How the Rogue Stole Christmas Read online

  Well, Margery thought, feeling a bubble of hysteria rising in her chest, her bed always had been cold—even during her marriage.

  “Pack your things, Bessie,” she said grimly. “We are going to Lady Altham’s. Where we shall have a happy Christmas, by God.”

  * * * *

  Jordan Sutherland, fifth Viscount Reckford, known to his intimates as “Reckless,” strolled out of the cold of St. James’s Street and into White’s Club.

  Handing his greatcoat, hat, gloves, and stick to a waiting footman, his lordship moved easily to the table by the bow window where his friends hailed him.

  “Town’s devilishly thin of company, eh, Reckless? Come join us for a glass. We’ve thrown down our cards for the night,” Lord Powell said. He was a portly earl known for his excellent taste in walking sticks.

  Jordan’s lips twisted into a half smile as he nodded to the gentlemen seated around the table. “Evening, Powell, Brummell, Alvanley.”

  A tall, elegant figure with a handsome, hard profile, the viscount no sooner sat down than a servant appeared with a fresh glass and placed it in front of him.

  “Evening, Jordan. Beg pardon, Powell,” Beau Brummell drawled. “I must take exception to your observation. I am here, and thus Town is still fashionable. After tomorrow Town will be flat, for I am leaving.”

  Brummell’s friend Alvanley, who was to accompany him to Oatlands, the Duchess of York’s country estate, chuckled, as did Lord Powell. He turned his attention to the new arrival. “I say, Reckless, are you staying in Town for the holidays?”

  Jordan lounged back in his chair. The candlelight caught a flicker of amusement in his blue-black eyes. “I thought I would.” He raised his glass to his lips and took a sip of White’s best canary.

  Brummell might look with disfavor on Jordan’s overlong dark hair, which was in opposition to the current mode. But, as the undisputed arbiter of fashion, the Beau could certainly find no fault with the viscount’s sleek blue evening coat, crisp white cravat, and pearl-colored breeches.

  “What’s this?” Lord Powell demanded, leaning forward in his chair. “I thought you’d be on your way out to Lady Altham’s Christmas party to, er, pick flowers.”

  Jordan chuckled softly at this quip. “Ah, you must be referring to Lovely Lily Carruthers. Is she to grace Lady Altham’s?”

  Alvanley made a moue of distaste. “Lady Altham? That old rip? She was just in Town during autumn ogling anything in breeches.”

  Lord Powell ignored this and focused his attention on Jordan. “Lily will be there, indeed, yes,” the earl replied. “Finally taken her leave of Bath and the Duke of Berham. I hear she wants to spend a few weeks out of his company to consider his offer of a carte blanche. Reckon you might want to strike a bargain with her, Reckless, before she consents to the duke’s protection.”

  Jordan yawned. “I did not accept Lady Altham’s kind invitation. Her house is halfway to Yorkshire. Such a distance. Mrs. Carruthers is bound to return to London. No use putting myself out.”

  “Tread carefully, Reckless. Despite the fact she has little reputation left, Lovely Lily is said to be holding out for a husband,” Lord Alvanley warned.

  The viscount’s brows rose. “But I do not want a wife.”

  The gentlemen around the table drank a toast to Lovely Lily. To a man, they knew Jordan would be the last gentleman in Society looking for a bride. Not after what happened with his first wife.

  The conversation turned to other accommodating women of the ton who were known to be ripe for dalliance, and this topic so interested the gentlemen that it was some time before Lord Powell returned to the subject of Jordan’s plans for Christmas.

  “I think I might be quite comfortable billeting with Ruby,” the viscount told the company with a lazy smile. Ruby was his current mistress and the prettiest of the season’s opera dancers. Her blond hair and lips the color of her name had captured his attention; his purse had captured hers. He had her tucked away in a snug house in Bolton Street. “We shall spend our evenings singing Christmas carols.”

  An appreciative chuckle went around the table at this bouncer.

  Brummell’s eyes twinkled. “After a time, Ruby’s favorite shall undoubtedly be God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman.”

  Shouts of laughter greeted this witticism.

