My Fair Lord

by Wilma Counts

  “But are you sorry now that you did not?”

  “I do not regret my choices,” her aunt replied slowly, her hands clasped before her on the table. “You asked if I am happy. Yes, I think I am. One does not miss what she never had. I have always had you and your brothers and sisters. And since I am your godmother as well as aunt to all of you, I feel a bit more possessive about you—and more concerned. I want you to be happy in whatever choices you make in life. But know this, my dear: I approve—in advance!”

  Retta reached across the table to grasp her aunt’s hands. “Thank you,” she whispered. Then in a stronger voice, she added, “I may need that assurance more than either of us knows.”

  Her aunt gave her a questioning look, but Retta did not elaborate.

  * * * *

  Jake hoped he could just get through these holiday weeks without endangering his mission or losing his sanity. He was irritable and despondent—two moods that were simply out of character for him. He knew the source of his irritability was this ridiculous situation with Lady Henrietta. That kiss under the kissing ball had been some sort of turning point—and he was sure she knew it as well as he did. But he also was absolutely sure that so long as she thought him a common dockworker, she was not likely to entertain the possibility of their being anything more than they already were. But what was that? Friends? Teacher and pupil? Or two people sincerely attracted to each other and unable to break through the constraints that held them back?

  As long as he was in the midst of this spy mission, he could not just throw caution to the winds and declare to her and the world at large who he was. He had not counted on this situation becoming even more difficult because of the winter holidays. Always before when he had been engaged in a mission during this time of the year, it had been on foreign soil. He was sure his family would have all gathered at the family seat in the country for the holidays—that was just what Bodwyns did. And, damn it, he wanted to be there too! Nevertheless, he went by Holbrook House twice just to make sure, but saw no sign that any of the family was in residence. He dared not march up to the door—or even to the stable—and ask. And what would he have done had they been there? Show himself and possibly compromise the mission?

  With Lady Henrietta occupied in planning this or that festivity or attending some social gathering elsewhere, he found himself with a good deal of empty time on his hands. He was grateful whenever the weather permitted the morning rides, but those rides did not fulfill his need for meaningful work, and the weather did not permit them often. So, he spent a good deal of time in the library reading off in his corner, or playing chess with Lord Alfred.

  He had slunk deep into the comfort of his corner chair one afternoon when Sir Cecil Lindstrom dropped in. Lord Alfred had been working at his desk earlier, but had excused himself to “look in on what was going on above stairs” where his sister and his niece were holding court with afternoon callers.

  “Do you have anything new for me, Morrow?” the doctor asked of the secretary. “I am just on my way out.”

  “For you, sir? Why no, sir, but Lord Alfred has just stepped out for a moment, if you’d like to wait for him.” Jake could not see the secretary from his own position, but he imagined this bit of dialogue was taking place with a good deal of head gesturing and rolling of the eyes in Jake’s general direction.

  After a long pause, Jake heard the doctor say, “Oh, I see. Yes, I believe I shall wait for him. Thought maybe he’d left a note for me.” Jake sat up straighter as Lindstrom strode across the room to say, “Hello, Bolton. Didn’t see you there. Shouldn’t you be out protecting Lady Henrietta from dastardly fellows?”

  “Not today,” Jake replied. “They are right here today.” He paused and saw a shadow of alarm cross Lindstrom’s eyes before Jake added, “The ladies are still entertaining in the drawing room above, are they not?”

  The doctor gave a nervous laugh. “Ah, I see.”

  He was saved any further dissimulation as Lord Alfred entered the room and said, “Ah, Cecil. Jeffries said you were in here. Did you require something else of me?”

  “No, no. I just wanted a quiet word with you—outside the presence of the ladies—to ensure that you are really feeling all right. We don’t want a repeat of that episode earlier in the month, now do we?”

  “No, we do not.” Lord Alfred’s voice dripped sarcasm. “Did I or did I not just see you at the club last night? And fifteen minutes ago in the drawing room? I do not need you hovering over me like a hen with one chick.”

