Lord Reckford nodded. “Be careful. Do not give her any reason to believe you are being more than a bit nosy. It is for her protection.”
“I agree. We had best keep this between ourselves.”
“There is another person involved,” he said, surprising her.
“Who?”
“An old commanding officer of mine has retired in the neighborhood. His name is Major Eversley, and he and Lady Altham are particular friends, or at least they were, until the subject of Mr. Lemon’s loyalty caused a quarrel between them. I can tell
you want to question me about it, but we do not have time,” he said, glancing at the clock that indicated they had been in Mr. Lemon’s office for over an hour. He picked up his candle and moved toward the door.
Margery retrieved her light and trailed him. “Tomorrow, then, we shall plan our next move.”
Lord Reckford stopped abruptly and turned back toward her. The candlelight glowed in his eyes. “I am not sure I am comfortable having you involved in this.”
Margery stood firm. “That is not your decision to make, my lord. I am already involved. Besides, you need me.”
His lordship’s gaze fell to her lips and lingered there a moment before encompassing the rest of her. “And what you need is a new nightdress.”
She had forgotten all about her appearance. Blushing, Margery slipped past him and opened the door. Softly, she cried for Fluffy to come out, and the cat obeyed, a smug expression on her feline face.
Lord Reckford closed the office door behind them. “Go ahead upstairs, Lady Margery. It would not do for us to be seen together at this hour with you dressed in that manner.” An amused light sprang into his eyes. “I would not wish to compromise you. Again.”
“Good night, my lord,” Margery said formally. She climbed the stairs to her bedchamber, her back ramrod straight. Even so, she heard him chuckle.
In her room, Margery paused to stoke the fire before climbing into bed. The room was chilly, so she pulled the covers close around her. Despite the late hour and the comfortable mattress cushioning her, Margery lay awake.
She had so many things to think about that it was difficult to focus on one. Her thoughts flitted from Mr. Lemon’s perfidy, to the assembly and her meeting with Mr. Cranston, to the illumination of what her marriage had really been about. Which brought her to the person who had helped her see her relationship with Simon more clearly, Lord Reckford.
Her thoughts settled on the viscount. She had retained her first impression of him, viewing him simply as a pleasure seeker. But he was more complex than that, more honorable, even if he himself would not admit it.
There was evidence of his good-hearted nature all around her.
Lord Harry was an example. Whereas Lord Reckford could be off on a permanent vacation, here he was at Lady Altham’s, taking the younger man in hand. Lord Reckford obviously held Lord Harry in affection, and the brash young man revered the viscount. Margery would wager that even during the short time of the house party, Lord Harry would benefit from Lord Reckford’s influence. She wondered if Lord Harry had been getting into trouble in Town, prompting their retreat to the country.
Then there was the fact that the viscount had dedicated himself to ridding the estate of Mr. Lemon. Perhaps it was at the request of a friend, as his lordship had intimated. Nevertheless, he worked toward a common good. Not just Lady Altham would benefit by Mr. Lemon’s eviction from the household. His departure would be in the servants best interest as well.
Margery shifted on the bed. Lord Reckford had done her a deeply personal service as well. By listening to the story of her marriage and offering her a choice in how she perceived the tragedy, the viscount had freed her from the disappointment, pain, and guilt she had suffered for three years. She would always be grateful to him for this gift.
Was it gratitude she felt? A voice inside her asked.
Margery turned fitfully onto her side. It could be nothing more than that. He was a practiced rogue with the ladies. She had only to look at his behavior with Lily Carruthers. Not to mention that he had been dubbed “Reckless,” according to Mrs. Norwood. Deuce take Mrs. Norwood! She was a horrible woman anyway.
Margery had a sudden insight that perhaps Lord Reckford’s conduct around ladies had something to do with his wife dying in that opium den. Margery shuddered. What could the lady have been about to do herself such an injury? What was her character?
More important, did his experience with his wife leave Lord Reckford with a determination never to become close to another female? When she considered it, his reputation and flirtatious ways kept him from a serious relationship with a woman, much the same as her avoidance of the gentlemen kept her from facing another alliance.
