A Dangerous Nativity (2 page)

"But, Cath! We needed a safe landing place,"
Freddy insisted.

"Nonsense! Get on with it," she said.

"Safe landing place?" the earl asked.

Randy launched into a breathless description
of plans he and Frederick had made for a nativity reenactment
involving only animals. Rosalinda, it seems, was intended for the
part of archangel.

"She's all white, you see. But we had to test
lowering her from the loft. Christmas is six weeks away, and we
can't leave it all for the end."

"That explains the broken rope," the earl
said in a queer voice. "What happened to the gate of the pen?"

"Kicked on the way down. Swung the wrong
way," Freddy answered. "Flew out and landed in the pen. Mother sow
took offense and whacked right through the gate on a run. Maybe I
should fetch her?" He looked around hopefully.

"An all-animal reenactment?" Chadbourn asked
in a strangled voice.

"Yes, well, Freddy thought the runt pig would
make a good baby, and Bertha," Randy pointed to the dog, "is ever
so good a mother, so we thought it might work." He scratched his
head. "But we don't have sheep, and I can't see who might be a
king."

"Perhaps it wasn't one of our better ideas,"
Freddy mumbled. "Needs work."

"Apparently it does," the earl said, looking
like he was holding his breath.

"Both of you, hayloft now. That sow is too
lazy to go far." Catherine cut in. To their credit, they both
obeyed.

She stared after them. What on earth could
she say to this man after that recital? She looked around to see
him biting his lip to keep from laughing. Amusement or mockery? She
had no way to tell. When he sobered, his question surprised
her.

"Did your crew bring in sufficient silage for
winter?" he asked, looking at the animals. He sounded genuinely
interested.

"Of course. We had a good harvest across the
board. Why do you ask?"

"Did most of the county enjoy a good
harvest?"

Catherine launched into an overview of yields
for the year, crop by crop, compared to the past three harvests for
the farms thereabouts. She caught herself in her peculiarly
unfeminine enthusiasms and colored. "That's more than you asked,"
she said. "Do you have an interest in farming?"

He smiled and looked as if he were about to
say something, but changed his mind. Silence became
uncomfortable.

"Thank you again," she began.

"Tell your husband I admire the condition of
your orchard. Your fences are first-rate," he said.

"I-I'm not married," she stammered. "The farm
is my father's." Damn the man. At twenty-six, Catherine knew well
enough that the age when women married had passed. She also knew
that option had never been available to her. She didn't need some
prancing nobleman to rub it in.

The earl looked disconcerted. "My apologies,
ma'am. To your father, then, Miss—"

"Catherine," she replied, with a belated
curtsey to his title.

He waited a moment, but when she didn't add a
surname, he mounted and rode off.

Chapter Two

Will's laughter followed him home. It broke
loose as soon as he rode out of earshot and was no longer in danger
of offending his charming hosts. Angelic goat! He couldn't remember
the last time he'd laughed so hard. Mercury trotted toward Eversham
Hall while the earl reveled in his encounter with the
neighbors.

Even the confirmation that most of the county
enjoyed a good harvest buoyed him. He admired the woman's
knowledgeable account. It proved he had been right to fire
Eversham's land steward. The fool had botched the harvest. He put
what little they had harvested in a damaged shed on top of rotting
hay. His incompetence forced them to buy feed for the winter. Being
right gave Will cold comfort.

His elation dimmed completely when Stowe,
Eversham Hall's morose butler, greeted him in the foyer.

"Her Grace wishes to see you, my lord," the
old man intoned. "She said to tell you it is most urgent."

"It always is," Will muttered, as he dragged
his feet up the stairs toward Sylvia's sitting room. Unrepaired
fences paled next to the damage Emery Wheatly had done in private.
He had reduced Will's beautiful, vividly alive little sister to a
weeping bundle of misery.

If God is just—and I know He is—coals are
being heaped on Emery's sinful carcass right now, while I repair
the havoc he left behind. That thought sat ill in his belly. He had
to pause in front of Sylvia's door to gather his self-control. When
he pushed the door open, heavy, uncirculated air and the
suffocating smell of lavender and burnt feathers assaulted his
nose. Heavy draperies over every window made the room so dim he had
to blink to adjust. He longed for the sunny barnyard he had just
left.

Sylvia Wheatly, Duchess of Murnane, swathed
in black, languished on a chaise lounge, holding a handkerchief to
her nose. Thin, pale, and perpetually ailing, she bore no
resemblance to the confident young woman who had danced through her
first Season just before Will left to join the army in 1803.
Upended books and broken porcelain littered the floor.

"Why can't he come when I call him? Doesn't
he know I need him?" she complained loudly.

Who, the late duke or me? It didn't matter.
Her rant sounded like a tired litany. She craved a man's attention.
Hell, she thinks she needs a man to validate her every thought.

"Oh, Chadbourn, thank goodness you're here.
Fire this woman!" his sister demanded, pointing with an upswept arm
toward her lady's maid, cowering in the door to Her Grace's
dressing room. The duchess collapsed back against the chaise.

"She is utterly incompetent," Sylvia
whispered, her breathing raspy and ragged. "She misplaced my tonic
and only found it moments ago. Turn her out without a character."
She finished her pronouncement with a dramatic arm across her
eyes.

The maid's pleading look tore at Will. He had
ordered her to hide the opium-laced tonic. Obviously, she had not
been able to withstand the duchess's whining. How on earth am I
going to find a position for a lady's maid?

Sylvia peeped out. "Is she gone?"

Will sighed. He gestured toward the hall and
followed the maid to the door. His whispered reassurance and
request to meet him in the butler's pantry in an hour did little to
wipe the fear from her face. He would think of something.

"Is she gone?" Sylvia's voice quavered.

