Greetings of the Season and Other Stories

by Barbara Metzger

  No matter, she thought, yawning but still setting neat stitches in the bib for her new niece, she could not afford to squander her ready on gifts for people who wanted for nothing. Oh, she set aside coins for the vails for the servants; that was different. And there’d be a coin wrapped in the handkerchief for her sister, and another in the toe of the socks she’d knitted for Rosalyn’s struggling husband. But that was all. Not another brass farthing was going to leave her hands, not even if those hands were so needle-pricked, they snagged on her stockings. She looked over at the considerable pile of handkerchiefs. Rosalyn, Cook, and Mrs. Franklin, the housekeeper, were all getting some, as well as Allissa, the squire, and Lady Montravan. And his lordship…

  When the tiny stitches blurred in front of her weary eyes, Petra set her sewing aside and stretched her stiff muscles. Then she went to her bureau and reached under her gloves for the old reticule that held her fortune. It was heavy. Pound notes rustled and coins clinked. Petra could almost hear the devil whispering temptations in her ear. If it weren’t the middle of the night, she’d take all the money and go buy him the most lavish, stupendous, one-of-a-kind gift she could ever hope to find, something a lot more worthy of the Earl of Montravan than another handkerchief or another embroidered lion, hawk, and scepter.

  But it was the middle of the night, and Petra did know that she needed every last pence of her savings if she was going to make her own way in the world. Who knew if Lady Montravan would even write her a reference if she left? Or how long before she found another position, or how much a decent lodging would cost until she found one? Rosalyn and her curate were barely surviving, so Petra could not add to her sister’s burden, even if they had room in their tiny cottage.

  For certain she could not stay on at Montravan Hall much longer. The earl was bringing home a bride. It was not official yet, but it was all anyone could talk of, and a sure thing, according to the kitchen wagering. She was known to be a peeress with fortune and face, manners and a mind. Lady Belinda Harleigh. Petra said the name over to herself. Belinda. Belinda and Bevin. Perfect.

  Lady Belinda would have been brought up to manage a household like Montravan; she’d be an experienced guide for Allissa through the shoals of a London Season; Lady Montravan was already calculating the settlements.

  So there was no reason for Petra to stay, nothing here for her except more heartbreak. Could a heart keep breaking eternally, or would it just crumble into dust and blow away?

  Petra had loved the earl forever, it seemed. When the wiry thirteen-year-old had ridden over for his Latin lessons and offered a nut brown hobbledehoy six-year-old a ride, she was lost. When he sat by her ailing father, sent her macaroons at school, trusted her with Montravan’s running, she loved him the more. Loving Bevin Montford was like loving the hero in a romance novel—from a distance. Bevin was more handsome, more dashing, more caring than any hero—and just as unattainable for a poor vicar’s daughter who had to earn her living.

  Petra looked over to her wardrobe door, where the burgundy robe hung, the slippers placed neatly on the floor in front, almost as if the earl would walk into her bedroom at any minute. And pigs would not just fly; they’d start teaching astronomy at Oxford. Earls did not look at impoverished nobodies except in charity. And charity was cold comfort indeed when a heart ached for a much warmer touch.

  4

  White’s was fairly thin of company that evening, most of the members having already left town for their far-flung estates or country parties. Some young sprigs were in the dining room, drinking their suppers, and a few of the old gents were snoring in the reading room with newspapers over their faces. After handing his hat and gloves to the footman at the door, Montravan looked into the game room for his own particular cronies, gentlemen past their callow youth but not yet settled into sedentary respectability. They were more Corinthians than Tulips, and generally well breeched enough to pursue avidly the two favorite pastimes of the more raffish section of the aristocracy: wagering and womanizing. Happily there were enough of Lord Montravan’s set at the club tonight for a decent hand of whist and congenial conversation. Or so he thought.

  After the current war news, talk turned to homely Lady Throckmorton and her handsome footmen, thence to the new bareback rider at Astley’s Amphitheatre: her bare legs, her nearly bare chest. Then Lord Coulton came in, rubbing the chill out of his hands.

