Christmas With The Duchess

by Tamara Lejeune

Genres: Historical Romance

Synopsis

Nicholas St. Austell's Christmas Wish List --An invitation to a holiday house party --A shiny gold pocket watch --An introduction to Emma, the Duchess of Warwick --Roasted chestnuts --A dance with Emma --A new pair of Hessians --A kiss from Emma under the mistletoe --Christmas with the Duchess. . .

Release date: October 1, 2010

Publisher: Zebra

Print pages: 400

Sample

Saturday, December 10, 1814

The iron gates of Warwick Palace stood open all morning, their sharp, gilded spikes gleaming in the winter sun as dozens of heavy traveling carriages rolled up the wide, evergreen avenue to the courtyard of the great house. Emma Grey Fitzroy, Duchess of Warwick, watched the invasion from the window seat of her private sitting room, high above the noise and confusion below.

With her dazzling white skin, steel-blue eyes, and thick, ash-brown hair, Emma was considered one of the great beauties of her time, but men were not drawn to her so much for her angelic appearance as her unbridled sensuality. Born into a life of privilege, Emma had never attempted to govern her passions, had never felt the least need to resist temptation, had never learned to be discreet, or, God forbid, prudent. At twenty-nine, she was as headstrong and impulsive and defiant as she had been as a child. She accepted no criticism of herself. She was, in short, an aristocrat.

“Look at them!” she exclaimed, her eyes flashing with anger. “I should be ashamed to show up at someone’s house uninvited.”

Seated across the richly appointed room in front of a cozy fire, Cecily, Lady Scarlingford, looked up from the shawl she was knitting. Over the course of her ten-year marriage to Emma’s elder brother, Cecily had borne six children, only three of whom had survived infancy, all females. The experience had left her plump, nervous, and worn out. No matter how hard she tried, she always looked rumpled. Her hair was a bushy mess of stubborn brown curls. She was known by smart Londoners as the “unmade marchioness” because of her unfortunate resemblance to an unmade bed.

“Otto will make them go away,” she told Emma. “Won’t you, Otto?”

Otto Grey, Marquess of Scarlingford, glanced up from his newspaper with eyes more gray than blue. Emma’s elder brother was a tall, thin aristocrat with finely chiseled features and black hair streaked with silver. His skin was fashionably pale, and diamonds glittered on his long, elegant fingers.

“It is a truth universally acknowledged that a man’s house is never his own at Christmas,” he said importantly. “Whatever his thoughts may be on the subject, his family will not be denied their fair share of hospitality. You see, Cecily, how your life will be when I inherit Chilton.”

“I’m afraid your husband is right,” Emma told her sister-in-law. “The Fitzroys invade Warwick every year; it is a standing engagement. From Stir-up Sunday to Twelfth Night, they look upon my son’s estate as quite their own, just as they did when his father was alive. It is quite useless to resist, and even more useless to complain.”

“You will do both, however,” Otto remarked, folding his newspaper neatly and turning it over. Even this slight, affectionate jab brought a frown from his proud sister. “Is it Uncle Cuthbert?” he asked presently. “Second Cousin Hortensia? Rufus?”

“You are making those names up, Otto,” Cecily accused her elegant husband.

He smiled enigmatically. “Am I?” he murmured.

Cecily blinked at him. “Are you?” she asked uncertainly.

“It is nosy, interfering Aunt Susan,” Emma interrupted, “and that fat, lecherous, old fool she married. General Bellamy—back from the war and eager to take all the credit for the Allied victory, no doubt. They’ve brought the whole army with them, too, by the looks of it. Why, the courtyard is perfectly scarlet!”

“Don’t exaggerate,” said Otto. “Nothing is so common as exaggeration. The Bellamys have four daughters married to officers; a few redcoats are to be expected amongst the party.”

“Do I exaggerate, Cecily?” Emma demanded, pointing.

Her sister-in-law set down her knitting. “Oh, how splendid!” she said, coming to the window. “It’s like a parade. They must have invited all of the officers.”

“Quite!” Emma said indignantly.

“You should go down and do the pretty with Aunt Susan, Emma,” said Otto.

Emma laughed uproariously. “And let the general pinch my bottom, too, I suppose!”

“I’m perfectly serious,” Otto insisted. “You will catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.”

