Hanukkah at the Great Greenwich Ice Creamery: A heart-warming Christmas romance full of surprises

by Sharon Ibbotson

  Special mentions to Sarah Roberts, whose friendship and story-gifting has kept me sane this year, to Nancy Wang, who loved this story first, to my husband, my son Benjamin and my daughter Sarah, and to the lovely ladies from the RNA London chapter, especially Jenny Haddon, Bella Andre, Liz Harris, Carol Cooper, Fi Harper, Janet Gover, Clare Flynn, Maryam Oliver, Henri Gyland, Giselle Green, Sophie Rodger and Lucinda Lee. I look forward to our evenings and your advice more than you know.

  Copyright © 2019 Sharon Ibbotson

  Published 2019 by Choc Lit Limited

  Penrose House, Crawley Drive, Camberley, Surrey GU15 2AB, UK

  www.choc-lit.com

  The right of Sharon Ibbotson to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher or a licence permitting restricted copying. In the UK such licences are issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, Barnards Inn, 86 Fetter Lane, London EC4A 1EN

  EPUB: 978-1-78189-392-0

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  A Game of Desire

  by Sharon Ibbotson

  PROLOGUE

  Addington House, Kent, 1805

  An ear-splitting crack resounded through the room as Edward, the fifth Earl of Addington, slammed his hand down upon the table. He was white-hot with rage, the blood pumping hard throughout his body.

  ‘Damn it all to hell, Wilson,’ he swore at his manservant, throwing a broadsheet onto the table. ‘What does this all mean?’

  Cowering before him, Wilson took a deep breath. ‘It is as the papers report, my lord. Lady Harriet Forrest, who was your deceased father’s …’

  ‘His whore,’ Edward snapped. ‘You need not be frightened of the word here.’

  ‘Yes.’ Wilson cleared his throat. ‘Well, she has announced a large gaming party, to be held at the end of June. And it would also seem that the Carina, once your family’s priceless diamond necklace, is to be the main prize.’

  ‘The prize?’ Disbelief tinged Edward’s words. ‘The prize? The Carina has been in the Addington family for generations. It is locked in a safe here, at our family home. How can it be made a prize in a gaming party?’

  Wilson’s hands shook slightly. ‘The Carina is not in the safe here, my lord, and nor does it still belong to your family.’

  Edward froze. ‘What do you mean?’

  Wilson sighed. ‘Before his death, your father sold the Carina in order to ease the strain on his finances.’

  ‘Impossible,’ Edward replied tersely. ‘I myself prevented its sale, five years ago,’ he added, instantly recalling Felicity Fox, all creamy skin and hazel eyes, imploring him to listen in the candlelight. He shut that memory down rapidly.

  Wilson paused. ‘To Mrs Fox, yes, you did. But after Mrs Fox left, and you returned to Portsmouth, your father … he sold the Carina to Mrs Forrest.’

  ‘Harriet Forrest.’ Edward shook his head in disgust. ‘I thought after I prevented Mrs Fox from swindling him, that my father might have learned a valuable lesson. I even thought he might accept my offer of financial assistance. Instead, he sold the Carina to his mistress, who now makes the necklace a grand prize in her seedy gaming night.’

  Edward sighed, running a hand through his hair. It was a thick mane, as black as the night sky and still untouched by grey, though he was well into his thirties.

  ‘My father truly was a fool,’ he said sadly. ‘A drunk, wagering fool.’

  Wilson said nothing, and Edward exhaled deeply. He still recalled those moments five years ago, once again seeing Felicity Fox in his mind, the Carina in her hands and held up to the light, his father drunk by her side. Neither of them had known he had arrived. Neither of them saw him standing in the shadows.

  ‘See how dull these gems are, even by the flame of the candle, my lord?’ Felicity had said, her voice soft. ‘And see here, that fleck in the third gem? These are not real diamonds,’ she’d assured him. ‘Sadly, your Carina is paste, a mere replica.’

