An Enchanted Christmas

by Barbara Metzger

  Chapter Two

  Lucky coin? Hah! Sir Adam took the pence out of his coat. The only thing it might be good for was to purchase a peppermint to get the bad taste of Beasdale’s conversation out of his mouth. He had promised to send the payment on the due date, and Beasdale had not looked up again from his papers, saying merely, “See that you do.”

  Adam rubbed the coin, wishing he had ten of them. Ten might buy enough spirits to keep him company in the tap-room of the posting inn until the first coach left for Suffolk in the morning, saving him the cost of a bedchamber. Oblivion in a bottle, that’s what he needed, not a bit of superstitious folderol. Then he might forget that the next mortgage payment would take every shilling he possessed, leaving nothing for wages or winter forage. Damn and blast the banker! And damn Adam’s feckless father for taking out such loans to fund his failing stables. And damn the old gnome who’d handed him a penny for his thoughts, giving him hope when there was none.

  As he rubbed the coin, though, its color brightened. Gold? No, it was the wrong size for any gold coin he knew. For that matter, the smiling face was no king or queen he recognized. He rubbed harder, removing the tarnish to reveal a scrolled tree on the obverse side, with no words or dates of identification. Botheration, the thing wasn’t even a real coin. Well, it might be real, but not in this country, not in this century, which was precisely in keeping with how Adam’s luck had been running.

  Bah! Hard work had won him nothing. Careful planning and parsimony had not advanced his cause. Now luck had proved just as worthless.

  He was about to toss the useless thing away when he walked past a shop with a jumble of merchandise in the small bowed window, SCHOTT’S ANTIQUITIES, the sign above the door read, RARE COINS AND JEWELS BOUGHT AND SOLD.

  “Why not?” Adam murmured to himself. He could see only one customer in the shop, a woman in a red velvet cape whose back was to Adam. Her dark-clad maid waited just inside the door, holding a thick, paper-wrapped parcel. Behind the counter was a small, elderly man with thick spectacles and a fringe of gray hair around his head. Most likely the proprietor, Adam thought, deciding that the fellow looked knowledgeable, at any rate. And what did Adam have to lose anyway? A good luck coin that was neither good luck nor coin of the realm. Perhaps it might have some value to a collector. Ten pence would be enough.

  As he went in, the maid stepped aside, shifting the weight of her package. A bell over the door chimed and Mr. Schott looked up to greet and assess his newest client.

  “I will be with you shortly, sir. Please feel free to look around meanwhile.”

  ”Take your time. I am in no hurry.” After all, Adam had nothing but time until tomorrow morning. He started forward, thinking he might as well examine a case of pretty baubles instead of the watches that would make him regret his own missing timepiece. But as he moved, the red-caped female turned, too, and he was turned to stone, it seemed, right there in a cluttered curiosity shop. His satchel fell to his feet from lifeless fingers, and he did not even notice. How could he when all he saw was the most beautiful woman in London, no, in all of England? A young lady, she could not be much above two and twenty, with dark curls and sparkling green eyes and cheeks bright from the cold.

  Her face was framed by the white fur of her hood, making her appear more like an angel than a real woman. A Christmas angel, he thought, except that her mouth was made for kisses, all soft and rosy.

  He thought he could stand there until Doomsday, or until the shop closed for the night, or she left, memorizing everything about this exquisite vision. Then he would not be going home to Suffolk poorer than when he came after all, not with a perfect, precious masterpiece indelible in his mind. Lud, how he wished to… No, that was even more foolish than standing like a marble statue, staring at a lovely stranger.

  Then she smiled at him. Foolish or not, Sir Adam Standish wished with all his heart that she were his.