  “No, of course not. We medical men tend to be overly solicitous at times. I’ll just be going now.”

  “Right.” Lord Alfred plopped himself down behind his desk waved the doctor onward.

  Jake saw the doctor exchange a look with the secretary who just shrugged. Then the doctor was gone and Jake hid his grin behind the book he had been reading.

  * * * *

  Christmas Day came and went. Boxing Day came and went. Both days had passed pretty much as Retta had planned them.

  Christmas dinner had been made more festive by the addition of several guests: fellow soldiers from Richard’s regiment, the Dean of St. Paul’s Cathedral along with his wife and two marriageable daughters, Lord Jamison and his wife, Sir Cecil Lindstrom, Madame Laurent’s brother, Henry Morrow, and her son, Charles Laurent, who came in from the country to spend Christmas with his mother and uncle. Neither of the last two guests interested Retta much, but it was Christmas and the Laurent-Moreau folk had a long-standing relationship with the Earl of Blakemoor.

  The dinner went very well and Retta was glad to see Madame Laurent exert herself enough to ensure that her brother and her son, as well as Sir Cecil, were properly entertained. She was not glad to see one of the churchman’s daughters openly flirting with Jake Bolton or to see that traitorous man responding to the girl’s wiles. What had possessed her to seat them next to each other anyway? After the meal, the men chose to forgo the ritual of drinking port or cognac absent the ladies, and the whole party trekked down to the music room, which had been restored to its usual appearance with chairs and settees arranged in comfortable groupings. Aunt Georgiana again performed as the principal purveyor of music, though other ladies—and some gentlemen—took their turns as well.

  Afterwards, Retta would have been hard-pressed to explain what bit of perverseness had inspired her, but when it was her turn to perform, she insisted that Mr. Bolton join her. Aunt Georgiana and other members of her family were clearly surprised. She could tell that he was reluctant to do so, but she had made it something of a challenge and she was sure he would not back down from it. Nor did he. As he sat next to her on the piano bench, she immediately felt herself responding to his being near—the warmth of his body so close to hers and that tantalizing cleanness that she associated with him.

  “Do you know this piece?” she asked as she put a sheet of music in front of them. “It is one of my favorites.”

  “Vivaldi. Yes. One of my favorites as well.” He laced his fingers together and stretched his arms before him, then laid his hands on the keys.

  He nodded for her to start, and then both became engrossed in the music, though her attention was not so grounded that she did not notice how his hands—those big hands, those long fingers—fairly coaxed the music out of the machine. Occasionally their fingers brushed against each other to elicit an instant twinge of awareness in her. When they were finished, she chanced gazing into his eyes and found herself so mesmerized that she was scarcely aware of the applause they were receiving. And it was enthusiastic applause, not the polite appreciation one usually had on occasions such as this. As they both rose and relinquished the bench back to Aunt Georgiana, he gave a formal bow.

  “Well done, my lady.”

  She gave him a slight curtsey. “And you too, kind sir.”

  “That was simply splendid!” Aunt Georgiana said, then raised her voice to addre
ss the room at large. “I doubt any of us will want to follow that performance, so let us all join in singing our hearts out with traditional carols.”

  As the entire party did so, Retta had servants bring in a wassail bowl and serve drinks and small cakes to everyone.

  The next day, Boxing Day, went exactly as Retta had planned, ending with a group of mummers who performed in the servants’ hall where tables and benches has been pushed aside to provide a “stage” around which the entire household gathered to watch the traditional slapstick plays. Again, the evening ended with wassail and cakes. Seeing the genuine enjoyment and gratitude of the staff, Retta knew these festivities were worth every bit of the effort to prepare for them. Had she had any doubts on that score, Annie would have dispelled them later, for the maid simply could not stop chattering about what a wonderful day she had had playing in the snow in the park with the footman Baker and three or four other members of the staff, but Retta noted that it was Baker’s name that was threaded into the conversation repeatedly.

