Have Yourself a Merry Little Secret : a Christmas collection of historical romance (Have Yourself a Merry Little... Book 2)
Page 12
The Knot of a Knight
by Linda Rae Sande
A Widow Left Alone
Bradley House, Curzon Street, Mayfair
December 1824
Despite the bleak, gray skies outside her first floor parlor window, Xenobia Dunsworth was smiling for the first time in an age.
There were callers in her parlor.
And she wasn’t wearing black, lavender, or gray.
In fact, she had instructed her lady’s maid to find the brightest colored gown in her wardrobe so that she might greet her callers looking her very best. “Something that portends the holiday,” she had said in response to her lady’s maid’s query earlier as to what she might like to wear that day. “Christmas is only a week away, Sullivan, and although I no longer have a husband with whom to share it, I intend to celebrate.”
She was fairly sure Sullivan looked as if she were about to faint at hearing her proclamation. “Don’t faint on me now,” Xenobia warned.
“Oh, I wouldn’t dare, my lady,” Sullivan replied. She was quick to pull out a frock in a color that could best be described as poppy red, except that some draper thought it better to use the French term, coquelicot.
Xenobia didn’t care. The gown had a blush appearing on her pale cheeks and enhanced lips she had surreptitiously dabbed with a bit of color.
“Now that you are out of mourning, we shall expect you at all the entertainments,” Julia gushed as she helped herself to another Dutch biscuit. Lady Julia Comber, a cousin by way of her mother, had been Xenobia’s closest friend since the death of her husband, Baron James Dunsworth. James had been Xenobia’s very best friend her entire life.
“It is too bad there are so few here in London during the winter months,” Lady Pettigrew lamented. The elderly viscountess, an inveterate gossip, eyed the remaining cakes as if she were keeping count of who had consumed which ones and how many.
“April is not too far away,” Lady Caroline Chamberlain remarked. Her husband, Viscount Matthew Chamberlain, was the head of the Foreign Office despite his age.
“I fear I have been forgotten by the ton since it has been so long since I attended even the theatre,” Xenobia lamented. James had died in November of 1823, which meant she had essentially been out of sight for over a year.
And out of sorts.
To lose her very best friend to pneumonia had been devastating. Then, to suffer alone for so long, with only Julia with whom to spend time when her cousin could manage to be away from a growing family, had her stitching and needlepointing until her fingers bled. She had taken up drawing, although her efforts had yet to look like whatever it was she was attempting to draw. A wish to escape her reality had her reading every novel she could borrow from the circulating library.
The Gothics kept her awake at night. The mysteries were predictable. The humorous stories barely made her smile.
“Well, I really must be going,” Lady Pettigrew announced suddenly.
“So soon?” Xenobia replied, a quick glance at the mantle clock showing the viscountess had only been in her parlor for half-an-hour.
“Yes, well, I must pay a call on your neighbor. She is so rarely in town,” she replied, referring to Countess Middleton.
“Of course. I’ll see you out,” Xenobia offered as she moved to stand up.
“Oh, there’s no need. Look. Chesterfield is here,” the older woman said, referring to the butler. With that, Lady Pettigrew sailed out of the room, the butler quickly escorting her down the stairs and to the front door.
Xenobia realized then that Eugenia Pettigrew had arranged for Chesterfield to interrupt them after exactly thirty minutes. She turned her attention on Julia and Caroline. “I do hope you’re not going to leave, too,” she murmured.
Julia angled her head. “Not for a few more minutes,” she replied as she helped herself to another cake. “Now that she’s gone, I feel as if I can speak freely and eat.”
Dipping her head as she attempted to suppress a knowing grin, Xenobia did the same.
Caroline grinned as she took another cake. “I’m of the same mind as you, even if I am not eating for two any longer.” Despite her age, the viscountess had given birth to her third child just a few years earlier. “Besides, Chamberlain said he would be late for dinner this evening.”
Julia and Xenobia exchanged quick glances. Xenobia knew first-hand what a comment like that could mean. Caroline caught their concerned looks, though, and leaned forward.
“It’s not an affaire, unless you’re referring to his devotion to his job. He’s got his men after counterfeiters,” she whispered hoarsely. “Apparently, there are about to be some arrests made.” This last was said in a manner suggesting she was sharing a secret.
“Counterfeiters?” Julia repeated. “You mean, fake bank notes? I thought that had been solved a few years ago? All those women they put to death?”
Xenobia cringed at remembering the Bank of England’s efforts to stop counterfeiters. Their agents had caught mostly women passing the bank notes—many of whom had no idea they were doing so. Those making the counterfeit notes were rarely discovered and prosecuted. “As long as there is paper money instead of coin, there will always be counterfeiting. At least, that’s what James used to say,” Xenobia said before refilling Caroline’s teacup.
“Chamberlain would agree with that,” Caroline replied. “Apparently his agents are after some foreigners who are bringing it in from another country. I’ll just let you guess which one.”
Julia inhaled. “France?”
Caroline nodded.
“But, how are they passing them?” Xenobia asked.
