A Christmas Keepsake (26 page)

“Mr.—Do you mean my valet? What do you mean, ‘what he’s going through?’ ”

“You
haven’t
noticed.”

Her tone of angry satisfaction grated on him. “You will kindly explain yourself.”

“
He
could, if you’d ask him.”

“Christy—” He broke off, trying to keep his temper under control. “I’m in no mood for your games.”

“It’s not a game. Mr. Wickes is suffering from the same snobbism you are. He’s fallen for Nancy, but she’s too far beneath him to marry. Why are you looking so surprised? Aren’t you glad his class sense is winning out?”

“No, I—” He broke off, trying to gather his startled thoughts. “I’d never thought of him marrying, that is all.”

“Well, why not? Where do you think the next generation of valet-lets will come from?”

“The—” He struggled for a moment. His ill-temper faded, and a reluctant chuckle broke from him. “And maid-lets, too, I suppose?”

“Certainly. But
not
pickpocket-lets. Nancy promises me she’s reformed, and I don’t think Wickes would permit it. Providing she can overcome his snobbery.”

“You obviously think he should,” he said with considerable feeling. The girl had no concept that she behaved and thought with a complete lack of decorum. Nothing put her to the blush. Yet neither did her manners betray vulgarity—only a completely different approach to life based on honesty rather than appearances. He found it decidedly refreshing—yet also a continual reminder she came from an alien world. How she would hate to be hedged in by conventions she could neither understand nor approve.

And where did that leave them? His gaze rested on her, and visions of a quiet life, of a small country estate and several children rose to his mind. Of Christy at his side, as his wife...

Yet he was a Stuart, with all the incumbent obligations and demands. And he had no guarantee she would even remain in his time. No, the life he envisioned was a hopeless dream. He studied her upturned face, saw the question in her huge blue eyes, and fought the temptation to stroke back her riotous curls. She stood so close, the scent of violets drifted about him, increasing his yearning.

“We’d better go back before we’re missed.” He moved a safe distance away. Not safe enough, he realized the next moment—not as long as he could see her.

“Are they still dancing?” She hung back, her expression reluctant.

“I thought you made a very apt student.” He wouldn’t mind leading her through the movements once more. With her, the whole concept of dancing had taken on a new—and very alluring—meaning.

She drew a long breath. “There’s a card room, isn’t there? Would you teach me to play piquet?” Just a touch of wistfulness colored her voice.

“Of course.” It would make one more ability that might help tie her to his world, make her realize she could be happy here with him.

They returned her borrowed cloak to the small salon, then made their way to the drawing room set aside for cards. St. Ives and his elderly companion were no longer alone. At another table, directly before the hearth, Sir Oliver Paignton broke the seal on a new deck while Lord Brockenhurst set glasses of wine before them. Apparently, the viscount had completed his tryst and focused on another of his favorite pastimes. Christy stiffened at James’s side.

He gestured her to silence, and ushered her to a table a little distance from the others. After pouring them each wine from the holly-decked decanter, Christy took her seat opposite him. James opened a deck, sorted out the lower pips, and shuffled.

“The key,” he said, “lies in developing mastery of a suit.”

Christy nodded, her expression intent, and he explained the complexities of scoring. A frown of concentration formed on her lovely brow, but at last she pronounced herself ready to give it a try. He dealt out a sample hand face up, and explained which cards she should discard and why.

She drew replacements, and he showed her how to arrange her hand. Together they tallied her scores for points, set, and sequence, then did the same for his. He played it out to its end, showing her which cards to use from each hand, and wound up taking the majority of the tricks himself.

A slow smile touched her full lips. “Let’s give it a try.”

Pleased with her quickness, he shuffled and dealt again, then allowed her time to puzzle out her cards on her own. St. Ives and his partner, James noted, watched them in some amusement. Unlike Sir Oliver and Brockenhurst. They had eyes only for their own game.

Christy fumbled with her discard, he dealt the replacements, then did the same for his own. While she determined her points, his gaze once more strayed to the other table. Brockenhurst shuffled, holding the cards near his body, his fingers flying over the pieces of pasteboard.

