Lady Louisa's Christmas Knight

by Grace Burrowes

  She missed nothing. Being around such a lively mind was an ongoing pleasure. “Happy memories made on Christmas morning.”

  “Those were the dearest puppies, weren’t they? I wonder what their names will be.”

  Puppies? Ah, yes, the puppies. “I stand by my vote for Westhaven and Rosecroft. We can name the new donkey Valentine.”

  This provoked a chuckle from his wife. “How could you not know there was a foal on the way? And what are you doing with a donkey, Joseph? It isn’t the sort of dignified animal a peer of the realm and former cavalry officer ought to have.”

  “Jesus rode a donkey. What greater recommendation does a creature need? Besides, Clarabelle is gentle and patient with the girls. They can learn to drive her this spring and be ready for ponies in the summer.”

  He let her reference to him as a peer of the realm slip by but knew exactly what she was up to. In the smallest increments, she was preparing him for the day when he would be, not Sir Joseph, but Joseph, Lord Wheldrake. On this fine and frosty Christmas morning, the notion did not inspire anywhere near the dread it had just days ago.

  When they had rocked through the countryside for some moments in silence, Joseph brought Louisa’s knuckles to his lips. “I rather liked being your chosen knight, Louisa. If we’re going to be saddled with a title, a mere barony doesn’t seem worthy of you.”

  “Ridiculous man. The baronies are among the oldest titles in the land. The titles of wife and mother being older, I shall content myself with them.”

  Sir Joseph considered pleasuring his wife in a moving coach. “Have we much farther to go, Louisa?”

  They’d gotten an early start, in part because the girls had been up before dawn, tapping on the bedroom door and giggling their way through breakfast.

  “Not much farther. Joseph, can one indulge in marital intimacies in a traveling coach?”

  He turned his head to regard her. The look in her eyes suggested the question had not been theoretical. “You tempt me, Wife. You tempt me sorely, but I find myself more inclined to get this errand over with then hasten back to the warmth and comfort of our bed, where I can indulge your whims at our leisure.”

  She looked disappointed. “You have not given me my Christmas gift, Husband. Perhaps I’ll call a forfeit instead.” Her hand stroked over his falls, and Joseph retaliated by kissing her soundly indeed. As it turned out, the coachman soon stopped on his own initiative to let the horses blow, but it was rather a long time before the occupants of the coach gave him the signal to drive on.

  ***

  “Who are you?”

  “I am your uncle Gayle, or Westhaven if you’re of a more formal inclination.”

  Fleur looked at Amanda to see if she knew what a formal inclination was.

  “He must be related to Stepmama. He talks like her,” Amanda pronounced. “We were going to go see Lady Ophelia’s brand new piglets. There are twelve, and when we went to wish them Happy Christmas, our papa said there isn’t a damned runt in the batch, and our mama didn’t scold him at all because it’s Christmas. You can play with our puppies if you don’t want to go to the barn. This one has the same name as you.”

  “Lou will pay for that,” said the other fellow. He was as tall as Westhaven, but he had darker hair, and he was smiling a little. “Our felicitations to Lady Ophelia, whose acquaintance we’ll make some other day. We’ve come to see if you know where your parents have gotten off to. The servants claim not to know.”

  Fleur peered over at Amanda and visually confirmed that they weren’t going to tell. Stepmama had said it was a secret.

  “This is a waste of time,” the fellow Westhaven said. He looked like Papa before a journey, all impatient and determined.

  Yet another tall man strolled into the nursery, one bearing a resemblance to the first two, though a little more muscular, like Papa. “Hello, ladies, I’m your uncle Devlin. Has Westhaven scared you witless with his fuming and fretting?”

  This fellow looked to be great fun, with a nice smile and kind green eyes.

  “Mama and Papa didn’t say anything about getting uncles for Christmas,” Amanda observed, but she was smiling back at the big uncle.

  The biggest uncle—they were all as tall as Papa.

  “Well, that’s because we’re a surprise,” the other dark-haired fellow said. “I’m your uncle Valentine, and we have an entire gaggle of aunties waiting out in the coach to spoil you rotten. Westhaven here is just out of sorts because Father Christmas gave him a headache for being naughty yesterday.”

  “I was not naughty.”

  The other two uncles thought this was quite funny, judging by their smiles.

