How the Rogue Stole Christmas

by Rosemary Stevens

  “I am Mrs. Honesty,” Lily Carruthers chimed in. “I can truthfully say this is a delightful game. Who is my partner?”

  Lord Reckford, looking debonair in his dark evening coat, flashed his card face out. “A pleasure,” he drawled, strolling to her side.

  “That leaves you and me, Lady Margery,” Major Eversley said. “Are you my Mrs. Flirt?”

  “Indeed, Major,” Margery answered. “Though I fear you have received the short end of the stick in this bargain.”

  The major smiled fondly at her. “We shall just have to teach each other the art, eh?”

  Margery shot him a grateful look.

  Uncle Iggy treated the company to a series of garbled-sounding high notes in an attempted imitation of an opera singer.

  Then he fell victim to a fit of coughing. His partner, Mrs. Norwood, remained in her chair, a dour expression fixed on her face.

  “Come, Miss Hudson, who shall we spy on?” Oliver Westerville asked with a sidelong glance at Hubert Norwood. “Perhaps Mr. and Mrs. Sobersides?”

  An unbecoming red stained Miss Hudson’s cheeks.

  “I suppose I can play my role,” Mr. Norwood said. “I have been sober for years. Duty to one’s family and all that.”

  “The most sobering thought I can think of is that every one of us grows old. How lowering,” Lady Altham, as Mrs. Sobersides, declared. She had grown progressively more upset over the course of the evening as Mr. Westerville bestowed his attentions on Lily Carruthers, and she had, by this point, worked herself into a positive melancholy. She signaled a footman for a glass of wine.

  Major Eversley, in the character of Mr. Flirt, bowed to her. “Your beauty and kind nature will only improve with age, Gussie.”

  “Major, may I remind you that I have the role of Mr. Honesty?” Lord Reckford chided his old friend. “As Mr. Flirt, you are to speak meaningless compliments, not the truth.”

  Lady Altham appeared startled, then much cheered by this banter.

  Margery hated to hinder what a romance between the major and Lady Altham, but she needed to speak with him. She linked her arm through his. “Shall we take a turn about the room, Major?”

  “Of course, Lady Mar—I mean, Mrs. Flirt. Have I told you that your gray eyes remind me of the shine on a freshly washed pot?”

  Margery chuckled at this attempt at flattery, then grew pensive. “Let us drop our roles for a moment,” she said quietly. “Major, did Lord Reckford share with you the details of our afternoon’s adventures?”

  The major swept a glance over the company to be sure the others were well occupied. Satisfied, he said, “Yes, Lady Margery. You have done Lady Altham a real service by helping Jordan and me collect evidence against Mr. Lemon. By God, even I did not suspect the house steward of such underhanded behavior.”

  They came to a halt next to the Christmas tree. Margery nodded her agreement to the major’s words. “It is shocking, to be sure. What do you and Lord Reckford plan to do next?”

  Major Eversley patted her arm. “Now, now, Lady Margery, you leave everything to Jordan and me. We’ll take care of it.”

  Margery felt a shaft of pure frustration.

  “Take care of what, Major?” Lord Reckford said, coming to stand in front of them. He offered Margery a glass of wine, which she gladly accepted. Perhaps the cool liquid would calm her temper.

  “I told Lady Margery we would handle the situation with Mr. Lemon,” the major explained.

  Lord Reckford raised an eyebrow. “I told her much the same thing earlier today.”

  Margery glared at him. “I do not see why I am to be kept out of this like a child.”

  “I did not ask for your understanding, simply your cooperation,” the viscount said maddeningly. He turned to the major before the persistent lady could say any more. “Did you decide to take Lady Altham into your confidence?”

  Major Eversley’s brows came together. “I am not going to tell her anything just yet. The man’s duplicity is of too serious a nature to risk Gussie turning all charitable toward him. Not that I think she would when faced with the facts, but I don’t want to take any chances. By late tomorrow morning all should be—”

  “As Mrs. Honesty, I am compelled to say I am feeling neglected,” Lily Carruthers interrupted, coming to stand next to Lord Reckford. The blonde slithered her arm through his and gazed up at him adoringly.