  Jenna had to smile at the large gentleman standing in Mr. Schott’s establishment. He looked so out of place in the crowded little shop with its delicate treasures, so bewildered and so…endearing. Yes, that was it, endearing, with his windblown brown curls and loosely tied neckcloth. The tilt to his lips and his soft brown eyes made him appear comfortable, friendly, trustworthy, and vastly appealing, unlike the starched and suave London gentlemen of her acquaintance. If they were chill politeness, he was warm familiarity, without ever saying a word. Something about him just seemed solid and sun-touched, while the bucks and beaux of town were paper-thin creatures of the night or shadowed drawing rooms. Miss Relaford did not know how she had come to have such a high opinion of the gentleman’s character in so short a time, but she did. She had known him forever, it seemed, this perfect stranger. Why, she almost felt tempted to straighten his cravat and brush a curl off his forehead, while touching his smooth cheek and that cleft in his chin and the laugh lines around his firm mouth and—

  Jenna blushed at her own thoughts. Heavens, when did she get so forward? Besides, the gentleman was most likely here to buy his sweetheart a special Christmas present, a ring or a brooch, she guessed from where he was headed.

  That was what everyone seemed to be doing so close to the holidays, even Jenna. Not that Miss Relaford was purchasing a treasure for her beloved, for she had none despite her advanced age of one and twenty, although she had suitors aplenty. After buying small gifts, handkerchiefs, perfumes and such, to go with the coins she would give to the servants, Jenna was shopping for the perfect offering for her uncle, her only remaining family.

  She had settled on the beautifully carved wood bookends, a lion on one side, a unicorn on the other, that her maid was already carrying, for Uncle did love his library. Since Jenna did not wish to use her allowance—which was Uncle’s own money—to purchase his present, she was also going to ask the reputable Mr. Schott to appraise some of the curios her late father had collected on his seagoing travels. The sooner she concluded her business, the sooner the antiques dealer could assist the large gentleman, so she turned her back on his too-tempting smile and started to untie the strings of her reticule.

  Once her back was turned again, Adam found his wits, or what was left of them after being knocked to flinders by the lady’s smile. Pretending to inspect the contents of the glass cases, he edged closer. Oh, how he wished his circumstances were different, that he could make her acquaintance, if she were not already wed or promised, of course. Undoubtedly she was, being such a beauty. Her garb bespoke wealth, besides elegant taste, and the combination had to be irresistible to any red-blooded—or blue-blooded—man. London chaps could not be such slowtops as to let this prize slip through their fingers. Adam’s own fingers were itching just to touch her cheek, to see if it could possibly be as satin-soft as it looked.

  He would have to settle for another glimpse of her profile under the hooded cape, perhaps a whiff of her perfume. He stepped closer still, but only detected the ribbon-tied sprig of evergreen she had pinned to her cape. Gads, his angel even smelled like Christmas! He chuckled softly at his foolish notion. What a gift she would be for some fortunate fellow to unwrap.

  Jenna turned at the pleasing sound, wondering at its cause. She looked over, to find the other customer closer than she thought, more handsome than she thought, with a smile on his lips. She might have been bold enough to ask what the gentleman had found amusing among the knick-knacks—after all, both Mr. Schott and her maid were there to see to the proprieties, and it was the season of good cheer—but the bell on the door rang again.

  This time a roughly dressed man entered the shop. He was unwashed and unshaven, and pushed rudely past Jenna’s maid, who grumbled about his manners. Bad manners were the least of the problem, for the man pulled a knife from out of his brown frieze coat, and not one of the other occupants of the store thought for an instant that he had come to have the weapon appraised.

  “Right, then,” he said with a snarl, waving the knife and looking furtively toward the door. “I’ll be havin’ the gold
an’ the gems an’ the cash in the till.” He picked up Adam’s satchel, dumped the contents on the floor, and threw it toward Mr. Schott. “Fill it, an’ be quick about it”

  Damnation, Adam thought, that was his only clean shirt and his shaving gear. He took a step toward the would-be thief, but felt a small hand on his arm, pulling him back. He patted the hand reassuringly. Nothing would happen to his angel, not while he had breath in his body. While the robber was watching Adam, waiting to see if he would take action, the maid dashed for the door, shrieking.

  “Blast it! Move your stumps, old man.”

  But instead of moving, Mr. Schott groaned once, clutched at his chest, and fell to the floor.

  Jenna gasped. The thief cursed again and grabbed up the nearest valuables he could find, brandishing the knife while he shoved a collection of snuffboxes off the counter into Adam’s satchel. Then he waved the blade in the woman’s direction, his glittering, shifting eyes focused on her reticule.

