Margery drew a deep breath. It would not do to indulge herself in romantic dreams about Lord Reckford.
That gentleman straightened and threw his snowball to the ground with a mock display of defeat. “Luck was with you, Lady Margery, that Keith called an end at that moment. Else you would have paid for those admirably solid snowballs you cast at me.”
Margery retrieved her white muff from the ground where she had laid it while she and the viscount cut the holly. “Perhaps there will be a next time.”
Lord Reckford grinned.
Georgina and Lord Harry appeared to be the only ones who had engaged in the competition with any seriousness. As a result, they were both quite wet, and Harry’s carefully arranged cravat was a sodden, crumpled mess. He and Georgina were obviously not speaking to each other.
The light had begun to fade when the party, laden with greenery and the Yule log, began making its way back to the house. Lord Reckford joined his steps to Margery’s, but before he could engage her in conversation, she turned to Thomas. “Did you determine the amount of snow on the ground, Thomas? I saw you measuring it when I came outdoors.”
“Yes, Lady Margery,” the boy said proudly. “Just under seven inches. I shall compare the amount to the record book in Mr. Lemon’s office. I want to know if we have had more snow so far this year than last.”
“And Mr. Lemon keeps such an accounting?” Margery inquired.
“Yes. He has several estate books. But I am allowed to look at only the one, if I ask. I have to ask because if I do not, Mr. Lemon will hit the back of my hand with his inkstand as he did the last time.”
“Mr. Lemon struck your hand with an inkstand?” Margery asked, stunned.
“Yes, he did. He is very particular about who sees his books.” The boy shrugged the incident off, as though he feared being thought a baby for complaining. “It did not bleed or anything, just a bump came up, and then it turned colors.”
“When did this happen?” Lord Reckford asked.
“Last Christmas when we were visiting Grandmama. I went into his office—he does not like anyone to go in there, you know—and I was looking through the ledgers. Mr. Lemon found me and gave me a blistering set down, besides the whack on the hand.”
Lord Reckford’s shocked gaze met Margery’s over the boy’s head. His lordship addressed Thomas. “While I cannot condone your prying into Lady Altham’s estate records, Mr. Lemon’s behavior was not acceptable. No one should be allowed to strike you. Report any recurrence to your parents at once.”
“Oh, it will not happen again now that I know to ask,” Thomas said, and ran ahead into the house, eager to make the snowfall comparisons.
Margery could see the muscles in Lord Reckford’s jaw tighten. His voice was strained when he spoke. “Were that man in my employ, he would be turned off without a reference if he struck a child in my care.”
Margery nodded. “My opinion of Mr. Lemon was not high before this intelligence. Now I can attest to a hearty dislike of the man.”
Lord Reckford turned to look at her. “He has not been insolent with you in any way, has he?”
“Not precisely. It is but an ill feeling I have toward him.” Margery did not want to confide any details about the scene she had witnessed between Mr. Lemon and Mr. Duggins to Lord Reckford. Nor did she wish to divulge her suspicions regarding Mr. Lemon’s treatment of the servants. Lord Reckford had shown her he could be compassionate, but she still did not know him very well, nor did she trust him.
They reached the house in time to witness a new arrival. Entering the hall, Margery saw a fashionably dressed female being greeted by Lady Altham.
Margery could not prevent a sharp intake of breath when the lady turned toward them. She was a vision in a cherry-colored pelisse with sable trim. A matching fur-trimmed hat sat atop her white-blond hair, which was done up in a smooth, polished style. The whole effect was one of cool sophistication, a sharp contrast to Margery’s disheveled appearance.
Blythe rushed forward and hugged the lady. “Lily, you came! I am so happy! Why, it has been years since we were at school together. I am glad you wrote that you had no plans for the holiday.”
Blythe began introducing Lily Carruthers around. So dazed was Lord Harry that he barely managed to croak out a greeting as he bowed over the belle’s hand.
Margery heard Georgina’s unladylike snort of disgust.
Over Lord Harry’s head, Lily fixed her pale blue gaze on Lord Reckford.
“Ah, but the viscount and I need no introduction,” she said, moving sensuously toward him and extending both her hands for him to hold.