  Margery experienced a strong urge to suggest the worldly widow might be more comfortable back in London. Or the wilds of Scotland.

  “Where is Oliver?” the viscount enquired.

  Mrs. Carruthers did not even turn around. “Over there somewhere. Why should I bother with him when you are the most handsome gentleman in the room, Jordan?” She contrived a startled look and then placed a gloved hand over her lips. “Goodness, my playing Mrs. Honesty does make me say the most shocking things.”

  The sight of the blond beauty practicing her wiles on Lord Reckford proved too much for Margery. “Perhaps we should trade roles, Mrs. Carruthers. You are more used to flirting, whereas I am accustomed to honesty.”

  A rumble of laughter came from Major Eversley. Lord Reckford gave a half grin and took a sip of his drink.

  Lily Carruthers smiled at her pleasantly, but her eyes shot daggers. “Ah, but if we exchanged roles, we would also have to trade partners, Lady Margery. And I have no intention of giving up Lord Reckford to you, or anyone else.”

  Margery could have kicked herself for engaging in a battle of wits with the woman. Lord Reckford’s air of boredom gave Margery the impression that females often behaved in a possessive manner around him. He probably believed his charm unfailing. Too bad it was.

  Margery sat her wineglass on a nearby table. “In that case, Mrs. Carruthers, I leave him to you.”

  Mr. Lemon had brought me tea tray in, so Margery helped herself and went to sit next to Georgina. She chatted and laughed with the company, while inside, she burned with mounting anger.

  She was angry over the fact that Major Eversley and Lord Reckford would not let her participate in Mr. Lemon’s downfall. She assumed the reason was because she was a female. Pah! She was angry at Lily Carruthers for so obviously setting her cap at the viscount, and at him for doing so little to dissuade her. But, most of all, she was angry at herself for falling in love with Lord Reckford, who would never return the feeling.

  Well, she might not be able to do much at the moment about the last two things, but she certainly could be on the scene tomorrow when Major Eversley and Lord Reckford brought Mr. Lemon down.

  She knew Mr. Duggins had instructed Mr. Phlogg to return to the tallow chandler’s early the next day. And Major Eversley had let it slip that by late tomorrow morning it would all be over.

  That could only mean they planned to confront Mr. Lemon and his cohorts at the candle shop in the morning.

  Margery raised her cup of tea to cover her sudden smile.

  Did Lord Reckford really think she would sit back and accept his order for her to leave matters to him and Major Eversley?

  The gentlemen were in for a surprise.

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  At just past seven o’clock the next morning, Jordan and Major Eversley arrived in the village. Rather than riding on horseback, the gentlemen had elected to have a groom drive them in a closed carriage. They did not want to chance Mr. Lemon seeing them before they could confront him.

  They stepped out of the vehicle into the frigid morning air. No one else seemed to be abroad this early. At an easy pace, they entered the alley, walking behind the shops toward the candle maker’s.

  “My blood is pumping, Jordan,” Major Eversley said. “I don’t want the dastard to get another farthing out of Gussie. I want him out of her house and transported out of the country.”

  “He will be,” the viscount responded with grim determination. “When Mr. Lemon leaves Altham House this morning, it shall be the last time he sees the place.” Jordan, too, wished this matter with Mr. Lemon over a
nd done. He wanted to see the delight on Lady Margery’s enchanting face when she learned the house steward would never reappear at the manor, never bully another servant.

  Jordan did not wish to examine his feelings toward the gray-eyed lady too carefully. He had come dashed close to kissing her not once, but twice the day before. Shaking his head at his own folly, he chastised himself for being a bufflehead. Since Delilah, he had stayed clear of any young lady of gentle birth. Only the Lily Carrutherses of the world interested him.

  Until now. Dammit.

  Forcing himself to concentrate on the matter at hand, the viscount addressed the major. “Where did you tell the magistrate to wait for us?”

  “In the square,” the older man replied, his breath visible in the cold air. “Mr. Walsh was none too happy yesterday when I told him our plans. He wanted to question Mr. Lemon right away. But, by George, I think the house steward is crafty enough to have talked his way out of the mess! And with Gussie on his side ... At any rate, Walsh knows me, and when I told him I had uncovered some devilish queer business and needed to handle it my own way, he agreed to wait for us to send word.”

