A Christmas Keepsake (16 page)

“Certainly, sir.” Doring escorted them up the stairs and into a small salon at the front of the house.

A sudden burst of laughter sounded from down the hall, and several deep voices rose in a jovial exchange, then faded to silence. Miss Campbell crossed to the fireplace and held out her hands to warm them. After a moment, James joined her.

The welcome heat reached his fingers, relieving their numbness. “We could have picked a better time of year for this adventure,” he said.

She smiled, but shook her head. “Oh, no, you wouldn’t want to take all the challenge out of it, would you?”

“Of course not.” Somehow, she made it all seem not quite as bad. His gaze rested on her face, on the lock of curls which hung over her forehead in delightful disarray. Normally, he liked extreme neatness in a lady. But Miss Campbell defied all the rules.

She wasn’t exactly a beauty, he decided. Just breathtaking. No cool ice maiden this, not at all the sort of female toasted by the
ton.
She vibrated with passion, vivacity, and a depth of emotion he could barely comprehend. Not to mention a reprehensible sense of humor.

Desire for her surged through him with an intensity that drove all from his mind except its unexpectedness, its unfamiliarity in his dealings with ladies of virtue, and its incredible strength. Stunned, he gazed into her huge, luminous eyes.

They met his in a look half startled, half rueful, which faded into a yearning that mirrored his own. Against his will, against his better judgment, he stepped toward her, his hand reaching out to brush that stray curl from her forehead. His finger trailed to her cheek, then traced her lips. They parted, and her soft breath fanned his flesh. Such very kissable lips. Why had he not yet availed himself of their promise?

Because he was a gentleman. Abruptly, he turned away, folding his hands into fists to prevent them from returning to her. Confound the woman! Couldn’t she see the effect she had on him? A man of honor did not
—could
not—so far forget himself with a defenseless female under his protection.

The door opened, and with a concerted effort he pulled himself together and greeted St. Ives.

The earl, resplendent in a coat of deep blue velvet and a white satin waistcoat, paused just over the threshold and raised his quizzing glass. After a moment, he allowed it to drop. “Dear Coz, what brings you out on such a night? And Miss—Campbell, is it not? How delightful.”

He crossed to the chairs and gestured for Miss Campbell to be seated. She perched on the edge of one and leaned forward, elbows on her knees, in a most unladylike manner James found endearing. She raised her gaze to his face with an expression of such uncertainty mingled with trust in his judgment, that James was hard put to it not to kiss her on the spot. Confound her enchanting ways!

“Well?” The earl lounged back on a sofa, his elegantly pantalooned legs extended before him toward the fire.

James strode to the window and stared out over the street. A barouche drove by, a crest emblazoned on its panel. Lights flickered from the carriage lamps on the box, glinting off the metal accoutrements of the harness, and the soft jingling of the bells reached him. So very different from Golden Lane.

He turned back into the room. “As you know, I move among a different order of society than do you.”

St. Ives raised sardonic eyebrows. “Indeed, Coz? Do you know, it had occurred to me.”

“What might not have occurred to you,” James said, “is that I hear a very different view of political events from those to which you are exposed.”

“Is this view supposed to be of interest to me?” The earl covered his mouth with the tapering fingers of one hand and yawned. “Do get on with it, dear Coz. I have guests waiting.”

James clenched his jaw. “I am hearing a great deal of discontent among the poor and the elderly.”

A sharp laugh escaped St. Ives. “Dear Coz, not even
you
can think this is a matter of any remarkableness. It is not in the least unusual.”

“No, it is not, and that is the problem.” He positioned himself directly before his exasperating cousin. “It is far too usual, and it is also rapidly becoming dangerous.”

“Do you mean those attacks on you? I have told you repeatedly not to stir up the rabble of this poor city. If you insist on behaving in so unseemly a manner, then you will have to take the consequences.”

“I doubt it will be me, alone. The discontent may soon go beyond the grumbling stage. You cannot tell me you have never seriously considered the possibility of a revolution?”

