The Dance Before Christmas

by Victoria Alexander

  “Father, I really don’t think—”

  Father held up a hand to stop her. “That’s what I told him.” He heaved a resigned sigh. Was it at all possible that Father had at last understood she had no desire to marry Douglas? “I told him he could call on you.” Apparently not.

  “I would be delighted to accompany Miss Snelling home,” Wesley said gallantly.

  “Would you?” Father’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What are your intentions toward my daughter, Mr. Everheart?”

  “Father,” Anabel said sharply. “This is not the appropriate place for such a discussion.”

  “I assure you my intentions are completely honorable,” Wesley said with just the right touch of sincerity.

  She discretely squeezed his arm. It sounded very much as if he was going to ask for her hand. Here and now. That was not part of the plan. She hadn’t thought to make that clear to him, but then she hadn’t thought it would come up. A feigned engagement was to be nothing more than a last resort. A card to be played only under the direst of circumstances.

  “Completely honorable?” Father’s brow rose. “Then are you speaking of marriage?”

  “Father!” She should have expected something like this. No man was as eager to get his oldest daughter married off as Sir Archibald. As if she would turn into an unmarriageable toad promptly on her twenty-first birthday.

  “I did not intend to speak of it upon our first meeting but yes, sir, I am,” Wesley said without hesitation.

  She stifled a groan. She wasn’t entirely sure if this was going very well or horribly wrong. Still, there was a lot to be said for a long engagement. At least until after Christmas, when Douglas would be safely on his way to India.

  “My daughter is right, Mr. Everheart, this is neither the time nor the place to discuss such matters.” Father smiled. “I shall expect you to call on me tomorrow afternoon and we can continue this discussion. Say around three?”

  “I shall be delighted, sir,” Wesley said.

  Anabel bit her lip. Protesting would only cause suspicion, but the last thing she wanted was her father meeting with Wesley alone.

  “Anabel.” Father glanced at her. “Shall we take our leave?”

  She nodded with relief. “Yes, of course.”

  “I shall see you tomorrow then, Mr. Everheart.”

  “I look forward to it, sir.” Wesley smiled and then turned to Anabel and took her hand, lifting it to his lips, gazing into her eyes. The man was exceptionally good at this sort of thing. Why, he made her fairly shiver with excitement even though she knew this was nothing more than an act. “I shall count the hours, Miss Snelling.”

  She summoned her brightest smile. “As will I, Mr. Everheart.”

  “Shall we, my dear?” Father offered his arm. “Good evening, Mr. Everheart.”

  “Good evening, sir.” Wesley nodded and then gave her a decidedly smug smile, although what on earth he had to be smug about was beyond her.

  Still, the disquieting thought occurred to her that Wesley Grant might prove to be a problem far greater than either Douglas or Father’s desire to see her wed.

  * * *

  THE SON OF Reginald Everheart?

  Ophelia Higginbotham—Effie to her friends—couldn’t help overhearing the conversation between her old friend, his daughter and the American. Well, she could have helped it, but the moment she heard the name Everheart, there was no question she had to listen in.

  What on earth was going on? Who was this man? He was certainly not who he said he was. Effie was not about to let some fortune hunter charm his way into the affections of Archie’s eldest daughter. Something would have to be done. And done at once, even if it meant revealing secrets she had agreed never to reveal. But if it came to that, then so be it.

  Effie and her two dearest friends were the only ones in the world who could unmask this American’s deception and save poor Anabel from marrying a man whose intentions were obviously not the least bit honorable. One might say it was their responsibility to rescue Anabel. Gwen and Poppy would certainly agree with her. It would involve a bit of thought on their part, and perhaps something of a devious nature, but it couldn’t be helped. The truth—as awkward as it might be—was on their side. This imposter had to be unmasked. He could not possibly be the son of Reginald Everheart.

  Reginald Everheart did not now, nor had he ever, actually existed.