  The following day life in Blakemoor House returned to its normal routine—more or less. Retta was determined to take holiday goodies to Fairfax House. Food left over from the two feasts—and deliberately planned as well—went into covered hampers. Oranges and clusters of sweetmeats tied into small packets with colorful ribbons went into another basket. She had ransacked her own closet and those of her friends—especially those friends who had children—to collect clothing to take to the sisters and their current charges. Jake Bolton would, of course, accompany her and Annie, but in view of the harshness of the winter and the vulnerability of any carriage on some of London’s streets, Retta thought it prudent to have one of the footmen accompany them too. Annie’s raptures over Baker made him the perfect choice, though he would have to ride on the top and Bolton would ride beside the driver because the coach was so loaded.

  * * * *

  Jake was not at all comfortable with the idea of a journey to Spitalfields when the weather and limits on seasonal jobs would make folk more desperate. And here was Lady Henrietta, her coach so loaded that bags and parcels literally stuck out from the top railing, blithely assuming she would be safe going through of the roughest sections of the city! He made sure that he and Baker and the coachman were well armed.

  Baker took the loaded pistol and held it gingerly. “I ain’t never shot no gun afore.”

  “Let’s hope you won’t do so today, either,” Jake said, trying to project far more confidence than he was feeling.

  “But if you have to, don’t try to aim the gun—just point and shoot. The mere sight of a gun—and the noise—will likely scare off anyone trying to do us harm.”

  “If you say so,” the young man said doubtfully.

  “Lady Henrietta will have two pistols inside the carriage and she knows how to use them. We should do all right.”

  “If you say so,” Baker repeated.

  They aroused little interest until they reached the edges of the Spitalfields area. Jake was aware of some rough-looking types eyeing the loaded carriage. “Be alert now,” he told Baker. He knew the coachman needed no such instruction.

  Suddenly two men darted toward the front of the team and tried to grab at the harness to slow the horses. The driver was having none of this and cracked his whip in their direction, the sound of the whip urging the animals forward. Jake saw two other men rush toward the carriage, apparently ready to grab a door handle as soon as their accomplices managed to slow the team enough.

  Following his own advice to Baker, Jake simply pointed his pistol at one of those grabbing at the harness and shot. The man howled and dropped away. The driver was busy trying to manage the team, so Jake snatched up the pistol on the seat beside him and pointed it at the other fellow trying to halt the team. That one looked up to see the gun pointed straight at him and quickly lost interest in stopping this team.

  Jake heard a shot from within the carriage and saw one of those on the side of the vehicle grab at his shoulder and stagger back.

  “Other side,” he shouted at Baker, who quickly shot his pistol at the man grabbing at the handle on that side. He missed, but the mere fact that they had so many firearms aimed at them discouraged the would-be robbers.

  Jake reloaded, traded his pistol for Baker’s, then reloaded that one and the coachman’s. “Stay alert now,” he told Baker. “There may be more of these bastards.”

  “Are you all right up there?” Lady Henrietta called through a slit under the coachman’s seat.

  “Yes. Are you?” Jake yelled back.

  “Shaken, but whole,” she said.

  He grinned at her sheer bravado.

  They arrived at Fairfax House without further incident and while the coach was unloaded, Lady Henrietta was invited for tea in the drawing room while Jake, along with Annie and Baker, was given tea in the kitchen. Mrs. Boskins sent a boy out with a mug for the coachman. Amid exclamations of wonder and concern, they informed the Fairfax people of what had happened and learned of similar incidents in the area in the last few weeks. As they prepared to depart, the sisters, along with a few of their charges, stood on the front steps.

  “This has been such a hard winter for so many folks,” said tall, gray-haired Miss Fairfax. “We do what we can, but we still must be cautious. We hired two more men to help Mr. Boskins. People know we are armed.”