  “There’s your problem,” said Uncle Devlin. “I’m thinking it’s a fine day for a pair of ladies to join their aunts for a ride in the traveling coach.”

  Uncle Gayle—it didn’t seem fair to call him by the same name as Fleur’s puppy—appeared to consider this. “For what purpose?”

  “To keep the peace. Emmie and I never haul out our big guns around the children,” said Uncle Devlin, which made no sense.

  “Do you like to play soldiers?” Fleur asked.

  Amanda appeared intrigued by the notion. She was forever galloping up hills and charging down banisters in pursuit of the French.

  Uncle Devlin’s brows knitted—he had wonderful dark eyebrows, much like Papa’s. “As a matter of fact, on occasion, if I’ve been an exceedingly good fellow, my daughter lets me join her in a game of soldiers.”

  “I’m not exactly unfamiliar with the business myself,” said Uncle Valentine. “I excel at the lightning charge and have been known to take even the occasional doll prisoner.”

  “Missus Wolverhampton would not like being a prisoner,” Fleur said, though Uncle Valentine was teasing—wasn’t he?”

  “Perhaps you gentlemen can arrange an assignation to play soldiers with our nieces on some other day,” Westhaven said. He sounded like his teeth hurt, which Fleur knew might be from the seasonal hazard of eating too much candy.

  “You can play too,” Fleur allowed, because it was Christmas, and one ought to be kind to uncles who strayed into one’s nursery.

  “We’ll let you be Wellington,” Amanda added, getting into the spirit of the day.

  “Which leaves me to be Blucher’s mercenaries,” Uncle Devlin said, “saving the day as usual.”

  “Oh, that’s brilliant.” Uncle Valentine wasn’t smiling now. “Leave your baby brother to be the infernal French again, will you? See if I write a waltz for your daughter’s come out, St. Just.”

  Uncle Gayle wasn’t frowning quite so mightily. In fact, he looked like he wanted to smile but was too grown-up to allow it. “Perhaps you ladies will gather up a few soldiers and fetch a doll or two. We’re going on a short journey to find your mama and papa, so we can all share Christmas with them.”

  Fleur noticed his slip, and clearly, Amanda had too—but it was the same slip Amanda had made earlier, and one Fleur was perfectly happy to let everybody make. Uncle Gayle had referred to their papa’s new wife not as their stepmama, but as their mama.

  What a fine thing that would be, if for Christmas they got a mama again for really and truly. Amanda fetched their dolls, Fleur grabbed their favorite storybook, and the uncles herded them from the nursery, all three grown men arguing about whose turn it was to be the blasted French.

  ***

  “Percival, were we expecting Wales to join us this holiday?”

  His Grace came over to the window, and—because the children had all gone on a mad dash over to Louisa’s—slipped a hand around his wife’s trim waist.

  “By God, that is his coat of arms, isn’t it? Best ready the state rooms, my dear—” His Grace broke off as down in the drive, a footman dropped the steps on the elegant conveyance and a diminutive fellow emerged, swaddled in scarves and mufflers.

  “Not the Regent, then,” Her Grace muttered. “Is this one of your eccentric compatriots from the Lords, Percy?”


  The woman had a way of referring to affairs of state as if they barely merited the same notice as a tippling parlor maid. His Grace occasionally shared her perspective, as when those affairs of state interfered with the little peace and quiet a man could cadge with his own wife on Christmas Day.

  “Damned if I know what’s afoot. Prinny and I aren’t exactly bosom bows.”

  A footman read a card for the Honorable Mister Somebody Whoever Hamburg, Special Whatever to the Something Committee of His Royal Highness’s Select Commission on Whatnot.

  His Grace’s hearing was not what it used to be—sometimes. “Show him in, Porter, and send around the holiday tray if you can find anybody in the kitchen sober enough to put one together.”

  Her Grace’s lips twitched. “If there’s punch left over from the open house, it should hardly go to waste.”

  “My dear, I assure you it does not go to waste. We have a spate of housemaids in an interesting condition every autumn to show for the vigor with which we celebrate the holidays here at Morelands each year.”

  A bustling was heard from the main hall below, while the duchess lowered her lashes. “Four of our children were born in the autumn, Moreland. I have many fine memories of the Yule season.”

