Lady Louisa's Christmas Knight

by Grace Burrowes

  “Bloody hell.” He recognized the handwriting. The damned thing had been lying where any stable boy might have seen it and brought it up to the house.

  No address, just his name—conspicuously lacking the honorific too.

  Carrington—

  The last fellow to sire a dozen bastards at least wore a crown and conferred titles on his progeny. What can you bequeath yours but scandal and notoriety? And to think, a little coin might spare you this shame… or perhaps a lot of coin.

  “Bloody, bloody…” He crumpled the note viciously in his fist and fought the urge to roar out a stream of curses. There would be more notes, more threats, and when the sniveling coward trying to exploit innocent children for gain finally showed himself, there would be another duel, at least.

  The thought gave Joseph pause as he stalked out of the barn. He took aim and pitched the carrot so it landed directly at Sonnet’s big, feathered feet.

  There was only one person who knew both the extent of Joseph’s considerable personal wealth and had some inkling of the nature of the household in Surrey. That person also had a need for coin and some arguable grounds to bear Joseph a grudge.

  Tomorrow was Christmas Eve, and Joseph was not going to spend his holidays chasing Lionel Honiton down and thrashing the miserable sod within an inch of his lacy, mincing life, but Joseph silently vowed that Honiton’s New Year would begin memorably indeed.

  ***

  “Wife, that note looks to be troubling you.”

  Louisa glanced up to find her husband regarding her from the door of their private sitting room. “It’s from Sophie.” She crossed the room and held the note out to him. “She says there’s to be a baking day at Sidling, both to prepare for Their Graces’ open house tomorrow and to get my brothers out from underfoot at Morelands.”

  And Louisa wanted to see her siblings, wanted badly to see them, though she also wanted to tuck herself into her husband’s embrace and bare her soul to him.

  He scanned the note. “I cannot believe your brothers are any help whatsoever in the kitchen.”

  “Rothgreb will keep the fellows gathered in his study, drinking spiced eggnog and listening to his tales.”

  Something in Joseph’s expression became harder to read, and he remained in the doorway. “Then you will not need my escort?”

  It had been a question, but barely. Louisa drew him into the room by the wrist. “Of course I will need your escort. My sisters would keep me prisoner until spring, interrogating me about married life and our daughters and what will I name our firstborn.”

  “Intimidating lot, your sisters.”

  Louisa threaded her fingers through his and kissed his mouth, just because they were married and she could. “A lusty lot. Papa claims we get it from him, but I’ve seen the way Her Grace looks at him when she thinks they’re private.”

  “Louisa Carrington, you’ll scandalize my newly married ears.”

  He was teasing, but the word “scandalize” jarred. “Come with me to Vim and Sophie’s, Joseph. The girls will be disappointed not to go to Morelands, but they’ll stay busy cutting out snowflakes and stars and making wishes.”

  “Wasting expensive paper, you mean.”

  The remark was not characteristic of him. “Is something wrong, Joseph?”

  He hesitated, and for one instant, Louisa was certain he knew of the books and the poetry and the whole mess.

  “Your family en masse puts me in mind of facing a French cavalry charge. I suppose the gauntlet must be run, though, and Rothgreb won’t let them maul me.”

  “My sisters’ husbands won’t either, and come to that, I rather thought you enjoyed getting mauled last night.” She had certainly enjoyed mauling him.

  He closed the door and turned the lock with a quiet click, his expression becoming abruptly very focused. “You call that a mauling, Louisa Carrington? You call those sweet, tender caresses imparted by a blushing new wife a mauling?”

  He started unbuttoning his waistcoat, and Louisa’s heart began to beat faster.

  “You have much to learn, Wife.” Joseph’s boots hit the floor in two thumps. “It shall ever be my pleasure to teach you.”

  “Joseph, it’s not halfway through the morning, I’m fully clothed—”

  “Which can be remedied posthaste—should the need arise.” His shirt came off over his head, and Louisa saw a button go flying across the room to land on the windowsill.

  “Sir Joseph Carrington, you cannot seriously be contemplating—ooph!”

