The Christmas Carrolls (4 page)

* * * *

“Well, puss,” Lord Carroll told her when Joia was through complaining about his guests and his grooms, “seems to me you went about the whole thing wrong. Not that you need to fret about it happening again, for it won’t, by George.” Two broken pencils already lay scattered on the desk in front of the irate earl. “But the fact is, if you were trying to bring Comfort up to scratch, you were far off the mark. I told you, I doubt he’ll step into parson’s mousetrap till he’s ready to set up his nursery. By all accounts, you put paid to that notion.”

Chapter Four

Lord Carroll decided the gentlemen should all go target shooting the next morning. “The ladies are starting to decorate for the hunt ball, so we’ll do better out of the house. You, too, Oliver. Fresh air might just improve that pasty complexion of yours.”

Oliver grew paler yet under the face paint that was hiding miscellaneous cuts and bruises, some from the horse’s neck bones where he’d been clinging, some from the ground when he hadn’t clung hard enough, and one from a certain gentleman’s fist. At least his nose wasn’t a huge purple beet between his eyes like the Frenchman’s, who was also claiming a riding mishap. “We’re not going riding, are we?”

“No, things are at sixes and sevens at the stables right now. Shorthanded, don’t you know. In fact, we’ll have to carry the targets and the guns ourselves. Come along now.”

When they reached the designated shooting area and the wooden frames had been covered with paper targets, Oliver found himself matched for the competition with the three men he was least wishing to address: Dubournet, Comfort, and his cousin Carroll. The earl apologized again for making them all work so hard at their own entertainment. “Had to let some of the grooms go, don’t you know.” He shook his silver-haired head. “I say that if you can’t count on a chap’s loyalty, you shouldn’t be paying his salary.”

The earl was loading his pistol while he spoke, eyeing the target and the other shooters. “All I asked was that they look after my animals and my family. Dastards didn’t do their jobs. Can you imagine a bloke jeopardising his whole future for a few extra coins?” He took aim at the paper circles. “Of course, I can still protect what’s mine.”

Bull’s-eye.

Oliver’s hand was shaking so badly his shot didn’t even hit the target. The Frenchman fared slightly better, hitting the outer ring. Only Comfort’s shot came close to the earl’s, whose turn it was again. This time he hardly studied the distance before firing. “And I can still see what’s going on around me.”

Bull’s-eye.

“See that, lads? I’m not in my dotage yet. Remember it.”

Remember? Oliver couldn’t remember how to load his pistol. The earl took the gun out of his shaking fingers and spoke softly, for Oliver’s ears only. “I have a few more good years, Ollie, so don’t go taking out any post-obits on me. Don’t go spending my blunt before it’s in your pocket, either. If I have anything to say about it, you won’t get a farthing. You sure as Hades won’t get my daughter.”

Bull’s-eye.                             

* * * *

Joia decided to be herself, instead of a femme fatale. She’d always had enough admirers, without all the unwanted advances. A bit of lace here, a nosegay of flowers there, filled in the necklines. She left the trailing ringlets in her hair, liking the softer look and deciding that dressing to please herself didn’t mean she had to look like an antidote. And acting to please herself did not mean she couldn’t be polite to her parents’ guests or enjoy the preparations for the annual ball. Her decision was made simpler by the count’s hasty removal from Winterpark and Oliver’s hasty removal from any room she entered. She’d even managed to cry pax with Viscount Comfort after his handsome apology. At least he sounded sincere, unlike Cousin Oliver, who muttered through begging her pardon in order to get back into Papa’s good graces, if such a thing was possible.

Comfort was also being more pleasant. He was nearly finished selecting the mares for breeding, he said, so he had more time to be sociable. Joia thought that he was merely favoring the sisters’ company in an effort to avoid Aubergine’s. The buxom young widow had focused her sights more closely on the viscount, now that her other prey had made good his escape. None of the remaining male guests was as wealthy, wellborn, and unwed as Craighton Ellingsworth, Lord Comfort. Aubergine had done well for herself, rising from barrister’s daughter to rich widow. Now she craved the respectability and social acceptance she’d never find as an unfettered female. What was more respectable than the title of duchess, when the viscount succeeded his father? Comfort realized his peril, Joia thought; that’s why she and her sisters were suddenly seeing more of him.

