Mistletoe and Mischief (18 page)

As he sat slumped in his chair, surrounded by splendour, the flames in the hearth leapt and danced before his eyes, but the circle of heat did not reach him.

He retired to bed, wondering what the devil was wrong with him, and more specifically, why he should feel so angry with himself.

Chapter Ten

London was almost empty. Whitehall was deserted, just as Charles had told Louisa it would be.

Charles tried hard to carry on, but found there was not much reason for being in a place where there was no minister to report to and no underlings to receive reports from. He tried to write, but whenever he sat down, he found his mind wandering.

The bleakness of Whitehall, the chill of its corridors, the darkness of the chambers contrasted sharply with the warmth of the past few days--days of frustration, it was true, but with troubles more happily resolved. And always a cozy fire, Eliza's antics to amuse him, and Louisa to stimulate him with her crazy ideas and charming laughter, her courageous stunts and her lovely face. He found that the colour of her hair, that to which he had formerly objected so strongly, was now the only shade he admired.

Charles wondered what the general had chosen for her punishment. He wanted to call, but then decided she might not like to be reminded of his part in her disgrace. Her final words to him had been clear. She had no desire to see him again.

He could not forget that in the privacy of his carriage, she had withdrawn her hands from his. Even had she not told him of her wish not to marry, it was inevitable that a distance should grow between them. Certainly they could not keep up the easy camaraderie they had come to know while travelling together. Louisa had not been presented yet; she was not to go out in Society. It would appear strange if he were to call upon her.

Charles applied himself to his work and found that Louisa's notions for reform kept intruding, to the extent that he found it more productive to make notes on how they might be accomplished than to do his own tasks. He could not fool himself that he seriously regretted Lord Liverpool's absence. Charles had a burden on his conscience which would have weighed heavily when faced with the prime minister's complacency.

* * * *

As the new year approached, a heavy fog settled on London, chilling everyone. The streets were dark and inhospitable. Charles moved through the fog to and from his home as if, though in Town, he were alone.

By New Year's Eve, his frustration and lack of spirit had grown to the point that he decided to abandon London to make a duty visit to his mother. Anything, he determined, would be preferable to being in a London so lifeless.

He gave instructions to his valet to pack for a week's stay and to precede him in the coach. He would follow in the chaise with Timothy.

Late that night, however, to put off his unpleasant task, he looked in on his club, something he had not done in months. Caught up in the management of the war on the Continent, he had not needed other stimuli. Now, with this curiously empty feeling upon him, for the first time in many years he missed the company of other men.

He had no sooner walked through the door at White's than a fellow member clapped him on the back.

“ Wroxton! I wish you joy!”

Surprised, Charles thanked him and returned the compliments of the season.

The fellow laughed.

“Cautious, eh? Can't say as I wouldn't be myself in this place. Have it your own way, my boy.”

A few steps later, another acquaintance wished him a joyous Noël, tipped his hat and winked. Charles began to be glad he had come to White's. He had not enjoyed such warm feeling from his friends in years and reckoned they had missed him in his club, after all.

“What news do you have for us, Wroxton? Eh?” Portly Lord Hamsdale, who was usually in his cups, greeted him by resting an arm about his shoulder.

Since this particular gentleman had shown little, if any, interest in the war until now, preferring to make bets with his friends about the inclinations of this or that ladybird instead, Charles was taken aback. He tried to hide his irritation and began to give a brief account of Wellington's position.

Lord Hamsdale looked blank, then gave a bark of coarse laughter. “Not about
that
, m'boy. What about this affair of
yours
?”

Charles groped blindly for a moment. He personally had been working on troop dispersals in America, but he could not believe Lord Hamsdale would have any interest in that.

Lord Hamsdale did not leave him in the dark for long. “This red-haired chit, m' boy--do you mean to marry the gel or not?”

A cold dread spread through Charles's limbs, followed by anger. He ignored his lordship's question and asked with outward calm, “Have you seen Ned Conisbrough, perhaps?”

