An Enchanted Christmas

by Barbara Metzger

  “What the deuce is going on here?” he shouted.

  Everyone started to talk at once, except the children, both of whom were bawling now.

  Mrs. Olive was twisting her apron, not looking at him. “She had nowhere to go, my lord, and I didn’t think you would mind. And they don’t eat much.”

  Guessing that he was out of a position anyway, Phillip stepped away from Dora and said, “It’s supposed to be the season of giving, ain’t it? Miss Todd brought us a bit of cheer, that’s all.”

  Her eyes downcast, but one hand reaching to Phillip for comfort, Dora bobbed a curtsy and squeaked, “And she is teaching me to read, along with the little girls’ lessons.”

  “Which tells me nothing!” the viscount yelled, louder than he intended, causing the littler moppet to wail. Maimed, his plans misfiring, with a mare’s nest at his doorstep—no, in his parlor—Wolf tossed his hat and his gloves and his muffler onto the nearest chair. He pointed with his riding whip at Mrs. Olive. “I need an explanation.”

  Then he pointed to Phillip. “And a drink.”

  “And quiet.” He jerked his head toward Dora, then at the children in their white flannel night rails and bare toes, indicating in no uncertain terms that she should get the squalling infants out of his sight.

  “What you need, my lord,” a calm, quiet voice spoke up, “is doctoring.”

  *

  On her own, Margaret would have fled, mortified, back to Lady Bartlett’s house. She was not on her own, however. She had sweet Alexandra and darling Katherine to think of and protect. She had loved them from the instant they had run off the ship into her arms, crying, “Aunt Maggie! We knew you would come for us! We do not have to go live with feckless Cousin Fernell, do we?” No, she had loved them from a distance as soon as her sister had written of their births, and merely loved them better now. She would cherish her dear nieces as long as she lived. And she would not let anyone shout at them, frighten them, or toss them out in the middle of the night without a fight—even if he did own the house where she was trespassing.

  And so Wolf found himself seated at a rough table in his own infrequently visited kitchen, where a kettle boiled temptingly on the hob, and a young woman’s temper boiled in a quite tempting breast. He was warm and comfortable, with a glass of his finest cognac in his hand and, truly, the salve Miss Todd was applying to his face was easing the pain. Or perhaps her gentle fingers had eased his misery as she tenderly washed the wound, holding her pink tongue between her teeth in concentration, trying not to hurt him. He also appreciated the fact that she did not scurry away as Mrs. Olive and the footman had, or ask questions, as he heard the children whisper to the maid when she led them up the stairs. Either way, he was content to listen, for now.

  Gentlemen hated scenes, tears and tantrums, Margaret knew, so she tried to compose her thoughts. She would not show her horror at his clawed face, her distress at his sudden appearance or her fear for the future. She would certainly not give way to her admiration for his broad shoulders, strong muscles and softly curling blond hair. She washed her trembling fingers, poured them each a cup of tea, and told her tale in as straightforward a manner as possible.

  Wolf stared at the young woman, seemingly so composed except for her hand that clutched the teacup as if it were an amulet against evil—him. She did have long, graceful fingers, he noted, almost sorry he had no further injuries for her to soothe. He finally said, “I can see you found yourself in a deuced coil, Miss Todd, but surely there must have been an alternative.”

  Margaret set down her cup. “Have you ever met Lady Bartlett?”

  He grimaced and took a sip of his own tea, now fortified with the cognac. “You might have sent a messenger to your cousin, rather than waiting for the post.”

  “Have you ever met Sir Fernell Todd?”

  Wolf shook his head no. “I have not had the pleasure.”

  “It would not have been, believe me. And he would not have helped, not in time. But, my lord, have you ever had limited funds and great responsibility?”

  Now Wolf stared into his cup, rather than into his conscience. He’d never known anything but a life of privilege, although he was painstaking in his duties as lord of a vast estate with scores of dependents. He also served in Parliament, supported numerous charities and went to church most Sundays. If one overlooked his lack of an heir and somewhat raffish bachelor existence, Wolf considered he was doing a decent job of being viscount, one to make his father proud.