“But I do not like flies, brother,” she told him.

“You know what I mean,” he said sharply. “A little civility will go a long way. It will do you no good to antagonize the Fitzroys—or the Bellamys for that matter. Like it or not, you are related to them by marriage, and connected to them forever by your children.”

“It is my existence that antagonizes my in-laws,” Emma retorted. “In their view, I am nothing more than a worn-out brood mare. Anything I do short of suicide is bound to antagonize them! Doing the pretty in this case would mean jumping off the bloody roof. Besides,” she added mischievously, “being a duchess means never having to do the pretty.”

She certainly had no intention of going down to greet her in-laws. With few exceptions, she had never liked the Fitzroys, and, since the sudden death of her husband the previous year, she had learned to hate them. The Fitzroys had fought tooth and nail for custody of Emma’s two sons, and, after a vicious battle, they had won.

And they had not been gracious in victory. For the first time in her life, Emma did not know where her children were. She had not been permitted to seen them since the moment her husband’s uncle, Lord Hugh Fitzroy, had been awarded guardianship of the two boys. Harry, her eldest, had turned thirteen since his mother saw him last. He was now the Duke of Warwick, and essential to the Fitzroys, but Emma feared that Grey, who was just eleven, would not be cared for as assiduously. Keeping him from his mother could only be an act of pure spite.

“They will not keep the boys from their mother at Christmas, surely,” Cecily protested.

“Really? Do you believe there is a limit to their cruelty?” said Otto. “Emma? You know them better than anyone. What do you think?”

“I will not go down, Otto,” she said fiercely. “I will not crawl to Susan Bellamy or anyone. They would only laugh in my face. I have no leverage, and they have no pity. But the boys will come home for Christmas, and I will see them.”

“And then?” said Otto.

“And then we will see,” Emma said impatiently.

 

From the window of another apartment, Captain Lord Ian Monteith stared down at the disorder in the courtyard with a dismay verging on panic. A powerfully built Scotsman with pale green, oddly tilted eyes, he was somehow attractive without being really handsome. His shaggy brown hair fell into his eyes, too long for fashion, but too short to tie back. The younger son of the Marquis of Arranagh, he had been destined for the Army from a young age, and he had not disappointed expectations. At least, he had not disappointed those expectations.

“You did not tell me the house would be full of soldiers,” he complained to his lover, Lord Colin Grey. “What if I should meet someone I know?”

Emma’s younger brother was standing at the cheval glass, engrossed in tying his cravat. He and Emma were twins, born just six minutes apart, and the resemblance was undeniable. Like his sister, he was beautiful, spoiled, and reckless. Rumors abounded that the flamboyant younger son of the Duke of Chilton was a homosexual, but, thus far, his rank and wealth had protected him from outright accusation.

“Is the house full of soldiers?” Colin asked mildly, studying all aspects of his well-groomed exterior in the mirror. “No one said anything to me.”

“Take a look, why bloody don’t you!”

Colin calmly strolled over to the window. “My goodness!” he exclaimed, slapping his palms to his cheeks. “A whole camp full of soldiers! Somebody pinch me.”

“Oh, shut up!” his friend snapped. “If I’d known about this, I would never have agreed to come with you to Warwickshire. You never think, sir! You never think.”

“On the contrary, I am always thinking,” Colin replied, yawning. “Why, I’m practically a philosopher, don’t you know. What I do not do is worry, Monty. I never worry, and, as you can see, I have no wrinkles to show for it.”

“But I do worry, sir!” Monty, who was not a day over twenty-one, said angrily. “Unlike you, I am not independent. If it should get back to my father—! If it should get back to my regiment that I’m spending Christmas with the infamous Lord Colin Grey, I’d be ruined!”

“Very likely,” Colin sweetly agreed. “But I happen to think I’m worth it.”

Monty was not amused. “My God! Is that General Bellamy?” he moaned. “My colonel plays cards with him.”

“We know him as Uncle Susan around here,” Colin replied.

“Colin, I must leave here at once.”

Colin laughed. “Pull yourself together, Monty! Screw your courage to the sticking place, if you’ve got one. If anyone inquires into our friendship, tell them you’re in love with my sister. Make up to her like nobody’s business. Emma won’t care three straws if people think you’re her latest bedfellow.”

