His Mistletoe Bride

by Vanessa Kelly

  She threw open the heavy door and made her way quickly down the dark corridor. In her haste, she had forgotten to take a candle. A small branch stood on a table at the end of the hallway, barely penetrating the frigid gloom of the upper house. The angry voices down in the entrance hall, however, reached her with alarming clarity.

  When she reached the top of the old staircase she pulled up short. The scene below could only be described as mayhem. The servants—most in their nightclothes—milled around the hall, talking in loud, excited voices. Several men in hats and greatcoats stood inside the massive front doors, glaring at the manor’s inhabitants. One of the men, obviously the leader, was speaking to a furious-looking Lucas.

  Phoebe’s stomach churned when she saw that the intruders carried guns. They stood behind their leader, clearly agitated and unsettled by the volatile atmosphere swirling around them.

  Her heart in her throat, she rushed down the steps and into the milling knot of servants. Several turned to her, all talking over each other and so loudly she could barely fathom a word.

  Maggie, dressed in a bright red wrapper and with her nightcap hanging off her head, appeared by her side. “Oh, my lady, smugglers, right here at Mistletoe Manor. I swear I shall die of fright,” she cried with dramatic relish.

  Phoebe gaped at her. “These men are smugglers? They dare to come to the manor?”

  Maggie’s vigorous head shake sent her cap sliding farther south, revealing a head full of papers.

  “No, my lady. That fellow speaking with his lordship is the excise officer, and those are his men. They were chasing a gang of smugglers who came right onto the estate.” She gave an exaggerated shudder. “Who’d have thought we’d find such dreadful happenings down here in the country. And on our first night, too!”

  Phoebe cast a quick glance around the hall. Unlike Maggie, the rest of the servants looked far from entertained. In fact, they seemed in various stages of worry and fright, and a few of the younger girls appeared to be on the verge of tears.

  And both Mrs. Christmas and Mr. Christmas stood right behind Lucas, casting anxious, apprehensive glances between him and the excise officer.

  As Phoebe gently pushed her way through the servants, trying to reassure them with a quiet word, she sensed a genuine degree of alarm in the hall, and not just because law officers had come banging on the door in the middle of the night. No, something felt off-kilter, for lack of a better term. Fear had come in the night to Mistletoe Manor. She could see it in the white faces of the servants, and in the grim, suspicious looks of the excise men.

  She finally made her way to stand quietly behind Lucas. He noticed her only when the man he was speaking to broke off to stare at her. When Lucas glanced over his shoulder, meeting her gaze, his eyes narrowed and his mouth flattened into a thin line. “I thought I told you to stay upstairs.”

  Phoebe repressed the urge to bristle at his tone of voice. “Since every other person in the manor saw fit to come down, I thought it only proper I join them,” she replied mildly.

  Lucas swore. “Christ, this is all I need. Isn’t there one person in this damned place who will listen to me?”

  His words stung, but she managed to preserve her temper. Her husband was upset and frustrated, and emotional displays on her part would only worsen matters. Somehow, she needed to deflect the anger swirling around before it manifested into something even uglier.

  “My lord,” she said in a clear, carrying tone, “perhaps you would be so kind as to introduce me to this gentleman. I wish to understand how we can help him.”

  Lucas pressed his lips shut and, for an awful second, she thought he would refuse. Then he gave a terse nod. “This is Mr. Harper, the customs officer for the district. Mr. Harper, this is my wife, Lady Merritt.”

  Mr. Harper, who had the look about him of a sensible man, gave her a neat bow. “Your ladyship, please forgive the intrusion. I deeply regret it, but it was necessary.”

  “The matter must be of great import if you deemed it necessary to disrupt our peace so late at night,” Phoebe replied in a pleasant voice.

  The man cast a quick, regretful glance over her attire. “Forgive me. I was not aware his lordship had returned from London when I disturbed your rest.”

  “That hardly seems a good excuse for you to pound the manor’s door down,” Phoebe said carefully, ensuring her nerves did not tip her into plain speech. “I will take your word for it but I must insist your men lower their weapons. You are in the hall of an English lord, not on a battlefield.”

