Lady Louisa's Christmas Knight (30 page)

He turned his head and kissed her palm—she hadn't gotten around to putting gloves on again. “What you say is true, Wife, and then by the time my aunts finally let me go up to university, I was the common fellow among a bunch of lordlings. Books were my companion of choice by then, and beasts.”

“And it was more of the same on Wellington's staff.”

He was silent for a few minutes while the coach slowed and swung around a turn. “I will give you all the babies you want, Louisa, gladly, enthusiastically, but just as you have matters to discuss with me, I have matters to discuss with you too.”

That was fine. Louisa hoped his matters would sort themselves out easily enough when he saw where they were. The coach slowed further, and Louisa raised one of the shades from the nearest window.

“It's very pretty here, what with all the snow on the trees. I can see why Westhaven enjoys these surrounds.”

Sir Joseph handed her gloves to her. “We are near your brother's holding?”

“It's not far at all.”

Something passed through Joseph's eyes, something bleak. “Louisa, before we see this place…”

The coach lurched to a stop, the footman dropped the steps, and Louisa pulled on her gloves. “We're here, and this is the charity I've chosen, Joseph. You can do nothing to change my mind on the matter, not one thing.”

He looked like he'd say something, then preceded her out of the coach and handed her down. When Louisa would have withdrawn her hand from his grasp, he closed his fingers around her palm. “Louisa, there are things you don't know about this household. Things I would be the one to tell you.”

She looked around, never having seen the property before. “It's lovely, isn't it?” Her gaze traveled over the huge old Tudor dwelling, which like the barn still sported a thatched roof. Mullioned windows graced the lower floors, and a venerable growth of ivy climbed the north wall.

“I can see pots and pots of geraniums here in spring,” Louis said, not liking Joseph's silence. “And I can see us spending a lot of time here. Say something, Joseph. Please say something.”

He looked so grave, and on a day that should have been so happy.

“Louisa, I am sorry. I meant to make sure you never knew, and then I meant to explain. Maybe I always meant to explain, but then—”

A door banged open at the front of the house, the wreath on the door pane bouncing with the impact, its harness bells shaking merrily. A thunder of feet, small and not so small, followed along with a chorus of happy shrieks.

“It's Papa! We knew you'd not miss your Christmas visit! Papa has come to see us!”

Louisa felt stunned, confused, and not a little off balance. As a dozen children swarmed Joseph where he stood, she raised curious eyes to him. “Papa?” she mouthed over the happy din.

He wrapped his arms around as many children as he could gather close but held her gaze almost defiantly. “Papa?” Louisa asked again, quietly, as something odd turned over in her chest.

Joseph nodded emphatically, once, then bent to greet the children.

A commotion on the drive had Timothy Grattingly shoving a book back onto the shelf from which he'd taken it.

There were volumes of poetry here by the score, but none of them small, red, and filled with some of the most vulgarly glorious erotic verse ever written. No matter—the thing had been quite popular among the scholars at Oxford, and Sir Joseph apparently had a copy. The irony of this was as delicious as a well-spiked Christmas punch.

Grattingly peered out the window and saw that Sir Joseph and his lady had arrived, and—wasn't it just fitting?—the man's bastard offspring were swarming him, Louisa Windham was looking puzzled, and the groom walking Grattingly's horse was staring at the lady with something like foreboding.

The staff had tried to keep Grattingly penned up in a pokey little parlor, but he had insisted a book would pass the time while he waited for Sir Joseph to make his predictable Christmas visit.

And Grattingly had waited, and waited, and
waited
. Now, finally, it was time to make an entrance, or an exit, as the case was. Grattingly took one last glance around the library and showed himself from the premises.

“What a touching reunion.” He couldn't help but sneer a little as he came down the front steps.

The lady recovered first. “Mr. Grattingly, you are not welcome here, and if you think holiday sentiment is going to stop my husband from finishing what you started prior to our wedding, you had best mount up and think again at a dead gallop on the way down the drive.”

“Louisa—” Carrington disentangled himself from his bastards, a delightfully uncomfortable look on the man's face.

“Won't you introduce me to your children, Sir Joseph? I'd like to be able to boast that I met every one of your by-blows before we turn to the equally interesting topic of your wife's naughty poetry.”

Ah, that had Carrington's dark brows twitching down and Lady Louisa's chin lifting a half inch. Before either one of them could launch into questions, accusations, or denials, a trio of riders appeared at the foot of the U-shaped drive.

“So much the better. We'll have an audience for our little chat, unless, of course, you'd like to part with some valuables and coin in the very near term? Lady Louisa's ring might be a nice overture. With that ring and her earrings in my possession, along with some cash, of course, I could forget a lot of poetry and forget I came across what looks to be a dozen illegitimate progeny, as well. What a vigorous fellow you are, Carrington. You may thank Honiton for mentioning that your soldiering had produced some interesting additions to the Crown's loyal populace.”

Honiton had also mentioned this location in Surrey weeks ago, though Grattingly didn't see a need to share that.

