Christmas in The Duke's Arms

by Grace Burrowes

  To propose himself as her next husband? Acquisition of Levi Sparrow as a spouse should not be an easily granted objective, and yet, Penelope’s foolish hopes would not listen to her common sense.

  “My thanks then, Levi, and I’ll leave you to it. You needn’t see me out. I appreciate your time.”

  His expression turned severe. “Will you next offer to leave through the kitchen, Penelope?”

  Oh, for the love of Christmas. Men were all alike in some regards, irrespective of age, station, education, anything.

  “I did not mean to offend, Levi. I have called on short notice. You’re a busy man. This matter is not exactly a legal—”

  His rejoinder was to draw her to her feet and wing his elbow at her. She twined her arm around his and let him lead her through the house to the front hallway. No doubt to emphasize his point—whatever point he was making—he shooed the footman off and held her cloak up himself.

  Black, of course. She looked hideous in black, but gray, mauve and lavender were flattering enough.

  “Hold still.” Not his reasoning, patient voice, but a voice that Penelope obeyed. While she tipped her chin up, he fastened the frogs beneath her chin then kissed her cheek.

  The same friendly, perfunctory buss he’d given her dozens of times before, and it left her desolate. Desolation and widows got on very well after a time. She hadn’t yet acquired the knack.

  When she might have stepped back to pull on her gloves, she was instead enveloped in a pair of strong male arms.

  “You are not to worry, Penelope.”

  The admonition was predictable, the embrace completely unexpected. She’d leaned on Levi in so many ways, that to have this too—a simple hug—seemed like an unpardonable imposition, particularly when she hoped he’d give her his very name. She mustered a small lecture of her own, though she delivered it from the comfort of his arms.

  “I am not sleeping well and fatigue has made my dignity unreliable, Levi. If you indulge me in sentimental displays, I’ll not answer for the—”

  He gently pushed her head to his shoulder. This close, he was taller than she’d realized. He also bore the fragrance of lemons and cinnamon.

  “You have borne up for a year since Sixtus’s death. Before that, you spent five years as his wife and nurse companion, and before that you were the only sensible person in a family of featherbrains. You will allow yourself this moment of friendly comfort.”

  He spoke so easily in pragmatic imperatives. Tears welled, and Pen would have left his embrace except then he would have seen her face, looked into her eyes, and insisted on accompanying her home.

  “I’m merely tired.”

  A gentle caress passed down her neck and to her shoulder. He gave her shoulder a slow, firm squeeze.

  “You rest. I’ll have a talk with Sixtus’s trustees, and we will see what’s to be done. Don’t propose to anybody until you hear from me.”

  Humor, or the closest approximation thereto Levi Sparrow was capable of. Pen blinked her tears into submission, took one last bracing whiff of lemons and cinnamon, and turned out of his arms. She didn’t bother to put on her bonnet, just snatched it off the gate-legged table, tossed a “Good day and thank you,” over her shoulder, and retreated to the confines of her coach.

  Where the tears came again, because if Levi Sparrow was attempting to make jests of her marital schemes, matters were dire indeed.

  *

  The lady had forgotten her scarf, an indication to Levi that Penelope’s unshakeable poise was suffering. He unwound a generous length of lavender wool from the coat rack in his front hallway and brought a soft bunch to his nose.

  Roses, but not the heavy scent of damasks. A hint of nutmeg underlay the floral fragrance, just as hints of blue and green had been woven through the lavender. The yarn was a blend of lamb’s wool and angora, very plush, very pleasurable to touch.

  “Excuse me, sir, but you have a guest in the small parlor.”

  “Bannon, you’re supposed to clear your throat, scuff your shoe, and otherwise avoid the near occasion of sneaking up on your employer.”

  Bannon’s expression didn’t alter, suggesting he’d both coughed and scuffed his shoe while Levi parsed the scents of roses and hope.

  “My mistake, sir. Mr. Stoneleigh is enjoying the tea tray. I explained to him you were with a client. And sir?”

  Now for the bad news. Levi hadn’t taken two steps in the direction of the informal parlor. “Out with it.”

