A Christmas Keepsake (28 page)

When at last the final guests departed, and only the house party remained, Lady Sophia regarded the scraps of food remaining on the once laden tables. She shook her head. “I believe it might be an excellent idea if we all rested before dinner.”

Sir Dominic patted his wife’s arm. “A period of quiet will be just the thing. Gentlemen?”

Sir Oliver nodded. “A hand or two of cards, perhaps? Brockenhurst? Saint Ives? Will you join me?”

‘That’s the ticket,” Brockenhurst said. He beamed at the assembled company. “And you”—he hesitated “—Major?”

“Yes, thank you.” James glanced toward Christy. She remained in her corner, eyes half closed. Her head must ache terribly.

As if she felt his gaze on her, she looked up, then rose. “May I watch?” she asked.

At least he wouldn’t have to worry about where she was—and in what danger she might be. Relieved on that account, he followed the men into a salon, where card tables remained. Christy drew up a chair by the blazing fire and seemed comfortable enough.

Sir Dominic rang for fresh decks, and within minutes Lord Brockenhurst had set up a faro bank. James took a seat, placed his bet on red, and his gaze traveled about the assembled company. One of them wanted him dead.

And Christy had suffered because she tried to protect him. They played through the deck, and Sir Oliver watched every turn of a card with abject concentration. Not so Sir Dominic, though. Before Brockenhurst could begin once more, the elderly gentleman rose.

“Saint Ives, a hand of piquet.”

The earl agreed, and the two men excused themselves and withdrew to another table. James doubted Sir Oliver paid any heed to their departure.

“Come on, man,” he urged Brockenhurst. “Turn the cards.” At the end of the second round, Farnham also excused himself. “Not enough of a challenge,” he explained, with an apologetic smile. “Major, will you honor me?”

They, too, retired from the faro bank, leaving only Brockenhurst and Sir Oliver. James glanced at Christy as he took his new chair, but she remained by the fire, staring into the depths of the flames. He stifled his impulse to go to her to discover where her mind wandered. Instead, he studied the men at the other table.

Farnham dealt, then followed the direction of James’s steady gaze. “Sir Oliver enjoys his game,” he said after a moment.

James nodded, then dragged his attention back to his own cards. In Farnham, despite the man’s free imbibing over the course of the day, he found a worthy opponent. Still, he found it difficult to concentrate on the pastime he normally enjoyed. Not when betrayal and deceit lurked in the room.

Sir Oliver was addicted to gambling.
Would
he betray James—and Sir Dominic—for money? It was a possibility they could not overlook, And then there was Brockenhurst, smiling so affably at him while he fiddled the cards. Cheating, though, did not make him a traitor to the cause—necessarily. Unless betrayal was a basic part of his nature. Nor could James forget Farnham, who even now demonstrated his cunning, and St. Ives, so bound up in politics he ignored the obvious needs of his wife.

Somewhere within the deep recesses of the house, the gong sounded, announcing time to change for dinner. James saw Christy to her room and into the surprisingly competent hands of Nancy before retiring to his own chamber and the ministrations of Wickes. An evening of merrymaking lay ahead. For once, he dreaded it.

Dinner, to his relief, proved a lively affair. Farnham had polished off a considerable amount of spiced wine and rum punch during the course of the afternoon, and was now well above par and inclined to indulge in scraps of song. In this he was aided by St. Ives, also in his cups, and while the footmen cleared the second course, the two dignified members of the House of Lords edified the company with a racy ditty culled from a musical farce. When the covers at last were cleared, the wassail bowl made its rounds, with each guest sipping from the large goblet.

“A play!” Lord Brockenhurst cried as they rose from the table
en masse
. “We must have a play. Sir Dominic, you must be Roast Beef. I have a fancy for the role of Mince Pie.”

St. Ives swept an inebriated bow in the direction of James. “Gentlemen, may I present our Lord of Misrule?”

James tensed, though he accepted the honor with grace. As the party headed, somewhat unsteadily, to the drawing room, Christy caught his arm.

“What did they mean?” she whispered. “I thought they
wanted
you to be regent!”

