A Christmas Keepsake (20 page)

“I am willing to listen to explanations.”

The man nodded. “Not here. I would be grateful if you would agree to join a house party at Briarly over Christmas.”

“The house party!” Christy’s grip tightened on his arm. James silenced her. “Why should I?”

“There will be a number of people there, all well known to you, who share in this secret we have kept for so long. Your cousin Saint Ives will be of our number. And there, I promise, the whole will be disclosed to you.”

“You’re not going without me!” Christy declared.

Sir Dominic smiled. “To be sure, you will be most welcome, Miss Campbell.” He turned back to James. “Will you come, Major?”

James glanced at Christy.

“The house party,” she repeated. “I think we should.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Do you? Very well, then. We accept.”

Sir Dominic let out the breath he had held in a long, relieved sigh. “On the Twenty-third, then? We will expect you in the early afternoon. Miss Campbell? Major?” He directed a bow to them both and, leaning heavily on his cane, exited the room. Christy turned to stare after his departing figure.

“We’ve agreed to walk into the lion’s den,” James pointed out.

Christy nodded. “It’s a Christmas house party. You’ve got to attend one—and record it, remember? But—”

“But?” he prompted as she hesitated.

“I don’t trust him. I don’t trust any of them. I don’t know what we’re getting into.”

“No,” he agreed after a moment. “Neither do I. But it is certainly going to be interesting finding out.”

James stood in the marble-tiled Great Hall of Briarly as his gaze traveled over the elegant house, with its oak-paneled walls hung with ancient tapestries. Behind him, Nancy and Wickes ordered the distribution of the luggage, and two footmen set forth to carry the various valises and portmanteaux to their destinations.

He turned to watch Christy, who stared about, an expression of awe on her lovely face. “What do you think?” he asked.

“That I’ll feel a lot better when you’ve written your forty pages and we can go,” she said bluntly. “Honestly, James, it gives me the creeps. What can he possibly say to you? What secret can they
all
be keeping?”

A slight noise caught his attention, and he looked up to see Sir Dominic Kaye descending the grand staircase with the help of his cane. Behind him came a slight woman, whose short-cropped curls formed a silver halo about her lined face. She supported herself on the banister, then caught her husband’s arm as they reached the Great Hall.

“Perhaps we shall now learn our answers,” James said.

“He tells the truth. We probably shouldn’t have come.”

“The house party, remember?” He stepped forward to greet his host and hostess, then introduced Christy to Lady Sophia Kaye.

That lady took her hand, and a sad smile just touched her lips. “We are delighted you could join us,” she said, her voice soft and low. “This is a time we have long anticipated.”

“But not with pleasure?” The note of regret in her voice had not escaped James.

She shook her head. “Whether it is for good or ill we have yet to learn ... Major.”

“It is for the good,” Sir Dominic asserted. “Come, would you care to be shown to your rooms, or will you join the others? They await your pleasure in the Green Salon.”

“They have
all
arrived?” James’s eyes narrowed.

Sir Dominic inclined his head. “I felt, under the circumstances, it would be best for you to be the last.”

James’s fingers twitched. He had only his knife slipped inside his boot. His carriage pistol remained in his valise, and was even now en route to the chamber he would occupy. He straightened his shoulders. “Very well, then. Let us get this over with.”

Sir Dominic nodded, as if pleased with James’s response, and led the way through one of the several doorways opening off the Great Hall.

Christy stepped close to James; the warmth of her presence reached out to him, steadfast and loyal, no matter what dangers might lurk. The thought of having her once more under the same roof for the night sent a distracting surge of desire through him. Her hand crept into his, and he squeezed it with reassuring pressure.

“Miss Campbell, you are an American, I understand?” Lady Sophia’s sweet voice broke the silence. “You must tell me all about life in our former colonies. How very long it has been since I have had news from there. My cousin went to live in Boston, you must know. Before that dreadful war ” The elegant little lady shook her head. “So very long as it takes to receive word.”

James caught Christy’s mischievous glance and frowned at her. She was far too capable of telling her hostess that for her it had taken less than a day to cross the Atlantic—and that communications could be established in the winking of an eye through a collection of cables and wires. He still found that one hard to believe. Once started, he could well imagine the other tales of wonder Christy might divulge.

To his infinite relief, she merely returned a noncommittal answer. One could never be quite certain with Christy what whimsy might seize her. It was part of her undeniable charm.

Sir Dominic opened the door, and it swung wide. James stepped inside and came to a halt. Four gentlemen—the members of his cousin’s house party, in fact—sat within, gathered about the fireplace.

Viscount Brockenhurst, an ingratiating smile on his handsome face, rose at once to his feet. Sir Oliver Paignton, whose unruly mane of graying hair appeared rumpled more than usual, followed suit. After a moment, Lord Farnham stood also. St. Ives joined them, and raised his quizzing glass in a pointed manner.

Sir Dominic limped forward, leaning heavily on his cane. “As you see, Major, these men are all your friends.”

“Acquaintances, at least,” James agreed smoothly.

Sir Dominic inclined his head in acknowledgment of this correction. “Over the past months—or years—as our secret has been revealed to each of them, they have made it their concern to pursue this acquaintance with you.”

“I am flattered,” James made no attempt to disguise the dryness in his tone.

St. Ives crossed to the fireplace and leaned an elbow on the mantel. Idly, he swung his glass by its riband. “It has not, I assure you, been solely for the undeniable pleasure of your company.”

James regarded him for a long, thoughtful minute. No love lay between them, but he would have sworn no open enmity existed, either. Yet since coming into the title—and possibly into this mysterious secret?—an added edge existed in everything his cousin said.

