Mistletoe Kisses and Yuletide Joy

by Jo Beverley

  Straightening her shoulders, she headed for the door.

  "Oh, miss!" called Pol, dashing into the hall. "It's getting right overcast. Spitting even. Shouldn't you take an umbrella?"

  Kitty opened the door and saw the maid was right. An excuse to put off the mission?

  Never. She reached for her umbrella in the stand by the door, only then realizing that it was a pale cream with a lacy edge. It would look ridiculous with her black full-length spencer, gloves, and bonnet. Almost reluctantly, she picked out her father's substantial black one, tears stinging.

  Two years ago they had been a contented family, then her father had taken that wasting disease. Within months of his death, her mother had died of a seizure. Kitty couldn't help wondering if it had been from grief, for they had been a deeply devoted couple. And she was left alone.

  Once outside, she opened the umbrella and imagined herself under the shield of her parent's wisdom and care. They would want her to handle this matter firmly and fairly, and so she would.

  She walked briskly down Suffolk Street past a number of houses exactly like her own, exchanging greetings with two neighbors who were hurrying because of the spitting rain. At the corner, she turned right along Charles Street, and then right again into Wells Street.

  Wells Street was not on the way to anywhere Kitty normally went, and so she had rarely passed through it. Now, she assessed it nervously.

  It was a little wider than Suffolk Street, both in the road and the pavements, which were edged with metal bollards to protect pedestrians from traffic. The houses were larger, some even double-fronted. The metal railings around the steps down to the basement were ornate, and a few had gilded embellishments.

  Nearly all the houses were without knockers, indicating that the family had left for the Christmas season, doubtless to celebrate it at their country seats.

  Though her father had been a gentleman born -- son of the younger son of a viscount -- Kitty had not been raised to think rank of great importance. Now, however, the knowledge that the Wells Street mews was for the care of the carriages and horses of the nobility added to her nervousness.

  She squashed that down and marched on.

  Half way along Wells Street, a lane passed between two houses, leading down to the mews. Kitty took it with firm steps. When she entered an open yard surrounded by the stables and carriage houses, she realized it was very quiet. Of course. With most of the wealthy families away, there'd be no need of their horses.

  For a moment she thought she might be able to retreat with honor, but then she heard whistling from one of the buildings. With a sigh she went to peer over the half-door. A middle-aged man was brushing a steaming horse.

  Kitty was not much used to horses -- they were just creatures who pulled coaches -- but she knew this was a very fine beast. At least one of the grand and wealthy must be around.

  "Excuse me," she said, and the whistling groom looked up, falling silent.

  He touched his forelock. "Can I 'elp you, ma'am?"

  "I'm inquiring about a cat."

  "A cat, ma'am? Don't reckon as we've had no kittens around 'ere recently." The horse nudged at him. "Beggin' your pardon, but I'd best keep rubbing 'im down." He returned to the long strokes and the horse seemed to soften with pleasure.

  "I do not want to acquire a cat," Kitty said, fascinated by the sensuous rubbing and the animal's reaction.... She pulled herself together and focused on the groom. "I want to know who owns the big, black tomcat that's been making a nuisance of itself the past few nights."

  The man slid her a look. "Oh, that 'un. You'll have to go to number fourteen about that, ma'am. If you can get 'em to drown the moggy, it'd be a blessing."

  With a faint "Thank you" Kitty retreated back down the lane to Wells Street. She had no wish to sentence the poor animal to death. She just wanted it kept inside until Sherry had stopped attracting attention.

  She realized that the light rain had stopped and put down her umbrella. There was even the chance of the sun breaking through the clouds. That was surely a good omen.

  Chuckling at what her father would have said about such superstition, she retraced her steps, looking for number fourteen. Her mother might well have approved of her fancy, however. In her studies of customs and traditions, she'd often remarked on the symbolic importance of light.

  Number fourteen turned out to be one of the larger houses, double fronted, and with enough windows to cost its owner a handsome sum in window tax. The curtains were all drawn, however, and the gleaming door with a leaded fan-light lacked a knocker. At least she wasn't going to have to deal with a noble owner.

