A Christmas Keepsake (8 page)

“Has she said anything about herself?”

“She comes from a large family, that is certain. Her father was a vicar, I believe, and so is her eldest brother.”

He nodded slowly. No contradictions in her stories yet. But was it all real—or a carefully rehearsed pretense?

She returned more quickly than he expected. A becoming bonnet now covered the top of her hair, which escaped in a riot of curls about her neck. The new pelisse of brown wool must have been delivered that morning. On the whole, he found himself favorably impressed with the picture she made.

“Did everything you require arrive?” He escorted her down the stairs.

“Yes, Madam Hendricks was so kind. And you have been, too. Thank you so much.”

Her rush of warmth unsettled him. The devil take it, he found her far too attractive for his own good. If his enemies had planted a spy on him, they could not have made a better choice.

Disturbed by how much he enjoyed her company, he led the way outside, where they waited in the icy wind for Kepp to return with the curricle. Two minutes later, the grays swept into sight, moving with an ease that still commanded his admiration.

Kepp drew them to a halt, jumped to the ground and handed over the reins. “Bit of a breeze blowing up, sir,” he said. “Looks like it’s coming on to snow.”

His comment was an understatement. Dark clouds gathered overhead, and the wind whipped Miss Campbell’s skirt about her shapely ankles. James dragged his gaze from the sight. Today he would show her how the poor suffered in such weather. Christmas could be a very bleak time of year.

Miss Campbell scrambled into the curricle in a manner that would have drawn shocked exclamations from the fusty matrons of society. He found it quite taking—as he did most of her unconventional ways. Annoyed with himself, he took his place at her side and set his pair in motion.

As they turned the corner at the end of the short street, something shot past his head and hit the back of the seat with a thud. He caught his horses’ mouths, then released them the next moment as he saw the firm ball of white snow rolling down to the cushions.

Miss Campbell picked it up, started to toss it over the side, then brought it back. Her gloved fingers dug through the tightly compacted flakes, and a soft exclamation escaped her. “There’s a rock in here! A large, sharp one. Now where—”

The next landed on the rump of the near horse. The animal lashed out, kicking the traces with a blow that sent the curricle skittering sideways over the icy paving. The other horse reared, and the carriage snapped back into position, setting the first horse bucking as the pole rammed into it. The vehicle teetered on the off wheel, Kepp cried out in alarm, and too late, James tried to catch Miss Campbell as they overturned into the gutter.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Christy floundered to her hands and knees in a snowdrift made deep by the clearing of the street. At least something broke that fall, it would have been awful—

Her unsteady gaze fell on Major Holborn, where he lay slumped in the shallow layer of new-fallen flakes over the cobbles. She stumbled clear of the bank and ran to him, as he dragged himself to his feet.

“Are you hurt?” she cried.

“No.” He pushed past her, his movements stiff, and made his way to where the horses struggled on the ground, kicking and striking out in their attempts to regain their feet. He grasped the headstall of the nearest. “Kepp!” he shouted.

The groom limped over from the other side, soothing the off horse with gentle words. The major ran his hand down the near animal’s neck, reached the harness, and tugged it free from the shaft. Kepp supported the carriage bar while the major unbuckled another strap. The gray lunged upward, caught its balance, and stood quivering, covered in nervous sweat, barely touching the off hind leg to the paving.

Christy grabbed the torn remnants of a rein and led the frightened beast a few yards away. It trembled, blowing hard, neck and chest drenched. Its ears twitched, and blood from a jagged cut seeped down its flank. She stroked the horse’s shoulder, murmuring softly.

A minute later the two men freed the other gray. While Kepp held the animal’s head, the major knelt and examined its legs, then stepped back and nodded to Kepp. The groom led the horse forward.

“Naught but a strain, I shouldn’t think,” Kepp called back, a heartened note in his voice.

The major nodded, then turned to Christy. “Thank you, Miss Campbell.”

“He’s got a nasty cut.” She continued her soothing stroking of the animal’s withers and neck.

“Let’s have a look at it.”

Allowing Christy to retain her hold on the horse, he cast a cursory glance at the bloodied flank. His mouth tightened in an angry line, but he turned his attention to the more pressing matter of the beast’s legs. He ran his hand along each, feeling the muscles and joints. On the off hind, as he reached the cannon bone, the animal jerked away.

“Poultices tonight, I think.” He patted the gray’s rump. “Let’s see what you’ve done, here.” He bent once more, this time examining the flank, and his brow creased. “Now, how did you do this, old boy?” Without looking up, he called: “Are the shafts broken, Kepp?”

The groom led the horse he held back to the wreckage, and studied the tangled mass of wooden poles and leather straps. “Looks sound, sir,” he called back after a couple of minutes.

