A Christmas Keepsake (33 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

White-faced, St. Ives regarded James, his habitual sneer replaced by an expression of pleading. Fear—real fear for the safety of his wife and unborn child—lurked in his blue eyes.

James raised his angry gaze to Sir Dominic’s stricken face. “Is this the fate of the Stuarts?” he demanded. “By God, it would have been Christy, not Margaret, if she hadn’t gone into hiding with me. Is this what I can expect? Those I love threatened?” He shook his head, and an icy note crept into his voice. “I’ll not have it.”

“Then you will keep this meeting?” St. Ives leaned forward, intent, as if desperate to see the confirmation in the major’s face.

“You cannot!” Sir Dominic exclaimed.

Christy sank on the floor at his side, anguish welling up within her until it could not be contained. “James, you can’t. Please.”

“It would be to walk into a trap,” Mr. Runcorn agreed.

“Am I to let Margaret be killed? And who would they take next? Elinor?” He glanced toward Mrs. Runcorn, and his anger glinted in his eyes. “No, I’ve done with this. The matter must be settled, and now.”

Christy’s fingers tightened on his arm. “You can’t just let them murder you.”

“Murder me?” A slight smile just touched his lips. “No, that would not be my first choice. I have something else in mind.”

“You’ll renounce any claims to the throne?” Christy sat back on her heels, hoping, watching the intensity of his expression.

“That would solve nothing. I remain who I am. My only option is to come forward, this minute, and force Parliament to acknowledge me. Then you will all be placed under protection, until their decision is made.”

Christy swallowed. “And what if they refuse you? For the rest of your life, you’ll be a threat to the regime.”

A muscle in his cheek twitched. “Then I go into exile, like my father before me.”

“You would give up all for which you have worked?” St. Ives demanded.

“Not in the least. I would continue my writings, my demands for social reform. But my position would be better, far better.” He leaned forward, his dark eyes flashing. “The government would be forced to make concessions to me, to prevent me from following in the bloody footsteps of my father. Whether I am made regent or not, the people of this country will benefit.”

Christy caught his hands. “There’s a good chance people will be killed. You’ve seen the effect of the Stuart name.”

“I have, but my options are somewhat limited. I appear to have the choice between claiming my heritage or allowing myself to be murdered.” He rose. “It seems my decision is made, Sir Dominic. What now?”

The elderly man picked up his cane and came to his feet. “We will collect your things and return to Briarly. First, though, with your permission, I will send messages to various members of Parliament to attend us there this afternoon. By this evening, I promise you, England will know a Stuart has come forward to claim the regency he so rightly deserves.”

St. Ives’s fingers whitened on the back of the chair. “And what of my wife?”

“Give Margaret my love,” James said, “and my apologies for the fright she has undergone. Keep her safe for tonight. By tomorrow morning, our villain will know how I have responded to his threats.”

“Thank you.” The earl grasped his hand, and a shadow of his former sneer returned to play about his mouth. “Fare you well—Sire.” With a bow directed at the assembled company, he took his leave.

Christy shivered as the door closed behind him. “And what if that was all an act, and
he
was your enemy?”

“Then undoubtedly there will be an attempt on my life some time within the next couple of hours.”

Christy swallowed. “Let’s get out of here before he comes up with any bright ideas.”

Wickes cleared his throat. “Sir, will you be wanting your rooms in Clarges Street vacated?”

“It will be best,” Sir Dominic said. “My home is entirely at your disposal until more suitable arrangements can be made.”

James inclined his head. “Well, Wickes, do you come with me or stay here with the Runcorns?”

The valet stiffened, his expression pained. “If I have failed to give you satisfaction—”

“Get off your high horse, man. If I am not offered the regency—which is more than likely—I will be forced into exile. To live among foreigners, whom I know perfectly well you despise.”

“Doubtless, sir, the services of a superior gentleman’s gentleman will be invaluable to you in that case.”

