Lady Louisa's Christmas Knight (10 page)

“Your special brew?”

He passed her his flask. “Nothing else is quite as effective. I have to ask again, Louisa: Are you unharmed?”

“I'll have some bruises. Did you follow us in here?”

“I did not. I came here for the warmth and quiet.”

He was lying. Making a gallant job of it, but for the first time in Louisa's acquaintance, Sir Joseph was dealing in untruths. Still, with Sir Joseph sitting calmly beside her, and his special brew leaving a bracing heat in her vitals, Louisa began to let that quiet and warmth restore some of her equilibrium. “You aren't actually going to meet that idiot over pistols, are you?”

Sir Joseph took a sip from the flask then passed it back to her. “Grattingly might choose swords, though I can give a good account of myself with either. Wellington required it of his staff in addition to competence on the dance floor.”

“I see.” She held the flask out to him.

“Keep it. What do you see?”

“My brothers would be off in corners, whispering plans as if their womenfolk had never heard of dueling over a lady's good name. You sit here and casually admit to me you expect to fight a duel on my behalf.”

She wanted an argument, with him, with anybody. The need to verbally brawl was another reaction to being assaulted, but knowing that still didn't put Louisa in charity with her rescuer.

“In truth your brothers had asked me to keep an eye on your situation, and I had yet to find a way to gain your permission to serve in that capacity. Here is how I see it, Louisa: Firstly, you would do me an injury were I to pretend you should not trouble your lovely self over this matter. Secondly, your honor was thoroughly slighted before an audience that is already spreading to all the world what few details they observed. I can accept Grattingly's apology, assuming he's bright enough to make one, which will do nothing to rehabilitate your reputation.”

“And fighting a duel will?”

“Perhaps not, but it will at least serve to keep
my
honor intact, won't it?”

She turned and rested her forehead on his meaty shoulder, the full import of the situation landing on her like a cold, reeking mudslide. Her breath caught in her chest, and the back of her head started to pound.

“I am
ruined
, aren't I? One stupid turn in the conservatory with that cretin, and years of behaving myself count for nothing. At least if I had committed some sin, I might have the memory of it to entertain me in years to come. But no, none of that. Doubtless I lured Grattingly in here, just as I have lured many a man to his doom in gardens and parlors. For my unending wickedness, I got Grattingly's fetid breath, bruises, and—”

Sir Joseph's arms came around her. By the time her sisters found them, Louisa had almost convinced herself nobody would know she'd been crying her heart out.

Nobody but Sir Joseph.

***

“I've half a mind to challenge the bloody bastard myself.” His Grace, the Duke of Moreland, paced to the window and spun on his heel with military precision. “St. Just is already on his way down from the North, and I know Valentine would heed any summons sent in his direction. This is bad, Carrington. This is very bad.”

“It will also be over and done with by this time Friday, Your Grace.”

“For you, perhaps, but what about for my Louisa? What about for her sisters?” His Grace groped for the arm of a reading chair, settling himself as awkwardly as Joseph might have settled himself on a particularly cold night. “What about my dear duchess? She's gone quiet. Hasn't scolded me since this happened. When the Duchess of Moreland stops scolding her duke, the natural order is imperiled.”

Joseph pushed himself out of his chair and went to the sideboard. He sniffed a couple decanters, decided on Armagnac, and poured the older man a drink. “For medicinal purposes, Your Grace.”

Moreland took the proffered glass but merely held it. “If I didn't think my wife would expire with wrath, by God, I would issue my own challenge, Carrington.”

Joseph returned to his seat. “Except a duel is intended precisely to stop a grievance from escalating into a feud, Your Grace. Grattingly's family is wealthy enough and ambitious enough that they could make some trouble for the Windhams, and I must admit two of your sons entrusted me with Lady Louisa's welfare.”

His Grace raised a pair of keen blue eyes to Joseph's face. “They
asked
you? Without telling
me
?”

Joseph decided a drink was in order after all and gained some time to organize his arguments while he poured out a tot of brandy for himself. “Nasty damned weather.”

“Hang the bloody weather, though at least it isn't snowing again—yet.” His Grace tossed back his drink in one swallow and held out his glass. “What's this about my boys passing off the job of looking after their sister onto you?”

This was part of the reason Sir Joseph wanted nothing to do with a title. It required dealing with
other
titles, old fellows with high opinions of themselves or young fellows with more influence than sense
and
high opinions of themselves.

“St. Just sent word he'd appreciate my taking an interest in Louisa's social situation in his absence. I reported this state of affairs to Westhaven, though he has since left for Surrey, claiming he had to nip out there before joining the family in Kent.”