“In gaming establishments. Here in Mayfair. In St. James Street, in fact,” Caroline replied. “That street has become nothing but men’s clubs and gaming hells,” she complained. She suddenly glanced at the clock over the fireplace mantle. “And speaking of St. James Street, I must head in that direction. I’ve an order in Jermyn Street to pick up.”
Julia and Xenobia said their farewells to the viscountess and returned their attentions to their tea.
“Are the children well?” Xenobia asked.
Waving a hand in the air, her cousin Julia rolled her blue eyes and gave her head a shake. Every last golden blonde strand remained in place. “Everyone is fine. Juliet has decided horses will be her life—and her father is doing nothing to disabuse her of the idea.”
“Perhaps he shouldn’t,” Xenobia countered. “By the time she’s old enough to wed, there will be men who will appreciate a fine horsewoman more than they do now.”
Julia allowed a shrug. “Perhaps.” The word didn’t hold much hope.
“What of your son?”
“Jamie has a head cold, but he’s the last to have it. Alistair says there will be four new colts in the Harrington House stables this spring. And this one...” She paused and leaned back as she placed a hand over her belly. “Has learned how to kick.” She straightened as much as she could. “I am worried about you.”
Xenobia’s eyes widened. “Why?”
Julia sighed. “You’re all alone. You’ve lost your best friend—”
“You needn’t make it sound as if I misplaced him.”
“—and you’re still young enough to find another and become a mother. You’ve always wanted children,” Julia went on, ignoring the interruption.
“I am nearly five-and-twenty years old,” Xenobia said in protest.
“But you’re not dead.”
Xenobia blinked. The words had sounded as if they were a scold.
“I was recently introduced to a gentleman whom I think you should meet.”
“Julia,—”
“My husband thinks the world of him, I believe because he knew what to do with Jupiter.”
“Jupiter?” Xenobia repeated, thinking she referred to the planet.
Whatever could a man do to Jupiter?
“His horse, of course. Now, I’m going to see to it you two meet—”
“Julia!”
Xenobia relaxed into the settee. “Is... is he an aristocrat?” She struggled to recall if she had heard or read anything about a lord having lost a wife to childbirth in the last year.
Julia angled her head as if she were attempting to solve a math problem in her head. “He is certainly related to one,” she finally hedged.
“But I haven’t met him?”
Her cousin shook her head. “Doubtful, unless you’ve been at Tattersall’s or the race track.”
Xenobia rolled her eyes. She hadn’t been to the Derby or the Ascot in years, and she had never been to the auction house featuring horses. “You know I have not.”
“Well, then. It’s settled,” Julia announced as she struggled to stand up, the evidence of her pregnancy making itself apparent. “I’ll send you a note as to when you can expect him. I’m off,” she said, at the very moment Chesterfield once again appeared on the parlor threshold.
“Thank you so much for coming,” Xenobia said as she watched her friend take her leave. “And Happy Christmas!”
Allowing a sigh, Xenobia regarded the tray of cakes and helped herself to the last one. With no one to watch, she ate the entire piece with a second cup of tea as she considered Julia’s comment.
A Missive Most Curious
Later that afternoon
Xenobia finished a Christmas greeting to her late husband’s mother and regarded the parchment with a critical eye. She never knew what to write to Agnes Dunsworth. The dowager baroness still lived on the barony’s estate in Kent, and although she had written to invite Xenobia to join her there on a permanent basis—in the event you find Town too much to bear—Xenobia knew better than to accept the invitation.
No amount of desperation would have her moving to a country estate in Kent, no matter how beautiful or how vast. She didn’t wish to feel more alone than she already did.
Chesterfield appeared on the threshold of her salon the very moment she finished folding the letter. “This was just delivered by a footman,” he said as he held out a silver salver.
The white note emblazoned with only her first name had Xenobia frowning—until she recognized Julia’s handwriting. “Very good, Chesterfield. And this one is ready to post,” she added as she finished addressing her letter. She placed it on the salver and helped herself to Julia’s missive, unfolding the note as if it might contain an explosive device.
Before the butler could take his leave, she asked, “Have the Christmas flowers arrived yet?”
The butler nodded. “They have, my lady. However...” He paused and allowed a pained expression.
“What is it?”
“There are far more of them than there is room in the parlor,” he murmured quietly.
Xenobia considered how she had placed the order with the hot house in Chiswick. Enough red and white flowers to fill a barrel.
Apparently they were thinking of a very large barrel.
“I’ll come down and arrange them in a moment,” she replied. “In the meantime, gather up every available vase from around the house, and have a footman go up to the attic. See if he can’t find the round table that used to be in the hall. Near the base of the stairs.”
She had always been curious as to why her father had ordered all the furnishings in the hall be removed at some point before his death. Although he didn’t live long enough to explain it to her, her mother had simply waved a hand and insisted it was nothing. Besides, she and her mother didn’t live at Bradley House, but rather in a dowager cottage on the grounds of the Pendleton estate. Xenobia had moved into Bradley House upon her marriage to James Dunsworth after learning she had inherited it from the army captain.
