What a Lady Needs for Christmas (36 page)

That brought the older fellow up short at the bottom of the steps. “Well, it was a good thought. Perhaps one couple, on a leash—”

“That way!”

They thundered off, past the formal parlors, in pursuit of one downy little tail that moved not at a panicked speed, but at the speed of a damned rabbit out to have a lark at the expense of its supposed betters.

Spathfoy emerged from the library, drink in hand. “What is this commotion?”

“Damned rabbit is loose,” Quinworth said. “I say we get the hounds, but Hartwell isn’t in the mood for indoor blood sport.”

“We’re starting a fresh hand,” Spathfoy said, swirling his drink. “You can get another rabbit sent out from Aberdeen, for God’s sake. Come join us, and get out of this freezing corridor.”

“Capital notion.” The marquess appropriated his son’s drink and downed it in one swallow. “What’s the game?”

“That rabbit,” Dante said in low, furious tones, “is my sole gift to my lady wife, for she loves soft, comforting textures. I’ll not sit about choking on your cigar smoke while yonder rabbit roams at large, vulnerable to dogs, cats, weather, or zealous cooks. Get off your lordly arses and help me find Lady Joan’s gift.”

Father and son exchanged glances that blossomed into identical smiles. Spathfoy snatched back the glass and bellowed into the library.

“You lot! Hartwell says to get off your lordly arses and help him find his wife’s rabbit!”

The next two hours saw Dante, Quinworth, Spathfoy, Balfour, his three brothers, his brother-in-law, and the night porter tearing around the house, amply fortified by many a wee dram, until the hunt converged outside the nursery.

“The little bugger went this way,” Connor MacGregor muttered. “Damned near skinned m’ knees on the stairs, chasing him here.”

He took out a flask and tipped it up, and up some more.

“I nearly had the blighter in the library,” Spathfoy said, taking out his own flask. “That is one quick rabbit.”

“That’s a sober rabbit,” Balfour said. “The odds are stacked against us.”

“It’s a missing rabbit,” Gilgallon said, adding a few Gaelic curses at rabbits, their progeny, their tails, and their rabbity ideas about Christmas.

“Rabbit haggis sounds good about now,” Matthew Daniels added. “And I loathe haggis.”

They were panting, more than half-tipsy, and had spent their Christmas Eve in pursuit of Dante’s Christmas present rather than whiling away the evening at cards.

Would they have been as generous with their time had they known Dante was all that stood between Lady Joan and endless scandal?

The nursery door opened, revealing Charlie in nightgown and ratty braids.

“You’re all up past your bedtime,” she said. “May I stay up too?”

A pale, furry blur shot between her slippered feet, directly into the warmth of the nursery.

“There’s the little bas—blessed bunny!” Spathfoy roared.

A general melee followed, with seven grown men and one little girl trying to crowd through the doorway at once. The child, like the rabbit, was sober and fresh from her slumbers, with the result that at least three of her uncles suffered an elbow to some inconvenient location.

“We’ve got you now,” Dante said to the little gray beast, who sat serene and fluffy before the box in which Frederick resided. “Quinworth, get the door.”

Such were the bonds forged in the hunt field that the marquess obeyed Dante’s command smartly.

“He’ll not get out now,” Balfour said. “Little wretch owes me two hours sleep beside my countess, and at least four bottles of the finest—for God’s sake!”

Frederick’s head popped up over the edge of his box, an enclosure with sides about two and a half feet high.

“That’s a tall bunny,” Gilgallon said, foreboding in his tone, “and likely a fast bunny too.”

“Frederick is a quite good size,” Charlie observed. “And oh, look, they’re making friends!”

Dante hadn’t given the second rabbit a name repeatable in polite, sober company, but the Infernal Beast also went up on its back legs to touch wiggly, pink noses with Frederick. A conversation of some sort transpired between the rabbits, consisting of sniffing, interspersed with moments of unblinking, leporine consideration, followed by more sniffing.

“They could start fighting any moment,” Quinworth muttered. “Buck rabbits aren’t to be trifled with—prodigious teeth and claws, you know.”

“Frederick is a gentleman,” Charlie said, as if instructing a slow student in a familiar catechism. “Who’s his new friend?”

“Frederick is a fat, indolent parasite and a disgrace to the male gender,” Spathfoy muttered. “But even a rabbit bestirs himself when his territory is threatened.”

