Lord Reckford said, “Lady Altham, might I use the sleigh to convey Mrs. Carruthers back to the house? She has wrenched her ankle.”
Before Lady Altham could answer, Lily lifted her head. “Oh, Jordan, it is not far to the house. Could you carry me? I don’t think I could bear being jolted about in a vehicle of any type.” The widow raised her blue eyes to his in a pleading manner.
“Mama,” Margery heard Venetia whisper, “why is that lady’s ankle hurt when she fell on her bottom?”
Blythe hushed the child.
“No, it is not far at all,” Lord Reckford was saying. “Of course I shall carry you. Your comfort must come first.” He tightened his hold on her. “Keith, will you and the major escort the ladies? And Harry looks to be unharmed, other than a bump on the head, but will need to be driven back.”
After receiving pledges that all would be taken care of, Lord Reckford walked away toward Altham House, Lily Carruthers in his arms.
Margery watched them go. A bitter breeze cut right through her cloak, but Margery barely felt it. She stood staring at Lord Reckford’s retreating back, a lump lodged in her throat. She could no longer deny the truth.
Despite all her best efforts, she had fallen in love with Lord Reckford.
A man known as “Reckless,” a known rogue had stolen her heart. Just in time for Christmas.
* * *
Chapter 10
After warming herself with a cup of hot tea, Margery made her way to the ballroom to check on the progress with the Christmas decorations.
Behind her in the drawing room, Georgina, Blythe, and the children were tying red and green velvet ribbons on the Christmas tree branches. Lord Harry reclined nearby on the sofa, a cool cloth against the lump on his forehead.
Lady Altham was closeted in her sitting room with Oliver Westerville.
Margery had not seen Lord Reckford since he carried Lily Carruthers back to the house from the pond. Not desirous of company, but wishing to keep herself occupied, Margery had decided to work in the ballroom. She was almost there when Penny intercepted her.
“My lady,” the girl whispered, scurrying down the corridor. “I spoke to Ned.”
Margery guided the maid a little away from the ballroom door. “Did he know Duggins?”
“Well, ’e’s not rightly sure, my lady. Ned’s only been ’ere a few months and doesn’t know everyone yet, but ’e thinks Mr. Duggins might be the tallow chandler in the village.”
Margery’s mind flashed back to the sack of wax candle stubs in Mr. Lemon’s office. Could it have anything to do with the candle maker, if indeed that was Duggins’s identity? “It is only a few miles to the village, correct, Penny?”
“Yes, my lady.”
Margery thought quickly. She must be certain Duggins really was the tallow chandler before she took the information to Lord Reckford and Major Eversley. She knew they did not really want her involved in their plans. There was no need to fuel their desire to keep her out of the matter by passing them possibly false information. Besides, Margery thought gloomily, Lord Reckford was busy with Mrs. Carruthers.
“My lady, you are not thinkin’ of going to the village alone, are you? I’ll come with you.”
“No, Penny, you must not neglect your duties. I shall only be gone a short while. You may tell anyone who asks that I went to the village to obtain a few Christmas gifts.”
Penny’s eyes grew large with concern. “But my lady, you shouldn’t be by yourself....”
“Nonsense. At home I often go about unescorted. You have done a good job, Penny, thank you.”
The little maid bobbed a curtsy. She remained where she was for a moment, her lower lip caught in her teeth with anxiety. But the thought of Mr. Lemon giving her a scold soon had her running back upstairs to finish cleaning.
Margery hastened up the steps to her bedchamber and retrieved her cloak. Fortunately, Miss Bessamy did not detect her presence, so she made her way outside without being stopped.
She walked down a cleared pathway to the stables, pulling her cloak around her tightly. It was well after two in the afternoon, and Margery hoped she could make it to the village and back before dusk—and more snow—fell. The sky looked even more foreboding than when the party had gone skating.
After a moment’s hesitation, a stable lad harnessed a horse to the pony gig Margery requested. The horse, which the boy called Old Bart, rolled his eyes and appeared disinclined to go out on the cold afternoon. But a few minutes later, Margery drove down the lane leading to the village.