  He doubted his mother would have been proud to hear him shout at servants and children and a hired companion. He sighed, half in apology. “But still, there must be hordes of women right in Town with hungry infants and no means of support.” He always tossed a coin to the poor unfortunates. “They do not invade a gentleman’s residence because they have nowhere else to go.”

  “Of course not. They find women’s shelters, or sell their bodies or starve in the streets. I was simply not that desperate, thank heaven. I was ready to find lodgings, I swear, but Mrs. Olive assured me you would not mind.” Or find out, but Margaret did not add the last.

  Wolf leaned back in his chair. “And I suppose I would not have cared, if I had not come home. The situation is different now.”

  “But how so? We will stay out of your way, I promise, tucked in the old nursery. You will not even know we are in the house.”

  Wolf did not think he could ever forget that such a pretty young female was sleeping on the floor above his bedchamber.

  “And it is not as if I am a thief or a revolutionary or a bedlamite. Everyone at Lady Bartlett’s house can tell you I have led an exemplary, respectable life. Why, this is the first foolhardy act of impropriety I have ever committed, at least since leaving my cousin’s home. And the children are angels, who are in no way at fault for our trespass.”

  “I am not blaming the children, or even you. I cannot like the circumstances, however.”

  Neither could Margaret, sheltering in the home of a known rake, with or without his permission. “I do apologize again, my lord, but this seemed the perfect solution to my dilemma. And it is temporary, I promise you. I am not asking you to assume responsibility for my nieces or their welfare, not in the least. As soon as the solicitor returns and informs me of the details concerning the girls’ legacy and trusteeship, I shall of course make other arrangements. Meanwhile, I will ask Mrs. Olive to keep track of our expenses so that I might reimburse you.”

  Wolf brushed that aside. Take money from a poor female with two girls to support on who knew what monies from India, if any? He made a circle of the kitchen with his hand, indicating the full larder, the modern conveniences, the very luxury of the seldom-visited area of his home. “Money is the least of my concerns.”

  “I shall help with whatever chores need doing, so we will not burden your staff.”

  “My staff is well paid, and can be added to in a moment’s notice. You have enough work, looking after your nieces and Lady Bartlett’s household too.”

  Margaret took hope from his words, but he was still frowning. “If you are worried about the proprieties, you need not be, not with your aunt in residence.”

  Wolf started to rub at his sore cheek, then winced. “No one remembers I even have a great-aunt. Half the time I forget the old woman is in the house at all.”

  “Yet the world will remember, and exonerate you of any wrongdoing,” Margaret insisted. “Not that anyone would suppose I was your mistress.”

  He had to smile when the altogether proper female’s cheeks turned scarlet, making him wish he could rub them. The woman had not resorted to wiles and guiles and come-hither smiles, with which he was all too familiar. She was a lady, deserving of his respect. Still, he raised one blond eyebrow in question, teasing her. “How so?”

  Margaret hid her embarrassment at such plain talk in pouring out another cup of tea. “Gracious, anyone can tell you I am no kind of dasher. I am not of the beau monde, but I am not of the demimonde either, as anyone can pl
ainly see. And I must care more about the conventions than you, if I am to find another post eventually, or see my nieces accepted in any kind of polite society. A woman in general must be more watchful of her reputation, especially one without face or fortune. Your aunt’s presence protects both of us from unwanted gossip.”

  The viscount was still not convinced, Margaret could see. He was not yelling or pointing toward the door, but he was not inviting her to stay either.

  “I beg of you—”

  Now he did get angry again. A gentlewoman begging for aid that would cost him nothing but a bit of inconvenience? That was repugnant. Her cretin of a cousin ought to be shot for subjecting such a soft-spoken, well-mannered young lady to such dire straits.

  With a bit of dressing and a touch of Town bronze, a fashionable haircut and a hint of a dowry, this baronet’s daughter could have danced at Almack’s, trying to snabble an eligible parti. Like him.