James guided her forward. “The Lord of Misrule is the traditional master of ceremonies for the Christmas revelries.”

She shivered, her distress patent in her lovely eyes. “James, that’s exactly what you’ll be! A Lord of Misrule, with your kingdom rioting. If you live that long. Please, you’ve got to listen to me. You heard Saint Ives’s tone. He
doesn’t
want you to be regent.”

James’s gaze traveled to his cousin. No, he reminded himself once again, not his cousin. The barrier of his true identity had risen between them, destroying what little fellow feeling they might ever have shared.

And what remained? Hatred? So intense, perhaps, that he would betray the cause he had been raised to uphold? Loneliness crept over him, at this sundering from the life he had known, had thought was his birthright. He had no family, no one to rely on except himself, and the odds stacked heavily against him.

Only Christy stood by him—and found herself in grave danger for her loyalty. He couldn’t bear to have her at risk. Yet how could he protect her, let alone himself, when he had no idea from which direction the threat loomed?

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Boxing Day dawned cold and overcast, with the threat of more snow heavy in the air. It matched James’s spirits. If he were the sky, he’d indulge in a rousing good blizzard.

His first impulse, to remain in his chambers, he refused to indulge. He could no longer delay the discussions of his future—and that of all England. He was no coward, but the enormity of the decisions that must be made during the next couple of days could not but weigh heavily upon him. Duty loomed over him like a two-edged sword of Damocles, and the thread by which it hung wore very thin.

Duty. He slowed as he reached the last landing. He had been raised in the certainty that one performed one’s duty, however unpleasant. That belief had carried him through more than one horrific campaign. He had believed it the motto of the Holborns.

Well, he wasn’t a Holborn, after all. He was a Stuart. And he was being offered an opportunity the likes of which his royal father—a man he had never known—would have given anything to possess. His duty to his name, his duty to England—he could only hope they lay along the same path, despite Christy’s fears.

No one, to his relief, occupied the breakfast room. He went to the sideboard, then hesitated—and cursed himself for a cowardly fool. No one would dare poison food which might be consumed by the others. Yet he found himself unwilling to sample a single dish.

The arrival of Farnham, followed closely by St. Ives, both nursing aching heads, solved his problem. If so many of them had yet to eat, surely his enemy would not dare to act. James helped himself to a substantial meal, though he found little enjoyment in the eating of it. The other two finished long before he did.

As he at last exited the breakfast parlor, the butler approached him, bowing with a deference that should have flattered him. “Sir Dominic awaits your pleasure in the library, sir,” the man said. “If you are ready?”

“Thank you.” He didn’t miss the formality of the invitation, nor the fact the man obviously had lain in wait for him. With a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, he followed the butler along the familiar route. The man opened the door for him, bowed him inside, then withdrew.

A blazing fire warmed the apartment against the chill without. Someone had drawn back the curtain over the French windows, revealing a snow-covered prospect and a leaden sky. Six chairs stood in a circle before the hearth. Sir Dominic, Lord Farnham, and Viscount Brockenhurst awaited him, and rose at once upon his entrance.

James stepped forward, with the distinct feeling he approached his execution, “Before you ask,” he said, “I have as yet come to no decisions.”

Sir Dominic nodded. “Sensible, very sensible, sir. Major,” he corrected hastily. “Will you be seated?” He gestured to the chair nearest the fire.

In the center of the circle rested a small table, on which stood two decanters and an assortment of glasses. James declined his host’s offer of madeira, and took his place. Sir Oliver and St. Ives joined them, murmuring their apologies for their tardy arrival.

Sir Dominic, his expression solemn, nodded. “As I believe we are all aware, time is running short. We may expect the regency bill to be passed at any time, and at this moment there is only one possible candidate of which the members of Parliament are aware.”

“And you know where that will lead!” Farnham leaned forward, a gleam in his brown eyes.

“To an excess of execrable taste,” Brockenhurst murmured. Sir Dominic ignored the interruption. “Major, you, who have so long concerned yourself with the interests of the poor, must be aware of the disaster this could mean. The French didn’t believe it could happen to them, yet the
sans culottes
destroyed the very fabric of their society. We cannot let this happen to us.” Brockenhurst paused in the act of opening his snuffbox, and shuddered. “There is only one other alternative. Major, we must beseech you to save England.”