His Grace dispatched his second drink as quickly as the first. “My guess, and it's only a guess, is Lou threatened to hare off to the North, and St. Just wanted warning if she bolted in his direction. The boy's still a bit jumpy from too many battles. Her Grace worries about him too.”

While His Grace was at least looking a little more thoughtful.

“Another drink, Your Grace?”

The duke cast a rueful glance at his empty glass. “Best not. Her Grace takes a dim view of over-imbibing. The situation calls for a clear head.”

“It does at that, so let me explain my reasoning to you.”

His Grace listened, hearing Joseph out from start to finish without a single interruption. When Joseph had laid his arguments before the duke, a silence descended in the ducal sitting room, one broken only by the hiss and pop of the fire and the soughing of the winter wind against the mullioned windows.

His Grace stopped staring into the flames and turned to regard his guest. “I must discuss this situation with my duchess, Carrington. I was fortunate to make a love match before such a thing was common in good society. It has turned out rather well, and I hope my father and mother are taking note of that from some well-appointed celestial nook. Theirs was a dynastic union.”

Joseph understood that warning: assuming he survived to week's end, and assuming the lady in question assented to one of his plans, her happiness on earth could become his responsibility. The prospect was not as daunting as it ought to have been, looming quite to the contrary like a Christmas gift out of all proportion to the receiver's desserts.

“I comprehend your concern, Your Grace. If Lady Louisa is not pleased with my plan, then I will withdraw the offer immediately.”

Another silence, while Joseph bore the scrutiny of shrewd blue eyes.

“Very well, Carrington. I'll send Louisa in to you, but wish me luck with my duchess. If I thought the resulting row would put Her Grace back in form, I'd drain every decanter on the sideboard.”

Joseph eyed those decanters while he waited for Louisa to join him. The duke had twelve, while Westhaven's library had boasted six. From a place near the cheery fire, Joseph was considering his own little flask—his spare, for Louisa now possessed the better of the two—when Louisa appeared in the doorway.

“Sir Joseph. His Grace said you were asking to speak to me.”

“Actually, I was asking him if I might discuss marriage with you.”

He put his flask away and took encouragement from the fact that Louisa did not bolt from the room, screaming for all she was worth.

“What do
you
want?” His Royal Highness made it sound as if Hamburg, of all the toadying ciphers at Carlton House, was the most offensive. He wasn't, but the little man took perverse pleasure in withstanding royal abuse. The Regent found it easy to oblige him on this freezing, blustery, useless day.

“I do most abjectly beg Your Royal Highness's pardon for imposing, but the year will soon draw to a close, and there is the matter of—”

Prinny waved a hand unadorned with rings, the weather having caused the royal case of rheumatism to take a nasty turn. “The blighted honors list and the peerages. Do you think of nothing else, Humbug?”

“You pay me to think of little else, Your Royal Highness, and as a symbol of the realm's grandeur and enduring nobility, there is nothing that compares—”

“Stow it, man, or I'll pay you even less than I do.”

This apparently crossed the line from coveted royal abuse to sincere threat. Hamburg's bald pate turned pink, and his pruney lips pursed into silence.

The Regent lay back on his well-padded chaise and scanned the long list before him. Drunks and thieves for the most part, and the occasional drunk or thief married to a whore-for-the-cause. A few among them were shrewd enough to donate to various projects before they held their hands out for royal favor.

“I thought I told you to add Joseph Carrington to the list.” After suggestions from no less than Wellington
and
Moreland, he had told Hamburg this very thing. Catching the man in his error—if an error it was—brightened an otherwise dreary day.

“Sir Joseph will soon inherit a barony, Your Royal Highness.”

The Regent set the list aside and motioned for a footman to pour him another serving of wassail. “What barony? I know the titles with only one heir standing between them and escheat, and there are precious few.”

“Sir Joseph's situation is a matter of abeyance, Your Royal Highness. The only other contender is childless, sickly, and quite old.”

“Abeyance.” Abeyance was tedious, also quite rare. “Why hasn't he petitioned for it, if there's only one other possibility? Why haven't they both?”

“I gather neither party wants to dispossess the other of his chance.”

Hamburg took to inspecting the royal quarters, studying portraits and appointments the little weasel had seen on numerous occasions. His hands remained behind his back, and yet the Regent had a clear sense the man was somehow fidgeting.

His Royal Highness waved a hand again, and the four footmen stationed around the chamber withdrew, the last one closing the door silently in his wake.

“Humbug, what aren't you telling me?” The Regent used what he privately termed the Royal Confidences tone of voice, part conspirator, part confessor, part long-suffering paterfamilias. Use of it got a damned sight more done than an entire session of Parliament.

“The seat of the barony, Your Royal Highness…” Hamburg took to shifting from foot to foot, like a nervous penguin.

