by Carla Kelly
‘Yes.’
‘That’s it? Yes?’
All those people had been right. How else was it possible to be so comfortable with a man of brief acquaintance, who had offered condolences and turned into a friend, an escort and quite soon a lover and a husband, and probably in that order?
‘Oh, no,’ she teased, even as he pulled her close again. ‘I will want a house and servants, and a good library.’
He smacked his forehead. ‘I was almost ready to change my mind until you mentioned library.’ He turned serious immediately. ‘Once we return to Weltby I will hurry to London for a special licence. Until then, well...’
‘Captain, would you ever play me false?’ she asked.
‘Good God, never,’ he said quickly.
What she was about to say went against everything she had been taught, but these were no ordinary times. ‘I prefer not to sleep alone between here and Kent.’
‘Nor do I,’ he said softly. He looked around the summer porch. ‘With a mattress and enough blankets, this will do.’
He was right. Verity had never spent a better Christmas Eve.
Chapter Twenty
Four days later they arrived in Weltby, after weathering two glorious nights in a summer porch that had proved to be surprisingly adequate for their minimal needs. She was there, he was there and it was private. Verity Newsome-nearly-Everard was, as he suspected, not a woman to do anything by half-measures. They suited each other right down to the marrow of their bones.
On the return mail coach, Joe managed to secure a room in Chittering Corner again, with results similar to the one in Sudbury, except that he finally could throw off the blankets and admire his wife’s lovely body without the addition of gooseflesh. True, the mattress was still noisy, but who cared?
Twilight came early as they walked up the lane to her parents’ house on Lord Blankenship’s estate. He wondered what her parents would think when they announced the need for an immediate wedding and hoped they would not be too distressed. After all, his good lady was well beyond the age requiring any consent.
They astounded him and, to his delight, Verity, too.
Mrs Newsome opened the door, stared at them both, immediately figured out what had happened, whooped like an Algonquin and ran to fetch her husband, leaving them there on the front steps to stare at each other in dumbfounded amazement.
They went inside. He helped Verity out of her cloak and handed it to the maid, who beamed from ear to ear. As he removed his own cloak, Verity went in search of her parents. He followed her down the hall to the book room where, as he recalled, this whole enterprise had begun. Gadfreys, he hoped they were not recoiling in terror or fury at how quickly things had progressed since they entrusted their sole remaining child to him.
‘I pray they are not angry,’ he whispered in Verity’s ear. ‘I am hoping to be the favourite son-in-law.’
‘Their only son-in-law, you wretch,’ she teased back. ‘Let us face the music. Surely your quarterdeck at Trafalgar was more frightening.’
He wasn’t certain about that, but a mere few days of Verity’s generously given love had already taught him not to assume as much as everyone around them had assumed. The Newsomes could be genuinely upset.
The door was open and they went inside.
‘Let me explain—’ he said, only to be cut off by the sight of Papa Newsome going off in a gale of mirth.
Verity knew her parents far better than he did, so he let her proceed. ‘Mama and Papa, what are you up to?’ she asked. ‘Let me state first that Joe and I are heading at dawn to London to procure a special licence. We’ll marry there.’
Mama stopped laughing first. She fished about on the desk and held out his second lieutenant’s journal that he had taken great pains to return to them. Mystified, he reached for it, but she pulled it back.
‘Tell me first, Captain: did you read it?’ she asked.
‘Good God, no, ma’am,’ he assured her. ‘I would never. I left the reading to you.’
With a smile, even though her eyes were bright with tears, she held out the journal to him. He took it from her as tenderly as she offered it, because David Newsome had been an officer of real promise, cut short in his prime.
‘This is his last entry. Look what he wrote, second paragraph from the bottom. Read it out loud, because I want to hear it from you.’
With Verity resting her chin on his shoulder and looking on, he read. ‘“He’s a hard man, but a fair one. He is scrupulous in his duties and never flinches in battle.”’ He looked up, embarrassed. ‘This is difficult to read, ma’am. I do my duty, nothing more.’
‘Keeping reading, son,’ she said, which made him smile.
‘Let’s see. “...scrupulous...never flinches... Between these journal pages and me, let me add that Captain Everard would be the perfect husband for my sister, who is equally fair, scrupulous and devoted.”’
He stopped and took a deep breath. His arm went around Verity and she clung to him. ‘I had no idea,’ she whispered. ‘I never saw this.’
He kissed her cheek and continued. ‘“I wish that fortune might place them together,”’ he read, his heart tender, ‘“but I do not know how that can happen.”’
He closed the journal and returned it to Davey’s mother. ‘You read this the night I arrived, didn’t you?’ he asked. ‘I wondered why you were so insistent that I escort your daughter to Norfolk, when she was obviously capable.’
‘Tell us the whole story over dinner,’ Augustus Newsome said.
‘Aye-aye, sir,’ Joe said. ‘Then Verity and I must bolt to London for a wedding and Admiral Nelson’s funeral. I must return to my ship in Torbay. There are inns aplenty in Torquay, Verity. You’ll come, too.’