  CHAPTER THREE

  WES WATCHED ANABEL and her father leave the ballroom and resisted the urge to grin with satisfaction. A ruse with the fascinating Miss Snelling was not at all what he had planned, but it might well prove beneficial nonetheless. His purpose tonight had simply been to make the acquaintance of some of the gentlemen on the board of the Explorers Club—Sir Archibald in particular, as he was the board’s chairman—and then request a meeting to acquaint them with Wes’s new design for a chronometer for expeditionary use and rugged travel.

  Wes’s grandfather had started life as a watchmaker and had gone on to establish the Grant Watch and Clock Company. It was now one of the largest such companies in America, thanks to his father’s business skills. When Father died three years ago, the running of the company, with its multiple manufacturing sites, fell to twenty-five-year-old Wes, who proved to be more than up to the task. And while the company continued to prosper, Wes’s true passion was in the development of new instruments. But the budget for development was not nearly what was necessary, and he could not continue putting his own money into his projects. He had a mother, three sisters and a younger brother to support after all. His board of directors had admitted that progress was important, but felt producing a chronometer for a small, specialized market was not especially profitable. The gentlemen on the board did acknowledge Wes’s argument that the endorsement of a prestigious organization that sponsored exploration would expand the potential market from scientific endeavors to leisure travelers, casual adventurers and anyone eager to acquire some of the prestige of true explorers by owning the same instruments they did. The board agreed that if Wes could procure such an endorsement, they would allocate additional funding.

  Three months ago he had written to the Explorers Club and had received a response that anyone else would have accepted as a dismissal. But Wes had taken to heart the closing lines of the organization’s secretary’s letter, inviting him to further discuss the matter should he ever be in London as an opening. Two days later he was on his way to England. Even Uncle Nigel’s warning that the club rarely endorsed anything of a commercial nature failed to dissuade him.

  Still, while Wesley Grant might not be able to convince the Explorers Club of the benefits of his new chronometer, Wesley Everheart just might.

  Wes finished his glass of champagne, handed it to a waiter and made his way out of the ballroom. Now that he was supposed to be Everheart, it made no sense to stay.

  “Goodness, don’t tell me you’re leaving so soon?” An older lady smiled and hooked her arm through his. “Why, we haven’t had a moment to chat.”

  “And we would be devastated, simply devastated if we allowed this opportunity to pass.” Another older woman took his other arm and, before he could protest, propelled him down the hallway. “We’ve waited far too long to meet you.”

  “To meet me?” Was he once again being mistaken for someone else?

  “Oh my, yes,” the shorter lady on his left said. “We would never forgive ourselves if we failed to make the acquaintance of the son of Reginald Everheart.”

  Wes bit back a groan. He couldn’t very well deny he was Everheart now.

  They stopped in front of the library doors, which opened at once, and practically pushed him into the room. Apparently the library was the hub of clandestine meetings at an Explorers Club social event. Another older lady awaited them.

  “Good evening, Mr. Everheart,” she said and waved at a chair that was facing the door.
“Do sit down.”

  One look at the determined faces confronting him, and he knew any protest would be futile. Still... “I was just about to leave. Perhaps another time.”

  “Oh, there’s no time like the present,” the lady who had first approached him said. “And I think you’ll want to hear what we have to say.”

  “As we very much want to hear what you have to say,” his second escort added.

  “All right.” He cautiously took his seat. “May I ask what this is about?”

  “Of course you may, but first allow me to introduce myself and my friends.” The third lady smiled pleasantly as if she and her friends had not just essentially abducted him. “I am Lady Guinevere Blodgett, the wife of Sir Charles Blodgett, currently on expedition in Africa, along with the husbands of these ladies.” She nodded at the shorter woman. “This is Mrs. Persephone Fitzhew-Wellmore. Her husband is Malcomb Fitzhew-Wellmore. And this—” she gestured at his first kidnapper “—is the wife of Colonel William Higginbotham, Mrs. Ophelia Higginbotham.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ladies,” he said as politely as he could manage.