James’s eyes narrowed. Something didn’t seem quite right. Absently, he played his hand, all the time watching that other game. Did Brockenhurst nick the cards, or was he mistaken? The viscount had won the last hand—the last several, in fact, judging from the small pile of vowels lying before him.

Christy’s cry of delight recalled his attention to his own game, and he realized either through luck, through an innate talent, or through his inattention, she had won. He gathered the deck, shuffled, and dealt again.

Brockenhurst and Sir Oliver continued to play, and the pile of papers grew steadily before the viscount. He made half-apologetic noises, which Sir Oliver waved aside with impatience and returned to the game with the feverish intensity of the addicted gambler. To Brockenhurst’s suggestion they quit, he turned a deaf ear, demanding only that his opponent deal once more.

Sir Oliver, James remembered, had something of a reputation for being a gamester, though not one for having luck. This time, it ran even worse than usual. Or did luck play any part in this? James frowned. He might be letting Christy’s suspicions of Brockenhurst prejudice him against the man.

The viscount’s nocturnal ramblings had proved innocuous enough—unless, of course, he met someone
besides
the obliging Miss Nuttall. That possibility warranted further consideration. His gaze lingered on the man’s overly handsome countenance, his brown hair artistically brushed into the Windswept, the bright hazel eyes with their knowing gleam. Definitely, he didn’t trust Brockenhurst any more than did Christy.

Strains of a Christmas carol drifted into the room, replacing those of the chamber orchestra. They finished their hand, and Christy led the way back to the ballroom. There they found the dancing had stopped, and the guests, voices raised in song, gathered about the Yule log which still burned brightly. Christy closed her eyes, her expression somber.

“What is the matter?” James leaned close to speak softly in her ear.

She shook her head, and her lashes glistened with unshed tears. “My family,” she said simply.

Longing stirred in him. He had never known a home life that could produce such a warmth of feeling like she seemed to experience. He was jealous, he realized. He would give a great deal for some of the happy childhood memories she must have known.

He touched her shoulder, almost a caress, and she managed a bright smile. When the next carol began, she joined in, although here and there she sang a different word or two. Somehow, it comforted him to know that no matter what else of history might change, Christmas remained, as did its songs.

“Do you have Yule logs?” he asked suddenly.

“Some people do. We always have one.”

“And games and mumming?”

She shook her head. “Not really. We have—other traditions. The spirit is the same, though.”

He would like to know what her customs were. Yet at this moment he didn’t want to ponder on their differences, but on the similarities of this timeless season.

After the next carol, the ball guests trailed into the Great Hall and prepared to take their leave. Christy hung back, as if loathe to let the evening end. Softly her husky voice rose in a carol unfamiliar to him. Something about a silent night and all being calm. He liked it. She continued it with a second verse while he escorted her to her chamber. He bade her good night, and sought his own apartment.

Wickes awaited him, with his night rail already laid out over the bed and the water warm in its pitcher before the blazing fire. James looked about the room made comfortable for him by his devoted valet’s hand, and realized how much he took this man’s services for granted.

He transferred his gaze to the valet’s impassive face. Wickes appeared impeccable, from the top of his receding blond hair to the toes of his polished slippers. As if he had nothing else on his mind except to tend his master’s needs.

Deftly, the valet assisted him from his close-fitting coat of emerald velvet. Not a sign of discontent marred his features. If James didn’t have Christy’s assurances, he would have no clue the man suffered inner turmoil.

Love, that damnedest of all human emotions. If Wickes
really cared
for Nancy, then why the devil didn’t he admit it? Because of her dubious background and uncultured speech? The valet could be as stiff-rumped as the next man, and knew the importance of his position better than most.

Alone at last, he settled in the chair by the fire where he could warm both his tools and his wax. From its soft cloth he unwrapped the figure of Christy, now complete, and studied the rounded face. He hadn’t quite captured her laughing expression—nor her soul. Yet the graceful curve of the figure brought her lively movements forcibly to his mind.

He quelled his impulse to go to her. She needed time to accept his altered position, time he could only hope they would have. Abruptly, he returned the carving to its protective cover, unfolded the other chunk of wax, and began a crude rendition of himself.