  “Stirring-up Sunday is soon upon us. The staff will decorate the house.”

  A warning, not a request for permission. Levi’s staff had opinions, most of which they were well paid to keep to themselves. Their opinions about the Christmas holidays, and the need to decorate the house within an inch of its life, they made known every year.

  “Understood, Bannon. Make up the green guest room, if you please, and warn Mrs. Helmstead that Stoneleigh will likely want a bath.”

  Bannon bowed, showing the patch on the top of his head no longer covered with hair. Bannon hadn’t sported a bald spot when he’d come into Levi’s employ—though that had been ten years ago.

  The small parlor was cozy and commodious rather than a temple to tidiness, a room where a man who’d completed a winter journey north from London might make himself comfortable.

  “Stoneleigh.” Levi closed the door to keep in the heat and keep out the servants. “I see the various malefactors loose on the highways didn’t bestir themselves to interrupt your journey.”

  Stoneleigh rose, dusting crumbs from his hands. “I came by post—faster and safer and less likely to be used by former clients. You’re gaunt. Have you taken to wearing mufflers? I can’t say lavender flatters you.”

  This was Gervaise Stoneleigh’s version of a warm greeting. Levi folded the scarf into quarters and put it on the mantel.

  “A client’s forgotten accessory. I’ve ordered you a bath.”

  “Good of you,” Stoneleigh said. “The Duke’s Arms is full up, and everybody in the common was gabbling about highwaymen with no Christmas spirit.”

  Stoneleigh was a Byronically handsome devil, never in want of female companionship or proper invitations, but not much given to socializing. When Levi’s path had crossed with Stoneleigh’s as young fellows starting out, they’d enjoyed an instant mutual regard.

  “You may remove to The Duke’s Arms when they have a vacancy,” Levi said, “though the talk of highwaymen is grounded in unfortunate reality. Cook, will, of course, be heartbroken that you’d rather have the fare of a coaching inn than what she’ll prepare for you.”

  Levi would also be disappointed not to have his friend’s company as winter closed in.

  Stoneleigh ran pale fingers over the folded scarf on the mantel. “You have lady clients?”

  “A few. Widows sensible enough to seek professional assistance with their business affairs rather than relying on sons, brothers, or cousins. May I offer you something to take off the chill?”

  “You may.” Stoneleigh resumed his place in the middle of a blue brocade sofa. “While I will offer you all the gossip I know in exchange for the use of that hot bath before dinner is served.”

  Levi crossed to the hearth and set the fire screen aside. The Midlands in December was no place to find oneself at a coaching inn, though The Duke’s Arms was comfortable, friendly and clean. When the fire was making a better effort to toast the room’s inhabitants, he poured two servings of one of the finest Armagnacs in the realm.

  “This is why I impose on your hospitality,” Stoneleigh said, sitting back with his drink. “You must have saved the man a bloody fortune for him to keep you in libation like this.”

  Levi took the chair that had long since learned the exact contours of his fundament. “I saved his reputation, which was worth several bloody fortunes. How’s business in old London Towne?”

  They talked about who was being considered for a judgeship, what former associates had got up to mischief, and which MP was int
roducing the most daft legislation—a topic that might have occupied them until spring.

  Levi fished in his pocket and held up a shiny gold sovereign. “Take this.”

  Stoneleigh made no move to take the coin. “Why?”

  Bloody barristers. “So I might require you to hold the next topic in confidence.”

  Slowly, slowly, Stoneleigh reached for the coin, as if he expected the money to hiss at him. “Are you in trouble, Leviticus?”

  A careful question—open-ended, but not flippant. One of the premier barristers in the land probably found all of his friends turning to him for advice sooner or later—the friends who’d committed crimes, that is.

  “Not in the sense you allude to. I haven’t broken any laws that I know of, though I find myself in a situation.”

  Was this how Levi’s clients felt when they brought their problems to him? Confused, self-conscious, ashamed of their confusion? Ashamed of themselves?

