Greetings of the Season and Other Stories (2 page)

Trained since birth to the duties and responsibilities of his position, Lord Montravan was not about to feed and house some useless unlicked cub. He had enough pensioners as it was without adopting able-bodied layabouts only eight years his junior. The best solution, of course, was to find the lad a rich wife. But with no fortune, the doors to the polite world were closed to the son of Bessie Winchell of Bath, and with no title, wealthy cits were more likely to offer him a position rather than their daughters. Or they would, Bevin acknowledged, if the chawbacon showed any potential for hard work. Instead, in the fortnight the earl took to think about young Winchell’s future, the nodcock had gambled away his pittance and signed himself into debt, come home drunk thrice, and hadn’t returned at all once, sending Montford House into a furor. He’d had his nose broken in a taproom brawl and been taken up by the watch until Montravan paid his fines. So Bevin made the pup his secretary.

Three years later the earl was satisfied with his gamble. He had an aide who knew how he liked things done, who didn’t look askance when asked to lease a house for his latest light-o’-love or to place a bet at Newmarket. As for Vincent, he had a steady income, a fine address with servants to provide for his every need, ample free time to enjoy London’s pleasures—and all for a few hours of paperwork and a promise to stay out of trouble. To the earl’s gratification and Vincent’s surprise, they even discovered that young Winchell had a knack for pesky details, like Christmas lists.

“I have sent your instructions to Montravan Hall,” Vincent now reported, consulting his pages of notes, “along with the proper number of presents for the tenants’ children, dolls and hair ribbons for the girls, tops and pocketknives for the boys. I have also sent directions and a bank draft for Boxing Day gifts for the staff, along with last year’s distributions. Everything will be arranged before your arrival next week, according to Miss Sinclaire. Mr. Tuttle will oversee the London staff’s holiday gratuities.”

“Excellent, Vincent. I know I need not concern myself whilst you are in charge.” The earl sat behind his desk and lit a cigarillo. “When do you leave for Bath?”

“Oh, not till after you depart, my lord, in case there are any last-minute changes in your plans.”

Montravan blew a smoke ring and smiled. “That’s a relief. Sometimes I wonder how I got on without you.”

“Poorly, I imagine.” Vincent ruffled his pages, bringing Bevin’s attention back to the matter at hand, and unfortunately back to the multitude of rings on the same hand. The earl winced and looked away.

“Do go on. I surmise you are in a fidge to be off for the evening.”

“Drury Lane, my lord. There’s a new production of
Othello.
”

“And a new farce, with the chorus girls showing their ankles, I hear tell.”

“I could not say, my lord.” The secretary hurriedly turned and pushed forward a stack of calling cards from the corner of the desk. “I had these printed up special for your holiday messages, if you cared to include a personal note to any of the employees or tenants, and, of course, for your relatives and, ah, close acquaintances.” He cleared his throat and scanned another list. “The gifts for those, ah, family and friends are here on the side table, awaiting your final selection.”

The earl got up and followed the younger man to the table, where parcels were displayed, two by two, with an elegantly printed name card in front of each pair. Bevin took out his q
uizzin
g glass to survey the groupings before once again declaring his secretary invaluable.

“You toddle off now while I scribble my compliments to Lady Montravan and the rest. I’ll place my card and the name plaque by the gifts I choose, and you can send them off on the morrow, except, of course, the ones I’ll be taking with me to the Hall.”

“If you are sure, my lord. I could stay to advise—”

“No, my dear boy, you’ve done enough. I can surely sign my own name. Have a pleasant evening. Oh, and, Vincent, do remember to give yourself a generous Christmas bonus. You deserve it. Perhaps you’ll even purchase a new set of clothes before you give your mother palpitations in those.”

“They’re all the crack, my lord,” Vincent said, bowing his way out of the library. “Bang up to the mark.”

“I’m sure they are,” the earl whispered to the closing door, feeling considerably older than his thirty-two years.

