A Christmas Keepsake (18 page)

CHAPTER F
OURTEE
N

James stood before the sideboard, a plate in one hand, the cover of a chafing dish in the other, as he examined the contents. He replaced it and tried the next.

Christy closed the door behind her and leaned against it. “Alone, at last,” she breathed, at her most dramatic.

He stiffened. “Good morning, Miss Campbell.”

“ ‘Miss Campbell?’ ” She crossed the room and slid her arms about him. “Are you mad at me for slipping away without saying goodbye? I was afraid if I woke you, I wouldn’t get away at all, and then your valet would catch us.”

“Christy, please.” With his free hand, he attempted to extricate himself.

She wouldn’t let go. Instead, she used his maneuverings to place herself in front of him.

“Can you never behave?” The reluctant smile in his eyes denied the exasperation of his tone.

She took the plate from him and placed it on the sideboard. “Why should I? There’s no one here.”

“What if someone walked through that door?”

“I have it on good authority
no
one gets up this early. Now, what’s
really
the matter?” She clasped her hands behind his neck and forced him to look at her. After a moment, she said: “You’re feeling guilty, aren’t you?”

He moved away, and ran unsteady fingers through his already disordered auburn hair. “You confuse my sense of right and wrong, and that is not a sensation I enjoy.”

“I can think of a few you did.”

His lips twitched. “Baggage. But I am still a man—a
gentleman
—of this era. Give me time, Christy.”

“I’ll try.” She managed a smile and turned to the row of chafing dishes and found a plate. Time. Nearly two hundred years of manners, social development, women’s lib, the sexual revolution. It all lay between them. She couldn’t expect him to loosen up overnight any more easily than he could expect
her
to conform to the circumscribed behavior of his society. But then she didn’t want him to change
that
much. She liked him old-fashioned, with his sense of honor and noble standards.

James filled a tankard with ale, then carried his breakfast to the table. When he glanced up at her, his expression reflected his usual imperturbable calm. Yet in the depths of his dark eyes, a spark remained.

He wrapped the proprieties of his era about him like a suit of armor, she reflected. Only she detected the chink. She eyed his broad-shouldered figure, the fascinating lines of his face, and determined to undermine his good intentions once more at the earliest opportunity.

As she settled in a chair across from him, the door to the parlor opened and Sir Oliver and Lord Brockenhurst entered together.

James looked up in surprise. “You here, Brockenhurst?”

The viscount, elegant in a neat blue coat that emphasized the classical perfection of his features, hesitated in the doorway. “I am not quite sure how it came about, though I believe it had something to do with a fourth bottle of claret.”

Sir Oliver shook his shaggy head, “This younger generation, Major. Can’t hold their wine. Though I distinctly saw him walk up the stairs.” He turned to Christy and bowed low over her hand, raising it fleetingly to his lips. “Ah, to be fifteen years younger.” He sighed.

“I wouldn’t mind losing a few years, either,” Christy assured him. Like about two hundred, but she kept that thought to herself.

Brockenhurst made his selections at the sideboard, then took a place near James. “You are up betimes, Major,” he said.

“I have work to do this morning.”

“Ah, yes, the poor.” St. Ives, already dressed for the day’s session in Parliament, crossed the threshold. “Good morning.”

He nodded to the others, then addressed himself once more to James. “The poor are always with us, are they not?”

“You might, of course, suggest another bill,” James offered. “Trim a little of Prinny’s spending and provide more training and assistance for those condemned to the workhouses.”

“You would make an excellent head of government, would you not, Major?” Sir Oliver looked over his shoulder from where he stood before the chafing dishes, and a slight frown creased his already lined brow. “Such concern for the masses.”

“Have you considered what your life might have been like had you been born of their number, and not to your family and estate?”

St. Ives shuddered. “Please, dear Coz,
not
while I’m contemplating my breakfast.”

