How the Rogue Stole Christmas

by Rosemary Stevens

  “Shall I bring up some of my special milk?” Miss Bessamy inquired. “Is this about Lord Reckford?”

  “Lord Reckford? Heavens no, I have no concerns about him,” Margery dissembled. “Come and sit next to me and tell me what your opinion is of Mr. Lemon.”

  Miss Bessamy puffed out her considerable bosom. Sitting next to Margery, she said, “That one! I wouldn’t put any sort of double-dealing past him. Gris, that is, Mr. Griswold what serves Lord Reckford, told me the other night that out in the stables the horses are fed the lowest-quality food that money can buy. Yet Lady Altham is always complaining to Mrs. Rose, the housekeeper, what a cost it is to feed the animals.”

  Margery’s eyes narrowed. “Do you think Mr. Lemon is cheating Lady Altham?”

  “All I know is that around the servants’ hall ’tis common knowledge that Mr. Lemon’s pockets are always flush. Why are you asking, Margery?” Miss Bessamy demanded suddenly. “You aren’t going to get involved in whatever lies and trickery that man is up to, are you? I know you have a kind heart and would wish to help, dear child, but he’s not one to be crossed, as any of the servants here will tell you.”

  Margery feigned a yawn. “Do not fret so, Bessie. “‘Twas just that my curiosity was roused, is all. I think I can sleep now.”

  Miss Bessamy studied her charge’s innocent face. Sighing, she stood and crossed the threshold of her doorway. “Sleep well then, dear.”

  Fearing she had not fooled her old nurse one bit, Margery lay upon her bed for almost an hour before finally rising.

  She crept silently to the door of her bedchamber, throwing a woolen shawl about her shoulders and carrying a candle to light her way.

  As she sneaked down the stairs, her thoughts were in a whirl. She remembered what Thomas had said about the estate books in Mr. Lemon’s office. The man had been out of reason cross with a small boy for his innocent meddling. It made her wonder what Mr. Lemon had to hide. Hence her decision to enter the steward’s office to do a little investigating of her own.

  Reaching the office, she feared the door might be locked and breathed a sigh of relief when it opened easily under her hand. Slipping inside, she closed the door quietly behind her.

  Margery hurried over to the wooden desk and set her candle down on the smooth surface. Where to begin?

  She started with the papers strewn across the desk, although she doubted anything incriminating would be left out in plain view. Even so, her hands trembled with anxiety. She dropped a sheaf of papers and had to bend under the desk to retrieve them.

  “Oh, deuce take it,” Margery muttered when she bumped her head as she came out from under the desk gripping the papers.

  Then her heart felt like a cannonball shooting out of her chest as she perceived Lord Reckford standing on the opposite side of the desk. She clutched her chest, gasping for breath.

  His gaze swept the length of her. “Is that the only nightgown you own, Lady Margery?”

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  “You frightened the wits out of me, you provoking man!” Margery said, trying to regulate her breathing. She did not know which was more disturbing, being discovered or being discovered by Lord Reckford.

  “Obviously you did not have many wits to begin with, since you are poking about Mr. Lemon’s papers, instead of upstairs sleeping. What if he had been the one to catch you?”

  “And what, pray tell, are you doing in here?” Margery demanded, finding refuge in throwing the question at him. She gathered the folds of her nightgown around her, embarrassed at her appearance. He, on the other hand, was still in his evening dress, looking as fresh and elegant as if it were eight o’clock at night rather than two in the morning.

  The viscount did not answer. He leaned casually against the desk and considered her. “Surely the incident young Thomas related about Mr. Lemon’s sharp temper did not prompt you to come down here in the middle of the night to search his office. What did?”

  Though he asked the question with interest, it was clear from the way his gaze raked over her that his thoughts were taking a different turn.

  The silence of the house was complete. Margery was acutely aware of how alone they were. Their two candles made the light in the room low, and only the desk separated them. Staring into Lord Reckford’s eyes, Margery could not for the life of her form a response to his query. The very sound of his voice affected her deeply, causing her to feel a tingling through her veins.

