Greetings of the Season and Other Stories (7 page)

“Not too popular tonight, are we?” Johnny asked, with more than a tinge of satisfaction.

Bevin waved his unbandaged hand. “His Grace must have heard of last night’s debacle. He doesn’t like gossip.”

“Gammon. His Grace wouldn’t turn his back on an eligible parti like you if your name was as black as Byron’s. You must have done something beyond the pale for him to cut you that way.”

“I merely dismissed his daughter’s—ah, that is, I had to discharge Vincent. I believe the duke thought he was a coming lad with political possibilities,” he temporized, “so His Grace might disagree with my decision. He is welcome to hire the blackguard.”

“It sounds like you have some fence-mending to do before Harleigh and his family travel to Montravan Hall.”

“No, I have never been good at manual labor. I think I’ll let these fences stay broken.”

“But the chickens might fly the coop,” Johnny hinted.

“And that would be a shame,” Bevin answered with a grin. “A veritable shame.”

Lord Coulton gestured toward the betting book. “Then I can lay my blunt on the banty cock staying out of the parson’s cook pot?”

“From the, er, rooster’s mouth. If it will make your fortune, bet the farm. That particular little game pullet will never take up residence in my coop, the saints be praised.”

“From your noticeable lack of regret, I take it that your heart was not involved.” Newly affianced and deeply in love, Lord Coulton looked at his friend in pity. “Then you are better out of it.”

“My thinking entirely. Of course, now I’ll have to explain to Mama why I am not filling my nursery posthaste, and then I’ll have to go through the whole tedious business of finding another suitably well-born bride. But I’ll have to attend some of those debutante affairs with m’sister Allissa, at any rate, so I can kill two birds with one stone.”

“Still in the barnyard?” Coulton shook his head regretfully. “There are other reasons for taking a wife, you know, besides begetting an heir.”

“Of course, there’s marrying for money. Luckily I don’t need a large dowry, so my choices will be that much wider.”

“I would have offered for Elizabeth if she were penniless and a cit,” Lord Coulton insisted.

“My dear romantic friend, you wouldn’t even have
met
Elizabeth if she did not have entry to Almack’s and the fashionable dos. You’d not have looked twice at her if she dressed in twice-turned gowns or dropped her aitches.” Bevin suddenly recalled—with help from the additional color suffusing his friend’s face—that he did not wish to antagonize the large man any more than he already had. “But, of course, Elizabeth is a gem who would possess the same beauty of soul no matter her social standing. You’re a lucky devil, Johnny.”

The angry blotches faded, except for the viscount’s nose, of course, and his freckles. “And now you are free to find such a treasure for yourself, if you aren’t blinded by that fustian of finding a ‘suitable’ bride.”

“I take it Elizabeth has forgiven me, then?”

Coulton lifted his glass in silent toast. “She thinks I should have mentioned the rumors to you.”

“A prize indeed. I’ll keep your words in mind, after my narrow escape,” the earl said, getting up to leave before Coulton had yet another change of heart. There was no reason to tempt fate.

And speaking of tempting fate, Bevin considered confronting the duke on his way out of the club, then gave himself a mental shake. He mightn’t understand Harleigh’s actions, but if they meant that dreaded house party was canceled, the duke could turn his back on Bevin five times a day for the next ten years.

*

The duke’s behavior made more sense when Bevin reached Montford House and Tuttle presented him with a wad of tissue on a silver salver.

“This was delivered earlier from Harleigh House,” the butler informed him.

Bevin eyed the misshapen lump with suspicion. “Was there any message?”

“I believe the item is self-explanatory,” Tuttle said with a sniff of disapproval. “But there is a note.”

Montravan gingerly pushed aside some of the paper to find a gilt-edged card with a border of angels playing improbable musical instruments like floating pianofortes, and inscribed with the message:
May the heavenly host make joyous music for you at this season of gladness.
At least Vincent hadn’t committed that travesty. On the back of the card was written:
Her Grace, the Duchess of Harleigh, regrets that she and her family are unable to accept your invitation.
Short and simple, no flimsy excuses. But why? Dash it,
he
was the one who should have cried off; he was the wronged party, wasn’t he?