Brockenhurst looked up from his plate. “As it happens, that is very much the subject under discussion right now.”

“The regency bill,” James agreed. “Prinny cannot be allowed to enrage the people with his wastrel ways. Have you considered the potential consequences?”

“Indeed we have, Major,” Farnham said from the doorway. “Indeed we have.” His serious brown eyes clouded, he paused on the threshold to survey the assembled company, then made his way to the pitcher of ale. “What, are we all gathered?”

“Do you intend to speak in today’s debate?” James asked him.

Farnham rubbed his waistcoat with a meditative hand. “I believe I will, Major.” He swallowed a mouthful of ale, then nodded his head. “Yes, I believe I will. Someone must make certain all options are considered before a dreadful mistake is made.”

“My cousin is of the opinion there will be rioting if Prinny is appointed,” St. Ives informed him.

“That is not what I said,” James corrected. “Only if the interests of the poor are ignored.”

“They are one and the same.” Sir Oliver drained his mug and slammed it on the table. “None of these German Hanovers have the interest of the people at heart. We need a Stuart, Major. A king born and bred of the British.”

“Scots, actually,” Christy murmured, but no one paid her any heed.

“A pity Henry is a bishop,” James agreed. “Still, there must be other candidates. One of the royal dukes, perhaps?”

Sir Oliver snorted. “Damned fool idea. There isn’t one of them worth his salt.”

Christy looked from one to the other of the serious faces. “You’ve misjudged the people’s reactions to your Prinny. Have you considered the possibility his appointment
won’t
start a revolution? That everybody
expects
him to become regent?”

Brockenhurst turned an indulgent smile on her. “You Americans,” he said. “I find it hard to believe it has been so very few years since we were all one country.”

Farnham shook his head. “Come, come, Brockenhurst. A lady is entitled to her opinion.”

“Provided she keeps it to herself?” Christy demanded. “Would it be so terrible if your Prinny
did
become regent?”

Viscount Brockenhurst possessed himself of her hand and patted it. “Very dreadful, my dear. Politics is a man’s world, don’t trouble your lovely head over such matters. Gentlemen, we forget our manners. We have a delightful visitor among us, yet all we can speak of is our upcoming debate.”

“Oh, don’t give it a thought,” she said.

James rose, and fixed her with a compelling eye. “If you are done, Miss Campbell? We had best be off. You have much to do this day, I am certain.”

“Yes, knitting and cooking, I expect.” She flashed him a false smile.

“Excellent, excellent.” Sir Oliver rose. “Miss Campbell, a pleasure as always. I hope we may meet again soon.”

Christy turned that falsely sweet smile on him, then joined James in thanking St. Ives for his hospitality. After saying their goodbyes to the assembled company, they went into the hall. Below, in the entry, Nancy and Wickes stood side by side, pointedly not looking at one another. Several bags stood by the door, awaiting their departure.

Lady St. Ives descended the stairs, only to stop at sight of them. “Are you going so soon, James? I had hoped—” She broke off.

“I fear we must.” James took her hand. “We were just coming to find you.”

She waved aside their thanks, and accompanied them down the last flight of stairs. “Let me send a footman for a hackney.” “Never mind. Wickes?”

“Certainly, sir. Two vehicles, I believe?” The valet bowed, and set off on his errand.

Wickes returned less than ten minutes later, and, with the help of the jarvey, loaded the baggage into the first carriage. Nancy, with a lingering glance over her shoulder, climbed in next. Wickes followed.

Christy started down the stairs to enter the second vehicle, only to come to an abrupt halt. Two houses down, about twenty feet from the corner, two frieze-coated figures stood close together, deep in conversation. Quickly, she hurried ahead and jumped into the vehicle.

“James!” she hissed as he set foot on the step. “Those are the men who’ve been following us. There, near the corner. I’ve never seen them together before.”

“Wait a minute,” he called to the jarvey.