  Mr. Harper hesitated, casting a swift glance around the hall as if expecting one of the servants to pull out a pistol at any moment.

  Lucas raised an imperious eyebrow. “You heard Lady Merritt, Mr. Harper. I can vouch for your men’s safety, no matter how unruly the crowd,” he said, sarcasm inflecting his words.

  Mr. Harper had the grace to flush, and quietly ordered his men to stow their weapons. As he did, Phoebe turned to her housekeeper. “Mrs. Christmas, please send the servants back to their beds. Their service is not required.”

  Mrs. Christmas opened her mouth and then shut it, looking mutinous as she crossed her arms across her ample chest.

  Phoebe frowned. “Is there some difficulty?”

  “Only that it’s like to be a miracle if we’re not all killed in our beds, what with all the shooting going on,” she said.

  Startled, Phoebe grabbed Lucas by the shirtsleeve.

  “People were shooting at each other? Was anyone hurt?”

  He cast her another impatient glance. “Everyone, including you, should go up to bed. I will deal with this situation.”

  Phoebe propped her hands on her hips, causing her shawl to slide off her shoulders. That had the unfortunate effect of bringing Mr. Harper’s gaze—and his men’s—right back to her and her unfortunate state of undress. With a sharp intake of breath, Lucas stepped in front of her. His rigid posture sent out an unmistakable warning to every man in the hall.

  Groaning, Phoebe snatched up her shawl and wrapped it closely about her chest. Embarrassment stained her cheeks with heat, but that would not deter her. Stepping up to Lucas, she touched his arm. “Please tell me if anyone has been hurt.”

  “I have no idea,” he snapped.

  A mournful voice piped up from the small knot of excise men. “I was shot in the arm, my lady,” a man said. “Hurts like the devil, too.”

  Mr. Harper cast an annoyed glance behind him. “It’s just a graze, Williams. I’ll have someone ride for the surgeon once we’re finished with the search.”

  This time Phoebe did bristle. “A man has been shot and you expect him to just stand there and bleed onto my floor? That is hardly the behavior of a Christian, sir.”

  “Phoebe,” Lucas growled, “stay out of this.”

  She ignored him, glancing at the housekeeper and butler standing beside her. “Mr. Christmas, we must tend to this man’s wounds. Please have a fire lit in the—” She hesitated, suddenly aware of how little she knew about the house.

  “I would suggest the study, my lady,” Mr. Christmas said morosely.

  “Very good. Please light the fire in the study and light several branches of candles as well.”

  Lucas heaved a tired sigh, as if giving up any hope for the rest of the night. She understood his frustration, but there was little she could do about it until order was restored, wounds tended, and Mr. Harper and his men sent on their way.

  Quickly, she gave Mrs. Christmas a few orders. The housekeeper nodded grudgingly and disappeared behind the door leading to the kitchen. Phoebe turned back to the wounded man, a big, burly fellow who gave her a shy, snaggletoothed smile. He, at least, seemed harmless enough.

  “Mr., ah, Williams, was it? Please come into the study.”

  The man stepped forward but Mr. Harper held up a restraining hand.

  “My lord,” he said, “I must ask you again to allow us to search the premises, particularly the cellars. I’m certain the smugglers have taken r
efuge in one of the manor’s buildings.”

  “That’s a serious charge to make,” Lucas replied in a hard voice. “What’s your proof, man?”

  His ruthless tone sent a shiver trickling down Phoebe’s spine, but she had to give Mr. Harper credit. He did not back down before Lucas, who towered formidably over him.

  “Because there was no other way they could give us the slip, my lord. We surprised them, right enough. They dropped their load and ran, but we were hard on their tails. Then, within sight of this house, they disappeared. Vanished into thin air.”

  Mr. Harper cast another suspicious glance around the hall. “It’s the only reasonable explanation. There has to be a tunnel or hidden cellar around here somewhere.”

  While Lucas stood frowning over that, Mr. Christmas hurried back into the hall, moving with a fair degree of alacrity. “The study is ready, Lady Merritt,” he said, slightly out of breath.

