... A man whose blood
Is very snow-broth; one who never feels
The wanton stings and motions of the sense,
But doth rebate and blunt his natural edge
With profits of the mind, study, and fast.
—William Shakespeare, Measure for Measure, I, iv
London, December 1888
The atmosphere was convivial, the food excellent, and the cellar superb—as was only to be expected in a club of the Sherborne’s caliber. The perfect place to celebrate a hard-won victory, Gervase reflected with satisfaction. The Roscoe vs. Armitage libel case had been particularly challenging, not least because the plaintiff and defendant were bitter former spouses.
He glanced at his companions, his partner John Addison and Peter Townsend, the barrister they’d engaged to represent Miss Armitage, animatedly rehashing the day’s proceedings in court. Hearing the name “Stoddard,” Gervase permitted himself a thin smile. He’d engaged the opposing counsel in the past, until the man’s lack of effort had cost the firm an important case last year. Hiring the barrister who’d defeated him then had seemed like poetic justice, especially since Townsend had again routed Stoddard—horse, foot, and artillery. If looks could kill, Gervase suspected that he, Addison, and Townsend would have perished the moment the verdict was returned in their favor.
A good day’s work—and another feather in the cap of Lyons and Addison, now one of the top solicitors’ firms in London. Well-pleased, Gervase reached for the decanter at his elbow. “More port, gentlemen?”
Townsend shook his head. “No, thank you, my lord. I have an early morning tomorrow, and it’s best not to overindulge. But thank you for this excellent dinner.”
“Thank you for your no less excellent closing argument,” Gervase countered. “I am certain it made a significant difference to the outcome.”
“More than significant,” Addison asserted. “And we hope to work with you again in future, Mr. Townsend.”
Flushed with pleasure, the barrister thanked them again and departed, leaving the partners to their port and each other’s company.
“A well-spoken young fellow, Townsend,” Gervase observed. “He should have a bright future before him.”
“Yes, and he had a pleasing manner as well. Sociable.” Addison studied Gervase over the rim of his glass. “Do you know, after working with him these past few weeks, I feel I know him better than I know you—even after two years’ partnership?”
Gervase raised his brows. “You know me well enough to do business with me, surely?”
“You mean, I know you as well as you allow me to know you,” his partner retorted, his usually mild blue eyes narrowing. “Which is precious little, come to that. You’re one of the most self-contained men I’ve ever met, Lyons. Oysters are forthcoming by comparison.”
Gervase shrugged, trying to conceal his discomfort at this unexpected conversational turn. “Perhaps, like an oyster, I would prefer not to disclose any information unless I’m certain of its value?”
“Not every utterance has to be a pearl,” Addison countered. “I’m simply saying that you could be more… open with those you consider your intimates. Unless,” he added with a faint edge to his tone, “you don’t consider that anyone of your acquaintance even qualifies as such?”
Gervase’s hand tightened about his glass, but he kept his tone level, even allowing a slightly conciliatory note to slip into it. “On the contrary, I regard a number of my acquaintances quite highly—yourself included. I am… simply in the habit of keeping my own counsel, a habit that, you must admit, has benefited our practice. Everyone should play to his own strengths, and as you are the more outgoing of us, I am content to leave the more social aspects of our business to you.” A change of subject appeared to be in order, so he resumed smoothly, “So, today marks our last day of business until the New Year. Any special plans for the holidays?”
Addison continued to regard him with that challenging air. “Visiting my family in Cambridgeshire. Just as I’ve done ever since you’ve known me.”
Gervase winced inwardly. What was wrong with him tonight? He was dropping bricks right, left, and center. Quickly, he adjusted his course. “Naturally—what could be more fitting than spending Christmas in the bosom of one’s family? I had just wondered, in light of your recent engagement, if you might be visiting your intended’s relations instead.”
Addison’s expression softened, as it usually did at the mention of the charming Miss Godwin. “Lilias and her parents will be coming to us.” He cocked an eyebrow at Gervase. “And I suppose you’re off to the south of France, as per usual?”
Gervase inclined his head. “You’d suppose correctly.”
“Regular as clockwork. Very fitting.” Addison swirled the port remaining in his glass. “You know what they call you, don’t you?”