A moment passed, while grown men recovered their wind, two rabbits exchanged bunny-greetings, and a small child hoped none of the adults would notice the hour.

“Charlie, you should be back in bed,” Dante said softly, because Phillip and Fiona slept nearby.

“Oh, good luck with that,” Spathfoy grumbled. “I was about to invite the child to join us for cards. It’s the bunny’s turn to deal.”

Charlie beamed at the earl. “You were?”

“He was not,” Dante retorted, trying to figure the best angle to attack the rabbit so it wouldn’t disappear under a wardrobe or into some gap in the wainscoting. “Spathfoy was teasing.”

Phillip emerged from the dormitory. “Teasing about what? You’re all up past your bedtimes, and Father Christmas won’t visit us.”

Charlie’s hands went to her hips. “He will too. Lady Joan promised!”

Fiona appeared on Phillip’s heels, making the playroom just the sort of crowded, dimly lit space in which a pair of rabbits might run riot until dawn.

“Is there a lid to Frederick’s box?” Dante asked. And where were the nursery maids at such an hour?

“We don’t use it,” Fiona said. “Frederick likes to come out and play, though lately he’s been—”

“Peaked and wan,” her uncles said in unison with her grandfather.

“Rabbit haggis,” Gilgallon whispered.

“Get the lid to the box,” Dante instructed his daughter. “If we can chase Lady Joan’s pet in with Frederick, we can separate them before they take up arms against each other.”

“Frederick is a gentleman,” Charlie said again as she rummaged behind a toy box for a square of wood. “He won’t take up arms against a guest under his roof.”

Dante was directly behind the loose rabbit, who was absorbed touching noses with Frederick. “Nobody move.”

The nursery became the still, quiet place it ought to have been at such an hour. Soundlessly, Dante crouched behind the rabbit, reaching slowly, slowly toward the errant gift. He’d just touched soft, soft fur, when the dratted creature shot straight up—

And into Frederick’s box.

Frederick’s head disappeared.

“They’re going to be friends!” Fiona said, clapping her hands as Dante slapped the lid onto the box.

“Got you.” He held the lid down, expecting a furious thumping and squealing to ensue, but all in the box was quiet.

The menfolk exchanged uneasy glances, while Quinworth, in a grandpapa’s blend of command and cajolery, spoke to the infantry. “Off to bed with you now, children. Father Christmas is doubtless on his way even as we speak.”

“Silly English tradition,” Connor commented.

“Which you will observe when your children are toddling, if you don’t already,” Spathfoy countered.

The children turned for their beds, just as the box thumped loudly, repeatedly.

“Let Frederick out,” Fiona cried. “They’re having fisticuffs, and Frederick is too sweet and dear and kind and—”

Dante angled himself between the child and the rabbit box, and cracked the lid.

He dropped the lid abruptly, while the thumping went on in a merry rhythm.

“They’re fine,” he managed.

“But I can hear them fighting!” Charlie said, tugging on Spathfoy’s restraining hand. “It isn’t good to fight with your friends, especially when you’re the only bunnies in the entire Highlands.”

“They’re…” Dante looked to the other men for reinforcements, and found only suppressed, incredulous mirth and darting gazes. “They’re doing the bunny get-acquainted dance. Sort of a bunny version of the Highland fling. I don’t think Frederick will be peaked and wan after this. Listen, nobody’s yelling in there.”

The thumping paused, then resumed.

Both little girls looked dubious. Phillip turned and headed for his bed. “I’ll not be the reason Father Christmas passes this house by. The dancing bunnies can go hang.”

The child had management written all over him, and the little girls fell in behind him. Quinworth closed the dormitory door just as seven grown men tried to quietly fend off hysterical laughter.

And failed—utterly.

Sixteen

“We need a nightcap,” Spathfoy announced, because Hartwell’s pursuit of the rabbit had been more than a new husband’s dedication to a good impression on Christmas morning.

“My cellars will be empty by Hogmanay,” Balfour groused. “Never saw such a lot of Englishmen for drinking whiskey as you, Daniels, and Quinworth.”

“Marriage to a Scotswoman will do that,” Quinworth replied, all equanimity.

Spathfoy draped an arm over Hartwell’s shoulders, lest Hartwell, like his rabbit, go darting off into the shadows. “You married an Englishwoman. She seems happy enough with her bargain.”

