Mistletoe Mistress

by Nicola Davidson

  “You’ll do well in the House. But I don’t know why you don’t just hurl that bloody betrothal contract in the fire. I bet Lady Sarah would rather choose her own husband. Not the dark ages anymore.”

  Arran’s lips twitched at the frank opinion. While he would dearly love to do just that, he needed to talk to Lady Sarah first. A gentleman could not in good conscience leave a lady in the lurch. “I can only hope she has someone in mind, for I wish to wed another woman.”

  “Your inn wife.”

  “Miss Lindsay is her name. For now, at least. She’ll be accompanying me to London, and must be treated with every courtesy, or there will be severe consequences.”

  Simms grinned. “Aye, but I think the lads already know your thoughts in regard to her. They bow and call her ma’am…ah, here they are now.”

  Arran turned to see three footmen traipsing toward him.

  One of them handed over a small glass bottle filled with a pale brown liquid. “Here, sir. Herbal tonic for your ladybird. Jimmy said she looked a bit peaky when he dropped off the note to your room.”

  He frowned darkly. “She is Miss Lindsay to you. And why was I not informed that Jimmy had returned?”

  “You were out and about with the carriage, sir. So he took the return note from Lady Sarah up to your room. Didn’t want to lose it, he is a bacon-brain. Might leave his head behind if it weren’t screwed on tight.”

  Oh. Bloody. Hell.

  Arran managed a calm nod, despite the fact he wanted to put his fist through the workshop wall. The footmen had made a lot of assumptions; unfortunately, none of them were outlandish. They hadn’t heard his conversation with Simms, so couldn’t know that on returning to London he would do everything in his power to coax Lady Sarah to end the betrothal contract their parents had arranged, because Rachel was the only woman he wanted as his marchioness. The footmen also couldn’t know that she wasn’t aware of his title, not because he wanted to lie, but because he knew how she felt about peers, especially that damned relative who had hurt her so badly. The truth needed to be told in a private, serious conversation, just the two of them without the distraction of bed or dozens of other guests.

  But if Jimmy had inadvertently revealed all…

  Bloody, bloody hell.

  Arran turned and walked toward the workshop door. “Be ready at first light,” he called over his shoulder. “No excuses.”

  As soon as he was outside, he began to run, uncaring of the snow and ice and slippery mud or if he tumbled head over ass the entire way back to the inn. He needed to speak to Rachel. Explain everything. He’d been a fool not to tell her earlier, but he’d thought he would have time during the carriage ride back to London.

  Ignoring the burning in his lungs from the cold air, he forced his legs to keep going until he made it to the inn entrance. Christ. The workshop had only been a half-mile at most to get to, but seemed a five-mile return. Clomping his boots on the mat inside the door to get rid of the snow and mud, he then marched up the narrow staircase, uncaring of the noise he made. Briefly pausing outside their chamber door to straighten his jacket and smooth his cravat, Arran then pushed the door open. “Rachel? I need to speak with you.”

  Yet even as he called her name a second time, he knew the room was empty. Empty of every trace of her. He cursed viciously, his gaze darting left and right, trying to make sense of something his heart refused to accept.

  And then he saw it. An opened letter sitting on the small table.

  Snatching it up, Arran swiftly read the brief lines, and groaned at the last one.

  We have much to discuss in regard to our marriage.

  Bloody goddamned horseshit hell. This read like he and Sarah were already married. And he could only imagine what Jimmy, a good-natured if dimwitted soul who unfortunately chatted to everyone like they were old friends, might have said to Rachel.

  He needed to find her. Immediately.

  Turning on his boot heel, Arran marched back out into the hallway and near-skidded down the stairs. But despite the dining room being full and busy, she wasn’t there. Nor was she in the card room, the small library, or the back garden taking some fresh air. The only other place she could be was the circular gravel driveway, where the stage and mail coaches stopped.

  Struggling to catch his breath, Arran burst out the door. But for the first time in his entire stay, the driveway was without carriages or coaches or people. Eerily silent, with a chill breeze that slid under his greatcoat and sent icy shivers down his limbs, and a light coating of fresh snow that covered all tracks.