To his credit, the viscount didn’t appear to mind that Holly consistently beat him at chess, or that Merry’s dog ate the tassels off his Hessians. It was Comfort, in fact, who finally named the sorry beast. Downsy, he became, not because his coat was soft—it was more like a boar’s bristle than a fowl’s fluff—but because “Down, sir” was all anyone ever said to the mongrel. The viscount also kindly volunteered to help Merry practice her dance steps before the ball, to calm her nerves. Merry wasn’t quite Out, but she’d been attending local assemblies since last spring. This was the first time she’d be permitted to dance at her parents’ hunt ball, with all eyes upon her. Holly played the pianoforte while Joia took the part of the dance instructor, trying to keep her traitorous mind from wondering what it would be like to be held in Lord Comfort’s arms.

“Are you certain you won’t have him, Joia?” Merry asked later when they were helping the footmen drape the ballroom in gold-colored bunting.

“Him who?”

“Comfort, of course, you noddy. For if you don’t want him, I’ve decided that he’ll suit me to a cow’s thumb.”

“You only like the idea of helping him start that new stud in Ireland,” Holly put in.

“Not true. He’s a graceful dancer, he’s kind to animals, and his eyes are the nicest brown.”

With little golden flecks,
Joia mentally added, but aloud she said, “That’s no way to select a husband, goose. You have to consider his character more. For all his polished manners, Merry, Lord Comfort would only break your heart. He’s still a rake.”

“But you like him, Joia, you know you do.”

“Yes, I suppose I do. I just don’t trust him.”

* * * *

The Carroll ladies were to wear complementing colors for the ball, colors that would be echoed in the baskets of fall flowers that would decorate Winterpark. The place might be famous for its holly and yew, its mistletoe-hung oaks, but Lady Carroll’s gardens were never more magnificent than in the autumn.

Merry’s gown should have been white, befitting her youth, but white only emphasized her freckles, so Lady Carroll relented and permitted a pale yellow. Holly’s brown hair and creamy complexion were stunning against the ecru lace of her gown, and Joia’s burnt orange proclaimed her a woman, not a pastel-pretty debutante. Their mother would wear burgundy.

The gowns needed a final fitting, so the houseguests were invited to come along to the neighboring village to shop, visit the lending library, tour the local church, and meet up for luncheon at the Carrolton Arms Inn. There were two carriages for the older ladies and Oliver, who announced that he’d keep Cousin Elizabeth and her companions company, lest they feel the lack of male escort. Aubergine also joined them, knowing better than to show her less-than-proficient riding skills when the Carroll sisters were around. Let them arrive all wind-tossed, sun-browned, and exerted; she’d show a certain aristocrat that she knew what was fitting for a real lady. Oliver would have agreed, if Mrs. Willenborg had deigned to engage him in conversation.

The village of Carrolton had enough shops to amuse the ladies, and the inn boasted the finest ale in Berkshire for the gentlemen. As they parted at the livery stable, where the horses and carriages would be left, Lady Carroll directed everyone to meet at the inn in two hours’ time. Holly wished to stop at the lending library first, to see if Mr. Reid had received the latest shipment of books from London. Comfort went along with her, hoping to purchase a volume on chess strategy, and a manual on dog training while he was at it. Joia and her youngest sister followed in their mother’s wake on the way to Madame Genevieve’s—which used to be Jenny’s Dress Shop before French modistes became the rage, with raised prices.

When Merry stopped to look in the window of the jewelers, a rough-dressed man stepped up to Joia. “My lady, ma’am, can I beg a minute of your time?” It was Tom, the dismissed groom, with his hat in his hand. “To make apologies, is all.”

He looked so contrite, Joia nodded and sent Merry on ahead. “I’ll catch up with you in a moment.”

“Could we head back toward the livery, miss, please? I can’t have Mr. Humphreys thinkin’ I ain’t doin’ my job.”

Joia thought he didn’t want his new employer to see him asking for his old position back, so she told him, “It’s not necessary, Tom, and to be honest, no matter how you beg my pardon, Papa won’t have you back at Winterpark.”

“No, he were decent enough to tell Humphreys I’m good with horses. I don’t ‘spect nothin’ more, just want to say what needs to be said, my lady, try to explain about me poor sick mum and the money and all.”

So Joia followed the groom around the side of the livery barn, out of sight of the villagers and Humphreys, the blacksmith and livery owner. Waiting there was Oliver.

Joia spun on her heel, but Tom was blocking her way back to the main road. “You cur.”

