A Christmas Keepsake (22 page)

“Fortunately, the assassins were equally as inefficient.” Apparently, good help was hard to find in any day. Christy drew a deep breath. “I hope Sir Dominic has something more effective in mind for the future.”

To that, Lady Sophia murmured an assent, and they fell silent, listening to the countess playing a ballad on the pianoforte and singing quietly to herself.

After about a quarter of an hour, the gentlemen joined them. Sir Dominic, with the able assistance of Sir Oliver, arranged his guests at the various card tables, and within minutes the sound of the pasteboards being shuffled filled the room.

Christy rose and went to stand behind James’s chair to watch him play with Sir Dominic. Piquet, she remembered from a previous evening. She looked at the others and frowned. Lord Brockenhurst beckoned to Lady St. Ives, but she refused to meet his gaze. Instead, she accepted Lord Farnham’s invitation with patent relief.

Sir Oliver drew out a considerable pile of coins and placed them at his side, then glanced about, his expression hopeful. After a moment, Lord Brockenhurst took the chair opposite and followed suit. St. Ives joined them.

Christy watched the intensity with which they played for a few minutes, then returned her attention to James. He lounged back in his chair, a glass of wine at his side, and studied the cards in his hands. It appeared little would be accomplished this night aside from gambling. She stifled a yawn.

James glanced up at her. “Why do you not retire for the night, Miss Campbell?”

“Are you sure—” She broke off. She could hardly ask him if he thought he was safe.

Amusement lit his eyes. “Quite sure. You may relax your vigilance for once.”

She wouldn’t mind escaping this party. Even aside from her worries about James’s safety, and her distrust of these conspirators, she wasn’t enjoying it. She could spend her time far more delightfully in planning her next assault on James’s defenses.

She excused herself to Lady Sophia, smiled a good night at Lady St. Ives, and made her way up to her room. She prepared for bed without summoning Nancy, then settled before her mirror, experimenting with her unruly hair. She would have to ask James if he preferred it up, in the local prevailing fashion, or loose about her shoulders.

She regarded the current result, but a vision of James’s strong features hovered in her mind. Dear James, what a day this had been for him. To learn he was a Stuart, of royal blood.
Not
plain Mr. Holborn, but Prince James Edward Stuart.

Prince James ... A chill crept through Christy, and she stared at her reflection with unseeing eyes. A prince, who by birth was so far above a lowly Miss Christina Campbell that it created an insurmountable barrier between them. It was hopeless...

Sir Oliver’s gentle warning had been no mere expression of what he thought best, but a statement of inescapable fact. James had no choice in the matter. He owed a duty to his name, to his heritage, to marry a princess...

She turned away, hugging herself, sick at the thought. James, tied in a bloodless marriage to some German frump of high birth, producing children with her to carry on the line. That was no life for him, not for a man of his passion and spirit, of his generous character. He deserved so much more. Surely somewhere there must be a princess of passable looks and temperament, who could make him happy.

The possibility he actually might come to
love
his princess tore her apart.

Yet even if he hadn’t been a prince, what could there ever have been between them? Had she honestly been so foolish as to expect them to share something permanent? No matter how much she loved him, they were the products of different times, raised in different worlds.

And at any moment, she might be dragged back to her own, separated from him by nearly two hundred years.

Blindly, she pulled the pins from her hair and sought her empty bed. For a very long while, she huddled beneath the covers, hugging a pillow, and finding no comfort.

The clicking of her door handle disturbed her some time later. Her eyes flew open, but the fire had burned low, and it was too dark to see. Slowly, she dragged herself up onto one elbow.

A dim shape slipped into her room, enveloped in a flowing garment. She’d recognize the broad shoulders anywhere. A pang of yearning shot through her.

“Christy?” James’s soft voice reached her. He felt his way to her bed and sat down on the edge. “It’s ten minutes until three. Officially Christmas Eve morning. I thought we should celebrate.”

He’d come to her...