“O' course, m' boy. In the other room. He's the one who's tipped the books. Laid down a cool five hundred that you'd be leg-shackled before Easter!”

Charles shook Lord Hamsdale's arm off his shoulder and strode furiously into the next room. He saw Ned there, playing at billiards.

“By God, Ned--!”

“Wroxton, my boy!” Ned raised his cue in the air and greeted him with all the appearance of delight. “What news do you have for us, eh? I could use a boost just now.”

“Ned, this is the outside of enough! I warned you not to mention this–”

“Now, Charlie, don't take a pet.” Ned came round the table and drew him aside. “No name given,” he whispered. “Soul of discretion, just as I promised. So where's the harm? “

“The harm–! Ned, so help me God, I'm calling you out!”

Ned gave him a wide-eyed stare. “But, Charlie–” At Charles's look, he corrected himself.  “Very well,
Wroxton
. Surely you don't take offence at this! I helped you ... didn't I?”

“And landed Miss Davenport in gaol! That's how much you helped us! “

Ned sobered. To see him nonplussed was almost worth all the trouble he had caused.

“Gaol! Look, Wroxton, I didn't mean–If there is anything–”

Charles relented enough to say, “It's quite all right now. Everything has been settled. But it don't mean that I want my affairs bandied about White's by a malicious pack of scoundrels!”

“Scoundrels! Charlie ... these are your friends!”

“Who? Hamsdale?”

Ned scoffed, “Hang Hamsdale! Think of the rest!”

Charles did allow himself for one brief moment to think of the other men who had greeted him. There had been no malice in their greetings, just sincere good wishes. He recalled the warm feeling they had given him.

“All right,” he admitted grudgingly. “But it doesn't matter, Ned. There's to be no wedding.”

“What's the matter, man? Won't she have you?”

Charles started to shake his head, and then stammered, “I haven't proposed marriage to her.”

Scandalized Ned raised his brows. Charles said hotly, “There was no need--and you know it!”

“Of course! No
need
, dear boy. But I had fancied there was something in the air. My imagination, I suppose. Though I'm often right in these matters. Have a nose for it, you might say. Around here I'm considered something of an oracle.”

He shrugged disappointedly and said, “But if you insist, I shall have to say goodbye to five hundred pounds.”

His hopeful glance only served to irritate Charles once again, though but a minute before he had been ready to forgive Ned. He wanted to curse him roundly, but such behaviour was so unlike his normal self as to give him pause. What the deuce was wrong with him?

Something Ned had said–no, something he had first said himself came back to him now.
No need
. He recalled that Louisa had used those words to the general. Of course there was no need, and yet, for some reason, Charles had been bothered about that phrase ever since.

There would never be, for him, a need to marry, other than to produce an heir. But that was not the problem. It was Louisa's rejection of him, as if the days they had passed together could be dismissed so easily. If he could not forget them, how could she?

He realized suddenly that Ned was still waiting for his response, had been regarding him for some minutes with a mixture of puzzlement and amusement.

“Wool-gathering, old boy?”

Charles coloured and then punched him lightly on the shoulder.

“Very well, Ned. You are off the hook this time. But let one syllable of her name be uttered and you will see my seconds on your doorstep.”

Ned grinned. “Word of a gentleman. Now, since you're here, how about a game of cards?”

Charles frowned absently. He had the inexplicable feeling that he should go. The questions that had been raised in his mind had only served to increase his restlessness.

“No, thanks. Not tonight. I'm heading out to see my mother.”

“All the more reason to tarry, my boy.”

He shook his head, giving a brief smile. “No, thank you, Ned. Some other time.”

He left Ned staring after him and grinning, and on the way out had to put up with other warm wishes.

* * * *

Handing Charles into his carriage, Timothy said, “Where to now, my lord? On to Wroxton Hall?”

“No.”

Charles hesitated, and then gave in to an impulse. “Drive round to Half-Moon Street.”

Alone inside the carriage, he wondered at himself. But a feeling was growing stronger and stronger within him that this unaccountable malaise could only be cured by a bewitching redhead.