Tom just shrugged and jingled some coins in his pocket, so Joia turned back to her cousin. “What is the meaning of this, Oliver? Papa will have your head for sure.”

Oliver was standing close, but not close enough to kick. “Just wanted to talk, Cuz, private-like.”

“Oh? I could have sworn you were avoiding my company.”

“Couldn’t talk in front of all the swells or the nursery crowd.” He jerked his head toward where Merry was disappearing down the street. “ ‘Sides, I changed my mind.”

“You mean my father’s threats changed it for you. Well, nothing has changed
my
mind, sirrah. I don’t care how deeply you’re in dun territory, I would sooner take a toad to husband than you.” She made to leave, misdoubting Tom would dare go so far as to stop her, but Oliver grabbed her arm. For such a fribble, he was still bigger than she, and stronger.

“You haven’t heard me out, missy.” He pulled her farther down the alley, out of the groom’s hearing. “You’re right about my punting on tick. A gentleman has certain standards to maintain.”

Joia made an unladylike snort. “Gentleman, hah!”

Oliver ignored her. “And I’m afraid your dowry has become necessary to my continued health. Certain, ah, business associates have become fairly insistent about their loans.” Especially since Lord Carroll let it be known through the servants’ grapevine that he wouldn’t make good on his heir’s debts.

“What, you’ve gone to the moneylenders? You’re even more of a slowtop than I thought, if that’s possible.”

“What choice did I have, with your father giving me short shrift?” he asked bitterly, forgetting to lisp.

“He would have helped you find an occupation. He tried to get you to take up one of the borough seats in Parliament.”

“What, the Commons? I’m to be earl one day.” The current earl couldn’t keep that from Oliver, but he could manage to hand him an empty title, empty, that is, of anything Oliver could sell off to pay his mounting debts. The earl could tie the estate up in trusts and torts, if he couldn’t find a way to circumvent the succession altogether. Oliver was worried. Besides, who knew how long the old stick could hang on? Oliver had to guarantee his future, and he had to do it now. “When we marry, the money will stay in the family.”

“Are you deaf, besides dunder-headed? I shall not marry you, Oliver, never.”

“Not even to ensure your mother’s well-being?”

“My father sees to Mama’s every comfort, you clunch.”

“But he’s old, Joia. You know that when I inherit I can control her income and circumstances. Why, I can even invite Aunt Irmentrude to come share the dower house with her.”

Joia shuddered, but still held firm: “Papa will make sure that my mother is well protected against swine like you.”

“Ah, but can he protect her against finding out about his illegitimate son?”

Joia laughed. “Don’t be absurd. Papa would never be unfaithful to my mother. You know he adores her.”

“My sweet, innocent cousin. I adore my saffron waistcoat. That doesn’t mean I want to wear it every day.”

“My father is not like you, you swine. And how dare you compare my mother—or any wife, for that matter—to one of your hideous rags?”

Oliver studied the manicure on his right hand. “The boy is eight years old.”

Eyes narrowed, Joia asked, “How do you know? What proof do you have?”

Oliver wasn’t about to admit he’d been rifling his cousin’s desk last year looking for cash when he’d come upon a notebook with odd notations. A bit of digging had uncovered some interesting facts about the irreproachable earl. Oliver wasn’t worried about the boy; he was a bastard, after all. He just couldn’t figure a way to use the information, until now. “Your father supports him. I saw a caretaker’s accounting.”

Joia shook her head. “No. It cannot be.”

“But it is.” Oliver was enjoying himself immensely. The sanctimonious earl and his starched-up daughter were about to be taken down a peg or two. Or three. “Think of your mother. Why, she’d never be able to hold her head up here in Carrolton again, much less London. Think of the scandal—and of your sisters. I doubt if Miss Merry would even be presented. Hoyden that she is, that might be a blessing, except I wouldn’t wish to have such a hobbledehoy female on my hands forever. And Holly. I doubt if even the Rendell cub could be convinced to take her, his grandfather Blakely being such a high stickler.”

Joia needed to sit down. She needed to cry on her mother’s shoulder. “Oh, Mama,” she moaned.

“I knew you’d come around to my way of thinking. I expect you to convince your doting father that our betrothal is your fondest desire. I expect it is, now. The announcement can be made at the hunt ball. If not, a letter will arrive on your mother’s doorstep, and another one at every London newspaper. I’ll leave you to think on it, my heart’s Joy. Just don’t think for too long. My creditors are quite anxious.”