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December 24th
“Are you quite certain you don’t wish for Jane and I to accompany you?”
Miles smiled at his wife’s inquiry. At the moment, his daughter was finishing up a riding lesson with Miss Wickham. Jonathan was spying on said governess from the study windows and Emmaline, it would appear, had nothing to do except enjoy her leisure time.
Which meant she was bored, and would try her level best to worm her way into his outing. Ordinarily, he would welcome her company, but, bloody hell, he wished to keep her present a surprise.
“Quite, my love.” He crossed the entry hall and accepted his gray kid gloves from Willoughby. While she patted Charles’ back and cooed to him until he smiled, and subsequently drooled, Miles donned the gloves and then shrugged into his matching greatcoat. The two capes would be greater protection against the cold. He then ran a knuckle along the baby’s chubby cheek and grinned when the boy smiled wide, showing off his first tooth. “Since I’m taking Charles out with Hudson to gather the greenery, I want you to recline and relax, for once I return, you’ll be busy with the decorations. Later this afternoon, the Christmastide entertainers arrive and we shall enjoy their offerings as a family.”
He was especially looking forward to the acrobats as well as the carol singing. Did his wife know he adored wassailing, but hadn’t done so for years?
“But Miles, what do you expect me to do while you’re gone?” A trace of a whine lingered in her voice. Even the baby looked askance at him while she fussed with putting on a knitted hat and tying it beneath his chin.
“What do ton ladies do when they have nothing that requires their attention?” He accepted his top hat from Willoughby, who exchanged an amused glance with him. “Perhaps, if you haven’t already, you could have Sarah assist in choosing your gown for this afternoon’s festivities.” Procuring a bright green muffler from a pocket of his coat, he wound it about his neck.
Emmaline rolled her eyes. “I suppose, since I am waffling between two.” She handed him the baby, who kicked his legs, making the white gown flutter around his feet, which were ensconced in white knitted socks. A smart, knitted overdress would keep the worst of the nip from his skin. “Please don’t stay out too long. I don’t want Charles to catch a chill.”
“I’ll be sure to tuck him beneath my coat most of the time.” Though it wasn’t in the fashion for a father to take notice of any of his children while they were in the nursery, Miles believed any time spent with his offspring was better than nothing. In order to change the course of things in England, children needed to be reared differently than tradition dictated. “While we’re out, I shall tell him about mistletoe and instruct him on the best ways to steal a kiss from a young lady so he’ll be prepared when he’s older.”
“Miles, I do not think—”
“Let me do this, sweeting. My father never let me go on this errand until I was a few years older than Jane. I found it highly unfair that Nigel could accompany him but not me.” He shook his head. “I’m training our boy up differently.”
“I understand, but mayhap I should keep Charles here with me anyway.” Doubt lined the statement. She frowned and reached for the baby, but Miles took a few steps out of her reach.
“You promised you weren’t going to worry anymore this holiday. Remember?” He cocked an eyebrow. Surely she wouldn’t have forgotten what was a memorable coupling over twelve hours ago?
A faint blush colored her pale cheeks. “I remember.”
Willoughby cleared his throat. “If you do not require anything else, I have duties. Much still needs overseen for this afternoon.”
“Nothing else, my good man.” Miles glanced past the butler’s shoulder. “Ah, there’s Hudson. Punctual as usual.” He nodded at his valet, who drew on a pair of black kid gloves as he approached. A beaver felt hat, in the old-fashioned clerical style, graced his blond hair. It suited him. Once Willoughby moved off down the hall, Miles greeted his valet turned bodyguard turned friend. “Ready to conquer the wilderness?”
Hudson snorted. He adjusted the folds of his own muffler. The jet black blended with his equally dark greatcoat. “Your acreage is hardly wilderness, my lord.” He regarded Emmaline. “Good afternoon, Lady Archewyne. You have my word I shall protect both the earl and your son on what should be a straightforward jaunt for holiday greenery.”
“Thank you.” She briefly touched the man’s forearm. “I suppose I should trust you and leave my husband to his rambles.”
“You have no reason not to, my lady.” Hudson’s grin was more amused than mysterious.
Miles bounded over to her and caught her up into his arms despite holding Charles close. “Go put your feet up. Have Willoughby bring you tea.” Into her ear, he whispered, “Once midnight falls and we’ve retired, I shall be happy to provide you comfort or put you through your paces.”
She giggled and swatted his arm. “Miles, not in front of Hudson,” she said in a low voice.
The long-suffering valet rolled his eyes when Miles met his gaze over Emmaline’s shoulder. “There is nothing that will shock me, Lady Archewyne. Least of all your husband’s lack of tact.” Yet, he did the gentlemanly thing and turned away, allowing a modicum of privacy.