“Yes, my lady,” Chesterfield replied before he quickly took his leave.
Smiling at the thought of fresh flowers filling Bradley House, Xenobia turned her attention to Julia’s note.
My dearest Cousin Xenobia,
It has taken my very best behavior and all my cleverness, but I have managed to secure an appointment for you to meet with him at nine o’clock. I know it is a terrible time, but he will pay a call on you, so there is no need for you to go out.
Xenobia glanced up.
He? Him? Who?
She scanned the note again for a name and found none. Reading the rest of the missive was of no help, either.
Please do not dismiss him out of hand. I just have this incredible sense of wonder that you two might enjoy one another’s company. Of course, that may be because the baby has spent the entire morning kicking me senseless. I do hope this one is a boy, or I will be doomed to have a hoyden. The horrors!
Do let me know how it goes.
Julia
Xenobia dropped the note on her escritoire as if it were on fire.
Nine o’clock.
Well, she was usually awake well before then, but not always dressed for the day. She would make an exception, of course, and have her lady’s maid do her hair in something more appealing than a top knot or a bun at the back of her head. She could wear the poppy-colored gown and hope that it would account for how red her face would be when the mysterious man appeared.
I don’t know his name. We’ve probably never even been introduced, she thought as a bit of panic swept through her.
Then she remembered what Julia had said about Jupiter. About Tattersall’s and the races.
She hurried down to the library and scanned the foiled titles of her late father’s collection of books. When she found one with the word ‘horse’ in the title, she pulled it from the shelf. A Treatise on the Breeding of Thoroughbred Horses was printed on the title page.
Finding no other books about horses, she reluctantly placed this one in the crook of her arm and then stepped into the ground floor salon. The scents of hot house flowers assaulted her as she paused on the threshold, stunned to discover pasteboard boxes of flowers stacked about the room.
“Oh, dear,” she murmured. A watering can and a number of vases were set up on the low table, and she quickly assembled several arrangements, passing them off to a housemaid and Smith, a footman, for placement in all the public rooms.
She still had several boxes of flowers remaining when the last of the vases was filled. “Chesterfield, I need the punch bowl,” she announced when the servant appeared on the threshold.
“Right away, my lady. Colburn has just informed me that there are no tables in the attic,” he said, referring to the other footman. “But he says that the table that used to be in the hall is now in the study. As are the caryatids that used to be in the hall between the doorways.”
Xenobia blinked. She tried to recall ever noticing a round table in there—she was only ever in the study to pay bills—when Chesterfield added, “It’s more of a... gaming table, my lady.”
“Is it round?”
His eyes darting sideways, Chesterfield finally gave a nod. “It’s covered in felt, my lady. For playing cards.”
“Well, it will have to do until I can have a proper one installed,” Xenobia replied. “Please see to its placement in the hall and just... cover it with a tablecloth. We’ll put the punchbowl on it, and no one will be the wiser.”
Although he seemed reluctant, Chesterfield finally gave a nod and took his leave.
With nothing to do until the punchbowl was delivered, Xenobia made her way to the study. She immediately found the four caryatids—they had been in the study as long as she could remember—lined up on one of the short walls behind a leather sofa.
The gaming table was at the opposite end of the room. Featuring a huge tripod base of carved mahogany, the round surface was covered in a deep red felt. Although it was a bit scuffed, the fabric wasn’t torn, and the wood’s smooth finish was a testament to its frequent cleaning.
Bending down, Xenobia studied the edges of the table, her fingertips travelin
g over the curious ornate carvings and inlaid wood patterns. From their shape, she was sure they had some purpose other than decoration. She was about to sit in one of the accompanying chairs to gain a better vantage when two footmen appeared to move the table.
She took her leave so that the servants had room to work and then resumed her flower arranging in the salon.
By the time she had the punchbowl filled with white roses, it looked like a snowball when Smith placed it on the red felt-topped table.
“Vera appropriate, my lady,” the housekeeper remarked when she paused on her way between rooms.
“Thank you, Barclay. These flowers may have to do for decorations this year. I haven’t yet arranged for any evergreens for Christmas Eve. I wonder if it’s too late?” She hadn’t bothered with any Christmas celebrations the year before given her husband’s death.
“I can find out for you on the morrow, my lady. Cook and I will be going to market. If I find a tree cutter, I’ll make the arrangements. We can have the footmen see to bringing them into the house the morning of Christmas Eve.”
“Very good,” Xenobia replied, taking a deep breath when she realized the floral scents had already begun to fill the hall.
Once she had confirmed all the flower boxes were empty, she retrieved the book on horse breeding and made her way to the upstairs parlor. She rang for tea and settled in for another late afternoon of reading.
When dinner was served, Xenobia took it in the parlor, looking up from the pages only to take a bite of food. By the time Colburn retrieved the dishes and a maid had delivered tea, she had read over half the book, and the floral scents from no less than three vases filled with red roses had permeated the room.
If she had any intention of raising horses suitable for the Derby or one of the other horse races run under the auspices of The Jockey Club, she was fairly sure she knew what she was looking for when it came to horseflesh.