“It’s cold in here.” He crossed to the fire and tossed on another log. A taper stood on the mantel, and he lit it, then brought it to the table beside her. “I want you to see something.” From his pocket he drew forth a dark lump, and held it out to her.

The light flickered across the carved figure. A woman skating.

“Me. You’ve started the snowdome to bring me back.” That knowledge warmed her.

He set it aside, and his serious gaze rested on her face as he once more sat on the bed. “Have you considered the possibility it might also take you from me?”

A way home. It was what she wanted, what she
had
to want. She shivered, and didn’t meet his steady regard. “I wish I knew if I had a one-way or a round-trip ticket.”

“So do I.” Apparently, he had no trouble deciphering her meaning. “I have done a great deal of thinking during the past several hours.”

“Have you?” she asked, cautious.

He brushed her curls from her shoulder, and his hand cupped the nape of her neck. “This—my being a Stuart—changes a great deal.”

“I’d noticed. Your name alone could start that revolution we have to prevent.”

“Which makes it all the more important for me to have you with me—to discuss my best course of action.” His mouth brushed the sensitive skin behind her ear. “How is that for a first step?”

Her lips twitched into a sad smile. Obviously, he hadn’t thought things through. Longing overcame sense, and she ran her fingers through his hair, loving the tousled result. “I thought you didn’t approve of this sort of thing,” she murmured.

He slid the thin muslin of her nightgown aside and kissed her collarbone. “The situation is different, now.”

She tried to ignore the sensations that rippled through her. “Yes, it’s worse, not better.”

“Why? I resisted before because a liaison with a gentleman could only have brought you the contempt of society. But a liaison with the Stuart pretender will bear no such stigma. You will hold a position of importance and influence.”

“I see. The Stuart heir’s mistress.”

“I promise you, even though I must make a marriage of convenience, I will assure it makes as little difference to us as possible. I will set you up in a house in a fashionable quarter of town. You may have a
carte blanche
, anything you wish, and I will visit you as often as I can.”

She stared at him for a long moment, as the full, insulting reality of his words sank in. “Your mistress,” she said at last, and fury ignited within her. “You mean your expensive prostitute. Is that what you think of me?”

“Christy.” He caught her agitated hands. “How else to you expect to live if I don’t provide for you? You have no family, no money, no one else to turn to.”

“So I should join the oldest profession to support myself?”

His brow snapped down. “I didn’t say that.”

“It’s what you mean, though, no matter how you try to disguise it.”

“It’s a perfectly acceptable arrangement. In this time—”

“This time isn’t my time.” She inched back, farther away from him. “And you don’t have to worry about me. Do you think I’d stay in
this
time, where you lousy chauvinists have it all your own way? Marriages of convenience and mistresses! Honestly, don’t you ever think of a woman as a
person?
Someone to share your life with?”

He stiffened. “As a Stuart—”

“
Damn
your royal blood! As a
Holborn
, you at least showed a sense of decency.”

“I cannot expect you to understand the obligations that have descended upon me, or the—”

“Oh, no, how could I? I’m just a mere woman, a plaything for you
important
men.”

“Christy—”

“Oh, get out! Or are you planning to give me a hundred bucks or pounds or whatever to pay for tonight?”

His mouth thinned, and he surged to his feet. “I would not so demean either of us. I will be far better employed finishing these figures.” He snatched up the one that rested on the table. “Perhaps that snowdome really will take you home—away from me.” He spun about on his heel and stalked out the door.

Damn him, damn him,
damn
him! Christy fell back against the pillows, choking back furious tears. How could he so cheapen everything they’d shared? She offered love, and he talked in terms of a business arrangement.

The sound of a door opening down the hall reached her, and she realized James hadn’t fully closed hers. Who else would be up and about at this hour? She certainly didn’t want them looking in on her. She climbed out of bed, and peeked into the hall in time to see Lord Brockenhurst creeping toward the stairs, his greatcoat gathered about him, his hat on his head, and his boots in his hand.