St. Ives’s eyes narrowed. “Do you hear rumors of violence?”

James glanced at Miss Campbell. “I do,” he said, his voice level.

“Confound it!” St. Ives surged to his feet, his affected manner dropping away. He strode to the hearth, then abruptly about-faced. “That damnable regency bill!” he exploded. “The masses will never tolerate Prinny’s wastrel ways.” He shook his head, and all expression faded from his face. “Perhaps they are right, after all.”

“Who? About what?” James demanded.

St. Ives slammed his fist on the mantel. “Prinny. He’ll be the death of us all.”

“No!” Miss Campbell’s gaze flew from St. Ives to James. “It’s something else that has to change. I know for a fact your Prinny won’t cause any trouble by being appointed regent.”

“Do you?” St. Ives raised his quizzing glass once more and regarded her through it. His sneer returned. “By Jove, what a remarkably well-informed young lady.”

James rounded on her, ignoring his cousin. “What changes? What do we do that makes him acceptable?”

“
We
?”
St
. Ives shook his head. “I, for one, have not the influence.”

Again, James paid him no heed. “How many possibilities are there?”

“Only the two, I should think.” She shook her head. “Either you attend a house party or—or you know the other choice.”

“
I
don’t,” St. Ives pointed out.

“Riots in the streets,” James agreed.

“Then by all means, dear Coz, attend this house party.” The earl’s lip curled. “It seems the most sensible course.”

James fixed his cousin with his steady regard. “Do you know, Saint Ives, I believe you are right. Somehow, I must attend this house party. There seems little we can do until then.”

“Excellent. Allow me to offer mine, then, if it will prevent these riots you fear. I have two other guests remaining with me this night. Will you not join us?”

James cast a questioning glance at Miss Campbell.

“I don’t know,” she said slowly. “This isn’t exactly a Christmas house party, is it?”

“How grieved I am to inform you it is not. Merely an expedience for two members of the Home Office who do not wish to travel in this inclement weather. Sir Oliver and Lord Farnham. Brockenhurst is with us, as well, but he does not, I believe, intend to remain the night.”

Miss Campbell glanced at James. “It
might
be the one. There are certainly members of the government here.”

“Very well, then.” He nodded. “Thank you, Saint Ives. We will be delighted to accept your hospitality. Only let me send a message to the Runcorns to assure them we are unharmed.” St. Ives’s eyes narrowed.
“Have
you been having more of that problem?”

James’s lips twitched into a rueful smile. “In fact, I had promised the Runcorns to remain for the night with them, rather than risk going out after dark.”

St. Ives tugged gently at his quizzing glass, a frown darkening his blue eyes. “There is no question but that you stay, then. I will I send someone for your man and your things. Miss Campbell’s things as well, of course.”

“Thank you.” Her voice, though, held a note of skepticism. The earl dispatched a footman on the errand, then led the way down the hall to the drawing room. The faint odor of heady wine mingled with the beeswax from the multitude of candles and the smoke from the fireplace. The chimney needed sweeping. Lady St. Ives sat with Farnham at a small card table near the hearth, and the other two gentlemen rattled a dice box on another topped with a green baize cloth. Sir Oliver Paignton laid down the ivories, and Brockenhurst’s hazel eyes widened at sight of the newcomers. He cast a questioning glance at St. Ives.

Sir Oliver reached across the table, touched Brockenhurst’s arm, and shook his head.

“Fresh blood?” Lord Farnham folded his cards, his gaze speculative. He leaned back in his chair and ran his fingers through his windswept black hair.

Lady St. Ives rose gracefully in a cloud of pomona green silk, which did not quite conceal her advancing pregnancy. A dyed ostrich plume curled from her fashionable crop of blond ringlets and just brushed her cheek. “James? How delightful. But what brings you here so late?”

