Conversation around the table was general. The Misses Vivian and Venetia sat on either side of their brother, Thomas. They could talk of nothing save the new kittens.
“Cook gave us some cream and fish for them,” Vivian reported.
“And she helped us name them,” Venetia declared.
“Silly names, if you ask me,” Thomas said from the height of his twelve years.
“They are not silly!” Vivian cried.
Thomas looked at his new idol, Lord Harry, for support. “What think you, Lord Harry? Are not Sage, Dill, Basil, Mint, and Thyme foolish names for cats?”
Lord Harry squirmed under the glare of two sets of brown eyes. Vivian and Venetia waited expectantly for his answer. And they both had peas on their plates and forks in their hands with which to project them.
“Er, as to that, I cannot say. I’ve never owned a cat myself.”
Lord Reckford smiled. “Well done, Harry. Your diplomacy improves.”
Thomas adjusted his spectacles and looked at his sisters. “Besides, they are not your kittens to name. They belong to Lord Reckford.”
Their mother spoke. “That is true, girls. You must consult with Lord Reckford. He may have chosen other names for the kittens.”
Now it was Lord Reckford’s turn to be under the sisters’ scrutiny.
“I did not know there were kittens in the house,” Margery said.
“Jordan rescued them on our journey here,” Lord Harry told her.
Margery swallowed a bite of salad. “Indeed? How intriguing to find you in the role of feline protector.”
Lord Reckford’s blue-black eyes glowed. “A hit, Lady Margery,” he said in a low voice.
“Jordan bought them from a village woman who would have drowned them,” Lord Harry said with relish.
The two little girls gasped.
Margery felt an unwanted rush of warm emotion for a gentleman who would save a litter of kittens from death.
Georgina, seated across the table, frowned at Lord Harry. “I do hope you are content to have frightened my cousins.”
Lord Harry began protesting his innocence when Lord Reckford interrupted. “In truth, I have not yet decided what to do with the kittens. It is perfectly all right with me, Venetia and Vivian, for you to name them. I find the names you mentioned delightful.”
“You are kind, Jordan,” Blythe said.
“You may not think me so when I tell you I shall be looking about for homes for the little fellows.”
The girls bounced in their chairs and glanced pleadingly at their parents. Blythe and Keith shared a smile. “We shall see, girls,” Keith said. “Why don’t you get to know the kittens over the next few days, and then we will make a decision.”
“You are the best of papas!” Venetia sang out while her sister ran around the table to plant a wet kiss on Lord Lindsay’s cheek.
Mrs. Norwood sniffed at the display of emotion.
Margery could not prevent a lump from rising in her throat. She loved children. When betrothed to Simon, she had spent many hours thinking of the children she hoped they would share.
As if sensing her lowering spirits, Lord Reckford turned in her direction and said, “Perhaps I can persuade Lady Margery to give one or two of the kittens a home.”
Margery patted her lips with her napkin before speaking. “I had a cat, Brandy, whom I cherished for many years. He passed away last Christmas, and I do not know if I wish for another feline.”
Lord Reckford gazed at her consideringly but said nothing.
Talk turned to the gathering of greenery with which to decorate the house, and it was agreed that a party would go out on the morrow in search of holly, pine boughs, and, of course, a Yule log to burn.
After dinner, the gentlemen enjoyed their port before joining the ladies in the drawing room. Margery managed to avoid Lord Reckford by conversing with Georgina. She noticed he was soon deep in conversation with his friend, Oliver Westerville, though she knew that, if he wished to speak with her, the commanding gentleman would find a way to extricate her from Georgina’s company.
It was not, however, until after the tea tray had been brought in and she excused herself for the evening that she encountered him again. She had thought herself free of him for the evening and was glad of it. She needed time to sort out her feelings where the vexing viscount was concerned.
Walking down the hall to her bedchamber, she heard a voice call out behind her:
“Good night, Miss Whatever-your-name-is. Thank you for not having me thrown out.”