  He scooped her up into his arms and hefted her against his chest. “Not contemplating, my love. Contemplation is for scholars and penitent schoolboys.” He strutted with her into their bedroom and dropped her onto the mattress, then covered her with his semiclad length.

  They did not leave for Sidling until another hour had passed, in which time both Sir Joseph and his new wife were thoroughly, tenderly, and wonderfully mauled.

  ***

  Louisa tucked herself against Joseph’s right side, hoping her body heat was some comfort to his leg in the chill confines of the coach. Hauling her about their chambers—hauling and mauling—could not have been wise for him.

  “We should have the kitchen keep bricks heating at all times as long as my family is nearby. There will likely be a deal of visiting going on in the next fortnight.”

  “Shall we man the garrison?” He looped an arm over Louisa’s shoulders, but she heard the disgruntlement in his voice.

  “You aren’t used to family, are you?”

  He let go a quiet sigh, probably the reaction of a man who wasn’t used to being questioned either, much less by a wife. “I lost my parents early, and then I was raised by two maiden aunts, for whom Fleur and Amanda are named. Family is dear, doting, elderly relations, and I can’t see that the Windhams sport a single one of those.”

  “Give it a few decades.”

  Louisa felt him nuzzling her temple, which resulted in a sigh of her own. Joseph was surprisingly affectionate when they were private.

  “Have you started looking for a charity to endow, Wife? Westhaven would be gazing pensively down his nose at me for the next five years did I renege on that bargain.”

  “He does that, doesn’t he? Gazes pensively down his nose. If he’s gazing at Anna, he shifts about in his seat and almost smiles.”

  There followed a review of the family tree: Anna and Westhaven, Emmie and St. Just, Sophie and Sindal, Valentine and Ellen, Maggie and Hazelton, and—as yet unwed—Eve and Jenny, both of whom Joseph had danced with. Time enough before the open house to start on Uncle Tony, Aunt Gladys, and the cousins.

  “And the forlorn hope charges forth,” Joseph muttered as he handed Louisa out of the carriage.

  “The forlorn hope was the first battery of men into a breached wall after a siege,” Louisa said, regarding him curiously. “That is a grim analogy, Joseph.”

  “Suppose it is.” He tucked her hand over his arm. “But those who survived the charge were usually field promoted and got first crack at the spoils.”

  “I believe we’ve already enjoyed the spoils,” Louisa observed as they approached Sidling Manor. “What will you be promoted to?”

  “Brother-by-marriage.”

  He did not seem sanguine at the prospect, but Louisa had to admit, the throng of Windhams within the old house was imposing indeed. She hugged and kissed and was kissed and hugged for a merry age before her sisters tried to pull her off in the direction of the kitchen.

  Westhaven appropriated Louisa’s hand before the abduction was well and truly under way.

  “I need a word with Sir Joseph’s lady, assuming she can spare a moment for her dear old brother?”

  Westhaven was dear. He would never be old, not in the harmless sense he was implying. Louisa tucked her arm around his. “Since my husband has been dragooned into the study to serve out his sentence among other dear old fellows before the fire, I can spare you a minute.”

  Westhaven escorted her to a small, unhe
ated parlor. A comfortable room, full of embroidered pillows, winter sunbeams, and framed sketches of smiling people—probably the family parlor.

  “You look well, Louisa. I trust marriage is agreeing with you?”

  A fraternal interrogation, but Louisa also gathered Westhaven was truly concerned and trying not to show it.

  “Marriage to Sir Joseph agrees with me very much. I expect we’ll be producing the requisite grandchildren for Their Graces posthaste as evidence of how well we suit.” She slipped her arm from his. “Need you question me further, Westhaven, or might I go and snitch my allotted portion of batter while I endure the same treatment from my sisters?”

  He tapped her nose, a very un-Westhaven-like gesture. “Not quite yet. I have a present for you.” Westhaven reached behind a chair and produced a linen sack.

  “There is a growing fashion, Westhaven, of wrapping presents in decorated paper or cloth.” The sack was tied closed with a red bow—a brother’s gesture in the direction of seasonal trappings, no doubt.

  “Open it, Lou. Happy Christmas from all of us, and from Victor too, I think.”