“The Spider? Yes, I’m aware of that.” And was secretly amused by it, if truth be told. Spiders were clever, adaptable, persistent, and had a knack for survival, after all.
“No, not that one. They also call you the Clockwork Solicitor.”
“Clockwork?” The term surprised him, but he wasn’t about to betray that. Instead he favored his partner with a cool stare. “How extraordinary.”
“A legal automaton,” Addison went on, with an air of deliberate provocation. “The perfect lawyerly device. Hardly requiring food, rest, or companionship. It walks, it talks, it settles estates, it meets with clients, it makes wills—”
“It acquires briefs,” Gervase retorted, unexpectedly stung. “Without which we wouldn’t have done nearly as well these last two years!”
He could not see his own expression, but he could hear the snap in his voice—an echo of the snap he’d heard in his father’s more times than he could count. Addison recoiled, as though realizing he might have gone too far. “Of course, Lyons, I—I didn’t mean to make light of your efforts!” he said hurriedly. “I’m aware we owe much of our success as a firm to them! I merely—that is, I only wished to…” His voice trailed off uncertainly.
To see how far you could go with me, Gervase finished for him. He took a breath, reminding himself that Addison had drunk a bit more than usual tonight. As Sir Anthony had often observed about men in their cups, the wine flowed in and the wit flowed out. And they were partners and on amicable terms most of the time. He steered the conversation back to safer waters. “I think we may share equal credit for our success. Now, shall we drink to another year as profitable as this one?”
Relief spread across his partner’s face at the reprieve. “Indeed, we shall!” He hastily clinked his glass against Gervase’s. “To another banner year at Lyons and Addison!”
Amity restored, they drank the toast.
Although hackneys and hansoms trundled along the thoroughfare, Gervase set off briskly on foot. After all, it wasn’t that far from the Sherborne Club to his house—formerly Sir Anthony’s—in Half Moon Street. And perhaps the walk would settle his temper.
It rattled him more than he would ever admit—that his temper needed settling. He’d learned long ago to cultivate a façade of cool composure, while turning whatever anger he might feel to a more constructive purpose. Tonight the façade had slipped, and he’d found himself perilously close to lashing out—like the duke in one of his rages.
Clockwork. The word had taken him by surprise, but it galled him far more than he’d expected. Was that really how the rest of the world saw him? As a machine? Wheels, gears, and perhaps a key in his back, to be wound once a day to set him through his lawyerly routine?
A ridiculous conceit! Just because his feelings were well-defended did not mean they did not exist. And he’d reason for maintaining his defenses, did he not?
Arguing with himself, as if he were the barrister he’d refused to be eight years ago… which was even more ridiculous. Impatient, he exhaled, his breath forming a frosty cloud on the air. The sight of it sobered him, reminding him that ice, not fire, had become his ally over the years. And his current surroundings were providing plenty of that, he mused as he turned up the collar of his overcoat. While no snow was falling at present, London in December was invariably grey and chill, with a wind that cut to the bone.
Yorkshire would be still colder at this time of year. So cold it almost hurt to breathe there, so cold that one’s face felt frozen after mere moments out of doors. He’d said as much when Addison, making one last attempt to draw him out, had asked if he’d ever considered spending the Christmas holidays with his family instead.
Gervase had regarded him with the polite concern of a doctor confronted with a raving lunatic. “My dear Addison, given the choice between the south of France and Yorkshire in December, which would you prefer?”
And as for family, his mother would be in France, where she’d spent the last four Christmases. Her Grace had always complained that Yorkshire was utterly barbarous in winter... although Gervase was well aware that the weather was not the reason she now absented herself from what had been the annual Christmas gathering.
Hal wouldn’t be there. Would never be there again. And the thought was startlingly painful, even after five years. Handsome, golden, fortunate Hal, whose luck and life had run out at a fence his horse had failed to clear...
Nothing had been the same after that. How could it have been?
His parents, at the funeral. For the first time Gervase could remember, his mother had actually looked older than her husband. And his father’s vitality had drained away, leaving him an empty husk, staring hollow-eyed at his son and heir’s magnificent coffin. Worst of all, the old constraint had arisen between the duke and duchess again. Each blamed the other—in part, at least—for Hal’s tragedy, and they’d been unable to comfort each other as fully as they might.