  That was too much for Adam. His shirt was one thing, but his Christmas lady was another. He pushed her out of harm’s way just as the thief snatched at her purse, and swung his fist at the knife-wielder’s arm.

  The blade went spinning and the satchel went sailing, snuffboxes—and one last stocking of Adam’s—scattering across the floor. But the thief had the lady’s reticule and he was making a run for the door. Adam chased after him, then slipped on a snuffbox. He caught his balance and raced onto the walkway to see the robber getting away. He made a flying leap and almost caught the blackguard, but missed. He lost his footing, landing chin-first on the pavement, catching the reticule by its dangling strings as he fell. The thief would have stayed to wrestle over the purse, but the maid was calling for the Watch, people were coming out of doorways to see about the commotion, and carriages were halting in the street. Instead the felon let go, gave Adam a kick to the ribs, and started to turn for the nearby alley. Despite the agony, Adam reached out and grabbed the man’s leg, sending him, also, tumbling to the ground. The cutpurse lay still, his head against a lamppost.

  Winded, his chest afire where the heavy boot had connected, and certain his teeth were loose from the jar to his chin, to say nothing of the blood, Adam could only blink at the contents of the lady’s reticule, spilled from the torn fabric. Ten small gold coins, just like the one in his pocket, were inches from his nose. Not nine, not eleven, but ten. He counted them, rather than count his broken ribs. Hadn’t he wished his own penny was increased tenfold? He shook his head to clear it from the absurd notion.

  Which was when the maid, panicked into thinking Adam was a partner in crime to the fleeing felon because he still grasped the reticule, hit him on the back of his skull with Miss Relaford’s gift to her uncle, the carved wood bookends.

  Chapter Three

  Well, at least he would not have to worry about paying for a room that night, not while he had free accommodations. Of course there were bars on the window, no candles left burning, and nothing but a straw pallet under Sir Adam’s aching bones, but someone had strapped together his ribs and put a sticking plaster on his chin. Now if only the prisoner in the next cell would stop the banging, he might be able to figure a way out of this latest catastrophe. The banging, unfortunately, was coming from inside his own head, so he closed his eyes again and tried to shut out the pain. His thoughts would not let him. What a disaster this whole London trip had turned out to be. He would wish the entire thing undone, except for the image of the fur-trimmed female. She was almost worth hanging for, although Adam did suppose Mr. Beasdale would vouch for him. Then again, the blasted banker might tell the authorities how desperate Adam was for money, heaping motive upon happenstance. If he was going to hang, though, he would love to get his hands on the miserable old gull-catcher who had handed him the blasted coin. He might as well swing for murder as thievery.

  Adam sighed and tried to rub the pain away. Nothing could be done until morning anyway, but, Lord, how he wished the lady did not think he was a scoundrel.

  * * *

  “Here now, get up. You’ve taken enough space as is.” A tall man with stiff, pointed mustachios and a red waistcoat was standing in the narrow doorway, gesturing for Sir Adam to leave.

  The baronet rubbed his eyes, looking at the tiny cell where he had spent the night. “You mean I am not under arrest?”

  “No, we just had nowhere to put you, unconscious as you were. Found your card in your pocket, Sir Adam Standish, correct?”

  Adam nodded, then thought better of the movement when his head started to pound again.

  “Of Suffolk, but it didn’t say where you were staying here in London, naturally, so we brought you to Bow Street after the surgeon did his job, after seeing to Mr. Schott. The lady insisted.”

  Adam sighed in relief. “So she didn’t think I was partners with the thief.”

  “She swore you tried to help, and that you recovered her reticule.” The Runner peered at Adam, who was sure he was looking as disreputable as any street beggar. “That’s correct, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, on my word.”

  “Well, it was her maid who did you in, anyway. Harum-scarum female. Wept in my office for hours, even though the surgeon said you’d live. Old man Schott, too.”

  “He wept?”

  “No, he’ll live.”

  “I am glad. He seemed a decent sort. But you say she cared?” Adam did not mean the maid, of course.

  The Runner knew it, of course. He’d seen the lady, too. “Aye. She came herself, as soon as she made sure the old shopkeeper was settled, in case we had any doubts as to the circumstances. Gave a complete deposition, too. Cooperative, not like that maid what did nothing but caterwaul.”