  His fists clenched. In truth, he wanted to howl like an injured wolf.

  “You looking for summin’ sir?”

  Startled, he glanced to his left to see a fair-haired, pale-skinned young man wearing what looked like twenty layers of clothing, with a shovel resting on his shoulder. “Have you been working nearby, lad?”

  “Yessir. Clearing the paths. Mr. Vine likes them just so.”

  Arran forced himself to speak evenly, to not appear like an escaped Bedlamite. “Have any stagecoaches left here recently? Perhaps in the last few hours?”

  The lad nodded. “Yessir. Two. Both private and London-bound, they were. Reckon they might be lucky and get there before the worst of the weather hits. My Pa says it’ll be bad, he feels it in his bones, and his bones are always right.”

  “Did you happen to see who got on or off?” Arran asked casually as if the answer wasn’t the most important thing in the world.

  “Ummmm. A soldier. Two clerks. An old lady dressed all in purple.”

  “Not a younger woman?”

  “Don’t think so…no, wait. There was one lady. She was late and just managed to get on the stage before it left. I liked watching her run because she had really big b—”

  Arran made a feral sound and the lad swallowed hard and stepped back.

  “Er, I mean the lady had brown hair. A brown cloak too. Begging your pardon, sir, but I need to get back to work. Mr. Vine will cuff my ear otherwise.”

  “Here,” said Arran shortly, digging into his money purse and holding out a sixpence. “For your trouble.”

  “Cor! Thank you, sir!” replied the lad, bobbing his head before dashing back inside the inn leaving Arran alone again in the frigid, snow-covered courtyard that even now was darkening as the sky turned an ominous murky gray.

  Rachel had left him. And the only information he knew for sure was her name, that she had attended a school for foundlings, was connected to a peer, and had caught a stagecoach bound for the largest city in England.

  How would he ever find her again?

  London

  * * *

  “Ouch!”

  Wincing at the splatter of hot stew on her wrist, Rachel gritted her teeth and continued to stir the huge pot hanging over the kitchen fireplace. Every day she reminded herself how incredibly fortunate she’d been to regain employment at Lady Farringdon’s school, even if it was a position lower than her previous one. The baroness had been initially furious at her return, but had grudgingly let her stay, admitting they were short a kitchen maid because one had left for a better opportunity at a townhouse way over in Bedford Square. They were working her especially hard—the worst tasks like plucking chickens, lugging coal buckets, and scrubbing pots—but it was infinitely better than being on the streets. It wasn’t as though she had relatives to take her in, and under no circumstances would she go begging to the rich end of London to try and find Arran. Like it or not, the school was her home. And her future.

  “Rachel! Rachel, where are you?”

  Surprised, she turned to see Lady Farringdon hurry into the kitchens, her cheeks flushed.

  “Here, my lady.”

  “Put down that spoon and splash some water on your face. A prospective patron is in the parlor, and he wishes to speak to you.”

  “Me?” said Rachel, confused. “Why me?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Lady Farringdon irritably, as she turned on her heel,
clearly eager to leave the stifling hot room. “But his lordship is wealthy, well-connected, and would be an excellent benefactor for the school. So hurry up, girl!”

  She stilled, her stomach roiling with nausea. His lordship?

  Had Arran found her?

  In no way was she ready for this. Even weeks later it was too soon, and her soul remained too raw after being shown a glimpse of heaven, only for it to be snatched away. On the other hand, a part of her wanted to blister his ears for his lies.

  And inform him that her monthly bleed had not yet arrived.

  Rachel closed her eyes briefly. It was near impossible to comprehend that she might be a mother in September or October. And if she was indeed with child, while she would love the baby with all her might, she couldn’t help being terrified about the future. Nobody wanted a maid with a swollen belly or a newborn. How would they live? It was true some noblemen did acknowledge and support their illegitimate children, but she knew all too well that others didn’t, or denied the child was even theirs, because they didn’t want trouble with their wife or parents. Arran might give her money. Or turn his back on her completely, like her own father had done.

