Table of Contents
Copyright
Greetings of the Season and Other Stories
Greetings of the Season
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
The Proof Is in the Pudding
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
Christmas Pudding
Three Good Deeds
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
Epilogue
Christmas Wish List
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
Little Miracles
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
Greetings of the Season and Other Stories
By Barbara Metzger
Copyright 2013 by Barbara Metzger
Cover Copyright 2013 by Barbara Metzger and Untreed Reads Publishing
The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.
Previously published in print:
Greetings of the Season, 1994
The Proof Is in the Pudding, 1996
Three Good Deeds, 1998
Christmas Wish List, 1999
Little Miracles, 2000
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher or author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, dialogue and events in this book are wholly fictional, and any resemblance to companies and actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Also by Barbara Metzger and Untreed Reads Publishing
A Loyal Companion
A Suspicious Affair
An Angel for the Earl
An Enchanted Affair
Autumn Glory and Other Stories
Cupboard Kisses
Father Christmas
Lady in Green
Lady Whilton’s Wedding
Rake’s Ransom
The Duel
The Hourglass
The House of Cards Trilogy
The Scandalous Life of a True Lady
Valentines
http://www.untreedreads.com
Greetings of the Season and Other Stories
Barbara Metzger
Greetings of the Season
1
“Dashed if I can figure why everyone gets in such a pucker over this Christmas shopping nonsense.” Bevin Montford, the Earl of Montravan, paused in the act of putting the last, critical fold in his intricately tied neckcloth. His valet, standing by with a second or—heaven forfend his lordship be struck with a palsy or such—a third starched cravat, held his breath.
“Why, the park was so thin of company this afternoon, you’d think the ton had packed up and gone to their country places weeks early,” the earl complained to the mirror. “Where was everyone? Traipsing in and out of shops as if the British economy depended on their spending their last farthings.”
The earl finally lowered his chin, setting the crease in his neckcloth. Finster, the valet, exhaled. Another perfect Montravan fall. He tenderly draped the reserve linen over the rungs of a chair and reached for his lordship’s coat of blue superfine, just a shade darker than the earl’s eyes.
“And now here’s Coulton, crying off from our dinner engagement,” Montravan went on, shrugging his broad shoulders into the garment. No dandy, the earl refused to have his coats cut so tightly that he’d require two footmen to assist. He made sure the lace of his shirt cuffs fell gracefully over his wrists while Finster straightened the coat across his back. “I never thought I’d live to see Johnny Coulton turning down one of Desroucher’s meals to go shopping. Haring off to an Italian goldsmith in Islington, no less.”
Finster was ready with the clothes brush, making sure no speck of lint had fallen on the coat between his final pressing and his lordship’s occupancy. “I understand Lord Coulton is recently engaged,” Finster offered, more relaxed now that the more crucial aspects of his employer’s toilette were complete.
“What’s that to the point? The chit’s blond with blue eyes. Sapphires, obviously. Rundell and Bridges ought to be sufficient for the purpose.”
“Ah, perhaps Lord Coulton wished to express his affection in a more personal manner.”
“More expensive, you mean. Deuce take it, he’s already won the girl’s hand; there’s no need for such extravagance.”
“If the viscount is indeed visiting goldsmiths, he might wish to design a bit of jewelry himself to show his joy at the betrothal.”
“Claptrap. You’ve been reading the housekeeper’s Minerva Press novels again, haven’t you?” The earl turned from the mirror to catch his longtime servant’s blush. “Ah, Finster, still a romantic after all these years? I must be a sad trial to you.”
“Not at all, my lord,” the valet said with a smile, thinking of all the positions he’d been offered and had turned down. There could be no finer gentleman in the ton to work for, none more generous and none who appeared more to his valet’s credit than the nonpareil earl. Of course, Lord Montravan was a bit high in the instep, his valet admitted to himself, but how not, when he’d been granted birth, wealth, looks, and charm in abundance? No, Lord Montravan’s only fault, according to the loyal Finster, was a sad lack of tender emotions. Still, the valet lived in hope. He passed the silver tray that contained the earl’s signet ring and watch fob, the thin leather wallet, and the newly washed coins. He also proffered, by way of explaining Lord Coulton’s defection, “L’amour.”
“Larks in his brainbox, more likely, getting himself into a pother over a trinket for a wench. And those other clunches, the ones who were too frenzied for a hand of cards at White’s yesterday, nattering on about where to find the perfect fan, the best chocolates, the most elegant bibelot for madam’s curio. Gudgeons, every last one of them, letting their wits go begging over this nonsensical holiday gift giving.”