  Oh, it was a delight, a positive delight, to be married to this woman, and each decade—each year—the delight grew more profound. But of course, in the few hours when the house was free of children, grandchildren, nieces, and neighbors, the damned Regent would have to send out some damned holiday greeting.

  The footman announced Hamburg, who bowed deeply to the duchess and then to the duke.

  “Your Grapes, Your Grazes—Your Graces,” he enunciated. The little fellow blinked owlishly then peered around the main parlor, a lovely room at the front of the house, with enormous windows overlooking the snowy expanse of the Moreland park.

  “Mr. Hamburg, felicitations of the season, and of the day.” Her Grace offered Prinny’s man the smile that had felled many a lord, and Hamburg did indeed weave a trifle on his feet. “Perhaps we should be seated?”

  Her Grace took a seat while Hamburg continued to blink. Then, several moments later, “Yes, Your Grace.”

  He marched over to a pretty little gilt chair finished in pink velvet, flipped out the tails of his morning coat, and all but fell into his seat.

  “I come in hopes of locating your daughter, the Lady Louisa, and her spoush.” Hamburg’s brows drew down amid the pink expanse of his pate. “Her husband, that is, because I bear tidings for Sir Joseph from the Regent himself. Tidings”—the man wiggled his eyebrows at the duchess and stabbed a pudgy finger toward the ceiling—“of great joy!”

  Porter appeared at the door with a wheeled cart, which was never bad news in His Grace’s estimation.

  “You haven’t far to go, Mr. Hamburg,” Her Grace said gently. “Though surely you can tarry long enough to take some sustenance with us? Your journey from Town in this weather could not have been easy.”

  “It was not, my good woman.”

  My good woman? His Grace didn’t care what committee of which commission the little sot hailed from, nobody addressed the Duchess of Moreland as my good woman… except Esther appeared amused by it.

  “The roads,” Hamburg went on, leaning forward to rub his posterior as he spoke, “the roads are deplorable. If it weren’t for the good inns and the fine libation provided by them, travel throughout this sceptered isle would not be possible, not even in support of His Royal Highness’s most dearly held fancies.”

  Her Grace passed their guest a cup of tea. “And is it a fancy that brings you to Kent, Mr. Hamburg?”

  “Nothing but. My thanks. I say, did you put at least two sugars in this? Can’t abide tea that isn’t properly sweetened.”

  “Three,” said Her Grace solemnly. “My vow on it.”

  The duke began to really, truly enjoy himself, because his duchess was enjoying herself. Tidings of Great Joy was probably enjoying himself too, and wasn’t that what Christmas was for?

  Hamburg took a sip of his tea. “Well, that’s all right, then. A man could use some tucker, though. Haring about in the dead of winter, leaving earldoms in people’s stockings where they ought to find baronies is surely famishing work. A barony would not do, you see, nor a viscountcy. I do favor the cakes, missus.”

  Missus? Her Grace’s eyes began to sparkle.

  His Grace took a seat beside the duchess. “Hamburg, do we understand you to mean Sir Joseph Carrington is going to be created an earl?”

  “We this and We that,” Hamburg said, banging his teacup down. “The livelong infernal day, it’s We, We, We… Do We go to the privy? Do We break wind? I lie awake at night in my cold and lonely bed—well, actually, I take a few hot bricks there with me—and I lose sleep wondering if We scratch Our arse, or have the bloody footmen—”

  “Some cakes, Mr. Hamburg?” Her Grace was nigh shaking with suppressed laughter, while Hamburg heaved out a long-suffering sigh.

  “If you please, ma’am. Cakes would work a treat. Damned cold in that coach. A man must contrive on the crumbs of consideration We throw at him.”

  Her Grace did not serve her husband a cup of tea, but she did pass him a plate with two cakes on it. His Grace considered it a measure of Hamburg’s riveting performance that he’d rather hear what Prinny’s herald had to say next than eat the cakes.

  “Are you looking to inform Sir Joseph of his great good fortune?” His Grace asked.

  “Well, what else would have me racketing about on Christmas Day, I ask you? Himself wouldn’t have it otherwise, and I do live to serve. Good cakes, sir. I commend your wife on her kitchen.”

  “My thanks,” Esther murmured, which was all that stopped His Grace from having Porter show Good Tidings out the door and back into the Regent’s traveling spirit shop.