  ‘“God Rest Ye Merry Rogue,’ more like,” Lord Powell added, clutching his sides. “By Jupiter, Reckless, next you will tell us you plan to indulge in a game of Hunt the Slipper.”

  The gentlemen went on much in this vein until at last Brummell and Alvanley got up and took their leave. The club seemed to dim a bit after their departure, and Lord Powell and Jordan sat in companionable silence for some time while the contents of the bottle diminished.

  Eventually Lord Powell ventured a cautious statement. “Heard Harry lost a bundle last night at the faro table.”

  Jordan groaned aloud. “No, Arthur, not again.”

  Lord Powell nodded. “S’truth. The lad seems hell-bent on relieving himself of his quarter’s allowance and more. Know you are friends with Thorpe, his father, and have been keeping an eye on the young cub.”

  Jordan sat up and ran a lean hand through his dark hair. “Devil take Algernon Yarsmith, Viscount Harringham. Since he came down from Oxford and arrived in Town, I have rescued him from more scrapes than you have had hot dinners, Arthur. What am I to do, play nursemaid to the brat until the holidays are over?”

  Lord Powell shook his head mournfully. “That would put a damper on your plans for Ruby. But someone’s got to take Harry in hand.”

  “Thorpe ought to be here, damme, or Harry ought to go home for Christmas. The holidays are for families, after all,” Jordan said with a touch of bitterness. His own parents had always been too cold and too wrapped up in their social life to consider their son. Their Christmas house party would not boast any person under the age of sixty.

  “Jordan, you know Thorpe won’t come to Town without his wife to make life comfortable, and she can’t abide Society. Besides which, if you think you can convince that whelp to tear himself away from the gaming tables and the bits of muslin to go home, well then, cast your mind back ten years.”

  Jordan raised one dark eyebrow and slanted a look at his friend, “Thank you, I would rather not remember anything about that time of my life.”

  Arthur cleared his throat. “Wasn’t meaning Delilah. Before all that.”

  “Good, for I shall not discuss my dearly departed wife even with you.” Jordan drained his glass.

  “Mayhaps you should reconsider Lady Altham’s invitation. Take Harry with you. He worships you, would go with you in a flash. Lady Altham would relish adding a healthy, easy-on-the-eye cub like Harry to her party.”

  “Perhaps,” Jordan said, unconvinced.

  “’Course, you could always write Thorpe and tell him how his son has been cutting a swath through the gaming rooms.”

  “You know I would not be such a spoilsport,” Jordan said, and rose. He drummed the fingers of one hand on the table and looked in the direction of the large fireplace. “You may have the right of it, Arthur. Harry’s a good sort, but I need to get him away from the temptations of Town.”

  Lord Powell stood as well, and the two men strolled toward the door where they paused to retrieve their possessions from a footman. The earl took up a beautifully carved ebony walking stick. “Best get on the road before any more snow falls, Jordan. As you said, Lady Altham’s house is a far distance from Town.”

  Jordan sighed, and then a smile played about his sensuous mouth. “Looks like I shall be in Lovely Lily’s company after all.”

  “Heh, heh, quite right,” the earl said, chuckling. “Just remember she’s husband hunting before you mistake her bedchamber for yours one cold night. Don’t want to end up in leg shackles.”

  Jordan passed through the door of White’s Club and stood on the freezing sidewalk. His face showed signs of weariness.

  “Never fear, no lady shall ever have the
misfortune of calling me husband again.”

  Lord Powell briefly clasped his friend’s shoulder. “Merry Christmas, Jordan.”

  Placing his curly-brimmed beaver hat on his head, Jordan turned to walk across the slushy street where his town coach waited. He paused for a moment and glanced back at the earl with a sudden grin. “Some might say I really am a cad, Arthur. But, I promise you, I shall bring the ladies of the house party nothing but tidings of comfort and joy.”

  Jordan went on his way, while St. James’s Street rang with the earl’s laughter.

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  And so it was that on a dismally cold December day, two separate parties of travelers made their way to Lady Altham’s Christmas house party.