  Mention of the brother who’d lost his battle with consumption several Christmases earlier had Louisa studying Westhaven’s face.

  “You needn’t have gotten me anything, you know. If it weren’t for my family, two hundred volumes of potential scandal would still be at large. As it is, only twenty-seven—”

  He shook his head slowly from side to side.

  A blend of holiday cheer at seeing her family and mild irritation at Westhaven’s theatrics vanished, leaving Louisa with a sense that the moment had grown significant.

  She tossed the ribbon onto a chair and peered into the sack. A bounty of small red volumes lay within, some worn, some pristine, and all bearing the title of her potential undoing.

  Louisa Windham Carrington comprehended many languages, including both the ancient and the modern. She corresponded with learned minds regarding astronomy, mathematics, natural science, and economics. She had read more Latin than most of the top scholars at Cambridge, and she could recite more poetry than the literary prodigies at Oxford.

  But she had only two words for her brother: “Thank you.”

  “They are all there, save one,” Westhaven said. “We can safely assume that one is at the bottom of some river, buried with a worthy cavalryman on the Continent, or otherwise gathering dust in an old curmudgeon’s attic. Your troubles are over, Lou. It took years, and the efforts of every sibling and even some relatives, but—thank the Deity and His Angels—we found them all.”

  His smile was doting, triumphant, and affectionate, and as Louisa let him hug her, she admitted they were sharing a fine, fine moment full of gratitude, familial love, and loyalty.

  All of which would have portended very well, had Louisa thought the last little red volume was indeed rotting in the bottom of some obscure river.

  She, however, knew quite the contrary to be true. That last, most important copy of the infernal book was in the lily-white hands of a man with whom Louisa had waltzed. A man to whom she’d shown every courtesy, and a man who had to be stopped by any and all possible means.

  ***

  “We do so enjoy the holidays,” the Regent declared, jowls working around a mouthful of plum pudding. “Nasty weather, true, but good food and good friends abound. Let me see that menu one more time.”

  He waggled pudgy fingers in the direction of his senior footman, who procured the requisite document—the thing ran to five pages—from a delicate escritoire several feet farther from the fire.

  His Royal Highness glanced up from his tray. “Humbug, you’re eyeing my pudding like a starving mud lark. Bad form, old boy.”

  Hamburg directed his gaze to the cherubs gleefully sporting about on the ceiling.

  “Do you think eight desserts is—oh, this will not do. There is nothing chocolate among the desserts. Our friends are very fond of their chocolate.”

  His Royal Highness’s friends were of the female persuasion, one female in particular. Hamburg exchanged a glance with the footman that confirmed their shared opinion of altering the menu when the kitchens had long since started preparing the Christmas meal.

  “Perhaps Your Royal Highness might gift the guests with chocolate drops, or serve them between the dessert courses?”

  More plum pudding disappeared down the royal gullet. “I suppose We could at that. When you go, send Mortenson to me. He’ll whinge and whine about the expense, but it’s Christmas, what? The shopkeepers will boast for years of having Our custom.”

  “For decades.” Given the magnitude of that custom when it came to sweets.

  “Humbug, are you attempting to curry Our favor?”

  Well, yes, he was, because the sun would soon set, and Hamburg Senior believed in getting into the spirit—or spirits—of the season nightly unless somebody was on hand to curb his Yuletide zeal.

  “Of course not, Your Royal Highness.”

  “Not the preferred answer, though We will allow you’re honest. You’ve been too conscientious, however, and so must be punished for your virtue.”

  Only in the royal household would a good man be punished for his virtue.

  “I live to serve Your Royal Highness.”

  The Regent’s smile was sardonic. “You live to complain about serving, so We will indulge your propensities. You’re to scare up Sir Joseph Carrington and inform him of his honors on Christmas Day. We would like to make it clear that We feel an especial affection for Our loyal servant on the day of the holy birth, particularly if the dear fellow is going to keep a regiment of urchins off the charity of the parishes.”

  Hamburg watched despite himself as the royal fundament was heaved up out of a well-padded chair. “The letters patent are…” The Regent scanned the room. “Ah, on that mantel.” He snapped his fingers. “If you please.”