Margery spared his teasing lordship a brief glance before throwing open the door to the bedchamber, passing beyond it, and snapping it shut behind her.
* * *
Chapter 5
The sun was shining when Margery awoke the following morning. Her sleep had been fitful, plagued by disturbing dreams of Lord Reckford. In one she had been forced by a soberly dressed Lady Altham to wed the viscount
She rose from her bed, walked to the window, and pulled the ivory satin curtain back to look outside. Glistening snow covered the rolling parkland and weighed down the branches of the trees.
As part of her campaign to have a happy Christmas, Margery had agreed to join the group planning to gather greenery that afternoon. But as she looked out at the bright new morning, she felt too impatient to wait until then to go outdoors.
Glancing at the ormolu clock on the mantel, she saw it was still early. If she hurried, she might enjoy a private walk before breakfast. Perhaps that would clear her mind.
Margery had been doing for herself for two years now, so she dispensed with ringing for Penny. Instead, she brushed out her hair and pinned it into a simple knot. Throwing her old brown cloak over a woolen dress, she soon slipped downstairs.
A footman sprang from his post to open the front door for her. Smiling her thanks, she stepped out into the cold morning.
Margery inhaled the fresh air. All around her, everything lay quiet under the deep hush of a thick snowfall. The only sounds were the distant call of birds and the rustle of her half boots swishing through the snow.
Deciding not to explore the grounds immediately surrounding the house, for fear of unwanted company, Margery set off down the drive at a brisk pace. Once out of sight of the house, she slowed her pace. She felt free and relaxed, as opposed to the suffocating feeling she had experienced the prior evening. She did not have to reflect long before she realized what, or rather who, had been the source of her anxiety.
Viscount Reckford.
His masculine presence put her nerves on edge. The feelings he called up in her were ones she had rather not experience. His lordship and his ilk had no place in her life.
She realized somewhat shamefully that it had been one thing to allow him to kiss her at the Two Keys Inn when she believed she would never meet him again.
However, to have him turn up at Lady Altham’s was quite another kettle of fish. Margery was forced to face the feelings he had called forth in her and her attraction to him, neither of which she wanted to deal with.
For a moment, panic expanded in her chest and Margery experienced a strong desire to leave the house party and return to her safe cottage in Porwood.
She stopped walking and leaned up against one of the trees lining the drive. “I shall not let him spoil my time here,” she told the blue sky. “I shall not let him ruin my Christmas!”
Straightening her shoulders, Margery thought about Lady Altham’s kindness in inviting her for the holidays. She really was a dear lady, despite her odd manner of dress and her coquettish ways. Margery could even forgive the dowager countess’s obvious matchmaking scheme, for her intentions were of the best.
Everything Margery needed to have a happy Christmas was here at Altham House: luxurious, comfortable surroundings; an amiable hostess; three lively children to watch enjoy the holiday; and good people with whom to pass the time.
And Georgina needed her. Margery would not neglect the seventeen-year-old. Th
e girl had suffered enough of that fate at her mother’s hands. No, Georgina’s self-confidence wanted bolstering, and Margery was determined to help her.
She could not allow the handsome viscount to chase her away from Altham House and rob her of a happy Christmas.
She must be cordial to him, even though, Margery thought ruefully, he had an uncanny way of making her respond to his teasing banter in a sharp-tongued manner. She would let him know she was fully aware of the maneuvers that his type— rakes and rogues—all used against females. She would not allow him to outwit her.
Content with this new resolve, Margery turned around and marched down the drive back to Altham House.
She had almost reached the beginning of the circular approach that fronted the stone house when she saw a horse and rider emerge from the wooded park to the east of the building. Margery might have ignored the visitor were it not for the stealthy manner in which he made his way to the rear of the house, glancing over his shoulder and all around him as if making sure he was not observed.
Impulsively, Margery darted out of his line of vision and quickened her steps toward the far right of the front of the house. She then edged her way around the corner of the stone structure. The sound of voices carrying on the still morning air caused her to stop and conceal herself behind a tall evergreen bush.
