Marian's Christmas Wish (27 page)

It must have been the last dance. Her eyes drowsy,
Marian heard the comfortable sounds that departing guests made as they
assembled in the hall, talking with one another and waiting for their
carriages. Well, Gil, she thought, soon you will have your lady-love all to
yourself, and you can abstract her bit of information. I hope you choke on it.
She made herself comfortable as the house quieted down.

Lady Ingraham said good night to her son and his fiancée
and climbed the stairs. Her footsteps hesitated for a moment outside Marian’s
door, but she did not knock. I don’t know what I will say to her tomorrow,
Marian thought, she who has been so kind to me. We will just leave and soon she
will forget all about her foolish guests from Devon.

She closed her eyes again and snuggled into the pillow,
and then the quarrel began.

The voices were distinct, the words indistinct, but she
knew them to be Lord Ingraham and Lady Amanda. Marian plopped her pillow over
her head. The voices grew louder, and Marian sat up in bed. She heard the sound
of breaking glass, as though someone had thrown a vase. Lord Ingraham spoke,
and his words had a certain crispness to them. Lady Amanda screamed, and then
the house was silent.

Good God, Marian thought, and crept to the door. She
debated whether to go downstairs and then firmly overruled that notion. I will
do no such thing, she told herself firmly. This is not, and never was, my
business. She touched her neck, running her finger across her throat, imagining
that she could follow the track of Sir Reginald’s knife. I have probably
already said too much.

She went to get back in bed when she heard the sound of
a carriage drawing up to the front of the house. Marian hurried to the window
and looked down. Two soldiers stood at attention. She watched, openmouthed, as
Lady Amanda Calne was escorted to the carriage by Lord Ingraham. The butler
dropped
her
traveling bags about her and stepped back in surprise as Lady Amanda delivered
a stinging slap to Lord Ingraham’s scarred cheek.

Marian winced and stepped back involuntarily herself,
as though she had been struck. “Wretched woman,” she said through gritted
teeth. “I hope they hang you.”

The carriage pulled away. Ingraham stood there, his
hand to his face, until the carriage rounded the crescent and disappeared from
sight. After another moment, he turned and walked slowly inside.

The fire had died down and Marian shivered. She rubbed
her arms and climbed back in bed. “I will go to sleep,” she told herself. “I
will go to sleep.”

It may have been hours, it may have been minutes, but
Marian woke to the sound of someone fumbling at her door. Her blood froze to
ice and began to flow in chunks through her veins. “Alistair?” she whispered.

“No, brat. Let me in.”

“Not if you were the last man alive, Gilbert Ingraham,”
she said even as she got out of bed and tiptoed to the door.

The door handle turned more violently. “You let me in,
Marian Wynswich, or I am going to put a shoulder to this door and rip it out by
the frame.”

The tone of his voice left her no doubt that he would
carry out his threat precisely. Her heart in her throat, Marian turned the key
in the lock and stepped back out of his way.

He was still dressed in his evening clothes, but his
shirt front was splotched with drying blood. Marian gaped at him.

“It’s not mine,” he said shortly. “In case you’re
interested.”

She made no comment, but climbed back in her bed,
pulling up the covers to her armpits. As she watched, the earl went to the
dressing table and picked up the water jug, drinking directly from it. He came
over to the bed. “Move your feet,” he directed, and sat down, slumping forward
with his elbows on his knees. The imprint of Lady Amanda’s hand still showed
quite clearly on the sensitive skin around his scar. Any words of recrimination
she had been saving to fling at him died in her throat.

He finally looked at her. “Happy New Year.”

“Oh, Gil!”

Wearily he reached into his vest pocket and pulled out
a scrap of paper, flicking it toward her. “It was exactly where you said it
was, Marian.”

She picked up the paper, which was crossed and
recrossed with strange words and numbers. “I do not understand,” she said, and
handed it back to him.

He pocketed the paper. “It’s an exact count of all
Allied troops currently stationed in Belgium and France—information bound for Elba. It was Amanda’s happy task to see that message through, although how she expected to
do that, I haven’t a clue. He sighed. “I think Napoleon is planning, and soon,
to shake the dust of Elba from his boots.” Lord Ingraham ran his hands through
his hair and looked down at his own shoes.