His sisters had wept openly during the service, and Gervase had found his own eyes stinging. They’d never been close, he and Hal—they were too different for that—but a world without his charming, confident, life-loving eldest brother had been impossible to imagine. Jason had been silent and red-eyed, though at more than twice his age, Hal had been almost a stranger to him. Even Reg had looked pale and stunned, as though lost without his lifelong rival to contend against.
Who could blame any of them for shunning Denforth at Christmas?
They had all tried that first year, barely six months later. Seeking comfort from the familiar rituals, and from each other. And if in the end, the ghosts had proved too powerful to overcome, they’d made the effort all the same.
And now Madeline and Elaine had families, Reg—recently promoted to major—still followed the regiment, and Gervase had his own life in London. Only Juliana and Jason called Denforth Castle home these days, and both were away at university much of the time. While His Grace, Gervase supposed, divided his time among his various properties, doing what best suited him... as he’d always done. If he felt the lack of either wife or children at Christmas, he’d never said as much.
Not openly. Not directly. Not until last week.
Unbidden, Gervase’s thoughts turned to the letter he’d received—written not by his father but by Juliana, who’d become mistress of the household in their mother’s protracted absence. A charming letter, all the more so for its sincerity, in which she’d expressed the hope that the family might come together again, perhaps at Christmas? Remember how lovely things used to be then, Gerry? If only we could recapture that somehow! It might do us all some good, especially Papa and Maman. Would you come, if it could be arranged?
He’d held off on writing back, letting work serve as an excuse. But he knew his real reason for not responding was his reluctance to disappoint Juliana—a reluctance that all the men in their family shared, including His Grace. The youngest Lyons daughter had a brightness to her, an unquenchable spirit that endeared her even to casual acquaintances. Gervase no more wished to shatter her illusions about their family than he’d wished to tell her, years ago, that Father Christmas didn’t really exist—not as a flesh-and-blood entity!
Except that he could hardly avoid disappointing her in this regard. He hadn’t yet booked his passage to France, but he’d already written his mother in anticipation of his visit. And tomorrow, he concluded with an inner sigh, he would have to write to Juliana as well.
Resolved, if regretful, he turned onto Half Moon Street, and felt his spirits lift as his house came into view. Terraced and Georgian, Sir Anthony’s former dwelling had a mellow dignity, a bit staid, perhaps, but entirely suitable for a serious man of business. Not for the first time, Gervase silently thanked his late godfather for the generosity that had made his life in London so much easier than it might have been. With a handsome bequest and a roof over his head, Gervase could concentrate wholly on his career.
Lengthening his stride, he hurried up the walk, eager to get out of the cold. Farnsworth, his manservant, would have had a fire lit in the library, and while the townhouse had central heating, Gervase had to admit that a fire blazing in the grate was a cheerful sight on a cold December evening. The only thing missing, he mused, would be a cat dozing on the hearth, but Ozymandias—the imperious grey tom he’d inherited along with the house—had succumbed to old age several months ago. Gervase found that he rather missed the tyrannical beast; a house did seem somewhat more... homelike, with a cat in residence. Perhaps he should acquire another one, or even a pair of them, to keep one another company while he was at work.
He let himself in, and Farnsworth was there at once, divesting Gervase of his hat and overcoat with effortless ease.
“A bitter night, my lord. Shall I fetch you a whiskey and soda, to take away the chill?”
Gervase shook his head, pulling off his gloves and relishing the warmth now enveloping him. “No, thank you, Farnsworth. I dined quite well at my club. All I want now are my slippers, a book, and a chair by the fire.”
“Ah.” Farnsworth paused, a faint frown creasing his forehead. “As to that, my lord, you have a visitor—waiting in the library.”
Gervase stifled an oath: there went his quiet evening. “On a night like this? Who?”
“Lady Bellamy, my lord. She said it was a matter of some importance.”
His heart stuttered in his chest at the name. “I see.” To his relief, his voice betrayed nothing. “I’ll go in to her at once.”
He strode along the passage toward the leather-furnished, book-lined room that had been Sir Anthony’s sanctuary and was now his. But not tonight. Pausing just outside the door, he took a moment and a breath before going in.