“What are you doing here, Duggins? Have you got windmills in your cockloft, coming here bold as brass in broad daylight?”
Mr. Lemon! Margery thought, recognizing the house steward’s waspish voice.
“I’m tellin’ you this ’ere is an opportunity to increase our blunt. My contact knows how to keep ’is trap shut and knows a body in London what will handle everythin’. We won’t have to do nothin’ but pile up the money.” The man whom Margery assumed to be Mr. Duggins spoke with urgency in his voice.
She eased her way around the snow-covered evergreen to catch a look at Mr. Duggins. He had slid off his horse and stood holding the reins while speaking with Mr. Lemon a discreet distance from the kitchen door. Mr. Duggins wore his hat low over his forehead and was dressed in worn tradesmen’s clothes, with a spotted kerchief around his neck.
“No,” Mr. Lemon replied forcefully to Duggins’s plan. “I have told you before I do not want to get anyone else involved in this. We are profiting well on our own.”
Margery saw Mr. Duggins step forward and point his finger at Mr. Lemon’s chest. “Think of the money, man! Come on, then—”
“I shall not discuss this with you now,” Mr. Lemon interrupted, his tone final. “You have been foolish coming here. We can talk about this later, though I warn you I shall not change my mind. Meet me—”
“Lady Margery, what are you doing?”
Margery’s heart jumped painfully in her chest. She swung around to find young Thomas, dressed warmly for the outdoors with a red-and-white-striped scarf around his neck, standing behind her.
Acting quickly, Margery wordlessly put her hands on the boy’s shoulders, turned him around, and hurried him back around the front of the house. She did not want Mr. Lemon or Mr. Duggins to perceive they had been observed. She could only hope neither man had heard Thomas call her name.
Once out of earshot of the two conspirators, Margery smiled at a bewildered Thomas. “I was out walking and thought I saw a bird’s nest in that bush. We would not want to disturb the birds, would we?”
“Oh,” Thomas replied absently. He was obviously preoccupied, else he would never have accepted the absurd explanation, considering the season. “Do you think Lord Harry will join us this afternoon to gather greenery? I wish to speak with him further about his studies.”
Margery patted the boy on the shoulder. “I believe he did express interest in accompanying the party. And I am certain he will enjoy conversing with you, Thomas. You are far on your way to becoming a scholar and are capable of holding an intelligent conversation on a variety of topics.”
Thomas appeared satisfied with this assurance. His gaze turned to the front door of the house where his sisters were emerging with their nurse.
“Lady Margery!” Venetia called. “Have you come to join us on our walk? Nurse says she wants to get the fidgets out of us. Are you fidgety, too?”
Margery glanced at the smiling nurse and laughed. “I was, indeed, but have already had my walk and am going inside for breakfast.”
“When are you going to come see our kittens?” Vivian asked, kicking snow into the air with her booted foot.
Margery felt a tug at her heart. She really did not want to see the kittens, fearing they would bring back memories of her beloved Brandy. But she could not disappoint the girls. “I shall come up to the nursery before luncheon.”
Passing the children, Margery walked up the steps and into the house. Mrs. Norwood was crossing the hall. The disapproving lady gave Margery’s appearance a scornful look before moving on with only a nod of greeting.
Margery ran a hand through her disheveled hair and dashed lightly up the stairs to her room, her thoughts on the strange meeting she had witnessed outside. Just what clandestine doings were Mr. Lemon and his friend involved in? That their activity was suspect was of no doubt in Margery’s mind. The two men’s demeanor and words confirmed it. She must try to find out a little more about Lady Altham’s house steward.
To this end, she rang for Penny to help her wash and change into a pretty pale blue morning dress of soft wool.
The two women chatted until Margery felt the nervous young maid had relaxed in her company. “Penny, how long has Mr. Lemon been at Altham House?”
Margery could sense a stiffening in Penny’s posture, but the maid answered the question in a quiet voice. “I’m not rightly sure, my lady, but it’s been a very long time. ’E was Lord Altham’s valet for many years before ’is lordship died four years ago.”