  Perhaps she could read his thoughts, or interpret his muttered curse. “If it is your freedom you feel in jeopardy, my lord, please do not worry. I am nothing but a lady’s companion with two nieces to raise. I am not a fortune-hunter or an adventuress looking to marry into the peerage. I came here only because you were away from Town, not to seek your attention. I swear on my mother’s love and my father’s honor that I have no designs on your title or fortune.”

  Ah, but the little girls did.

  In all their short lives they had never known such luxury as at his lordship’s house, with kind servants, plentiful food, a park across the street, attics and cellars to explore, all of London waiting to be visited. Nor had they ever known as much affection and attention as they had received in the few days since hurtling into their Aunt Maggie’s arms. They wanted to stay.

  Once they heard that his lordship had agreed to keep them until the solicitor came back, they decided they wanted to stay forever. Why, Lord Wolfram even apologized for shouting at them, when they passed him in the hall the next morning. Washed and shaved and smiling, he was a viscount, a hero, a god to the little girls, despite his scary face. That would heal, Aunt Maggie assured them.

  They needed to be here, to make sure it did, and to make sure they were not sent away to school or to Feckless Fernell’s. Prayers and wishes and stirring the Christmas pudding were not going to make it so. Getting his lordship to marry their aunt would.

  He was bound to fall in love with Aunt Maggie eventually, Katherine and Alexandra decided, she was so pretty, besides being kind and loving and wise. That was not the problem. Time was.

  They had less than a month and Lord Wolfram was playing least in sight. He was resting in his room, going over his accounts in the office, reading in the library, playing the pianoforte in the music room and billiards in the game room, all by himself, as he had decreed. How was he going to come to care for Aunt Maggie if they never became better acquainted?

  The girls had no money to buy her pretty gowns or face paint to catch his attention, no skills to teach their beloved aunt to flirt. What they had was a small pamphlet “borrowed” from his lordship’s desk during one of their early morning explorations, while Margaret was at Bartlett House, busy with the old besom and her dog.

  A Gentleman’s Guide to Courtship ought to work just as well in reverse, the children reasoned.

  So they found him a cat.

  Chapter Three

  When you go courting, do not go empty-handed. Tokens of your regard and sincerity are always welcome. Remember, you are selecting a bride, not pursuing a mistress. Jewelry and clothing are far too improper for a well-bred female. Small gifts are acceptable.

  —George E. Phelber, A Gentleman’s Guide to Courtship

  “MISS TODD!”

  If anyone in the neighbourhood was not aware that Lady Bartlett’s prim and proper companion was acquainted with the renowned rake, they knew it now. Margaret could hear Lord Wolfram’s bellow from the street outside, when she returned from dragging Lady Bartlett’s cur Charlie around the square.

  He was waiting on the steps by the open front door as she hurried toward Wolfram House, anxious that her nieces had met with disaster.

  “My lord?”

  “Come.”

  He gave her no choice, grasping her hand and pulling her through the door and toward the marble stairs leading toward the upper storeys. No servants were in sight, which added to Margaret’s dismay. Were they all attending the catastrophe, or merely hiding from his lordship’s fury?

  Margaret hurtled along at his side, trying not to let her fears make her stumble. Only when he tugged her in the direction of what she knew to be his bedroom did Margaret dig her heels into the thick hall carpet.

  “My lord, this is unseemly and im—”

  He threw open his bedchamber door and pointed at the velvet-hung bed. “What is that? And I do not mean my bed.”

  “A…a cat?” The animal in the center of the mattress had the shape of a cat, but was twice as big, with tufts in its black-edged ears, and a thick golden-brown coat and unblinking yellow eyes.

  “A cat? More like a small lion without a mane. It is a very large, possibly ferocious, likely flea-ridden feline. If my man Paul were here, he would have…kittens to see the hairs on my bed and likely my clothing, if he survived the shock. Or the creature itself.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And what, Miss Todd, is that around the beast’s neck, looping it to the bedpost?”

  The cat wore a ribbon, a pink ribbon embroidered with green vines that matched Margaret’s eyes, one of her few recent extravagances. She usually wore it in the morning instead of taking the time to put her hair up before walking the dog. “I wondered where that had gone to.”