  “What is her name?”

  “The maid? Hessie or Henny or something. Oh, you mean the lady?” he asked with a grin, smoothing the point on his waxed mustachio. Then he handed Adam a card.

  Miss Jenna Relaford was inscribed on the card, with an address in Half Moon Street.

  “Miss,” Adam murmured, not quite to himself. He could not keep from smiling, either. “Miss Jenna.” Just right. “Miss Relaford.” It rolled off his tongue and left a sweetness behind, and an undoubtedly foolish grin on his face, for the Bow Street man laughed.

  “A rare treat, she is. Best not keep her waiting.”

  “What, Miss Jenna—Miss Relaford—she is here?”

  “Aye, wanted to thank you in person, she said. She brought you your satchel, she did, and the maid cleaned your other shirt. They brought you a new neckcloth, too, seeing as how yours was used to mop up the blood on your chin.” The Runner handed over the carpetbag and another parcel. “The necessary’s out back, and there’s a mirror by the rear door.”

  Adam was already trying to comb his curly hair with his fingers, in the places that did not hurt too much to touch. “A minute. Tell her I will only be a minute. Two, maybe, to tie the neckcloth. There is nothing I can do about the bloodstains on my coat, I suppose, or the scuffs on my boots or—”

  “I don’t suppose that’s what she came to see.”

  Adam gathered his wits and returned to terra firma. “No, she simply wishes to thank me, as you said. A courtesy from a polite lady.”

  If the Runner had any opinions, he kept them to himself, pointing Adam to the rear door, and to his office, where Miss Relaford and her maid were waiting. “Oh, and you’ll have to sign for this when you get there,” he said, handing over a small leather purse.

  Adam raised his brow in inquiry.

  “It’s the reward, a’course. No, I forgot you slept through the hearing last night. There was a bounty out for Fred the Flick, one of the nastiest customers we’ve come across. You’re the one what apprehended the gallows bait, knocked him straight out, you did, so he was quiet as a lamb for us to get the shackles on. None of my men had to face him and his knives, for what we’re all grateful, asides getting him off the streets. So you get the reward. Enough to buy you a new coat.”

  To the devil with
a new coat. The hogs would not care if his had bloodstains. The purse felt hefty enough for small Christmas gifts for his servants and the tenants’ children, and for a fine feast for everyone in the Standings tradition. Perhaps there might even be a bit left to live on, once Mr. Beasdale had his money. The reward would not extend to seeds and stud fees, of course, but it was something, by George, something more than he had before. And he had Miss Relaford waiting. Hadn’t he been wishing for an introduction, some way to see her again? Why, it was almost worth the broken ribs, the battered chin, and the bashed-in skull.

  He hurried out the rear door, painfully shrugging out of his coat as he ran. The Runner called out after him; “Good luck, sir. Good luck to you.”

  *

  She was even more beautiful today. Her fur-lined hood was down so he could see the dark brown hair piled atop her head, with tiny wisps of curls trailing across her forehead, onto her cheeks, and down her neck. She still looked like an angel to him, a wealthy angel whose father would laugh at the notion of Sir Adam Standish paying his addresses, if the man did not have him horsewhipped for the presumption. But if a cat could look at a queen, Adam could look at Miss Relaford. And so he did, instead of speaking.

  Her maid, waiting by the door again, coughed. Jenna worried that perhaps the poor man had been more injured than the surgeon had declared. Perhaps his mind was disordered, or his jaw was cracked, not just his chin.

  She had been her uncle’s hostess for years now, and an accredited beauty before that, so she was used to men: men of rank and fortune and authority, as well as their aides and assistants. One stolid young baronet with sticking plaster on his chin and his tongue stuck to his teeth was not going to faze her. Well, not much, she told herself, feeling an odd weakness in her knees.

  “Please forgive my presuming an acquaintance when we have not been formally introduced,” she said when he had still not uttered a word, “but I saw your card. I am Miss Jenna Relaford, Sir Adam, and I am in your debt.” She made a curtsy, then held her gloved hand out for him to take.