Sir Dominic gestured toward one of the two chairs which had been unoccupied. “Will you not be seated?”

“No, I thank you. I am quite comfortable where I stand.” He was also nearer the door, in case it became necessary to leave quickly. And, he judged, he had enough room to retrieve and throw his knife. He met and held Sir Dominic’s gaze. “I am, however, running very thin on patience. I should be glad to know what importance I hold for these gentlemen, what you know of these attempts that have been made on my life, and why you have felt it necessary, as you claim, to set a watch on me.”

The men exchanged resigned glances—as if they did not relish the prospect of providing the answers.

Sir Dominic folded both hands over the ball of his walking stick and leaned forward. “What do you know of Charles Edward Stuart?”

James’s eyes narrowed. “The Young Pretender? I’m no Jacobite.”

“Really, my dear—Major.” St. Ives shook his head. “A son should support his father, however little he agrees with his politics.”

“His father?” James spun to face his cousin. “What the devil are you talking about, Saint Ives?”

Sir Oliver nodded, setting his graying hair bouncing about his robust countenance. “It’s long since time he knew the truth, Dominic. I always said it should not be kept from him.”

Sir Dominic shook his head, a sad, gentle smile on his aging features. “What we did, we did for the best. For his own protection.”

With difficulty, James kept a hold on his temper. ‘‘Will someone please explain what is going on?”

“It is really quite simple,” St. Ives drawled. “You are not my cousin.”

“The devil I’m not. Who am I, then?”

Sir Dominic answered. “You are the legitimate son of Louise von Stolberg and Charles Edward Stuart.”

James looked from one to the other of them. Had they gone mad? Did they think
he
had, that he would believe such nonsense? “Their only child was stillborn.”

“So the world was led to believe. I, however, hold the documented proof that this was not the case.”

James drew a slow, deep breath, stilling his rising anger. “I don’t know what nonsense this is, but if you expect me to believe anything so absurd—”

His gaze fell on Christy and he broke off. Absurd. Like a beautiful young lady falling through time and landing at his feet? What had happened to his life of late, that reason and logic no longer applied?

Slowly, he advanced into the room. When Lord Farnham offered him a chair, he sank onto the edge. “There must be a fascinating reason why this child was declared to be stillborn. I am waiting to hear it.”

Sir Dominic took the seat opposite him, and the others resumed theirs. “Your father was fifty-eight at the time of his marriage. Your mother was eighteen. Both were Catholic, and any child born to them would have been raised in the Catholic faith.”

James returned the level regard and nodded. “And as such,” he said, “their child would not be acceptable for the British throne. I am well aware of that.”

“You are not aware, perhaps, that a great number of people would be glad to see the Stuarts once more upon that throne. They went so far as to devise a plan to make it possible.”

James drew a slow, deep breath. “I believe I begin to see.”

Sir Dominic nodded. “The child was spirited away at its birth and replaced with a dead infant. Those involved in this conspiracy, including the midwife and attendants at the lying-in, all signed documents attesting to the identity of both children. You are the image of your father, in coloring,” he added.

James stared at his clasped hands. “This child—me, you would claim—was then placed with a noble family to be raised in the Anglican Church?”

Sir Dominic smiled. “You have a quick mind, Major. By this simple change in your religious upbringing, you are now an acceptable candidate for the British throne.”

James surged to his feet. “This is absurd.”

“Is it?” Sir Dominic glanced at the other men. “Lord Brockenhurst?”

The viscount, who had sat in silence, lifted a leather satchel from where it lay on the floor beside him. From it, he drew forth a miniature portrait. “Prince Charles Edward Stuart,” he said, and handed it to James.

James sank once more onto his chair, and stared into a rendition of what might have been his own face. The visage might have been longer, but a painted version of his own black eyes stared back at him from beneath a wave of identical dark red hair. The features bore a striking resemblance to his own.

He raised his head and looked from one to the other of the intent faces watching him. Whether any truth lay in their claim or not would be determined later. Right now, he wanted to know what, precisely, their intentions were. Though with a sinking sensation, he realized he knew.

Lord Farnham and Viscount Brockenhurst exchanged a significant glance. Farnham ran his hand through his thick black hair, rumpling the faint streaks of gray. He cleared his throat. “You are well aware of the unrest throughout our country.”

“Of the unpopularity of Prinny.” Brockenhurst leaned his slender frame forward, regarding James with intensity in his hazel eyes.

James nodded. “And of the fact Parliament is even now debating a regency bill. I doubt there is anyone in England not aware of this.”

“It cannot be much longer.” Sir Oliver sprang to his feet with the energy of his athletic stature. “I fear our days grow short, for there can be no denying this time our good king is unlikely to recover. At the moment, Prinny, as unpopular as he is, must be acknowledged the most likely choice.”

“The effect on the country,” Brockenhurst said quietly, “will be devastating, with a bloody revolution the most likely outcome.”

“But there is another possibility,” Sir Dominic said. “You, a Stuart, a known supporter of the poor and underprivileged, can prevent this. Come forward at once and declare yourself the best choice for regent, then king upon the eventual death of King George.”

For a long minute, silence filled the salon, broken only by the crackling of the fire. James looked from one to the other of the intent faces—all focused on him. He leaned back in his chair and turned to Sir Dominic, the apparent spokesman for this bizarre group.

“You don’t really expect me to believe any of this nonsense, do you?” he asked at last.

“We have considerable documentary evidence. Brockenhurst?” Sir Dominic held out his hand to the youngest member of their conspiracy.

Lord Brockenhurst drew a handful of sheets from the satchel and gave them to Sir Dominic, who held them out to James.