The four of them stood close together and he put his arms around them. ‘I’ll charge my wife with purchasing a home somewhere between Plymouth and Portsmouth. You might look hardest in Lyme Regis, dearest, but I trust your judgement.’
‘My goodness, why does this not seem to startle you, Verity?’ Mrs Newsome said. ‘I could never buy a house without Papa there.’
Verity looked at Joe and smiled with her whole heart. ‘You read the journal, Mama. Davey thinks I am scrupulous in my duties and so does Joe. I’ll have a wonderful house ready for him, when next he returns from war.’
* * *
Her wise parents knew better than to insist upon separate rooms. Hours later, after exquisite lovemaking, Joe thought about what Verity had said. There would be someone waiting for him when he returned from the sea, someone he could rely upon utterly and who loved him to the exclusion of all others. With luck, she and their children would greet him, love him and let him return to war until the whole business was done and Bonaparte gone from the earth.
How odd was life. He had begun this Christmastide with nothing on his mind except doing his duty to a subordinate, who turned out to have a lasting effect on him far beyond what the shortness of their acquaintance would have suggested.
The New Year would be here soon, with all its promise, certain to be battered by war, but here all the same. Joe kissed his sleeping darling and closed his eyes, content, fulfilled and happy beyond measure.
* * * * *
THE VISCOUNT’S YULETIDE BETROTHAL
Louise Allen
Dear Reader,
I always love the opportunity to write a Christmas story, but I don’t always know where the inspiration comes from. On this occasion, I had a mental picture of Drew Stanton, back from the wars, facing a tough time and, in the immediate future, a lonely Christmas with his pride keeping him from intruding into his friend’s family celebrations. His mood was as bleak as the freezing fog outside my study window as I wrote.
What Drew needed was a family of his own, even if he thought he was only adopting one for a few days, I realized—and along came Miss Ellie
Jordan, a young lady able to provide all the warmth, and mistletoe, of a merry Christmas, but sorely in need of the help that Drew could provide.
They were an ideal match—if only they’d realize it—and I thoroughly enjoyed giving Drew an experience to melt his heart.
I hope you enjoy it, too, and that Drew and Ellie’s story helps keep you warm when the snow swirls outside.
Louise Allen
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter One
Albany, Piccadilly, London—December 19, 1815
‘“The Vagabond Viscount, Captain A—P—S—is finally in London! The dashing Captain has returned to claim the title after the death last year of his cousin, the reclusive Viscount R—”’
Jack Harfield, Lord Burnham, strolled into the room, nose in newssheet, and propped one shoulder against the doorframe as he read out loud.
From the depths of an armchair by the hearth Captain Andrew Padgett Stanton bestirred himself to hurl a cushion at his host. ‘Stop reading that trash. “Vagabond Viscount”—what will they think of next? Absconding Aristocrat? Peregrinating Peer? Just because I didn’t abandon my unit in the middle of Waterloo and rush back doesn’t make me a vagabond.’
‘You must admit, it might have made claiming the title smoother if you’d done something about it immediately your ghastly relative shuffled off instead of re-joining your unit the moment Boney left Elba. And it didn’t help being stuck like a pincushion by a French lancer, trampled underfoot, losing your kit and all identification and being returned to England four weeks after the battle, still feverish,’ his friend pointed out with infuriating reasonableness.
‘What would have made it smoother was that spiteful old lunatic my second cousin not doing everything in his power to ruin whoever had the misfortune to end up as his heir just because my great-grandfather cheated him out of two acres of land.’ Drew hauled himself upright in the armchair. ‘I don’t know how the newspapers get hold of this stuff. All I wanted to do was sort out the paperwork and go to Suffolk to try and put things right.’
‘And the paperwork involves the College of Heralds, the House of Lords, the Bank of England and four sets of lawyers. Of course someone sold the story to the gossip-hounds. How could they resist?’ Jack wandered over and dropped the newssheet on to Drew’s stomach.
‘Damn good story, too,’ he added as he sank into the chair on the other side of the hearth and picked up the pile of post his man had brought in. ‘Family feud, the eccentric, reclusive and ancient Viscount Ravencroft laying waste to his own lands to spite his family, cousins in line for the title dropping like flies from influenza, too much drink and hunting accidents leaving one man standing. You. Although you were hardly on your feet for long. Then the heroic Captain Stanton, gallant veteran of Waterloo, finally wanders back from the Continent to make his claim.’
‘I didn’t wander, I was carted back on a stretcher,’ Drew pointed out. If he could keep his patience with a mob of paper-pushing heralds and lawyers, he could keep it with his best friend. ‘This came with the post while you were out.’ He prodded an impressive wedge of papers on the stool beside him. ‘Finally, after four months, they’ve got it sorted out, or as sorted as one might expect given that they appear to have half their minds on a prolonged Christmas and New Year holiday away from London. The College of Heralds and the House of Lords say I’ll be confirmed as Viscount Ravencroft in early January and the lawyers and the bankers agree that the property—and the money, such as it is—will be mine by then as well.’
And I won’t have to sponge off you any longer.