The peculiarity of his actions penetrated her unhappiness. He was going out, obviously. At three-thirty on a very cold and snowy morning. Not on any legitimate business, of that she felt certain.

Images of knife throwers and gun shooters sprang to mind.

Fears for James’s safety drove her hurt from her mind. For his sake, she had better learn more.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Christy crept down the stairs, leaning on the banister to keep her weight off the aging boards. If one squeaked, and Lord Brockenhurst turned—or worse, waited for her on the next landing ... She shivered, and was glad the oil lamps burned so low, barely providing sufficient illumination for her not to stumble. They also kept her in deep shadow.

An eerie creak from below broke the stillness of the night, and she gasped and drew back. For several heart-stopping seconds she clung to the rail, her mind screaming retreat, her legs too wobbly to move. Silence surrounded her, like a comforting blanket, and she drew a shaky—but noiseless—breath. She descended another cautious step.

At the next landing she crouched low and peered over the railing. Brockenhurst’s coated figure cast a dim shadow which wavered, then vanished as he reached the Great Hall. Not so much as the whisper of his stockinged feet on the bare tiles reached Christy, not a clue as to which direction he might have gone. Yet the boots and coat indicated he must be going out. And apparently not by the front door.

Christy continued down, until her bare toes encountered the icy chill of the marble floor. Why couldn’t she have worn slippers? Or something warmer than her muslin dressing gown?

How did people
survive
this insufferable, everlasting cold? She missed forced air heating. And hot showers. And an electric blanket.

She wanted to go home, back to her familiar comforts, away from James!

She blinked away the moisture that filled her eyes. If only Sir Dominic had kept his rotten revelations to himself for just a little while longer, she might even now be in James’s arms, celebrating the joyous season, instead of freezing in this dark hall.

Which brought her back to the question of
why
Lord Brockenhurst crept about in the middle of the night. Not for any good purpose, of that she felt certain. He must be going out to meet someone—and what, tell whoever it was that James now knew his real identity?

Christy clutched the newel, her thoughts racing. Before, there had been no hurry to murder James. Now, though, he might step forward at any time to claim the throne. And someone, possibly some loyal supporter of Prince George, might well go to any length to prevent that.

She started forward, running silently over the tiles, searching through the blackness for any sign of movement, any indication where another door might be located. Nothing.

She stopped and peered about, struggling against her rising anxiety. How many corridors opened off this main room? She couldn’t remember. Three? Or four? Each one led to a different area or wing of the house. And each one might have any number of exits to the outside.

Why hadn’t she explored the house more thoroughly when they arrived? She
knew
James would be in danger, she’d even suspected a trap! But all that talk of his being a prince, of his possibly becoming king of England, no wonder she’d slipped up.

At least James couldn’t be killed yet. Not until he’d written the account of the house party.

Unless someone else finished the book for him.

A chill settled in her already aching heart. Was that why the words shifted? Because one of several different people might write one of several different endings? She had to find Viscount Brockenhurst. Maybe he’d left a candle burning somewhere...

On the third corridor she checked, a dim glow greeted her eyes. Heartened, she hurried down this hall, glad of the soft carpet that enveloped her frozen feet. At the end, a door stood slightly ajar, and within the room she glimpsed the flickering light of a fire burning low in a huge hearth.

She inched the door wider and slipped inside. A library. And in the wall next to the fireplace stood along French window, with its curtain pulled askew. Christy touched the handle and found it unlatched. Bingo.

She opened the door, and snow pelted her, whipped inside by a moaning wind. Prudently, she shut the paned glass panel again. Barefoot and wrapped in thin muslin was no way to go outside in weather like this. Yet by the time she put on something more suitable, Brockenhurst would be long gone and his trail buried beneath the new flakes.

With a sigh, she sank into a chair conveniently pulled up before the fire, its back to the French window, and extended her freezing feet to the lingering warmth. Fat lot of good she’d done. At least she knew Brockenhurst was up to something, if not what. She could make a few guesses, though, and they all boded ill for James. She’d better tell him.