Good man. Miles cupped the side of Emmy’s face. “Promise me you’ll practice at being a lady of leisure. I’d say go embroider something, but we both know the truth about that.” He’d lay odds his wife had never set a needle to a piece of finery a day in her life. That wasn’t Emmaline’s forte. Before she could say anything, he leaned in and briefly kissed her lips. “If you grow very bored, help Willoughby place the entertainers. No matter what you do, stay out of trouble.”
“I should say the same of you, Archewyne.” When a genuine smile curved her kissable lips, the urge to call off the outing grew strong, but he wanted those fir boughs and mistletoe so Emmaline and Jane could decorate. The hall needed its traditional holiday greenery. He could almost smell the sharp scent of pine.
Not to mention the Yule log he’d promised.
“I will return soon, love.” Miles tapped Hudson on the shoulder. “Let’s go. Adventure is in the offing.”
“Evergreen boughs will be easy to find, but I’m worried about locating a decent Yule log,” Miles commented to his valet once they’d hiked the property for half an hour. The breeze had turned chilly and it scudded the fat, gray-swollen clouds across the sky. “It needs to be large and able to give off a brilliant flame. I have a feeling we’ll want a cheerful fire, for snow is definitely in the offing.”
“Never fear, my lord. I’m certain we can procure something to fit your standards.” Hudson slid a glance his way as he reordered his grip on the handle of an axe he’d retrieved from the entryway before they’d departed. “Except, we are not heading toward the forested areas.”
“No we are not,” Miles said with a grin. He snuggled his son close, much to Charles’ annoyance. The baby squirmed and fussed, but when Miles turned him around so that he could see the landscape, the boy quieted. “What we are doing is going to visit the dig site.”
Hudson snorted. “It’s hardly a dig site yet. Excavation hasn’t begun in earnest.”
“This is true; however, I merely wish to check on my pavement piece.” He bounced his son until the boy squealed with delight.
“It’s just as well, my lord. You’re fairly vibrating with excitement.” The valet chuckled. “Best clear your system of it now, else you’ll give yourself away before tomorrow.”
“Exactly.” Another half hour saw them near the rear of the property. A collection of slight hills shielded the area from a prying neighbor’s eye should they happen to be riding close by. In the flat land in front of the hills, a six-by-three-foot section of earth had been disturbed. Digging tools lay waiting in a pine box fashioned to resemble a plainly made coffin if someone came snooping. To all outward accounts, the area had the look of a quick burial, one that would cause enough rumors in the village to keep curiosity seekers away. Miles would rather have that than the truth that it was an archeological site for the moment.
If they were lucky, further investigation would reveal it to be a villa. If they were exceedingly fortunate, it might have been part of a church.
“Ah, Daniel. Pleasant surprise,” he greeted a young man of not more than seventeen who sat on the ground with his back against a hillock. One of the stable hands if he wasn’t mistaken.
The tall youth shot to his feet. He dusted his hands on his natty wool trousers. “Lord Archewyne.” He ducked his head as red colored his face and neck. “Mr. Wiltshire told me to guard this area. Will send someone else to relieve me near dinner. Said no one was to come through here without either his accompaniment, or with Mr. Hudson, or even you.”
“Excellent to hear. And true. This area is to remain a secret for a while.” Miles approached the hole. “No one came by to poke around?”
The young man shook his head. His scraggly brown hair fluttered in the breeze. “Not since I came here after breakfast.” He scratched his head beneath his slouch cap. “Begging your pardon, my lord, but what’s in there?”
“Hopefully, something amazing.” Miles peered down. The mosaic tiles were still there, dirt covered and muddy, but blue and green coloring peeked through the grime. God, I cannot wait to clean it up and find out exactly what I have. He glanced at the youth. “Carry on your good work.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“You will come to the celebration, won’t you Daniel?” The mummers and assorted other acts he’d booked had been a particularly fond memory of Christmases with his parents. Though the choice might be slightly old-fashioned now, the villagers would appreciate it, and bowls of wassail punch would be abundant. It was an excuse to mingle with his tenants and provide gaiety and food. A time to express his gratitude for everyone on his estate. That was something his father didn’t do well.
I’m trying my best to forge new paths with the title.
The boy nodded vigorously. “Oh yes, my lord. I’m escorting my sisters. We’ve been waiting ever so long for today.” Again, a flush rose up his neck. “I’ve been dreaming about all the vittles we’ll have.”
Miles laughed. Charles kicked his feet. “You and me both. Well, we’re off to pick out the Yule log and some fir branches for the Hall.”
“Best wishes, my lord. I’ve spied some bloody good logs in the east stand of woods a few days ago.” His grin was decidedly mischievous. “If it’s mistletoe you’re after, you’ll have to look close. It’s sparse this year, but there’s a tight knot of wild apple trees in the east woods that I’ve seen those berries on.”
“That’s good to know. Thank you, Daniel.” Miles exchanged an amused look with Hudson. “I’ll be certain to check the east woods then.” With a wave, Miles set out.
Once they’d quit the area, he walked alongside Hudson, moving in the direction of the woods. The breeze whistled through the trees and grasses, and it brought with it a pointed chill. And wonder of wonders, the overcast sky spit snowflakes.