As if sensing where they were going, and how long it would take them to get there, Old Bart grew balky. Margery did not like to use a whip, but found herself grinding her teeth in frustration at the horse’s behavior. Twice she picked up the length of leather, and twice she returned it to the seat beside her when the horse reluctantly trudged on.
They were about two miles away from the house when the wind picked up and snow started to fall. Old Bart tossed his head and tried to turn the gig around.
“We are going to the village,” Margery shouted at him.
Old Bart snorted and glared over his shoulder at her in contempt.
Margery dropped the reins. She climbed out of the gig with the intention of giving the horse a severe reprimand. It was preferable to striking him.
So it was that Lord Reckford found her standing in the middle of a country lane, arguing with a horse, while large flakes of snow swirled around them.
Despite her assurances to Penny that she would be quite safe alone, Margery heard sounds of the rider approaching with dismay. When she determined that it was Lord Reckford who approached, other emotions washed over her. She held her horse while observing the masterful way his lordship controlled his own mount.
Each time she saw the viscount, her heartbeat increased and she was filled with a sense of longing. He brought her untried senses to life with his masculinity, the sound of his voice, his scent, and his elegant bearing. Memories of how he had tasted when they kissed, which suddenly seemed too long ago, caused a glow of desire to form deep inside her.
Now that she had admitted to herself that she loved him, she wanted to throw herself into his arms and feel that warmth and love returned.
The scowl on his face when he reached her served to jolt her back to reality. She could not miss his look of obvious disapproval as he dismounted and advanced to stand in front of her.
“What the devil were you thinking to come out alone on such a day?” he demanded.
Margery’s chin came up. “It was not snowing when I left Altham House. How did you find me?”
“I had sent word to your chamber that I wished to speak with you. Your maid informed me you were on your way to the village. Why are you unescorted?”
Margery did not consider evading the question. Lord Reckford’s blue-black gaze commanded an answer. “Mr. Duggins may be the village tallow chandler. I was going to confirm his identity. I thought you were busy with Mrs. Carruthers,” she said, and could have kicked herself the minute the words were out of her mouth.
His left eyebrow rose a fraction. “The tallow chandler, eh? Very well, let us go find out,” he said in a tone that tolerated no argument. “From the size of these snowflakes, I do not believe the snow will fall much longer. What is wrong with your horse?”
Margery returned Old Bart’s glare. “He is cold and does not wish to be outside.”
Lord Reckford gave her a speaking look, which told her he questioned her ability to handle the beast. “We can tie him behind the gig. My horse will pull us.” His lordship handed her his horse’s reins to hold while he unhitched Old Bart. The second Old Bart was free, he jerked away from the startled viscount and bolted. His hooves kicked up snow as he went down the road toward Altham House.
“I told you so,” Margery said sweetly.
Lord Reckford ignored this impudent remark. He made quick work of harnessing his horse to the gig, then held out his hand to assist her up. Margery’s soft kids
kin-covered hand rested in his York tan riding glove for but a moment before she seated herself comfortably. They rode in silence the rest of the way to the village.
By the time they reached the hamlet, the snow had stopped as the viscount had predicted. Lord Reckford jumped down from the gig and tossed a coin to a boy to hold the horse. A brief discussion between them revealed directions to the candle shop. The viscount held out his hand to Margery and helped her down. The now familiar rush of heat surged up her arm at the contact. She wished her body would not react so strongly at his slightest touch.
“The candle shop is down this street, just past the square,” he said.
The quaint village shops glowed with light, and many were gaily decorated for the season. Margery suspected the streets were more crowded than usual with everyone rushing to buy tokens of the season for friends and loved ones.
They walked until they saw a red sign with a white candle pictured in the middle, swinging above a shop. Lord Reckford held her arm. “Perhaps it would be better not to go inside.”
Margery nodded her agreement. “Although I think Mr. Lemon would have confronted me by now if he had perceived my presence that day, we do not know what sort of deep game he is playing.”