“Mrs. Carruthers, how fortunate we are to have you among us,” Lord Reckford said, and smiled. “Oliver told me you were to attend, but I did not wish to raise my hopes until I saw you with my own eyes.”
Lily Carruthers let out a musical laugh. “And here I am! But, Jordan, please! When have old friends stood on ceremony? You must call me Lily.”
Turning to the company at large, Lily smiled and said, “Oh, this promises to be a very happy Christmas.”
Unnoticed, Margery stepped over to where Georgina stood gaping at Lily Carruthers. “Come,” Margery said grimly, taking the younger lady by the arm, “let us go consult with Colette.”
* * *
Chapter 7
No one who gazed upon Squire Foweley’s stately redbrick manor house would ever guess that its owner felt it sadly lacking. But indeed he did. The puffed-up squire, with his large girth and alcohol-induced pink nose, longed for greater riches than had thus far been granted him.
However, he had high hopes for increased prosperity in the future.
These hopes stood beside him in the form of his eighteen-year-old daughter. Sabrina Foweley never failed to bring a sparkle of anticipation to her father’s eyes. Her golden curls framed a heart-shaped face featuring a delicate nose, wide blue eyes, and a tiny mouth. She had held the title of beauty of the county ever since she was old enough to put her hair up.
But it was another kind of title her dear papa wished for his daughter. Beauty, as everyone knew, could be relied upon to reel in a title such as countess, marchioness, or even duchess. Whichever one carried the most money to go along with it would suit the squire best.
Now, as Lady Altham’s party was announced, Squire Foweley’s heart sank down into his considerable stomach. “Trust Augusta to trot out a stable of fillies to try to eclipse my Sabrina,” he said in an aside to his wife.
Standing next to him, Mildred Foweley shifted her gaze toward the party coming in the door. She did not share her husband’s ambitions and thus smiled in welcome as she greeted her old friend. “Augusta, dear, it has been too long.”
Lady Altham hugged Mrs. Foweley, but the gesture was brief, by mutual desire. On Mrs. Foweley’s part, much as she held her bosom bow in high regard, she had no desire to stain her best gown with the white lead paint Lady Altham had taken to spreading across her exposed flesh. And what had Augusta done to her hair now? Dye! Odd’s fish!
As for Lady Altham, she was afraid the scent of dog that always clung to the gray-haired Mrs. Foweley might attach itself to her.
Pug dogs were Mildred Foweley’s passion. She often feared that if her husband’s plans for wealth succeeded, he would be able to indulge in his long-held dream to extensively remodel their home. This action might prompt him to bar her beloved darlings from the run of the house they now enjoyed. She shuddered to think of them being restricted to her chamber, or worse, the stables.
Mrs. Foweley shot a frantic look over her shoulder at the four portraits lining the wall. The clever painter, Mr. George Stubbs, had captured her treasured pets on canvas.
“Here is my daughter Blythe and her husband, Lord Lindsay. And you remember my granddaughter Miss Georgina Norwood?” Lady Altham was saying. “You’ve not met Blythe’s friend Mrs. Lily Carruthers.”
In the process of handing her blue velvet cloak to a footman, Margery listened politely and said what was
proper when it was her turn to be introduced to the squire and his family. All the while a cold knot in her stomach curled tighter. This was just the sort of Society entertainment she dreaded.
Margery did not have to worry about putting herself forward at the moment, however, as Lady Altham held sway over the group. She pulled Oliver Westerville to her side and linked her arm through his possessively. “Mildred, this is my especial friend, Oliver Westerville. Oliver and I met in Town where he has a superb house in Cavendish Square.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Foweley,” Oliver said. He bent gallantly over the plump matron’s hand, while sliding an appraising glance at her daughter.
Mrs. Foweley looked from the refined Mr. Westerville to her friend with an expression of distress. “Augusta, er, Major Eversley is here and asked particularly if you were to attend.”
Lady Altham grew red under her paint. “Is that so? He should have asked ahead of time if he wishes to dance with me. I expect to be occupied most of the evening.” She squeezed Mr. Westerville’s arm and gazed at him with what she apparently thought was a killing look.
Squire Foweley cleared his throat. “You’ll be saving a dance for me, won’t you, Augusta? I must dance with all the pretty ladies.”