  The footman who’d fetched the menu handed the sovereign the relevant beribboned documents.

  “I’m to understand Your Royal Highness wants this delivered on Christmas Day?”

  “Boxing Day wouldn’t make quite the same impression, now would it? One rewards the trades and the lower orders on Boxing Day.”

  “Of course. Christmas it is.”

  “There. You see? You are perfectly miserable, and you have your high and trusted office to thank. Sir Joseph has likely taken his bride out to the family seat in Kent. If you leave now, you stand a chance of making a splash at Moreland’s annual open house. Mind the punch, though. Her Grace never lets a guest go thirsty, and while the libation is delightful, it also kicks like a mule.”

  As if the Duke of Moreland would be swilling punch with a Carlton House lackey. The footman gave a slight, commiserating shake of his head while the Regent settled in to annihilate more plum pudding. “You can take one of the coaches. A four-in-hand ought to do. A six-in-hand can be tedious when the roads are sloppy. Two postillions, full livery, you know the drill.”

  “Of course. A four-in-hand, two postillions.” Which made the journey an altogether different proposition. The royal coaches were nothing if not commodious, and Kent was not so very far away. Then too, when the Prince of Wales’s coach came galloping up the lane, everybody stopped to stare.

  “Be off with you.” The royal hand flapped languidly. “Happy Christmas, Humbug, and Crenshaw has a little something for you to keep the chill off while you travel.”

  A strapping young specimen in periwig and footman’s livery stood by the door, holding a wooden case that looked to be full of… bottles.

  “Your Royal Highness, I’m going only to Kent.”

  “Shoo. We need peace and quiet to consider Our menu.”

  “Happy Christmas, and thank you.”

  “Happy Christmas, Humbug, and mind you don’t get the coachman drunk. We value Our cattle.”

  ***

  The only thing saving Joseph was the messenger’s timing. He arrived while Louisa was above stairs, putting the finishing touches on her t
oilette. Twenty minutes either way, and she would have known at the same moment Joseph himself learned of old Hargrave’s passing.

  “He did not suffer at the end, sir—I mean, my lord.”

  “Sir will do. Nothing’s official yet.” Pray God the legalities would take months to untangle. A title did not often come out of abeyance, and Joseph certainly wasn’t going to hurry the process.

  The old fellow looked like he’d argue with Joseph for declining more formal address, but one glance at Joseph’s visage, and no more was offered on the subject.

  “You are, of course, welcome here for the holidays,” Joseph said. The man had the look of an aging jockey—not much over four feet tall, wizened and somehow boyish at the same time. “Cook will feed you within an inch of your life, and I’m sure the punch bowl was set out in the servants’ hall several days ago.”

  “A tot of grog wouldn’t go amiss, your—sir. The old, er, Mr. Sixtus Hargrave Carrington give me a letter for ye and a message.”

  Joseph accepted a single folded sheet of foolscap, sanded and sealed, his name scrawled across the outside.

  “My thanks. What was the message?”

  The little fellow tugged on one red ear. “He said to be sure to tell you, ‘Happy Christmas,’ because his is likely the best one he’s had for fifty years.”

  “And his widow?” To lose a spouse in the Yule season could not be an easy thing.

  “You shoulda seen the bachelors circling her at the wake, my—sir. She’ll bear up, and Mr. Carrington wouldn’t begrudge her her fun, neither. She stood by him while he lived. He wouldn’t expect more.”

  Joseph nodded and frowned at the letter. “Off to the kitchen with you, and my thanks for bringing the news in person.”

  The little fellow bobbed in parting, leaving Joseph alone with Sixtus Hargrave Carrington’s final missive. Joseph slit the seal reluctantly, because having something of his relation yet to read meant Hargrave’s business in the mortal sphere was not quite concluded.

  My Dear Joseph,

  As you read this, I am cavorting about the celestial realm with the naiads and muses, my form once again restored to the youthful vigor you yet enjoy. The Deity has granted me my fondest Christmas wish and put an end to my suffering—you will not presume to castigate Him for His timing until you yourself are wracked with illness and relieved of every dignity for years on end.