Bevin returned to the desk and poured himself a glass of sherry from the cut-glass decanter there. He sat and took up a quill—neatly sharpened—and one of the new cards. At least Vincent had learned to restrain his flamboyant taste when it came to his employer’s business. The cards merely held Lord Montravan’s name and title, under the simple inscription “Greetings of the Season” in raised black letters. The whole was edged in a thin border of holly, with hand-tinted leaves and berries. No gilt edges, thank goodness, or flowing script or flowery prose. The earl nodded, sipped his drink, and began his task, adding a salutation here, a New Year’s wish there, knowing his dependents counted on the monetary rewards yet still appreciated the personal touch.

Half a glass of sherry later, Bevin was ready for the challenge of selecting gifts and writing warmer messages. He carried a handful of cards and his glass to the other table, where another inkstand was positioned, another quill perfectly pointed. Raising his glass, he silently toasted the absent, efficient secretary.

For the dowager countess, Vincent had laid out a diamond pendant and a ruby brooch. Montravan chose the brooch. It was larger, gaudier, and more expensive, just the thing to appeal to his flighty mama. Vincent should have been her son, their tastes were that s
imil
ar. No matter, the earl told himself, Mama’s real Christmas present was Lady Belinda Harleigh. Hadn’t the dowager been nagging at Bevin since his twenty-first year to find a bride and assure the succession? She must be in alt over the visit of Lady Belinda, ducal parents, handsome dowry, and all. He penned a short message about fulfilling obligations and moved on to his baby sister’s gift.

Following the earl’s instructions, Vincent had purchased, on approval of course, the set of pearls proper for a young miss about to make her comeout, and a tiara. A gold tiara was totally unsuitable for a chit just out of the schoolroom, of course, even without the diamonds Allissa wanted, but the minx had been begging for one this last age. Allissa was growing into the type of spoiled,
grasping featherbrain Bevin most disliked, but he recalled her cherubic infancy and put his card atop the tiara. The pearls could wait for her official presentation in the spring, he decided, when the budding beauty was bound to set London on its ear no matter what she wore. He groaned to think of all the young sprigs haunting Montford House and the idea of having to listen to their petitions for Allissa’s hand. Gads, he wasn’t that old, was he, that some spotty youth might come quaking into this very library? He downed another swallow of sherry. Mayhap he could get the prattlebox buckled to some country lad before the time, or a beau from Bath, where she and his mother were going after the holidays. Ah, well, at least Miss Sinclaire would not let the rattlepate wear the tiara to any of the country gatherings, so none would know what an expensive bit of fluff she’d be. And in the spring he’d have Lady Belinda to help with the presentation.

For Squire Merton, his mother’s faithful cicisbeo, Bevin choose the riding crop over the snuffbox with a hunting scene on the cover. The old fool would only spill the snuff on Montravan’s own furniture. Lord Montravan quickly scrawled “Happy hunting” on the card and moved on.

The next grouping was labeled
Miss Corbett.
Ah, Marina, the earl thought fondly, but not so fondly that he was tempted to keep the raven-haired actress on as his mistress. She was exquisite, voluptuous—and boring. She hadn’t always been, of course, so he designated the heavily jeweled bracelet as her Christmas present. The extravagance alone would tell her it was also a parting gift, but he added a few words to the card to ensure Marina knew he would not be returning to her when he returned to London after the holidays. Vincent could deliver the package, saving Montravan an unpleasant scene when Marina received her congé. Not that he was a coward, he told himself, just discreet.

And wise. Too wise to leave town without securing the affections, or attentions, at any rate, of the latest highflier to soar over London’s demimonde. He tucked his message under the card addressed to Mademoiselle Bibi Duchamps and put both alongside the pair of diamond earbobs, setting the matching necklace aside for another occasion, such as the formalization of their arrangement. Bevin had no doubt there would be such an understanding, not when his note expressed his intentions. Bibi was no fool; she’d wait until Montravan came back before selecting her protector. He was bound to be the highest bidder, even if the earl modestly refused to consider his other attractions. No woman had turned
him
down yet.