“Could the other one have kicked him?” Christy suggested.

“This wasn’t caused by a shoe.” Frowning, the major flicked remnants of snow from about the wound. “I believe that second snowball also had a rock in it.”

“Why—” She broke off and stared at him, horrified. “Look, you’ve got to go to the police or whatever you have over here. This is awful! Playing practical jokes on you is one thing, but hurting the horses goes beyond all limits! Are you going to report this?”

His steady gaze rested on her face.

Warmth flooded her already heightened color. “All right, so I’m an animal lover,” she snapped. “Is there anything wrong with that?”

“Nothing in the least,” he said. “I applaud it. But what, precisely, am I supposed to tell the watch? That someone threw a couple of snowballs with rocks inside? Thank you, but I have no desire to become the laughingstock of the local magistrate. I would probably be told not to drive a sporting vehicle through a district where its cost could support all the residents in comfort for the better part of a year.”

“Could it?” Christy glanced at the vehicle, still lying on its side, then her slow gaze traveled across the people who had gathered to watch, some jeering, some silent, their faces masks of antagonism. Not one of them had moved to help, she realized.

A wrenching fear stirred in the bottom of her stomach. Riots , in the streets, one version of his book had read. A revolution against the upper classes—which he so completely epitomized in his manners and appearance.

She swallowed. “Let’s get out of here.”

The major turned toward the watchers, singled out a boy, and gestured him to come forward. When the lad did, the major drew several coins from his pocket. “Are you familiar with the Golden Lane Orphanage?” he asked.

The boy eyed the coins. “Aye, guv’nor.”

“Have a couple of your friends help you take my curricle there, will you? A guinea each?”

Two more boys rushed forward and eagerly set about hoisting the vehicle back onto its wheels. The horses started and stamped uneasily, but settled again. The carriage must have been light, for the boys righted it with ease. One of them held Kepp’s gray while he examined the undercarriage.

After an intent survey, the groom nodded in approval. “No obvious damage, sir. Still, I’d like to see it gone over afore you’re fixing to drive out again.”

The major nodded his agreement, then watched the boys back the curricle in a circle, one holding each of the shafts, and a third supporting the middle pole. They set off at a trot toward the orphanage.

The major dusted his hands on the sides of his buckskins, then took the long reins from Christy. “Again, thank you, Miss Campbell. You have shown excellent presence of mind.”

She grinned. “No problem. Are you all right? We landed pretty hard.”

A slow smile twitched the corners of his lips. “You are a remarkable young woman, Miss Campbell. Under the circumstances I would expect you to indulge in a fit of the vapors.”

“The what?” She laughed. “What on earth is that?”

He shook his head. “Something I would be willing to wager is very far from your nature.” He started after the boys, slowing his steps to accommodate the lame horse. “I regret our expedition has come to naught.”

She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. Maybe we can go out again another time. Was there something particular you wanted to show me?”

“I want you to know London as I do.” The steadiness of his voice barely covered the force behind his words. “I want you to see how these people must live, especially at this time of year.”

She looked at a group of women who stood by the side of the narrow street watching them, at their ragged garments which were insufficient to keep out the cold. “You don’t have to show me. In San Fr—in the place where I live, I work at a homeless shelter. I’ve seen people who’ve lost everything, who don’t have a roof over their heads or enough food to eat, and God, how I hate it.” She shivered. “England hasn’t cornered the market on poverty, you know.”

She huddled into her pelisse and wished she’d worn her down jacket instead. The days were far too short—and cold. At least she had
something
warm to wear, unlike so many of these people. She tried to put her hand in her pocket for her plastic bag of chips, but her fingers met only solid fabric. No pockets. She’d left the bag in the other coat.

She sighed. “I need chocolate.”

His mobile eyebrows rose. “Would you care to stop at an inn for a pot? You look chilled, and you’ve been through a very traumatic experience.”

“Pot, nothing. I want the chewable kind.”

At that, he frowned. “I greatly fear there isn’t a confectioners in this quarter of town.”

“Terrific.” If even one of those would do her much good. If memory served—and when it came to chocolate, it usually did—there wasn’t supposed to be any of the solid eating stuff until 1847. That meant for the next thirty-seven years, she’d only find something vastly inferior. Of course, cocoa butter came along about 1828. She considered the eighteen-year wait and shuddered. She’d never survive.

It made one more reason why she had to return to her own time, and as quickly as possible. Her meager supply of chips couldn’t last much longer.

They turned off Golden Lane, onto the narrow alley leading to the orphanage. Mr. Runcorn, huddled in his greatcoat, stood outside with the boys and the curricle, staring up the street to where Kepp approached with the sound gray. His hands shielded his eyes. As Christy and the major came into view, Mr. Runcorn hurried forward to meet them.