  He held her gaze and the tension in the room increased.

  She fought between the need to pour out her suspicions about Mr. Lemon, and the need to feel the viscount hold her in his arms, his lips on hers again.

  The man’s nickname is “Reckless.” You are merely someone to dally with during the holiday. Mrs. Norwood’s words rang in Margery’s ears like an alarm bell. She should get away from him.

  Deliberately, she placed the papers back on the desk. “It appears we are at an impasse. I shall return to my room,” she told him.

  He let her get all the way to the door before trapping her there by the simple measure of placing his hand against it.

  “Running away, Lady Margery?” he taunted.

  She felt frozen to the spot, unable to tear her gaze away from his. She wanted to lean her face into his neck and fill her nostrils with his scent.

  His posture was rigid, as if he were holding himself in check. “You smiled at me so bewitchingly when I asked you to dance at the assembly. Then, when I came to you, you were distant, wary. What disturbed you? Was it something Alfie Cranston said? Something about your husband?”

  Margery felt a sharp stab of pain at the reminder of her husband’s friend, and the contempt with which he had treated her, blaming her for Simon’s misery. “Let me pass.”

  “No.”

  A tiny sound escaped her lips, and she looked away from the viscount’s knowing gaze. Oh, how she ached to speak with someone about Simon. Her days of happiness with Simon ceased at their marriage, and her days of wretchedness at his hands had seemed endless at the time. Three years, if one counted the year they were married, she had held the secret to herself. Not even dear Bessie knew the truth. What did she have to lose now, she asked herself, by disclosing her story to this gentleman whom she might not ever see again after Christmas?

  “Tell me, my sweet mystery lady,” he coaxed. “It is plain to see you have been mistreated. I would take the hurt away if I could. Allow me to try.”

  The kindness in his tone, the note of genuine caring broke her. “Simon and I—” She took a deep breath. “Simon and I did not have a good marriage.”

  His jaw tensed. “I suspected as much from the way you shy away from men.”

  Margery felt the shame wash over her. Like Mr. Cranston, she felt she was to blame for the way her marriage to Simon had turned out “In truth, my lord, the marriage was never... never... It was never con-consummated.” Heat invaded her cheeks as the words came out. She anticipated a reaction from him of disbelief, of shock, even scorn, but none came.

  Lord Reckford reached out his hand and gently brushed a tendril of hair from her face. He waited for her to continue.

  His compassion crumbled the last of her defenses. “I do not know why he... why he... did not—” Her voice broke. A sob rose in her throat, and she fought it back. “I do not know why he did not want me.” The words came out in a whispered rush.

  The viscount gathered her tenderly against his chest. It was a comforting hold, no seductive embrace. She took solace from the solid strength of him.

  That was when the tears came. Margery could not hold them back any longer. She wept against his dark evening coat and he continued to hold her.

  At last, when he must have sensed she had cried herself out, he produced a handkerchief. She drew away from him to blow her nose. Then she pocketed the handkerchief and stood awkwardly, staring at the carpet.

  Lord Reckford used one finger to tilt her chin so he could look into her eyes. His gaze was intense. �
��Whatever the reason for Simon’s unforgivable behavior, it is not a reflection on you, Lady Margery. You must believe that. You are lovely and very, very desirable.”

  Margery searched his eyes for deception and found only honest concern. She believed him. “Then why...?”

  Lord Reckford shrugged. “It could be any one of a number of reasons. A physical ailment, perhaps, which made the act impossible for him. Or, there are some gentlemen, my innocent, who prefer the company of their own sex.”

  “They do?”

  “Yes. But it does not really matter why Simon entered into a marriage he knew would be robbing you of a normal life. The fact remains he should not have done so. His behavior was selfish in the extreme.”

  Margery’s thoughts were a jumble. The viscount’s words explained a good deal. In retrospect, she wished she had confided in someone sooner, but she had been in too much pain. She used both hands to wipe away her tears. “My father brought me to Town for the winter Season. My mother had died when I was twelve, and I think he wanted to be sure I was trained sufficiently before bringing me to London for a spring Season. It was a trial of sorts.”