He knew better than to say it. Jack had given him a room in his Albany chambers and fed him. He’d loaned him his shirts and his valet as well, saying that Drew would have done exactly the same for him if their situations had been reversed. Which was true, although that wasn’t much salve for his pride. He had always lived on his pay—now half-pay—and it was hardly holding up under the onslaught of legal costs. He could have sold his commission, but caution told him to wait until he had the confirmation of his title and estates signed, sealed and delivered.
Jack was opening post, tossing bills aside. He stopped to read a single sheet. ‘Mama’s wanting to know when I’m coming down for Christmas. Why don’t you come with me, stay until New Year? I promise, no dreary relatives. You’ll enjoy it.’
‘Thanks, but I’d best stay in London.’ His sensitive pride wouldn’t let him, was the truth of it. His dress uniform was shabby, he hadn’t bought new shirts in an age and he certainly couldn’t afford gifts for his hosts. It would be good to be able to tip Jack’s valet and the Albany porters and to afford better food than chophouse fare while Jack was away.
‘I’ve got a pile of reading.’ Which was true. Somehow he must turn himself from a soldier into a landowner and there were books on estate management and agriculture, maps and paperwork in a daunting stack in his room.
Drew scanned the front page of the Morning Post. Young gentlemen with excellent references were advertising for posts as confidential secretaries, a governess was wanted in Perthshire, there was a highly dubious advertisement for shares in a Peruvian silver mine and—
‘Something interesting?’ Jack looked up from muttering over what, from the scent that was wafting across to Drew’s nostrils, had to be a billet doux from his mistress.
‘This. It sounds decidedly peculiar. “A Lady requires the Services of a Gentleman of the Utmost Discretion over the Christmas period. Full board and lodging for the Festive Season and Remuneration Fully Commensurate with the Delicacy of the Task and the Degree of Sensitivity required. Apply in person to Templeton, Ague and Ague, Old Mitre Court, Middle Temple, between the hours of ten and four.” Delicacy, sensitivity and discretion, indeed? I wonder what the lady in question requires and what payment is fully commensurate with that.’
Payment. He could do discretion. Sensitivity at a pinch. He wasn’t too sure about delicacy.
Jack snorted. ‘Easy enough. It can only be one of two things. A lady wants to present her husband with an heir because he isn’t capable of fathering one, or a lady wants to experience the joys of the marriage bed without benefit of clergy.’
‘And approaches it by advertising through a solicitor? Surely not.’
‘You’d be surprised,’ Jack said darkly. ‘Those lawyers will do anything for a price. You aren’t still fretting about money, are you? Damn it, if you’d only borrow what you need—All right, have it your own way, you stiff-rumped idiot,’ he said with a grin when Drew shook his head. ‘I’ll bet twenty guineas against your Manton pocket pistol that you won’t answer that advertisement, in person, tomorrow—and take the job if it is offered.’
Drew rolled up the newspaper, lifted it in mock threat, then lowered it again. What harm could a simple enquiry do? And, besides, he wasn’t convinced by Jack’s glib explanations. It was a mystery and he enjoyed a mystery. Twenty guineas won fair and square was a different matter entirely from a loan. ‘Done, I’ll take your wager.’
* * *
‘I do not like to say I told you so, Miss Jordan, but every man—I will not say gentleman—who has passed through these doors in the past two days has come with the basest of motives.’ Mr Ague Junior—Mr Templeton had long been gathered to his rest and Mr Ague Senior who was eighty-six and irascible with gout had refused to have anything to do with the matter—drew a line through the latest applicant. He pulled his spectacles off his nose and tossed them on to the desk with the air of a man throwing in his hand.
Ellie peered through the fine mesh of her veil at the list in front of the solicitor and shuddered faintly. She had thought
she was unshockable, worldly-wise. It was clear that she was not, as the heat in her cheeks testified. ‘I do not know how else I could have worded the advertisement, not without revealing the exact purpose and that would be self-defeating. Are there no more applicants?’
Mr Ague rang the bell on his desk and his clerk came through from the outer office. ‘Just one more, sir. In uniform. A Captain Padgett.’
‘Give us two minutes and show him in. The name has novelty, at least. Not one of the Smith or Jones clans.’ Mr Ague gave a high-pitched titter as Ellie moved back to her chair in the shadowed corner. Her spirits were sinking along with the light levels.
Outside it was barely two o’clock, but a smoggy winter gloom was descending over the narrow courts of the Middle Temple and all the light in the room was concentrated around the desk, the better to conceal her in the shadows. The only bright spot was the incongruous sprig of holly sitting in an empty inkwell on the desk, its berries glowing. And even that reminded her how close Christmas was and how desperate she was becoming.
‘Captain Padgett, sir.’
Well. Goodness. Ellie blinked as the tall figure moved into the pool of lamplight around the desk. He seemed to bring cold air with him, a swirl of fog. And, paradoxically, heat. Or perhaps intensity. Masculinity, certainly.
‘Please sit down, Captain.’ Mr Ague put on his spectacles again. ‘You are an army officer, I see. Why do you wish to apply for this position?’
‘I am a half-pay officer. The fully commensurate remuneration is, naturally, a consideration. I also have to confess to curiosity.’