  “You want to break laws,” Stoneleigh suggested. “Or you want to break heads, which amounts to the same thing.”

  “Perhaps I shall break your head, Stoneleigh. What I want to do is remarry.”

  Stoneleigh took another sip of his drink, clearly expecting all conversation to pause while he savored his potation and let the finish come to full bloom.

  “This is not a legal question, Levi. You don’t retain a barrister to explain the fine points of courting. Who’s the lucky girl?”

  He had to ask that, in case the lady in question was a client of his, or a client’s wife, daughter, niece, cousin, granddaughter, god-daughter. The practice of law endlessly cramped a man’s facility for gossip.

  “You don’t know her, and she’s not a girl. She’s a lady, and a widow.”

  This provoked a frown. “Please tell me you’re not considering some weedy old besom who’ll read psalms at every meal and look down her nose at those of us who waltz? Christmas is coming, and you’ll not want to spoil the holiday for your staff by marrying an antidote. I suppose a lengthy engagement would allow them to find other positions.”

  A weedy old besom?

  “I am the same age as you, Gervaise. Why would I take to wife a weedy old besom?”

  The next perusal held a guarded hint of pity. “When Ann died, you became a weedy old besom yourself, all ponderous silences and grim determination.” And then, more softly. “One worried for you.”

  Thank God men drank when they socialized, lest little admissions like that require them to look at one another while they flayed each other’s dignity.

  Levi stared at his glass, then at the fire. “Enduring grief takes a certain amount of grim determination, something I hope you never learn first hand.”

  Stoneleigh set his drink on the table, such that the leaping flames in the hearth created a small answering fire in the glass.

  “You have been widowed longer than you were married, my friend. You’ve served your sentence, paid the restitution. Marry some bouncy little baggage half your age who’ll give you babies and turn your life upside down. One of these days, I intend to.”

  Levi’s gaze drifted over Penelope’s soft, luxurious scarf. Did she want children? Would she want his children?

  “That is an extraordinary admission.”

  “My housekeeper had opinions on the matter, says no proper lady would want to marry a fellow who consorts mostly with criminals.”

  “You never consort with a criminal you believe to be guilty as charged. That’s half the reason people want so badly to retain you.”

  Stoneleigh shrugged, as he always shrugged, shot his cuffs, or remarked upon the Corn Laws when somebody mentioned his legendary legal scruples.

  “Most of us are guilty of something at some point,” he said, “and now you’re preparing to commit holy matrimony for the second time. Recidivist offenders seldom earn lenience, you know.”

  “Neither Ann nor Penelope would consider marriage to me a jest. Penelope is Sixtus Carrington’s widow. She grieves his passing sincerely.”

  “Midas Carrington saw his three score and ten some time before his death. If you’re considering marrying the woman, she’s not more than half that age. In some small, honest corner of her soul, she was relieved to see Carrington shuffle off this mortal coil, if only relieved for him. Death is seldom a dignified proposition.”

  Stoneleigh ambled over to the decanter, poured himself another tot, and did the same for Levi. His movements were relaxed, confident, almost careless, and yet, without a word being said, Levi had the conviction Stoneleigh had buried somebody he’d loved, and loved dearly.

  Levi would not dare to probe such a well guarded wound. “Regardless of her feelings for her late spouse, Penelope Carrington is a lovely woman. She’s kind and restful without being dull. She sits in judgment of none and enjoys a lively interest in things commercial. She can beat me at chess.”

  Stoneleigh sniffed his drink consideringly, as if this last detail were the most interesting.

  “I don’t often beat you at chess.”

  “Your concentration is usually wanting halfway through the game.” Though the first half of the game was always a well fought skirmish.

  “You seek to become engaged to the fair Penelope.” Stoneleigh resumed his seat, but this time toed off his boots and crossed his stockinged feet on the low table. The familiarity of such a presumption—left over from student days—was endearing and precious.

  “So you go down on bended knee,” Stoneleigh said. “Mouth a few smarmy sentiments, slobber on her hand, and have the banns cried. You’re a bright fellow. What’s the problem?”