James pretended to examine his boot while the two men spoke for a moment longer. One strode off, and the other glanced toward their hackney, then quickly crossed the street to the garden at the center of the square.

James straightened at once. “I want you to follow that man,” he told the jarvey, gesturing in the direction of the first. “Without him being aware of it, if possible.” He swung into the vehicle and it started forward. “The changing of our watchdogs, I should imagine.” He sounded pleased.

“Do you think we can keep him in sight?” Christy leaned forward, craning her neck to catch a glimpse of the frieze-coated man.

“I very much hope so. If he is indeed going off duty from keeping an eye on us, it seems very likely he will make his report to his employer.”

Christy caught her breath. “You mean—?”

He nodded. “I may at last find out who is behind this nonsense.”

CHAPTER F
IFT
EEN

Apparently oblivious to his pursuers, the man strolled to the corner. A number of carts and fashionable carriages jostled past, but no hackneys. James caught the edge of the window, ready to call to his jarvey to slow, when the man strode up to a covered chaise and entered it without a word to the driver. That individual gave his pair the office, and they pulled into the flow of traffic.

“Well, well, well,” James murmured.

Christy caught his hand in a warm clasp. “We
must
be right,” she breathed. “It was there, waiting for him. Maybe it brought his replacement.”

He covered her fingers fleetingly, recognized the danger of such an action, and released her. “We very well might find out.” He leaned out the window and called to the Jarvey: “Follow him!”

He sat back, but kept the window down despite the cold, watching the town chaise as it wended its way through the traffic. One would think that with all this snow, people would find excuses to remain indoors. Yet the entire population of London appeared to be abroad this morning.

Beside him, Christy shivered as the wind whipped through the carriage. The devil! If only he had thought to obtain a hot brick for her feet, she must be chilled to the bone. His gaze lingered on her riotous hair, then traveled to those marvelous eyes, brilliant blue and filled with laughter, even now, when they headed into possible danger. He never should have included her on this chase, he should have sent her back inside—or sent her on to the safety of the Runcorns in another hackney.

Her infectious smile flashed and she squeezed his fingers. “Don’t look so worried. We’re getting somewhere at last.” She let down the window on her side and peered out. “I can’t tell, but I
think
that other man is following
us.
What a parade we’re making.”

James spun about, staring hard out the window. Confound it! Of course that other man would pursue them, since that appeared to be his job. “When we arrive at our destination, we may well be at a considerable disadvantage,” he said.

She nodded. “Sandwiched between them. I wonder if they brought any mustard?” she mused, then shuddered. “Let’s just hope it isn’t catsup.”

He let that pass. Questioning her cryptic utterances invariably led to even more confusion. At least she didn’t go off into strong hysterics like any other woman of his acquaintance would. Made of stern stuff, his Christy.

His? He cast a considering glance at her. Yes, his, for however long he could keep this vibrant, loving woman at his side.

Yet how long would that be? For the next week or two, at least, of that he felt certain. She had been thrust into his world for a reason, to help prevent a revolution. Surely she wouldn’t be torn away from him until they completed that task.

But what about after that? Would she remain stranded in his time, separated from her family, from everything she knew—with him? Or would she return where she belonged?

His gaze rested on the enchanting curve of her Bps, the long sweep of her dark lashes, the impish gleam in her brilliant eyes, and he knew he didn’t want her to leave. She’d crept into his life, into his being, until he couldn’t imagine existing without her.

“I wonder how much farther?” She peered once more out the window. “Do you suppose he knows we’re following him, and he’s leading us on a wild-goose chase?”

He drew a steadying breath and forced his attention back to the problem at hand. “I don’t believe so. We are not directly behind him, he should have no reason to be aware of us, as yet.” They proceeded for some time through the drifting snow, turning first onto Oxford Street, then onto Tottenham Court Road. As they continued, without changing direction, James drummed his fingers along the edge of the door panel. The buildings grew farther and farther apart, until at last they passed out of London and onto Hampstead Heath.

