'Twas the Night After Christmas (7 page)

“Then I shall have to take care not to offer more, shan’t I?” And with that, she slipped from the room.

But as she made her way down the hall, her knees shaking and her hands clammy, she had to acknowledge that this bargain might not be quite so easy to keep. Because insane as it might be, she found the idea of being in the earl’s bed rather intriguing.

Oh, what was wrong with her? He didn’t mean a thing he said—clearly he’d issued his dire “warning” just to vex her. Why, the man was seen every week with some fine beauty at the opera
or the theater or balls where he scandalized everyone with his flirtations.

Yes, exactly! He was an awful man with a terrible reputation. Being attracted to such a fellow was utterly unlike her. Even if he
was
so very handsome. And more clever than she’d expected. And full of secrets that intrigued her.

She scowled. They did
not
intrigue her. They all centered around his clear lack of concern for his mother’s feelings.

Well, perhaps not entirely clear.

She married Father for money, and now that it’s all under
my
control, she suddenly “needs” me desperately.

Camilla shook off a chill. Pausing only to tell a passing maid that his lordship’s plans had changed again, she headed for the countess’s bedchamber. He was utterly wrong about his mother. She was almost sure of it, and she knew her ladyship better than anyone. Didn’t she?

A woman who didn’t even care that her son was alive until two years ago, when my father died and she could no longer depend on
his
largesse?

Why would he say that? Though come to think of it, the countess only spoke of her son as a boy and as a grown man. She said nothing about his school years.

Then again, he would have been away during his school years. But he would have come home for holidays. He would have gotten into scrapes and adventures; even a sickly boy would have done
that
.

And why did the countess never speak of the previous earl? Camilla assumed that their marriage had been a formal one, since
the woman rarely mentioned him, but now she had to wonder . . . Could Lady Devonmont really have married the man just for his money?

If only some of the old servants were still employed who could say what the countess’s husband had been like and if he’d played a part in the estrangement between mother and son.

Since Camilla had secrets of her own, she had a firm rule against prying into her employers’ private affairs. But she was sorely tempted to break her rule in this case. Dealing with the prickly earl would be much easier if she knew more about him and his mother.

She found the countess already up from her rest. “I have some good news, my lady. His lordship has decided to join us for dinner this evening.”

Lady Devonmont faced her warily. “I don’t understand.”

Camilla forced a cheery smile to her lips. “He’s had a change of heart. You see? He
does
care.”

As joy lit the countess’s face, she seized Camilla’s hand. “You did this. I know you did. But how? What did you say to convince him?”

“Nothing of importance. I merely appealed to his sense of decency.” Not for anything would she tell the countess of the bargain she’d made. The woman would leap to the wrong conclusion, and that could only worsen matters.

Unless the countess had
wanted
Camilla to do something to keep him here?

She’s trying to enlist you as an ally in her scheme. And she knows it won’t work unless she can convince you that she is slighted and put upon.

Ridiculous.

He was right about one thing, though—there was more to the situation than met the eye. And given his mother’s words earlier, she knew his lordship wasn’t the only one who didn’t wish to discuss the past.

Very well. She’d have to be more creative in uncovering this tangle. Lady Devonmont had made Camilla and Jasper part of her family, and families helped each other. So the least Camilla could do was try to restore the rest of the countess’s family to her. No matter what it took.

D
inner was pure misery.

Not that Pierce was surprised. How could it be anything else? He was sitting in the very chair his father had always used, staring at the lofty portrait of a grandfather he’d never known, and listening to the achingly familiar voice of his mother prattling on about nothing while Mrs. Stuart shot him furtive glances.

The damned woman didn’t understand—he couldn’t act as if the past twenty-three years hadn’t happened. Mrs. Stuart expected him to make witty conversation with his
mother
. Might as well ask him to give a sermon in hell.

Especially with bitter memories resurrecting themselves every moment he sat here. As a boy, he’d taken his meals in the nursery, but he’d been allowed to join his parents for dinner at Christmas
and special occasions. Those nights invariably deteriorated as Father berated him for being weak and sickly, until he retorted with some bit of insolence that got him banished from the table. The memory made his stomach churn.

He forced a spoonful of soup between his lips and swallowed, barely tasting it. Mother had always tried to mediate but had rarely been successful. It was as if Father
wanted
to drive Pierce off, so he could have Mother all to himself.

Well, if that had been Father’s aim, he’d gotten exactly what he wanted, hadn’t he? And Mother hadn’t protested it.

Glancing over at her, he looked for signs of the heartless creature he knew her to be. But aside from her ornate gown and fine jewelry, which reminded him that what she really wanted was more of Father’s fortune, he could see nothing other than the mother he’d adored as a boy.

Except a far older one. He couldn’t get over how much she’d aged. Seeing it made something in his chest twist.

When that became too painful to endure, he turned his gaze to Mrs. Stuart. Instantly, the aching turned to annoyance. The woman was a bloody meddler, presumptuous and self-righteous, and so blindly loyal to his mother that it made him want to . . . to . . .

To respect her. He sighed. That was mad. Blind loyalty shouldn’t be an admirable quality. But somehow, in Mrs. Stuart it was. Perhaps because she was loyal for the most naive reasons. She considered it the right thing, the caring thing, to champion his mother.

It was the caring part that stymied him. How could she care
about a woman who’d abandoned her own son? Of course, the young widow didn’t seem to know that, and he wasn’t ready to tell her. Not until he had a better sense of what the situation was.

“Do you not agree, my lord?” Mrs. Stuart’s pleasant voice intruded.

Damn, his long stares had made her think he had an opinion on whatever nonsense she and Mother were discussing. “I suppose,” he said noncommittally.