  She went down the steps to the basement area.

  The door here was plain, though in good repair, and a small window sat beside it. Kitty couldn't resist peeping through in an effort to discover what she must face.

  She gasped.

  It was some sort of servants' parlor, and before an extravagant fire sprawled that tom. It was not that which had caused her to gasp, however.

  Two male servants lolled at the plain, deal table in the middle of the room -- a table scattered with cards and coins. A number of bottles stood there, too, along with two used wine glasses. Not only were the scoundrels drinking their master's wine and squandering their all in gambling, they were doing so when it was not yet noon!

  Kitty reminded herself that it was no business of hers, but when she rapped on the door with the handle of her umbrella, it was in a particularly sharp and outraged manner.

  She saw the two men look at each other -- but without obvious alarm -- then glance at the window. She refused to flinch. She looked straight back at them. One -- the slighter built -- stood and came to open the door.

  "Can I help you, ma'am?"

  He spoke clearly enough, so wasn't horribly foxed.

  "Yes," she replied crisply. "I wish to speak to you about your cat."

  He glanced back into the room, then said, "Yes, ma'am?"

  "Invite the lady in, Ned," called the other man. "There's the devil of a draft and I'm still damp."

  Ned opened the door wider and stepped back.

  Kitty hesitated. It seemed unwise to enter such a disorderly household, and yet it was true that the open door must be letting in a chilly blast. Telling herself that the groom in the mews must know where she was, she walked in a few steps so the man could close the door.

  For once her height was an advantage, for Ned was a few inches shorter. Though in shirt sleeves he was not untidy, and his speech was close to correct but not quite. She guessed him to be a footman or perhaps even a valet.

  The other man, who showed no intention of rising, was more difficult to assess. Taller, she thought, and bigger-built, broad shoulders all-too-obvious under his loose-necked shirt which clung to him slightly.

  He'd said he was damp.

  A bathtub of dirty water sat close to the fire.

  She was torn between approval of his cleanliness, and horror at being in a room made intimate by that bath. She could definitely disapprove of his disarray. His shirt showed quite a bit of chest, and wasn't completely tucked in at the waist, and his damp, dark hair definitely needed combing.

  His square chin and straight nose did give him a rakish kind of good looks, even in disorder.

  But he knew it.

  He was a rascally tom cat, and had doubtless been the ruin of many a poor maid.

  Kitty turned from him to address the smaller man -- Ned -- whose very ordinary face and neat brown hair made him unalarming.

  "I have reason to believe that your cat has been making a nuisance of himself the past few nights." She emphasized the words by pointing at the somnolent cat with the umbrella.

  "Oh. Ah. Quite likely, ma'am." A flicker of humor in Ned's eyes annoyed her.

  "I must ask you to keep him in the house."

  "Well, we'll try, ma'am. But he could break out of the Tower, that one."

  Suddenly, the other man spoke. "How is it that you are sent tom-hunting,
ma'am?"

  Kitty turned to face him, irritated by his insolence. He still showed no sign of rising as any man should when a lady entered.

  "I am not sent. The cat is spending its nights yowling beneath the windows of my house."

  "Then you must have a tasty queen inside, ma'am."

  "My name in Miss Mayhew," she snapped. "And I don't know what you mean."

  Lazily, he poured more wine into his glass, and sipped from it, showing not a trace of shame. "A queen is a female cat, Miss Mayhew. I assume she's in heat. What's a poor male to do when a female is so needy?" He leaned down and scooped up the big black cat one-handed, to cradle it in his arms. "Your gallantry is not appreciated, Rochester."

  Rochester!

  Kitty was glad of her skin, that didn't show heat. The cat was named after the most notorious libertine of the Restoration period, and she could imagine who'd named him that.

  "The gallantry," she said frigidly, "is most certainly not appreciated."

  "But look," said the wretch, turning the cat slightly to show a mangled ear. "He's fought for his lady's honor. Doesn't that deserve some reward?"