  The shadows of evening had fallen early, and Margery and Miss Bessamy had made a late start to their journey. Although they had done their best to clear away the snow and debris in the cottage and to speed their packing, there had been a long delay while Margery had walked to the next village to arrange for roof repairs to be done in their absence.

  By the time Margery had paid a lad to help carry their bags to a hired coach, all the two ladies could do was collapse back against the rough squabs of the vehicle.

  “Goodness, Margery, I declare I am sharp-set. All this bustling about.” Miss Bessamy uncovered a large basket, revealing a supply of cakes, bread, and cheese. Included was a jug of what Margery suspected was Bessie’s special milk. The older woman tilted the selection in Margery’s direction.

  “No, thank you, Bessie. I am not hungry.” Margery’s stomach was knotted with tension. She looked out at the darkening landscape, thinking over the sums of money she had been forced to part with this day.

  The man who had said he could repair the cottage roof had demanded part of his fee in advance before he would agree to do the work. With their fast-dwindling supply of funds, it was fortunate they would be staying with Lady Altham and thus could save on food and firewood.

  Margery pursed her lips in vexation, remembering her dealings with the man driving the coach. Obtaining a hired coach on such short notice had forced her into the position of having to accept a coachman who, from the smell of his person, had been imbibing.

  Under more favorable circumstances, she would not have engaged him to carry her across the village street, but there she had been, spilling coins into his dirty hand and accepting his assurances that he could have them at Altham House that night.

  As the horses plodded over snow-covered roads, Margery and Miss Bessamy managed to pass the time in idle conversation, but they struggled to keep warm. “I can no longer feel my feet, Bessie,” Margery remarked at one point.

  “Dear child, take some of this milk,” Miss Bessamy insisted, pouring her a cup.

  Margery accepted a little of the brandy-laced milk and welcomed the warmth that spread through her. She felt herself relax at last.

  It was a state that did not last long. The distinct sound of pellets hitting the top of the coach soon interrupted their peace. Margery strained to look out the dark coach window. “Sleet! It needed only this.”

  She banged on the roof for the coachman to stop.

  “Oh, Margery, what are we to do?” Miss Bessamy asked. “Are we almost to Altham House?”

  “I cannot tell.” After the back end of the vehicle skidded and swerved sharply to the left, the carriage lumbered to a halt.

  Margery opened the coach door far enough to lean out. Icy drops pounded on the brim of her bonnet and bounced off her pelisse. “Coachman!”

  The man on the box tugged his hat down further over his eyes. “What you be wantin’, mishsy? Can’t you shee I’m tryin’ to drive through this messh?”

  Hearing the man’s slurred speech, Margery gritted her teeth. She scanned the surrounding countryside for a clue to their location. The snow gave light to the area, and with the greatest dismay, she recognized they were only about two-thirds of the way to Altham House. Given the lateness of the hour, the condition of the weather, and the coachman’s alcohol-soaked brain, there was only one thing to do.

  “Pull into the very next inn we come to, and we shall stop for the night.” Margery had to raise her voice to be heard above the sound of the sleet.

  “Good heavens,” Miss Bessamy said, and moaned.

  “Ash you shay,” the coachman replied, and cracked the whip.

  The coach set off and Margery fell to the floor, landing on her backside, the door banging behind her. Laboring to climb into her seat, she muttered, “I shall have a happy Christmas. I shall have a happy Christmas.”

  “What did you say, child?’

  “Nothing,” Margery said. She firmly retied the ribbons of her bonnet and gave her companion a set smile.

  The coach came to a halt in front of a small, wayside inn that proclaimed itself to be the Two Keys. The coachman dropped the ladies’ bags to the ground and disappeared toward the stables.

  Once inside the establishment, Margery looked around her in disgust

  A narrow flight of uneven stairs stood directly in front of them. To their left, a cramped area, with a low fire smoking in the grate, served as the public room. The cushions on the single settee were shiny with age, their floral pattern smudged and barely discernable. A wooden table stood in the center of the room. Its scarred surface was cluttered with the remains of someone’s repast. A black beetle marched toward the nearest plate.

  No one was about.

  Miss Bessamy hovered behind Margery. “It’s a monstrous disagreeable place.”

