Season's Regency Greetings (14 page)

Joe was silent. She looked at him, startled to see tears in his eyes. She touched his arm. “Joe, don't feel sorry for me.”

“
Call me a fool, then.”

“
Never,” she declared. “Mama never let me read those ladies' novels. You know, the ones where the scullery maid turns out to be an earl's daughter? Isn't that what happens in those dreadful books? Who can believe such nonsense?”

“
I can assure you that
my
scullery maid isn't an earl's daughter. Where do authors get those stupid notions?” He took another drink.

She held out her glass for more. “My case is the precise opposite of a bad novel. Papa and Mama had been married for several years, with no issue in sight, apparently.”

“
It happens.” He held up his own glass to the firelight. “I know.”

“
Mama had a modiste who called herself Clare La Salle, and claimed to be a French émigrée.”

“
That's glamorous enough for a bad novel,” Joseph said. “I take it that Clare was not her real name.”

“
No, indeed. Apparently Clare found herself in an interesting condition.”

“
Any idea who the father was?”

Mary giggled. “I think I am drunking … drinking … this too fast.”

“
You can't be too careful with smuggler's brandy, my dear,” Joseph said.

“
I don't think he was a marquess or a viscount,” she said. “Clare came to Mama in desperation, and she and my parents hatched a scheme. You can imagine the rest.”

“
What happened to Clare?”

“
She was so obliging as to die when I was born, apparently. Mama had retired to Denton, so no one knew I wasn't really hers,” Mary said. “What could interfere now? Mama found herself in an interesting condition later, and Sara was born. And then Edgar.” She tipped back the glass and drained it.

“
You're not supposed to drink it so fast. A sip here, a sip there.” Joe set the bottle on the floor between them. He settled lower in his chair. “So Lady Mary, daughter of the Earl of Denton, spent a blissful childhood of privilege, completely ignorant of her actual origins.” He looked at her. “Do you think it was just two weeks ago that they had second thoughts about their philanthropy?”

She shook her head. “As I reflect on it now, I think not.”

“
You never had a come-out, did you?”

My stars, she thought, you were mindful of such a thing? “No, I never did. I am surprised that you were ever aware of it, though.”

He took another sip. “Don't think me presumptuous when I say this, but your family was a choice topic of conversation in our cottage.” He shrugged. “I expect this is true of any large estate.”

She digested what he said, and could not deny the probable truth of it. The reverse gave her some pause; at no point in her life had she ever been interested in those belowstairs. “We never spoke of you, sir,” she said honestly.

“
A candid statement,” he said. “I appreciate your honesty.” He took another sip. “I wager that you do not remember the first time I could have come to your attention.”

“
You would lose, sir. I remember it quite well.”

“
What?”

“
Let me tell you here that Sara and I both fell in love with you when we were little. We decided you were quite the nicest person on the whole estate.”

“
My blushes.”

“
You rescued me from an apple tree when I was five,” she said, enjoying the embarrassment on his face. “As I recall, Thomas put me there on a dare from the goose girl.”

“
That was it,” he said, and took a deep drink. “I trust you and Lady Sara survived your infatuation?”

“
I think we did. But you know, I never thanked you for rescuing me.”

“
You weren't supposed to.”

“
Then I thank you now.”

They were both quiet. Mary smiled and looked into the flames. “Now that I think of it, by the time for my come-out, my parents were likely coming to realize the deception they were practicing on those of their rank regarding my … my unsuitability.”

“
I say, sod'um all, Mary.”

She gasped. “Joe, your language!”

He leaned across the space between them, his eyes merry. “Sod them, I say. You always were the most interesting of the lot, Mary McIntyre.”

“
Joe, you're mizzled.”

“
No, I'm stinking. I do this often enough to know.” He winked at her. “Did you want a come-out?”

“
No. I like to dance, but I have no patience for fashion—can you imagine how my real mother is spinning in her grave? Idle chat bores me.” She rested her chin on her hand. “Joe, I'm going to miss Denton.” The tears slid down her face then. She had never drunk herself into this state before, and she decided to blame the brandy.

Joe seemed not to mind. He didn't harrumph and walk around in great agitation, as Lord Davy had when she cried after his terrible news to her. He regarded her for a moment. “What finally brought the matter to a head? Who connected the McIntyres with Clare La Salle?”

She took another drink. “It was a Bow Street Runner, of all things. Mrs. McIntyre—she would be my real grandmother—had long mourned that wayward daughter. After some years, she contacted the Bow Street Runners. After considerable time and much perseverance, they connected her missing daughter to Clare La Salle through one of London's houses of fashion. They found me less than a month ago,” she concluded simply.

She took a deep breath. “Mama couldn't face me. Papa told me the whole story. He offered me an annuity that Hailey and Tighe drew up. I … I signed it and left the room Mary McIntyre.”

“
Damn them all, Mary.”

“
No,” she said quickly, startled at his vehemence. “I have an income that most of England would envy, and all my faculties. It could have been much worse.” The silence from the other chair told her quite eloquently that Joseph Shepard did not agree. She folded her hands in her lap and felt greatly tired. “I will miss them all. Lord Davy thinks it best that I quietly fade from the scene. No family needs scandal. I have … had a suitor, Colonel Sir Harold Fox. Perhaps you remember him?”

“
Yes, indeed. A tall fellow who rides his horses too hard.”

“
Does he? I have written him a letter laying the whole matter before him. We shall see what he chooses to do. Rides his horses too hard, eh?”

Joe laughed. “Sod him, too, Mary.”

She joined in his laughter, feeling immeasurably better. “Your turn, Joe,” she said when she quit laughing. “Why are you and Tom so out of sorts?”