The reason he knew he was flesh and not clockwork turned from the fire at his entrance, and smiled a welcome, the lamplight turning her chestnut hair to copper and flame.
Gervase raised his chin and greeted his late brother’s former fiancée with what he hoped was perfect composure. “Good evening, Margaret. What a pleasant surprise.”
Margaret’s first thought was that he looked prosperous, his charcoal-grey suit impeccably cut, his linen immaculate. Her second was that he looked... just a little tired, which surprised her. One did not associate ambitious, driven, confident Lord Gervase Lyons with fatigue. He must be working too hard, she thought with a flash of concern that she quickly masked, sensing that it would only irritate him. She smiled instead, and held out her hands to him.
“Good evening, Gervase. I hope you don’t mind my stopping by.”
He did not return her smile, not exactly—but she thought his eyes warmed at her greeting. “Not at all—it’s always a pleasure to see you. I’m merely astonished that anyone with sense would venture out on an evening like this.”
“And do you include yourself in that assessment?” she teased.
Now he did smile, the faint, sardonic curve of the lips she remembered vividly from their childhood. “But of course. However, I have the excuse of my profession. The libel case at the Old Bailey was decided today—in our favor.”
He’d just begun work on that when she departed London, Margaret remembered. “Congratulations,” she said warmly; as hard as Gervase worked and as fiercely as he’d fought to become what he was, he deserved every success that came his way. “I take it you were celebrating, afterwards?”
“Indeed. Addison and I took Mr. Townsend—the barrister—to dinner at our club.” He made his way toward her now, taking her still-outstretched hands in a light, brief clasp. “A most convivial evening.”
“Gracious, how cold your hands are!” Margaret exclaimed, releasing them almost at once. “Haven’t you any gloves? Here—come closer to the fire, before you take a chill.”
He arched an eyebrow at her, but complied, holding his hands out to the blaze. “Thank you for your concern, but have you ever known me to be ill?”
“Not seriously, no,” she conceded. “But it is bitterly cold, outside.” And his clothes smelled of winter, holding the sharp, almost metallic tang she associated with the onset of snow. “London is always miserable in December.”
“Much nicer in—Somerset, was it? I trust the wedding went off well?”
“Beautifully,” she assured him. “Not a cloud in the sky that day! And Cordelia made a lovely bride. I know Mr. Norwood will be a good husband to her. As good as—”
“As Bellamy was to you,” Gervase finished levelly.
The memory of Alex brought a twinge of pain, a bittersweet ache about her heart. But it was no longer the stabbing agony of nearly two years ago. “Yes,” she said on a sigh. “As he was to me. And I know he’d have wanted his sister to know the same kind of happiness that we did.”
Resting one arm upon the mantel, Gervase stared into the fire. “Miss Bellamy was fortunate indeed to have had such an example before her.”
He spoke without his usual light irony, sounding almost... wistful, and she glanced at him more closely. Wistfulness was not something one associated with Gervase Lyons either. As usual, his expression gave nothing away. Gervase the enigma, as inscrutable as a cat. He’d always been so hard to read—except during those times in their childhood when he’d deliberately set out to infuriate her. To needle and provoke her about those things that were her particular passion, like women’s suffrage and Richard the Third’s innocence. And yet, Margaret could now admit that their exchanges had been as stimulating as they were maddening. One felt engaged—alive—during an argument with Gervase, even when one wanted to wring his neck!
And he could also be kind. She knew that too; he’d been the first of his family to write to her after her bereavement, to offer his sympathies. And from that tentative exchange of letters, something like the old childhood intimacy had gradually grown between them once more. Their correspondence had continued throughout her year of mourning, and when she’d finally relocated to London this past spring to take up her life again, he’d come to call on her, with Juliana and Elaine—once her closest friend—in tow.
Why had Gervase not married yet? Margaret wondered suddenly. He was twenty-eight now—an age at which many men contemplated settling down with a wife and family. Surely he could afford to marry, if he’d the inclination. And surely any lady would welcome an offer from Lord Gervase Lyons: successful, well-born, well-connected, and—she realized with a sudden shock—quite startlingly handsome.
