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

by Collette Cameron

  Shoes, too, she thought, hoping Lady Abingley didn’t pick the gray and green for later in the evening when they changed for dinner.

  Chapter 14

  As it turned out, Lady Abingley wore peacock blue shoes to perfectly match her gown when they gathered for their eight o’clock meal. Even better, Lady Frances and her superior stares weren’t at the dining room table, overflowing with minced pies. Only afterward, did Sarah learn the earl’s daughter had departed the way of the Evingdons.

  Their Twelvetide gathering was shrinking.

  Much later, after a lively turn at Buffy Gruffy, the party broke up for the night. Denbigh stared at her, and she smiled back, guessing they would get together again later when the household had gone to bed. Sure enough, at two in the morning, he tapped upon her door.

  As soon as he entered, he scooped her into his arms and deposited her upon the bed. Raised on his elbow, he gazed down at her with his brown eyes, so deep, like burnished walnut wood.

  “I think you have the finest, most expressive eyes,” she blurted.

  They crinkled a little at the corners as he smiled, and then, he leaned down and kissed her.

  For each of the remaining days of the Yuletide, Denbigh stayed by her side during the day. They listened to recitals, played card games, and strolled the grounds. When darkness fell, all the guests played charades and once or twice engaged again in the dramatic and slightly dangerous Snap Dragon. Sarah and Denbigh discussed every topic they could think of late into each evening, by the drawing room fire. He no longer looked sideways at her or hinted she might possibly get in the suds with misconduct. In fact, the more time they spent together, the more she loved him and the more he trusted her.

  Sarah even went along on the next fox hunt, finding herself in Lady Macroun’s carriage. She had a far pleasanter experience than the previous excursion.

  And in the wee hours when the rest of the household slept, Denbigh came to her room, or she went to his, until she could hardly imagine how she’d gotten through each night of her life without him.

  She also couldn’t stop yawning.

  “Are you finding your mattress to be uncomfortable?” Lady Macroun asked when Sarah clamped a hand over her mouth, which felt to be practically splitting open at breakfast.

  Lifting her bleary gaze from her coddled eggs and thick bacon, she blinked, feeling muddled. What exactly was their hostess asking and why? Did she know about the viscount’s moonlit visits?

  “Only you are looking a little peaky and worn,” Lady Macroun clarified.

  “Oh,” Sarah exclaimed. “The bed is fine. I fear it is simply too much of your fine entertainment in the evenings. I am used to retiring earlier, I suppose.”

  “Hm,” the countess said. “Maybe you should partake of a little less evening entertainment, Lady Worthington, and get some needed rest.”

  Sarah felt her cheeks warm. Lady Macroun had assuredly guessed about her and Denbigh’s nightly escapades. How mortifying! But then, it was expected their hostess would have knowledge in her own house of her guests’ comings and goings. Every one of her staff would be like another set of her own eyes. Nonetheless, with only a single night left before the Epiphany eve and Twelfth Night ball, Sarah could deny neither of them the pleasure they’d found in each other’s arms.

  She’d even stopped worrying about her final task, having decided the ball would afford her the perfect distraction. With an extensive guest list, it was sure to be a long and exciting event, going right through until the following day. There would be ample time for her to slip away to Lord and Lady Belmont’s room while the couple was dancing.

  When Denbigh came to her room that night, he hesitated at the edge of her bed.

  “Are you certain you wouldn’t like me to let you have your sleep?” he asked, already brushing the back of his knuckle across her pearled nipple. “You should have told me to stop scratching at your door like a bothersome grimalkin.”

  The image of him as a ram cat made her grin, and she opened her arm in welcome.

  The Epiphany eve was clear and crisp with no snow to stop travelers arriving at Forde Hall. Most of the guests for the Twelfth Night ball were staying at nearby inns or with other aristocratic families in manor houses dotting the surrounding Essex shire.

  Waiting for Denbigh to collect her and escort her downstairs to the ballroom, Sarah felt the same butterflies she’d felt when first she’d seen his handsome face in London. It was a revelation to still feel such excitement, even after swiving with the man for so many nights. In fact, she would vow each time she kept company with him, her pleasure had grown.