But Joan was also worried. Spathfoy’s fraternal intuition told him as much, backed up by his countess’s observations.

When Hartwell ought to have offered some remark about a Scotsman’s ability to keep a woman happy, he tromped along in silence and made no move to cast off Spathfoy’s arm.

“Early days in a marriage can be a challenge,” Connor MacGregor offered, with the peculiar delicacy he demonstrated about twice a year. “Though Lady Joan watches her new husband the way Quinworth’s hounds might watch those rabbits.”

“More affectionately,” Gilgallon suggested. “Maybe the way the rabbits were watching each other.”

This engendered more merriment, and yet Hartwell didn’t join in, even when they gained the warmth of the library, where the Christmas tree lent its pleasant scent and holiday cheer to the entire room.

“You’re quiet, Hartwell,” Quinworth said as Balfour poured drinks. “Has chasing the rabbit worn you out, or does my daughter have something to answer for?”

Hartwell accepted his drink, though the gesture had an odd, dazed quality.

The fire crackled cozily in the hearth, shadows danced across the carpets and walls. Father Christmas was no doubt making his way up the drive that very moment.

“Spathfoy mentioned that even a rabbit will defend his territory,” Hartwell said softly. The other six men comprehended his tone, for they left off suggesting names for Lady Frederick’s progeny.

“I am far from a rabbit, but I’m not a wealthy, titled, elegant gentleman either, and my territory is under attack.”

“Bad form on somebody’s part,” Quinworth said, tossing back a nip. “Not the season to behave uncivilly. Come tell Father Christmas what’s afoot, and maybe with the aid of his elves, we can put some coal in an appropriate stocking.”

Spathfoy had never been more proud of his father, which probably said more about the quality of Balfour’s nightcaps than Spathfoy’s filial sentiments.

“Tell us,” Spathfoy said. “Joan is my sister, and a woman of eminent discernment. If she chose you to do the bunny dance with, then we’re rather stuck with you too.”

“Your refined speech will provoke the man to call you out,” Balfour commented, ambling off to the sofa. “I’m your host, though, Hartwell. You’re Scottish, so you know your every comfort and care is mine to fuss over. Tell us what’s troubling you.”

“And I’m purely bored,” Connor added, taking a seat beside Balfour. “Entertain me with your worries, and I’ll be less concerned about my wife’s interesting condition.”

Everybody silently drank to that sentiment. Hartwell took a seat behind the desk, and he looked good there, if tired and worried.

“Lady Joan did not marry me out of any sudden upwelling of tender sentiment. She has been preyed upon and taken advantage of by a scoundrel of the first water, and I’ve considered everything from calling him out to killing him to lay my wife’s fears to rest.”

“Killing always sounds good,” Daniels noted. “But the justice of the peace will take a dim view of it, particularly if Joan’s detractor is wealthy and titled.”

Hartwell’s tale didn’t take long in the telling. Joan had been foolish, but understandably so, given her passion for her dresses and Valmonte’s charm and flattery. Hartwell had been everything noble, particularly given that Joan’s titled and wealthy relations had not made any overtures of a financial nature to her new spouse.

“Bad tidings, this,” the marquess said when Hartwell fell silent. “Joan and her mama both become fierce when pursuing what matters to them. And you’re right, holding Valmonte accountable will be hard, for he is titled. The wealthy part, however, is open to debate.”

Every pair of eyes went to the older man.

“In what sense?” Hartwell asked.

“Men gossip, and they drink, and I’m an old fellow with nothing better to do on the occasional afternoon than lounge about my clubs, reading the papers, and lamenting the youth of today.”

Spathfoy had yet to see his father lounge or engage in anything so tame as a lament. “You have the floor, sir. What have you heard about Valmonte?”

Because this was what Hartwell needed. Not a title, not even that much wealth. He needed information and the courage that came from knowing he did not stand alone.

And Spathfoy needed to apologize to his sister—for failing to protect her, for treating something she was passionate about as a mere feminine fancy, and for doubting her choice of spouse.

***

A letter of resignation was a difficult document to draft. Hector’s attempts kept turning into memoranda—of all Dante should do upon Hector’s departure, of how Dante ought to choose Hector’s replacement, of how badly Hector hoped Margaret would find happiness.

Which was a lot of balderdash. Hector hoped Margaret would wait for him to make a proper fortune, like a sea captain’s wife waited, sometimes years, for her husband to return from his journeys.