Finster cleared his throat. “Ah, perchance the gentlemen find the difficulty more in the expense than in the selection. The ladies do expect more than a bit of trumpery at this time of year,” he hinted.
The earl sighed. “What, dished again, Finster?” He casually tossed a coin to the smaller man, who deftly caught it and tucked it out of sight in one of his black suit’s pockets. “You’d think you’d have learned after all these years either to save your shillings or not to fall in love at the Christmas season. What female has caught your eye this week?”
“The new French dresser at Lady Worthington’s. Madeleine.” Finster whispered the name and kissed his fingertips.
>
“French, eh?” Montravan tossed another coin, which followed its brother, then shook his head. “Next I suppose you’ll be wanting the afternoon off to do your shopping.”
“The morning should be sufficient, milord, thank you.” Finster smiled. “After milord returns from his ride, naturally.”
“Naturally. I suppose I should be thankful my own valet is not abandoning me in favor of the shops.” The earl gave a final combing through his black curls with his fingers, setting them into the fashionable windswept style. One curl persisted in falling over his high forehead. He shrugged and left it.
“Though it would be all of a piece with this wretched week. What gets into everyone mid-December that their attics are to let? There must be some brain fever that scrambles perfectly normal minds into this mush of indecision, this urge to outrun the bailiffs, this agony of self-doubt over a bauble or two. Just look at you, the most fastidious person I know.” He waved his manicured hand around his own spotless bedchamber, where not a towel remained from his bath, not a soiled garment was in sight, not a loose hair reposed on the Aubusson carpet. “Then comes Christmas shopping. You are ready to desert your post in order to wait for some caper-merchant to deign to assist you in spending your next quarter’s salary. Mush, I say. Your brains have turned to mush along with everyone else’s.”
Finster smiled as he polished the earl’s quizzing glass on a cloth he pulled from another pocket. “There is no other way, milord.”
“Of course there is,” said Montravan, surveying his person through the glass. “Organization, efficiency, an orderly mind—that’s all it takes to keep this idiocy in proper perspective. You don’t see me chasing my own shadow up and down Bond Street, do you?”
“No, milord, your secretary does that for you.”
The earl chose to ignore that home truth. “Humph. The diamond or the black pearl?” he asked, nodding toward the velvet-lined tray holding his stickpins.
Finster surveyed the earl, the muscular thighs encased in black satin, the white marcella waistcoat with silver embroidery. “The ruby, I believe, will be more festive. ’Tis the season, after all.”
Montravan frowned. “Blast the season.”
Still, he affixed the ruby in his neckcloth, told his man not to wait up for him, and stepped jauntily down the stairs.
Ah, the season. Just a few more weeks and his own perfectly ordered existence would be even more satisfactory. He’d have satisfied his filial duties with a trip to Montravan Hall in Wiltshire and fulfilled his more pressing familial obligations with the selection of his future countess. If Lady Belinda Harleigh proved satisfactory during the visit she and her parents were making to the ancestral pile, Montravan meant to offer for the duke’s daughter before the new year. Then he’d be free to return to London and his new mistress. First, of course, was this minor trifle of Christmas shopping to be gone through. The earl consulted the pendulum clock in the marble hallway. Yes, there was an hour before dinner; that should do the trick.
2
The library at Montford House, Grosvenor Square, was larger than Hatchard’s Bookstore and likely contained more volumes. Unlike the bookseller’s, what it did not contain—and would never contain, if Bevin Montford had any say in the matter—was any gaggles of chattering females or any of those gothicky romances so beloved of polite society and its servants. The library was quite Lord Montravan’s favorite room in the house, with its precise shelves of both old tomes and new editions, all neatly cataloged and in their proper order. Situated toward the rear of Montford House so no street noises could intrude, and thickly carpeted to muffle any interior sounds, the library was a quiet haven of dark wood and old leather.
What did intrude, and did offend the earl’s usual feeling of contentment in this private place, was the young man standing next to the large desk. Wearing yellow cossack trousers, ear-threatening shirt points, buttons the size of dinner plates, and a puce waistcoat embroidered with cabbage roses, Vincent Winchell was not of an appearance to appeal to the austere earl. Happily Vincent was a better secretary than a fashion plate.
The son of Bevin’s mother’s bosom bow in Bath, young Winchell had arrived in London with a note from Lady Montravan imploring the earl to do something for dear widowed Bessie’s fatherless boy.
Unfortunately dear Bessie’s boy had no prospects. He also had no aptitude for the law, the church, or medicine. Bessie, according to Lady Montravan, would go into a decline if her baby took up colors, and likewise if he took one breath of India’s insalubrious air. The young cawker’s ambition, Vincent revealed upon questioning, was to become a man-about-town. Like the earl.
