Have Yourself a Merry Little Secret : a Christmas collection of historical romance (Have Yourself a Merry Little... Book 2)

by Collette Cameron

  “About damned time,” Randall murmured, positioning himself to finally take a shot. “Thought I’d never get my chance.” He leaned over, hit the white ball, and watched with satisfaction as the ball it collided with landed in a side pocket.

  “Good shot,” Randolph remarked, but sighed when he saw his father’s next attempt go off at a bad angle.

  “It’s nearly nine o’clock,” Randall said, his attention on the mantle clock directly across from where he stood. “As I recall, you have an appointment with Lady Dunsworth.”

  Randolph straightened from his missed shot and allowed a sigh. “I should be off then,” he said, his expression showing indecision.

  “Son, I just knew,” Randall stated then, in answer to Randolph’s earlier query. “I cannot admit that it was love at first sight, for I believe I was merely intrigued with Connie at the start. But I could not imagine finding a better woman to be my wife. My marchioness. The mother of my two youngest sons.”

  Allowing a nod, Randolph gave a slight bow. “I’ll see myself out and discover what I can about this timid filly.”

  He took his leave of the Curzon Street townhouse and made his way east, counting doors until he reached the tenth one with the blue door.

  Following Lady Comber’s advice, Randolph opened the door and let himself in.

  A Mysterious Man Pays a Call

  A moment later, in Bradley House

  There was no knock at the door, no indication a caller had come to Bradley House. Chesterfield only discovered the intruder because he was on his way to secure the front door for the night.

  Finding a man at the base of the marble stairs had him pausing. He might have let out a shout to summon a footman, but both Colburn and Smith had left the house earlier that evening. Seeing the manner in which the intruder was dressed had him instead giving a slight bow. That and the way he was gazing up, as if he were staring at someone at the top of the stairs.

  A quick glance up assured Chesterfield his mistress wasn’t standing there. Nor was anyone else, for that matter.

  “On whom do you pay a call this evening?” Chesterfield asked.

  Randolph dared another quick glance up the stairs, noticing that the railing was decorated with red velvet ribbons. Coupled with the huge bouquet of white roses that adorned the odd hall table, he knew the mistress of the house was looking forward to the holiday. He turned his attention to the servant. “Your question implies there is more than one master or mistress in residence. I understood there was a single mistress,” he replied. “I’ve been told I am expected.” He didn’t offer a card, though, nor his name. Lady Comber had implied the butler would be deaf to his arrival.

  Chesterfield bristled, his immediate dislike of the gentleman sounding in his response. “Sir, I must ask you to leave. Lady Dunsworth isn’t receiving callers this evening,” he said, waving his hand toward the small vestibule.

  His gaze once again going to the top of the stairs, Randolph allowed a smile and a deep bow. “Good evening, my lady.”

  Having heard the conversation from the first floor parlor, Xenobia now stood at the top of the stairs and regarded her caller with a combination of curiosity and caution. “Good evening, Mr...?”

  “Roderick. We’ve an appointment. I was sure it was for nine o’clock,” he said, just then wondering if Lady Julia Comber might have meant nine o’clock in the morning.

  But what lady of the ton was up and about at nine o’clock in the morning?

  “Yes. Yes, of course. I apologize. I didn’t realize the time had grown so late. Do come up,” Xenobia said as she waved a hand to reinforce her words.

  Randolph paused for only a moment before ascending the stairs, his polished Hessians barely making a sound on the carpeted steps. His voice had echoed in the nearly empty hall, and he took a moment to discover the hall had no furnishings. No caryatids. No chairs along the walls. No statuary.

  There was just the round table sporting a huge ball of white roses. Even if he hadn’t been able to ascertain what kind of flowers they were by their appearance, the scent of roses wafted around his nostrils. As for the table, he could swear it was a gaming table, but he didn’t have a chance to look at it more closely.

  He paused at the top of the stairs to reassess the situation. Lady Dunsworth was not at all what he was expecting.