  The women looked to be somewhere in their sixties, but that was nothing more than a guess. They were all trim and...well-preserved was the term that came to mind. One could easily see how this trio must have been quite pretty in their younger days. Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore perched on the edge of a table, Lady Blodgett settled in a nearby chair and Mrs. Higginbotham stood studying him, her arms folded across her chest. Suspicion shone in every set of eyes. He resisted the urge to bolt for the door. Instead, he shifted in his chair and tried not to squirm.

  “Now, will you explain what this is about?”

  Mrs. Higginbotham’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Wesley Everheart,” he said staunchly. “The son of Reginald Everheart.”

  “No.” Lady Blodgett’s voice was deceptively pleasant. “You’re not.”

  “We knew Reginald Everheart.” Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore’s gaze flicked over him. “And you are not his son.”

  The way Wes saw it, he had only two options. Confess the truth or bluff his way through this. But the thought of Anabel, with her green eyes and stubborn determination, gave him no real choice.

  “How well did you know him? He rarely came to England.” According to Anabel at least.

  “Regardless, we knew him quite well,” Mrs. Higginbotham said. “Better than anyone.”

  “I knew him longest,” Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore said in a decidedly smug tone. “Dear, dear Reginald.”

  “Did you?” He considered the ladies in front of him. There was something not quite right here. “Then you must have known his wife, my mother.”

  “We knew of her,” Lady Blodgett said. “But we never met her. She never accompanied him to England on his infrequent visits.”

  “And she died rather young.” Mrs. Higginbotham shook her head sorrowfully. “Lost in a jungle, if I recall correctly.”

  Lost in a jungle?

  “Which jungle?”

  Lady Blodgett waved off his question. “It was a very long time ago. One jungle is the same as another.”

  “It was quite tragic.” Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore heaved an overly dramatic sigh. “Reginald never spoke of her, but he never truly recovered from her loss.”

  “Surely he mentioned his children?” Wes said.

  Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore’s brow furrowed. “Well, he must have mustn’t he? Although I really don’t recall.”

  Wes chuckled. “Just like father not to mention his seven children.” He reeled off the first names that came to mind. “Bob, Tim, Fred, Belle, Martha, Jacob and Ebenezer.”

  “Yes, that does sound familiar,” Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore murmured.

  “Of course it sounds familiar.” Lady Blodgett rolled her gaze toward the ceiling. “Those are the names of the characters in A Christmas Carol.”

  “Mother loved A Christmas Carol,” Wes said smoothly.

  Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore nodded. “That explains it then.”

  “Good Lord, this is absurd.” Mrs. Higginbotham’s hard gaze pinned his. “You cannot be Reginald Everheart’s son, because he had no children. He couldn’t have had children.”

  “It seems to me, you wouldn’t know if he did or did not have children. After all, he lived in America. It’s entirely possible he never mentioned them—us.” He shook his head and sighed. “Father’s head was always so filled with his last adventure or his next, he frequently paid no heed to the details of ordinary life. It was the bane of our existence. Even when he was home, he would frequently forget one of his children or another. I can’t tell you the number of times he would drive off on a family outing, leaving one of us behind. Why, he could barely ever remember poor little Ebenezer’s name.”

  “Utter rubbish.” Mrs. Higginbotham scoffed. “We don’t believe you for a moment.”

  “You may believe me or not.” He shrugged. “But apparently you didn’t know him as well as you thought.”

  “Now see here, young man.” Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore stood and squared her shoulders. “We knew Reginald Everheart better than anyone. Indeed, we were the only ones who did know him.”

  “Poppy.” A warning sounded in Lady Blodgett’s voice.

  Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore ignored her. “No one else knew him because—”

  “Poppy!” Mrs. Higginbotham snapped.

  “—he never existed,” Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore continued. “I made him up.”

  Wes stared. No wonder he had never heard of the famous American explorer.

  Mrs. Higginbotham groaned. “Poppy, we promised we would never tell anyone.”