Perhaps Belinda hadn’t thought his gift was substantial enough for the almost betrothal, for surely that had to be the gold filigree fan returned in its crumpled wrappings. Odd, Vincent’s taste was usually impeccable, and Bevin had thought the fan a charming token. Belinda must have thought otherwise, for each and every one of the delicate spokes was snapped in half. A trifle excessive, Bevin thought, for an unappreciated gift. Why, he accepted Petra’s embroidered handkerchiefs every year with all the graciousness at his command, even though he had a drawerful by now. He didn’t rip them up just because he rarely had the need to blow his nose. She went to the considerable effort to create the blasted things, just as he—or Vincent—had selected the fan expressly for Lady Belinda. That made three insults from the duke’s family in one night, still without explanation.

Bevin was contemplating the ruined fan when Tuttle lifted a few shreds of silver paper and a bow to reveal his employer’s own calling card, the one with its holly edge and simple message of season’s greetings. This, too, was decimated, torn into halves and then smaller bits, but not so small that Bevin could not piece the thing together enough to read:
With fond thoughts of our past shared pleasures, and best wishes for better luck in your future relations.

Marina’s message. So the one for Petra and the one for his ex-mistress did not simply cross each other’s paths.
All
of the cards were somehow confused.

This was so unlike the methodical Vincent with his attention to detail that the mingle-mangle had to be deliberate, the bounder. And what an unintentional favor he’d done, Bevin thought, freeing him of unwanted houseguests and an even more unwanted fiancée. The earl went up to bed, freer of dreary thoughts than he’d been in an age, he realized, or at least since he’d contemplated making Lady Belinda his wife.

As Finster was helping him remove his boots, however, Bevin suddenly recalled that the gifts to his entire family, gifts that the dastardly scribe had already sent on ahead, might also have mismatched greetings, not just Petra’s. One of the boots and Finster went flying across the room. “The devil take it!” Heaven only knew what a mare’s nest that would stir up!

Bevin still had a few days’ leeway before his acquisitive sister would dare open the box to find her tiara, so he wasn’t really worried. As long as he got to the Hall before Christmas Eve, with enough time to spare to rewrap the gifts, he’d be safe. And if he left tomorrow as planned, he’d have time to speak with Petra about finding a new secretary, too, before the festivities began. There, the dibs were in tune again, despite that gallowsbait, and the earl could finally rest easy, except for having his hand so swaddled, Finster had to button his nightshirt.

In the middle of the night Montravan woke with a start. Zounds! He’d forgotten all about Bibi! How in the world could he have forgotten that she might have another’s message? He desperately tried to remember what he’d written and to whom, but he’d just dashed the things off, never suspecting anyone else but the so-discreet Vincent would ever see them. Now he’d have to wait until late afternoon to go make amends to the alluring demirep. He couldn’t very well call on a woman at three in the morning, even if she was a Cyprian. She wasn’t
his
Cyprian yet, and might never be if Vincent took it into his vengeful mind to wreak more havoc on his late employer. What if the cad had written his own message? What was to stop him from doing more than switching the cards, now that Montravan’s bullet couldn’t reach him?

Blast, he couldn’t even call on the woman until after luncheon. Birds of paradise never strutted their plumes until the sun was well up. And what the bloody hell was Bibi’s card supposed to read anyway?

Certainly not
Here’s what you wanted, you greedy little hoyden. Next time I’ll warm your backside instead.
That was meant for his sister Allissa and her tiara.

Bibi was not open to explanation or apologies. Bevin’s ears were ringing to her screams of “I’m not that kind of woman,” and his cheeks were stinging from the resounding slaps she’d administered.

She’d thrown the earbobs back at him, too, being either more highly principled or less intelligent than Marina. She had also kept him waiting for two hours, so it was too late to set out for Wiltshire that day.