Monty seized on the suggestion. “Would that—would that work, do you think?”

“Of course. It’s a very neat trick. We’ve done it before.”

Monty frowned at him. “Oh, you have, have you?” he said coldly.

“Lord, yes. Heaps of times.”

“How many times?” Monty demanded.

“I can’t recall. The point is,” Colin went on quickly, “people are ready to believe anything about my sister. Now, how do I look? Exquisite or divine? Those are the choices.”

Turning in a slow circle, he offered himself up for inspection.

 

“Oh, I do hope Harriet has not botched the arrangements this year,” Lady Susan Bellamy, nee Fitzroy, remarked to her husband, as a footman darted forward to open the carriage door for her. He was a perfectly handsome, tall footman, faultlessly turned out in the Duke of Warwick’s black and gold livery, but Lady Susan was determined to find a blemish.

“Just once, I should like to come home and find the place in order,” she said, lowering her quizzing glass in triumph, having discovered that the footman’s eyes were a shade too close together. “Now, is that too much to ask? Heaven knows Harriet has little enough to do. She has no husband, no children, nothing to employ her. Why, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if I had to live here year round,” she added mendaciously. “I could never be so lazy.”

Still vigorous at sixty, General Bellamy hungrily eyed the other vehicles, the passengers of which were just beginning to disembark. “Good old Harriet,” he muttered amiably, even as he searched among the passengers for signs of his mistress, Mrs. Camperdine, the fetching little wife of his quartermaster. In his youth, the general had been a voracious philanderer. Age had narrowed the field for him to just one wife and just one mistress, but he still imagined himself to be a great favorite amongst the ladies.

Lady Susan, herself an aging coquette, bristled at his unsolicited endorsement of Lady Harriet Fitzroy, her elder sister. “I daresay the whole place is in a shambles,” she said belligerently. “I daresay our rooms will not be ready for hours, and your good old Harriet will surely greet us with some ridiculous excuse about my letter going astray!”

“I can reassure you on that head, madam,” the general replied. “Since your letters never seem to land where they should, I took it upon myself to scribble a note. My letters always manage to get where they are going,” he added smugly.

Lady Susan was vexed. She had not actually written any letters to her sister. She preferred to arrive at Warwick unexpectedly, and then complain about her sister’s lack of consideration. She thought it very disloyal of the general to go behind her back.

“I’m cold,” she complained, hurrying up to the house with the general in tow. “I do hope the fires have been lit. Let us hope the servants know what they are about, even if good old Harriet does not.”

Spotting Mrs. Camperdine at last, the general gave an involuntary grunt of pleasure. “I’m sure you have the right of it, my dear,” he said cheerfully to his wife, and they went into the house together.

A tall, thin lady came down the great double staircase to greet them. Although she was ten years older than her sister, Lady Harriet looked ten years younger. Her face was unlined, and her dark eyes were bright with intelligence. Her white hair was cropped short, giving her an odd, almost whimsical appearance. She might otherwise have seemed quite severe.

Lady Susan lifted her quizzing glass, but Lady Harriet retaliated with her lorgnette.

Thirty-odd years before, General Bellamy, then a handsome young captain of the Guards, had jilted Lady Harriet to marry Lady Susan. Lady Harriet had realized very quickly that she was better off without the womanizing George Bellamy, but she had never forgiven her sister’s treachery. It gave her malicious satisfaction to see that Susan had grown even fatter since last Christmas. Her beauty was in danger of disappearing altogether amongst the folds of white flesh.

For her part, Lady Harriet looked about the same. But then, she had no husband or children to make her fat or give her worry lines, Lady Susan reminded herself, seething with resentment. Harriet lived year-round in luxury at Warwick Palace with other people’s servants at her beck and call while Susan was forced to spend her own money on her own establishment. So unfair! The quizzing glass was withdrawn.

“I trust the India Suite has been made ready for us,” Lady Susan said aloud, in a tone more suitable for addressing one’s housekeeper than one’s sister.

“You do look very tired, Sister,” Lady Harriet said with sweet malice. “I know how you like to rest after a journey. However, I fear I cannot oblige you with regards to the India Suite. Her grace occupies it currently, as she always does when she is at home.”