Margery wondered if she should consider marrying again.
And what of Lord Reckford? Would he ever marry again? This thought caused an ache akin to longing in Margery. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to stop thinking and sleep. Instead, a vision of Lord Reckford’s handsome face with his firm lips and expressive eyes formed in her mind.
Margery turned onto her back and slapped her hands on the coverlet, cross with herself.
Even if the viscount were to marry again, she would not be a candidate for his countess. He had not given her any signal that his attentions toward her might be leading toward a more fixed arrangement, despite their growing closeness.
She must not allow her tender feelings toward him to turn into anything more. They would work together to uncover Mr. Lemon’s villainy. They would enjoy the holiday. Then they would bid each other farewell.
Oh, yes, Margery thought gloomily, another happy Christmas.
* * * *
In his bedchamber, Jordan allowed Griswold to pour him a glass of brandy.
“I do not know why you are up at this hour, Gris,” Jordan said, accepting the glass. He walked over to the fire and stood staring at the flames.
Griswold scowled at his employer. “How was I supposed to get any rest with you in here rummaging around and cursing fit to beat the Frenchies?”
“It is your own fault. How can I be expected to know where you have hidden my things? Had you been awake as Mr. Ridgeton always was when I came home from entertainments...”
Griswold’s scowl turned into a glower. “Seeing as how Mr. Ridgeton won’t ever be awake again, you’ll have to put up with me.”
“That is true, since I do not believe in ghosts,” Jordan replied with a half grin.
Griswold threw down the coat he had been brushing. “That’s done it. I’ll have you know I was waiting for you to come up when everyone got back from the assembly around one. I took myself away from a very tasty bite to eat in the kitchens. That Miss Bessamy, what lives with Lady Margery, knows how to cook pastry. She likes a nip of brandy, too. But I abandoned my comfort to see to you, and then you didn’t come up. I must’ve dozed off in my chair.”
Jordan turned to him in surprise. “Have you formed a tendre for Miss Bessamy?”
“What? Have you lost your wits? I don’t know what you are about,” Griswold proclaimed, but a red flush rose to his stubbled face.
Jordan laughed.
Griswold bent and picked the coat up off the floor. “And, devil fly away with you, I wish you’d stop playing with those kittens. Would this happen to be the hair-shedding season for cats? And have you seen the damage their sharp little claws have done to two of your coats?”
Jordan waved a careless hand. “Weston will make me more coats and be happy to have my custom.”
“Well, I reckon the coach maker will be happy to see you as well. Just wait until you see the squabs in your carriage. After you rescued them, the hell-born demons didn’t jump around in that vehicle without leaving their marks behind, I can tell you. You have no respectable conveyance as a result, and—”
“Cry friends!” Jordan said, stemming the flow of Griswold’s tirade. He threw himself into a chair and held out his empty glass. “Sit down. I have news t
hat will interest you.”
Griswold poured more brandy for the viscount and some for himself, then eased his tired body into the chair opposite Jordan. “Let’s hear it.”
“I saw Captain Eversley, or rather Major Eversley, tonight at the assembly.”
Griswold’s bushy eyebrows rose in surprise. “Hang me! He’s a good man and knew how to lead troops. How’s he going on?”
“Fine; he settled down on an estate nearby. He and Lady Altham are friends.”
Griswold snorted. “Her ladyship gives the impression she’s friends with more than one gentleman.”
“Impressions can be deceiving, as you well know. Evidently, the lady is a bit flighty, but would settle down under the right conditions. The major thinks highly of her, and that is good enough for me. What is more, the major is trying to help Lady Altham with a domestic problem she refuses to acknowledge she has.”
“What might that be?”
“Mr. Lemon.”
“The house steward? An ugly customer, if’n you was to ask me. Word has it the horses are fed the cheapest feed available on Mr. Lemon’s orders, yet Lady Altham is paying high prices.”
