Regency Christmas Wishes (9781101220030)

by Layton, Edith; Jensen, Emma

  Contents

  The Lucky Coin by Barbara Metzger

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  Following Yonder Star by Emma Jensen

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  The Merry Magpie by Sandra Heath

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  Best Wishes by Edith Layton

  Let Nothing You Dismay by Carla Kelly

  About the Authors

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Regency Christmas Wishes

  A Signet Book / published by arrangement with the author

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2003 Five Stories by the following authors:

  “The Lucky Coin” by Barbara Metzger

  “Following Yonder Star” by Melissa Jensen

  “The Merry Magpie” by Sandra Heath

  “Best Wishes” by Edith Felber

  “Let Nothing You Dismay” by Carla Kelly

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

  For information address:

  The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is

  http://www.penguinputnam.com

  ISBN: 978-1-1012-2003-0

  A SIGNET BOOK®

  Signet Books first published by The Signet Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  SIGNET and the “S” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

  Electronic edition: December, 2003

  The Lucky Coin

  by Barbara Metzger

  1

  “A penny for your thoughts, young sir.”

  At his fellow passenger’s words, Sir Adam Standish dragged his eyes from the view outside the coach window, where the desolate winter scenery was as bleak as his prospects.

  “I fear my thoughts are not worth even that much,” Adam told the wizened, whiskered old man in the seat opposite him.

  “Nonsense,” the ancient replied. “All thoughts are worth at least a pence, be they good thoughts or bad, happy or sad. Why, ofttimes the telling alone is of value, and good conversation is priceless on such a journey as ours.”

  The trip to London was tedious indeed, yet Adam was not one to confide in others, nor speak of his personal woes to friends, much less to chance-met strangers. He shrugged and turned back to the window.

  “A woman?” the graybeard persisted.

  Now Adam had to laugh, although there was no humor in the sound. “If I could afford a woman, wife or mistress, I would not be making this desperate, and likely futile, visit to my bankers.”

  “Ah, money, then. I should have guessed a well-favored young gentleman like yourself would have no trouble with the ladies.”

  No, Adam thought, the old man should have known he was below hatches by the worn boots on his feet and the frayed cuffs on his sleeves, unless the fellow’s seemingly knowing gray eyes were failing. In that case, the granfer should have realized his fellow passenger was badly dipped by the absence of a valet to rectify those same faults. For that matter, a baronet with brass in his pockets hired his own coach and team, instead of riding the common stage.

  None of which, of course, was the curious old man’s business, but Adam was nothing if not polite, especially to his elders, so he nodded. “Yes, money is at the root of my problems, or the dearth of it, at any rate.”

  “A spot of bad luck, is it?”

  Now Adam made a rude snort. “A spot? More like a spill, a storm, a veritable swamp of bad luck.” And without meaning to, he began to tell the old man opposite him about his beloved estate Standings, about the debts he had inherited along with the title and acreage, about the flood and the fire, the blight and the bugs, the drought and the drop in prices for what little the fields could produce. Something about his companion’s interest, the compassion, perhaps, in that gray gaze, made Sir Adam go on to express his hitherto unspoken frustrations that no matter how hard he worked, he never found himself gaining on his deceased father’s debts. For every step forward he took, Fate seemed to send him two steps backward. Now, when he was close to his goal of making a profit at last, he could lose everything instead, if the bank would not extend his credit until the spring. He could make his quarterly payments now, but then he would have no funds left for seeds, for stud fees, for keeping up the wages of his few loyal servants. He would not mind going cold and hungry, but he could not ask the same of his poor tenants and their children.

  Instead, he was going to ask the bank to let him delay his mortgage payments, on the promise of spring lambs and cows in calf, well-turned fields and the latest techniques from the farming journals. Surely begging mercy from the money changers was a forlorn hope, like trying to wring water from a stone, but one he had to attempt. Adam hated having to beg, but he hated worse the idea of having no gifts for his dependents on the quickly approaching Boxing Day after Christmas, not even an apple.

  “So you see,” he concluded, “my thoughts are as dismal as the state of my purse. You must be sorry you asked, now that I have rambled on about my difficulties through the last changes.” Indeed, somehow the time had sped by in his telling, for they were close to London now, with its increased traffic and noise.

  “Nay, I do not regret prying into your affairs, young sir, only that I am unable to be of assistance.”

  “I never meant to imply—”

  “Of course you did not.” The old man reached into his pocket for a coin. “I would like to offer more, but at least I can give you the penny I promised.”

  Adam held up his hand. “No, I cannot take your money.” In his shabby coat and battered hat, the withered relic appeared to be in poorer straits than Adam.