  Mr. Harper looked ready to further pursue his demands, but Lucas waved him to silence. “Enough, Harper. I have no intention of letting you rummage through my house at this late hour. It’s bad enough that my wife has to spend her wedding night tending to bullet wounds,” he said, casting Phoebe an irritated glance. “I’ll be damned if I’ll add a search for smugglers on top of it.”

  He glanced at the knot of excise men, then back to the officer. “Harper, my butler will take your men down to the kitchen where they can warm up. They are not, however, to leave that room. Do you understand?”

  Mr. Harper clearly heard the warning and nodded his reluctant assent.

  “Good,” Lucas said. “You may come into the study with me while my wife tends to your man’s wounds. I’d like a better explanation of what’s going on than what I’ve gotten so far.” He glanced down at Phoebe. “Does that meet with your approval, my lady?” he asked in a sardonic voice.

  She blushed. “Yes, my lord. Thank you.”

  He took her hand and pulled her toward the study, not bothering to see if the others obeyed him. Of course they would. When Lucas spoke in that tone of voice, everyone obeyed him. He stalked across the hall and Phoebe almost had to skip to keep up. Inside, she sighed. He obviously had his temper now firmly under control, but that did not fool her. His cooperation was razor thin, and would surely come with a price.

  He ushered her into the study, one of several rooms Phoebe had not yet seen. It was a handsome space, although obviously not refurbished in some years. But the walls, painted a pale leaf green, created a comfortable backdrop for the heavy, masculine furniture. A large desk stood before an alcove window—a small collection of globes on its polished surface—and two heavy cabinets, filled with curios, flanked the fireplace. Books lined several rows of inset shelves, and comfortable armchairs were scattered about in casual seating arrangements. It had an air of peace to it, reminding Phoebe of the cozy serenity of Uncle Arthur’s library in Stanton House.

  Lucas drew her over to the fireplace, now blazing with crackling, welcome heat. He leaned in close. “All right, Madam Wife,” he murmured. “Do what you need to do and then go back upstairs. This ridiculous scene has gone on long enough.”

  She pressed her lips tight, annoyed by his patronizing tone. He gazed down at her. Anger leached from his eyes, but frustration rapidly took its place. A stark weariness etched itself on his rugged features, and the sharp words poised on her tongue vanished. “Yes, Lucas. I will be as quick as I can,” she said softly.

  His mouth twitched with a faint smile, but his eyes remained somber and watchful. Then he motioned the injured man forward to the fire and stepped away to speak to Mr. Harper. Oddly, Phoebe had the sense he was abandoning her.

  She shook off the uncomfortable feeling as she and Mrs. Christmas helped Mr. Williams out of his greatcoat—the housekeeper grumbling all the while—and got him to sit in one of the wing chairs in front of the fireplace. The old leather crackled ominously as the man lowered his bulk onto the seat.

  He gave Phoebe an apologetic smile as she helped him roll up his sleeve.

  “It’s ever so kind of you to help, my lady. It’s a devil of a cold night to be getting shot.”

  “You wouldn’t be getting shot in the first place if you’d stayed indoors instead of chasing phantoms in the dark, now would you?” snapped Mrs. Christmas.

  Phoebe glanced at her, surprised at the animosity in the housekeeper’s voice. It seemed completely out of character.

  “Phantoms don’t shoot pistols and drop casks of French brandy in the middle of a field,” interjected Mr. Harper. The housekeeper’s face turned red. Mr. Christmas, again moving with surprising alacrity, intervened.

  “Here are some extra cloths, my lady,” he said, thrusting some clean toweling into her hand.

  Phoebe took them, not failing to notice the slight shake of the head the butler gave his cousin. Mrs. Christmas folded her lips in on themselves, as if swallowing her words. No one else but Phoebe seemed to notice the odd silence exchanged between the cousins. Lucas and Mr. Harper had already moved off to a corner, beginning a quiet but intense discussion.

  Mentally shrugging, Phoebe turned her attention back to Mr. Williams. Lucas had the right of it. The sooner the excise men were gone from the manor, the better. The servants were hiding something—whether the smugglers themselves or just knowledge of events, she did not know. But a search tonight could only lead to more problems and possibly more violence.