“Is that so? Let me know if you hear anything more about him. I think he has been pilfering from Lady Altham’s coffers. If that were not bad enough, Lady Margery saw Mr. Lemon consorting with a man from the village. Looks like the pair are partners in something too smoky by half.”
“Lady Margery, is it?” Griswold said. He drained his glass and stood, a satisfied smile on his face.
“All right,” Jordan grumbled. “We are even now. Go to bed.”
Griswold laughed. “Lady Margery is a beauty. Not in your usual style, though. You favor the knowing ones, which she ain’t. Best be careful there.”
“Good night,” Jordan said curtly.
Griswold’s chuckling could still be heard after he closed the door.
Jordan leaned his head back on the chair and stared up at the painted ceiling. A depiction of a Greek god and goddess romping in a flowery glade with cherubs smiling down on them met his gaze.
The goddess had long black hair.
The viscount groaned. He did not know whether the white velvet gown, which revealed the enticing swell of bosom, or the shabby gray flannel nightgown drove him most to distraction.
What made matters worse was that he doubted Lady Margery was aware of her effect on him. When she revealed the details of her marriage and how it had left her feeling undesirable, it had been difficult not to prove to her right there on the floor of Mr. Lemon’s office how desirable she was.
He put his brandy glass down on a nearby table. Simon Fortescue had been a cruel dastard to do what he had done to such a lovely innocent.
Looking back, her naive, tentative response to his kiss at the inn bespoke an inexperienced miss. As did the guileless way she had of staring at him, then catching herself in the act.
Besides which, he detected a genuine concern in her that he rarely saw in the females he chose to associate with. The trait was one he had best do without, however. It might lead to feelings he avoided, especially with someone as vulnerable as Lady Margery.
Picturing Lady Margery’s face, Jordan felt a strong need to protect her from any sort of hurt. He sensed that after tonight he would have to be on his guard around her, careful not to allow himself to grow closer to her.
Major Eversley might think he was not responsible for Delilah’s decline into opium use, but he was wrong. It was a husband’s duty to see to his wife’s happiness, Jordan thought, and he had failed.
There was Lily to amuse him, instead of Lady Margery, he reminded himself firmly. And now, with the added challenge of having Oliver as a rival, perhaps he would be diverted. Oliver was older, but age had served to broaden his expertise in winning the ladies.
Jordan rose from his chair and climbed into bed. His plan was set. On the morrow, he would concentrate on uncovering Mr. Lemon’s double-dealing. When this involved Lady Margery, his behavior would be courteous and unexceptional. He would save the teasing banter and seductive smiles for Lily. The viscount blew out his candle and closed his eyes. Perhaps he would dream of a goddess with long black hair. Dreams could not hurt anyone, could they?
* * *
Chapter 9
The next morning, Margery smoothed the skirts of her lilac wool gown and gazed about the drawing room in satisfaction. “Georgina, I do not know what I would have done without your help. I think we have succeeded in bringing Christmas cheer to Altham House.”
Standing on a chair, hanging mistletoe above the doorway, Georgina glanced over her shoulder and smiled at her friend. “You were the one who arranged the holly and the pine boughs and tied the red velvet ribbon so festively, Lady Margery. I have been struggling with the mistletoe all morning.”
Margery pinned a red velvet bow in place. Unbidden, a mental image of Lord Reckford catching her under the mistletoe and kissing her flashed through her head. She pushed the thought away impatiently and adjusted the garland adorning the fireplace mantel.
The handsome viscount had been absent this morning at breakfast, just when she needed to have a private word with him.
Earlier, while helping Margery dress, Penny had finally spoken freely about Mr. Lemon. Through tears, the young maid had revealed that Mr. Lemon often struck the servants. Most of the time it was for minor offenses, but he could be brutal when he thought someone was questioning his decisions about household matters. Many belowstairs believed that Mr. Lemon had turned greedy since the parsimonious Lord Altham’s death, and that he had “arrangements” with several of the local merchants.
When Margery had asked her if she knew a Mr. Duggins, Penny replied she did not, but promised to ask one of the footmen, Ned, if he knew the man.