  When she heard the knock on her door, Sarah quickly drew on her long gloves before letting Dorie open it. Standing in the middle of her room, she presented him with the full effect of the gown she’d brought for this last evening.

  As a new wife, quickly widowed and then in mourning, all her gowns for the first year had been the same—black, whether crape, silk, or satin. Then she’d eased into the paler hues of half-mourning. When she’d finally been released from the prison of melancholy, she’d started to purchase and wear gowns she’d never dared dream of when growing up in the parsonage.

  That evening, she had on the prettiest dress she’d ever seen or worn—the richest purple-hued lightweight silk, trimmed with the shiniest gold ribbon. The high bodice, generous neckline, and little puff sleeves made her feel like a princess. And peeking out from beneath her hem, perfect gold slippers. Moreover, since she was staying in the manor, she would need neither a spencer nor a mantle, which might spoil the overall appearance.

  By the look on Denbigh’s face, she had succeeded in her attempt to look as fashionable as any of the bon ton.

  “You are a gimcrack, and make no mistake,” he declared.

  She laughed at the term. A spruce wench, he’d called her, but she knew he was teasing by the appreciative way he stared.

  “Thank you. Turn around, sir, so I may take your measure.” Denbigh obliged her and showed her—and Dorie—the back of his black tailcoat before pivoting to face her again.

  “And you cut quite a dash,” she told him. “Definitely pink of the mode, my lord.”

  He nodded, looking pleased. If Dorie wasn’t there, she would be in his arms already. Instead, with grace, he gestured for her to precede him from the room, and then took her arm to walk along the hall. In a short while, they would be dancing the opening minuet together.

  When Sarah glanced back, her maid was still looking after them, and she could swear Dorie had tears in her eyes. She would put something extra in her pay. After all, she’d not only taken care of her clothes to perfection, Dorie had done Sarah’s hair in the latest style, with both smooth and curly sections, adorned with more gold ribbon and the sparkliest of purple beaded strands. She had never felt so beautiful, raising her free hand to touch her ruby pendant. Uncaring of how the red might clash, she wore it always to keep the mother, whose face she could hardly recall, close to her heart.

  Then she thought of Lady Belmont’s bracelet, safely tucked in the reticule dangling from her wrist, and sighed.

  “Is there something amiss?” Denbigh asked with too much perception.

  Only that she wished she could simply enjoy the evening without any preoccupation. Determined to relieve herself of the bracelet as soon as possible, she smiled up at him.

  “No. It’s simply strange to think this is our last night at Forde Hall. Doesn’t it feel as if we’ve been here for much longer than the Twelvetide? On the other hand, all the days are starting to run together, and I’m sure our hostess is beyond ready to see the back of us.”

  “Agreed. I, for one, am looking ahead to our return to London and a new year with new possibilities.”

  They smiled at each other and entered the ballroom.

  Forty minutes later, after the dancing had begun in earnest and the ballroom had heated up so Sarah could no longer feel the winter chill, she excused herself to the room set aside for the ladies
to primp.

  “There may be a crowd already, fixing their hair and tugging up their stockings,” she told Denbigh. “Do not concern yourself if I’m gone overly long.”

  He nodded, but she noticed he watched her depart. There were no potted plants to provide her cover, and the small orchestra was on a raised dais, so she went all the way to the doorway of the retiring room before ducking behind a pillar with a precariously placed vase full of winter greenery. From there, she crouched low and fled the ballroom.

  Like a rabbit in the eye of a falcon, she darted quickly along the hall, up the stairs, and into the Belmonts’ room. Taking a deep breath, Sarah calmed her fast-beating heart and considered. They had probably unpacked everything over the course of their stay, emptied out all their bags, and worn all their shoes. She needed a plausible place for the lady and her maid to have overlooked a bracelet? Gingerly, she opened the trunk under the window. It was completely empty. Their maid had not yet started to pack for the journey home tomorrow.