  “God help the woman you decide to court, Stoneleigh, and God help you if that’s your idea of how to go about it. Have we discussed Sixtus’s will?”

  “Wills.” Stoneleigh spat the word. “Give me the assizes any day over chancery. Wills were devised by Old Scratch to torment those he hasn’t got his hands on yet. Carrington was wallowing in filthy lucre, so I expect his will was complicated.”

  “Not particularly, which means it would be that much harder to overturn. He left a respectable portion to his only surviving family, Joseph Carrington, a distant cousin. As for the rest, it goes to Penelope in trust if she remarries by December 28. If she fails to remarry, or remarries after that date, she gets only a comfortable jointure and use of a dower property that will produce some income.”

  “The old fellow wanted her to remarry promptly. Generous of him.”

  Levi considered discarding his own boots and decided against it. “Diabolical of him, more like. He ensured Penelope would view all suitors importuning her during her year of mourning as fortune hunters, which they likely are.”

  “You’re not?”

  “I am quite comfortably situated, thank you kindly, though much of my wealth is tied up in investments.” He’d considered dowering Penelope’s sisters—he was still considering it—though his wealth was not easily accessible, and dowering her sisters would not address the debts her father had amassed.

  Stoneleigh wiggled his toes. “You’re not that hard to look upon, though a bit short on animal magnetism and ready charm. Won’t she have you?”

  Whatever animal magnetism was. “I haven’t asked her. I haven’t felt I had the latitude to take her as my fiancée.”

  “Why not? You’re not getting any younger, and somebody has to inherit that baronetcy. Civilization is threatened every time a title lapses—you were an English schoolboy. You know your Holy Writ.”

  “I cannot approach Penelope Carrington about the possibility of becoming my fiancée, because shortly after Ann’s death, I may have acquired a prospective wife. My understanding of these matters suggests that having more than one fiancée at a time can become problematic.”

  Chapter Two

  ‡

  “Fetch me a gun, and I’ll rid your house of vermin!”

  Squire Hungerford was on his feet, his expression as choleric as if a rat had crossed the carpet rather than a rabbit.

 
; “He’s a pet, Mr. Hungerford.” Penelope bent to pick up the bunny, which was a somewhat cumbersome undertaking when Franklin weighed a solid stone and went limp as an old rag at the prospect of impending affection. “A gift from my late husband.”

  “A bloody”—Hungerford took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow—“I mean, a blasted rabbit, given free rein in the house? A sign the late Mr. Carrington was several hounds shy of a pack, madam. A man of sense would not allow such a creature in his household.”

  Penelope buried her nose in the fur at Franklin’s nape. “Thank goodness I was not married to a man of sense, then. I much prefer this little fellow to a half-dozen stinking, muddy dogs, don’t you?”

  She had blasphemed on purpose, of course. Squire Hungerford was a man in his prime, and he never missed a hunt meet.

  He stuffed his handkerchief in his pocket. “Hounds, madam. One never refers to them as dogs.”

  Penelope indulged in a momentary cuddle with her rabbit. Whatever else was true, the blond, bluff Hungerford was not husband material. Not for her.

  “My sister Diana would know the difference, I’m sure. You’ve met her?”

  Hungerford’s head came up, like one of his dogs—hounds, canines, whatever—catching a scent. Perhaps he’d start baying next.

  “Capital girl, Miss Diana. Absolutely first flight. Has an excellent seat and isn’t missish at the kill.”

  What finer endorsement might a young lady have than that? Penelope walked toward the door, leaving her guest no choice but to fall in beside her.

  “My mother is having a small dinner in two weeks to start the holiday celebrations, Mr. Hungerford. Shall I see that you get an invitation?”

  He blinked, and in the nature of that blink, Penelope saw him changing course, from considering Sixtus’s fortune as the marital prize, to considering a wife who was horse mad and knew the difference between dogs and hounds.

  To Hungerford’s credit, the deliberation was brief. “Always pleasant to get together with the neighbors over the holidays. Assemblies are fine, but too much hopping about goes on to truly enjoy the conversation.”