She couldn’t have said why the discovery surprised her. The Duke and Duchess of Whitborough were a striking pair who’d produced a brood of hardy, handsome children: all the Lyons boys were good-looking. At the height of her girlish passion for Hal, she’d believed no other man could match him for looks, with the possible exception of Reg, who’d run him a close second. Gervase might not catch the eye as quickly as his older brothers, but he was well worth looking at, built on lighter, leaner lines than they, and moving with an almost catlike grace that was all his own.
Just now, he stood gazing down into the fire, the leaping flames reflected in his eyes. And like one mesmerized, Margaret gazed at him: watching the play of firelight upon a face that was familiar and strange at once. Sharp cheekbones and firm jaw; a strong, straight nose; a high forehead, partly obscured by the thick fall of his hair, brown by daylight, shot through now with glints of red and gold. Even his eyes... a changeable blue-grey that reminded her of woodsmoke or the sea on a misty morning.
He glanced up then, his eyes meeting hers, and a surge of heat pulsed through her that had nothing to do with her proximity to the fire. Standing just a few feet away from Gervase, she was conscious as never before of his body and its lean, supple strength.
Alex had been tall and—not fat, but solid: a comforting, reassuring wall of a man. Someone she could lean on, in every sense of the word. A bear, rather than a lion—or a Lyons. Different from Hal in almost every particular... and hadn’t that been one of the things that drew her to him? There would be nothing in Alex’s embrace to remind her of her late fiancé.
What might it be like to feel Gervase’s body against hers? He wasn’t as tall as Hal or Alex, but he topped her by a good five or six inches. And his superbly tailored clothes defined a form that was spare but well-proportioned, not lanky or ungainly in any way. He kept fit, she knew, riding in Hyde Park when the weather and his schedule permitted, and taking regular fencing lessons. Mens sana in corpore sano, he’d quoted at her once, with that crooked half-smile of his.
In corpore sano. The heat settled low in her loins now, smoldering like a barely banked fire, and Margaret sternly told herself not to be a fool. She was a grown woman, not some silly schoolgirl with no experience of men. And this was Gervase, whom she’d known since they were practically in leading strings. Gervase, who’d nearly been her brother-in-law...
“Margaret?” His resonant baritone sent a hum through her very bones. “Are you feeling quite well? You seem a bit distracted.”
Flushing, Margaret made herself glance away. “No, no—I’m perfectly well, thank you. My goodness, it’s warm in here,” she added, taking a small step away from the fire—and him.
His brow rose again, but much to her relief, he made no comment on that. “So, what brings you here tonight?” he asked instead. “Farnsworth informed me it was important?”
“Er...” For just a moment, she could not recall why she had come, then, mercifully, memory, along with sanity, returned. “I—I came to ask about Christmas. You’re going up to Yorkshire, aren’t you?”
Both brows rose this time. “Yorkshire? Good God, why would you think that?”
“Because I just received an invitation to spend Christmas at Denforth!” she confessed in a rush. “Haven’t you?”
Christmas at Denforth.
The words seemed to belong to another life, but their utterance proved as powerful as any spell. In his mind’s eye, Gervase saw the Great Hall rise up before him, bright with candles and holiday greenery—Advent wreaths and Christmas garlands. Delicious scents wafting from the kitchen and dining room. Mulled wine steaming in a silver bowl, the Yule Log blazing in the fireplace, and the tallest Christmas tree that could be found towering over them all. His brothers arguing, his sisters singing, his parents trading gibes in their unique form of love-play. And Margaret, always Margaret: sensible and serene, adding another voice to the singing, another hand to the placement of holly and ivy, and something more that was all her own...
He forced himself to return to the present. Margaret—Lady Bellamy, not the girl of Christmases past—was gazing up at him, her velvety brown eyes intent on his face. “Gervase—”
“An invitation to Denforth,” he repeated carefully, to ensure that he hadn’t heard wrong.
She nodded confirmation. “Addressed by Juliana. I have it here, in my reticule.”
“When did it arrive?”
“Just today. Have you seen your post?”
“Not yet. The mail hadn’t arrived by the time I left the house this morning.”
“Well, check it now. It’s inexplicable that your family would invite me and not you.”
