The Christmas Carrolls (17 page)

The modest house where Max was raised could have fit into the entry hall of Lord Carroll’s family seat. Max’s self-confidence could have fit into a peapod, one with a wormhole in it, so the contents dribbled away when the most dignified personage in the world greeted them. And that was only the butler.

Evan duly presented Max to three vibrant, exquisite young women—four if one included their mother, who was everything gracious, trying to set him at ease. She might have defeated Boney single-handedly more easily. He did manage to lift the ladies’ hands the proper two inches beneath his lips when they held them out to him. He made creditable bows when they didn’t, as was the case with the Duchess of Carlisle.

“Don’t mind the old besom,” Evan whispered to Max. “She’s such a dragon, her own husband don’t live at home. Comfort’s mother, don’t you know.”

   In addition to the other guests, Max also had to meet the viscount, a Corinthian of the first stare; his father, the duke; Evan’s father, the nabob; and the young ladies’ father, the earl. What the deuce was Max Grey doing in this elevated assemblage? Trembling, that’s what.

Since they were gathered in the Chinese Room before dinner, Max decided to take up a position in front of one of the red lacquer screens in the corner, hoping his regimentals would blend in. His camouflage must have worked, for no one addressed Max except a footman serving sherry, which the officer declined. Dutch courage was not his way. Dying the slow death of a social misfit was, in spades. There was no way in Hades he was going to last through this night, much less two weeks. He’d only embarrass himself and Evan, so it was better if he made his excuses now. He’d march right up to Lady Carroll, in front of all of these polished and pomaded paragons, and announce he had to leave before he puked. Pigs would fly first.

So Max stood at attention. He was on guard duty, ready to defend his Chinese screen, or crawl behind it. Then the enemy approached.              “Lieutenant Grey? Or should it be Sir Maxwell? I’m to be your dinner partner.” Merry tucked her arm into his and led Max into the dining room.

The room could have seated half his battalion, but Max was no more intimidated than he’d been earlier, since he’d passed the point of panic. He was going to have to speak to this young woman. And the woman on his other side. Lud, he should have thrown himself on that French cannon.

Miss Merry chattered away, though, getting them through the first course. No, Max had to remind himself, Evan’s familiarity wasn’t his. She was Lady Meredyth, as hard as it might be to think of such a lively little sprite possessing such a starched-up title. She looked more like a forest elf with her wide green eyes and cap of red curls. Her hair wasn’t as carroty as his, Max noted, but was a richer, darker shade of auburn. Her mouth seemed curved in a permanent smile, when she wasn’t talking about her father’s hunters, her dog, or Evan’s military career.

Then it was time for Max to turn to his other dinner partner, a woman of a certain age named Miss Almira Krupp, who was companion to the Duchess of Carlisle, poor thing. Miss Krupp was far more interested in Reverend Foster on her other side—the widowed Reverend Foster on the other side of fifty—than an impecunious cavalry castoff.

Miss Krupp’s defection suited Max down to his toes, which were beginning to uncurl in his boots. Now he could enjoy his meal in peace. After years of stringy chicken roasted on a stick over an open fire—when the soldiers could find a chicken or light a fire—this meal was heavenly. Lady Meredyth kept urging him to try this or that delicacy, and then didn’t mind when his mouth was too full for conversation. The girl seemed satisfied, in fact, with a nod or a smile or a “Hmm” to whatever she was speaking about at the moment. Right now she was talking about the coming wedding.

“I’m to be the only bridesmaid, you see, now that Holly is one of the brides, and Mama is furious. She says it’s uncivilized and a poor reflection on the family. What do you think, Sir Max?”

He grunted.

“No, I don’t think so either. But then there’s the problem of Holly’s gown. It was to be red velvet, for the Christmas wedding, but Mama says no self-respecting bride gets married in a red gown, and there’s no time to have another fitted. Mama is having a white lace overdress made to cover the red velvet. Isn’t that clever?”

He nodded.

“Yes, I thought so, too. Even if Papa complains the stuff costs enough to be made of spun gold. Um, I’m not boring you, am I? Papa says my tongue runs on wheels.”

Max shook his head vehemently. He wanted to ask what she was going to wear, but was afraid to press his luck. She ought to be dressed in green, he thought, to match her sparkling eyes. Then she’d look more like a woodland pixie than ever.