  If the cat had fought, it hadn't been for Sherry's honor, and the man knew it. But Kitty was not about to speak of that. "Kindly keep that cat indoors or I will resort to desperate measures."

  She heard her own words with amazement, heard herself reinforce them by pounding the ferrule of the umbrella on the flagstoned floor. She was sounding as if she'd try to kill the animal, whereas she was hard-pressed to swat a fly.

  The man stroked his cat, watching her in disconcerting silence. Kitty could feel herself begin to sweat, for there was a distinctly dangerous glint in his eyes. Taking a firmer grip on the umbrella, she looked away from his face and found herself staring at one long finger smoothing the glossy, dark fur of the rascally cat.

  Rascally cat.

  Rascally owner.

  "Very well."

  Startled, she looked up to see a new expression on his face. It was almost serious, but not quite. Intent, perhaps?

  "What did you say?"

  "I said, very well, Miss Mayhew. We will do our best to keep Rochester indoors and your poor queen unpleasured."

  Off-balance and hot with embarrassment, Kitty turned away from the wretched man and addressed the other. He, at least, had the grace to look ill-at-ease.

  "Whose house is this? Who is your employer?"

  "Er... this is the Earl of Felstowe's house, ma'am."

  "Then if your cat bothers me again, the earl will hear from me!"

  With that, Kitty escaped into the cool December air, which was welcome to her cheeks. They felt so hot they might even be showing a touch of red. Marching back to her house, she silently berated the outrageous man. Impudent was too mild a word for him, and his employer should know how he behaved when the family was away.

  By the time she turned into Suffolk Street, however, she had cooled. The Earl of Felstowe's disorderly servants were no business of hers and she would not descend to tattle-taling.

  Unless, of course, that rakish tom returned to plague her.

  Chapter Two

  The next night, Kitty was woken by the toms' chorus. She went again to the back window. A glance showed that black tom caterwauling his mastery of the area and his lewd invitation to Sherry.

  Despite the fact that Sherry was encouraging him, Kitty's anger focused on the tom -- Rochester and his wretched, feckless owner.

  It could not be hard to keep one cat confined!

  She knew that if the black cat disappeared, the others would stay, but they seemed much less aggressive and noisy. And anyway, she wanted to teach that servant a lesson.

  Kitty returned to her room to pull on thick stockings and half-boots. Her long woolen robe was much like a long spencer and would be decent enough for a brief foray into the garden. Since the night was frosty, she added her black leather gloves.

  In the hall, she seized the umbrella, then headed down to the kitchen to find Sherry yowling, and clawing at the door to get out.

  "Oh, you disgraceful creature," Kitty snapped. "Have some decorum."

  In truth, she felt rather sorry for the cat. Needy, that man had said. Kitty couldn't imagine being in such a state of need, but she could imagine the desperation it might cause.

  Sorry or not, she could not let Sherry dash out to become prey to all those males. Yet clearly, as soon as the door opened, she'd be gone. She crept up and seized the manic cat by the scruff of her neck and then dumped her in the corridor and slammed the door.

  Immediately, the yowling and scratching started again.

  Blowing out a breath, Kitty marched to the back door, unlocked it, opened it, and stepped out. As she did so, however, the other door opened and Pol said, "What's the matter, miss?"

  "Shut it!" Kitty cried, but it was too late.

  Before she could slam the back door a streak of white shot past both of them and out into the dark of the garden.

  Kitty raced after to see her wanton, intemperate cat writhing and crooning for the benefit of the toms, who now had her circled.

  "Sherry, for shame!" Kitty hissed, no wanting to alert the neighbors, but very much wanting to snatch her cat back to safely. Would the toms attack, though, to keep their prisoner?

  Then the black tom -- Kitty could imagine him smirking -- paced forward from the circle to claim his prize.

  "You, you rogue. Don't you dare!"

  She ran forward, sure she would be too late, but Sherry seemed to have second thoughts. She suddenly turned and slashed out with her claws, spitting at vile Rochester.