  “I know but—” she waved helplessly at Wes “—he’s awfully clever, and if we are to save Miss Snelling—”

  Wes frowned. “What do you mean save Miss Snelling?”

  “From you, of course.” Lady Blodgett glared. “Obviously a man pretending to be someone he isn’t is up to no good.”

  Wes shook his head. “You have this all wrong. I’m trying to help Miss Snelling.” He paused. “Or rather she’s trying to help herself.”

  Distrust lingered in Mrs. Higginbotham’s eyes. “I believe an explanation is in order.”

  “Mine?” Wes rose to his feet. “Or yours?”

  “Let me be clear, Mr. Whoever-You-Are,” Lady Blodgett said. “We are more than willing to reveal a secret that would cause us great embarrassment before we allow you to prey on Miss Snelling’s affections.”

  “That is the farthest thing from my mind.” He nodded at the two ladies still standing. “Now, if you will take a seat, I will explain.”

  Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore and Mrs. Higginbotham exchanged glances, then pulled up chairs to flank Lady Blodgett and sat down.

  “Miss Snelling has come up with a scheme to avoid marriage to one man by pretending to be enamored of another. Her father is pressuring her to marry someone she doesn’t want to marry.”

  Lady Blodgett looked at Mrs. Higginbotham. “Do you think that’s true, Effie?”

  “Of course not.” Mrs. Higginbotham huffed and then paused. “Although I wouldn’t put it past Archie. I do know he’s quite concerned that his oldest daughter is nearly twenty-one and not yet wed.”

  “Exactly what Anabel said to me.” Wes nodded. “When I arrived tonight, she mistook me for the actor her aunt had hired to play her suitor through Christmas. By the time I realized the truth, it was too late to correct her mistake without embarrassing her. Really, ladies, what could I say?”

  “You could have said I’m not the man you’re looking for,” Lady Blodgett said.

  “Have you seen Miss Snelling?”

  “She is quite lovely,” Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore agreed.

  Mrs. Higginbotham considered him closely. “And yet you do not strike me as the kind of man who would go to the extremes
of pretending to be someone you aren’t simply for a pretty face.”

  Lady Blodgett scoffed. “Men have done more for less.”

  “She’s also clever and courageous and amusing. And kind. Besides, her eyes are the color of emeralds and she smells faintly of Christmas spices.” And there was something about the way she felt in his arms—as if she were meant to be there—that Wes could not get out of his head. “How could I not help her?”

  Mrs. Higginbotham was obviously not convinced. “That’s all very well and good, but we still don’t know who you really are and why you’re here.”

  “Excellent point. My name is Wesley Grant. I am the president of the company my grandfather founded. I am American—”

  “That much is obvious.” Lady Blodgett nodded. “Go on.”

  “I’ve developed a new type of chronometer designed to be used by explorers and travelers, and I am here seeking the endorsement of the Explorers Club.” He paused. “My uncle is Lord Maywood and he will vouch for everything I have just said.”

  “Don’t think for a moment we will not confirm your story.” The wariness in Mrs. Higginbotham’s eyes had dimmed, but only slightly.

  “I fully expect you will. In fact, I hope you will.” He spread his hands out in front of him. “I have nothing to hide.”

  “We shall see.” Lady Blodgett glanced at her friends. “As for the business about Reginald Everheart—”

  “I shall make you a deal, ladies. If you keep the truth about my not being an actor and Anabel’s plot to yourselves, I shall keep your secret about Reginald Everheart.”

  The ladies traded glances, and then Mrs. Higginbotham nodded. “Should your story prove to be true, I think we can agree to that.” She shook her head. “No woman should be made to marry against her wishes.”

  “Thank you, ladies. Now if you will excuse me, I should be on my way. Good evening.” Before someone else hurries me into the library to reveal strange secrets or absurd plots. He started toward the door, but then paused. He couldn’t possibly leave yet. Wes turned back to the elderly trio. “I am curious though. How did you come to invent Reginald Everheart?”