Regency Christmas Liaisons
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Christine Merrill
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Chapter One
Daffy Bingham had been born a spinster with an affinity for cats.
Technically, all women were born innocent. But there was something about little Daphne that made everyone assume that the condition was likely to stick until she died alone at a ripe old age. Just as her cousin Geoffrey was born Viscount Mawbry and his sister was born Lady Honoria, Daphne was born a spinster.
To begin with, her parents, Mr and Mrs Bingham, had the misfortune to die of ague when she was still an exceptionally healthy baby, leaving her as the poor relation that the Duke and Duchess of Twinden were obliged to take in. This is not to say they did it ungraciously. They loved Daphne in the same, absent-minded way they loved their own children. But she was a poor relation, none the less.
Then came the unfortunate nickname given her by Geoffrey when he was a lisping child of three. The family proclaimed it adorable and agreed that thenceforth she was to be Daffy. But what was adorable when one was five was quite another matter when one reached adulthood. And though Geoffrey grew to be a stalwart Geoff, and Honoria was sweet enough to be called Honey, the sensible Daphne remained trapped for ever as Daffy.
Good sense was another excellent quality in a spinster. Despite her name, Daffy had it in excess. Eight years ago, she had been given a season. But even from the first, the Duchess had doubted that it would take. Men liked to believe that they were rescuing women by marrying them. But Daffy Bingham exuded an unfortunate confidence that implied she was quite capable of taking care of herself, and any others that might happen by.
Daffy was the sort who always seemed to have an extra handkerchief when another, more delicate lady was in tears. She also had a pin to do up the ruined hem that had brought on the crying. And should the surfeit of emotion bring on a swoon, Daffy had hartshorn in her reticule.
Daffy never swooned.
Nor did she need a young man to get her a lemonade after a vigorous dance. She was rarely asked to stand up, but when she did she danced well and was never overtaxed. In fact, she was as strong as an ox.
Though her affinity for cats was often commented on, the supposition was not quite true. It was more accurate to say that cats had an affinity for her. Though Lady Honey could get robins to land in her hand when strewing breadcrumbs in the garden, birds were presented dead at Daffy’s feet by adoring moggies everywhere. When they were enceinte, they had their kittens in the drawer where she kept her spare handkerchiefs. And when she sat down they hopped into her lap and snuggled into her knitting, confident that their naps would not be ruined because Daffy Bingham was never going to go anywhere.
They made her sneeze.
But she allowed them to remain because she was not the sort to inconvenience another person, even when that person happened to be a cat.
According to the Duke, it was why her current behaviour was so disconcerting. A girl so practical in all other ways should not be given to taking things that did not belong to her.
‘Especially at Christmas,’ the Duchess added, wringing her handkerchief into a thin rope of anxiety.
‘It is bad enough the rest of the year,’ the Duke huffed. ‘We’re constantly having to retrieve the shirt studs and eardrops from her room after she’s nipped ’em. It’s ungrateful, that’s what it is.’
As a thief taker, Charles Pallister was well aware that a family’s meagre charity might drive a poor relation to pilfer items from around the house. What he did not understand was what these people expected him to do about her. ‘Have you spoken to her about the problem?’ he asked, seeking the most direct solution.
‘Multiple times,’ the Duke said, frowning. ‘It has done nothing to curb her behaviour. It is dashed annoying.’
‘We have made allowances. She is family, after all,’ the Duchess said with a shrug. ‘Not close family, of course. Still, every family has its quirks, and allowances have to be made. But now,’ she added, ‘we have guests. A house full of them. And if their possessions go missing? Well, we cannot have that.’
‘I see,’ said Charles, from his place in the wing chair by the fire. ‘But still, the matter is an unusual one. It is typically my job to find the culprit, run them down and drag them to justice. In this case, the first two steps are not necessary. What precisely is it that you wish for me to do with a thief you have already caught?’
The Duchess gave her handkerchief another twist. ‘We thought, perhaps, if you spoke to her...’
‘Threatened her, you mean,’ Charles replied with a bland expression. Hanging was a common punishment for thieves. Apparently, he was here to put the fear of God into some poor old woman for nicking the silver. There were days he hated his job.