“Did Lady Altham elevate Mr. Lemon to house steward at that time?”
“Yes, my lady,” Penny said around the pins in her mouth. She swept Margery’s black hair up to the top of her head and secured it firmly, pulling down a few curls to frame her face. “Mr. Lemon got all of ’is lordship’s clothes in the bargain. ’E’s real proud of the pewter shoe buckles in particular,” the maid confided.
“Is that so?” Margery chuckled and raised a mocking eyebrow. “They are quite out of fashion, you know.”
Penny giggled and drew a length of blue ribbon from the dressing table and began weaving it through Margery’s curls.
“Good morning, dear child,” Miss Bessamy said from the doorway connecting the two ladies’ rooms. “I came in earlier, Margery, to check on you before I went down to breakfast, but you were not here.”
“I went for a walk. Did you enjoy your repast, Bessie?” Margery said. She smiled as her companion praised the cook’s talents. She felt a slight prick of disappointment that her conversation with Penny had been interrupted, but she told herself she had made headway in gaining the young maid’s trust and could continue her questioning later.
“Penny, you have tamed my hair. I declare you are a treasure. Thank you,” Margery told her in genuine appreciation for her efforts.
Penny curtsied, her color high at the compliment, and silently left the room.
Margery rose and shook out her skirts. “She is a good girl, Bessie, but always so frightened.”
“Hmpf,” Bessie snorted. “That Mr. Lemon has the entire staff terrorized.”
“Does he?” Margery said casually as she reached for a Kashmir shawl in shades of blue and gray.
“He certainly does, the odious man. He rules over all the servants and never for a moment lets them forget that their continued employment is based solely on his pleasure. Taking my meals with the staff as I do, I’ve observed a great deal.”
Margery’s hands, which were engaged in arranging the shawl around her shoulders, stilled. “Bessie, is it unpleasant? For you know I feel it unnecessary for you to dine belowstairs. You are my companion, and as such, are entitled to eat with the other gue
sts. I would not for the world have you uncomfortable.”
Miss Bessamy’s cheeks turned a delicate pink. “Thank you, dear child, but I assure you all is well. They are an affable group, for the most part, excepting Lady Altham’s lady’s maid, Colette. I enjoy talking with them and hearing about their lives.”
Noting that a rare flush that had invaded Miss Bessamy’s cheeks, Margery’s curiosity—a trait which occasionally got her into trouble—was raised. “I am glad, Bessie. With whom do you like conversing in particular?”
Miss Bessamy tidied the already neat articles on Margery’s dressing table. “Lord Reckford’s man, Mr. Griswold, has been entertaining us with tales of their travels and their adventures in the war.”
“Lord Reckford served in the war?” Margery was surprised. For some reason she had pictured the indolent viscount lounging in drawing rooms across London, not fighting the French.
“Indeed, yes,” Miss Bessamy replied, and, to Margery’s astonishment, told of the years Lord Reckford and Mr. Griwold had spent on the continent in various battles and military stratagems.
“Goodness, I wonder what made his lordship stay over there for so long, or indeed, what made him go in the first place.”
“As to that,” Miss Bessamy whispered darkly, “Mr. Griswold hinted at some tragedy in his lordship’s life which drove him to leave England and take all sorts of risks with his life in the war.”
“Tragedy?” Margery said, suddenly feeling her heart rate increase.
Miss Bessamy nodded. “It had to do with his wife.”
Margery’s mouth dropped open. She blinked in shock. “Wife? Lord Reckford is married?”
Miss Bessamy observed her charge’s reaction closely. “His lordship was wed when he was but in his early twenties. His wife is dead now.”
Raising her hands to her cheeks, Margery said, “How terrible. What happened?”
Her companion shook her head. “Mr. Griswold was mightily tight-lipped about that, even after several comforting glassfuls of my special milk.”
How the Rogue Stole Christmas Page 7