8

He still had plenty of time to reach the Hall by Christmas Eve. That was the latest Bevin could be, for every year his sister cajoled the countess into letting her open the gifts that night after church, instead of waiting till the next morning. The dowager never held out much resistance to Allissa’s wheedling, since she was equally impatient to rip into her own pile of packages.

When Montravan confidently figured his travel time, though, he had not taken into account the damage to his hand. The blasted thing couldn’t be trusted to tool the ribbons of his curricle’s spirited matched bays, and going on horseback the whole way holding the reins in his awkward left hand sounded cold and painful. Besides, Finster was full of dire warnings about splintered knucklebones grinding away at each other and the muscles around them until the fingers never moved again. Worse, according to Finster, a fragment of the broken bone could work itself loose and travel with the blood flow until it pierced his lungs.

So the prodigal son was going to return home in style: the coach and team, with driver and postilions and outriders, and the painted crest on the door with all those rubbishing lions and hawks.

But Bevin also forgot that Vincent was no longer around to make all the travel arrangements. Therefore blood cattle weren’t waiting at the changes, just the usual posthouse breakdowns. The tolls had not been paid in advance, nor had suitable accommodations been booked. With so many other travelers abroad at the holiday season, oftentimes Bevin was lucky to get a bed at all, without having to share with Finster. The sheets were unaired; the food was deplorable and served in the public areas, since the private rooms had been reserved ages ago. Lord Montravan was not that much of a snob that he minded breaking his bread with sheep drovers; he did object to the dogs, though.

The trip was taking so long—and Bevin’s patience was wearing so thin—that he decided to hire a horse for the last stages, bone slivers be damned. If he didn’t get to Montravan Hall in time, he might as well be dead anyway.

The nags for hire at that last inn were an unprepossessing lot at best, but Bevin was considered a notable judge of horseflesh, so he picked the likeliest steed, a rangy black gelding with an intelligent look. The horse was so intelligent, he had definite ideas on where he wished to spend Christmas Eve. He waited a mile past that inn to express these sentiments, and Bevin was not turning back. The contest of wills over who chose which road left Bevin’s left hand numb and the seat of his breeches caked with mud. He never let loose of the reins, consummate horseman that he was, and finally convinced the hard-mouthed brute to give the stables at Montravan a look-see.

Then the gelding cast a shoe, out of spite, Bevin was sure. The nearest village was a mere five miles down the road, according to the driver of a passing high-perch phaeton who not only didn’t slow to give the directions, but also managed to splash a more liberal amount of mud on the earl’s caped coat. The five miles afoot were cold, hungry, and at least
seven,
Bevin swore.

And the blacksmith was away at his daughter’s in Skellington, two miles east.

There were no horses to be let in the little village, although the tavern proprietor thought old Jed Turner might lend his ass, now that farm chores were slacking off. Instead a boy was dispatched to fetch the blacksmith home with the promise of a generous reward. Bevin hadn’t figured on handing over the ready every time he stopped either, since Vincent had always seen to all charges in advance. At this rate the earl would soon be forced to sleep in empty barns and eat winter-dry berries as cold and hard as that dastard’s heart.

He sipped at his ale in the tavern for the time it took for Duncan the smith to get back, making each tankard last as long as possible, then had to stand the man a round to warm his innards. Bevin thought Duncan would warm up faster by heating the forge, but he refrained from pointing that out to a man who dwarfed Johnny Coulton in height and Prinny in girth. Duncan was, moreover, Bevin’s only way of getting that black bone rattler back on the road, so he ordered another glass.

Johnny Coulton moved quickly for a big man. Duncan moved slowly, even for a big man. He walked slowly, readied his fires slowly, and took forever to shape one blasted horseshoe. And all the time he wanted to talk, about his daughter, about the state of the nation, about his craft. He even insisted, while the iron was heating, on the earl’s trying his hand at the job. Bevin reluctantly bent a nail into a circle, just to show the smith that all noblemen weren’t effete wastrels. Then he wiped the sweat off his brow with his throbbing hand.