  He retreated, but seemed charmed rather than dismayed.

  Crouching, he wooed her with little chirping noises.

  Kitty could almost hear sweet seductive words and Sherry softened back into her seductive dance.

  "No!" Kitty ran forward, swinging at Rochester with her umbrella handle.

  The tom was snatched out of danger, just as Pol ran by and grabbed Sherry.

  "Foiled again," said an amused voice. The Earl of Felstowe's impudent servant had his cat and was addressing him sympathetically. At least he was holding him firmly.

  Neither cat was an easy prisoner, however, and Kitty noticed that her maid was only in her nightgown and a shawl. "Get back in the house, Pol. You'll catch your death."

  "Here, Ned," said the cat's owner. "You'd best return Rochester to durance vile, too."

  Ned took the struggling cat and left. In moments Kitty was alone in a frosty garden with the man. Alone except for bushes full of frustrated tom cats. At least they'd broken their circle and gone quiet now their ringleader was foiled.

  "I warned you, sir! I will not have my poor cat attacked like that."

  "I think there's some question as to who attacked whom."

  He was in a long dark coat of some kind and boots, but his shirt was still open-necked, maintaining his very rakish appearance. Or was it even a night-shirt?

  "She attacked to defend herself."

  "Really? After displaying herself like a dancer in a brothel?"

  "How dare you! I warn you, I intend to inform your master of everything. Not just the cat, but your making free with his wine stores and lazing around all day gambling."

  "I must congratulate you, Miss Mayhew."

  "Congratulate? Why?" For some reason, Kitty felt she should retreat a few steps, but she would not allow such foolishness.

  "For having the ear of God. I acknowledge no other master."

  "Ah-ha!" she declared triumphantly. "I knew you had no right to be in that house."

  "What greater right do you expect? I am the destined owner, the Earl of Felstowe's heir. Lord Chatterton, at your service." He gave her a brief, ironic bow.

  Kitty should have scoffed, but she knew with frosty clarity that it was true. It explained his arrogance. And now she thought about it, tonight he'd dropped the slightly servantish accent he'd assumed the other day.

  Did he expect her to back down and gro
vel just because he would one day be a belted earl? He's soon discover his mistake.

  "Then your behavior is a disgrace to your rank, my lord, and I'm sure your father would agree."

  His lips twitched. "Do you intend to complain to him? I don't advise it. He too thinks only God has the right to dictate our conduct."

  He moved closer and again Kitty resisted the urge to step back, though she was even less sure that was wise.

  She'd met members of the nobility before. They did not awe her, but she knew he was probably speaking the truth. Many lords thought themselves above the law and they were too often correct. It was hard indeed to bring a court case against rank and privilege.

  What could he do to her, though, here in her own garden?

  "Right is right," she said, "regardless of rank. If you didn't let your cat out deliberately, he escaped through your carelessness."

  "It was certainly tempting to let him out, understanding all too well his desperation. A lovely queen so close is more than a male can be expected to resist. But I did not, and I will try be a better jailer in future. My word on it."

  To her astonishment, he took her gloved hand and brushed a kiss over the leather. She tried to tug free, but his hold was firm. "What a shame you're wearing black gloves."

  `Wearing black gloves' was the common term for being in mourning, and she took it as such. "For my mother."

  "My condolences, but I meant that they are the only dark thing about you, they and your trusty weapon. Otherwise, you are a perfect moon-maiden."

  She pulled her hand sharply free. "Are you claiming I'm moon-mad? A lunatic?"

  "Not at all. Just that you look as if you are made of moon-beams -- moon-beams with frosty ornamentation. Quite delightful."

  Kitty hissed in a breath. "If you tell me I am unearthly, my lord, I warn you, I am likely to correct the impression by hitting you over the head with this umbrella!"

  He laughed, teeth white and healthy, eyes bright. "Oh, not unearthly at all." Then he knocked the umbrella out of her hand and seized her wrist.