  “And they also know they can come to us for help, so people in the neighborhood truly do help protect us,” her sister said.

  “I do not mean to be ungracious at all, Lady Henrietta,” Miss Fairfax said, “and we are ever so grateful that you have come, but as soon as your baskets are emptied, you really should be on your way. Darkness comes so early these days.”

  “And darkness seems to bring forth the worst in folks,” her sister added as a man came out with the empty baskets.

  Lady Henrietta hugged the sisters and Jake handed her into the carriage.

  “You and Baker will ride inside with Annie and me,” she told him.

  “As you wish, my lady.”

  He noted that the coachman or Baker had lighted all the lanterns in and on the coach. As he handed Annie in as well, he saw her take the seat opposite her mistress. When Lady Henrietta said nothing, Jake motioned Baker into the carriage beside Annie, leaving him the seat beside her ladyship. Which was just fine with him, though he harbored a wish that the others might just disappear. The trip back to Blakemoor house was uneventful if one discounted the fact that Jake Bolton was so very aware of the warm female body on the seat next to him and that flowery-woodsy scent he would always and forever associate with her. He wanted to pull her close and kiss her senseless, but of course he did not do so. That couple on the other seat were very effective as chaperons, though Jake suspected Baker was holding Annie’s hand under the drapery of her skirt. Lady Henrietta tried initially to keep up a running patter of conversation, but then gave it up and they completed the journey in relative silence.

  Chapter 15

  The New Year made its appearance rather quietly. Retta had feared the tradition of the “First Footing” would be ignored this year, but apparently either Uncle Alfred or Aunt Georgiana had seen to its fulfillment. Thus, on New Year’s Day when members of the household were all seated at the breakfast table, Mr. Jeffries announced the entrance of the first guest to step across the threshold of Blakemoor House in the New Year. As custom demanded, he was a tall, dark man dressed in black and bearing the symbolic gifts of coal, salt, and cake, which he presented to Uncle Alfred as apparent head of the household while wishing them all warmth, wealth, and food in the coming year. Retta was delighted and led the applause that greeted his performance. He refused their invitation to join them, but Retta saw her uncle press a coin upon him. She assumed he was scheduled to be the “First Footer” at some other household. She was glad that, symbolically at least, they might all look forward to good fortune in this ne
w year of 1815.

  January weather took a turn for the worse in the first week. Snow piled up on all but the most traveled streets, though in wealthier neighborhoods, servants were sent out with shovels to clear the walkways and make the streets navigable. Robbed of her morning rides, Retta nevertheless made a daily visit to the stables, armed with apples or carrots for her favorites, especially for her precious Moonstar. Each day she confided to the mare her confidence or apprehension about the culmination of that infernal bet.

  “Happy New Year, Moonstar,” she murmured, holding an apple in the palm of her hand. “Only five or six weeks to go. Oh, dear God, I do not want to lose you too.”

  As the mare gently took the apple, Retta realized what that too meant: losing Jake. No matter how the bet turned out, he would disappear from her life.

  “So, I’d best treasure what time I have left,” she said into the softness of the mare’s neck.

  To this end, she cut back on her social outings and was “at home” to fewer callers as she tried to be absolutely sure that Jake Bolton would be ready for his big introduction to society.

  Or that was what she told herself.

  She knew very well he was probably as ready as he ever could be. Nevertheless, she worried that they might have overlooked something, that some little detail might trip him up—and doom her chances to win the bet. But, far more importantly now, she wanted to protect him from the public humiliation that might ensue were he found to be a fraud. Despite the diversions of the holidays, she was still intensely conflicted when it came to one Jake Bolton. However unsuitable, however inappropriate, she savored her time with him, treasuring a grin, a shared view of some story in the morning paper, the warmth of being near each other, the occasional brush of a hand or an arm. She simply could not deny the physical attraction, even as she recognized and distrusted the anomalies associated with him.