Both Carrington and his wife glanced down the drive, while the children quietly heeded Sir Joseph's gesture and filed away to the side. A coach followed the three riders around the turn onto the property.

Better
and
better.
Grattingly couldn't help smiling at the children. “Happy Christmas, you lot—for me.”

***

Louisa wasn't panicking. Joseph understood that with one glance at his wife, but it was no reassurance at all.

She was
thinking
instead, plotting and planning with that slight frown forming between her brows that meant she'd just sprung her mental horses and was galloping off to conclusions mere mortals wouldn't be reaching for days.

And yet… reinforcements were on the way. Surely she had to know those were her brothers outriding for that enormous traveling coach. And behind the traveling coach there lumbered some other conveyance Joseph did not recognize, though the four matched grays were impressive beasts.

“Grattingly.” Joseph raised his voice in hopes the approaching riders would hear him. “I am unarmed, else I'd shoot the ballocks off you even before my wife and children.”

“We'd cheer,” Louisa interjected. “Heartily and at length.”

Joseph didn't dare take his eyes off Grattingly, but her show of support was heartwarming.

Grattingly cocked his head and considered Louisa, which had Joseph's fingers itching for a weapon—any weapon. “Your loyalty to a man who single-handedly swived his way from one end of Spain to the other is touching. Must be a function of the Moreland blood.”

“It must be.” That quiet comment had come from Devlin St. Just, who'd swung off his horse and come to stand behind his sister. Grattingly was fool enough not to know he'd just insulted one of Moreland's illegitimate offspring—or perhaps Grattingly had a wish to die on Christmas Day.

“Sir Joseph.” Westhaven sauntered up to stand on Joseph's right. “Is this man trespassing? And on a holiday? That would be the height of bad form, would it not?”

Lord Valentine came up on Joseph's left. “Almost as bad form as threatening our family before these children.”

“What an impressive bunch of saber rattlers you are,” Grattingly said, slapping his gloves against his thigh. “Sir Joseph is just about to round me up some valuables and wish me a Happy Christmas, lest I start bruiting about, not just the existence of his miscellany here, but also his wife's propensity for prurient poetry. That would be an example of alliteration,
would
it
not
, Lady Louisa?”

“Lady Carrington, if you're fool enough to address my wife directly,” Joseph said. And as if there weren't audience enough to this little drama, behind the coach drawn by the grays, a sleigh came tooling up the drive.

“Whatever her name,” Grattingly sneered, “it will be dragged through the gutters along with yours, Carrington, unless you produce some blunt and produce it now.”

“Joseph.” Louisa's gaze bore a world of banked emotion. She'd scooped up a handful of snow and was patting it into a hard, round ball. “Perhaps Mr. Grattingly hasn't seen the crest on that coach.”

“I care not if the Regent himself catches wind of the folly you two have been up to. I was sent down because of you, Louisa Carrington. It was fine for all the other fellows to have you doing their translations, but when I needed help, your damned brother said you would no longer oblige. I'd already seen some of your Catullus, though, and when that naughty little book came out, I knew exactly who'd authored those poems.”

“Well, the Regent
isn't
here,” said a sniffy little pink-headed man. “But I am, so let's have done with this nonsense, and I'll be on my way just as soon as I've dispensed with my Good Tidings.”

“Who the hell—?” St. Just was scowling at the grays and the coach behind them.

“And Father Christmas himself,” Valentine said, lips curving up as a sleigh completed the parade assembled in the drive. “Their Graces, rather.”

“This is Mr. Hamburg,” the Duke of Moreland announced as he led his duchess away from their sleigh. “He's bearing letters patent to bestow on a certain deserving and loyal subject of the Crown.” His Grace pursed his lips. “And that would not be you, Grattingly. Be off with you—you're bothering my family, and my duchess has taken you into dislike.”

“I most assuredly have, Timothy Grattingly. Your poor mother cannot show her face in society because of you,” said Her Grace, her profile looking to Joseph exactly like Louisa's.

“Grattingly will just be going,” Joseph said, “with all possible haste, preferably to board a packet for the Continent.”

“Now why would I do that?” Grattingly said, swiveling his gaze over the assemblage. “We can keep this in the family, so to speak, Sir Joseph, and I'll just hope nobody else ever learns of how diligently you carried out your military duties while in Spain—assuming you found the occasion to don your uniform from time to time.”

“Mr. Grattingly,” Louisa rapped out. “You grow tiresome. Children?” She turned to the silent knot of anxious faces huddled on the steps and tossed her snowball from hand to hand. “Which of you is Sebastian?”

The tallest boy stepped forward. “I am Sebastian Carrington.” His voice was plagued with the
cambiata
huskiness of midadolescence, but he spoke evenly.

“I am pleased to make the acquaintance of the fellow who saved my husband's life,” Louisa said. “What is your date of birth, Sebastian?”

Bless the boy, he cited a date fifteen years in the past.