  Gnarled fingers tossed the coin in Adam’s direction just as the coach came to a stop at their destination. “Take it. It might change your luck.” With more liveliness than Adam would have thought possible—surely with more enthusiasm than Adam felt for their arrival—the old man jumped down from the carriage, doffed his hat toward Adam, and disappeared into the busy courtyard.

  Adam tucked the coin into his fob pocket. Lud knew there was room, for he’d had to sell his timepiece a year ago. Then he took it out again to toss. Heads he would go to his banker first; tails he would hire a room for the night, to brush the dust off his apparel and make a better appearance, as if he were not at point non plus. Heads won, which was not at all what he wanted. In fact, if he never had to see Mr. Ezekiel Beasdale again, he would be far happier.

  Being a man of duty and conscience, however, despite being a man of meager funds, Adam tucked the coin away, hefted his satchel, and took himself off to visit his banker. He should have saved the walk. In fact,
he should have saved the entire trip to London. Then he might at least have the price of a fine Christmas goose.

  Mr. Beasdale was not receptive to Adam’s elucidation as to the future profitability of Standings. In fact, the heavyset, ruddy-faced banker was not receptive to the baronet at all. He kept Adam waiting in the bank’s central office, with clerks and customers alike taking note of the poor country turnip come to plead his case, or so Adam felt, standing with a battered satchel between his scuffed boots. His welcome was even colder in Mr. Beasdale’s private office.

  “What’s that? An extension until spring? Impossible, I say. This is a bank, sir, not a philanthropic foundation. We are a lending institution, which means we need our money returned, in order to lend it out again.” The man’s fleshy jowls shook with indignation over Adam’s apparent incomprehension of elementary finances. “Why, I have to answer to my partners.”

  And Mr. Beasdale would have to answer to his Maker, Adam thought, for the lack of Christian charity at this of all seasons. He did not say his thoughts out loud, of course. He stood and bowed slightly, ready to leave.

  “It’s nothing personal, mind,” the portly banker said, holding him in the richly carpeted room. “By all accounts you are a hardworking young man with no apparent vices. You do not gamble, like so many of your peers, or throw good money after bad, like your parent before you.”

  How could he, with no funds to stake?

  Beasdale lowered his thick eyebrows to study Adam’s appearance. “Nor do you seem to be a slave to fashion, spending your fortune in tailors’ bills.”

  Adam had no reply to that obvious comment. “Whatever money I earn goes back into the land.”

  The banker nodded, sausage-shaped fingers straightening the papers in front of him. “Not enough, though, is it? Mayhaps you’d best consider another avenue.”

  Adam smiled, but it was more of a grimace. “I suppose you are going to advise me to find a wealthy female to marry. That is what my servants and tenants recommend. Even the vicar suggested I use my time in town to find a well-dowered lady to pull Standings out of River Tick. Of course we both know that no noble family is going to give its daughter’s hand to a down-at-heels baronet. What is your counsel, then, that I find a rich merchant who wants to raise his daughter’s standing in society?” Adam had no intention of taking such advice, but he did go on, not trying to hide the scorn in his voice: “I suppose you have an unwed daughter, a niece, godchild, or, heaven forfend, a spinster sister, an ambitious female who cannot find a husband on her own.”

  Now the banker lumbered to his feet. His jowls flapped and his cheeks turned red. He pounded a meaty fist onto his desk. “I, sir, am a merchant. A Cit, a tradesman, and a rich one, with my sister’s only child in my care. And I would sooner see my niece, nay, any girl of mine, wed to the Fiend himself than a feckless fortune hunter. Raise her social standing? Why, you could not afford to pay your wife’s subscription fees at Almack’s, if you could guarantee her vouchers, which I doubt. You have no entrée to the polite world, no lofty peerage, no vast ancestral holdings. You have nothing but an empty stable, a rundown farmstead, and a ha’penny baronetcy. And even if you had something to offer—not that I put great value on titles and society tripe—I would not want any female under my protection to be bartered off to pay your puny way.”

  Spent, Mr. Beasdale sank back in his seat, mopping at his damp brow. “What I was going to suggest, you arrogant, impertinent pup, was that you find yourself a job. The world of commerce could use diligent, honest workers. But I see that, like so many others of your useless ilk, you would rather wed your fortune than earn it. So good day.”

  What could Adam say? That he had no intention of spending the rest of his life with a woman he did not love, not even to save his ramshackle estate? That Mr. Beasdale would be fortunate to find a coal-heaver to wed his niece, if she resembled the puff-guts in looks or temperament? That he had thought of taking a position, or taking up arms for the king, but too many people were relying on him at home? No, he could not say any of that, deuce take it, because Mr. Beasdale had only spoken the truth. He wished he could make the beef-faced banker eat his words, but Adam was, when all was said and done, worth less than that penny in his pocket.

  2

  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 taproom 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 a
t 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.