A Regency Yuletide Read online

  “I am sorry to sound as if I doubted you, Daphne,” Priscilla said, putting her arm around her daughter’s shoulders and giving her a quick squeeze. “You must own that the invitation is quite extraordinary. Had you heard anything of this, Neville?”

  He stepped away from the crate and took the invitation. Reading it, he said, “Not a word. I don’t know how the Symmingtons could possibly keep such a coup secret. I daresay the whole Polite World will now be rocked from its moorings, and the very underpinnings of England and the monarchy may be in danger.”

  As both men laughed and the younger children joined in, Priscilla noticed that Daphne appeared shattered. Nothing in the invitation suggested it was “the most horrible thing in history” as Daphne had asserted.

  Taking her older daughter by the hand, Priscilla led her into the parlor. She closed the door, a clear sign that she did not want to be interrupted while she spoke with Daphne.

  The room, like the rest of Mermaid Cottage, was simple and comfortable. The house, close to the cliffs in the tiny village of Stonehall-on-Sea, had been the family’s home while Lazarus had served as the parish’s vicar. When he died, everyone had assumed that Priscilla would sell it and move to Town or to live with her aunt. But she could not bear to lose her home, too.

  Going to the settee, she gestured for Daphne to sit beside her. She reached out and smoothed back her daughter’s hair that was the same burnished gold as her own. “What is really wrong? You are on edge.”

  “Forgive me, Mama, for being cross. ‘Tis not the invitation or your questions about it. It’s just that, when we were in London earlier in the year, I could not help noticing that Alice Symmington had her claws out for Burke.”

  Priscilla swallowed her sigh. Since Daphne had first danced with Burke Witherspoon in the days leading up to Priscilla’s and Neville’s wedding, she had been fascinated by the young marquess. The problem—at least in Priscilla’s eyes—was that Lord Witherspoon returned Daphne’s affection. He had called on the family many times since the Season had ended, but he had not offered for Daphne’s hand. Much to Priscilla’s relief and Daphne’s frustration. Priscilla suspected that Neville had taken the young man aside for a private conversation about the fact that Daphne still needed to wait at least another year before she could consider any marriage proposal.

  “I do not believe I know Alice Symmington,” Priscilla said.

  “She is the only girl in a family of five boys, and she has been led to believe that she is worth far more than any other female in any room.” Daphne rolled her eyes. “Mama, you must have seen how rude she was to Miss Wilson at the last party we attended before we returned to Stonehall-on-Sea.”

  “That was Miss Symmington?” Priscilla frowned. She had seen how uncivil the young brunette had been to Miss Wilson, who had done nothing but speak a greeting to her. Miss Symmington had cut her direct, then laughed about it with some of the other young misses. When Miss Symmington had repeated cruel comments within earshot of the male guests, Miss Wilson had fled the room in tears.

  Priscilla was dismayed, for she had met both the baron and his wife and their older sons. She had found them pleasant, if a bit bland and boring. None of them would have been cruel enough to speak slurs openly.

  “If you would prefer that I send our regrets,” Priscilla began.

  “No! We must go!”

  Surprised by her daughter’s apparently abrupt change of heart, she said, “I thought you wished to avoid Miss Symmington.”

  “I told you, Mama. She has her claws out for Burke.” Coming to her feet, she asked, “Don’t you see, Mama? Lady Symmington is holding the ball in order to lure Burke into attending so Miss Symmington can try to wheedle a proposal out of him.”

  “Daphne, such talk is not becoming.” She frowned. “I trust you will refrain from speaking thus in others’ company.”

  “I will, but I want to be honest with you.”

  “And I wish you to.” Priscilla tried not to sigh. Raising three intelligent children required her to use her wits. She could only be grateful that Leah still considered males a completely different species and barely worthy of her contempt, save for her brother and Neville and a few others who had always been part of her life. Priscilla had great sympathy for women who had more than one daughter suffering from a calf-love.

  “You must see why,” Daphne said, “you must write to Lady Symmington posthaste and accept her invitation. If you insist on waiting to hear from Lady Eastbridge, the situation may deteriorate to the point that everything will be ruined.”

  “If Lord Witherspoon’s intentions are not constant, surely you would be wise to learn that now.”

  “Mama, how many people told you that Neville would break your heart?”

  “Just your aunt.”

  “How many thought that?” Daphne folded her arms in front of her.

  This time, Priscilla let the sigh escape. “What is your point, Daphne?”

  “Simply that you went ahead and married Neville because you trusted your heart more than you did the on dits that wafted through every party you attended with him.” She knelt by the settee and grasped Priscilla’s hands. “Mama, you trusted your heart and Neville. I watched that, and I learned. Now I am doing the same.”

  Priscilla was tempted to remind her daughter how young and inexperienced Daphne truly was, but then Priscilla recalled her aunt speaking much the same words to her. Not when Priscilla accepted Neville’s offer of marriage, but when she had wed her first husband. That marriage had lasted through many happy years and given her these three wonderful, challenging children.

  “Yet,” Priscilla said softly, “that does not preclude me from worrying that you will suffer a broken heart.”