‘Not in front of the guests, of course,’ the Duchess added.
‘We want no one alarmed,’ the Duke said.
‘Except Miss Bingham,’ Charles replied.
‘Only to the extent that she does not embarrass the whole family with her behaviour. If you can watch her closely and keep her from stealing, that would be even better,’ the Duchess said.
‘We will introduce you to the party as a distant cousin,’ Twinden said triumphantly. ‘No one need know who you are.’
‘I doubt Miss Bingham will find that particularly alarming,’ he reminded them.
‘You will have no reason to reveal yourself to her if she does nothing wrong,’ the Duchess informed him. ‘Perhaps you can stop her with a gentle warning, as if from a friend.’
‘I am to befriend her now?’ he said, trying not to let his frustration show.
‘But if she walks off with someone’s diamond tiara,’ the Duke said with a grim look, ‘something will have to be done.’
‘So, you simply wish me to prevent any thefts at this house party, in any way possible,’ he said, relieved to find some clarity. He was normally far more interested in punishment than prevention. But the behaviour they described could be a sign of a weak mind rather than a bad character. He did not have the stomach for persecuting gentlewomen for actions that they might not be able to control.
‘Stopping her would be ideal,’ the Duchess replied, relieving the pressure on her tortured handkerchief. ‘Watch over her, when we cannot, and see to it that she does nothing to embarrass herself.’
‘Or us,’ Twinden said with a frown. ‘I have had enough nonsense from her to last a lifetime. If she cannot control herself until Twelfth Night, drastic action will need to be taken.’
Taken by him, Charles supposed. If he did not want to haul an unfortunate old maid off to the asylum for Christmas, he had best keep on his toes. ‘I will see to everything, Your Grace,’ he said with a reassuring smile. ‘As of today, I am your estranged cousin visiting for Christmas. And Miss Bingham shall be no trouble at all for any of us.’
‘You are under the mistletoe,’ the handsome young Lord Beverly said, a slow smile spreading across his face.
His quarry looked up, feigning surprise, just as all ladies did when caught thus. It would not do to make a gentleman believe that there was anything contrived in the moment. The fairer sex did not ask for kisses, no matter how much they might want them.
‘You must pay a forfeit,’ he said, his eyes smouldering into hers.
She fluttered her hand before her chest, gave him a hesitant look, then smiled. ‘If I must, I am most happy to pay it to you, my lord.’
His lips came down on hers as he plucked a berry from the kissing bough. His hand lingered above them, just as his lips lingered in the kiss. Slowly, he reached for another berry.
From a darkened corner of the room, Daffy cleared her throat.
The couple jumped, embarrassed at having been caught. They had not noticed her. But then, people rarely did.
‘Leave some berries for the other guests, Lord Beverly,’ she said.
‘Of course, Miss Bingham,’ he said, retreating from the doorway.
Lady Honoria retreated as well, giving her a single exasperated look before departing. The poor thing had been trailing after Beverly for days. Now that success and Beverly were in her grasp, Daffy had come to spoil it all.
Daffy sighed. It was not as if she wanted to be the one who killed all the Christmas joy. But someone had to do it, and she was a born chaperone.
Since she had been the one to decorate the house, she knew where all the temptations lay. She had put the most impressive arrangement of mistletoe in this out-of-the-way corner of the house, knowing it would attract young couples who wanted a moment of privacy. She allowed them that moment, two at most, before she was honour-bound to put a stop to it and send them back to the party. There would be no forced weddings on her watch. Above all, Daffy was more sensible than the name that had been forced on her.
She stood and stretched her legs, running a satisfied hand over the boxwood garland on the library mantlepiece. Between that and the candlelight, the room looked and smelled wonderful. It was a shame that she was too old to enjoy it as the young people did. But she’d had her turn eight years ago. Stolen kisses at Christmas had been very nice, she remembered with a sigh. She’d not had many of them, and the few she’d got were cherished memories.
But she had put that behind her now and was quite content with what she had, which was knitting and books and peace for Christmas. She did not have to dance and make merry if she did not want to. No one minded if she sat by herself, whether she stayed up late or retired early. For the most part, her time was her own.
