Holiday for Two (a duet of Christmas novellas) (2 page)

She had never been able to resist an English accent since she first back-packed through Europe after college. She didn’t even mind Mrs. Stephens bossing her around most of the time. Her employer still sounded and looked like Queen Elizabeth minus the tiara, even though she’d been in the states for fifty years and had had divorced three American husbands.

She stuck out a hand. “You must be Lord Archer. I’m Carrie Moore, your aunt’s PA.”

“Ah. Sorry about the mix-up. I am quite blind without my glasses.” To his credit, he looked chagrinned. “This day has been hell from beginning to end. Do you know they’ve closed Route 1? Accidents left and right. I believe I was the last car to be let through. I do wish the police had told me the ferry wasn’t running. Well, what’s to be done?” He settled his glasses back onto his patrician-if-slightly beaky nose and looked expectantly at Carrie. His eyes were the bluest blue, and Carrie felt her knees buckle. He couldn’t be wearing colored contact lenses
plus
his glasses, could he?

“
I’m
going home,” Edna said. “You two will have to make your plans somewhere else.”

Carrie shrugged at him apologetically. “Why don’t you come to my car?”

“Why don’t you come to mine? The engine’s still running. I wasn’t sure where to park.”

Despite entreaties from Mrs. Stephens, Lord Archer had not visited his aunt’s island home since he was a child. There was a picture of that, too—Griffin missing two front teeth with Mrs. Stephens’s second husband on a sailboat. His teeth had come in pretty straight for an Englishman, Carrie noted. She’d seen the Austin Powers movies and gotten the joke.

“Christmas is a time for family, and Diana and I are all you’ve got until you do your duty to the family name. And none of us are getting any younger,” Mrs. Stephens had harangued her nephew on the telephone numerous times over the past month. Carrie couldn’t help but overhear, and had practiced her curtsey in the event the man gave in to his aunt’s emotional blackmail.

Well, here he was, a peer of the realm, dripping in the ferry terminal. She’d completely forgotten to curtsey since Lord Archer didn’t look very lord-like at first sight. He wore an unsettling hunter-orange ski cap, Timberland boots and a heavy Barbour jacket. She recognized the latter as she’d ordered it for him herself as a “Welcome to New England” gift from his aunt. Rosemary Stephens was always sending people presents, although she couldn’t be bothered to shop for them herself.

Americans didn’t have to curtsey. And he was just a viscount, not a duke. Certainly not Prince Harry, one of Carrie’s crushes. So adorable, and he was walking to one of the Poles for injured soldiers, too—she couldn’t remember which. North or south? One had penguins, one didn’t. She’d have to Google it when she had Internet access again.

“Don’t make a fuss over the boy when he comes,” Mrs. Stephens had warned, though Griffin was no boy. Carrie had looked him up in Mrs. Stephens’s well-thumbed Debrett’s. He was the same age she was, and nobody would call Carrie a girl and get away with it. “He doesn’t like it. He’s come to America to be just like everybody else.”

Carrie couldn’t comprehend that. Mrs. Stephens’s had a coffee table book with her childhood home Archer Hall in it. She often sat turning the pages on rainy afternoons, obviously longing for the good old days. Who would want to live in a sublet condo on Beacon Street when you could live in practically a castle?

“No central heating, and no money to put it in” Mrs. Stephens had said sadly, shivering and pulling her Hermes scarf closer to her throat. Evidently her brother, the previous Lord Archer, had been profligate with the ponies.

Carrie needed her salary, too, so she smiled up at Griffin Archer, who was really just another working stiff, when all was said and done.

“Lead the way.” She opened the door and the wind blew it back with a bang. Maybe they should be tethered together like mountain climbers. It was impossible to see a foot in front of her through the driving snow.

Lord Archer must have sensed her reservations. He put a gloved hand on her elbow and guided her around the building to an illegal parking zone. No one was apt to come and give him a ticket today, though. The lights of the car cast a misty beacon through the snow, and like the English gentleman he was, Lord Archer opened the passenger door for her and took the boat bag from her grip, stowing it in the backseat.

Yum. New car smell. And leather and some refined men’s cologne, something you’d find at Trumper’s on Curzon Street in London. Carrie had brought her dad a shaving brush there a few years ago when she was vacationing between jobs.