“Go on, and perhaps you might pour yourself a spot of drink. The kitchen pouts when We neglect Our tray, and you might as well sit. We cannot abide to have people hovering about Us.”

Hamburg nodded, sat on the very edge of a red velvet hassock, and when he reached for the china, his hand shook slightly.

“About the barony's seat, Hamburg?”

“Yes. About that.” He stared at his empty cup. “It seems there might have been a miscommunication some time back before the day of Charles II, or a mistake, perhaps.”

“There were a number of mistakes, regicide among them.”

Hamburg peeked up from his teacup, probably to ascertain if he was supposed to laugh at the royal riposte. What resulted was Hamburg's version of a smile, a tentative, sickly thing that came close to upsetting the royal digestion.

“Quite, Your Royal Highness. This was a much smaller error, very small, in fact. In the interregnum, the barony's seat was put to service as a home for urchins, and there being a number of those, the place has seen hard use.”

Finding homes for urchins sounded like a dirty, expensive business, particularly since the urchins themselves were a class of royal subject that had proliferated madly in recent years. “Do We support this school?”

“The realm provides some support, but there are charitable patrons, as well. A few.”

A pair of crotchety widows who no doubt came sniffing around each Christmas with a crate of moldy oranges. “The Foundling Hospital fell into a very sorry state, relying on the generosity of private patrons, Hamburg. It pains Us to consider such a fate for helpless children.”

The Royal Confidences tone was discarded for one presaging a display of Royal Displeasure. Between the yeomen coming to the cities for work and finding none, the soldiers mustering out in the wake of the Corsican's defeat, and the nobility having an allergy to earning coin in trade, charitable patrons were thin on the ground.

Hamburg was back to studying the many paintings on the walls. “One might hope Sir Joseph could content himself with being an absentee landlord. Many do.”

“You don't have children, do you, Hamburg?”

He drew himself up on his red hassock. “Certainly not, there as yet being no Missus Hamburg.”

For all the debauchery attributed to the royal court, it pleased His Royal Highness to think at least one Puritan remained in his employ, though not a particularly bright Puritan.

“Do you think, Hamburg, that Sir Joseph won't notice his estate does not prosper? Do you think he won't peruse the steward's reports and see he's being eaten out of house and home? He won't notice that children go through shoes at a great rate?”

“I did not think of that. When I first spotted this difficulty, Sir Joseph was a mere mister serving on Wellington's staff. One could hope the Almighty had a solution to the problem in mind.”

“Ghoulish of you, Hamburg, but practical.”

While Hamburg had a staring contest with some be-ruffed courtier on the east wall, the Regent considered options. The royal brain was of a practical nature when sober, and a sentimental nature at most other times. His Royal Highness felt about half sober, and more than half sentimental, given the Yuletide season.

“Wellington speaks highly of Sir Joseph. Came singing the man's praises just the other day. The week before that, it was Moreland humming the same tune.”

“Wellington is known to hold his former staff in great affection, Your Royal Highness.”

Having people agree with simple observations was one of the most tiresome aspects of being sovereign. Had there been a footman on hand…

“Fetch Us the decanter, Hamburg, lest this perishing weather give Us a chill.”

Hamburg popped to his feet with the alacrity of a marionette.

“Wellington approves of Sir Joseph—said his marksmanship was without peer—and We approve of Sir Joseph. He raises a mighty tasty pig, and he appreciates fine art far better than most of his titled superiors do. If We cast about for a viscount's title, Sir Joseph would likely find it in his patriotic heart to take on a few dear little boys and girls who want for some clothes and a prayer book.”

Hamburg turned slowly, the decanter and glass on a tray in his hands. “A viscountcy, Your Royal Highness?”

“At least. We quite appreciate Our pork. Now bring me the damned drink, take yourself off, and send the footmen in. When you've some letters patent drafted, you may bother Us again.”

The pruney expression was back. Hamburg set the tray at his sovereign's elbow, bowed ridiculously low, and backed from the room, list in hand. His Royal Highness added a dollop more spirits to his wassail—it being the season, and so forth—took a deep swallow of his drink, and lay back while the footmen rearranged pillows under the royal foot.

The scheme under contemplation would benefit a deserving knight, please two influential dukes, and relieve a loyal penguin. This was all very good, but what gave the Regent a glimmer of pleasure on an otherwise worthless winter day, was the prospect of keeping a few dozen English orphans fed, clothed, housed, and safe, as well.

All without spending a penny from the public exchequer
or
the royal coffers.

***

“You asked His Grace if you might propose to me?”

Louisa tried to keep her voice calm, but it was an effort. Joseph looked more serious than usual, also tired.

“One can hope it won't come to that. May we sit?”

She gestured to the sofa then changed her mind when she saw Sir Joseph was nigh hobbling. “Your leg is bothering you.”