Lady Susan was taken aback.

“The duchess is here?” she snarled. “That shameless hussy! That—that Jezebel!”

“Where?” cried the general.

Lady Susan ignored him as he barked at his own little joke. “How could you let this happen, Harriet? You should have sent the hounds after her.”

“She has dower rights, Susan,” Lady Harriet calmly replied.

“To be sure, she has dower rights,” replied Lady Susan. “But that doesn’t give her the right to descend upon us any time she pleases!”

“Of course it does, you half-wit,” Lady Harriet said impatiently.

“You should have informed me, Sister,” Lady Susan insisted. “I would have put a stop to her insolence. I would have sent the strumpet on her way.”

Lady Harriet looked innocent. “You mean you didn’t get my letter? How strange!”

Lady Susan glared at her, recognizing that her own favorite ploy had been used against her. “Very strange indeed, Sister!”

“You women and your letters!” scoffed General Bellamy. “Will you never learn to address them properly? The postman is not a mind reader, you know.”

“Carstairs will show you to your apartment,” Lady Harriet said smoothly, beckoning for the butler. “I’ve put you in Poland.”

Lady Susan was incensed. “Poland? Poland! You will not put me in Poland, I promise you! Do you hear me, Harriet?” she roared, bustling after her sister as the latter quietly withdrew up the stairs. “I will not be treated like this.”

Left to his own devices, General Bellamy scurried off to meet a certain wide-hipped brunette for a quick tryst in the linen cupboard.

 

“If you won’t listen to my advice, Emma, there’s nothing I can do,” Otto was saying at that moment in Emma’s sitting room. “You refuse to make the slightest effort at civility?”

“I do,” Emma said mulishly. “If I had milk for blood, I might do as you ask.”

“So be it,” Otto said, climbing to his feet. “Well, I certainly don’t intend to sit here all day listening to you complain!” he added. “Send for me the instant Lord Hugh arrives.”

“Why?” Emma said crossly. “I’m perfectly capable of dealing with him.”

“You will do nothing of the sort,” he said sharply. “I will deal with him. Cecily, will you come and get me when Lord Hugh arrives? He is expected this afternoon by four o’clock.”

“Don’t you trust me, Otto?” Emma taunted him.

“No. Cecily?”

“Yes, Otto,” Cecily said obediently. “I will come and get you directly he arrives.”

When he had gone, Cecily tidied up his newspapers. “Poor Otto!” she said. “You must forgive him, Emma, if he seems a little impatient. He has not been to my bed since Amelia was born. I fear the deprivation has made him…irritable.”

“Let him be irritable.”

Cecily sank into her chair. “But, Emma! I feel so guilty.”

“Cecily, it would be a great danger to your health to get pregnant again so soon. You must heed the physician’s advice.”

“I’m afraid the Duke of Chilton does not care about my health,” Cecily said, her voice beginning to tremble.

“My father is an ass,” Emma said stoutly.

“If I don’t give him a grandson soon, he will force Otto to divorce me and marry someone else. Your father hates me,” she added, shivering.

“But my brother loves you,” Emma told her firmly. “The days of my father forcing Otto to do anything are long gone, I can assure you.”

“That is what Otto says,” Cecily answered, chewing nervously at her bottom lip. “Oh, why can I not have a boy? It’s not as though I mean to have daughters instead of sons. I don’t do it on purpose, as your father seems to think.”

“My dear Cecily! You mustn’t let my stupid, antiquated father and his stupid, antiquated notions make you so anxious. The surgeons are all agreed that you must have a nice long rest before you try again.”

Cecily’s round brown eyes filled with tears and the tip of her snub nose turned pink. “Otto has been so kind and patient with me. But, Emma, I fear he will seek the affection of other women.”

“No, indeed,” Emma scoffed. “Otto is not like other men. He prides himself on being faithful to you. And he has steely self-control. Frightening amounts of self-control. You worry for nothing.”

“I don’t know how you put up with Warwick’s philandering all those years,” said Cecily. “It would have destroyed me.”