Going back up proved easier than going down, for she worried less about noise. At last she reached her own floor and went to James’s room. She turned the handle, but it wouldn’t open. Surprised, she tried it again, then realized he had locked it.

She hadn’t expected him to take such an elementary precaution for his safety, not when he thought he was among friends. Relieved to discover he retained that much sense, at least, she returned to her own chamber and threw another log on the fire, then curled into her lonely, cold bed.

A persistent banging in the room awakened her some time later. She opened one heavy eye to see Nancy rummaging through a clothes cupboard. She dragged out Christy’s rose-colored muslin and hung it over a chair.

“What’s going on?” Christy asked.

Nancy sniffed. “Didn’t think nothin’ would wake you, miss. Dead to the world, you was.”

“Well, I’m not anymore. What time is it, anyway?”

“Half past nine, Miss Christy. And what Mrs. Runcorn would say, you sleepin’ the morning away like that.”

Christy yawned. “Maybe that’s why she’s been so generous about letting you come with me. To keep me in line.”

Nancy snorted. “There ain’t nothin’ she wouldn’t do for the major. Nor nothin’ the reverend wouldn’t, neither.”

Nor Christy, for that matter, she reflected ruefully. She sighed and shook off her grumpiness. Nancy didn’t deserve to be snapped at. “
I’m
certainly grateful,” she said. “I don’t know what I’d have done without you.”

The maid nodded, though without enthusiasm.

Christy packed three pillows behind her back, located her hot chocolate and took a sip. It was still warm. “What’s wrong?”

The girl sniffed again. “Don’t see as where anythin’ should be wrong, miss.”

“No, but it is, isn’t it?”

“Men!” She shook out Christy’s shawl with an angry snap and hung it over a chair. “Don’t you never go trustin’ one, miss. They ain’t worth it. After everythin’ ’e promised—” She slammed a drawer shut with enough force to relieve considerable tension.

Christy’s eyes narrowed. “Your gentleman is someone in this house?” she asked.

Nancy opened another cupboard door, apparently for the sole purpose of slamming it. “A title don’t make no man a gentleman.”

A title. “Lord Brockenhurst?” she hazarded.

Nancy nodded. “And don’t you never believe anythin’ as that flash cull tells you.”

“No, I don’t think I will,” Christy said slowly.

“Didn’t bother to come see me last night, like ’e said ’e would, and after that pretty speech ’e made me.”

“When was that? That night we stayed in Portman Square?”

Nancy sank down onto a chair. “What with Mr. Wickes lookin’ down ’is long nose at me, I was blue deviled, I was. Then along comes ’is lordship and calls me a saucy piece and makes me an offer fit to stare.” She sighed. “I should’ve knowed it was a take-in.”

“Did he ask you questions about the major?”

Nancy shrugged. “Nothing much.”

So, that fine, mocking dandy had been cultivating Nancy in order to spy on James. And last night he stood her up—because he had a more pressing engagement, perhaps with an accomplice who wanted James dead? Anger welled in her anew. Brockenhurst. At least now she knew in which direction the danger to James lay. She set down her cup and climbed out of bed. “Do you know if the others are up yet?”

“That lot?” Nancy sniffed. “Shouldn’t wonder if we don’t see ’ide nor ’air of ’em till dinner.”

Christy nodded, and went to wash her face with water from the pitcher that stood before the fire. Twenty minutes later, dressed and with her riotous hair arranged with some semblance of propriety, she hurried down to the breakfast parlor. As prophesied by Nancy, that apartment stood empty. Christy helped herself from one of the dishes, ate enough without really tasting it to stave off hunger, and went in search of any life.