A knock sounded on his door, and he looked up. If Christy had come ... Desire surged through him and he rose, setting the wax aside.

“Master James?” Wickes’s voice sounded from the hall.

The depth of his disappointment dismayed him. She really had become part of him—and one he couldn’t live without.

“Master James?” The valet knocked again.

James let him in. “What is it, Wickes?”

“Your wine, sir.” The valet swept past him, carrying a glass on a salver. He set it on the table by the hearth and, with a slight bow, wished his master good night.

James thanked him, then settled once more in his chair. An excellent man, Wickes. This was just what he needed. He took a sip, and rolled the heady liquid in his mouth.

After savoring it for a moment, he swallowed—and choked on the bitter aftertaste. Suddenly suspicious, he held the goblet up to the branch of working candles and examined the ruby contents. Clouds swirled in a liquid that should have been clear, and his mouth and throat burned.

Poison.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Sir Dominic Kaye, wrapped in a dressing gown of deep purple satin, held the ruby wine before his candle, sniffed the contents, then dampened his tongue. A shudder shook his thin frame. “My dear sir, that this should happen, and in my house. I am appalled.”

James’s brow snapped down, and he straightened from where he perched on the arm of an overstuffed chair. “I wasn’t mistaken, then?”

“I wish you had been.” The elderly man set down the glass. At that moment, he appeared to need a restorative—though one of a healthier nature. He crossed to a bureau, where a decanter stood on a tray with two glasses. He poured a dose of amber liquid into each, and handed one to James. He sipped it, then sighed as he stared into the fire. “How can I ever apologize?”

James waved that aside. “What do you think is in it?”

Sir Dominic hesitated, and the frown marring his brow deepened. “I wish I knew. Not laudanum. I very much fear something deadlier, something that might eat away at your stomach.”

That same thought had occurred to James—had continued to do so, in fact, during the whole fifteen minutes he had spent rinsing out his mouth and drinking water.

“That an attempt should be made upon you, and here—!” Sir Dominic raised his haggard face to look at James.

James rose and set down his glass, untouched. His mouth still burned. “Let us question my man, first. Someone must have set it out for him to bring to me.”

Yet Wickes, when roused from his slumbers, could shed little light on the subject. Shortly after he had retired to the chamber allotted to him, a footman had knocked on the door with the information that his gentleman required a glass of wine. The young man had brought one with him.

They next awakened the footman, who yawned and knuckled his bleary eyes. “In the kitchens, it was,” he announced after a moment’s thought. “Already poured and on the salver, with a note saying as how it was for Major Holborn. Thought it might be a cordial, so I took it along to Mr. Wickes.”

“Where is the note?” James demanded.

The footman stifled another yawn. ‘Threw it in the fire. Lucky I chanced on it at all, seeing as how I was the last one through there. Don’t know why someone hadn’t a-taken it up afore.” His bleary gaze focused on the gentlemen before him, and a worried expression crept into his eyes. “It were all right, weren’t it?”

Assured no harm had been done, the footman returned to his bed. James and Sir Dominic headed for the main wing of the building. The elderly man leaned on his cane, his shoulders bent.

Not until they reached the Great Hall did Sir Dominic speak. “Someone within this house is trying to kill you.” He directed his troubled gaze at James. “We have a traitor in our midst.”

“Yes, someone has been indulging in a spot of inefficient assassination. Have you any idea who it might be?”

Sir Dominic shook his head. “None. Each man—I would swear every one of them is completely loyal to you.”

“Someone is not.” James couldn’t keep the dryness from his voice.

Sir Dominic led the way up the dimly lit stairs, his chamber stick clutched in his trembling hand. “Which one?” he muttered, over and over. When they arrived at James’s room, they entered together. Sir Dominic crossed to the fire and stared into the crackling flames. “Have you any suspicions?”

“Sir Oliver?” James suggested.

Sir Dominic shook his head. “He is my trusted assistant—and has been for nigh on twenty years.”