“Ah, but I didn’t put up with it,” Emma said, with a faint laugh. “I retaliated by taking lovers of my own. When he died, we had not slept in the same bed in years. We had become almost strangers. We had quite a typical Society marriage, in fact—until he fell out of Mary Bellingham’s window. That was singular, I admit. Can you imagine Otto falling out of a window? Believe me, Cecily, you have nothing to worry about. Otto Grey is a man without fault. I think he must have refused them all at birth, which explains, perhaps, why Colin and I have so many. All the seven deadlies, and a few of our own invention besides.”

“He is without fault. Oh, I must sound so ungrateful,” Cecily fretted. “I know I am fortunate in my husband. If I could just have a son—! Then everything would be perfect.”

“My dear Cecily—”

“No more,” said Cecily, with a resolute smile. “I am done whining. Enough!”

She picked up her knitting. Her needles clicked. The fire crackled. After a moment, Emma took up a book and settled back into the window seat. The cloisonné clock on the mantel began to strike ten, startling the two ladies. At almost the same time, there was a scratching at the door.

“Enter,” Emma called out.

“I nearly forgot,” said Cecily, setting aside her knitting. “I told Aleta she could play for you after her German lesson. That must be her now.” She froze suddenly. “Of, course, if you’d rather not—” she stammered. “If it will remind you too much of Harry and Grey—”

“Nonsense,” said Emma. “Harry and Grey are not musical in the least. I should love to hear Aleta play.” Climbing to her feet, she closed her book as an austerely clad governess came into the room leading a tall, slender child with a mop of black hair and enormous, dark eyes.

At a nod from her governess, Lady Aleta Grey curtsied. “Guten Morgen, Mama. Guten Morgen, Tante Emma.”

Emma smiled at her warmly. “Guten Morgen, liebchen.”

The child stared in agonized ignorance as Emma began to question her in German. Her governess sighed in disgust.

“You have not been studying,” Emma gently chided Aleta.

“No,” Aleta admitted, “but I have learned a German song for you,” she quickly added, brandishing her sheet music. “A Christmas song. Die Tannenbaum.”

“Ah,” said Emma, touching the girl’s cheek. “Herr Franck’s arrangement, I see. One of my favorites. I will open the instrument for you,” she added, hurrying over to the pianoforte that stood in one corner of the room.

“I can do it, Aunt Emma,” the child said. “Don’t fuss over me.”

“Aleta!” Cecily protested. “You must not address your aunt in that tone.”

“It’s all right,” said Emma, retreating. “I shall wait over here with your Mama until you are ready. Thank you for bringing her,” she told Cecily quietly as they watched the child make her preparations at the pianoforte. “I do not get to see her as much as I would like. She’s growing up so fast. Do you think Otto would allow me to take her with me to Paris?” She sighed. “He will probably say it is not wise.”

Cecily looked at her, wide-eyed. “You mean to go back to Paris? When?”

“After Christmas, of course,” Emma answered. “January. Once the boys are back in school, there is nothing to keep me in England. And now that the Corsican tyrant is safely exiled to Elba, there is nothing to keep me out of France. I have many friends at the French court. And I have bought a splendid little house in the Faubourg de St. Honore.”

“Exile!” Cecily said unhappily.

“I’ll take Paris over the sanctimonious hypocrisy of London any day,” Emma replied. “In Paris I can be at liberty. No one judges me. Why, by Parisian standards, I am a model of virtue!”

“Aunt Emma! Mama!” Aleta called from the pianoforte. “I am ready now.”

Cecily and Emma hurried to take their seats as the child began to sing haltingly in German as her fingers limped over the keys. Cecily did not know the words, but Emma gamely joined in singing the old German folk tune.

Ach Tannenbaum, Ach Tannenbaum,

Du bist ein edler Zweig!

Du grünest uns den Winter,

Die liebe Sommerzeit.

The musician stayed afterward for twenty minutes—quite twenty times the length of the little song—shyly accepting the praise of her grateful audience. Then her governess whisked her away for her watercolor lesson.

Emma spent the rest of the morning writing letters. After luncheon, she went out for a long walk, returning to the house for tea. To her surprise, Lord Hugh had not yet arrived. The man was usually punctual. He certainly never missed a meal, if he could help it.

