enough to make me overlook the fact that he’s poor as a church mouse.”

  “What a thing to say, Rose!”

  Her hand dropped. “Well, lucky for me, it doesn’t matter, does it? Thanks to Grandpapa, when I turn twenty-one I’ll have enough money to nab whomever I like, rich or destitute.”

  Violet usually tried to be patient, but she couldn’t help gritting her teeth. “Thanks to providence, that won’t be for four years, by which time we can hope you will have grown up.”

  “Girls,” Chrystabel warned. “That’s enough.” She turned to Violet. “Lord Lakefield’s houseman is waiting. Will you be taking Rowan to see the stars?”

  “I’ll bring him,” Rose offered.

  Taking a cue from her husband, Chrystabel pretended not to hear. “Violet?”

  “Yes, I’ll do it, Mum,” Violet said with an elaborate sigh.

  But it was mostly for show. She had to admit, she was curious to see the stars. And for some odd reason, she felt a need to save Ford from a frivolous girl like her sister. Not that she didn’t love Rose, but a man of his intellect deserved someone whose beauty was more than skin-deep.

  And it was very well done of him to have made Jewel write an apology, though she wondered how he could have neglected to supervi
se its contents before sending the letter.

  Love, indeed.

  Twelve

  HITCHING HERSELF forward on one of the drawing room’s faded red chairs, Jewel jumped one of Ford’s checkers with hers and palmed her new captive. “Your turn. Will Rowan come tonight, do you think?”

  “I have no idea what he’ll decide. I don’t understand children.”

  “But Uncle Ford, you like children, don’t you?”

  He’d never thought he had. But as he looked at his charming niece, he didn’t have the heart to say so. “I like you.” Studying his position on the black-and-white board, he lifted one of his dark-stained counters. “And I’d wager Rowan does, too,” he added to put a smile on her face. “He seemed much more fond of you after your jest. That was brilliant, baby. You certainly know your way to a young man’s heart.”

  Click-click-click. Three diagonal jumps over her natural wood pieces, and his darker man was at her end of the board. “King me,” he said with a self-satisfied smile.

  Draughts. He was reduced to playing draughts. And she’d beaten him three times already. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had beaten him at draughts; he must have been seven years old.

  For all his intentions to come home to Lakefield and bury himself in his projects, the opposite seemed to be happening. He was concentrating on children and fretting over his shabby estate. Rather than unlocking the secrets of the universe, his efforts were focused on persuading a lady named Violet to spend as much time here as possible.

  Jewel crowned his piece with one of the hostages she’d taken. “Do you like Rowan?”

  “I do. He’s very interested in my laboratory.” Too interested. But at least the boy had a good brain and a healthy curiosity.

  “Do you think Rowan’s big sister is pretty?”

  Did he? He’d initially thought Violet was pleasant looking at best. But he’d come to realize she had a fresh and wholesome look about her that he found surprisingly appealing.

  “She’s attractive,” he said.

  They both looked up as Hilda came in. “Harry seems to have disappeared,” the housekeeper said. “Where is he?”

  Ford shrugged. “I don’t know.” There didn’t seem to be much he knew these days.

  “He went to Rowan’s house,” Jewel said nonchalantly, jumping two more of Ford’s men.

  Hilda smoothed her wide white apron. “And why is that?”

  “I asked him to take a letter there.”

  “A letter?” Ford frowned at the board, where his pieces seemed to be disappearing at an alarming rate.

  “A letter to Rowan,” his niece clarified. “An ap-ap—” She glared at him, as though daring him to help her. “An a-pol-o-gy.”

  “You wrote a letter?” Hilda asked.

  “You wrote a letter?” Ford echoed. “All by yourself?”

  “Well, I know how to write, you know. Mama taught me. What’s so hard about that?”

  Ford took his turn, removing none of Jewel’s pieces. “It’s not the writing of it, baby, it’s thinking to do so in the first place. I’m quite impressed.”

  “Mama says even a tomboy should have good manners.”

  “I like the way your mother thinks,” Hilda said.

  “Besides, I like getting letters. Nobody ever sends me letters.”

  Melting at her pout, Ford made a mental note to send her a letter after she went home.

  Jewel perused the board. “I thought a letter might make Rowan like me.”

  “He likes you,” came a voice from the doorway. Harry walked in, his florid face split by a big smile.

  Suddenly Hilda’s face wore a frown. “You could tell me when you leave,” she scolded, then immediately bustled out past him.

  “Women,” Harry muttered. “Always so demanding.” He turned to Jewel with a courtly bow. “Present company excepted, of course.”

  Ford stared. Clearly the girl had won him over. Just as she had Rowan. She looked so innocent in her powder blue gown. So young and vulnerable. Which sat at odds with her fully developed feminine wiles and ingenuity.

  Jewel bounced on the ancient chair so hard he feared it might break. “What did Rowan say?”

  “Well, I didn’t talk to him, you understand.” Harry related the information as seriously as if he were a hired spy. “But his oldest sister came out and said she would bring him after the sunset to see the stars.”