She found James in the Great Hall along with Lady Sophia, two footmen, and armloads of holly, ivy, and mistletoe. Christmas Eve, she realized. Her spirits lifted, only to plummet the next moment. Christmas Eve, and her family was thousands of miles and almost two hundred years away. She missed them all terribly. And she’d alienated the only person she had in this time—which would be making her miserable if she weren’t so mad at him.

No, she would
not
indulge in self-pity. She would concentrate on settling matters here as soon as possible, make James finish that snowdome for her, then use it, somehow, to take herself home.

Away from James.

He looked up, saw her watching him, and his brow snapped down. He handed the holly garland he held to a footman, and strode up to her. “I want to talk to you.”

She nodded, mustering her defenses against the awareness that surged through her at his nearness. She needed to talk to him, too, to tell him what occurred during the night, warn him one of Sir Dominic’s select little conspiracy might well be a traitor. She glanced at the closed mask of his face and shuddered. He looked set to deliver a tirade.

She managed a false smile. “It’s Christmas Eve. Shouldn’t we enter into the spirit?” She scooped up a handful of mistletoe.

“An excellent suggestion. There’s a front room over there we can decorate.” He retrieved his holly and led the way to the nearest door.

She hesitated a moment, then followed. After shutting the door behind her, she crossed to the window to stare out over the snow-covered landscape. The soft jingle of carriage bells reached her, carried on the icy wind. She braced herself.

He tossed his greenery on a table. “I meant no insult to you last night, Christy,” he said without preamble. “I fear the problem lies in the conventions of our different times. Forgive me for expressing myself in a manner that was not acceptable to you.” He held out his hands to her. “How, in your era, does a gentleman deal with his love when he cannot offer her the protection of his name?”

She swallowed. “I would support myself. But we would share a home, and every aspect of our lives...” Her voice trailed off.

“Do you think I do not desire that?” he demanded, his voice harsh. “Christy—” He closed the space between them and gathered her into his arms.

She pulled back, found herself captive, and abandoned the struggle. She leaned her cheek against his shoulder.

He drew a deep breath. “My world seems to have turned upside down in the past twenty-four hours. Don’t send me away from you again, my love. I need you with me.”

She clung to him, knowing this was what she wanted. If her only option in this time was to be called his mistress, then so be it. His royal mistress...

All the horrors that such a position would entail descended on her, and her tantalizing glimpse of happiness evaporated.

“James—” She shook her head. “It wouldn’t work for me, you know it wouldn’t. I don’t fit into your society. These stuffed shirts make me uncomfortable. And I don’t want to be the subject of constant gossip, of caricatured cartoons. I’d make gauche mistakes, and everyone would think me inferior and unworthy of you.” Pain seeped through her. “I—I’m not cut out to be a Stuart prince’s mistress.”

“But you are cut out to be my love.” He kissed her forehead. “I’ll purchase a small country estate, and you can earn your own keep by managing it for me. It will be our private retreat, and I won’t let any of these bores come near us.”

“Would they let you?” She covered his shoulders with her hands, and pushed herself away so she could look up into his face. “It sounds like they’re mapping out your life for you. If they make you regent, could you escape to be with me? And even if they don’t ... Another reality returned to plague her, which she’d tried to thrust from her mind. “It’s not that simple, James. I’m only going to be a complication in your new life.”

“A very delightful one.” His mouth sought hers.

She avoided his kiss. “No, don’t you see? You said it yourself. As a Stuart, it’s your duty to marry.”

“Into a royal line,” he agreed, his tone one of distaste.

“But she’d be your
wife
. How could I be so cruel as to play the role of the ‘other woman’ to make her life miserable? And you wouldn’t want me to, either.” Tears burned her eyes, and she blinked them back. “When you make your dynastic marriage, you know perfectly well you’ll want to make the best of it. Whether or not you come to love her, you’ll be faithful to her. You’re too damned noble for anything else. And you’d better believe they’re out there, right now, making up a list of candidates.”

“My duty,” he repeated. “How am I ever to give you up?”

She pulled free from his slackened hold. “You already have,” she said with more firmness than she felt.