“Playing regent will certainly give you increased scope,” St. Ives drawled. “Indeed, my dear—Major, your duty must loom clear to you.”

“Can one of you not think of a reason why I
shouldn’t
declare myself?” James asked.

The others exchanged frowning glances. “None, Major.” Farnham picked up a glass, then set it down again. “Only many reasons why you should. Your birthright—and obligation—remains with you, however much you may believe yourself in command of your decisions.”

Sir Dominic tapped the head of his cane. “Indeed, once it becomes public knowledge the son of Charles Edward Stuart lives, and is a Protestant, I greatly fear the matter will be taken from your hands. It will surprise me very much if there is not an uprising among the people, a call for you to save them from Prinny’s wastrel ways.”

James held his host with a steady gaze. “And what if it
doesn’t
become public knowledge?”

St. Ives’s jaw dropped. “Do you mean—Dear Coz, would you actually deny your Stuart heritage and continue to claim the Holborn name?”

“If it meant the safety of England, yes.”

Sir Dominic poured himself a glass of wine with an unsteady hand, and took a revivifying sip. “That, gentlemen, is what we must determine. In which direction lies the best interest of our great country? Though I believe every one of us here, with but one exception”—he bowed toward James “—has already considered that problem.”

“In short, then, you merely await my permission to approach the Lords.” James’s gaze traveled around the circle, resting on each serious face in turn. “Have you spoken with people on the streets? Have you
asked
anyone how they feel about Prinny’s regency?”

St. Ives leaned back in his chair, swinging his quizzing glass by its riband. “Ha
ve you
not read the scathing reports in our daily newspapers? Prinny is not popular. Another choice would be hailed as manna from heaven.”

“Possibly.” James rose. “If you will excuse me, gentlemen? Since you have nothing new to add, I believe what I need most is time for reflection.”

Somewhat to his surprise, they allowed him to leave without protest. He closed the door behind him, then paused in the corridor, frowning. One of those men in there spoke less than the truth—in fact, violently opposed the nomination of a Stuart.
But which one?

He repressed the urge to find Christy. He wanted a long walk outdoors, but he needed to think, not hear her familiar arguments over again. He made his way to the front hall and looked out one of the wide windows. Snow drifted down, silent and thick, wrapping the world in a blanket of white. The serenity of the stillness beckoned.

“Major!” Sir Dominic came up behind him. “Will you join us in a game of cards? I have often noted the efficacy of a logical pastime while attempting to order one’s thoughts on other matters.”

“Is this perchance Sir Oliver’s suggestion?” James pivoted slowly, and fixed the elderly man with his penetrating gaze.

Sir Dominic faltered. “He is very partial to a hand of piquet,” he admitted.

“Too partial. He loses a great deal.”

“It has never been a problem for him. The Paigntons are well heeled.”

“Are they?” James continued to hold his gaze. “Under the circumstances, it might be advisable to have his finances investigated.”

“You cannot think—”

“Can I not? In case you have forgotten, someone in this house has a penchant for assassination.”

For a long minute, Sir Dominic stared in silence at the falling snow. “It is a subject that has occupied my mind a great deal over the past thirty-six hours.”

“Have you told them, yet? That they are not as unanimous in their thoughts as they suppose?”

Sir Dominic nodded. “Just now, after you left us.”

“And what was their reaction?”

“Dumbfounded.” The aging man shook his head, his expression bleak. “Like me, they cannot believe one of our select number could be disloyal.”

“Did no one betray himself? Not even by the flicker of an eye?” He should have been present himself when the announcement was made, to better judge their reactions. “Do they understand the significance?” he pursued. “That violent opposition exists to their plans—and within their own ranks?”

“They do, but one person does not express the sentiments of all England. You will see how your arrival upon the political scene is greeted.”

Perhaps he could still judge reactions. James allowed his host to escort him back to the library, where the gentlemen now sat at various tables with decks of cards.

As they entered, Sir Oliver laughed heartily at something Lord Farnham said. “You must not take your encumbered estates so much to heart, my boy. How else can you come about if not by cards or dice?”