As evening dragged into night, Emma became worried, not about Lord Hugh, of course. She could not have cared less about him. Her fears were for Harry and Grey; she could only assume that they were with their great-uncle and guardian. Using her widowhood as an excuse to avoid company, she dined alone in her room, hardly touching her food, much to the dismay of her French chef. Otto and Cecily, Colin and Monty dined with the other guests, but they could discover nothing about Lord Hugh. If he had sent any word to Warwick about a change in his travel plans, Emma was not to be privy to the information.

At ten o’clock, the gates to Warwick were closed, and the guards released the mastiffs to patrol the grounds. Emma lay in bed for hours, restless and uneasy, before drifting off to sleep.

Sunday, December 11, 1814

Nicholas St. Austell sat in the swaying carriage, squeezed between Lord Hugh and Lady Anne Fitzroy, while five young ladies, daughters of Lord Hugh and Lady Anne, sat packed together on the opposite seat. Wearing a brown George wig and a greatcoat with half a dozen capes, Lord Hugh looked the prosperous, well-fed gentleman. His wife, by comparison, was a thin, faded lady with frightened, watery blue eyes. More often than not, she seemed bewildered by the world around her. They were as unlikely a couple, Nicholas supposed, as the brilliantly colored peacock and his lackluster peahen.

Until very recently, the young naval officer had not been aware of the existence of the Fitzroys at all, but now he was to understand that Lord Hugh and Lady Anne were his uncle and aunt—the lady being the elder sister of Nicholas’s dead father—and the five young ladies, whom he could scarcely tell apart, were his cousins. Together, they comprised all the family he had in the world, or so they claimed.

All seven of these Fitzroys had been waiting for him on the dock at Plymouth on the day his ship arrived in the harbor. They had been searching the world over for him, they said, and they seemed genuinely delighted to have found him, safe and sound, aboard the H.M.S. Gorgon. Before Nicholas quite knew what was happening, his aunt and uncle had claimed him, and he was in a carriage on his way to someplace called Warwick Palace.

It felt like he was being kidnapped. They are my family, he often had to remind himself. They are not kidnaping me. They simply are taking me home with them for Christmas.

Their delight in him continued unabated, but two days of travel had been more than enough to weary Nicholas of his companions. Lord Hugh—or Uncle Hugh, as he demanded to be called—had quickly revealed himself as a blustering bully. He shouted and snarled at his wife and daughters continuously, while Nicholas never received anything but smiles and platitudes from the man. As for the young ladies, they seemed to do little more than preen and giggle. Nicholas did his best to ignore them, but he was sure that their inane giggling would haunt his dreams for years to come. Lady Anne—Aunt Anne—was the only one among them for whom Nicholas had any feelings, and her he merely pitied.

As darkness fell around them on the third day, the carriage fell silent. Lord Hugh’s head fell onto Nicholas’s shoulder, and he began to snore, eliciting sleepy giggles from some one or other of his daughters. Suddenly, the carriage ground to a halt. Lord Hugh was pitched forward, his wig falling into Nicholas’s lap. Cursing, Lord Hugh let down the window and barked at the driver.

“We are at the gates,” Lord Hugh announced presently, closing the window against the cold night air. “Thank you, Nephew,” he added gruffly as Nicholas passed him his wig. “We will be at the house in two shakes,” he went on, clapping the hairpiece to his skull. “I’ve sent word ahead to my sister, and the keepers are holding the dogs.”

“If we had not stopped to help those stranded people, we would be there now,” one of the girls said resentfully. “I’ve missed my dinner!”

“We have all missed dinner,” one of the older girls told her sharply.

“A broken axle on a lonely road is no joke,” Nicholas said, nettled by the girls’ lack of charity. “It was our Christian duty to help the vicar and his wife.”

“Oh, someone else would have come along to help them,” said Lord Hugh. “I suppose at sea one is obliged to help all sorts of people clinging to shipwreck and all that sort of thing, but it’s really not necessary in a civilized country. You’re not in the Royal Navy anymore, you know.”

“But, sir, the lady was with child!” Nicholas protested.

“Shameless the way these clergyman breed,” said Lord Hugh, shaking his head. “Ah, well! What’s done is done. We’ll be in our beds soon enough.”

“I’m so tired! I’m cold! I’m hungry!” the girls complained.

“Then you should have eaten the sandwiches that were offered you,” Nicholas told them curtly. “And I can’t imagine why you’d be tired,” he went on angrily. “You’ve done nothing but sleep and giggle for three days. If there’s any work to be done, you fob it off on your mama.”