Bevin had never asked a woman to marry him, but he did not expect Lady Belinda Harleigh to refuse him either, if he decided to make the offer. She was an acknowledged beauty, well educated for a woman, and two years beyond that first giddy debutante stage. The
on-dit
was that her father, the duke, was also holding out for the best offer. A wealthy earl was like to be the best, or they would not have accepted his invitation to Wiltshire, where Montravan wanted to see firsthand how Belinda reacted to his home, his tenants, and his ramshackle family. He also wanted to have some private conversation with her, impossible in Town, and at least one tender embrace before deciding to spend the rest of his life with the young woman. Besides, he wanted to get a better look at her mother, to extrapolate the daughter’s future.

The Harleighs were not arriving at Montravan until a day or two before the New Year’s ball, so a gift for the earl’s almost-intended would have to be delivered here in London. The present could not be too expensive and personal, such as jewels or furs, without being a declaration; it could not be too trifling without giving offense. Vincent had done well again, presenting the earl with a choice between an exquisitely filigreed fan and a pearl-studded jewel box. He selected the fan, which Belinda could carry at the ball, indicating her approval of his suit, instead of the jewel box, lest she and her father get the notion he was bound and determined to fill it with the family betrothal ring, now in the vault in Wiltshire. He wrote about looking forward to her visit, then considered the next and last pile of gifts.

Miss Petra Sinclaire.
Now there was a problem indeed. The earl went back to his desk and refilled his glass. Then he paced between the desk and the table, undecided. Petra was an employee. She was also an old friend, the orphaned daughter of his old tutor. When Vicar Sinclaire passed on, Bevin had paid for her schooling. Then it was natural for Petra to take up residence at Montravan, where the countess could take her around and find her some likely parti among the local gentry. She had no other connections, no great beauty to attract suitors, and only the modest dowry the earl insisted on providing. Only Petra had not accepted any of the offers and refused to live on charity. She threatened to accept a paid position in London, until Bevin was forced to hire her on as his mother’s companion, a position she’d been filling anyway, as well as mentor to his hoydenish sister, surrogate chatelaine of Montravan Hall for the vaporish countess, and general factotum in Bevin’s absence. If Vincent was indispensable in London, Petra Sinclaire was the earl’s lifeline in Wiltshire. Still, he was determined to see her established in her own household before she was more firmly on the shelf than her five and twenty years dictated. When she accompanied Allissa to London for the Season, Miss Petra Sinclaire was also going to find herself presented to every respectable gentleman Bevin knew, whether she wished it or not. He owed her that much, and more.

Unfortunately he could not express his gratitude for her loyalty and calm good sense in his Christmas gift. It simply wasn’t done. He was already paying her the highest wage she would accept, and money would only place her more firmly among the ranks of servitors. He looked at the heap of rejected jewels from his mother’s and
mis
tresses’ gifts, even the pearls for Allissa’s comeout, and had a mad urge to fill the pearl jewel box with the pirate’s treasure, for Petra. She was the only one of the bunch deserving of his largesse, the only one without a relative or other protector to satisfy her every whim, the only one not expecting an exorbitant present. And the only one he must not be lavish with.

Vincent had selected carefully: a volume of Scott’s ballads, because Petra was of a serious mind, and a set of mother-of-pearl hair combs, which would look well in her long brown hair. Perfectly acceptable, perfectly tasteful, and perfectly awful.

Bevin paced some more, then sat at his desk, thinking that a warmer greeting might better express his appreciation, since his gift could not. He disarranged his hair by threading his fingers through it in thought as he crumpled one card after another. Finally, just as the dinner gong reverberated through the halls, he had a message that met with his approval. He waved the card about to dry the ink, then put it on top of the combs. No, the book.

“Hell and the devil take it!” he swore, putting the combs and the book together and slamming his card and Petra’s name on top of both so there was no mistake.

Satisfied, the Earl of Montravan went in to dinner, whistling. This Christmas shopping was child’s play.