“But you have Sir Reginald in custody now, don’t you?”
she asked. “And that other man? Signore Fandamo?”

He sighed again and lay down at the foot of her bed. “I
door, I did, except that Bath’s jails are full of revelers tonight, and the
constabulary thought to economize and put Sir Reginald with Signore Fandamo.”

Marian leaned forward and clasped her arms around her
knees. “Let me guess. Out of pure meanness, Sir Reginald slipped a little
sliver knife with embossed flowers around the unfortunate signore’s neck.”

Gilbert gave a dry chuckle. “Your aim is off, my dear.
He tucked it up tight under Fandamo’s rib cage, so he would die slowly.” With
an oath. Lord Ingraham sat up and grabbed her by the arm. “And how do you know
what that knife looks like?”

Marian gently pulled away. “He slid it across my throat
in the library this evening.”

“God in heaven, Marian, why didn’t you say something to
me?” he shouted.

She rose to her knees and grasped him by the shoulders,
shaking him. “Because it wouldn’t have made a penny’s worth of difference to
you, that’s why!” Marian sat back, stunned by the look in his eyes. “And don’t
tell me that was uncalled-for, Lord Ingraham,” she said quietly. “You’re as
ruthless as they, in your own way, and it’s time someone told you.”

He regarded her for a long time, and her glance did not
waiver. “Check,” he said finally, his voice serious.

“And mate,” she replied. “Good night, Lord Ingraham.”

He did not get up. “I won’t deprive you of the rest of
the story. Fandamo is dead. He died not twenty minutes ago in my arms, in fact.
He worked at the Chartwell Foundry and for Napoleon, too. He told me the names
of his associates, and I can now assure Regent and country that there will be
no more cannon coming from that place that goes astray. I have already sent
word to Chase and Breckinridge Foundry that we will be waiting there Tuesday
next. I have shipped Lady Amanda under guard to her father’s estate in
Derbyshire and—”

“And what makes you think she will remain there?”

“A bit of plain speaking on my part, my dear,” he
replied. “I told her that unless she wants to spend the rest of her days picking
lice out of her hair in Newgate, she would remain there. We don’t, as a rule,
hang women like that in Britain, although God knows we ought.”

Marian said nothing. Gilbert hesitated and then reached
for her in the dark. He touched her leg, but she did not pull away. His voice
was calmer then, quieter. “Sir Reginald is on the loose now, and I suspect he
would like to sever any links between my windpipe and my lights.”

“Dear God,” Marian breathed.

He patted her leg and rose. “And so you and your
brother— who, by the way, has already expressed his regrets at missing this
evening’s festivities—will be off to Picton in the morning.”

“We were leaving then, anyway,” she said. “I can either
spout my pearls or borrow money from you, Lord Ingraham.”

“You needn’t do either, Marian. My chaise and four will
take you there.” He chuckled, but with little evidence of humor in his voice. “Likely
it won’t be an exciting ride, but I am out of novel ideas to entertain anyone.”

He went to the door.

“Tell me one thing more,” Marian asked. “Why? Why would
Lady Amanda do such a thing?”

He shrugged and leaned against the door. “Boredom, I
suppose. Now, Reg was always under the hatches, and I’m sure he enlisted her
services because he was desperate for the money.” Lord Ingraham looked at her,
as if wondering if he should speak. “You may have noticed that Reg commands a
certain, ah, hold, over his sister that is a trifle aberrant, shall we say?”

She nodded, grateful the dark hid her blush. “But, tell
me, did you plan this whole thing?”

He came back to stand at the foot of the bed. “God, no.
I have no life of my own. I had tried earlier to convince Amanda to dance to my
tune, but nothing came of it. It was all planned for me in London. Remember
that letter I received on Christmas Day?”

“I do.”

“They directed me to woo her and bed her and wed her if
I had to, in order to dry up this source of ordnance traveling out of England. It only took an amazingly vulgar ring to do all that.” He laughed softly. “Would
you ever wear a ring like that, Marian?”

“I’d as lief paste a ruby in my navel and move to a
harem,” she retorted.

“Even if I gave you a ring like that? A real one this
time?”