  Jewel squealed and wriggled in her chair, so excited she botched her next few moves. As a consequence, Ford won the game. And Violet was coming with Rowan.

  Things were looking up.

  Thirteen

  ROWAN CLIMBED into the carriage and motioned his sister after him. “Hurry, Violet. It’s dark already.”

  “The sky isn’t going away.” Still amazed his attitude had reversed so quickly, Violet took her cloak from her mother and settled the forest green velvet over her shoulders. “Where’s Margaret?”

  “I gave her the evening off, dear. Hilda and Harry will be there. And Lord Lakefield is a gentleman. I’m sure we can trust him to behave.”

  Especially with the likes of her, Violet imagined, wondering why she found that familiar truth suddenly distressing.

  “I’ve instructed Willets to come back for you at ten,” Chrystabel added, referring to their coachman. “Two hours ought to be plenty long enough to stare at the sky.”

  Violet looked up. Except for a milky blur, she’d never seen the stars. “I wonder what I might see there?”

  “The stars are beautiful,” her mother said. “Like diamonds sparkling on a black velvet gown.”

  Smiling at the fanciful description, Violet gazed at the heavens. She wondered if the stars really twinkled, and if she might be able to wish on one. Excitement fluttered in her stomach.

  “I’ll see you later, then, Mum.” She kissed her mother’s floral-scented cheek and followed Rowan into the carriage.

  A short while later they mounted Lakefield House’s steps. Rowan didn’t hide behind Violet this time. Jewel opened the door before Violet could lift the knocker, but Violet had anticipated that and didn’t fall into the house.

  Which was a pity, since Ford was there to catch her.

  He was still wearing the nice suit, making her feel underdressed in her simple cotton gown. But that was absurd—she’d only come to look at the sky.

  Instead of ushering her in, he stepped outside, a bit too close for her comfort. “I have the telescope set up in the garden,” he said. “Follow me.”

  For such a tall man, he moved gracefully. As he headed down the steps, she realized she’d been holding her breath.

  Breathe, she commanded herself. This was ridiculous.

  He was just a man. She couldn’t remember ever being this nervous around one, but that was probably because she’d done an admirable job of avoiding them altogether. Surely these feelings would disappear once she got to know him better. Which she seemed destined to do should Rowan have his way.

  Holding a torch, Ford led her around the side of the house and down a path toward an area so overgrown she’d be loath to call it a garden. More like a jungle, she thought, hiding a smile.

  The children tagged along behind, their voices coming out of the darkness. “Are you angry with me?” Jewel asked Rowan.

  He seemed to consider for a moment. “Will you help me plan a jest on my sisters?”

  “Of course I will.”

  “Then I’m not angry.”

  Listening to the exchange, Violet made a mental note to be on the alert for “jests.” If Rowan thought gluing someone to a chair was acceptable, only God knew what he and Jewel would come up with together.

  In the midst of a tangle of vines sat a ring of scraggly hedges. They all followed Ford through an opening in the greenery. A new one, from the looks of it.

  “Uncle Ford hacked at the plants with an ax today,” Jewel proudly informed them. “After Harry came back and said you would come. Wasn’t that nice?”

  Violet th
ought she heard Ford groan.

  A circle of wooden benches looked newly uncovered as well. Apparently he’d been busy. In the center, atop a stone sundial, a long tube sat balanced on three spindly legs.

  Ford gestured at it with a flourish. “The telescope.”

  “How nice,” she replied, hoping she sounded suitably impressed. But the telescope wasn’t exactly awe-inspiring. It was just a skinny, thin thing. Her hopes plummeted. This hardly looked like an object that could work magic.

  He set the torch in a nearby stand. “Quarter moon tonight,” he said, grasping the tube and maneuvering it to point in the moon’s direction.

  Curious, Violet moved closer. Over the fresh scent of recently cut plant life, she could smell his fragrance, something spicy. And a trace of scented soap. Patchouli, she decided, recalling the aroma from one of her mother’s vials. Some years ago, Father had arranged for a number of the minty shrubs to be brought from India. He’d planted them in his magnificent garden so Mum could distill the leaves.

  “A partial moon is fortunate for viewing.” Ford had closed one eye and focused the other through the tube. “A full moon can be too bright and make the stars around it fade.” He made a final adjustment. “Would you like to see?”

  “Me first!” Jewel said.

  Rowan jumped up and down. “No, me!”

  Jewel stepped in front of him. “Me!”

  “Well, normally I’d say ladies first,” Ford said, “but seeing as how Rowan suffered this afternoon, I think he should have the first peek. Hurry, though, or you won’t be able to see it.”

  Since Rowan was so short, Ford lifted him to the eyepiece. “Zounds,” Rowan breathed. “There are big, dark spots on it.”

  “They’re called craters.” Ford raised a foot to the pedestal of the sundial and settled Rowan on his knee, looking more comfortable with the boy than Violet would have expected. “What do you think of it?”

  “I wish to fly up there and visit.”

  “Me, too.” Ford laughed. “But I expect neither of us will get our wish.”

  Now Jewel was jumping up and down. “I want to see. Oh, please let me see!”