“My gown is green velvet,” she said, as if reading his mind.

Max said, “Ah.”

* * * *

After dinner the young people played charades, heaven and Evan be praised. Strutting like the cock of the rock in his uniform, Evan picked Max and Merry to be on his team, leaving Holly with Joia and the viscount, who had eyes for no one but each other. Mr. Rendell had to complete some business, he said, and the older members of the party were setting up two tables for whist, the duke at one table, the duchess at the other.

Max didn’t do half badly at charades. Of course, by the time he managed to utter his guess to the clues, Lady Meredyth or Evan had shouted out the answer. When it was his turn to act out a phrase or a bit of poetry, Max performed nobly. Silently and blushingly, but nobly. They lost anyway.

The poker-backed butler wheeled in the tea cart piled high with sweets and nuts and fruit. The duke sat at one end of the room and the duchess held court at the other, and neither was interested in Max, thank goodness. He planned to keep eating so he wouldn’t be called upon to make conversation. He might get through this evening yet.

Later Evan went off with Comfort to play billiards, and Max would have gone along, too, but Lady Meredyth took his arm and led him to her father.

“Papa, here is Sir Maxwell. Evan says he is going to need advice about some land he’s going to try to make productive.”

Lord Carroll’s gout was bothering him. So was the duke, who wouldn’t reconcile with his wife, not even for the duration of the wedding party. Poor Bess had the headache from trying to keep Their Graces apart and entertained. The earl could tell she was suffering from across the room. Which meant he’d be sleeping in his own bed tonight, damn them all. Evan’s friend could grow kippered herring for all the earl cared right now. “Go find him Coke’s pamphlets, missy. That’s the best place to start. And then, young sir, you might as well listen to Merry’s opinions. The gal knows more about estate management and good husbandry than half the bailiffs I’ve employed.”

Max bowed and left, smiling. He might just survive the whole two-week house party.

Chapter Nineteen

Lady Carroll was not about to let her daughters go off without the proper monograms on their linens. So what if both of their husbands-to-be could purchase entire haberdasheries? A lady was known by her fancy needlework, and hurried weddings or not, Joia and Hollice would have their embroidered handkerchiefs and pillowslips. Besides, sewing in the countess’s sitting room, they could all hide from the difficult duchess and her crosspatch companion. Bess gave another silent prayer of gratitude that Aunt Irmentrude wasn’t coming for the weddings. That old crone would think nothing of invading the countess’s private chambers.

Those rooms overlooked the sweeping lawns and carriage drive of Winterpark, so Merry, in the window seat, could watch the gentlemen set off for a ride. “Isn’t he divine?” she asked no one in particular because she knew the answer.

“Who, Merry?” Joia asked, looking up from her stitching, sure her youngest sister meant Viscount Comfort.

Knowing that her own handsome fiancé had driven over to Rendell Hall to start the renovations, Holly said, “I hope you don’t mean Evan, Merry. I know he looks dashing in his uniform, but it wouldn’t do for you to form a
tendre
for him. He may be one of my oldest friends and my stepson in two weeks, which I have a hard time comprehending myself, but I do have to admit that he’s as unsteady as ever.”

“Not Evan, silly.” Merry looked back into the room, now that the gentlemen had ridden out of sight. “The lieutenant. Sir Maxwell. You should see how well he sits a horse. He’s a much better rider than Evan.”

“You’re a better rider than Evan, mitten,” Joia teased, using their old pet name for the baby of the family. “But surely you cannot be serious about the officer.”

“Why not? He’s everything marvelous.” She began a catalog of Sir Max’s endowments with his attractive looks.

Joia laughed. “Only you would think so, mitten, with that gingery mop.”

Merry tossed her head, red curls flying. “And he’s got lovely broad shoulders and elegant legs.”

“Not as broad as Craighton’s.”

“Not as well muscled as Ren’s.”

“Girls!” their mother scolded. “We are not judging a horse fair.”

The others answered, “Yes, Mama,” and went back to their sewing, but Merry didn’t, which was no great loss to the trousseaux as her stitches were uneven and her threads were always breaking. She was determined to defend the lieutenant. “Evan says he suffered grievous injuries and fevers. That’s why he’s not up to his usual weight, so his clothes hang loosely. We have to fatten him up again.”