  Even though his stepmother had said Lady Dunsworth was younger than she, Randolph had imagined the baroness as a far older woman. He had imagined her hair gray and her body more frail.

  Instead, she was a comely young woman with honey blonde hair and eyes the color of aquamarine gemstones. The teal blue dinner gown she wore only accentuated the striking eye color.

  Once he could see her more clearly by the light of the hallway sconces, all of them sporting red ribbons around their brass fixtures, he knew his imagination had conjured an entirely different creature.

  Lady Xenobia Dunsworth was indeed a beautiful woman. Not young, exactly, but not old, either. Five-and-twenty maybe? Thirty at most, her once youthful appearance replaced with an ageless elegance. Her hair was caught up in a neat bun atop her head with loose tendrils at her temples.

  Still dressed in her dinner gown—a velvet skirt with a pleated bodice and short sleeves void of decoration—she looked far more elegant than most widows. The collection of jewels between her breasts and the two that hung from her plump earlobes merely enhanced her regal bearing.

  Caught up in the crook of her arm, was a copy of A Treatise on the Breeding of Thoroughbred Horses.

  A jolt of excitement passed through Randolph at the thought that her filly might be a Thoroughbred.

  He reached for her hand, startled at how cold it felt in his. He brushed his lips over the back of her bare fingers, sure he felt her reaction in how her hand shook beneath his hold.

  Perhaps she hadn’t been touched in a long time, which had him wondering if she had eaten alone that night. “Sir Randolph Roderick. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said, once again bowing before her.

  A bit dismayed her caller had appeared at exactly nine o’clock at night—Xenobia had thought he would be there at nine in the morning—she found she couldn’t be cross with him. He was punctual, and not at all what she expected. She knew this because she had spent her entire dinner imagining the man her cousin had described in her letter.

  Xenobia noted the expectant expression he displayed and remembered his pleasantry. “And you as well.” She motioned to the open door just beyond the first sconce. “We can speak in the parlor,” she offered, rather glad the servants had placed several vases of flowers about the room.

  The floral scents of roses and lilies helped to mask the odor of disuse she had noticed the day before—unfortunately only moments before her callers had arrived for tea. The addition of red velvet bows on the door handles and red ribbon along the top of the mantel had been her meager attempts at decorating for the upcoming holiday.

  “Very good, my lady,” her visitor responded, as he followed her over the threshold.

  “Should I ring for tea?” she asked, cringing at the thought that another servant would discover she was alone with a strange man. “Or would you like some brandy, perhaps?”

  “Only if you wish some for yourself,” Randolph replied, waiting until she was settled into a chair near the fireplace before he lowered himself into the adjacent chair. “I must admit you are not quite what I expected.”

  That odd sensation skittered down her spine again, along with a flash of annoyance.

  What had he expected?

  “For some reason, I thought you would be much older. Not so... beautiful,” he added.

  The words were said so matter-of-factly, Xenobia was left staring at him. But of course he would say such a thing. He was probably expecting to be paid for putting voice to compliments, although she still hadn’t decided if she would go through with any kind of arrangement with the man.

  Why, oh why had she allowed Julia to talk her into this? Julia had ne
ver actually employed this man—she had merely arranged this meeting. However did she even know about him?

  Had one of their mutual friends employed him to keep them company?

  Company probably wasn’t exactly what they enjoyed. Her gaze dropped to his thighs, their muscled shape straining his Nankeen breeches. She briefly wondered if his tailor had to double-stitch the seams to keep them from splitting.

  Besides the double-stitching of his breeches, his tailor could be commended for the perfect points of his shirt, and the immaculate cravat, a tasteful waistcoat and a topcoat made of superfine. He was dressed better than most gentlemen.

  “I have not been in the company of an unmarried woman—without a chaperone—for some time,” Randolph said in low voice. When he heard his words, though, he nearly winced, thinking he sounded like a dandy for hire. One of those men who were paid to accompany older women to all the events of the Season and then entertain those very women in their bedchambers until the wee hours of the morning.

