Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

24 December

L ucius had overslept. Too many odd dreams. There had been a giant mistletoe, the berries taking on female faces, asking him to pick them for a kiss, choose one as a wife. But each time he plucked a berry, the face turned into Christiana’s, and he dropped it, crushing it with his heel.

He inhaled the strong, bitter coffee, feeling his senses come back to life. As he was loading a plate with eggs and ham, his brother William and another gentleman entered.

“Brother,” cried William, “it’s good to see you again. My apologies for not being able to meet you at White’s before you left London.”

“Happy Christmas,” Lucius said as they thumped one another on the back. “Have you just arrived?”

“Yes. We ran into Nettie and Weston outside.” Will turned to the man beside him. “May I introduce Mr. Charles Wilkens, whom I work with in London. If you ever need a solicitor, he’s your man. Charles, this is my brother Lord Page.”

“Mr. Wilkens.” Lucius inclined his head. William was a barrister, and solicitors often required him to present a legal action for a client. But Will was supposed to be bringing the final suitor for his sister. “Where is…”

“The gentleman was unable to make it. However, I ran into Charles on his way to another house party. So, I convinced him to stay with us a night before he continued on to Falcon Hall.” Will grinned, his hazel eyes twinkling as he mentioned the location.

Falcon Hall.

Lucius’s head snapped up. “Are you well acquainted with Lady Winfield?” he asked, ignoring the mad thumping of his heart.

“No, my lord. My uncle, Sir Horace Franklin, has been trying to buy two slate mines from her. It’s in Wales and close to two that he owns. She has put him off for over two years, and then he received an invitation to her estate over Christmastide.” Charles shrugged. He was tall with brown hair, kind brown eyes, and a genuine smile. Lucius liked him immediately.

“It seems one must have a personal invite to be admitted. The wording is quite cryptic.” Will grinned at his friend. “Would you mind showing it to him?”

Charles set down his satchel, opened it, and pulled out a thick lavender card with holly and ivy entwined around the edges. He handed it to Lucius.

Admits bearer to the private house party

Of the Countess of Winfield at Falcon Hall.

Guests shall arrive 24 December.

The competition for the desired prize begins 25 December thru 6 January.

Lady Winfield will only accept the proposal of the gentleman

Claiming victory of three or more challenges.

The favor of an answer is requested.

His mouth fell open. What was the chit up to? The vague wording of this left too many questions. Marriage? “Mr. Wilkens, I have questions and a proposition for you.”

***

Falcon Hall, Norfolk

Christiana looked about the drawing room, happy with the decorations. Each room she would use for entertainment was festive with greenery, holly, and the scent of pine. But no mistletoe. It wasn’t that kind of party. The Widows League had been instrumental in arranging this event. Lady Wyndam had written back within a week.

Dear Lady Winfield,

On behalf of the Widows League, I would like to thank you for your generous donation this year. We will be sure it helps those most in need.

As to your dilemma, several of us put our heads together. We believe the men should be given one final chance to obtain what they want from you. Some type of lottery or competition, but here’s the twist: you are who they must beat. Only one of them will receive the prize—their desired property—the others will never bother you again with another request.

We assume from your correspondence that the only asset you are willing to part with is the Welsh property. You will have to be clever to make sure the appropriate contestant wins. However, this solves the issue of being further harassed by the others.

One thought to leave you with, my dear. Marriage would also solve this issue. A gentleman does not harangue another gentleman. It’s bad form. Not that I am pushing any female in such a direction, just something to keep in mind. You are still young, beautiful, and full of life with many years ahead of you. Not all men are termagants.

I am confident your wit shall serve you well and provide us with a most entertaining recount the next we meet.

Your doting friend,

Katherine, Countess of Wyndam

Christiana folded the letter and slipped it inside her own copy of the invitation. The guests were due to arrive any time, and her challenges were in order. If all went well, Sir Horace Franklin would have his way. She didn’t need the slate mines, and they were located next to those of the baronet. It was cumbersome dealing with the manager and the solicitor in Wales. The rest of her property and investments were handled by her solicitor in London. It was simpler to keep all her business under one roof, so to speak.

The money from the Welsh sale would provide a ready fund for the charities she continued to support and for the repairs and improvements needed in the village and around the estate. Some of the tenants would require new roofs this spring, and her steward wanted to expand planting to make the estate more self-sufficient.

After that, she intended to build a small aviary so she could listen to birdsong throughout the year. Christiana remembered the canary her father had bought her as a child. Watching the delicate creature behind the wires, singing for its freedom, had broken her heart. She could never again contain such grace and beauty in a tiny cage.

“The Duke of Scuttleton’s representative has arrived, my lady,” said the butler after knocking on the door. “I’ve shown him to his room, next to Lord Bentson, with instructions for dinner.” He stood tall and lean in his dark suit, hands behind his back, silver temples blending into his raven hair. A scar formed an X near his right eye, and another down his left cheek was evidence of his years as a soldier, then pugilist, now butler and protector. “Sir Horace Franklin’s man is also in residence. Lord Elwood sent word they will arrive this evening promptly at eight.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jensen.” She watched him turn to go. “Remember to stick to the plan.”