“James!” Concern showed on his every feature. “What happened?”

Briefly, Major Holborn explained about the snowball.

The elderly man shook his head. “This is getting serious, James. Miss Campbell might have been seriously hurt.”

“But I wasn’t,” she said quickly.

“My horse may have been.” The major bent to run a hand over the animal’s leg again.

As Mr. Runcorn joined him in a gentle probing of the tendon along the cannon bone, an unwieldy carriage rounded the corner. Its body perched precariously above wheels which were over five feet in diameter. Christy watched in fascination as the driver bounced along, and wondered when he would be thrown out.

One of the blacks harnessed to the shafts shook its beautiful head, setting the harness bells jingling, and its companion danced daintily sideways. Christy whistled softly. “There’s someone asking for trouble. That turnout must have cost a small fortune. What is it?”

Major Holborn looked up to follow the direction of her gaze, and a slight smile relieved the severity of his expression. “That, Miss Campbell, is my cousin, Saint Ives.”

“I meant, what is he driving?”

“Ah, a swan-necked phaeton. Have they not become popular in America, yet? You shall have to have the dubious honor of riding in one.”

“No, thanks.”

The major cast her an amused glance, and stepped forward to greet the new arrival.

Christy regarded the major’s cousin with interest, from the graying sandy brown hair that protruded from beneath his high-crowned curly hat, to the sharp face which appeared to consist primarily of a thin beakish nose, narrow mouth, and pointy chin. The heaviness of his coat did nothing to hide the slenderness of his build.

St. Ives’s gaze fell on her, and she stepped back, suddenly uncomfortable. An overly polished, cold-fish type. His upper lip appeared to be curled perpetually into a sneer.

He returned his regard to the major. “Dear Coz, a carriage accident? You?” A flash of humor lit his steely eyes.

Major Holborn merely smiled. “A badly misplaced snowball. What brings you here?”

“You, dear boy, what else would induce me into this benighted neighborhood?” An exquisite shudder ran through St. Ives. “I’ve had the merry devil of a time tracking you down, too. Wickes finally told me you were here.” He glanced at the building again and the curl of his lip deepened. “You have an unaccountable fondness for this district.”

“For the people,” the major agreed. “And what is of such urgency you permit it to drag you into so unsavory a neighborhood?”

“The pleasure of your company, what else? I’m having a gathering at my house for dinner tomorrow night, and thought you might care to join us.”

Major Holborn raised an eyebrow, and Christy gained the impression this was an unusual invitation, and not one motivated by any desire for the pleasure of his company, either. Uneasy, she pressed the major’s arm in silent warning.

He ignored her. Smiling, he said: “Who else will be there?” St. Ives rattled off several names with titles, all unknown to Christy. They obviously made an impression on the major, though.

He frowned. “You have a number of important members of the government. Why do you want me?”

St. Ives’s smile thinned. “With your appalling hobby, Coz, I thought you might like the opportunity.”

Major Holborn nodded slowly. “Does this mean I have free rein in what I say?”

A slow grin spread over St. Ives’s narrow face. “Anything you can make them listen to, dear boy, anything at all.”

The man was up to something. It struck Christy that the major might well be walking into a lion’s den. If that were the case, now was not the time for good manners. She couldn’t let him go alone to face ... who knew what?

She managed a soulful expression. “What fun! Oh, what a wonderful evening you will have, Major. I wish—” She broke off in pretended confusion.

Major Holborn cast a shrewd glance at her, and clamped his mouth closed.

St. Ives raised his eyebrows and glanced at the major. “You have not, dear cousin, introduced me as yet to this charming creature.”

Christy gritted her teeth at the phrase and smiled. She didn’t want to tell him off—yet.

The major hesitated, then said: “Miss Campbell, an American visitor. This is my cousin, the earl of St. Ives.”

St. Ives swept off his hat in as elegant a version of a bow as could be managed from his precarious perch. Christy batted her long lashes in feigned delight at making his acquaintance. The earl extended his invitation to her, as well, and Christy thanked him. His mission apparently accomplished, St. Ives touched his hat once more and drove off.

Major Holborn turned on her as soon as the carriage pulled out of hearing range. “What the devil are you about?”

Christy folded her arms and stuck out her stubborn chin. “I don’t trust him.”

“Why on earth not?”

“Someone’s out to hurt you, in case you’ve forgotten.”

His brow snapped down. “And you think it’s St. Ives?” He shook his head. “You are fair and far out, my girl. Why should he want to? We are cousins. I was raised by his father. I have known him since my cradle.”