  Closing the lid, she spied a smaller box, sitting next to the wardrobe, and thought it must be a hatbox. Opening it, she nearly cried with relief. Gloves and more gloves, many more than the lady could have worn while at Forde Hall, especially since they’d spent the majority of their time indoors and being informal in one another’s company.

  She pawed through them to the bottom and drew out a satin glove. It could easily have been worn at a party in London, removed taking the bracelet going along with it, and lacking any sign of the glove’s mate, abandoned in this box. Perfect.

  Fishing in her reticule, she withdrew the bracelet, dropped it into the glove and then—

  A firm grip took hold of her still outstretched hand.

  “I knew you were a thief,” came the dreadfully frightening words as she let the glove fall.

  Chapter 15

  Gasping, Sarah looked up at the owner of the hand clamped around her wrist. It was Mr. Asher.

  Her mouth went instantly dry, and her heart felt as though it would burst from her chest. She hadn’t heard him enter, nor sneak up behind her. He was a better sneak than her.

  “Of course she’s no thief.” Denbigh’s voice was right behind them, surprising her further.

  For the first time in all of the occasions she’d snuck around returning jewels, she’d been caught in the act—and not by one man, but by two!

  Mr. Asher startled at finding someone else so close. She felt him jump slightly, but he didn’t release her.

  Ignoring Denbigh, he asked, “If you weren’t roaming the halls preparing to pilfer, and even now in another guest’s room ready to swipe, then what are you doing?”

  “Unhand her and tell me who you really are?” Denbigh demanded, easing Sarah’s fear a little.

  Mr. Asher hesitated, but then he did both. When he let go his grip of her, she immediately rose to her feet and moved to Denbigh’s side, taking comfort and strength from his presence—for at least, at that moment, he seemed to be on her side.

  “I work for Scotland Yard,” Mr. Asher informed them both, giving her a hard stare.

  Blast it all! She swallowed, as a tremor of worry shook her.

  “I work for the Prince Regent,” Denbigh said, trumping him, “and occasionally for Scotland Yard.”

  Mr. Asher’s expression was priceless. “Why the deuce didn’t they tell me?”

  Denbigh shrugged. “Why didn’t anyone tell me who you were? What a cock up!”

  “Then you didn’t recently fall on hard times and let your servants go?” Sarah asked.

  “No,” Mr. Asher said, looking grave. “That story was to gain your trust while I investigated.”

  “Which explains why you’ve been skulking around the halls and going into people’s rooms,” Sarah surmised, looking at Mr. Asher, although she probably could have easily accused Denbigh of similar actions. Nonetheless, it was the baron’s son whom she’d caught in the act more than once.

  Mr. Asher gave her a pointed look. “Why were you doing the same?”

  She opened her mouth, but could think of no plausible explanation that wouldn’t beget more questions.

  “Why,” he continued, “are you presently in Lord and Lady Belmont’s room instead of on the parquet floor?” Mr. Asher glanced to the glove box where she’d dropped the bracelet. “I believe you were stealing something, following a pattern of thievery that has been plaguing parties this entire Yuletide season.”

  Again, she tried to think of a response when Denbigh spoke.

  “The lady is helping me,” he said, causing her mouth to drop open before she snapped it shut.

  Staring at him, she tried to regain her composure, which had been sorely rattled by Mr. Asher and further disconcerted by Denbigh’s coming to her aid. However, he didn’t look at her, but instead continued to address his colleague.

  “I had recovered much of the stolen jewels before coming to Great Oakley, knowing the rightful owners would be in attendance at Forde Hall. I enlisted Lady Worthington’s assistance in returning them.”

  Mr. Asher frowned. “Starting with Lord Devonstone’s surprise at finding his ring in his pocket?”

  “Exactly,” Denbigh said. And this time, he did glance at her with a piercing gaze. He had figured out her game. How extraordinary!

  “I recall the lady was seated next to him during our first dinner.” Mr. Asher looked at her with a measure of respect. “But why not simply give the jewels to the owners outright and openly?”