Marian sat back and pulled the covers close around her.
“I
think not, Gil,” she said,
choosing her words as carefully as she could. “It would not be a good idea.”

He leaned against the bedpost. “I had planned to wrap
this up right and tight tonight with the Calnes, explain it all to you in the
morning, and propose marriage over breakfast. I have noted that you are
particularly receptive over meals.” He was silent then, as if expecting a
comment from her. When she said nothing, he continued awkwardly. “I realize
this is hardly the time and most assuredly not the place, but will you marry
me?”

Marian wished she could see him clearly in the
darkness, and then was grateful that he was just an outline. Her thoughts
tumbled about in her head. Only a day ago, I would have given the earth to hear
those words. “I think not,” she repeated.

He chose his words just as carefully. “But I
think—correct me if I am wrong—I think that you love me as much as I love you.
May I ask why not, then?”

“It goes without saying that I am too young,” she
began. “Imagine what people would think.”

“During my drive to London, I had ample time to
consider that obstacle, but it did not deter me. So what if people talk? You’re
worth it.”

“It is more than that, my lord,” she said, her voice
filled with an unexpected dignity that surprised her, even as it gave her the
heart to speak. “Oh, Gil! Papa would put it in horse language. He would say, ‘Marian,
you’re just not up to his weight.’ And I am not, Gil. The game you play is too
deep for me.” She felt her eyes filling with tears, and she brushed her hand
across them. “I couldn’t stand the agony of kissing you good-bye in the morning
and then wondering all day if I would ever see you alive again.”

“Marian, do you realize what you are saying?”

She held up her hands to ward him off. “I do! We
Wynswiches are wild, Gil, but we don’t even begin to approach your standards.
My answer is no.”

He went to the door. “I’ll see you off in the morning .
. . brat.” The word lingered on his tongue like a lover’s touch.

“Good-bye, Gil.”

Packing took only a matter of minutes the next morning.
Purposely keeping her brain empty of all thought, Marian tossed her bandbox on
the bed, stuffed in her nightgown and slippers, and added the two dresses Lady
Ingraham had given her. She paused over the blue gown, fingering the expensive
fabric, thinking at first that she would leave it, but reconsidering. Such an
action would cause Lady Ingraham undue pain. Marian folded it carefully and
placed it on top in the bandbox.

She set the bandbox by the open door and then went to
the window for one last look at the Royal Crescent, imagining it in spring,
when the leaves were lime green and nursemaids would bundle up their charges
and push prams up and down its wide expanse.

“It’s a beautiful view, isn’t it?”

Marian looked around in surprise. “I didn’t hear you,”
she said to Lord Ingraham, who filled the doorway.

He came to the window and stood close to her, making no
move to touch her. “I used to admire the view from here, too. I don’t think
there is a prettier town prospect in all of England.” He handed her a letter. “This
came earlier from Picton.”

She opened the envelope with a hairpin and read it
while the earl continued to gaze out the window, his hands clasped behind his
back. He finally glanced in her direction and frowned.

“Not bad news, I hope?”

Marian shook herself out of the gray mood that was
settling rapidly. “No. no.
I
think not,” she said, striving to keep her voice light.
“See here, Percy announces that he is being posted soon to Vienna for the
talks.”

“That is a definite step forward,” Gilbert said. “Did
he say what position?”

“Aide to Lord Trask.”

“Excellent fellow!” Gilbert’s eyes stayed fixed on her.
“But is there more? Marian, what’s the matter?”

She roused herself again. “It is nothing, I suppose. I
mean, we all knew it would have to happen. But so soon
...”
Marian took a deep breath. “Covenden Hall has been sold. The
new owner will take possession in April.”

“I am sorry.”

“No need to be,” she said brightly. “Percy says the new
owner paid a wonderful price. It will see us all out of debt, Mama taken care
of, and leave enough left over for Ariadne’s bridal clothes.”

The earl possessed himself of Marian’s hands. “And what
about Marian Wynswich?”

She shook her head. “If you don’t expect much, my lord,
then you arc seldom disappointed. I will manage.”

He squeezed her hands. “Of that, I have no doubt.”