Now, thinking about the servants, Margery frowned. “Georgina, do you think my ideas for decorating the ballroom are excessive? I confess the servants have been working in there all morning when I am sure they have many other tasks to attend to.”
Georgina climbed down from her chair, careful to hold the skirts of her blue morning gown out of the way. “They are getting into the spirit of the season. Mrs. Rose, the housekeeper, is baking treats, and I think she’s kept the workers supplied with sweets. It’s Mr. Lemon that has his nose out of joint over the authority Grandmama gave you with the decorations. Usually it is his duty to oversee the adornment of the ballroom, you know. But I for one am glad you are supervising the task, Lady Margery. Last year, Mr. Lemon merely saw to it that the Yule log was in place and a few token strands of greenery hung from the chandeliers. Your plans to turn the ballroom into a forest of greenery are delightful.”
“Did I hear someone speak of forests?” a male voice asked from the doorway.
Margery turned to see Lord Reckford, attired in his greatcoat and boots, standing in the doorway. Beside him, two footmen carried what could only be a Christmas tree.
“We overlooked a crucial item when we gathered greenery yesterday. I have been in the forest this morning correcting our negligence.” He smiled at her, and Margery felt her pulse quicken at the sight of him.
She advanced a few steps toward him. “Oh, how splendid, my lord! You are correct. The drawing room would not have been complete without the new custom of a Christmas tree that the Duchess of York brought into fashion.”
“I am glad you are pleased. We must make this Christmas special.” Lord Reckford said the words decisively, without looking away from Margery, as if they had a particular meaning. He seemed to be trying to communicate something to her.
Could he have realized how she felt about Christmas?
Do not be fanciful, she told herself.
“It will be beautiful,” Georgina exclaimed, oblivious to the atmosphere between Lady Margery and Lord Reckford. “We must have the children help us decorate the tree.”
His lordship turned his gaze from Lady Margery with apparent reluctance. He directed the footmen as to the placement of the tree, the
n acknowledged Georgina. “Good morning, Miss Norwood. I see you have hung the mistletoe and are the one standing nearest the doorway where it is hanging.” He pulled a giggling Georgina close to him and kissed her soundly on the cheek.
Margery smiled at his good humor, but another person was not so sanguine at the scene.
Lord Harry had appeared in time to witness the kiss. A frown marred his brow, but he quickly replaced it with his boyish grin. “Mistletoe! Famous! I must contrive to bring Miss Foweley down here from the ballroom tomorrow night.”
Georgina narrowed her eyes at him. “Oh, I’m sure she’ll go willingly enough with you, Viscount Harringham.”
“What did you mean by that statement, Miss Norwood?” Lord Harry demanded.
Margery exchanged a look of exasperation with Lord Reckford.
“Only that your Sabrina would not care a snap of her fingers for you without your title,” Georgina informed Lord Harry casually. “It’s well known about the neighborhood that Squire Foweley is counting on his daughter to bring in a title and fortune. Mrs. Foweley is the one decent member of that family, and she cares only for her dogs.”
“Envy does not become you,” Lord Harry said in a sanctimonious tone.
Georgina placed her fists at her waist. “Why should I be envious of Sabrina Foweley? She had to endure your attentions all last evening at the assembly.”
Lord Harry saw the ominous expression on Lord Reckford’s face, but he ignored it. He was stung by the implication that his person alone was not enough to attract the squire’s daughter.
The young lord leaned casually against the fireplace mantel and studied his boots. “Beg pardon, Miss Norwood, but I am the son a gentleman, and as such, I could not stoop to listing the reasons you should be envious of Sabrina’s attributes.”
Lord Reckford broke into the conversation before it could get any worse. “We are all pleased at your discretion, Harry. As for myself, I feel Miss Foweley must bemoan Miss Norwood’s arrival in the neighborhood. After all, I understand Miss Foweley has been accounted the beauty of the county for a while now. It must be difficult for her to give up that title to Miss Norwood.”
How the Rogue Stole Christmas Page 13