“Exactly,” Lord Reckford said with approval. “Walk past the shop slowly and see if Duggins is there.”
Margery did so, but returned a moment later shaking her head. “There is a slim fellow who seems to be a clerk behind the counter. Whoever he is, he is not Duggins.”
Lord Reckford glanced around. “There is an alley. Let us go around back.”
They walked to the rear of the building, stopping short a few feet from the corner. Voices could be heard, and the sound of crates being loaded or unloaded reached them.
Placing a finger to his lips, Lord Reckford motioned her behind him. He cautiously peered around the corner, then turned back to her. His face was close to hers, making Margery’s heart thump uncomfortably. She made herself concentrate on his words.
“Two men,” he whispered. “One is standing in the back of a cart, accepting boxes from the other.” He nudged her forward. “See if you recognize either.”
Margery glimpsed the scene and swiftly turned around, bumping into the viscount in her excitement. The hood of her cloak fell to her shoulders. “It is Duggins!” she whispered in a rush.
He raised his hands and brought the hood of the cloak back up around her head. For a moment, he stood holding it, staring down into her eyes. Her gaze dropped to his lips.
“You make me lose all logic,” he murmured. “This is not the time to be thinking of kissing you, yet that is precisely what I wish to do.”
Margery’s heart beat painfully fast. She could not speak.
The men behind the candle shop suffered no such infirmity. “It’s too late to start back to Town today, Phlogg. Why not stay until the mornin’ and talk to Mr. Lemon yerself?”
Margery’s eyes widened. “Phlogg must be the London connection Mr. Duggins spoke of the other day.”
Lord Reckford nodded. He drew a protective arm around her shoulders, holding her safe.
A man with a heavy Cockney accent spoke next. “I kin stay until the mornin’, no mores. I gots me own people to deal wiff back in Lunnon.”
“Come around about eight, before the nobs is up. Mr. Lemon should be able to get over ’ere then. Mayhaps you can talk ’im into spreadin’ out the enterprise. I was able to pull this load together without ’im bein’ the wiser, but it can’t go on much longer. I needs the wax ’e’s been gettin’ for us.”
“We have heard enough.” Lord Reckford gently guided her back down the alley, and they hurried to the pony gig. He tossed another coin to the grateful boy who held his horse, and then helped Margery into the gig.
They were off down the road before Margery threw back the hood of her cloak and turned toward him, exhilarated. “We are going to catch Mr. Lemon, are we not, my lord?”
Lord Reckford nodded grimly. “Indeed. It seems the house steward has quite a lucrative business going on, unless I miss my guess.”
Margery was bursting to tell him her theory. “It is the candles. Mr. Lemon is not just marking in the ledger for more wax candles than the household actually uses. He is also selling the candle maker the wax candle stubs, which Duggins then mixes with tallow, later selling them as pure wax candles!”
A grin spread across Lord Reckford’s handsome features. “You amaze me, Lady Margery. I had no idea your mind had such a devious bent.”
She laughed out loud. “Oh, it was not so difficult to figure. I think I knew when I saw that the crates Mr. Duggins loaded onto the cart were all marked ‘Wax Candles.’ No doubt Mr. Lemon shares in the profits of those sales as well.”
“Yes, it seems our Mr. Lemon has been running quite a rig. Keeping false estate ledgers and participating in a scheme to sell adulterated candles and who knows what else.” He shook his head. “Mr. Duggins must be just as greedy as Mr. Lemon. Do you know what the penalty is for adulterating candles? He can have all of the goods in his shop seized and will have to pay a heavy penalty, I am certain. The magistrate will tell us.”
“Are you going to send for him?”
“Not yet. I shall speak with Major Eversley first.”
Margery could understand this reasoning. After all, Mr. Lemon was Lady Altham’s house steward, and Major Eversley was close to Lady Altham. He would have to put the knowledge before her.
They reached Altham House and stabled the gig. Walking around to the front of the house, Lord Reckford said, “I shall see you at dinner, Lady Margery. Thank you for your help. The major and I will handle everything.”