  “Ah, the very gentlemen I was hoping to see,” he said, fitting his large frame into a chair near Montravan and the others. “I have just consigned my fate to River Tick and need your heavy purses to bail myself out. Cards, anyone?” A wide grin split his freckled face as he started to deal. The earl called for another bottle.

  “’Tis the least I can do for a friend who is so badly dipped,” he told his other companions. “Besides, the cognac might dim that avaricious gleam in our Goliath’s eye, so we poor Davids have a chance.”

  For a while the only sounds were softly spoken bids and answers, the slap of cards on the baize, and the clink of glasses. Then the group of younger men strolled in from the dining room, carrying their bottles and glasses. Most sauntered; a few staggered. They took up chairs at a nearby table but immediately started arguing about the stakes. One of the players at Bevin’s game glared in their direction, without affecting their raucous noise in the slightest. Finally Viscount Coulton put his cards on the table, stood up to his considerable height, and walked over to the other group.

  “Gentlemen, I truly need to win tonight. In order to win, I need to concentrate. In order to concentrate, I need quiet. In order to get that quiet, I’ll bash your bloody skulls in.” He bowed, smiled his boyish grin, and took up his own seat.

  Not only was Lord Coulton larger than any of the young blades, he was Gentleman Jackson’s own sparring partner. Furthermore, while the viscount might smile, leaving his intentions in question, the Earl of Montravan had his dark brows lowered in a scowl. No one doubted Montravan’s disapproval, and no one wanted to challenge the devil’s own temper. The argle-bargle subsided. Two of the Bartholomew babes decided on a hand of piquet, and another came over to observe the earl’s game. Nessborough’s heir and his chum Rupert Haskell lurched over to where the betting book was kept.

  As usual, Lord Montravan figured largely in the current entries.

  “Just look at this: Calbert Hodge put twenty pounds on Lady B—H—,” Nessborough whispered, loudly enough to rouse the snorers in the next room. “I put down only five.” He jerked his head toward the earl. “I wish he’d put us out of our misery before we leave town. I could use the blunt.” Haskell curled his lip and didn’t even attempt to lower his voice as he asked, “What was the wager, that he’d offer or that she’d accept?”

  Nessborough hooted, forgetting to whisper. “No one’d take you up on the last bet, you nodcock. No woman in her right mind would turn down such a title and fortune.”

  “And the duke wouldn’t let her even if she had other inclinations.” Haskell spoke bitterly, then downed another glass of liquor. “I need her fortune a sight more than Montravan does, but, no, it’s always the rich swells who get everything.”

  Some of the earl’s friends were beginning to look uncomfortable, while Johnny Coulton’s florid complexion was turning redder. Bevin took up the cards. “My deal, I believe.”

  Haskell did not drop the subject. “I’d bet a monkey she wouldn’t have him without the blasted title.”

  Nessborough scratched his head, leaving greasy pomatum on his fingers. “I don’t know. There’s still the blunt, and the fellow is a top-of-the-trees Corinthian. I mean, she ain’t like to find a better shot or a better eye for horseflesh. And everyone knows he’s a regular prime ’un.”

  “A veritable paragon,” Haskell sneered. “Why, he’s—”

  Before Haskell could complete the thought, a graceful, manicured hand reached out and slammed the betting book shut. “You are putting me to the blush, gentlemen,” Lord Montravan quietly explained in a silky voice with the edge of
steel. “I hadn’t realized that your lives were so empty, you had to rely on mine for titillation. I do wish you’d find a—”

  Nessborough recalled a previous engagement. Haskell ordered another bottle, but he did wander over to the piquet table. Montravan returned to his own play, where Lord Coulton was quick to joke about the cards growing cold in Bevin’s absence.

  Rupert Haskell was such a dirty dish, his own mother didn’t invite him home for Christmas. He was mean and dumb at the best of times. Drunk, he was dumber; disappointed, he was meaner. Having suffered a rebuff from Lord Harleigh after three disastrous days at the track, he’d been drinking steadily for the last fourteen hours. Upon muddled reflection he was not about to let some toff on his high horse send him to the corner like a misbehaving schoolboy. He reeled back to the betting book and began flipping pages, mumbling to himself until he reached an interesting entry.