“He also has a weakness for the gaming tables, and an ill-luck that is the talk of the town. And do not forget, his years in the Home Office have already been rewarded with a knighthood. I have even heard a barony mentioned as a possibility for him. That might well concentrate his loyalties on the current regime.”

Sir Dominic, his expression stricken, sank onto a chair as if his legs could no longer hold him. He made no denial. After a moment, he said: “What of Lord Farnham? His estates are grossly encumbered. It is possible, however much we might wish to deny it, he might have been willing to betray our cause for sufficient financial gain.”

James inclined his head in acknowledgment. Absently, he tossed another log onto the grate. “Viscount Brockenhurst? He has been slipping out of the house, apparently to meet one of your housemaids in the folly.”

“On an icy December evening?” Sir Dominic demanded, incredulous.

“Supposedly he doesn’t wish to be detected lowering himself to such a liaison,” James explained. “I thought it sounded a bit dodgy, myself.”

Sir Dominic clasped his hands together. “You think he is using that maid as an excuse to slip out, in case he’s seen?”

“It does seem a possibility. I believe he is also guilty of cheating at cards.”

Sir Dominic flinched, as if that revelation pained him. “That is not a reason to want you dead, though.” He sank back in the chair, his expression thoughtful. “He was brought into our conspiracy by his father. His dedication might not be as real as that of the others.”

“Why does he work with you?”

Sir Dominic actually smiled. “He says Prinny is ‘devilish bad
ton
’
.
”

James studied the lines of strain on the older man’s face, and nodded. “He has always mocked my work with the poor. It is possible he fears what I might do, the changes I might bring about, if I possessed more power.”

“Power. Yes, you said the attacks on you began back in October.” For a long moment he stared into the flames. At last, he looked up. “It was at the end of September, when the discussions intensified over the regency bill, that I revealed it was you who were the Stuart heir.”

So one of those men at last learned the identity of the hated Stuart—and set about arranging his death. James drew a deep breath. “We cannot forget St. Ives.”

“Your cousin?”

James shook his head. “A year ago, on his father’s death, he must have learned I was no blood relation.”

“But to kill you? Surely—the ties of childhood—” Sir Dominic broke off, appalled.

“There is no love between us. He is the elder by nearly ten years, and his father lavished attention on me.”

“Resentment,” Sir Dominic murmured. “Or even jealousy. But why would he wait so many months before making an attempt on you? He knew the truth long before the others.”

“Perhaps he bided his time until a sufficient number of men to cloud the issue were presented with a motive.”

Sir Dominic nodded. “Or perhaps it didn’t really matter to him until your becoming regent became a likelihood. I believe you should have your man spend the night in here. You should not be alone.”

“I doubt my enemy wishes to reveal himself. I will do very well if I lock the door.”

James escorted Sir Dominic to the corridor, and his host waited until James not only turned the key in its hole, but also removed it. As Sir Dominic’s footsteps retreated, James strolled to his washbasin and drank the remaining water.

This changed things. No longer did the attacks on him loom as a personal grudge. His assailant wanted the Stuart heir dead, and it was only coincidental that James Holborn was that heir. It depersonalized the matter somehow, but at the moment, James wasn’t certain if that made it any better. More understandable, perhaps, but no, not better.

He climbed into his great, cold bed, and left the curtains back. Lord, what he wouldn’t give for the sweet comfort of Christy’s arms. She’d come to him if she knew about the wine—but he wanted her there by her own choice, not because he roused her protective instincts. Thoughts of her burned through him until at last, desperate to distract his mind, he concentrated instead on her words.

Torn by uncertainty, he stared into the fire, watching the flames dance along the logs. She swore Prinny’s regency, despite his wastrel and profligate ways, would not cause the revolution so much feared by Sir Dominic’s cabal. Yet he knew how much good he himself could do as regent, then king. He cared for the welfare of the people, unlike Prinny. He could make all he worked for reality.

Christy claimed Prinny
did
become regent. Yet history could change, the shifting type in his book proved that. And the alteration of events depended on one catalyst. Him. What did he—or didn’t he—do?

Or was everything Christy had said and done a lie? Was she truly from the future—which was blatantly impossible—or did a faction who knew him for a Stuart, and opposed him, plant her on him? Did they provide her with a copy of his notes, printed into a book, so she could convince him by pretending to have brought it with her from her own supposed time? Was she the source of that poisoned wine?