“What, is he to be the Christmas goose?” Holly teased.

“He could be,” Joia added, “for all his social graces. I’m sorry, mitten, but I’ve had better conversations with the clothespress.”

Merry was scowling. “How can you both make fun of one of our nation’s bravest soldiers? Did you see all of his medals and commendations? He was wounded in
our
defense. Why, our own Prince Regent knighted him for valor.”

“Don’t be a widgeon,” Holly said with a laugh. “Evan told me the right of that story. Your valiant warrior didn’t perform any great feat of derring-do; he saved Prinny’s favorite hound from being run over by a carriage. The prince was above par, as per usual, and wanted to promote your lieutenant on the spot, but Grey had already submitted his resignation papers. Prinny had to knight him because he’d promised a reward in front of the entire parade ground, and of course, His Majesty doesn’t have a groat to his name.”

“Well, I still think he was brave. A man who will risk his life for a dog is to be admired. Your gentlemen”—she glared at her sisters—”can barely risk the tassels on their Hessians with Downsy.”

“Goodness, I believe our mitten is smitten,” Joia said, and Holly joined in her laughter. Their mother, however, was not smiling. Her youngest daughter could not be old enough for calf love.

“Sir Maxwell is of good family,” she said, when Meredyth appeared ready to toss her sewing at the two grinning girls. “Although he is from the cadet branch.”

“And he is well enough looking, I suppose,” Holly admitted, also to placate her sister. “If you don’t mind red hair.”

“He must have performed bravely in the Peninsula to have won all those ribbons,” Joia contributed. She couldn’t be less than truthful, however, so she had to add, “But I’m sorry, mitten. The man is a block.”

Before Merry could jump to her knight’s defense, Holly quickly put in, “Evan swears the man isn’t stupid. He’s simply backward in company.”

As a child, Merry was the happiest creature around. When she wasn’t happy, however, everyone knew it. Lady Carroll could feel the headache coming on just thinking about one of her baby’s rages. To this day, Aunt Irmentrude was a picnic in the park compared to Meredyth in a miff. “Enough, girls. We’ll never get the sewing finished at this rate. Meredyth, you are far behind. Joia, Hollice, do please remember that it is impolite to belittle another’s handicap. Sir Maxwell is neither bacon-brained nor badly behaved. He stutters, is all.”

Merry looked from one to the other. “He does?”

* * * *

Max couldn’t keep up with Evan on the morning’s ride. He could, that is, if he didn’t mind setting his recovery back a week. So he returned to Winterpark with the borrowed horse, a prime goer and a real pleasure, he told the men in the stables, with no hesitation. He could have ridden on to Blakely Manor on his own mount, but didn’t fancy the chill reception he’d get there. Instead he asked one of the grooms to direct him to Lord Carroll’s library via a rear door, thinking he could hide out there until Evan returned.

The door was open, so he walked in, to the surprise of Evan’s father and his betrothed, who were doing something on top of the architectural plans on the desk, and it wasn’t making notations.

Oh Lud. Max couldn’t simply back out, for they’d seen him, and Mr. Rendell was looking thunderclouds. Max couldn’t blame the man, but dash it, they could have closed the door. He did stare at the shelves of books nearest him while Lady Holly straightened her spectacles and her bodice. She didn’t bother with her hair. “Were you looking for someone?” she asked in a kindly tone, taking pity on him for her sister’s sake.

“C-Coke.”

“Oh yes, the agronomist. I think Papa keeps those volumes over here. Evan said you inherited a bit of property you wanted to farm. Where is it?”

“K-Kent.”

“And you were hoping to grow ... ?”

“C-cows.” Because her laughing eyes seemed friendly enough, Max took a deep breath and added, “And mangel-wurzels.” They both sighed in relief when he got that out. By now, however, beads of perspiration were forming on Max’s forehead. All he wanted to do was get the book and leave these two to their privacy before Evan’s father skewered him for the interruption.

Misunderstanding his distress and concerned over his pallor, Holly took a book down from the shelf and urged him into a chair. “You sit here, sir. I’ll go fetch help.”

Help would have been two miles between Max and the mogul. Instead Holly fetched Lady Merry, who sent for a footman, who brought a tray of scones and biscuits. “Here, I’ll read while you eat, Sir Max,” the auburn-haired angel said. “Just nod if you have a question.”