  But she would face her future once she knew where she stood.

  After wiping her face and hands with a cool cloth, and repinning her hair, she made her way to the parlor. From the heat of the kitchens, the much lower temperature of the hallway and entrance hall was a shock, and she rubbed her arms but didn’t allow herself any longer than a moment for composure before she knocked on the parlor door and went in.

  “You…you wished to see me, your lordship?”

  A man turned from the window and smiled.

  A man not Arran.

  Crushing disappointment surged through her, making her knees buckle.

  “Miss Lindsay! I say, are you unwell?” asked the brown-haired stranger anxiously, hurrying forward to take her gently by the elbow and lead her to an embroidered chaise. “Please, please, take a seat. There you go.”

  Both surprised and wary at his kindness, she regarded her rescuer. Perhaps three or four years older than her, average height, with a portly figure. But the friendly eyes that were regarding her in turn were a very particular—and familiar—shade of hazel. “Who are you?” she breathed, as her heart began to pound.

  “Uncanny, isn’t it?” he said, sitting back on the chaise and nodding solemnly. “There is no mistaking the Jarrow eyes. From our father and his father and his father before him.”

  Her jaw dropped. “What?”

  “Our father, Lord Jarrow. Well, our late father. I am the viscount now. But you are my half-sister, Miss Lindsay, and to my eternal and great shame, I did not know you existed until clearing out Father’s papers from a certain locked drawer in his desk. I found notes in a private ledger of expenses pertaining to the death in childbirth and burial of one Miss Cassandra Lindsay. Then a record of a healthy baby girl named Rachel, plus the donation to a foundling hospital to take her. I will…I will never forgive him for abandoning you when you should have been raised in the nursery with me. Hardly the worst scandal, plenty of households raise half-siblings together, especially daughters. I am so very sorry and can only imagine how difficult your life has been.”

  Shocked to the core by the revelations, Rachel huddled back against the chaise. But one thought remained wedged in her mind. Brother. She had a brother. She wasn’t alone in the world.

  “Lord Jarrow…”

  “Oh! Do call me Harry. May I call you Rachel?”

  She nodded slowly. “How did you find me?”

  “I hired a private investigator. And felt worse, because you were remarkably easy to track down. You went from the hospital to this school. My man followed you for a bit, but apart from a brief journey north, you were here.”

  Rachel winced, pain slicing through her at the reminder of the ‘brief journey north’ that had led to her current predicament. Fortunately, Harry hadn’t noticed and continued speaking.

  “…when I saw his report, and the sketches he drew, I knew there was no doubt. Same eyes, same hair, same long eyelashes. M’wife Celia is desperately jealous of them.”

  “And why did you come here, Harry?” she said softly.

  The viscount blinked. “To fetch you home, naturally. Celia is eager to meet you but is heavy with child and finds travel uncomfortable. She has been directing the servants all week to get your chamber ready. Lovely view of Hanover Square, it has. I won’t have my sister working in a school kitchen, no, that won’t do at all. You’ll have pretty gowns and a dowry, and Celia will introduce you to society after our babe is born, although we might have to say you are my cousin. I don’t want anyone giving you the cut direct because of your birth. We’ll find you a nice gentleman to marry. One with a fine home and good income, no bad habits like gambling hells and whatnot. And who will treat you properly, of course.”

  Oh Lord. Her brother babbled just like she did.

  Rachel burst into tears.

  “Sister!” gasped Harry, patting her hand. “Whatever is the matter? Don’t you want to marry? Are you one of those bluestockings? Then dry your eyes, there is an excellent library in the townhouse, and you can read until your eyeballs fall out…oh dear. Dear me.”

  “I can’t,” she sobbed. “It sounds lovely, but I c-can’t do any of that.”

  “Why can’t you?”

  “Because I’m in disgrace. I m-met the nice gentleman, on that brief j-journey north. And I thought he c-cared. That we had a future. But he is m-married. And I…I think I might be p-pregnant.”

  Harry sat up, a hardness settling over his kind face. “Who? Who is the bounder? Tell me his name at once, and I shall demand satisfaction.”