She stopped in her tracks. “What? Surely you do not mean to keep me out of this now!”
He advanced until he stood right in front of her and in full view of the windows of the house.
“Your part is over, and you have suffered no harm, thank God. I do not wish to put you in the way of any danger which might arise. I shall inform you of the outcome.” He raised a hand to forestall any further arguments. A devilish gleam came into his eyes. “Accept what I am telling you, else I will kiss you right here where anyone might see.”
Margery glanced at the windows and saw Mrs. Norwood peering down her nose at them.
Lord Reckford began lowering his head toward hers, the playful flicker still in his eyes.
Margery released her breath in an angry sigh. She swept around him and marched up the steps to the house, his chuckle drifting to her ears.
After dinner that evening, the entire party, save for the Lindsays, who retired upstairs to be with their children, gathered in the drawing room.
The chamber looked very festive. The children had done a wonderful job placing the red and green velvet bows on the Christmas tree. Small lighted candles rested on its branches, their glow making the tree seem magical.
A few of the ladies had been “caught” under the mistletoe, but Margery had thus far escaped the fate. This was due more to avoidance than her appearance, for she looked lovely. She wore a pink gown made of silk with gold trim. The deep shade served to bring out the soft color in her cheeks.
As each person entered the room, Mr. Lemon allowed them to choose a card from him at random. He instructed the guests not to look at their cards until asked to do so.
“I have devised a bit of entertainment for us this evening,” Oliver Westerville proclaimed after everyone had taken a card. He stood in the center of the room to gain everyone’s attention. He then announced, “You may now examine your cards.”
Exclamations and excited questions rang out as members of the gathering tried to make sense of the colored bits of pasteboard.
Mr. Westerville swiftly revealed his program. “Before I left London, I had my stationer make up these character cards in pairs. You must each find your partner and play the role indicated on the card for the rest of the evening. I have been given Mr. Spy. Who is Mrs. Spy?”
Lady Altham’s quiet c
ompanion, Charlotte Hudson, sat near the fire. She raised her hand. “I have that card, Mr. Westerville. Although I do not know if I should...”
“You will, Charlotte,” Lady Altham ordered. “Else the numbers will be uneven.”
Miss Hudson submitted, going to stand by Mr. Westerville, who asked her slyly if there wasn’t someone in particular she wished to spy upon. Involuntarily, Miss Hudson’s gaze swung to Mr. Norwood, an action that caused her to hang her head in shame. Mr. Westerville winked at her knowingly.
“I have drawn Mrs. Sobersides,” Lady Altham said with a moue of distaste.
Mr. Norwood rose and crossed to her side. “I am Mr. Sobersides.”
“That is too bad, Papa. You should be more merry,” Georgina quipped with a smile. “And I have drawn Mrs. Proper.”
Smiles went round the room at the notion, and Lord Harry suddenly guffawed. “Egad, I am Mr. Proper!”
Laughter rang out from every quarter. Lord Harry went to stand by Georgina and bowed formally. She returned a pious look that was an exact imitation of Mrs. Norwood’s usual demeanor.
Uncle Iggy, resplendent in a peach satin Georgian-styled coat that unfortunately sported an array of food stains, raised his card in the air. “Hah!” the near deaf lord shouted, “I am Mr. Opera Singer. In my younger days, I was considered quite a gallant when it came to ladies of the opera. Who is my fair partner?” he said, glancing hopefully at Lily Carruthers.
“This is an outrage!” Mrs. Norwood said in strong accents of loathing. She tossed her Mrs. Opera Singer card to a nearby table and crossed her arms in front of her chest. Muffled laughter caused her to glare at her daughter. Georgina sat with her head bowed and a hand over her mouth. She could not hold the pose for long, though, and burst into giggles.
“Mrs. Proper,” Lord Harry, in his role of Mr. Proper, remonstrated. “Is that any way to behave?” Georgina promptly resumed a demure countenance.
How the Rogue Stole Christmas Page 15