  “Yes, but we have no choice. I dare not travel any farther this night,” Margery said. She placed her bag on the floor and raised her voice. “Innkeeper!”

  Several minutes passed without any response. Margery was about to call out again when a door off the public room creaked open, and a sour-faced, greasy-haired man glared at them. “Thought I’d locked up,” he complained. “What do ye want?”

  Margery drew herself up to her full five-foot-one-inch height. “I am Lady Margery Fortescue, and I require a room for my companion and myself for the night.”

  The innkeeper looked skeptically at her worn brown cloak. Margery suddenly wished she had unpacked her blue velvet mantle from the trunk of finery Simon had once given her, and which was now strapped to the back of the coach, but she had not thought it necessary for the journey.

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “I only gots two other guests, and I’ve sent the maids home on account of the weather. I ain’t cookin’ nothin’, and ye’ll have to pay your shot in advance.”

  Margery was in no position to quibble. She pulled some money from her reticule and gave it to the innkeeper, who identified himself as Mr. Wilkins and handed her a key.

  “Thank you, Mr. Wilkins. We shall be on our way in the morning.”

  “See that ye are,” the innkeeper grumbled, pocketing the money. “And, mind, I won’t have ye gettin’ any fancy ideas about the other guests. Them’s Quality.”

  A gasp of outrage came from Miss Bessamy. Margery gave her companion’s arm a reassuring squeeze even as her own temper came to the fore. Forcing herself to be polite, Margery said, “Mr. Wilkins, might we have a basin and some water so we may wash?”

  This request was heard with surprise by the innkeeper, who informed them again that all the maids had gone home for the night. From the odor emanating from Mr. Wilkins’s person, Margery decided he would not be sympathetic to her desire to be clean. There was nothing to be gained from further conversation with the nasty maw worm.

  She accepted a rushlight from him and climbed the stairs with Miss Bessamy trailing behind her. They opened the door to their room, and Miss Bessamy snorted in disgust. “I expected as much, Margery. This chamber is dirty and musty. And, yes, the sheets are damp,” she declared after turning the bedcovers back.

  Margery whipped off her cloak and spread it across the bed, intending to sleep on it rather than on the inn’s sheets. She unpinned her hair, letting the glossy black mass
fall down her back. “You are right, Bessie, but at least there is kindling laid, ready to be lit.”

  While Miss Bessamy spread her own cloak on her side of the bed and unpacked their nightgowns, Margery got out her tinderbox and lit the wood.

  The two women changed into their nightclothes.

  “I cannot like putting on a clean night rail without having first washed off the dirt of the road,” Margery murmured as Bessie helped her fasten the buttons at the neck of the heavy gray flannel gown.

  “Mr. Wilkins has no intention of supplying us with anything. Odious man,” Miss Bessamy said. Finishing her task, she turned toward the fireplace. “No wonder it’s still cold in here. The wood did not catch.”

  Margery crossed the room and attempted again to light the kindling. “The wood, like the sheets, is damp,” she informed her companion gloomily. It took several attempts before flames finally shot up the chimney, but not without the further insult of a fine spray of soot which fell over Margery.

  “Fiddle.” Margery rose and shook out her hair and brushed off her night rail. She then retrieved a handkerchief from her reticule and wiped her face. The small square of linen was insufficient, though, to clean her hands.

  With chagrin, Margery tossed the blackened handkerchief aside. “Bessie, I am going downstairs to the kitchen. Surely that bobbing-block of an innkeeper brought in some water from the pump.”

  Miss Bessamy darted her an uncertain look. “Is that wise, Margery? Mr. Wilkins said there were other guests. I cannot like you roaming about an inn this late at night in your night rail with your hair streaming down your back.” “Well, I shall not try to sleep with this soot all over me, Bessie,” Margery said. She then cast a brief glance under the bed, which confirmed her worst suspicions. They had not been provided with a chamber pot.

  Margery’s eyes met Miss Bessamy’s suddenly panicked gaze. The older woman swiftly capitulated. “Very well, dear. Only do be careful.”

  Miss Bessamy handed her a large woolen shawl, and Margery accepted it gratefully, giving her companion a determined smile. “I shall return shortly.”