  “Because the Prince Regent doesn’t want his subjects to know there is a master thief in their midst. He wants no undue speculation and certainly no panic,” Denbigh explained, “especially when I’m closing in on the guilty party.”

  Was he? She tried to reconcile the notion of her younger sister as a master thief instead of a light-fingered fool who needed a harsh reprimand, but couldn’t.

  “Therefore, we are returning the jewelry so even those who were victims think they were mistaken. All for the good of the realm,” Denbigh concluded.

  Mr. Asher frowned. “Then why was I sent to suss out the wicked damber?”

  Denbigh shrugged.

  “And why involve Lady Worthington?”

  At this, even Denbigh hesitated, but then, his expression relaxed, appearing confident. “Because I know I can trust her wholeheartedly. We have recently become engaged.”

  Sarah had to purse her lips and clench her jaw to keep from gasping again.

  Mr. Asher’s face instantly brightened. “Oh, well, in that case, my sincere congratulations.” Then he sighed. “A waste of resources, though, wot wot? I shall have a stern word with the Yard about sending two bloodhounds after the same fox. In the meantime, I wish you both a happy Twelfth Night.”

  With a curt nod to each of them, Mr. Asher vacated the room.

  “I have never heard you speechless for this long,” Denbigh remarked.

  She nodded. There were so many subjects to cover, she didn’t know where to start. But her first question sprang to her lips.

  “Are we engaged?”

  He didn’t smile as she imagined he would but looked downright serious. “Would you accept if I asked you for your hand?”

  She paused at his strange, hedging question. “Why don’t you ask me properly and find out? Bear in mind, I have never been asked before.”

  His eyes widened, and then he did, in fact, smile, and her heart melted entirely.

  “Lady Worthmore,” he said, deliberately misspeaking her name, “will you do me the profound honor of becoming my wife, giving me your hand and your body and, in return, taking my name … and my love?”

  Without hesitation, Sarah stepped closer, ran her hands up his waistcoat and laced her fingers behind his neck. “Yes—to everything. Take my hand and please take my body, but you also will be accepting my love.”

  He lowered his mouth to claim hers in a kiss so scorching she would swear her toes were sizzling in her pretty gold slippers.

  “How long does the ton require a
widow to be engaged?” she asked.

  He laughed. “I haven’t the foggiest, but I’ll find out. If we can’t bear the length, we’ll break the rules.”

  “Prinny might not like that,” Sarah pointed out.

  “Prinny be damned,” he said.

  A little while later, they helped each other with a hurried but much needed mutual tidying of their clothing. With the bracelet safely stowed for Lady Belmont to discover when she returned to London, Sarah and Miles headed back to the ballroom.

  As soon as they entered, he picked up on the frisson of excitement. Something had happened.

  Lady Macroun came over as soon as she saw them.

  “Lord Denbigh, you’ll never guess what has occurred.”

  “No, I doubt I shall,” he said. “Tell us, my lady.”

  Their hostess glanced at Sarah then, her sharp eyes taking in every hair out of place. When she looked at Miles again, she scrutinized him from boot to necktie.

  “Hm,” she said, then sighed, dismissing her suspicions for a juicier revelation. “Most exciting news. Another piece of lost jewelry has been recovered.”

  He turned to Sarah. She shrugged, giving nothing away.

  Lady Macroun gestured behind her in a vague direction. “Lady Abingley—”

  Sarah startled beside him.

  “Over there in the green and silver gown,” their hostess continued.

  “Green and silver,” Sarah repeated beside him, “with coral-colored trim.”

  He stared at her.

  “Precisely,” the viscountess said. “Inside the lady’s adorable matching shoes, she found a necklace that went missing after a dinner party in Town. Isn’t it fabulous? Why, I believe people will start vying for invitations to come to Forde Hall to regain lost valuables.”

  Laughing at her astounding luck, with her reputation now sealed as a hostess par excellence, Lady Macroun left them.

  Miles had been waiting for Sarah to ask him, and now she did.