  Lord Reckford nodded, encouraging her to go on.

  “I met Simon at a party, and we had a hasty, clandestine courtship, for my father had made his disapproval apparent from the beginning. But I would not listen to him. Simon was tall and blond and very good-looking. He asked my father for my hand two weeks after we met and was declined. I was devastated. Simon convinced me to fly to Gretna with him. We were married on Christmas Day. There was an air of, well, almost desperation about Simon, now that I think of it,” she said, gazing at nothing, but looking back through time. She could see her past in a new light.

  She recalled that, immediately after the ceremony, they had left Scotland to return to London. Once back in Town, Simon had abandoned her to go out with his friends, as if he had accomplished a necessary task and could now resume his life. There was nothing she could have done differently to change his behavior.

  She took a deep breath. “Thank you, my lord. Thank you for helping me understand. You know, I think Simon felt horribly guilty over what he did.”

  “He should have. It was monstrous.”

  Margery perceived Lord Reckford was angry at Simon on her behalf. The notion made her feel warm inside. “I think Simon paid a tremendous price for whatever tormented him. He died at a young age. A week before Christmas two years ago.”

  Lord Reckford massaged her arm in a slow, comforting circular motion. “How did he die?”

  “His drinking grew heavier over time, until it reached the point where he drank himself to death over a two-day period,” Margery said. Odd that the memory brought a sad pity now, rather than pain and guilt.

  She looked at the viscount with some concern, abruptly remembering that he had once been wed. Without thinking, Margery blurted, “I know you lost a wife, my lord. How did she die?”

  Lord Reckford dropped his hand from her arm. His expression turned guarded, closed. “I do not discuss my wife.”

  “What? When I have bared my soul to you, you will not even tell me how she died?”

  He turned and walked toward Mr. Lemon’s desk.

  Confused, Margery followed him. “I hardly think you are being fair,” she said.

  Lord Reckford’s face was a mask. “Very well then. My wife died in an opium den. That is all I am prepared to say.”

  An opium den, Margery thought. How horrible! What could have driven her to take such a dangerous drug? And the scandal if it had gotten out how she died... oh! Indeed, this must have been what Bessie could not get Mr. Griswold to confide.

  As if discerning the path of her thoughts, the viscount gave her a mockery of a smile. “We become morbid, Lady Margery. Let us return to the subject of why you are in Mr. Lemon’s office.”

  Margery decided it would be pointless to pursue the subject of the viscount’s wife. But she was not about to discuss her knowledge of Mr. Lemon without first gaining his lordship’s promise to share what he knew about the house steward. She crossed her arms in front of her.

  Lord Reckford threw his hands in the air. “Very well. I acknowledge that there is no more stubborn creature on earth than a female. Will it suit you if we both agree to disclose our motivations for being here?”

  Margery pretended to deliberate the matter. She imitated the lazy way he leaned against the desk. “Go ahead.”

  His lordship lowered his brow but reluctantly said, “I have reason to believe Mr. Lemon is cheating Lady Altham.”

  Margery’s jaw dropped. She stood up straight. “What have you found out?”

  “Not much. You were here to hinder me.”

  “I mean, what makes you think he is betraying her?”

  Lord Reckford shook his head. “No, Lady Margery, it is your turn.”

  Margery just managed to refrain from screaming in frustration. “Oh, all right, you infuriating man. I took an instant dislike to Mr. Lemon because of the way he treats the servants. I do not know if you have noticed, but they live in real fear of him.”

  “That is true but, unfortunately, not unusual.”

  “Then, a few days ago I was out walking and I observed a peculiar scene.” She quickly outlined the furtive meeting she had witnessed between Mr. Lemon and Mr. Duggins.

  Lord Reckford looked thoughtful. “So Mr. Lemon is having underhanded dealings with someone in the village. I wonder what he could be up to?” The viscount walked around the desk and began opening drawers.