The car was rather spiffy, a Range Rover Evoque. Not the most expensive in the line, but nothing to sneeze at. She patted the dashboard. “Yours?” she asked when Lord Archer climbed into the car.

“I’m leasing it while I’m in the States. Do you have another of those things for glasses?” His had fogged up again in the luxurious warmth of his luxurious car. Carrie got another wipe out of her coat pocket.

“I’ll use it after you. How long are you staying?”

“It depends.” He polished his lenses and gave her back the wipe. “Where to, Miss Moore?”

Well, he remembered her name—that was something. And he was depending on her to save the day, or night, as it were. It was pretty damn dark already. Edna’s red taillights were barely visible as she fishtailed out of the parking lot.

“There’s a B and B on the corner of Ferry Road and Route 1.” Carrie peered through the windshield in the inn’s general direction with her cleaned glasses but realized she saw no glowing windows or festive decorations. Not even the spotlight that usually illuminated the sign was lit. The power wasn’t out here as well—the terminal parking lot was bright and the shuttered business had security lights on. “Damn,” she muttered. “We may have to break in.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Carrie’s spine shivered, and not from cold. Those four words were uttered in such haughty disbelief, she immediately thought of Mr. Darcy. Ultimate umbrage.

She’d always been a sucker for Mr. Darcy, the Colin Firth version, preferably.

“Um, don’t get your knickers in a twist,” she tried to joke, but Lord Archer was having none of it. The overhead light had not extinguished yet and his look of horror was evident. Was it because she proposed they committing a felony—or was it a misdemeanor?—or because she’d mentioned underwear. Hey, he’d used the word condom first!

“What I mean is, let’s drive across the road and see what’s what. We can’t stay in your car all night—we’ll get carbon monoxide poisoning if the engine’s running or freeze to death if it’s not. At least we won’t starve. I’ve got olives and wine and some munchies in the bag.” Carrie would not mention the turkey—it couldn’t be cooked over a running engine, could it? She read somewhere you could do fish that way in an aluminum foil packet. It was very odd what you wound up knowing as a personal assistant, but she really should know where penguins lived.

“How close is it to the next town or village or whatever one calls it here?”

“Over ten miles, and you should not be driving in this weather. The road winds around like crazy and it will be super-dangerous. You could slide right into the ocean.” An exaggeration. You could probably slide onto someone’s lawn though, and if you were very unlucky, hit their barn, and
then
go in the water.

Lord Archer pulled off his orange cap and attempted to smooth his fair hair down. He still looked electrocuted. The interior light powered down and they were left in a thick blanket of sideways snow. “This car handles beautifully in all kinds of conditions. It’s won awards.”

“I’m sure it’s great. I’m a big fan of English cars.”
And English men
. There was Harry, Colin and a host of others on
Masterpiece Theatre
. Jeez, she was just like a character out of
Austenland
. “But I’d rather be safe than sorry.”

“And I’d rather not spend time in jail! Damn—er—drat that ferry woman. She might have helped us make some arrangements.” He pulled out a cellphone, punched at it viciously and tossed it on the dashboard in disgust.

“Reception’s iffy even in good weather. Some people move here for the privacy and poor reception,” Carrie said. “Writers. Recluses. Millionaires.”

“They won’t stay millionaires for long if they cannot contact their brokers.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Carrie said lightly. And really wouldn’t
want
to know. Her experience with the rich and famous so far made her grateful for her middle-class parents. There had been lots of rules and limits, annoying at the time. But from her current vantage point at the ripe old age of twenty-eight, she was rooted in reality and had a pretty good head on her shoulders, even if she was uncertain about her cutting edge haircut.

And the reality was they needed to find shelter. “The inn is just over there. Maybe they’ve just gone to bed early.” Before four o’clock?

Lord Archer gave her an un-lordlike snort which the comment deserved and the car crept forward.

“Watch out—” Too late. They bumped over the snow-buried curb and there was an unpleasant scraping sound. Carrie thought he whispered the f-bomb, but was too polite to ask him to repeat himself.

They made it safely across the road and up the driveway, their tires marking virgin territory.