  She absolutely refused to begin her married life with the spilling of blood in her own house.

  Fortunately, Mr. Williams had only received a graze on his forearm. Phoebe took just a few minutes to clean the wound and put on some healing salve provided by Mrs. Christmas, and a wrapping.

  “That’s capital, my lady.” The big man beamed at her. “I doubt a surgeon could do it any better. When I heard the guns go off, I thought I was a goner for sure.”

  She leveled him with a disapproving stare. “Who shot first, Mr. Williams? The smugglers or Mr. Harper’s men?”

  “Ah . . . we did, my lady.”

  “And did thee personally engage in this exchange of fire?” she asked, unable to tamp down her anger.

  Mr. Williams threw a startled glance at Mrs. Christmas, but the housekeeper maintained a grim silence. Then he cast a worried look over at his superior officer—still occupied with Lucas—before answering.

  “I only fired off a warning shot, my lady. Not like I wanted to hit anyone. Not really.”

  She shook out his coat. Hastily, he lumbered to his feet.

  “Those who liveth by the sword will die by the sword, Mr. Williams,” she said. “I suggest you take that counsel to heart before it is too late.”

  “Yes, my lady. I’ll try to remember that.” Then, with garbled thanks, he took his coat and fled the room.

  Lucas looked up from his conversation. “All finished? Good. Now please return to your bedroom.”

  She shook her head. “Not until you tell me what happened tonight.”

  “There’s not much to tell,” he said impatiently. “There are some old smuggling routes across the estate. They’d fallen into disuse, but Mr. Harper tells me that a local gang has been using them again.”

  Phoebe frowned. “You mean men from this area?”

  Mr. Harper nodded. “Yes, my lady. I’m convinced that some of the local villagers are involved.”

  “Why would they do such a thing?” she asked.

  “Because there’s little work for them, my lady,” Mrs. Christmas broke in hotly. “Hardly enough to keep body and soul together, much less feed a family. Especially after the war and the soldiers coming home.”

  “That may be the case,” Lucas said in stern voice, “but those days are over. Mistletoe Manor will be restored to order, and any honest man who wants a job will find one here.”

  “And what about the dishonest men?” Mr. Harper asked in a challenging voice.

  Lucas’s face turned to stone. “If I find them on my land, you can be sure I will turn them over to the law.�
��

  Mr. Harper nodded. “Very good, my lord. But I caution you, these men are dangerous.”

  “They will find me a great deal more dangerous. I will not allow smugglers on my land. Ever.”

  Phoebe’s stomach tightened at the implied violence of her husband’s words. Beside her, Mrs. Christmas made a quiet sound of distress. She reached out to give the housekeeper’s hand a reassuring touch.

  “My lord,” Phoebe said, “is it really necessary to make such threats? Surely this problem can be resolved in a peaceful manner.”

  “I never make threats,” he answered calmly. Then he turned to the excise officer. “We’re finished here for tonight, Harper. My household has been disrupted enough.”

  Mr. Harper started to argue again, but Lucas held up his hand. “Yes, I understand you want to search the grounds, but any smugglers who might have taken refuge in my cellars or these supposed tunnels must certainly be long gone. I will come to your office tomorrow, and we can discuss the situation further.”

  He glanced Phoebe’s way. “You’ve upset my wife quite enough for one night.”

  Mr. Harper cast her an apologetic smile. “Forgive me, my lady. His lordship is correct. We won’t disturb you any longer.”

  Lucas had upset her more than anyone, but Phoebe could hardly say that in front of the customs officer or the servants. Instead, she murmured a quiet thank-you and followed the men out into the hall. Lucas and Mr. Harper exchanged a few more words, and then the officer and his men departed. As the big oak doors slammed shut, Lucas shot the bolts. He turned around, leaning against the doors as he eyed her.

  He looked as unhappy as she imagined a man could look on his wedding night. “And now, Madam Wife, if you’ve finished managing everything quite to your satisfaction, can we please go back to bed?”