She thought he was disinclined to reply at all, considering the lengthy silence. Or it may have been only a few moments. The brandy had enveloped her in a cocoon that either shut out time, or let it through in odd spurts.

“
I hope this won't offend you,” he began finally.

“
No one else has been concerned about offending me lately,” she reminded him.

“
Your father—well, Lord Davy—is a misguided philanthropist, I do believe.”

Two weeks ago she would have disputed with him, but not now. “My father was his estate steward, as you know,” he went on. “One day he told my father that he wanted to educate Tom and me. You know, send us to university, give us a leg up. Lord Davy paid Tom's charges at the University of London, and he became a solicitor.”

“
But not a barrister? Does that bother him?”

He looked at her with some appreciation. “Bravo, Mary! Poor Tom. No matter how fine his patronage, no one would ever call Tom, the son of a steward, to the bar.”

She thought a minute. “I really don't recall seeing Thomas much at Denton, after he went to university.”

“
Try never. We weren't good enough,” he said, and took another drink. “He never came around. Think of it, Mary: he was too good to visit the steward's cottage, and will never be good enough for an invitation to Denton Hall. Poor man, poor man.”

She mulled it over. “There is a certain irony to this conversation, Joe,” she said after some thought. “Tom goes up in society, but never quite high enough. I go down …”

“…
but you will always be a lady, no matter what your former relatives do to you. He may just resent you, too, Mary.” He was starting to mumble now from the brandy. “You're in good company, because he resents me, too.”

“
Because you didn't go to university? Obviously you turned down the same offer from Lord Davy.”

“
Oh, but I did go to university. I did well, even though it bored me beyond belief. It is …. It is worse than that.”

She stared at him, feeling definitely muddled from all that brandy. She closed her eyes, and after a moment, the matter became quite clear. She laughed.

Joe watched her appreciatively. “Figure it out?”

“
Joe, you'll have to tell me what you do for a living, I suppose,” she said.

“
I am a lowly grain broker, but by damn, I am a hell of a businessman.” He smiled. “Despite my lofty education!” He started to laugh again, which made him look suspiciously at the glass in his hand. He set it on the floor. “I decided to do what I like. Every spring I visit farms and estates in Yorkshire, make predictions, and give them an offer on their crops. It is called dealing in futures, and I am good.”

She clapped her hands, delighted at his good fortune. “I can hardly imagine more lowly commerce.”

“
Thank you! I have considered developing a side line in the bone and hide business, just to spite Thomas.” He grinned. “Imagine how I would stink! If I were to turn up at his London house, Thomas would probably fall on his knife.”

She watched him, not flinching at his scrutiny, even as she felt her whole body grow warm. Sir Harry never looked at me like that, she thought. I should go to bed. There was one more matter; the brandy fogging her brain reminded her. “Let us see how this tallies: Thomas is unhappy because he will never scale the heights he feels he deserves, and he resents your success. I have seen my hopes of a lifetime dashed. What about you? You said earlier that you spend too much time doing just this.”

It sounded so blunt that she wished she had not spoken, especially when he avoided her gaze. “I miss my wife,” he said, just as bluntly. “She was a grand woman, although I daresay Tom would have thought her common, had he ever met her.”

“
Would
I
have liked her?” Mary asked.

“
You would have loved her,” he replied promptly. “You remind me of her a little: same dark hair, eyes almost black, quiet, capable. Tall, for a woman. I like looking women in the eye.” He reached out to touch her leg, then pulled his hand back. She held her breath, not moving, not wanting to break whatever spell he was under. He took one deep breath and then another, and she could tell the Chateau du Monde had worked on him. “Maybe I was even thinking of you when I met her, Lady Mary. Or maybe I am thinking of her now when I see you. Or maybe I am drunk beyond redemption tonight.” He shook his head. “I will be sober in the morning and regret this conversation.”

“
I do hope not, Joe,” she said quietly. She was silent then, as spent as he was. After a moment, she moved her legs away from the hassock, then gathered herself together enough to stand. Her head seemed miles away from her feet. “I am relieved that is your last bottle of Chateau Whatever-it-is.”

He chuckled, and struggled to his feet. “Let me help you down those stairs, Mary McIntyre. I would feel wretched if you landed in a heap in the servants' hall.”

She could think of no objection as he put his arm around her waist and pulled her arm around his. By hanging onto the wall, then clutching the banister, he got her to the door of the maids' room.

“
Are you all right now?” he whispered. He turned his head. “Lord, can Frank King ever snore. Unless that is Myrtle.”

They laughed softly together, his head close to hers. He leaned on her, and she thought for a moment that he was asleep. For no discernible reason—considering that her brain was starting to hum—she thought of Christmas. “Joe,” she whispered. “Do you and Joshua not really celebrate the season?”

“
I never quite know what to do,” he replied.

“
Have you any holiday decorations?”

“
Melissa had quite a few, but I do not know that either of us are up to those yet.”

“
Any others?” He was leaning on her quite heavily now.

“
There may be a box belonging to the defunct owner of this palace,” he said. “Probably vulgar and destined to set off Thomas. Oh, do find them!” He laughed.

She put her hand over his mouth to silence him, and he kissed her palm, his eyes closed, then it was her wrist. His head was so close that she couldn't think of a reason not to kiss his cheek. “I think I will see what Mrs. King and I can do about Christmas,” she murmured, “considering that we are snowbound.”

He pulled her very close then, giving her brandy-soaked brain the opportunity to consider the feel of him in some explicit detail. They were about the same height. When she turned her face to look at him—so close he was out of focus—kissing him seemed the only thing to do that made any sense.

He must have been of similar mind. He kissed her back, one hand tugging insistently at her hair, the other caressing her back in a way that made her sigh through his kiss.