  Daphne smiled. “I know, Mama, and I appreciate that.” She jumped to her feet. “Do accept the invitation. I just know that Burke will be in attendance.” She flung out her hands and swirled around the room. “I have not seen him in ages.”

  “I will consider accepting the invitation.”

  “Just consider?”

  Standing, Priscilla put her hands on her daughter’s shoulders. “And I will take your request into consideration. I want everyone to be able to enjoy Twelfth Night.”

  “But, Mama, how can I enjoy it if I am not there when Alice Symmington stalks Burke?”

  She smiled at her daughter. “I know, and I can promise you that I will keep in mind that we want to avoid the most horrible thing in all of history.”

  Daphne’s lips tilted. “I did say that, didn’t I?”

  “Yes.” She kissed her daughter’s cheek. “I will let you know this evening.”

  Even though Priscilla could tell Daphne wanted to ask many more questions, her daughter said only, “I will try to be patient, Mama.”

  Priscilla appreciated Daphne making the effort, but half-expected her daughter to come into the office to interrupt while Priscilla tended to her household accounts. But the door stayed closed. Even so, Priscilla could hear the efforts of the household to move the large sculpture out of the front foyer. She hoped Duncan had a cart strong enough to tote the statue to Aunt Cordelia’s house.

  Or mayhap not. Aunt Cordelia might not be pleased to be presented with such a gift.

  Shaking the thoughts from her head, Priscilla focused on her work. She wanted to settle her accounts before the new year.

  Something tickled her nape. She brushed at her collar, but found no loose thread. As she began to write again, the tickle returned. She looked up to see a sprig of mistletoe dangling over her head.

  Neville’s mouth covered hers in a slow, sensual kiss that seared her to her toes. He drew her up from the chair and into his arms. As he deepened the kiss until she could think only of the brush of his tongue against hers, she combed her fingers up into his dark hair.

  “Ouch!” she sai
d, drawing back as something hit her on the nose. She shook her hand, and white powder rose from it. “Did you pack away the statue or take it apart?”

  He raked his own hand through his hair which was covered with plaster dust. “We tried to do the former, but I think half a shattered fresco was shipped along with it. I do hope your aunt does not break the whole thing over Duncan’s head.”

  “He seems to believe she will be happy with his gift.”

  “Hmm . . .” He put the mistletoe on her desk next to Lady Symmington’s invitation that she had set to one side. “This was unexpected.”

  “It is.”

  “Do you think it is a Twelfth Night prank?”

  Priscilla shook her head. “I doubt Lady Symmington would do something that outrageous.”

  “True. None of the Symmingtons seem to have been born with an ounce of imagination. Ambition, yes, but no imagination. Which means this is a legitimate invitation. Shall you accept it, Pris?”

  “If it had come from Lady Eastbridge, I would accept with alacrity. As it is . . .” She looked down at the handwritten note. “I cannot help wondering if the countess knows of Lady Symmington’s ball. I don’t want to vex the countess, for she was very kind after Lazarus’s death.” She sighed. “As was Lady Symmington. Oh, Neville, this is such a muddle.”

  “You know Daphne will never forgive you if she discovers young Witherspoon attended and danced with the baron’s daughter rather than with her.”

  “I do not make such important decisions based on who will stand up with whom.”

  He put his arm around her shoulders. “Pris, when you assume such a tone, I know you are letting something unsettle you too much.”

  “It is bizarre that Lady Symmington would do something that others would deem an unforgivable faux pas. You cannot deny that.”

  He arched his ebony brows. “If Christina Symmington wishes to put an end to Lady Eastbridge’s goodwill in such a public way, that is her concern alone.”

  “You are not often wrong, Neville, but when you are, you make a huge mistake. If we accept this invitation, Lady Eastbridge may take umbrage at us.” She held up her hand as he opened his mouth. “I know you care nothing for the canons of Society, but—”

  “As the stepfather of an eligible miss, I must walk the straight and narrow path that proper behavior dictates.” His face became a tragic mask.

  With a laugh, Priscilla slapped his arm. “You are wasting your dramatics on me.”

  “Then let me offer you a different sort of performance, one that I excel at.” He tugged her back into his embrace. He gave her a devilish grin before his mouth lowered toward hers.

  A knock on the door brought a low curse from him as Priscilla drew back to call, “Come in.”

  Juster, one of the footmen, entered and held out a folded piece of paper. “This was just delivered for you, my lady.”

  “Thank you,” Priscilla said as she took the page.

  The footman bowed and left the room, closing the door after him.

  Priscilla opened the page. “It is from Aunt Cordelia.”

  Neville’s nose wrinkled as if the paper reeked. “What does your shrewish aunt have to say?”

  “Give me a moment.” She was too curious why her aunt had written that she paid his insult to her aunt no mind. “Neville, you will not believe this!”

  “Try me.”

  “Aunt Cordelia wrote to remind me—as if I need a reminder—that as Daphne is not yet officially out, we must be doubly watchful of my daughter during the masquerade ball at Symmington Hall.”

  Neville gave a short laugh. “There, sweetheart, is your answer. Your aunt is giving Lady Symmington’s gala cachet simply by attending, so it is clear that you have carte blanche to attend as well.”