  Or until they were sound asleep.

  “I am hardly in need of a chaperone,” Xenobia countered sure he said such things to all his potential clients. Flattery was rather effective with women. “But thank you for the kind words.” She paused before she dared another glance in his direction. “You’re not at all what I expected.”

  Randolph straightened in the chair, not sure from the tone of her voice if she was disappointed. He had no idea how Lady Comber had described him. That she had even agreed to recommend him to Xenobia Bradley Dunsworth was a testament to the exuberant woman who charmed everyone with whom she made an acquaintance.

  “No?” he replied, thinking he would have to scold Lady Comber when next he saw her.

  The thought merely reminded him of how he ended up at Bradley House in the first place.

  An Arrangement to Meet is Made

  Earlier that afternoon at Tattersalls’

  “Who?” Randolph asked as his best friend’s wife talked of a woman she’d had tea with earlier that afternoon.

  Outside the stables, an auction about to start. He had clients in the crowd to whom he had made recommendations. Should they end up the owners of the mares he had raised and trained and then been charged with selling, he stood to earn a good deal of blunt from the commission.

  “Lady Dunsworth. She’s Baron Dunsworth’s widow,” Julia Comber explained. “And one of my dearest cousins. Would you be a darling and go meet her?”

  Randolph finished brushing the Cleveland Bay mare that stood before him just as Alistair Comber entered the stables. “Ah, my sweet. What brings you here?” the second-son-of-an-earl asked as he stopped to give his wife a peck on the side of her head. His gaze changed to one of worry. “Are you all right?” he asked as one of his hands moved to her middle.

  Julia gave him a brilliant grin. “I am, and so is the babe,” she assured him. “But I am on a mission to seek Sir Randolph’s help.”

  “Help?” Alistair repeated, giving her and his friend a dubious glance. “What are you about, my sweet?”

  “Lady Dunsworth’s filly,” she replied. “She’s a timid thing, and apparently Xenobia has been unable to find someone to break her. Why, if Sir Randolph was successful, she’d be forever in his debt.”

  Intrigued, Randolph moved the mare into her stall and regarded Julia with a furrowed brow. Most of the horses he raised in his father’s London-based stables were temperamental colts, work horses that would eventually pull all manner of equipage. To train a filly from a young age, perhaps for riding, would be a welcome change.

  “It will be such a pleasant surprise for Lady Dunsworth,” Julia gushed. “To learn there is someone who might help her in this situation. Of course, her late husband would have seen to such things if he were still alive,” she added, apparently to make sure he understood the baroness was a widow. “I always felt a bit sorry for her whilst they were together. He was her very best friend—”

  “Best friend?” Randolph interrupted. “Why ever would you pity her for that?”

  Julia’s eyes widened and her mouth clamped shut. Her head nodded, though, as if she was sharing a secret. “There was no... passion in their marriage. Just friendship, I think. Which is probably why she never bore him a child. The barony went to his cousin, which is just as well.”

  Curiosity had Randolph listening more intently. He had been married to a dear friend. Barbara had known he was a bastard before they wed, and yet she had happily accepted his suit. Welcomed him into her bed—insisted he remain there for the entire night, sometimes—and then was giving birth to their son when it all went so terribly wrong.

  He had buried her three days later, and he hadn’t thought of bedding another woman since. Thank the gods his father had offered his nursery. Besides the assurance his son was receiving the best of care with Mrs. Foster, his son had a playmate in the form of an uncle who was only a year older.

  When would he have had the time to consider female companionship?

  When he wasn’t minding horses or paying calls at his father’s townhouse to spend time with his son, he was answering to the head of the Foreign Office.

  Although it had been some time since he had been sent on a mission in another country—the Foreign Office couldn’t always afford the costs of travel for their agents—he was on an assignment that occupied him most nights after London’s gaming hells opened.