  His father had stared at the necklace in her hands, swaying on his feet. ‘That’s a damned shame,’ he slurred. ‘Was hoping to shift it and have the money instead.’ He’d leaned closer to her. ‘I’m a few guineas in debt, you see. A few wagers have gone wrong, some investments turned bad.’

  At that, Felicity’s eyes had flashed darkly, but her face only smiled. ‘Well, I would be happy to buy it,’ she’d said easily. ‘The diamonds are, as I said, quite worthless. But the silver of the setting is quite … well, quite pretty. I should pay you for that.’

  His father had stared once more at the Carina in her hands. ‘My wife wore that on our wedding day,’ he told her, his voice abruptly clear.

  Felicity nodded compassionately. ‘As I said, it is still a very pretty piece. And I’m sure she looked lovely in it.’

  ‘She did,’ his father replied reverently. ‘Still, you say it’s worthless?’

  ‘I’ve been working with jewellery for years,’ Felicity said, with a wave of her hand. ‘I know gems, false and otherwise. Paste is more common than you would think. An illustrious family runs into financial difficulties, so they sell off a piece or two to make ends meet. They then have a replica made to keep up appearances, and the polite world is none the wiser.’

  ‘You know gems? I thought you were a gambler?’ his father queried, and Felicity shrugged.

  ‘Let us just say I have a wide range of interests.’

  His father stared at her, at her wide, innocent eyes and flushed cheeks. Finally, he nodded.

  ‘Alright, you can have them, for the price of the silver.’

  Her face erupted into a smile, bright and optimistic.

  But it fell a moment later, when Edward emerged from the shadows.

  It still sent a dart of anger through Edward when he thought of how close the family had come to losing the Carina. Generations of Addington brides were wed wearing the heavy necklace, icy diamonds glittering against satin dresses and alabaster throats. He’d been fortunate to foil Felicity’s plans, very fortunate indeed.

  Edward remembered storming forwards and wrenching the Carina from her shaking hands. His father, staggering toward him, went red with both brandy and humiliation. The old Earl, his notorious temper awakened, raged at his only son.

  ‘They’re mine to sell, you brute!’ he cried. ‘At whatever price I choose! I’m still the Earl of Addington, damn you, and until I’m good and dead you’ll keep out of my affairs!’

  ‘She’s a trickster, Father!’ Edward retorted, one hand sweeping in the direction of Felicity. ‘How could you ever believe that these diamonds are paste? Why would you sell them for so little? You cannot be in so much debt as that!’

  His father remained red-faced but fell silent, and Edward shook his head in exasperation. ‘You’ve wagered it all, again? And lost the lot, I imagine? How many times, Father, how many times!’

  ‘It’s mine to wager,’ his father found his voice. ‘This is my home and my estate, and if I want to gamble away the lot I shall. It’s not as if you even need your inheritance boy, not when you’ve made your own fortune.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Not that I’ve ever seen a guinea from you.’

  Edward clenched his teeth. ‘I’ve covered your gambling debts twice now, sir.’

  ‘Hah! Only to save your precious Addington House, and your precious Carina. I could rot, for all you care. Well, I don’t want your damn money.’

  His father’s words still stung, though five years had passed since that day, and three months more since the old earl’s passing.

  Edward looked up to the portrait that hung ab
ove the fire; it was of his father in his prime, when he’d been new to the earldom, his beloved wife by his side. For a moment Edward gazed at his parents. They were so happy in this portrait, so in love. His mother, who gifted him with his dark hair, wore the Carina diamonds about her neck, her hands resting in her husband’s. Edward looked at her closely, this image of a woman who was so familiar to him though a stranger.

  He never knew his mother. Within a year of this portrait being finished she was dead, lost in childbirth. His father never recovered from his loss, slowly drinking himself into a debt-laden gambler. The earl resented the small, mewling baby boy who’d taken his wife from him; as Edward grew into a man, that resentment boiled over into outright hatred.

  But no matter. There were more pressing concerns at hand. He had to reclaim the Carina, at any cost.