He refrained—heroically—from pointing out that his family was capable of any number of inexplicable things and went over to his desk, where Farnsworth usually placed the post in his absence. A neat stack of envelopes awaited him: he rifled through them expertly, setting aside the bills... and paused at the sight of Juliana’s familiar handwriting. Keeping his face impassive, he broke the seal and extricated the contents: the invitation Margaret had mentioned, on heavy cream-colored stationery.
“You did get one, then.” The relief in Margaret’s voice was palpable.
“So it would appear.” He opened the invitation. Below the formal printed phrases was a short note, also in Juliana’s handwriting: I’ve invited Reg and our sisters too, so it will be like old times, Gerry! Do say you’ll come. All my love, J.
Like old times. If it were anyone but his little sister, Gervase would have suspected sarcasm of the highest order. As it was, he wondered if nostalgia and grief over Hal had blurred her memories of just how... trying those old times could be.
He glanced at Margaret, who was holding up her own invitation. “I was surprised to receive it,” she confessed. “I never expected to.”
“Why not? Your family spent any number of Christmases at Denforth,” he reminded her. His parents and hers were friends as well as neighbors, and Denforth had effortlessly absorbed the Duke and Duchess of Langdale and their three children on any number of social occasions.
Margaret colored. “That was—that was before.”
Before Hal’s death, Gervase translated without difficulty. And everything that had come after that.
“If the truth be told,” she went on, “I’ve never known exactly how your parents feel about me—since they lost Hal.”
“They loved you. They thought of you as another daughter.” One of the family...
“For a time. But when I married Alex...” She looked away, her flush deepening, and Gervase knew that her thoughts, like his, had gone back to that Christmas at Denforth five years ago. The first Christmas since Hal’s death: everyone subdued, still in mourning, but trying to carry on. Margaret and her siblings had come, as had the recently widowed Duke of Langdale, and all had seemed, if not merry, then at least tranquil.
But within a day of the gathering, Margaret had stolen away in the night, with no word beyond a reassuring but unrevealing note to her father. At the time, Gervase had thought he’d known why, and silently cursed his father’s well-intentioned meddling. So he’d been as shocked as anyone—more so—when the announcement of her marriage to Earl Bellamy had appeared in the society pages less than a fortnight later.
He could no longer recall which of his family had read the news aloud, but every detail of how it had felt was permanently etched on his memory: the roaring in his ears, the pain like a dagger thrust between the ribs. He’d got up and left the breakfast table at the first opportunity, hoping that no one had noticed.
No one had—except Elaine, and he could count on her secrecy.
What followed had been almost as unpleasant. Ugly gossip had circulated in the wake of that runaway match: Lady Margaret Carlisle, denied her place as future Duchess of Whitborough by Hal’s untimely death, had snatched at an earl, rather than risk being left on the shelf. An earl more than fifteen years her senior, with two young sons—a sure sign of her desperation.
Which was all spiteful nonsense, as far as Gervase was concerned. As a duke’s daughter, Margaret could still have made a brilliant match, once she was out of mourning for Hal. Beautiful, intelligent, well-dowered... any man of sense would have leapt at such a prize. If she’d chosen Bellamy, then she must have wanted him, as much as Bellamy had wanted her.
Because he had wanted her. More than once, Gervase had caught the man gazing at Margaret wistfully but quite without hope at London parties, the year she came out. Nor were they strangers. On more than one occasion, she’d danced with Bellamy and gone in to supper on his arm. Indeed, why should she not, seeing as Hal could scarcely be bothered to pay attention to his fiancée?
No, if anyone had done the “snatching,” it had been Bellamy. And by all reports, the earl had adored his new young countess, and they’d settled comfortably at Bellamy’s estate in Gloucestershire, rarely coming to London. On hearing that they’d been happy, Gervase had done his best to be happy for them—or to put up a suitably convincing façade to that effect.
“Time heals all wounds.” He did not realize at first that he’d spoken aloud, and he wanted to kick himself once the words were uttered. Really, how banal could one get?
But Margaret looked up again, her expression lightening. “Do you really think so?”
He offered her a wry smile. “I suppose even the hoariest of platitudes contains a grain of truth. And I can’t imagine that my parents would hold a grudge against you. They certainly didn’t expect you to mourn forever, after Hal died.”