Marian gently disengaged herself. “Percy writes that
the agent was not at liberty to tell us who the new owner is. Look here,” she
said, pointing to Percy’s neat writing. “‘I expect, and Mama is certain, that
he is a mushroom from the City. If only he will maintain this fine old place, I
suppose that will make it right.’”

She lapsed into silence and walked thoughtfully to the
window again before remembering herself. “Well, my lord, do you come for my
bandbox?”

“I do. And Washburn has orchestrated a mighty breakfast
for you. He has little faith in posting houses, and every confidence in your
appetite.”

Marian smiled, because it was expected of her, and
started for the door.

Lord Ingraham collected her bandbox and followed. “Wait,
Marian.”

She stopped, but did not look around.

“About last night . . . Say nothing to my mother. She
does not know about my second career.”

“Certainly, my lord. Not a word.”

Alistair had already tucked himself into breakfast when
they reached the breakfast room. “Mare! You look a bit down-pin this morning,”
he greeted her.

Marian made a face at him and seated herself. “Alistair,
you are a scamp.”

He put down his knife and fork. “If
I
am a scamp, you are a decided
slow-top! Lord Ingraham tells me that you slept through all the excitement last
night, and I missed it.”

She smiled. “It appears your Wynswich luck has run out.
Alistair.”

Washburn poured Marian’s tea. She beamed up at him. “Washburn,
you are much too polite to say anything about my appetite, aren’t you?” Marian
teased.

The butler permitted himself the excess of raising one
eyebrow. “Miss Wynswich, I would never—”

“Well, then, stand back, sir. for I have a prodigious
hunger this morning.” She matched deed to word and proceeded to fill her plate
while Washburn betrayed not a whisker of emotion and Lord Ingraham looked on in
amusement, his arms folded across his chest. Alistair grinned and speared
several slices of bacon from Marian’s plate as she ate.

Lady Ingraham entered the room then, and Washburn set
one baked egg in front of her. Lord Ingraham consulted his pocket watch. “If it
should chance to snow again. I recommend that you put up at the St. George in
Clareton. Or you may elect to drive straight through to Picton. My coachman
will do as you wish.”

“Damn!” Alistair threw down his napkin and turned to
Marian. “Beg pardon.”

“Beg Lady Ingraham’s pardon,” Marian scolded. “What is
the matter?”

“I left my overcoat at Hammerfield, Mare! Surtees had
me rigged out last night in his fancy evening clothes and opera cape, and we
never thought about it.”

“And I missed this display?” Marian asked, rolling her
eyes. “Now, what will you do?”

Lord Ingraham spoke up. “Alistair, you may borrow my
overcoat. It is upstairs. Come, lad.”

“Oh, I should not,” Alistair said.

“I have another here.” He glanced at Marian. “Perhaps I
can come for it in a few days, when business permits.” Marian would not look at
him.

Ingraham sighed heavily. “Or perhaps if you just bring
it back here before the term starts at St. Stephen’s.”

They left the room together, and Lady Ingraham set down
her teacup. She nodded to the butler, and he withdrew. Lady Ingraham got to her
feet quickly and turned the key in the lock. Marian looked up in surprise, and
Lady Ingraham laughed softly.

“I do not mean to keep you here against your will,
child. I merely do not wish to be disturbed for a few moments.” She sat down
next to Marian and took her hand. “I suppose Gilbert has told you a farradiddle
tale that I do not know—or even suspect—what he is involved in.”

Marian stared. “He said
...
he said . . .”

“And I suppose he also told you that I had no notion
that his father was involved in spying and that I still remain blissfully in
the dark?”

“I
...
I did
wonder how it could be so.”

“It was not so,” Lady Ingraham burst out, her voice low
but intense. “And I know how he died in Europe.” Her grip on Marian’s hand tightened
painfully. “I do not wish this for my son.”

Tears sprang into Marian’s eyes. “Oh, Lady Ingraham, I
do not wish it either. What am I to do?”

Lady Ingraham released Marian’s hand and sat back in
her chair. “My son loves you.”

“I will not marry him.”