Lady Anne’s hand crept to touch his arm. “Do forgive them, Nicholas,” she pleaded. “They’re just tired and cross, that’s all. They don’t mean to complain. There’s no complaining in the Royal Navy, I’m sure,” she added.

Nicholas instantly felt ashamed. In the navy, malcontents routinely were flogged, but, he realized, young ladies ought not to be treated so harshly. “It is I who am cross, Aunt Anne,” he said contritely. “Forgive me, ladies. I am not used to traveling in a closed carriage. I am used to the open seas. I am used to dealing with men. I’m afraid my temper got the better of me. I apologize.”

“We forgive you, Cousin Nicholas,” they said in unison, reminding him, rather horribly of the verse from the Gospel of Mark: “My name is Legion, for we are many.”

“You see, Nicholas?” said Lady Anne. “They are good girls.”

“I hope we are not inconveniencing your sister too much, Lord Hugh,” said Nicholas, after a short pause. “It is very late. Why, it must be past midnight.”

“But Harriet is a spinster,” Lord Hugh said, dismissing Nicholas’s concerns.

The drive from the gate to the house was surprisingly long. From time to time, Nicholas caught glimpses of shadowy figures outside, men with broken guns moving in the torchlight, men holding back huge, vicious-looking mastiffs. Their breath hanging in visible clouds around their muzzles.

At last the carriage came to a stop.

A sleepy footman opened the door and let down the steps. Lord Hugh climbed out first. “This is not how I wanted to show Warwick to you,” he told Nicholas, as the young ladies left the carriage. “But you can get an idea of the size and the grandeur of the place. I will give you the grand tour tomorrow personally.”

Nicholas did not reply. Lady Anne remained in the carriage, and he was shocked to see how little her family respected her. Her daughters seemed to think no more of her than the carriage rug they had left lying on the seat. When he was not bullying her, her husband ignored her completely. Nicholas’s protective instincts were aroused. Climbing out of the carriage, he offered Lady Anne his arm.

The door was opened briefly to admit them. Nicholas guided his aunt into the hall. Two footmen were lighting candles, but the room still seemed vast and dark. The sharp, fresh scent of balsam hung in the cool air.

“There was no one outside to greet us, Sister,” Lord Hugh was complaining to a tall, elderly lady in a nightgown and lace cap.

“Everyone is asleep, Hugh,” Lady Harriet told her younger brother. “I was asleep.”

“A poor excuse!” said Hugh, sneezing. “What is that smell?” he demanded, sneezing again. “It stinks of the outdoors.”

“It’s balsam,” Nicholas said happily, “and holly. It’s all over the room. It smells like a forest. It smells like Christmas.”

Holding aloft a branch of candles, Lady Harriet looked at Nicholas curiously. He was a good-looking young man with brown skin and bright blue eyes. His features were strong and clear-cut. His sun-bleached hair grew in a good line. He wore it long, but tied back neatly in a queue.

Lord Hugh, meanwhile, glared around him, squinting into the dimly lit corners of the great hall. The beautiful wreaths and garlands ornamented with gilded fruits and velvet ribbon that had been hung about the room did not meet with his approval. “By God, you’re right! It does smell like a bloody forest in here. What is the meaning of this, Harriet?” he demanded, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to block another sneeze. “Have you run mad in your old age? Are the servants conducting pagan rites in the small hours? Have all this damned shrubbery cleared off at once!”

“It was the duchess’s doing, not mine,” Lady Harriet replied evenly. “It is the custom in her mother’s native Germany. You will have to bring your complaint to her, I’m afraid.”

Lord Hugh grunted. “She’s here, is she? Good. I will deal with her tomorrow. In the meantime, clear this rubbish away. ’Tis pagan nonsense, and ’twas confined to the nursery when her husband was alive. I’m sorry you had to see this, Nicholas.”

“But I think it’s charming,” Nicholas protested.

Lord Hugh blinked at him. “You do?”

“Yes. It reminds me of the Christmases I had in Portsmouth when I was a child, when my parents were still alive. But, of course,” Nicholas added sheepishly, “our little cottage was nothing at all compared to this place, and we . . .