“There’s no one here,” Lord Archer ground out. “The place must be closed. I’ll just back out—”

“No! Let me check. I won’t be a moment.”

Before he could object, Carrie sprang out of the car and ran up the wide front porch. Her phone might not have bars, but the light on it was good enough to read the neatly-typed sign on the glass and mahogany front door.

Merry Christmas! We’ve gone to Portland to spend the holiday with our children and grandchildren. We’ll reopen December 30 for the annual New Year’s retreat. See you then!

Carrie dropped the f-bomb quite loudly. She’d jiggle the front door handle, but there was one of those alarm company shields beneath the doorbell. Not that anyone would come right away.

A jail cell would be warm, right? Three hots and a cot. Somehow she couldn’t picture Lord Archer behind bars.

“What does it say?”

Carrie jumped a mile. The man had snuck up the steps behind her, and she never heard a thing with the roar of the wind and that odd clicking sound that heavy snow made when it fell.

“They’re closed.”

“I told you so. We’ll go back to Camden.” Lord Archer sounded smug and very Darcy-ish.

“Oh, no! Really, I’ve had enough—I just came from there and so have you. It was a harrowing drive, wasn’t it? It will be worse now that the snow is falling harder.”

“Belfast, then.”

“The road that way is even more awful. What about the carriage house?”

He blinked.

She pointed to a building over to the left. In the summer on sunny days, a jaunty red Jaguar convertible was parked in front of it, attracting the tourists’ attention. “The barn, the garage, whatever it is. Maybe it’s not locked. Grab my boat bag from your car, please.”

Carrie knew she was not being logical. If the carriage house held a valuable vintage car, then it was probably wired and locked too.

It
was
locked, but there wasn’t any sign of an alarm system panel through the door’s window as she shone her phone light in. Careless. Carrie had some experience jimmying doors—that pop singer she used to work for was forever locking himself out of his house before Carrie organized an intervention and got him into rehab—so she took out her special tools from her handbag that she’d tucked inside the canvas tote.

“Here. Hold my phone. I’ll need some light.”

“Tell me those aren’t what I think they are.”

“I won’t tell you then. If it makes you feel any better, reach up around the doorframe for a spare key—I don’t think there’s a doormat.”

She stood patiently while Lord Archer made his futile effort, raining clumps of snow down on his own bare head and shoulders. Satisfied that there was no easy way in, she crouched over the lock for a few minutes, turned the doorknob easy as pie, and switched on the light.

The car sat in isolated splendor, its canvas top still down, not going anywhere today. The concrete floor was swept clean enough to eat from, the workbench immaculate, the shelves lining the walls looking alphabetically neat with all the paraphernalia you’d need to keep an old inn going.

And it was warm! For the delicate car, presumably. Carrie felt like kissing its shiny fender.

“I’ll lose my work visa and be deported,” Lord Archer said with a certain sad grimness.

“Nonsense. The owners will understand. They’re in the hospitality business.”

He stared up at the rafters as if expecting them to fall down and crush them as punishment. Carrie noted there were a couple of kayaks and bicycles stored above for the non-winter guests, along with a whole bunch of other stuff.

“Where did you learn to pick locks? Secretarial school?” He unwound the plaid scarf from his neck and stuffed it in a pocket.

“I’m not a secretary—I was an art history major at UConn. But there’s not much of a demand for art historians, so I worked as a temp when I got out of school. One thing led to another and all of a sudden I was baby-sitting for the president of a music company. He loaned me out to one of his artists during a difficult time, and then I worked for several other difficult people. Your aunt is a dream by comparison.”

Since college, Carrie had worked with various creative crazy people, and so far Mrs. Stephens had been less crazy than most. She was particular, of course, being an internationally famous writer and related to Archer viscounts down through the ages. Nice, mostly. But the woman was going to have a conniption fit when she realized Carrie was not coming home tonight with the troublesome turkey.

Lord Archer was keeping his distance from the Jaguar, but it was obvious he wanted to look at it more closely—anyone would. “How long have you been doing this sort of thing?” he asked.

Carrie grinned. “House-breaking?”

Lord Archer rolled his eyes. Gosh, they were blue.

“Oh. My job. Six years. It’s been interesting to say the least. What kind of car is that anyhow?”