“Perhaps we should have brought our suitcases,” Christy said. James shook his head. “It can’t be much farther.”

“He’ll notice us, if it is.” She looked back the way they had come. “There are other carriages, at least.”

“Let us hope he is not aware of us.” He glanced at Christy and frowned. What the deuce was he to do with her if trouble began? He doubted the jarvey would be willing to enter any fray; he wished Wickes had selected a more robust driver, one who might welcome a bit of home-brewed.

He touched Christy’s hand. “If our friends ambush us, I want you to stay in the hackney. Crouch low on the floor. They might not see you.”

“Of course they will.” She bristled. “Do you think I’d let you face an attack alone?”

“Christy!” He possessed himself of her cold fingers. “I won’t place you at risk.”

“Is that what you think of me? That I’m helpless? I’ll have you know I’ve taken two self-defense classes, and I’ve got a couple of pretty good karate kicks.”

“A couple of what?” As usual, she had lost him.

She thrust out her delightful chin. “I mean, I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself in a fight.”

“You—No, that’s impossible.” The thought was ludicrous. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Oh, don’t I? You don’t work in San Francisco’s Tenderloin without being prepared.”

“You—are you saying you have learned to
box
?”

At that, she laughed. “Of course not. I’m not nearly big enough for that. I fight dirty.” She eyed him, a martial light kindling in her eyes. “I could probably teach you a few tricks.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” he managed.

The hackney slowed, and instantly his attention switched from his unconventional lady to the countryside. Deep drifts of snow covered the fields, with bushes poking through at intervals. White-laden branches hung low beneath their icy burdens.

They turned onto a narrow lane, and after a few moments their pace increased once more. A mile later, the hackney slowed and pulled onto the snowy verge.

Christy peered out through the flurry of flakes that whirled about their carriage. “Has he stopped?” she called to the driver.

The man swiveled around on his box, and his narrow face peered down at her. “They’ve gone into a drive, miss.”

“Do you know where we are?”

“About five miles outside of London, miss.”

James swung down. “Stay here, Christy.”

She scrambled after him. “Forget it! I’m not letting you go anywhere alone.”

“Christy!” He caught her shoulders. “This could be dangerous.”

“And I suppose being shot at and chased through the alleys of London isn’t? Come on, are you staying or coming?”

James glared at her, then turned to the jarvey. “Wait for us. It will be well worth your while when we return.”

The little man eyed him with interest. “It’s too cold to keep old Frederick ’ere standing, sir. Doesn’t take the snow the way he used to.”

“Walk him, then, but keep within sight of this place. We may be leaving in a hurry.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “Not milling any kens, are you, guv’nor?”

James smiled, in spite of his tension. “No. But if we do not return within an hour, you might do well to lay information in Bow Street.”

The man nodded. “That I will, guv’nor.”

Hugging her arms about her against the cold, Christy started across the narrow lane, only to pull up short as a heavy closed carriage lumbered toward them. Bells jingled on the harnesses of the four flashy chestnuts pulling it. A coat of arms was emblazoned on the panels. It passed without slowing, and the occupants—a stout, older couple—paid them no heed. Probably some wealthy aristocrats on their way to a Christmas house party.

A shiver raced up her spine. A house party. That’s where James needed to be. She started once more across the way, only to have him catch her arm.

“Not up the main drive. Do you really want them to know I’m walking right into their lair?”

“Well, it might bring faster results,” Christy pointed out, though that was the last thing she wanted. Apparently, he’d accepted the fact she was going with him, and that relieved her. She didn’t want to spend every step of what ought to be a surreptitious trek through the snow on arguing with him.

They crept down the lane, away from the gate, searching the hedges for an opening. After about fifty yards, he located a likely spot amid the leafless branches, and slipped through. Christy, on hands and knees, followed.