Louisa speared Grattingly with a look. “Are we to conclude my husband nipped down to Andalusia on his way to university, Mr. Grattingly? That he summered in Spain for his own entertainment before he was legally of age?”

“Most of them are younger,” Grattingly spat, “plenty young enough. I'm told Sir Joseph is legally their father, and what about all that nasty, dirty, vulgar poetry,
my
lady
? Surely your devoted knight would pay handsomely to keep that tripe from the ears of Polite Society?”

Before Joseph's eyes, Louisa's confidence crumbled. Defending her husband's decisions in Spain, she'd been magnificent, assured, and unfaltering. One mention of her literary talent, and she wilted like a tender plant in a frost.

And that, Sir Joseph would not permit.

“A devoted knight offers to his lady the most beautiful verse he can find,” Joseph said. “‘How do I learn the number of kisses needed to satisfy my longing for you?'”

Louisa's head came up. Shock registered in her gorgeous green eyes. “Joseph?
You
know?
”

He wanted to declaim the entire poem, the entire volume of poetry, but settled for one more line: “‘So many kisses that no intruding eye could count them, nor any gossiping tongue accurately fix their total, much less their precious worth to me.'”

“Joseph, you know? You knew?” A smile was trying to break through her incredulity. One of Louisa's brothers chuckled, another started swearing cheerfully, and the duke apparently had something caught in his throat.

“It makes no difference if he's memorized the entire lot,” Grattingly said, but to Joseph's ears, there was a slight tremor in his statement. “I
know
too. I know, and as long as that book exists, as long as I know who wrote it, you'll be handing over coin when I tell you to, Sir Joseph.”

Westhaven spoke from Joseph's right. “My recollection of my terms reading law is growing blessedly dim, but I do believe you're attempting blackmail, Grattingly—albeit not very successfully. Few of the books were printed, and between Sir Joseph's efforts and those of the Windham family, we've retrieved every copy you might get your filthy paws on. Now, Mr. Hamburg's earlier comments have me in a state of uncomfortable curiosity, and those children have to be getting a bit chilled.”

“We're fine,” said a little girl.

“Ariadne, hush,” Joseph said, but he smiled at his youngest daughter for sheer pride at her pluck.

Grattingly whipped his gaze to Louisa. “You have every last copy of that damned book?”

Louisa's gaze could have chipped ice, and Joseph had never been more proud of her. He wanted to swing her against his chest and dance up the steps with her, wanted to laugh out loud, and yet…

“My wife does not converse with scoundrels, Grattingly. Neither will she associate with cowards, nor with a person so craven he'd exploit the unfortunate circumstances of children left orphaned by war.” Joseph flicked a glance at St. Just, who caught Lord Valentine's eye.

“It's coal in your stocking today,” Valentine said as he and St. Just started toward Grattingly. “Or perhaps a very long jump rope once the magistrate finishes with you and your pathetic attempted felonies.”

As they closed in on Grattingly, Joseph held out a hand to Louisa, needing in the marrow of his bones to put himself between Louisa and the miserable cretin responsible for almost ruining their holidays, and their lives.

But he'd not figured on Grattingly's desperation, or on how much speed that desperation could impart. Grattingly whirled away, snatched the reins of his horse from the startled groom, scrambled into the saddle, and was off toward the curve of the drive.

While Joseph could only watch. No gun, no knife, no bow, no—

“Joseph!” Louisa slapped the snowball into his hands. “Into the trees above him!”

While Joseph had focused on Grattingly, Louisa had apparently been figuring trajectories and angles and options. Visions of Fleur raining snow down on her hapless sister snapped into Joseph's mind. He didn't have to aim; he just let his ammunition fly into the boughs so that Grattingly's horse was showered in the face with a huge lot of snow. The animal propped, whinnying its indignation, while Louisa slapped another snowball into Joseph's hand and Valentine and St. Just leapt onto their mounts.

The second dump of snow had Grattingly's horse rearing and Grattingly tumbling ignominiously into the snow, while Joseph—with a silent apology to the animal—fired a third snowball hard, directly at the beast's quarters.

“Mind if I have a go?”

Westhaven's aim was good enough to bring more snow down on Grattingly, and by the time St. Just and Lord Val were marching the man back up the drive, even Louisa had taken a turn pelting the miscreant with snow.

“I might grow to enjoy marksmanship,” Louisa said, beaming at her husband.

Joseph caught her close, barely resisting the temptation to hug the stuffing out of her. “You've a wonderful mind and a good arm, Wife.”

“I have a wonderful knight. I cannot believe you knew.”

“And you knew. Let me introduce you to the children.”

“Our children.” She corrected him so gently, so happily, Joseph's heart just about beat its way from his chest.

“My wife is ever correct. Our children.”

“Not so fast.” The little pink-headed fellow came careening through the snow. “You'll be taking these, and I'll be heading for the nearest inn, by God. I don't know yon miserable sod there”—he jerked his chin in Grattingly's direction—“but I'll be telling the Regent how cavalier that fellow attempted to treat an earl and his countess.”