  They reached the back of the candle maker’s. The shop was dark.

  “Follow me, Major; that narrow alley leads around back and then to the front of the shop.”

  They turned the corner in time to see the tallow chandler entering his shop. The gentlemen hastened their steps and forced their way inside right behind the startled shopkeeper.

  “What do you think you’re doin’?” exclaimed Duggins.

  “My friend and I have come to have a little talk with you, Mr. Duggins,” Jordan said. He leaned casually against the counter. Major Eversley stood guard at the door.

  Duggins glanced uneasily at the two. “Who are you, and what do you want?”

  “I am Viscount Reckford, and this is Major Eversley. We have come to discuss the adulterated candles you are selling in the village and to Mr. Phlogg, who transports more of your sham goods to London.”

  Duggins’s eyes popped in his head, making him look like one of Mrs. Foweley’s pug dogs. He swallowed hard. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about!”

  Jordan drummed his fingers on the countertop in an impatient gesture. “I was here yesterday when you and Mr. Phlogg were loading his wagon with ‘wax’ candles. I heard everything.”

  “You can’t prove nothin’!”

  An expression of sheer boredom crossed Jordan’s features. “I would not be too certain of that. We can have one of those boxes opened and the candles examined. Or will that even be necessary?” he mused as if to himself. “The authorities might not get past the fact that you do not possess the proper tax stamp.”

  Duggins shot a desperate look at the military man blocking the front entrance. Then his gaze darted to the back door.

  “I wouldn’t,” Major Eversley said. “The magistrate is standing in the village square.”

  Jordan hammered the final nail in the coffin. “Be sensible, Duggins. Who would believe your word against mine?”

  Mr. Duggins paled, and then began to sniffle. “It was Mr. Lemon’s idea,” he whimpered between sobs. "’im what works at the manor. ’E came to me with the notion about six months ago.”

  The entire story poured out of Duggins’s willing lips. It was exactly as Jordan and Lady Margery had surmised. Mr. Duggins sent bills for candles never used at Altham House. He also accepted all the wax candle stubs Mr. Lemon could muster, mixing the wax and tallow together to produce the illegal candles. The candle maker then sold these to unsuspecting villagers, his cohort in London, and even back to Altham House.

  Major Eversley stood regarding the man. “Here is what you are to do. Your associate, Mr. Phlogg, should be here at any minute, as will Mr. Lemon. Lord Reckford and I will conceal ourselves in the back of the shop, while you speak with your fellow conspirators, just as you planned. You must try to convince Mr. Lemon to go forward with the idea of expanding the operation to London. As soon as we determine Mr. Lemon has incriminated himself sufficiently, we will send for my friend Walsh.”

  “And if I go along with you?” Mr. Duggins asked hopefully.

  The major tilted his head to one side. “I’ll speak to Walsh. Your cooperation may work in your favor. Perhaps Walsh will forgo the fine usually attached to your crime. I’m told it is one hundred pounds sterling.”

  The candle maker’s face took on the color of new-pressed parchment.

  Unrelentingly, the major continued. “All the goods and utensils involved in adulterating the candles will be seized. Your reputation will suffer. In fact, you may find it prudent to move to another village.”

  Duggins closed his eyes. “I’ll do it.”

  “Good. In case thoughts of doing otherwise cross your mind,” the military man said, drawing out a pistol, “remember we shall be right here.” He indicated a screen that served to block off the back of the shop.

  Mr. Duggins nodded his agreement.

  Jordan and Major Eversley took up their positions. It was not long before Mr. Phlogg entered, and he and Mr. Duggins held a few minutes’ ordinary conversation. The tallow chandler played his part well, Jordan thought, but he noted that Mr. Phlogg sounded somewhat nervous, his nose twitching like an agitated rodent’s.

  Then the door swung open and Mr. Lemon entered. He was very grand in an outmoded, almost shabby way. One could tell by the fit that his clothes had been made for another man. But that did not stop him from looking down upon Mr. Duggins when he introduced Mr. Phlogg.

  “’E be the one I was tellin’ you about what works in London,” Duggins said to Lemon. “’Member ’ow we was talkin’ ’bout expandin’ our business?”