Yet he wanted to believe in her, in the love for her that filled him. There had been a magic between them when she shared his bed. How could anything that perfect be a lie?

But if he
did
believe in her, then he had to accept the possibility that the appearance of a Stuart, and one advocating social reform, would cause the very revolution he hoped to prevent.

Restless thoughts jostled against one another, confused and confusing, blending into fragments of memory and dream. Restful sleep evaded him, yet when he opened weary eyes once more, soft light filtered into the room. A world so still and silent greeted him, he knew without looking that snow fell once more. Christmas morning.

A gentle tapping sounded at his door, and he realized it was a repetition of what had awakened him. Wickes’s worried voice called to him, and he rose, drew on his dressing gown, and found the key so he could admit his man.

The entire house party gathered for the morning meal, greeting one another with wishes for a merry Christmas. Plates and trays heaped with food lined the sideboard, and the decorated Christmas candles burned bright amid their greenery. The footmen moved with care about their duties, as if they nursed sore heads after their night of revelry.

James checked which dishes the others had sampled, then made his selections from these, filling his plate with slices of rare beef and smoked herring. The eggs he avoided; the chafing dish appeared to have been freshly replaced, and no one had as yet scooped a serving. The butler offered him spiced cider from a large pot, which he deemed safe to accept.

It would be the very devil, wondering if every dish or cup presented to him contained poison. Settling at the table, he regarded his fellow guests. For a moment, all gazes rested on him, then with an excess of politeness, the men looked away.

Did they wonder if he were in a mood to listen to their entreaties? All except one, of course, who must be dismayed to see him still alive.

Christy’s tales of warm family gatherings at Christmas stood out in sharp contrast to this motley assortment of political intriguers. Each one of them, using the holiday to advance his plans, and very probably his power. If these men brought a Stuart to the throne, they might well expect numerous favors in return.

Lady Sophia smiled a welcome to him, not a trace of constraint or worry on her gentle brow. Her husband, it seemed, had told her nothing of the night’s occurrence.

His gaze met Christy’s, where she sat between Lady St. Ives and Lord Farnham. For a long minute she studied his face, until James looked away, not wanting to reveal too much. The sparkle in her magnificent eyes faded, and Christy directed an aimless question to Farnham. That gentleman beamed at her, and murmured something that brought a smile once more to her full lips. Irritation stabbed through James, which he recognized as jealousy.

He ate his beef with savage force, then excused himself from the table. An hour still remained before they were to depart for church, and he wanted to take some more notes for the next chapter of his book.

When the handle on his door turned, he tensed and muttered curses at himself for leaving it unlocked. His fingers closed about the letter opener that lay on the small writing desk, only to relax as Christy slipped inside. If only she had come last night...

Not passion, though, but worry, marked her expression. She advanced into the room, only to stop two paces from him. “Are you all right? You looked like death warmed over at breakfast.”

“Thank you.” His lips twitched. “What a delightful description. As you see, I continue tolerably.”

“Oh, cut it out, James.” She perched on the edge of the desk. “You were looking at everyone around the table as if you had X- ray vision.”

“As—what?”

“Like you were looking right through them,” she amended. He leaned back in his chair, his gaze held by the sparkling determination in those bright blue eyes. Such lovely eyes. No, he couldn’t believe she worked against him. Not his beloved Christy.

“Well?” she demanded.

He brushed the thick curls from her cheek. “Someone sent a glass of poisoned wine to me last night.”

“Someone—” She broke off. Her lips parted, and her complexion paled, her usual becoming color fading to an unnatural pallor. The hand she reached toward his cheek trembled. “You didn’t drink it,” she managed at last.

“No more than a sip, and I rinsed away all traces.”

“Oh, James—” Her voice broke on a sob.

Temptation proved too great. He gathered her into his arms, holding her close. She clung to him, as if she feared he would be dragged from her at any moment. He buried his face in her curls, breathing deeply the scent of violets that clung to her. Dear heaven, he wanted her...