  “Well, it is unfortunate her husband died,” was all he could say when reason returned and he was able to think clearly. “She lost both a husband and her best friend.”

  Julia dipped her head, her gaze dropping to note his large fists. “Indeed,” she replied before lifting her eyes to meet his. “I know it’s probably not appropriate for you to pay a call on her at Bradley House, but would you consider doing so? Mourning has kept her home for over a year, and although she could have enjoyed a bit more freedom these past few months, she hasn’t taken advantage. She’s practically a hermit.”

  For just a moment, Randolph wondered if Lady Comber was attempting to play matchmaker. She was telling him things about Lady Dunsworth that had nothing to do with her timid filly. But then he held his tongue when she waved a hand and asked if he might be able to see to the baroness’ filly later that evening.

  “Tonight?” he countered in surprise.

  “Why, yes,” Julia replied, her voice having softened to nearly a whisper. “From what Alistair has said, I know you are far too busy to meet with her during the day. Bradley House isn’t far from Reading House at all. It’s in the same street, in fact. Would you be available at nine o’clock perhaps?”

  The time had Randolph furrowing a brow, although the suggestion was a relief since his entire afternoon would be spent at Tattersalls’. Then there would be dinner with his father, Randall Roderick, Marquess of Reading, and the man’s marchioness, Constance. If their townhouse was just up the street from Bradley House, he decided he could make the appointment.

  Besides, his other position didn’t require he attend a gaming hell on this night. His marks weren’t known to gamble on Wednesday evenings, instead choosing to attend the assemblies at Almack’s when they were open. If the young ladies who accepted dances from them had any idea of their true reason for being in London, Randolph was sure they would faint.

  “I will pay a call on her at nine o’clock,” he said then, giving Julia a bow before he headed to another stall.

  “This will be such a great relief for her,” Julia replied. “I will send her a note and let her know to expect you.”

  Her husband, Alistair, returned to her side whilst leading a large draft horse. “Are you dabbling in matchmaking?” he asked in a whisper.

  Julia’s eyes widened before she turned to be sure Randolph was out of earshot. “My darling, I don’t dabble in anything,” she replied with a mischievous grin.

  Expectations

  Back in the parlor at Bradley House

  His usual confidence with a new acquaintance faltering, Randolph consid
ered Lady Dunsworth’s words.

  You’re not at all what I expected.

  Well, he was dressed in the clothes he had worn to dinner at his father’s, and although he really should have worn shoes, he had instead worn his Hessians. His shoes weren’t shined but the boots were.

  Besides, his stepmother, Constance, claimed to prefer seeing men in boots. She had already seen to it his two-year-old half-brother, Robert, had a pair of black riding boots for when he rode his Welsh pony—with a footman’s assistance, of course. Constance was as much of a horsewoman as his father was a horseman, after all.

  Had Lady Dunsworth expected he would show up wearing the clothes he wore whilst working in the stables?

  Or was she referring to his physique?

  He was a bit taller than most, a bit larger in the arms and across his shoulders, but then most in his profession were. Lifting bales of hay and saddles all day along with pushing horses into place in front of various carriages had a tendency to strengthen arms and legs.

  Had Lady Dunsworth thought she might have recognized him? There was certainly a glimmer of something in her eyes when she first saw him standing at the bottom of the stairs.

  They could have met for a ride in the park, a time he was learning to appreciate given he could exercise a different horse from his father’s stable every afternoon in Hyde Park.

  He didn’t care if he wasn’t recognized. As a bastard son of a marquess, he didn’t expect it, even if his father had acknowledged him as his son when he was but a babe, paid for his upbringing and education, and was seeing to a generous allowance every month.

  Although he attended this initial meeting with little in the way of expectations, he wanted it to go well. If Lady Dunsworth recommended him to her friends, and they then made mention of him to their husbands, he might gain more clients at Tattersalls’.