  “Ain’t that a coincidence?” he asked the room at large. “Here’s the Earl of M— again. Lemme see what it says this time.” He peered closer at the book, then stood back, attempting a whistle but spraying spit instead. “A golden boy on the golden boy. Too bad his hair ain’t blond, Nessborough’d make him out to be some Greek god.” He read the wager again. “‘A golden boy that the Earl of M— will be first out of the gate with the new French filly.’ According to Nessy, there’ll be no race.” He took another swig and addressed the earl directly: “Unless you’re even more of a nonesuch than they say, I suppose that’ll leave the beauteous Marina available to us poor mortals.”

  The card game had stopped, but Coulton had his hand on the earl’s shoulder, keeping him in his seat. “Never, to the likes of you,” Bevin muttered through gritted teeth.

  “That’s right, m’pockets are to let.”

  “Your attics are to let, boy.” Sir Cedric laughed from Montravan’s other side.

  “You going to explain that remark?” Haskell took a belligerent step in Sir Cedric’s direction, but Bevin drew his attention again. He cleared his throat and said, “What my friend means is that you are dicked in the nob if you think the lady would entertain you at any price. Miss Corbett is too refined in her ways. She never lets slime cross her threshold.”

  “Slime? You’re saying your doxy’s too good for the likes of me?” Haskell shouted.

  Never raising his voice, the earl answered: “No, I am saying the lady is under my protection, and I’ll have your liver and lights if you so much as mention her name again.”

  “Why, you—”

  Haskell lunged toward the seated nobleman, but the piquet players grabbed him by the coattails and wrestled him into a chair. One of the vigilant footmen immediately came by with a dice cup and suggested a game.

  Some other late-arriving members wandered into the card room, attracted by the yells. A few stayed to bet on the first roll, surrounding Haskell and his chums with a hum of conversation.

  Having tossed down their cards in preparation for battle, Montravan and his friends declared the game over and undecided. Before dealing out the new hands, Bevin turned to Lord Coulton. “I take it you’ve found the perfect gift for Miss Framingham at last, Johnny, since you’re suddenly so badly dipped.”

  “The fairest for the fair,” the viscount said with one of his ready grins. “And likely paid three times too much for the gewgaw.”

  “It’s worth it, to have you returned to our ranks. Now you can come with me to Tatt’s tomorrow. I hear Adderly’s chestnuts are going on the block.”

  Lord Coulton shook his head. “Sorry, old chap. Elizabeth’s was the easy one. Now I have to find something for my four sisters and my mother, to say nothing of the governor. When I think of all the ready I’ll have to spout, I could thrash that muckworm Haskell. I was winning that last round, I know it. If I don’t win this next one, I’ll be handing m’sisters vouchers.”

  Sir Cedric groaned. “Don’t remind me. My wife will comb my hair with a footstool if her sister’s husband is more openhanded or original.” No one disagreed with him, knowing how Lady Margaret had her spouse so thoroughly cowed, which was why he was so often to be found at White’s. “Whatever happened to the days of shiny apples and a ha’penny?”

  “Gone the way of perukes and farthingales.” The earl finally unclenched his jaw and relaxed back in his seat. “My friends, you make too much of a simple thing.”

  “Simple for you, Bev. You’re as rich as Golden Ball.”

  Montravan gestured toward the dice game. “You’re sounding like that rum touch over there. Money isn’t everything. You’d be dithering over baubles at half the cost.”

  “I suppose you’ve got all of your shopping done, eh, Bev?” Lord Coulton asked, winking at Sir Cedric.

  “But of course.” The earl tried not to sound too smug, but his blue eyes crinkled at the corners.

  “Dashed if I know how you do it,” Sir Cedric complained. “‘Something thoughtful,’ she says. Balderdash, I say! Blister me if I can figure where to start.”

  “Come on, Bev,” Lord Coulton urged, “give us poor sods some hints. The dowager cannot be an easy one to shop for, and you’ve got a sister the same age as one of mine.”