“It is.” He didn't dissemble. She liked that about him, despite the ridiculous topic he'd broached.

“Does heat help?”

He cocked his head and regarded her. “It does. This weather does not. Grattingly has chosen pistols, though, so if you're concerned, I might come lame to a battle of swords—”

When Louisa tossed a pair of cushions onto the raised hearth, he fell silent.

“We can sit by the fire, Sir Joseph, while I do you the courtesy of hearing you out.”

He offered her a hand, and Louisa got settled on a pillow. His own descent was awkward, requiring that his right leg be kept straight while he lowered himself to the cushion. He turned to face her, which put his game leg in closer proximity to the hearth screen.

“If you're going to ring for tea or otherwise engage in evasive maneuvers, my lady, you might as well be about it.”

“No evasive maneuvers, Sir. Joseph. Fire when ready.” He was direct. She liked that about him too. She also wasn't about to let the ducal staff see her caller sitting on the hearthstones.

“Fire, I shall. Are you in love with Lionel Honiton?”

“
What
on
earth—?
” The question had been dispassionate, disinterested in an alarming way.

“He's a decent young man, Louisa. I have reason to know this because he is a second cousin at some remove to my late wife. His family's circumstances mean he must make his own way, but he saw enough of what happened in that conservatory and would not hold it against you.”

Louisa wrapped her arms around her knees and rested her forehead on her forearms. “Which explains why, in the four days since, Lord Lace has neither called on me nor danced with my sisters, much less with me.”

“He has called on me.”

Louisa turned her head to peer at Sir Joseph. “You sound surprised.”

“Grattingly is his friend, or crony. Drinking companion, at any rate. Lionel wanted me to know that he'd encouraged Grattingly to offer an apology and warned me the man will not delope.”

“But dear Lionel is not serving as your second, is he?”

Sir Joseph frowned and rubbed his right hand up and down the length of his thigh. “He is not serving as Grattingly's, either. If I asked it of him, I'm sure he would serve as mine, but the less your future spouse has to do with this mess the better.”

“Now this is odd.” Louisa watched Sir Joseph's hand as she spoke. “I was under the impression a fellow proposed prior to becoming a spouse, and yet, I do not see Lionel about. Perhaps he's lurking behind the curtains?”

Not that she'd accept Lionel Honiton under these circumstances—under any circumstances. Patchouli aside, he was precisely the kind of spouse who could not weather a wife with scandal lurking in her past, much less in her present
and
her past.

“I certainly hope he's not about. If you're not interested in tea, may I pour you a tot of something from the sideboard?”

“It's my sideboard, Sir Joseph. I can pour myself a drink if one is needed. Are you prevaricating?”

A small smile quirked his lips. “Yes. May I be blunt?”

“Of course.”

The smile bloomed a little brighter, making the big, serious man look momentarily impish. Louisa kept her focus on Sir Joseph's mouth rather than watching the hand Sir Joseph used to massage his thigh.

And then the smile winked out, like a candle in a stiff breeze. “If I take an interest in Lionel's finances, I'm confident he could be persuaded to offer for you.”

“An interest—” Louisa felt something like a chill, despite the heat radiating from the fire. “You'd buy me a husband?”
Were
things
as
dire
as
that?

“Lionel was a favorite with my wife. Call it a delayed sense of familial loyalty on my part.”

Try as she might, Louisa could not manufacture a sense of insult. Coming from anybody else, she'd greet this scheme with scorn or rage or—on a good day—condescending amusement. Coming from Sir Joseph, it was the act of an honorable man whom she might, in confidence, admit she considered a friend.

Or perhaps the difficulty was she'd begun—in the privacy of a heart that only grudgingly yielded its insights to her brain—to consider him something more than a friend.

“Am I to marry Lionel, or merely remain engaged to him until my sisters have found husbands?”

His hand went still. “Don't you want to marry him, Louisa? He's handsome, not stupid, and not particularly given to vice. He's of suitable rank—”

Louisa pushed Sir Joseph's hands aside and used the heel of her left hand to stroke down along the belly of his thigh muscle. Doing something—anything—gave her a focus for the queerest sense of disappointment.

Here was her opportunity to marry a handsome, suitable man, a man who danced well and turned himself out beautifully—a man others would consider a catch for a woman such as her—though he was the wrong man.

She knew this in her bones, knew it with her thinking brain, and knew it in her heart. In which moment the knowledge had come to her, she could not say, but knowledge such as this could not be ignored by brains—or a heart—such as hers.

Lionel was the wrong man. Sir Joseph was… not the wrong man, though marriage now even to him wasn't quite right, either. The image of a little red book popped into Louisa's mind like a mental bad penny.