  “You have only a short way to go to find Sir Joseph’s home, Ti—Hamburg,” His Grace said. “And your timing is well chosen, because all of the Windham siblings are gathered there and will make a proper fuss over Louisa and her earl.”

  His Grace aimed a look over Hamburg’s head at Porter, who stood bloodshot eyes front, shoulders back, and wig slightly askew at the drawing room door. Porter nodded and slipped from the room.

  “More tea, Mr. Hamburg?”

  Hamburg peered at his empty cup. “We prosed on at great length about the punch to be had here. I missed your open house. Apologies for that, but there was a maid at the inn where we—not that We, just the coachman, the grooms, postillions, footmen, and myself—stopped to rest the grays…”

  Watching a man who was so very bald succumb to embarrassment was an interesting natural phenomenon. The color crept up from neck to cheeks to brow and kept on going, until Hamburg’s entire head was a lovely shade of pink His Grace had heard referred to as Maiden’s Blush.

  “We do have comely tavern maids here in Kent,” His Grace said.

  “But terrible roads!” Hamburg expostulated. “We ought to do something about it, if you ask me—which he never does. Not unless he wants to know if the puce waistcoat is more flattering than the salmon, for God’s sake. The man is fat, I tell you. Fat as a market hog, and his stays creak abominably. One has to pretend one doesn’t hear them, and that is trying in the extreme.”

  Amid grumbling, grousing, and more contumely flung at the royal person, Hamburg finished his tea and cakes and then stuffed a cake in his pocket while beaming cherubically at his great good friend, missus.

  Porter was told to explain to the coachman exactly how to locate Sir Joseph’s estate, and then Hamburg was reswaddled in his scarves and poured into the coach.

  “Percival,” Her Grace said as they waved a muttering Hamburg on his way, “was it kind to tuck that bottle of punch into his satchel?”

  His Grace spied a handy sprig of mistletoe not six feet away and kissed her cheek. “The man is suffering, missus, surely you don’t begrudge him a medicinal tot?”

  “For Christmas, I acquired my first dri
nking companion. I can begrudge such a rare good friend nothing.” Her Grace was nearly grinning, then her brow knit. “Percival, the children are already over at Louisa and Joseph’s, you don’t think we’d be intruding…?”

  “The sleigh is being hitched as we speak, my dear, and because we know all the lanes and shortcuts, I’m sure we’ll beat Hamburg’s conveyance handily.”

  “That is splendid of you, Percival. Just splendid.”

  And then, without even a sprig of mistletoe to provoke her into such a display, the Duchess of Moreland planted a thorough smacker on His Grace’s cheek. Five minutes later, they were bundled into the waiting sleigh, hot bricks at their feet, robes over their laps, and a flask or two of punch warming the ducal pockets.

  ***

  “Seems Prinny’s coach came through earlier this morning. All the stable boys are too busy gossiping about it to fill a bucket of water. How much farther have we to go?”

  St. Just held the bucket for his horse while Westhaven did what Westhaven did best: frowned pensively down his nose.

  “Not far. Sir Joseph’s holding is only a few miles from my own, as the crow flies. I can water my own horse.”

  St. Just moved down the line. “General officers must be free to see to any aspect of the march requiring attention. How are the ladies bearing up?”

  “You never heard more giggling coming from one coach. I believe they’ve broken out their flasks.”

  Valentine took the bucket from St. Just, dumped the remaining water into the snow, and dipped fresh from a trough before watering his own mount. “It’s cold enough to merit the occasional nip. Has anybody figured out what we’re going to say to Louisa and Sir Joseph when this cavalcade shows up on their doorstep?”

  “We’ll start with Bloodshed Solves Nothing,” Westhaven informed him, “and go on to Not In Front of the Children, and finish with an observation that A Cup of Tea Wouldn’t Go Amiss.”

  St. Just exchanged a look with Valentine. The horses remained wisely silent.

  “Westhaven,” St. Just began, “Sir Joseph dueled for Louisa’s honor, which often results in bloodshed. If what you say is true, there will be at least a dozen children on hand, and the little dears are expert at hearing and seeing what they ought not to hear or see. The tea tray is a stretch—this is Louisa whose hospitality we’re imposing on.”