  But how? Edward clenched his hands in frustration, for he, a gentleman in the truest sense of the word, was no gambler. Of course, he played the odd game of cards from time to time, but he was no fool; he knew his skills in the gaming room were sorely lacking. Not that he had ever cared before. Gaming reminded him all too much of his father.

  Enough. He needed to be away from this house with it’s tainted walls. He needed to feel the crisp, cool wind of early spring upon his neck, to breathe clean air.

  ‘Where is Anderson, the gamekeeper?’ he asked. ‘I have it in mind to shoot.’

  Wilson seemed surprised. ‘Anderson retired, my lord, some years ago. We have a new gamekeeper now, a Mr Thatcher.’

  ‘Thatcher?’ Edward queried. ‘I don’t know him.’

  ‘He was your father’s choice, my lord, though an odd one. He was a poacher, you see, from a nearby village. He was caught, and your father, rather than having him hung, instead offered him Anderson’s position.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, my Lord,’ Wilson carried on. ‘I have to say, we were all pleasantly surprised by Thatcher. We had some trouble with foxes two summers past, and Thatcher, well, he dealt with them admirably. But I suppose when there’s vermin to be dealt with, a poacher turned gamekeeper is the man to ask. Kindred spirits, and all.’

  Edward stopped in his tracks, the breath just about frozen in his mouth.

  ‘Kindred spirits?’ he asked swiftly.

  ‘Yes, my lord. A poacher and vermin are scavengers alike, you see. If you need the vermin dealt with, you might as well use the poacher to flush them out. They understand one another, I imagine.’

  Edward’s hands were rigid and his eyes dark while he thought on this. Of course, it was so obvious. Why hadn’t he thought of it before?

  ‘Set a thief to catch a thief,’ Edward muttered.

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘Wilson, pack my things and have my horses readied. I must away as soon as possible.’

  If Wilson was surprised, he knew better than to show it. ‘You are to London again, my lord?’

  Edward shook his head. ‘No, not to London. To Yorkshire. I have an acquaintance there whose assistance I need.’

  An acquaintance. It was damnable, really. He’d sworn never to set eyes on her again. He’d told her that if she ever returned to London, he’d make her life hell. And now he was to go to her, head bowed, and beg of her a favour.

  The Queen of Diamonds. Damnation, even her nom de guerre made his body tense … and his heart to treacherously quicken.

  CHAPTER ONE

  1805, Scarborough, Yorkshire

  The room was thick with cigar smoke and anticipation.

  An odd assortment of gentlemen gathered in the room. Some of the men were lean, their wiry bodies hidden beneath their tailoring, while some were portly and straining at their seams. Some were frivolous, money simply trickling through their fingers, while others were desperate, bleak looks disguised behind wine-sodden eyes. But no matter their station in life, all currently held their breath with mounting excitement.

  There was but one throw left in the game, a single roll to decide the outcome of this long running battle of wills. A hundred guineas lay on the table, an obscene stake for this part of the world, and more money than most of the gentlemen who huddled into the dimly lit room had ever seen; more than they might ever see again. They could hardly contain their exhilaration, for what began as a rather dull and routine evening of port and cards had escalated into something much more dramatic. This, they imagined, was the sort of night you saw in the gaming hells of London, not the sleepy streets of Scarborough.

  Yes, there was no doubt about it. From the moment the lady had entered the room, she’d brought with her a kind of magic.

  On one side of the table, his face tense and hand twitching, a man sat sweating. The crowd pitied him, for he was but a small northern landowner, who could ill-afford to lose a hundred guineas. He’d gambled his livelihood in a moment of madness, but it was a moment of madness the crowd understood, for the lady, with her sweet smile and shining eyes, was damned difficult to refuse. Her eyes were soft and her laugh silky, while her mouth, with its full lips, had the sweetest little way of frowning when confused by the rules of the game. She won a few small rounds of whist and then baccarat, and although it was odd that a woman was even allowed into a gaming hall, no one resented her presence, for she was as pleasant in her rare defeats as she was in her victories. The crowd murmured approvingly, for this lady took her losses like a gentleman.