Trained since birth to the duties and responsibilities of his position, Lord Montravan was not about to feed and house some useless unlicked cub. He had enough pensioners as it was without adopting able-bodied layabouts only eight years his junior. The best solution, of course, was to find the lad a rich wife. But with no fortune, the doors to the polite world were closed to the son of Bessie Winchell of Bath, and with no title, wealthy cits were more likely to offer him a position rather than their daughters. Or they would, Bevin acknowledged, if the chawbacon showed any potential for hard work. Instead, in the fortnight the earl took to think about young Winchell’s future, the nodcock had gambled away his pittance and signed himself into debt, come home drunk thrice, and hadn’t returned at all once, sending Montford House into a furor. He’d had his nose broken in a taproom brawl and been taken up by the watch until Montravan paid his fines. So Bevin made the pup his secretary.
Three years later the earl was satisfied with his gamble. He had an aide who knew how he liked things done, who didn’t look askance when asked to lease a house for his latest light-o’-love or to place a bet at Newmarket. As for Vincent, he had a steady income, a fine address with servants to provide for his every need, ample free time to enjoy London’s pleasures—and all for a few hours of paperwork and a promise to stay out of trouble. To the earl’s gratification and Vincent’s surprise, they even discovered that young Winchell had a knack for pesky details, like Christmas lists.
“I have sent your instructions to Montravan Hall,” Vincent now reported, consulting his pages of notes, “along with the proper number of presents for the tenants’ children, dolls and hair ribbons for the girls, tops and pocketknives for the boys. I have also sent directions and a bank draft for Boxing Day gifts for the staff, along with last year’s distributions. Everything will be arranged before your arrival next week, according to Miss Sinclaire. Mr. Tuttle will oversee the London staff’s holiday gratuities.”
“Excellent, Vincent. I know I need not concern myself whilst you are in charge.” The earl sat behind his desk and lit a cigarillo. “When do you leave for Bath?”
“Oh, not till after you depart, my lord, in case there are any last-minute changes in your plans.”
Montravan blew a smoke ring and smiled. “That’s a relief. Sometimes I wonder how I got on without you.”
“Poorly, I imagine.” Vincent ruffled his pages, bringing Bevin’s attention back to the matter at hand, and unfortunately back to the multitude of rings on the same hand. The earl winced and looked away.
“Do go on. I surmise you are in a fidge to be off for the evening.”
“Drury Lane, my lord. There’s a new production of Othello.”
“And a new farce, with the chorus girls showing their ankles, I hear tell.”
“I could not say, my lord.” The secretary hurriedly turned and pushed forward a stack of calling cards from the corner of the desk. “I had these printed up special for your holiday messages, if you cared to include a personal note to any of the employees or tenants, and, of course, for your relatives and, ah, close acquaintances.” He cleared his throat and scanned another list. “The gifts for those, ah, family and friends are here on the side table, awaiting your final selection.”
The earl got up and followed the younger man to the table, where parcels were displayed, two by two, with an elega
ntly printed name card in front of each pair. Bevin took out his quizzing glass to survey the groupings before once again declaring his secretary invaluable.
“You toddle off now while I scribble my compliments to Lady Montravan and the rest. I’ll place my card and the name plaque by the gifts I choose, and you can send them off on the morrow, except, of course, the ones I’ll be taking with me to the Hall.”
“If you are sure, my lord. I could stay to advise—”
“No, my dear boy, you’ve done enough. I can surely sign my own name. Have a pleasant evening. Oh, and, Vincent, do remember to give yourself a generous Christmas bonus. You deserve it. Perhaps you’ll even purchase a new set of clothes before you give your mother palpitations in those.”
“They’re all the crack, my lord,” Vincent said, bowing his way out of the library. “Bang up to the mark.”
“I’m sure they are,” the earl whispered to the closing door, feeling considerably older than his thirty-two years.
Bevin returned to the desk and poured himself a glass of sherry from the cut-glass decanter there. He sat and took up a quill—neatly sharpened—and one of the new cards. At least Vincent had learned to restrain his flamboyant taste when it came to his employer’s business. The cards merely held Lord Montravan’s name and title, under the simple inscription “Greetings of the Season” in raised black letters. The whole was edged in a thin border of holly, with hand-tinted leaves and berries. No gilt edges, thank goodness, or flowing script or flowery prose. The earl nodded, sipped his drink, and began his task, adding a salutation here, a New Year’s wish there, knowing his dependents counted on the monetary rewards yet still appreciated the personal touch.
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