Lady Altham gave a nod of her head to the toadying squire and led her party to the ballroom where she promptly deserted them to retire to a corner with Mr. Westerville.
Lord Harry remained behind in the receiving line, securing a dance with a blushing Miss Sabrina Foweley. Her father looked on, practically rubbing his hands with glee over the young lord’s interest.
Lily Carruthers, dressed in a modish gown of gold satin that made her pale blond hair appear even more ethereal, declared herself dying of thirst. Lord Reckford took his cue. “I shall be happy to procure you a glass of wine.”
“Oh, Jordan, may I please have some champagne? I have been so happy since my arrival at Altham House, I feel only something bubbly could match my mood.” Mrs. Carruthers smiled at the viscount in such a way as to let him know he was responsible for her happiness.
“Of course. First, let me engage these ladies for dances before I am completely cut out.” Lord Reckford claimed dances with Georgina and Blythe before coming to stand before Margery.
“Will you save the second country dance for me?” he asked, bowing over her hand. “I am desolate to learn there will not be any waltzes this evening.”
Thank goodness they would not be able to perform the intimate dance, Margery thought, as a disturbing vision of the viscount holding her in his arms while they twirled about a dance floor flashed through her mind. She noted with guilty pleasure that his lordship’s gaze lingered over her simple white velvet gown. Her only jewelry was a baroque pearl suspended on a gold chain around her neck and small pearl ear bobs.
“Yes, I shall dance with you.” Margery wished her voice had not dropped a notch when she answered him. She must not treat the viscount any differently from the other gentlemen present. Why then could she not help but feel he was everything a lady could ask for, in his dark indigo coat and white waistcoat and evening breeches?
Stepping forward to cling to Lord Reckford’s arm, Lily Carruthers caught Margery’s eye. The blonde lifted a thin eyebrow and gave Margery a look that could only be interpreted as a warning.
Margery raised her chin. Although she told herself she had no interest in his lordship, Mrs. Carruthers’s behavior rankled. Therefore, Margery gave Lord Reckford a blinding smile before turning back to the other members of the party, thoroughly confusing him.
As Margery approached her companions, she noticed that Squire and Mrs. Foweley had opened the dancing with an old-fashioned minuet.
“I see Squire Foweley is still trying to impress the countryside,” Prudence Norwood was saying. “Observe how he has contrived a silken tent over the musicians.”
“I think the ballroom looks very grand,” Georgina said, gazing about in admiration at the hothouse flowers and garlands of silk.
Mrs. Norwood gave her daughter a scathing look. “The squire is not thinking clearly. I am certain that if your father were here with me tonight, instead of burying himself at the library at Altham House, he would agree. One does not squander good silk in such a useless manner.”
Blythe stepped into the conversation, a smile on her face. “I know one place where silk has not been wasted. Georgina, you look enchanting in that gown. White is a perfect foil for your red-gold curls. And the coral trim brings out the color in your cheeks and lips.”
Georgina looked grateful for the commendation. “Aunt Blythe, that is a compliment indeed coming from one with your good taste. I hope when I go to Town in the spring that you will not be too busy to help me with my wardrobe.” “I shall always have time for you, Georgina,” Blythe assured her.
Mrs. Norwood looked sour, then her gaze narrowed at her daughter. “Georgina! Your lips are pinker than usual. You are not wearing cosmetics, are you?”
The girl seemed to shrink under her parent’s glare.
Mrs. Norwood took a deep breath preparatory to giving her daughter a mighty scold.
“Do but look,” Margery interrupted. “Here comes Lord Harry. I am certain he wishes to dance with you, Georgina.”
“That boy is a scapegrace, daughter,” Mrs. Norwood said piously. “I do not wish you to encourage his attentions, even though his father is an earl.”
That her mother wished her to avoid Lord Harry was all the motivation Georgina needed. She marched away with an air of impudence, taking the arm of a bewildered Lord Harry.
Keith and Blythe joined the dance, leaving Margery standing with an incensed Mrs. Norwood.