  When the dice came out, they laughingly pressed her into a throw or two, but it wasn’t long before the laughter died. The Gods of good fortune seemed to smile upon her and the stakes went up and up, until pockets were emptied, and curses bellowed. Still, she smiled sweetly and seemed as surprised as any at her unexpected success.

  ‘How droll,’ she laughed, with an airy wave of her hand.

  Her good fortune made her current competitor nervous, even though his was a good set of dice to beat. His six and four lay dangerously before him, the white polished dice obvious against the green velvet of the table. Only a five and six or double sixes would best him now, and the likelihood of the lady throwing either of those was slim. She’d been lucky so far tonight, damned lucky in fact, but as most of these seasoned gamblers knew, luck almost always ran out.

  Aware but uncaring of the many eyes upon her, Felicity Fox was making quick calculations in her head.

  ‘One hundred guineas,’ she mulled silently. ‘Three cows and seven sheep.’

  A squire’s daughter, her understanding of money was forever rooted in the cost of livestock and grain. She couldn’t tell you the price of gold or the current return on government bonds, but she knew exactly what a prize bull might fetch at auction or a bale of wool bring at market.

  A hundred guineas … such a sum of money. And Felicity needed every penny.

  The dice were held firmly in her gloved hand, square, firm, and reassuring in their unchanging allegiance to chance. Tonight, she’d been more successful than she could have ever hoped. A small fortune awaited her if the dice rolled to her favour, and God knew she could do with the money.

  ‘Let’s see what Lady Luck has in store then … roll the dice!’ a voice called out.

  But Felicity held firm; she was a woman who did things in her own time and would not be rushed.

  ‘Lady Luck?’ She smiled. ‘My dear sir, one makes their own luck, and God help the man – or woman! – who forgets this most cardinal of rules!’

  She gave a sweeping curtsy, her mane of auburn hair dancing in the candlelight, and just as her back straightened she threw the dice. It was an unexpected but dazzling move, and the crowd surged forward excitedly to watch the result of this game. When the dice settled, nestled against a corner of the table, a resounding cheer carried forth across the room, a dozen men at once all rushing to congratulate the winner.

  Felicity shrugged, careful not to let her true feelings show. ‘My congratulations, sir.’ She nodded to her competitor, whose relief was visibly immense. His face, still damp with sweat, was white with shock. He’d near enough doubled his yearly i
ncome with one throw of the dice.

  ‘Luck is on my side tonight, it would seem,’ he replied, wiping his brow.

  Felicity did not believe it. There was no such thing as luck, only chance. Believing in luck was dangerous and foolhardy, the worst trap for any gambler. She’d seen first-hand how a belief in luck could ruin a good man. But who was she to disabuse this gentleman of his notions? Not that he would listen anyway. No man ever listened to a woman. Standing, Felicity gave a tight smile.

  ‘Again, my congratulations.’

  She turned away from the table and the hundred guineas. A glass of wine was pressed into her hand, and a few men called her to join them for a quick game of cards. They imagined her luck had turned; that she was an injured animal whose pride was wounded. Well, only a fool would play on now, and Felicity was no fool. She refused politely, a sudden weariness taking hold. She was done for the night. She longed for nothing more now than a bath and her bed.

  For a moment, Felicity wished she could afford a hired carriage to take her back to her lodgings. But it was an impossible luxury, for there was another payment due tomorrow. It seemed to Felicity there was always another bill to settle or expense to reckon with. She sighed, for the end of the month and that terrible debt always crept up on her. And every month, she was always cajoled for more. The wolf was forever at her door and he was a greedy beast, insatiable for funds. Felicity knew what it was to be poor; day-to-day she wrestled with the desperation of an empty stomach, the biting pain of cold, and the utter hopelessness of a life spent under the yoke of debt. It was a miserable existence, and one she would not wish on anyone.