“Of course,” he said, rubbing one fist in his palm. “I shall always be within earshot. One untoward word, and I will make my presence known.”

Christiana smiled. “I know you will.”

Constance entered, reminding her it was time to dress for the evening. Once in her bedchamber, Christiana chose a simple silk gown of the palest rose, the square bodice cut low and beaded with tiny pearls, the same pattern repeated on the puffed sleeves and hem. A sheer gossamer shawl of cream, a pearl pendant, and earbobs completed her outfit.

“You’re lovely, my lady,” her maid gushed, poking another pearl hairpin into Christiana’s loose chignon. “The men will be sorry you are not the prize.”

“I suppose the rumors are running rampant in London by now. That wicked Lady Winfield making men compete for her hand. And at her home, unchaperoned. I do enjoy a good on-dit when I’m the one who started it.” She blew out a breath and glanced at the clock on the mantel. “I suppose it’s time.”

“The sacrificial lamb to the slaughter.” Constance giggled as she stepped away from her mistress. “I will say the gentleman who came in the baronet’s place is very handsome. It won’t be a hardship playing up to him.”

Christiana took a deep breath and smoothed her skirt. You can do this. She opened the door to the drawing room, and Constance followed her, taking a seat in a corner of the room. Three men and an older lady stood in front of the hearth, drinks in hand. The elderly gentleman, with a rounded belly, wiry gray sideburns, and a thick head of gray hair, smiled as she entered. “Lord Bentson, how good of you to come in person. I hope your journey was uneventful.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, his voice gravelly from age. “If the outcome is favorable, putting up with the cold will be worth it.”

“Lord and Lady Elwood, are you coping well with these frosty temperatures?” she asked her neighbors.

“Aye, my lady” replied the viscount, tugging the too-small waistcoat back down after bowing over Christiana’s hand. “It’s a short distance to come for something so valuable.”

The viscountess, a plump woman with a round face and soft brown eyes, frowned. “I must admit it’s a good thing I’m here. You might have been alone with all these gentlemen.”

“Which is why I’m so grateful for your attendance.” Christiana had always wondered if her neighbors had been a love match or an arranged marriage. Lady Elwood was kind and always looked on the bright side of a matter. Her husband seemed to wear a perpetual frown, his dark brows usually drawn in a V. Two mismatched souls or did opposites attract?

“Since we can’t see the grandchildren this year, I was so happy to receive the invitation. I believe we shall have a monstrous good time.” She beamed at them all, her extra chin wobbling a bit as she nodded her head.

“And…” Christiana faltered, not knowing the third man. “I’m afraid we have not yet been introduced.”

“May I introduce Lady Winfield?” Bentson intervened. “This is one of the Duke of Scuttleton’s lads, Lord Frederick.”

Lord Frederick, a short man with thinning blond hair and barely a chin, stepped forward. His clothes were well tailored but loud. The stripes on his blue and white waistcoat were too wide, his cravat too big, his lace cuffs too long. Too many gems winked in his extra-large neck pin, a ring on each finger. He bent over her hand and brushed her gloved knuckles with his lips. “I’m hardly a lad, Bentson, at eight and twenty.”

“Very true,” agreed the old man, “and you’ve less hair than I do.” He winked at Christiana.

She’d forgotten how much she liked the earl. In truth, she had always wondered if he and her mother had only used the excuse of the Ming vase to continue their correspondence. But her mother was gone now, and Christiana would never know.

Lord Frederick let out a loud yawn and stretched his arms above his head, a sneer—or was it supposed to be a smile?—on his face as he asked, “I do hope you have some titillating amusements planned for us over the next few days. It was quite a sacrifice to leave Town this time of year.”

Christiana raised a brow. “I will do my best, sir, though titillating might not be the appropriate word.” She glanced about the room. “We are missing someone. Has anyone seen the fourth guest?”

“I’m right here, my lady,” said a deep tenor from the direction of the door behind her.

Her heart stopped. It had been years since she’d heard the voice, and it sent heat racing from her neck to the tip of her toes. It couldn’t be.

“The bloody devil,” whispered Lord Frederick, growing pale.

“No, I’m just Lord Page, though a cur like you must see the devil over his shoulder on most days.” Lucius pushed away from the doorjamb and approached the fireplace. “Looks like fine French brandy. I think I’ll have a glass. Lady Winfield, may I pour you one?”

Christiana managed a nod, realizing too late she shouldn’t indulge in such strong spirits. The man had grown more handsome. How was that possible? The candlelight danced gold upon his thick brown hair, slightly longer than fashionable and curling at the nape. The superfine coat stretched across his broad shoulders as he handed her the crystal glass. His trousers a perfect fit around his muscular thighs. She dragged her eyes back up to his face, seeing the laugh lines crinkle around the emerald-green orbs dancing with mischief.

Her mouth went dry, her tongue as thick as a sheep’s wool in winter. She could only nod, wondering if her fingers would be able to hold the drink and thinking a bottle of brandy might be best.