  “The Marquess of Kyle,” she whispered painfully.

  Her brother frowned. “Kyle isn’t married. No, definitely not. He’s the talk of the ton right now since he is newly arrived, just inherited his title and a vast fortune last year, and is thus a most eligible bachelor.”

  Rachel stared at him, her fingernails digging into her palms. Not married? “But his wife’s name is Sarah. She sent him a note when we were at the inn, saying they had to discuss their marriage.”

  “Wait. I heard this tale at my club. It seems his parents and her parents decided to betroth them when they were children. I understand the Kyles have always done that, old family, high in the instep and particularly rigid with tradition. But the new Lord Kyle is a second son, bit of a black sheep. Neither he nor Lady Sarah wanted a duty marriage, so she graciously jilted him, he cheerfully accepted, and now they are friends. She is to wed a vicar instead. Apparently, that is a love match.”

  “Then Arran is…free?”

  Harry got to his feet and held out his hand. “Not for much longer. Not if I have anything to say about it. Come along, now. Celia will want to hear the whole story over tea and berry tarts. Then a nice hot bath, a gown out of my wife’s wardrobe, and I will accompany you to pay a call on his lordship. And yes, I will pack my pistol, just in case.”

  Chapter 6

  Grosvenor Square, February 1814.

  * * *

  “Do not worry, my lord. We won’t rest until we find her.”

  Perched on his library desk and surrounded by maps of London, the most recent edition of Debrett’s Peerage of England, Scotland, and Ireland, plus lists of schools, orphanages and hospitals, Arran tried to smile at Lady Sarah’s gentle reassurances.

  In truth, smiling had become damned near impossible.

  Six long, aggravating, and endlessly lonely weeks had passed since he’d seen Rachel, and he didn’t even know if she lived. What if she’d been caught by that horrific weather, almost the worst in English history? The heavy mist and fog had rolled in on December twenty-seventh, the day after she’d left. Almost immediately, stories had been shared of coaches missing roads and overturning, riders falling into ditches, numerous collisions, even people walking into buildings, so for safety’s sake he’d made the decision to wait
until the fog lifted. Which hadn’t bloody happened until January third. The fates had laughed then, for as soon as the fog lifted, down came a brutally heavy snowfall, eight feet deep in places, making the streets and roads impassable. He hadn’t made it here to his townhouse until the middle of January.

  The first thing he’d done was make those lists, then each day he and the four footmen plus Simms who all knew what Rachel looked like, had searched a part of the city. Knocking on doors, showing sketches, endlessly traipsing streets…with no luck whatsoever. His ex-betrothed and new friend Lady Sarah and her fiancé Reverend Oakdale had even joined the search, adding possible addresses and speaking to his fellow clergymen to see if Rachel attended their church, but Arran could tell even they were bracing themselves for bad news. They told him London was simply too big a city, with too many people. And accidents, especially in this kind of cold and dangerous weather, were all too frequent.

  Well. His helpers might drift away, but he wouldn’t stop. Not until he knew she was safe, at least.

  A knock sounded on the library door, and Arran wearily lifted his head to see his silver-haired butler standing there, an odd expression on his normally taciturn face. “Yes?”

  “Beg pardon, my lord, but Lord Jarrow requests an audience with you.”

  Arran frowned at the unfamiliar name. “I’m a little busy right now. Tell him to come back another day.”

  “Again, your pardon, but the viscount says it is a personal matter, regarding a certain lady at a certain inn.”

  He froze, scarcely able to breathe. How the hell could this Jarrow possibly know what had happened at the Queen’s Standard? Could he be the worthless relative who had abandoned Rachel and her mother, finally doing his duty? Perhaps a new protector?

  Ready to pummel the man to syllabub either way, Arran near sprinted from the library, his shoe heels skidding on the polished wooden floor as he made his way down the hallway and around the corner to the entrance hall where guests waited. And indeed, there stood a well-dressed gentleman, hat under his arm and cane in hand. But he was young, perhaps only a handful of years older than Rachel. Definitely not an uncle or grandfather.