The woman wasted no time before letting loose her ire on Margery. “Your behavior forces me to tell you that I shall not tolerate any undesirable influence on my daughter. She is much too forward as it is and needs no encouragement. Indeed, Mr. Norwood did not use the birch rod on her enough when she was younger and refuses to do so now, more’s the pity.”
Fury almost choked Margery. “How can you speak of your own flesh and blood that way, ma’am? Encouragement is just what Georgina does need. I find that she has been sorely treated and can only wonder that her spirit has not been crushed under the weight of your harsh judgments.”
“How dare you!” Mrs. Norwood hissed, taking a step closer to Margery. “You are not one to be guiding any young miss, Lady Margery. As I recollect, the Marquess of Edgecombe disowned you when you married that man-milliner, Simon Fortescue. Now here you are setting your cap at Lord Reckford, a known rake. The man’s nickname is ‘Reckless,’ for heaven’s sake. Of course,” she said with a sneer, “we all know he considers you beneath him. You are merely someone to dally with during the holiday.”
Margery could listen to no more. She whisked her skirts around the odious Mrs. Norwood and walked blindly to the opposite side of the ballroom, sidestepping the dancers as she went.
She reached a pillar a little apart from the gathering and leaned against it, her breath coming in short gasps. She stood trembling a few feet away from where Lady Altham and Oliver Westerville were seated in an alcove.
The dowager countess perceived her distress. “Margery, dear child,” she exclaimed, rising from her seat, “whatever has happened? You are as white as your dress.”
Margery fought for composure. Mrs. Norwood’s vicious attack rang in her ears. To Margery’s surprise, it was not the woman’s criticism on her choice of husbands that rankled most, but the new knowledge that “Reckless,” as it seemed he was known, thought her beneath him.
“Margery, did you hear me? Are you ill?”
Margery focused on Lady Altham. “No, I thank you for your concern. I... I was overcome with excitement. This is my first assembly in quite some time.” Margery felt a twinge of guilt at the lie. But she could not tell Lady Altham of her daughter’s venomous speech.
Margery perceived the concern writ across the dowager countess’s face. She reached out and grasped her
ladyship’s hand. “Do not think anything of it, my lady.”
Oliver Westerville had stood by silently during the exchange. “Lady Margery, there is a cotillion about to begin. Might I partner you?”
“How kind you are, Mr. Westerville. I should be delighted.” Margery ruthlessly put aside thoughts of Lord Reckford. It would not do to appear distracted during her set with Mr. Westerville.
She accepted his hand with mixed feelings. As he guided her through the steps of the dance, Margery could not but feel dear Lady Altham’s irritation at having her beau taken away. Margery knew how much the lady was trying to impress Mr. Westerville.
Tonight, Lady Altham had outdone herself with her toilette. She wore a raspberry-colored gown of the thinnest of silks. The dress ended in three flounces and was decorated with green silk ivy leaves at the shoulders and the hem. A pair of matching gold armlets squeezed the flesh on her ladyship’s upper arms, just below the puffed sleeves of her gown.
Margery suppressed a groan.
In sharp contrast to Lady Altham’s garish dress was Oliver Westerville’s stylish Venice-blue evening coat. The gentleman slanted her a woeful look. “Poor Lady Margery. You must learn to avoid Prudence Norwood at all costs. I have.”
Margery looked at him in surprise. “Sir, I do not know what you are talking about.”
“Tol-rol, yes, you do, but you are being too courteous to say it. Prudence Norwood is vulgar. I saw her giving you a dressing-down, no doubt for some perceived slight.” Mr. Westerville shook his head. “I pity Humbert Norwood. Why he doesn’t run off with Miss Hudson is beyond my understanding.”
Margery’s jaw dropped. “Miss Charlotte Hudson? Lady Altham’s companion?”
Mr. Westerville’s eyes held a glint of world-weary humor. “Come now, Lady Margery, you are no green miss. You were once married.”
Margery lowered her eyes and said nothing.
“Are you oblivious to the undercurrents swirling around you at Altham House? Miss Hudson has been in love with Mr. Norwood for years, I imagine. I’ve been around but a short time, mind you, and cannot be certain of the duration of the attachment. But I’ll wager the two are ensconced in the library at Altham House, enjoying a comfortable coze even as we speak.”
How the Rogue Stole Christmas Page 10