Farnham shook his head. “Your play is too rich for my blood. Take Brockenhurst for your partner. He has the devil’s own luck.”

Financial problems. More causes were betrayed for gold than any ideological belief. Sir Oliver and Lord Farnham, both living on insufficient income. And what of Brockenhurst? He’d never heard if that gentleman suffered monetary difficulties. Or St. Ives... No, the earl had more than enough blunt. Personal hatred for a lowly cousin being abruptly elevated to a station far above his own, though, might be a very different matter.

James seated himself across from Sir Dominic, and concentrated on the cards. Yet this occupation in no way assisted his thought processes, and after three hands he excused himself. Before he reached the door, Christy bounced in with her light, dancing step, enveloped in her pelisse, snow clinging to her masses of dark hair.

Lord Farnham’s gaze fixed on her. “By Jove!” he murmured, his expression appreciative.

James couldn’t blame him. She was a vision, with her eyes bright and her rounded face flushed with the cold.

She smiled on them all. “It’s beautiful outside. Why are you all indoors?”

“Lamentable taste,” James informed her.

Sir Oliver regarded her with a frown. “Are you not frozen?”

She laughed. “I have antifreeze in my veins. Besides, I couldn’t resist making some snow angels. Won’t any of you join me in building a fort for a snowball fight?”

Farnham’s eyes gleamed. “I will,” he said.

Brockenhurst rose. “As will I. This sounds a treat not to be missed.”

“It seems there will be four of us, then.” James turned to the other two volunteers. “Gentlemen, shall we find appropriate garments?”

The remainder of the afternoon passed all too rapidly, filled with a carefree merriment unequaled in James’s experience. Christy possessed deadly aim, landing her snowballs with precision, then ducking behind trees and shrubs before he could reciprocate. Brockenhurst, despite his expressed enthusiasm, quickly tired of such childish entertainment, and before long drifted back indoors, taking Farnham with him.

Christy ignored their departure, and began packing the base for a good-sized snowman. James joined her, and together they sculpted a three-tiered creation with creditable results. By the time they finished, dusk crept across the already darkened sky.

“He needs coal for eyes and a carrot for a nose. And sticks for hands.” She stood back, eyeing their masterpiece. “Do you think we could find a hat and scarf for him? He looks cold.”

She raised her laughing face to his, and he caught his breath. Slowly, the smile faded from her lips and she gazed at him, longing filling her expressive eyes. Lord, this was what he wanted, endless days filled with Christy’s love, a small estate outside of London where he could continue his work and set up his nursery...

But duty decreed his children be born of another woman. His every instinct rebelled. Christy should be his wife, not his mistress, and her children
—their
children—should be his legal heirs, not his royal bastards.

“What’s wrong?” Christy touched his cheek. Her warm breath huddled in a cloud between them before dissipating.

Only by tremendous effort did he keep from gathering her into his arms. He was as confused as she, wanting her, yet foreseeing only heartache. “I’ll send a footman for what we need.” He forced himself to stride away, leaving her with her icy companion.

The footmen rounded up the necessary items, and all too soon—or was that not soon enough?—he returned to where Christy waited in the rapidly failing light. She at once set about making the additional improvements to their snowman, then stood back to admire the effect.

“Well?” she demanded.

In spite of his disturbed state of mind, his lips twitched. “Charming.”

She drew off her drenched gloves and slid her hand around his arm. “What would you like to do next? I wish it weren’t too dark to stay out here.”

“I have to reach some decisions, answer some questions in my own mind.” He raised her chilled hand to his lips. “You prove too great a distraction.”

She returned no reply. She continued to stare at him for a long moment, then turned and led the way into the great house. They found Margaret and Lady Sophia sitting together in the Blue Salon, embroidering, and he left her, silent and solemn, with them. At least he would not have to worry about her safety while he occupied his mind with other matters.

After securing Sir Dominic’s promise to keep his other guests safely within doors, James set off for a long tramp over the icy grounds. Early darkness closed about him, but the few stars peeping through the clouds bathed the paths in a faint but sufficient glow.