"We will reassign her."

"No! I demand she be turned off without a
reference!"

One thing he had learned: his sister cowered
before the voice of authority. "You will leave that to me," he said
as firmly as he could manage.

Sylvia crumpled immediately, and Will's heart
sank. "Yes, Chadbourn, of course," she whined. "Do as you see fit."
He would rather she showed some spirit and railed at him. Not that
he would turn the maid off. He would just have to make sure the
poor girl came nowhere near the duchess. That, and find a lady's
maid made of sterner stuff.

The duchess lay back with her eyes closed and
moaned. "You don't know what I suffer."

Will struggled to formulate a reply. He bit
back a harsh rebuke. "Get up, get outside, get fresh air," had not
worked in any of the dozen ways he'd worded it so far. Guilt, all
too familiar, plagued him. He had failed to protect her during her
debutante year. He left her in the care of his naïve parents, who
saw only the good in people. If he had stayed, he'd have
investigated Emery Wheatly and known him for the selfish rotter he
was. He wouldn't fail her again.

A discreet scratch at the door relieved him
of the necessity of a reply.

Sylvia ignored the knock.

"Enter," Will said.

The door opened, and a young boy trussed in
formal clothing and unsullied linen entered the room, escorted by
his tutor. The boy looked ready to choke on his collar. Charles,
the new duke, worried him even more than his sister did. The boy
acted like an old man—a fearful, perpetually nervous old
man—nothing like a child, nothing like the delightful boys who
chased pigs and imagined goats as angels. At ten, he had yet to
attend school, yet to visit London, yet to ride a horse. The late
duke intended him for Eton, but any effort on Will's part to broach
the subject with the boy's mother resulted in another outburst of
uncontrolled weeping.

"My darling!" Sylvia exclaimed. "Come read to
me while my tonic works its magic. You know how your voice soothes
me."

"Sorry, Mother. We are in the midst of
studies and—"

"Do studies matter more than your mother?"
she snapped.

"Of course not," Mr. Franklin, the tutor
soothed. "Your Grace's needs always come first." He gave Charles a
shove toward his mother.

"Has he finished his Latin?" Will
demanded.

Mr. Franklin startled. He had not seen Will,
and obviously wasn't happy to see him now. The man had avoided
every effort Will made to inspect the boy's studies. The toady
would rather court the duchess's approval than educate my nephew
properly.

"Today's lesson went well," the man replied
stiffly, eyes on the duchess.

"Latin!" Sylvia mocked. "Poor boy. Come here,
my darling, and comfort your mother." She pulled an obviously
reluctant Charles into her arms. When he pulled back, she pushed a
book into his hands. "Read to me, my sweet."

Charles looked at it with distaste. Will put
an arm around his shoulder. The book contained poetry of the
sloppiest, most sentimental kind. "What were you studying?" Will
asked the boy.

"We just started the English Civil War,
Chadbourn," the boy said sadly, a note of longing clear in his
voice.

The earl's lips tipped up. Any red-blooded
boy would rather learn about war than read inane poetry. Perhaps
there is hope for him yet.

"Uncle Will," he corrected, not for the first
time. "When your mother sleeps, come and look for me in the estate
office."

"Yes, Uncle Will," the boy said meekly.

"What do you want with my son?" Sylvia
demanded.

"Did you know there are two boys close to his
age living nearby? I thought Charles might—

"Unthinkable! We do not go there." Sylvia
said, chin up. "Emery forbade it. They are not people we wish to
know."

'You can't be. They never come here' The one
named Freddy said. Will remembered the boy's insistence on it, and
the woman—Catherine—reminding him of his manners. Interesting.

"Why did Emery object?" he asked.

"He didn't wish us to see his…" Sylvia
paused, glancing at Charles. "It is not to be discussed."

She patted a spot next to her on the chaise
and pulled Charles forward. The boy threw one last glance at Will
and, with the look of a prisoner going to his fate, began to
read.

She may not want to tell me why the neighbors
are ignored, but I'll find out sooner or later, Will thought. He
left quietly.

***

Charles knocked on the estate office door
soon after, as requested. "You wanted to see me, sir?" he
asked.

Will exchanged a few words with the boy about
his studies, encouraging his interest in history. When he ordered
Charles to the stables, however, panic filled the boy's eyes.

"I can't!"

"We've discussed this. A young man of your
station must ride. We'll take it in stages. I know you can do
this." Will had waited two months since the boy's father's funeral.
Enough was enough.

Moments later, Reilly, Eversham Hall's head
groom, led out the gentle mare Will had chosen for the boy's
lesson. Charles backed away sharply, as soon as the horse came
near. He knocked a rail off the fence, and caused the horse to rear
up.

Terror gripped Will at the sight of pounding
hooves. He dove forward and pulled his nephew out of harm's way.
"Think before you act, for God's sake!" he shouted. "That horse
could have squashed you like a bug."

"I—"the boy choked out.

"What were you thinking?" Will demanded,
gripping the boy's arms with two hands.

"Thinking? The beast did not behave as he
ought, Chadbourn," the boy said. His voice quivered.

"Don't blame the horse for your careless
behavior."

"They are foul beasts, no matter what you
say!" The pale face looked ready to crumple.

He's waiting for me to give him a verbal
lashing—or worse, Will thought. He dropped his hands. "I'm not
angry with you, Charles," he said, when he had control of his
voice. "I'm sorry I shouted. Fear made me cry out."

"Horses don't like me," the boy blurted, in a
voice that just missed being a whine.

"Nonsense!" Will squeezed his eyes shut. It
isn't his fault. "You lack experience, that's all." And this
episode will not help.

"But His Grace, my father, said—"

"He said a great many things that were less
than correct, Charles. We've talked about that."