“They might have expected a longer mourning period all the same,” she pointed out.
Gervase shook his head. “There are no ironclad rules for a bereaved fiancée as there are for a widow. You’d come of age, and your father was still living then. If he approved of your marriage to Bellamy, then I can’t see how it was anyone else’s concern.” He studied her face, still so lovely despite the shadows lingering about her eyes, and asked gently, “Do you even want to go to Yorkshire, Margaret? No one is forcing you to do so, and I thought you usually spent Christmas with your stepsons.” Bellamy’s brother was the official guardian of the boys—both away at school now—but Margaret remained close to them.
“I do, usually. But this year Crispin and his wife want to take them to visit her family in Wales. There will be other children there, some the same age as the boys,” Margaret explained. “Sandy and Charles are so excited about going—it would be selfish to deprive them of their treat, just to bear me company at Christmas. Crispin invited me as well, but I’d feel as if I were imposing on his in-laws’ hospitality. So I told him I might spend the holidays with my brother, in Yorkshire. Except,” she took a breath, “Augustus cabled today to inform me that he and Alicia have also been invited to Denforth. And he’s accepted, for both of them!”
Gervase frowned. “I thought your sister was staying in Paris, with friends.”
“She is, but according to Augustus, she’s already booked her return passage to England.” Margaret’s faint frown mirrored his own. “Gervase, what do you think is going on?”
“I couldn’t begin to guess.” He stared down at his own invitation. Like old times, his sister had written. “Juliana’s mentioned wanting to gather everyone together for Christmas—it could be nothing more than that.”
The skeptical look she gave him would have done credit to a born Lyons. “Do you think it might have something to do with Alicia or Reg? Trying to get them to—to set a date for the wedding?”
“Possibly. Reg doesn’t confide in me, but he’s dragged his feet about this match long enough in all conscience. Much to Father’s displeasure—he thinks it’s high time Reg left the army and started setting up his nursery.” And ensured the succession, as Hal had failed to do. Having witnessed a few of those arguments, Gervase had felt almost sorry for his older brother.
“He may have his reasons for doing so,” Margaret said, her voice oddly colorless.
Gervase glanced at her sharply, but her face, usually so reflective of her feelings, was as unrevealing as her tone. “You think he might not want to marry her?”
“I... couldn’t say, really.” She paused, worrying her lower lip. “But, if truth be told, I never thought Reg and Alicia had much in common, to begin with. I was quite surprised to learn they’d become engaged that spring. Alicia wasn’t even out yet!”
“There is a considerable age difference,” he conceded. “But nine years is not an unbridgeable distance. Many married couples are further apart in age and happy in spite of it. Perhaps even because of it.”
He carefully did not mention Bellamy, but Margaret flushed up to her hairline all the same. “Touché, my friend. Nonetheless,” her candid brown eyes met his squarely, “you know as well as I that an early betrothal does not guarantee happiness—especially if it’s not to the right man. After my experience, I’d hoped my sister could make her own choice when the time came.”
“They’ve been engaged for nearly five years. Has Alicia met someone else?”
“Not that I know of. At least no one to compete with her image of Reg,” she added with a sigh. “She idolizes him, you know—much as I once idolized Hal.”
“Might not matters end more happily between them?” Gervase suggested. “I have not seen Reg for nearly two years, and your sister for longer still. Perhaps he might be more receptive now to the thought of an adoring wife and children prattling at his knee.”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, Gervase—pray do not ask me to believe that! Not of Reg!”
“Perhaps not. I’ve often thought Reg was married to the army myself,” he admitted. “However, I should think that whatever exists or does not exist between your sister and my brother is their business to sort out. Would you not agree?”
Margaret worried her lip again, her eyes still troubled. “Ordinarily, I would, but—”
“No buts,” he interrupted firmly. “Now, do you intend to go to Yorkshire?”
“Do you?” she countered.
“I—haven’t yet decided.” He set the invitation on the desk. “Juliana informs me that Reg and our sisters have also been invited, and God only knows how they’ll respond. But if they all decide to go to Denforth, I think someone should spend Christmas with Mother in France.”
“France?” Margaret echoed, her eyes widening. “Gervase, hasn’t Juliana told you? The duchess is coming to Yorkshire too.”