“I fear we are joining your party, Margaret.” He took her hand and awarded her an elegant bow. “I believe you remember Miss Campbell? I have placed her in an awkward position, and must beg your chaperonage of her for this night.”

“Of course I remember, and shall only be too delighted.” A shy smile lit her pale blue eyes. “Would you care for a game of cards? I fear I bore Lord Farnham.”

“Impossible,” that gentleman declared at once.

“He does not mind in the least playing for penny points.” Margaret cast him a grateful glance.

“Like you, dear Coz.” St. Ives’s cool gaze rested on Farnham, and his sneer settled over his narrow features. “Ever the defender of damsels in distress.”

Farnham awarded him a mock bow.

“It was very kind of him,” Margaret said, quick in his defense. She turned her resentful regard on her husband. “He—he realized I have no taste for high stakes.”

“Do you not, my dear?” St. Ives tugged at his quizzing glass. “Now, why had I not realized this before?”

“I don’t, either,” Miss Campbell said quickly. “In fact, I don’t think I know any of the games you play here. Is there a simple one you could teach me?”

Lady St. Ives at once offered her assistance, and Lord Farnham rose and strolled over to the other gentlemen at the dicing table. James, also, joined them.

Sir Oliver smoothed down his unruly graying hair, then extended his hand. “What a delightful surprise, Major. How are you?” A smile sat uneasily on his lips.

“Major.” An unidentifiable emotion flickered through Brockenhurst’s bright hazel eyes, and he stood. “Good evening.”

James raised his eyebrows in mild surprise. “What, not a single comment about my slumming in Mayfair? You must be castaway.”

Brockenhurst’s slender frame stiffened. “I have never meant to give offense.”

James shook his head. “You never could hold your wine. For heaven’s sake, be seated. What the devil are you about? You never stand upon ceremony with anyone except Prinny.”

“Sit down, sit down.” Sir Oliver tugged at the tails of the viscount’s exquisitely cut coat. “Don’t be a demmed fool, boy. Well, Major, what’s your pleasure? Faro? Hazard? Or the bones? I’ll warn you, they’re throwing devilishly contrary tonight.”

James shook his head. “Don’t let me interrupt. I’ll join whatever it is you play.”

After some polite deferring to one another, Sir Oliver persuaded Brockenhurst to start a faro bank. Farnham and St. Ives withdrew to another small table, and joined in hand after hand of piquet. They appeared oblivious to the others.

The remainder of the evening and the early hours of the morning passed in the dedicated pursuit of gambling. Sir Oliver, once in possession of his cards, had eyes for nothing else. Brockenhurst lounged back in his chair, playing as if he had little interest in the proceedings, yet winning a considerable amount.

They at last rose from the table with Sir Oliver jovial, despite his heavy losses. James found himself some fifty pounds to the better, and was glad for Sir Oliver’s sake St. Ives insisted upon keeping the stakes low.

Margaret at last gave vent to the yawn she had been trying to smother. Miss Campbell stood at once.

“You shouldn’t have stayed up so late,” she said. “I’m sorry, you must be exhausted ”

That lady shook her head, setting the plume jiggling once more against her cheek. “It would be unthinkable to retire before my guests. Come, Mrs. Munchken will have prepared your room long ago.” She crossed to the hearth and pulled the bell rope.

A sour-faced woman in apron and mobcap entered a minute later, as if she had been waiting just outside for the summons.

Margaret handed Miss Campbell into her care, then turned to James. “You know your way to the green room? Then I will bid you good night.” With a half-smile of apology, she went to her husband’s side.

James followed as the housekeeper escorted Miss Campbell to a small chamber at the back of the next floor. Through the door, he glimpsed Nancy dozing by the fire, and relief surged through him at the Runcorns’ thoughtfulness. Miss Campbell would be far more comfortable with someone she knew to look after her.

He himself occupied a spacious apartment one flight up. Wickes greeted him at the door, and over his man’s shoulder he could see his things arranged with comfortable familiarity.