  Folding the note, Priscilla walked to the window and looked out at the back garden. It was withered and gray in the dim light of the winter afternoon.

  “You look bothered, Pris.” Neville slipped his arm around her waist and leaned her back against him.

  “I am. I had believed that my aunt considered Lady Eastbridge a good friend.”

  “Have you considered that the countess might have given her blessing to Lady Symmington’s plans? Even though I know a gentleman should never discuss a lady’s age, I am no gentleman, so I can say that Lady Eastbridge is no spring filly. She may have bequeathed the onus of the Twelfth Night ball to a younger woman.”

  “A bequest is what it would have to be. I cannot envision Lady Eastbridge relinquishing the first ball of the year unless she was dying or dead.”

  “Let us hope it does not come to that!”

  Chapter Three

  THE AVENUE LEADING up to the magnificent Tudor house known as Symmington Hall was flanked by gardens that must have been magnificent when their flowers were in bloom. Hedges and topiaries had been neatly trimmed, and a dusting of snow accented their contours. In the distance, small buildings might be useful or merely garden follies.

  Neville drew the heavy, wool blanket more closely around Priscilla. “Symmington has wasted no expense bettering his dirty acres, it would appear.”

  “The family has lived here for almost a thousand years.”

  “Ah, yes. I have heard the tales of how the family’s Saxon ancestor eagerly bought and sold his fellows to the Normans. In exchange, he was granted a title.”

  Isaac leaned forward. “Did he toss the other Saxons in his dungeon?”

  “Nay, for he had no dungeon.” Neville lowered his voice to a rasping whisper. “The word did not exist here until the Normans conquered England.” Ruffling Isaac’s hair, he laughed. “But I daresay he handled his one-time comrades with a lethal skill and precision because King William did not offer many titles to Saxons.”

  “Neville, do not be ghoulish,” Priscilla said as her son’s eyes widened with excitement. “Giving Isaac more ideas in that direction is hardly necessary.”

  “You did say just a few days before Christmas that he needed to be more interested in his history lessons.”

  Priscilla was spared from having to reply when the carriage slowed in front of the house’s formal facade. A footman in deep blue livery rushed forward to open the door and bow them out. Another was already at the back of the carriage to take their bags from the boot. A third was giving the coachee directions to the stables beyond the house.

  Putting her hand on Neville’s arm, Priscilla walked with him and the children toward the front door that was swinging open. A single glance at Daphne slowed her older daughter to a sedate walk. The younger two were looking around, wide-eyed, as they entered the house.

  Not that they were impressed with the marble floors or the niches filled with fine art. Priscilla knew that. She guessed instead they were more interested in the smooth curve of the banisters of the double staircases. Sliding down them or other mischief would be foremost in Leah’s and Isaac’s minds. She knew they would not act inappropriately within view or earshot of the baron’s guests, but she also was quite aware that they would take any other opportunity to test the speed and sturdiness of those banisters.

  A different footman came forward and bowed his head slightly. “If you will come this way . . .” He walked away without looking back.

  “He is quite certain we will follow,” Neville said. “What do you think he would do if we failed to do so?”

  Priscilla smiled and slipped her hand again onto Neville’s arm as he offered it to her. Taking Isaac by the hand, because she noticed how he now was eyeing a suit of armor set within the curve of the left-hand staircase, she went with her family after the footman. The girls walked close behind them, and she heard them whispering about the rooms they passed.

  She was tempted to remind them that such chambers were meant solely to impress. The finest furniture and the most elegant fabrics had
been used to make the rooms look perfect. If Symmington Hall was like other country estates she had visited, the family would use rooms in another section of the house on a daily basis.

  The footman paused by a wide door. He motioned for them to enter. It was, as Priscilla had expected, a cozier room with comfortable looking settees and a simple, pale yellow paint on the walls. Also, unlike the other rooms, it was not empty. Several people sat enjoying some tea and conversation.

  One woman jumped to her feet and rushed over to the door. Lady Symmington was a woman average in height, weight, and coloring. The only thing not average about her was her sharply pointed chin.

  She grasped Priscilla’s hands and said, “Priscilla Flanders—”

  “Hathaway,” Neville corrected gently.

  Lady Symmington ignored him as she continued to gush. “It is wonderful to see you and your children. Look how big young Isaac has grown! He’ll be as tall as his late grandfather in no time. And your girls. They have your loveliness, Priscilla.”

  “Thank you,” Priscilla said. “You have met my husband, haven’t you?” She knew quite well that Lady Symmington had attended their wedding, but it was the only polite way to draw Neville into the conversation.

  “Yes. Of course. Welcome to Symmington Hall, Sir Neville,” she said in a tone that suggested each word was distasteful. She turned back to Priscilla. “Your aunt is waiting upstairs. She has been told of your arrival.” Lady Symmington gave her a broad smile. “I am sure you are pleased to have this opportunity to celebrate the holiday with Lady Cordelia.”

  “Words could never express how pleased we are,” Neville said in that tone which offered no hint of anything but sincerity to strangers.