The word “need” continued to trouble him. Louisa had used it, Ned had used it, even he and the general had used it. No, there was no need, but was there no wish?

They arrived in Half-Moon Street in a trice. Charles leapt down and found that Timothy had pulled up in front of Louisa’s house without being told to.

The man’s perception gave Charles pause. But he chose to ignore the implication and avoided his servant's eyes.

The general's house was dark and shuttered. Only when Charles saw its drawn curtains and snuffed-out lights did he realize the lateness of the hour. Midnight was fast approaching. Soon bells would be pealing and ships' horns blowing in the New Year.

He could not very well present himself at this hour for a casual call, nor could he leave a message about his journey, yet he did not want to leave Town without first seeing Louisa.

The cold was bitter, but he could not bring himself to re-enter the carriage. He told Timothy to wait, and started on a walk.

The general's house stood on the corner. As Charles started to pass it, he heard singing, coming from somewhere down the alley. Male voices were raised in a cheerful ditty:

“Here we come a-whistling, through the fields so green;

Here we come a-singing, so fair to be seen.

God send you happy, God send you happy,

Pray God send you a happy New Year!”

Charles rounded the corner and spied a few men in tatters, gathered about a large bonfire. He stopped and stared at them, drawing heat from the flames that lit up their faces. He had forgotten the custom the watch used to have of playing music outside houses on New Year's Eve, but now it came back to him on a wave of nostalgia.

He found himself moving nearer and nearer to the flame. Its bright colours, red and gold and orange, called to mind Louisa’s hair, no less warm, no less vibrant, no less tempting than the heat from the fire. He realized how desperately he wished to see her.

He thought of the wish he had failed to make over Mrs. Spadger's pudding on Christmas and saw clearly now what it ought to have been. Would Louisa have accepted him if he had known his own heart better then?

He thought of the things he'd said, and only now accepted. With a smile, Charles thought how she would stir up the Tories, and either charm them or send them running for cover. But if they ran, let them, he decided. With her at his side, prodding him, arguing with him, what justice might he not accomplish? And he indulged himself finally in an even more satisfying picture: Louisa in his home ... in his bed and in his arms.

The cold bit into his hands. Charles thrust them into his pockets and encountered the rustle of paper and the smooth feel of ribbon. Remembering, he drew Louisa's Christmas piece from his pocket.

His heart pounding, he untied the ribbon and unrolled it, to read by the firelight. How could he have forgotten it? But in all his efforts not to give in to temptation, he had done his best to overlook her.

His fingers were numb, and he fumbled with the scroll. But at last he had it opened.

At first, the page appeared blank. Then he saw that two words had been started at the top.

“Dear Charles--”

That was all. Dear Charles. For a moment, he felt bitter disappointment, and then he read them again with a different emphasis--

Dear
Charles.

“Pssst! Charles!”

It was a moment before he responded, thinking in his bemusement that he was imagining the voice. Then it came again, “Pssst! Charles!”

As he looked up, his heart leapt. Above him, her face and shoulders hanging out the open window, was Louisa.

“What are you doing here?” she called in a whisper.

Charles smiled up at her. “Listening to the singers. I think someone ought to take down their words and save them before the custom dies out, don't you?”

He could see her dimple in response. She stared back at him, and then said, “You'll catch your death of cold!”

“I haven't been here long. But should you be leaning out that window?”

“I saw you. At least, I thought it was you, and I had to see.” She sighed. “I thought I might be hallucinating. Bread and water will do that to one.”

Charles drew his brows together. “Has the general mistreated you?”

“Oh, no.” He knew she was telling the truth from the sound of her voice. “But it pleases him to send me up before supper with a meal fit only for the nursery. But what about you, Charles? What
are
you doing?”

“Getting ready for a journey.”

She paused, and his pulse raced as he heard the sadness in her voice. “Where are you going?”

Charles started to speak, and then had to clear his throat. Talking with his head thrown back was becoming difficult.