  He answered his own question. “The beast is wearing your hair ribbon.”

  Now Margaret stopped wondering about the exotic animal, or how her ribbon got on it. She could only marvel that his lordship had noticed what she wore in her hair. He had hardly poked his nose out of his rooms, except for the minutes he spent with her in the kitchen for nightly application of the salve. He had been polite and pleasant and distant, unlike this morning, when he was rude, overbearing…and standing altogether too close for her comfort.

  “And what does the note say?”

  The note? Margaret was breathing in Lord Wolfram’s spicy scent. She stepped forward with trepidation. It was a very large cat, bigger than any she had seen outside the Tower menagerie. Its yellow eyes were half shut now, as if it had lost interest in the newcomers, and it had not moved, but Margaret was used to the nasty pug. She was not taking chances. Gingerly she reached out for a piece of vellum propped at the foot of the bed.

  Turning the paper this way, then that, she finally read, “To Lord Wolf, a small token of appreciation. Margaret Todd.” She let out a nervous giggle. “Surely you do not think that I—”

  “Not if you are managing Lady Bartlett’s correspondence, not with that handwriting. We both know who is responsible. Your angels, whom you promised to keep out of my sight and my way! What is the meaning of this?”

  Margaret could not imagine. But she would go find out.

  When she returned, she could not meet his lordship’s eyes. She did not really need to, for the large, handsome gentleman was bending over the cat on the bed, leaving a lovely view of the back of his formfitting buckskin breeches. Margaret tried to steady her breathing while she tried to decide what to tell the viscount about the creature’s arrival with her name on its calling card. She was certainly not about to tell him the truth.

  Her darling nieces were playing matchmaker, for heaven’s sake.

  “But you like Lord Wolf, don’t you?” they had asked when she demanded an explanation. “We want him to like you, too.”

  There would be more words about their behavior later, and their unrealistic expectations. For now, she had to make Lord Wolfram understand without embarrassing both of them.

  “You see, the children knew they were not supposed to bother you, or come near your rooms.”


  “Hah!”

  “So they used my name.” For which Margaret would strangle the little dears. “But they were so thankful that you permitted them to stay on here that they wanted to please you. With no money or particular talents to create a token of their regard for you, they struggled to find a way to express their gratitude. And they did have a brilliant notion, actually.”

  The big cat was actually purring. His lordship was stroking it behind its dark ears. He slowly, carefully, sat down on the mattress rather than staying bent over, to Margaret’s disappointment. At least now she could concentrate on her explanation. “You see, they worried that you were spending too much time indoors, and might be growing bored.”

  Actually, the viscount had been enjoying his solitude. He had not spent so much time alone in ages, and appreciated not having to run from dinner party to dance, from ball to boudoir. His own thoughts were more enjoyable than the tedious social drivel he heard so often. The few minutes of Miss Todd’s ministrations were more satisfying than any mistress’s touch. With his valet still out of town, taking a detour to visit his family, Wolf did not even have to wear tight, confining apparel or change his clothing thrice a day. The few servants were treating him like a king to win back his favor, and the day cook’s offerings were ample and satisfying without all the sauces and stupor-inducing courses. The house was looking festive, more so every day, and the cold, rainy weather outside the windows made his own hearth still more inviting. Wolf was reacquainting himself with his books and his music, recalling the simpler pleasures he used to enjoy.

  He frowned. “What, did they think a lion would enliven my days?”

  “The animal is a young Punjabi hunting cat, and is quite tame.” Its rumbling purr could be heard across the room. “It was hand-reared and belongs to Prince Qu’inn, who traveled to England on the Belizar with the girls to attend university. The prince will take My-lo to Oxford after the holidays, but he thought the cat would be happier in a house than in a cage at his hotel. I think the hotel staff would be happier also, and the prince, who mentioned escaping his tutors in London. Prince Qu’inn was grateful to the girls for improving his English during the long voyage, so was glad to grant their request, especially since it matched his own inclinations so conveniently. Oh, and you will not have to worry about feeding or exercising My-lo, for its, um, native handler moved into an empty stall in your stable mews.”