  Margery came to stand beside him. “You have not told me all you know, my lord.”

  He pulled out a heavy ledger, flipped through it, and put it back in the drawer. Taking out another, he sat down and perused the columns, avoiding her question. “Look at these prices,” he said, pointing to a row of figures. “Unless I miss my guess, Lady Altham is being charged some pretty steep rates for her household goods.”

  “Not only that,” Margery said, peering over his shoulder, “but look at the quantity of wax candles Mr. Lemon has entered.”

  “Good Lord, you are correct. But then Lady Altham does not see well, or had you noticed? She always has a quantity of candles burning.”

  “The ones in my chamber are tallow, like that one,” Margery said, indicating the candle she had brought downstairs to light her way.

  His lordship looked much struck. “Mine is tallow as well. I wonder if just the candles in the public rooms are wax.”

  Margery tapped a finger by the amount of wax candles listed. “Let us suppose Mr. Lemon let Lady Altham believe that wax candles were being used in all the rooms of the house, while in fact, they are solely in the chambers she is likely to frequent. All the other rooms contain tallow candles. Why, that would be a tidy sum of money for Mr. Lemon right there, my lord. Have you ever considered the enormous difference in price between wax candles and tallow? Tallow candles are one-fourth the price of wax. Believe me, I know.”

  Lord Reckford shot her a look. “In addition to his other deficiencies, Fortescue did not leave you well provided for, did he?”

  Margery pressed her lips together. She would not divulge her lack of funds to the viscount. She said, “Can we not take this ledger to Lady Altham and lay out our suspicions?”

  “No, I fear she may not listen. We need evidence, more proof.”

  “You do not think these figures proof enough?”

  “Lady Altham apparently feels Mr. Lemon is a loyal servant. No, we will need more. Besides, I wish to know about this man Duggins and what the two of them are involved in. What—”

  He broke off when a sound made them both turn toward the door. A bumping could be heard coming from the other side. Lord Reckford quickly closed the ledger and returned it to the drawer. He rose, motioning Margery behind him. Reaching the door, he opened it imperiously, as if having every right to be in Mr. Lemon’s office.

  Fluffy gave a sharp meow and crossed into the room.

  “Thank goodness is it you, Flu
ffy,” Margery said, relieved. She then addressed Lord Reckford. “Cats often cannot stand a closed door. She is just inquisitive.”

  “Devil take that cat,” Lord Reckford said. “Do but look at her. Have you ever seen a more arrogant feline?”

  Margery chuckled. “Fluffy is aware of her consequence. Now, what were we saying?”

  Fluffy sauntered over to a cupboard with a green marble top. She sprang to the surface, deftly avoiding a porcelain water pitcher and set of glasses.

  Lord Reckford frowned, closing the door despite the feline’s preference. “I was saying that we need more proof. Would you recognize Duggins if you saw him again?” he asked, moving toward the cupboard where Fluffy sat watching them with one blue eye and one orange eye.

  “Yes, I believe I would.”

  The viscount opened the cupboard door, revealing a large cash box. “It is locked, as one would expect, but heavy indeed.”

  Margery pointed to a satchel sitting next to it. “What is in there?”

  His lordship opened the bag. “Wax candle stubs. A good number of them, and some are not burned down very far. Let me see now,” he said, as if thinking out loud. “As part of his duties as house steward, Mr. Lemon extinguishes the candles every night. He is allowed to receive the candle ends, or stubs, as a sort of bonus. At least, that is the custom.”

  “Why would he be saving them in his office, though? One would think he would use them in his room,” Margery mused.

  “Yes, one would think so.” Lord Reckford returned the bag to the cupboard and straightened. “Well, Lady Margery, it seems there is mystery here. We are both possessed of a curious nature. I believe we can solve this puzzle together.”

  Margery felt ridiculously pleased at his confidence in her. “I shall speak to my maid, Penny, in the morning and see what I can find out. She has an awful bruise on her jaw that I suspect Mr. Lemon gave her. Perhaps I can get her to talk further about him.”