James gave a short laugh. “Are you quite certain you wouldn’t rather remain here? The Runcorns would welcome you as their man of affairs.”

A long moment passed before the man answered. “It would not be right to leave you, sir.”

Yet he was torn. Christy could see it in his not-quite impassive expression. “And what of Nancy?” she asked.

Wickes made a show of gathering the medicines he had brought into the room. “I could hardly bring myself to answer for that young person, miss.”

“And leave miss to the likes of you?” Nancy pushed her way into the room, her color heightened. Obviously, she had been eavesdropping. Her gaze rested for a challenging moment on Wickes, then moved on to Mrs. Runcorn. “Lor’, missus, I ’ates to leave you and the reverend, but—”

Elinor Runcorn nodded. “Their need for you is undoubtedly greater than ours. Go, now, and collect their things. The major will not be safe until he is within the walls of Briarly.”

James nodded. “Let us return to the lodging to collect my book. Thaddeus,” he turned to Mr. Runcorn. “I believe I will be somewhat occupied over the next several days. Will you see to the publication, for me?” He cast a humorous glance at Christy, “There should be no difficulty about it.”

“Of course, James. Is there anything else?”

“No, I will contact you as soon as matters are settled.” He grasped the man’s hand. “Take care.”

Once more, they entered Sir Dominic’s town carriage. James gave the coachman the disreputable direction of their lodging, and they set forth. James had made his decision. Christy inched closer to him and clung to his hand, trying to block from her mind her fears for the consequences to her own time. If it came to a choice between his life, though, and preserving history as she knew it to have occurred, she willingly would sacrifice the future to keep him safe here and now.

They drew up in the familiar alley and climbed down. James tucked the snowdome securely in his arm and started up the rickety stairs. For a long moment, Sir Dominic looked about, his expression appalled, then with obvious reluctance he followed them up to their dingy corridor.

James inserted the key in the lock, but the door swung inward without his turning it. Christy caught her breath as it creaked wide, revealing the squalid furnishings, their few possessions—and the raven-haired gentleman seated directly before them on the room’s rickety chair. A flintlock and one of a pair of dueling pistols lay crossed in his lap, the other he held in his hand, pointed directly at James’s heart.

Christy froze. If they tried to escape, James would be shot. At that range, the man couldn’t miss...

James straightened his shoulders and stepped into the room. “Good morning, Farnham.”

“Major Stuart.” Farnham awarded him a mocking bow without rising. “Ah, Miss Campbell, not so close, if you do not mind?” He gestured her away from James. “And Sir Dominic. I see you, also, have located our friend. I must commend you on your methods. The major appears to be a master at hiding himself.”

“Not quite good enough, it seems.” James set the snowdome on the table. “You must forgive me if I do not offer you refreshment. The amenities of this establishment are few. Now, what may I do for you?”

Farnham’s mouth thinned. “You will oblige me by
not
becoming regent.”

James inclined his head. “Exile is an acceptable alternative. I will still be able to do much good.”

“I fear that cannot be permitted.” Farnham gathered the two pistols in his left hand and rose. The third never wavered. “I cannot risk letting the Stuart heir escape me again. Until now, you have proved singularly difficult to kill.”

“
Why
?” Sir Dominic demanded, his tone bewildered. “Farnham,
you,
of all men...”

“You see, whether he wishes it or not, by birth he is a pretender to the throne, and so he will remain as long as he lives. You and your fellow Jacobites have worked far too long and hard, hiding him, educating him, preparing him for this moment. You will never permit him to retire into obscurity. You will drag us once more into civil war.”

“But you are one of us!” Sir Dominic took an uncertain step toward him.

Farnham backed up until he leaned against the door, then gestured for the elderly man to join James and Christy on the opposite side of the narrow room. “It shouldn’t be that difficult for you to understand. My grandfather died at Culloden, fighting for his Stuart prince, and my father died preventing an assassination attempt against him after his exile. My family has sacrificed enough.”