  Lord Montravan steepled his fingers in front of him and closed his eyes in serious contemplation. Then: “Very well. There are two basic steps. First, make a list. Second, hand the list to the brightest, most efficient and reliable person on your staff.”

  They all laughed, until Haskell’s slurred voice rose above the room’s chatter. “Tha’sh right, Montravan. Says so right here.” No one had noticed him stagger away from the dice table. Now everyone turned to stare in his direction, back at the betting book. “Says you have the most effemin—no, efficient secretary in all of London.”

  “Oh, take a damper, man,” Sir Cedric called, while Lord Coulton mumbled, “We’re in for it now.” The earl looked to his friends, who were desperately trying to get his attention, asking about his stable’s latest acquisition or inviting him into the adjoining room for a late supper. Then he looked back at Haskell, who was rocking back and forth on his heels, his mouth trailing saliva, his clothing rumpled and soiled. Bevin casually leaned back in his chair until the front legs tipped up, and just as casually he drawled, “Found another bone to chew, have you, Towser?”

  Someone’s laughter was stopped midsnicker by the earl’s one raised black brow. He fixed his unflinching gaze back on Haskell, who was too castaway to realize his days at White’s were numbered, if not his days on earth.

  “Leave it be, Bev,” Lord Coulton appealed to his friend. “The dirty dish ain’t worth soiling your hands over. You can see he’s just an unlicked cub who can’t hold his liquor and is spoiling for a fight.”

  “Then perhaps you’d care to explain that bet, Johnny.” The viscount looked away. “No? I thought not. I myself always believed Vincent Winchell was a prince among secretaries, but I never thought anyone would lay blunt on his capabilities, did you, Johnny?”

  “It’s just a foolish joke, Bev, blown out of proportion by this addlepated tosspot. Let it go.”

  “Perhaps the makebate would care to explain the joke to me, for you can see I am not laughing.” He tipped his chair forward again. “You, Haskell, suppose you tell me the point of that entry you’re so fond of.”

  “The point, your stiff-rumped lordship, is what everyone knows. Your blooming secretary is so efficient, it’s a wonder he doesn’t wipe your nose. And he’s so efficient, he even beds your women for you! Your bits o’ muslin may not share their favors with poor gentlemen like me, but it seems they can give ’em away free to—”

  Haskell swallowed his next words, along with his two front teeth.

  “He is no gentleman” was all Lord Montravan said as he wiped his hands on a napkin, while footmen carried Haskell’s prone form from the room. Then Bevin turned to Lord Coulton. “Is it true, Johnny?”

  The viscount couldn’t meet his friend’s eyes. “I don’t know, Bev. I heard rumors, that’s all. Don’t even know who put
it in the book—there were no initials—so I didn’t think it was worth mentioning.”

  His nose wasn’t worth mentioning either, after Lord Montravan’s right fist connected with it.

  5

  The first thing Bevin did on his return to Montford House was collect the pearl-decorated jewel box from the library. He placed one of his holiday calling cards under the lid, then thrust the box into the hands of Tuttle, the butler at Montford House since before the wheel was invented.

  “Here, Tuttle, since you insist on waiting up for me, make yourself useful. Wrap it.”

  The white-haired servant blinked at the box on his outstretched, gloved palm. He couldn’t look more surprised than if a particularly hairy spider had suddenly landed there. “Wrap it, my lord?”

  “Yes, blast it, wrap it. It is a gift. You know, paper and ribbons, that sort of poppycock. Then rouse one of the footmen and have him deliver it to Miss Elizabeth Framingham.”

  “Miss Framingham?”

  “B’gad, are you going deaf on me, Tuttle? Yes, Miss Elizabeth Framingham, who resides three houses away, in case you have forgotten. Lord Coulton’s fiancée. The footman is to say that it comes with my most sincere apologies.”

  “But…but, my lord, it is the middle of the night.”

  “I didn’t say he should deliver it to the young lady in her bedchamber, dash it. In fact, I forbid him to deliver it to her bedroom altogether. He’s to leave it with the butler or night guard or whatever, as long as she gets it first thing in the morning. Is that clear?”

  As clear as the air over London town. Tuttle nodded.

  “Oh, and fetch me some ice.”