“Good for you, my dear,” said Lady Ingraham decisively.
“And do not look so startled! Did you think I locked you in here to change your
mind? I will not do that. Indeed, I do not think I could, even though Gilbert
admitted that his wooing had gone aground and begged me early this morning to
try. But I will not.”

Marian put her hands over her eyes until she gained
control of herself again.

Lady Ingraham stood behind her chair and kissed the top
of her head. “If you thought there was some way to stop him in his dreadful
career, I would beg you to try.” She made a dismissing motion with her hand. “I
do not know how to help him, but perhaps you can.”

Marian was silent as Lady Ingraham rested her hands on
her shoulders. “No, I’ll not encourage any woman to suffer as I did.” She
patted Marian. “Although when you brought my son to me on Christmas Eve, I did
begin to think that one of my fondest dreams would be realized.”

“That he would be married?”

“It is more than that. I have always nourished the hope
that Gilbert would marry someone smarter than he is. It could only rebound to
his benefit.” She sighed. “You may be the only woman I have met thus far who
would have done. Good-bye, my dear, dear child. And do come see me this summer.”

They embraced, and Lady Ingraham unlocked the door,
laughing softly to herself. “And Washburn . . . he is the worst of the lot! He
was as deep in the game as my husband, and followed him everywhere. I have no
secrets in this house.” She kissed Marian. “I’m off upstairs. I do so dislike
good-byes.”

“I, too, my lady,” Marian said softly.

Alistair came down the stairs in Lord Ingraham’s
overcoat. “Look, Mare. He said I should have the beaver hat to match the coat.
This is quite a rig-out, my lord.”

“Of course! I cut a fine figure in Ghent. I hear the
carriage in front. Shall we?”

“By all means,” Marian said. Don’t touch me, Gil, she
thought wildly, or I shall wail and mourn, or throw myself into your arms and
not leave this place. And that would be the worst thing of all.

They went to the hallway and the butler opened the
door. Marian breathed deeply of the morning air. “What a beautiful day!” she
exclaimed, and sniffed the air. “Do you know

Alistair,
I
believe you can almost smell the sea air from here.”

She started down the steps, but Lord Ingraham grabbed
her by the hand and pulled her back into the hallway.
“I
hate goodbyes, too,” he
declared. “Kiss me, Marian.”

Without question she raised her face to his, threw her
arms around his neck, and kissed him full on the mouth.

He grabbed her around the waist and held her close,
kissing her over and over until she finally put her hands against his chest and
pushed. He released her then.

“Mind who you kiss like that, Marian.” he said
breathlessly. “They could get ideas.
Bon voyage,
brat.”

Marian ran down the steps and into the carriage. “Oh,
don’t just stand there, Alistair,” she pleaded as her tears began to fall.

“Catch, Alistair,” Lord Ingraham commanded. Marian’s
pearls flew through the air as Alistair made a one-handed retrieve and swung
himself into the carriage. “Your sister can’t seem to keep these around her
neck, lad. Better not trust her with anything valuable.”

Bath
flew by in a blur as Marian wept. In disgust, Alistair
dug deep into Lord Ingraham’s overcoat and pulled out a handkerchief.

She took it, put her face in it, and cried harder: the
handkerchief smelled like Gilbert Ingraham.

“Mare, there was a time when you weren’t quite so
missish,” he grumbled before he closed his eyes.

Lord Ingraham’s well-sprung coach was certainly an
improvement over the mail coach, Marian decided after several miles. She wiped
her eyes and tucked the handkerchief, vowing to wash it and keep it. And
someday, when I am married with children of my own and they demand a bedtime
story, I
will tell them about the
Christmas when I was sixteen. If they laugh and think that I am bamming them, I
will take out the handkerchief with its monogram, and they will not think I
have made it up entirely.

They stopped at noon in Glide well Common, where they
were shown every courtesy.

“Mare, we should travel like this all the time,”
Alistair whispered to her as they prepared to continue their journey. “All it
takes is an earl’s crest on the door.”

The coachman swung himself into the seat again, but
they did not move. Alistair finally tapped impatiently and Stuck his head out
the door. “I say, we could be in Picton by late evening.”

The coachman heaved himself out of the box and opened
the door. “Begging your pardon. Mr. Wynswich, but I am puzzling about
something.”

“Eh?”