  Mr. Lemon’s lip curled. “What makes you think we can trust him?”

  Mr. Phlogg took genuine offense. “Look ’ere, me foine gent, I took that load Duggins ’ere ’ad yesterday and paid ’im ’andsome ter boot.”

  “I—I would ’ave told you, Mr. Lemon,” Duggins said when the house steward raised a disapproving brow at him. “I was able to make more o’ the special candles than I thought I could. ’Ere,” he said, reaching into a grubby pocket, “this ’ere’s your part, just the same as when we sells the candles in the village.”

  Mr. Lemon grabbed the money and began to count it.

  Mr. Duggins held his breath.

  Mr. Phlogg’s gaze flew about the room. “I smells a trap.”

  Jordan nodded at Major Eversley, and the two came out from behind the screen. The major had his gun leveled at the three.

  Mr. Phlogg took to his heels and ran out the front door.

  “Blast it, we need him! Watch Lemon!” Major Eversley shouted, bolting after Mr. Phlogg.

  Mr. Duggins sunk to a stool behind the counter and held his head in his hands.

  Jordan moved out from the back area and came around to stand in front of a frozen-faced Mr. Lemon. “Were you not being treated well enough by Lady Altham that you had to stoop to stealing from her?”

  Mr. Lemon narrowed his eyes and sneered. “I have no quarrel with her. She’s just a silly pigeon ripe for plucking. Lord Altham never put her in the way of things. It is Lord Altham, may his soul rot in hell, who owes me. All the years I served him and never got what a man like me is worth. Not once did the lickpenny increase my wages, nor give me a single silk shirt. No, I had to wait until he died to get his money and his clothes.”

  Jordan shook his head. “You enjoyed what many today do not: A roof over your head, wages, decent clothing, and food on your plate. Now you will be transported and may realize all you had and all you have lost.”

  “Oh, I do not think so,” Mr. Lemon said, calmly drawing a pistol from his pocket.

  Jordan stared at the weapon, cursing himself for not thinking it necessary to bring his own gun. “You would add murder to your list of evil deeds?”

  Mr. Duggins raised his head, saw the pistol, and moaned.

  Everything happened at once. Mr. Lemon extended his arm, t
he gun pointed at Jordan’s chest. Mr. Duggins shouted a frightened curse. But suddenly, out of nowhere, a large ball of tightly packed wax came sailing through the air and hit Mr. Lemon squarely in the head. Mr. Lemon lost his balance and staggered backward, falling over a display of Christmas candles. Jordan had eyes only for the gun that dropped harmlessly to the floor. He kicked it well away from his adversary’s reach, and away from Mr. Duggins, who seemed glued fast to his stool.

  Jordan blinked as Lady Margery rushed to his side. Without thinking, he grabbed both her arms. “Where the devil did you come from?”

  “I told you I would not be left out!” Her eyes were wide with distress, and she gasped for breath.

  “What a deuced good throw. And here I thought you talented only with snowballs,” he said, stunned to find her there, and damn grateful, too.

  She laughed, but the sound died in her throat when a recovered Mr. Lemon sprang to his feet and caught her about the waist. He pulled her away from the viscount. The house steward dragged her backward several feet and bent for the gun.

  Jordan again kicked it out of reach. He lunged for Mr. Lemon, grasping for a hold on his cravat and holding it hard against the man’s throat.

  “Let go of Lady Margery at once!” he said between his teeth.

  His complexion turning red under the pressure of Jordan’s grip, Mr. Lemon did as he was told. Jordan immediately drew back his fist and slammed it into Mr. Lemon’s jaw, sending the house steward sprawling back against the counter. Jordan reached for him again and repeated the punch. The steward sank to the floor unconscious.

  “Is he dead?” Lady Margery whispered when the man did not move.

  “No, just knocked out for the moment,” Jordan said, breathing heavily, not from the physical exertion, but from the moment of pure terror he had experienced when Mr. Lemon had had Lady Margery in his grasp.

  The shop door swung open, and Major Eversley entered with Mr. Walsh. Two burly men followed with Mr. Phlogg in hand. A group of curious villagers hovered outside.

  Jordan turned to Lady Margery. “You had best go back to Altham House.”