He straightened, and the light of pure hatred flickered in his eyes. “There will be no more Stuarts to wreak havoc on England.” Slowly, deliberately, he raised the pistol to James’s head.

With an anguished cry, Christy lunged forward, pulling up her skirt. She spun about, and delivered a perfect self-defense class version of a karate snap kick to Farnham’s midriff. An explosion of smoke and noise erupted from the pistol as Sir Dominic threw himself against James. As the two men fell on the bed, the ball grazed Sir Dominic, then shattered what remained of the window. Acrid smoke filled the air, gagging Christy.

With a sweep of his arm, Farnham hit Christy in the throat and swept her aside. She staggered and caught her balance, only to find herself staring at the other dueling pistol. He clutched the flintlock in his left hand.

“Back against the wall.” His voice rasped in his throat.

Christy glanced behind her. Sir Dominic had fallen to his knees, clutching his lower arm. Blood seeped through his fingers. James drew himself up slowly to stand tense, hunched up. Christy started toward him, but with the slightest shake of his head, he turned her aside.

Farnham’s gaze never wavered. He advanced one step toward them, and Christy shrank back. “I believe we will do better without you, Miss Campbell.” He swiveled the barrel until it pointed once more directly at her. “I am truly sorry, my dear, your company is quite charming, but we must all make sacrifices for the good of England.” With slow deliberation, he drew back the hammer.

In a fluid movement, James released the knife he had drawn from his boot. With a strangled cry, Farnham fell backward to the floor. After a moment, his left hand crept to just below his right collarbone and pulled the knife free.

He collapsed, eyes closed, and lay there unmoving.

Sir Dominic let out a ragged sigh. “It is over, then.”

“Is it?” Christy clutched the bedpost for support.

James dragged his gaze from Farnham and looked at the elderly man. “How badly are you hurt?” He helped Sir Dominic off with his blood-soaked coat. Tearing back the sleeve of the fine lawn shirt, he exposed a nasty gash. “Christy, have we something to make a bandage? Just to hold you over,” he added to Sir Dominic. “You’ll need a doctor.”

Sir Dominic made no protest. He sank onto the chair, his face white and drawn.

Christy found a couple of rumpled neckcloths and handed them over. James appeared competent—probably from vast experience with his regiment—so she left him to deal with Sir Dominic’s gaping wound.

Was
it over? She looked from one to the other of them: Sir Dominic, so pale and drawn; James, so tense; and Farnham, who appeared to have lost consciousness. One of them had better tend him, as well, unless they wanted him to bleed to death. Shaky, cringing at the prospect of so much blood, she found another of James’s rumpled neckcloths.

“I’ll take care of him.” James left Sir Dominic to lie on the narrow bed. “Shoulders are the merry devil to bind.” Christy nodded, relieved, and turned away. It really was over. They had found their assassin, James had made his decision—but where would it lead? From her pocket, she drew the small leather-bound volume of
Life in London.

The last forty pages blurred and scrambled, though in slow motion. She gripped the book, scanning the fragmenting contents. The tale of bloodshed stood out clearly, faded momentarily into the account of the house party, then shifted back to the horrors of revolution. Both versions readable, with no other alternates. Two possibilities only. But which...

For several seconds, the deadly version remained in heart-wrenching clarity before it blurred once more. It returned all too soon, and stayed this time for nearly five seconds before the shifting began again. The next time, it remained for ten.

“James—” The agonized cry broke from her.

“What?” He looked up quickly from where he worked over Farnham’s inert form. He dropped the shirt with which he’d been about to bind the man’s arm.

“
Look at this
.” Trembling, she held the book out to him. James took it from her, then swore long and fluently. “It’s taking form. I’m causing a revolution. My blood is cursed. If this”—he waved the volume before Christy—”if this is what it means to be a pretender to a throne, I’ll have none of it.”