A cat rubbed against her ankles, and she stared down at it with a frown. She did not exactly dislike the animals, but Twinden House had far too many of them. The manor was full of mice, and someone had decided that something must be done to keep down the nuisance. But she sometimes thought that the cats were nearly as big a problem as the rodents.
No matter what room she was in, there seemed to be one waiting to sit with her, rub against her, or stare at her expectantly as if it thought she might pull a morsel of meat from under her chair. Like it or not, they had made her their queen. Probably sensing that she had no one else.
After a long, serious look at her, the current feline, a blue-grey beauty with a question mark tail, hopped up onto the mantle and strolled along the garland, giving a speculative sniff at the holly berries.
‘You will poison yourself, you little fool,’ she said giving him a stroke and a gentle push away from danger.
As if he agreed, he turned up his nose and strolled in the opposite direction.
‘Daffy, come out to the hall,’ Honoria whispered from the doorway. ‘Cousin Charles has arrived.’ Honoria had been almost as excited at the prospect of this unintroduced cousin as she was at entrapping Lord Beverly. She had been speculating as to his age, wealth and possible good looks since the Duchess had surprised them with the news of his impending arrival almost a week ago.
‘He is in Father’s study,’ she whispered again. ‘And we are in just the place to see him come out.’
‘Under the mistletoe, you mean,’ Daffy said with a shake of her head. Then she took the girl by the arm and moved her gently to the side. ‘Even if he is as handsome as you hope, there will be time enough for that later. For now it will do you no credit to be too eager.’
Though she was not as eager as Honoria, she did admit to a certain curiosity about this Charles Pallister. She could not remember anyone in the family ever speaking of him before. It hardly mattered, really. She was not the one to set the guest list. But the late addition of an unattached male would leave them uneven at dinner and set all the young ladies in a flutter, trying to attract his attention. Someone was likely to be left sitting out. As a person who did that often, she felt sympathy for the fellow, whoever he might be.
Honoria sucked in an excited breath as the door to the study opened and her parents stepped out, followed by the man in question. Daffy had to admit, though he was not a nine days’ wonder, he was worthy of maidenly interest.
Charles Pallister was not handsome as she’d have defined it in her youth, when she had swooned after equally young men who were delicate in body and soul. The man before them now had to be nearly forty. He was well past boyhood, for there were dashing blazes of silver at the temples of his dark hair. His cheeks were bronzed instead of rosy, darkened by years of riding and walking in the fresh air. His skin was a startling contrast to his eyes, which were a fascinating shade of silvery grey. They made her think that, if the room were dark enough, they might glow with a light all their own, like moonlight on water.
As he walked down the hall towards them, he carried himself with a confidence that she did not see in the other gentlemen attending the house party. He looked solid, as if he would be unmoved by the most violent storm, and not stopped by man or beast if his mind was set on a goal.
He was almost abreast of the doorway where she stood beside Honoria. As he passed, he glanced in their direction, his eyes seeming to catalogue every detail of their persons, as if storing the information for later, when proper introductions could be made. Then they flicked upwards to a spot a few inches above Daffy’s head, and he smiled.
She looked up as well and found she was standing dead centre under the kissing bough, as if waiting for a kiss from anyone who passed by.
Honoria giggled, and Daffy stepped back, treading on her own hem in her rush to change position. She needn’t have bothered, for Charles was already halfway up the main stairs and heading to his room to change for dinner.
In his wake, she was left... Goodness, was she actually flustered? Even the idea made her want to laugh. She had not flirted or been flirted with in at least five years. Then, it had been more of a joke than anything serious. But even if he was amused by what must have appeared a shameless request for a kiss, Charles Pallister had looked at her with appreciation, and nodded in a way that said, I will be speaking with you later.
It was probably because he recognised her as family. They must have met at some earlier point in time, though, for the life of her, she could not remember ever seeing him, or hearing his name mentioned. And surely, she’d have remembered those eyes.
She shivered, drawing her shawl a little closer around her shoulders. No matter what, it was going to be a more interesting Christmas than she had imagined.