They emerged into an open expanse of what was probably lawn beneath the white blanket. James took her frozen hand and, bending low and running, led her along the line of hedge until they reached a wooded stand about a hundred yards away. The jingling of bells and the muffled hoofbeats of a single horse made Christy jump, but they proved to be coming from the other side of the hedge, approaching along the lane from the same direction as they had come.

Christy shivered. “Do you have any idea whose house this is?” He frowned. “I’ll know better when I see it from the front, though I’ll swear I’ve been here before.”

She rolled her eyes. “I
knew
we should have gone up the main drive.” They crept through the woods, circling around until they faced the back of the house. “Look familiar?”

A dog barked, a deep, reverberating woof that set her heart pounding in her chest. There weren’t any trees nearby to climb, and by the sound of it, that hound probably had teeth to match the woof.

“Very familiar,” James muttered. “The devil! I know I’ve been here.”

“How delightful. Do all your friends want to murder you?” He shook his head. “It only takes one, my dear, it only takes one.”

They ran for a shrubbery, leaving footprints behind them, she reflected ruefully. Some surreptitious expedition this was, with them alerting the animals and leaving tracks all over the place. Again, the crunch of hooves on gravel reached them, and Christy ducked low.

“I believe
our
tail has finally shown up,” she said.

“No, that can’t be. If he’d followed us—” He broke off as the sound grew more distant. “He must be leaving. That must have been him we heard earlier.”

Christy sighed. “Shall we just walk up to the front door and announce ourselves?”

“I doubt there’s any need at this point. I think we will do best to leave as quickly as possible. As soon as I discover whose house this is.”

They followed another hedge to the edge of the stable, crossed behind it, then dashed the few exposed yards to the low shrubs lining the drive. Christy crouched and followed this toward the gate, then at last stopped to look behind her.

“We’re clearly visible from the house,” she said in disgust. “Someone is probably having a pretty good laugh at us.”

James nodded, his expression grim. “Then why haven’t they come after us?”

“Maybe they’re arranging a reception at the front gate for when we try to leave.”

By mutual consent, they abandoned their pretenses of hiding and walked erect, following the curve of the drive until at last they obtained a clear view of the facade of an elegant Georgian manor. For a long minute, James stared in silence.

“Well, well, well,” he said at last.

“Is it? Well, I mean?”

“You’ve even heard of him.”

“I have? Who?”

“This is Briarly. The home of Sir Dominic Kaye.”

“Sir—” The blood drained from her face, leaving her clammy. “Oh, James, what a tangle!”

“My sentiments exactly.”

“No, there’s more you don’t know. Look, I told you I came to England to buy a letter. It was written by your Prinny, and it was addressed to Sir Dominic Kaye, requesting his support in passing the regency bill. This Sir Dominic must be aware of some threat you pose—your books, perhaps—and is trying to get rid of you.”

James frowned. “Just because he
received
a letter does not mean he supports Prinny’s regency.”

“But that
must
be it. Unless you can think of another reason why he’d want you assassinated?”

A grim smile just touched his lips. “Not at the moment.”

“Could he have been the one on the ice who shot at you?”

“He is not a robust man.”

“All he needed to be was a good skater.” She shivered. “What have you ever done to him to make him take such drastic measures? Couldn’t he just
talk
to you? Ask you not to cause trouble?”

He drew a deep breath. “I have met him upon many occasions, but I cannot really say I know him.” He shook his head. “Our mystery, it seems, deepens. For now, let us get out of here.” They continued along the line of shrubs toward the lane. No one appeared, no one challenged them, no dogs raced in frenzied pursuit.

Christy shuddered. “How could somebody you know, a gentleman, a friend of your cousin’s,
do
this to you?”

“I don’t know. But I intend to find out.” His tone left no room for doubt.

They reached the gate, and Christy moved ahead to look up and down the lane. The soft jingle of bells preceded their hackney, which rounded a curve toward them. Christy ran forward, waving to him.