“You didn’t hear a word, did you?” Mrs. Stuart said.

The woman certainly liked to speak her mind. “Listening appeared unnecessary. Once the conversation turned to decorations for Christmas, I knew any points I made would be ignored.”

“Not at all,” she protested. “Why would you think so?”

Feeling Mother’s gaze on him, he shrugged. “I’m a man, and we’re generally thought incompetent to advise in that area.”

“That doesn’t mean you are,” his mother said earnestly. “Mr. Fowler says you’ve made many improvements on the estate—better roofs for the tenant cottages, a new fishery, modern additions to the dairy—”

“Those are my purview. Decorations for Christmas are not.”

“They could be.” A hopeful look crossed her face. “Perhaps this year you could even join us for the season.”

A hard knot formed in his chest. “Impossible. I’m expected at the Waverlys’.” He cast her a meaningful glance. “As usual.” When his mother flinched, it soured his temper further, which made him glare at the pretty young widow who’d brought this about in the first place. “I wouldn’t even be here, if not for the interference of certain individuals.”

She calmly continued to eat her soup, though her cheeks reddened considerably. “As I recall, I apologized for misleading you about your mother’s health, sir.”

Since Mother didn’t look shocked by her comment, Mrs. Stuart must have confessed all to her. That was a surprise. “Apparently I missed your apology during all the chiding and lecturing.”

“You just now admitted to a certain laxness in listening,” Mrs. Stuart said pertly. “Perhaps your attention wandered during my apology, too.”

Perversely, that made him want to smile. The widow’s impudent streak caught him unawares sometimes. “Then I’ll have to pay better attention in future,” he said, struggling to sound stern.

It was hard to be stern with her. He wasn’t sure why. She just had this way of bringing him out of himself when he least expected it.

Suddenly he felt his mother’s gaze on him. He looked over to see her eyes dart from him to Mrs. Stuart and back, and his bad mood returned. Best not to give her any ideas, or she’d be priming Mrs. Stuart to be even more of an ally.

He frowned at them both. “So what do you want my opinion on, anyway?”

“We have to decide whether to have a Christmas tree like those that your mother had in her youth,” Mrs. Stuart said gamely.

“And in Pierce’s youth, too.” Mother cut her roast beef. “I always made sure we had at least a small one, hung round with candles and toys and such, though Pierce’s father thought it a foolish waste of good timber.”

He tensed. Mother was still following that peculiar German
custom? Great God. In his childhood, the scent of cut fir had permeated the house every Christmas. Even now, whenever he smelled firs he thought of that strange little tree with its sparkling baubles and little bags of nuts . . . and he ached with the bittersweet memory of his last Christmas at home.

Oblivious to his reaction, Mrs. Stuart generously buttered a slice of bread. “We’ll have to find one ourselves, with your supervision, my lady. The servants won’t know what sort of tree to choose. And once they cut it down and bring it in, you’ll have to show us how to decorate it and affix candles to it.”

“Excellent,” he grumbled. “Might as well show you how to set fire to the whole damned house, while you’re at it.”

When they turned startled looks on him, he forced the frown from his face. Not for the world would he let them know how their talk of Christmas trees stabbed him through with sharp memories. “Candles on a tree are dangerous.”

“Not if the tree is green,” his mother put in. “And it will only stay up for a day or two.” She busied herself with sopping up gravy with her bread. “No point in keeping it up until Twelfth Night if you’re not even going to be here for Christmas.”

If she thought her unsubtle hints that he should stay would work on
him,
she was mad. “True,” he said firmly. “Then it will be fine for so short a period.”

“Good,” his mother said with a hint of belligerence. “Because I think a tree would make the holiday truly lovely.”

Casting him a shuttered glance, Mrs. Stuart sipped some wine. “I agree. It sounds like a perfectly charming custom.”

“And an expensive one, given its short duration.” Which was
probably the point. He faced his mother. “How much will this cost me, anyway? You’ll need baubles and candles for your precious tree, not to mention—”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Pierce. I have all that already. The baubles, as you call them, are the same ones I store in the attic every year.”

That caught him entirely off guard. He’d expected her to disguise a request for funds by saying it was for her precious tree. “You want
nothing
purchased for this tree?” he persisted, ignoring Mrs. Stuart’s smug smile.

“Certainly not. The point is to perpetuate the traditions of one’s family. My glass ornaments come from your grandmother, and the other decorations are fruit and nuts, all of which can be found here on the estate, even the candles.” She brightened. “Oh, and paper cutouts! We must do those. Don’t you remember, Pierce? We used to cut tiny little angels—”

“I remember,” he said bitterly. “Trust me, I remember only too well.” When the two women lapsed into an awkward silence, he added, “But in case you haven’t noticed, Mother, I’ve grown too big for angels. Devils are more my style.”

“Ah, but I don’t think devils are a good idea for a Christmas tree,” Mrs. Stuart put in, as if to draw his fire.

He turned toward her with a challenging glance. “And why is that?”

She didn’t waver. “Well, for one thing, pitchforks are exceedingly difficult to cut out.”

He blinked, then gave a rueful laugh. Damn the woman, but she made it hard to stay annoyed. And when she stared at
him with a silent plea in her eyes, he relented for the moment.

Relaxing back against his chair, he took a sip of wine. “You’d feel differently if you’d ever tried cutting out a tiny halo, Mrs. Stuart. Or stars, for that matter. Mine always ended up round, which goes against every rule of star artistry.” He leaned close to say in a confiding tone, “Apparently, they’re expected to have points.”

“Are they?” she said brightly. “Then clearly I shall have to stick to moons. Those are allowed to be round.”