“Well, Christmas appears to be shaping into the perfect holiday Lady Archewyne desires,” Miles said. He laughed when a few of the flakes landed on Charles’ nose and the boy more or less froze, his forehead scrunched in concentration.
“It would seem so, my lord.” The valet grinned. “No doubt she’s ecstatically happy.”
“No doubt.” Miles turned the baby around in his arms. “Up into the sky, my lad. Fly through the snowflakes.” He tossed the boy a few feet into the air and easily caught him. Charles screeched with delight and then uttered a hysterical string of laughter that only a baby can. “Enjoyed that, did you?” Once more he repeated the action and then he cuddled the child close. “It is good to be home, Hudson.”
Although, if he were being honest with himself, wherever his family was felt like home.
Hudson didn’t answer. Instead, he rested the axe head on his shoulder as they proceeded into the forested area of land.
“Speaking of home, what do you think of Miss Wickham?” If anyone knew covert information, it would be his valet.
“I... I beg your pardon? You’re asking my opinion on your governess?” Hudson slowed his steps until Miles was forced to stop. The hush of the forest fell all around them. “In what capacity, my lord?”
Ah, I suppose he does require some clarification. “I’ll be blunt. Is Miss Wickham a King’s agent?”
Hudson’s jaw hung slightly open. The shock in his expression was too genuine to be contrived. “If she is, I certainly haven’t been informed of the fact.”
“Rathesborne didn’t plant her in my household as he did you?”
The other man rolled his eyes. “Still bringing that against me?” When Miles grinned, the valet continued, “The duke didn’t mention anything about Miss Wickham beyond the fact she came from reduced circumstances, is a dedicated worker and her references are impeccable.”
“How did Rathesborne come to be involved in her life?” Though, knowing the duke, his influence stretched far and encompassed many things and many people.
“I am not certain, my lord. Perhaps he genuinely wishes to help her better herself.” The valet slid an inscrutable glance to him. “What did Rathesborne tell you about her?”
“Nothing more than he knew of her. She came with his references in hand, so that makes her true origin suspect.” Was it as Emmaline had said and they needed to be wary around her? “Though he swears that she is not on his team.”
“Which doesn’t necessarily mean anything, for the duke is but one agent in charge of moving operatives about the field.”
Silence brewed between them, broken only by the slight swish and hiss of snowflakes as they impacted with the tree branches and leaves that hadn’t yet fallen.
“True. I know no more now than when I started out this morning.”
The sharp snap of a twig from behind them captured Miles’ attention. Before he could do much more than turn about, Hudson groaned and then crumpled to the ground. The ax fell with a dull thud beside him. When Miles took a step toward the fallen man, the sound of a woman’s voice halted him.
“If you know what’s good for you, Lord Archewyne, you’ll stay right there. Don’t move.” The female held a pistol leveled at him.
He narrowed his gaze upon a woman, probably his junior by a few years. A well-worn cloak of navy wool whipped about her body. A young man stood watch near Hudson’s unconscious form. He couldn’t have been more than thirteen and possessed a head of flaming red hair. “Who are you?” In normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have revealed his identity, but since she apparently already knew who he was, there was no need for games. Still, he cradled Charles closer. Whatever happened, his first responsibility was to protect his son.
“You don’t know?” Her eyes narrowed to thin slits.
“If I did, do you think I’d ask your name, madam?” Every bit of the earl rang in his response. On the off chance this woman was a foreign operative, he wanted to know sooner rather than later. When Charles began to fuss, Miles gently patted his back.
“You should, but then, you probably could deign to lower yourself to care about anyone not of the ton.” She shook her head. The hood of her cloak fell away. She could have been a fetching blonde except for the hatred blazing in her blue eyes and the pistol in her hand. When he said nothing, she huffed her exasperation. “I am Cynthia Peterson.”
The name didn’t jog a memory. “Should I know you?”
Before she could respond, the boy spoke. “Mother, we should leave. This will not turn out well. It’s not right.”
Her gaze flicked to the youth. “Hush, Thomas. I must do this.” She readjusted her grip on the pistol and pinned Miles with her ire. “I am—was—Casper Peterson’s wife.”
Shock ricocheted through him. “You’re Peterson’s wife? My Peterson?” Immediately, his mind went to his former valet and friend who’d been found guilty of treason against England a year ago. He’d since been incarcerated in Newgate, given a trial and eventually hanged for his crimes. “I had no idea he was married.” He glanced at the boy. “Let alone had a son.” Of course, now that he really looked, the red hair and hazel eyes were Peterson’s.
Oh, God.
“Why am I not surprised?” Mrs. Peterson scoffed. She waved the pistol before raising it and training it on the baby. “And he is my Peterson. My husband. He owed nothing to you. Why he lowered himself to work in your service, I’ll never know.”
Miles shook his head. Now was not the time to try and explain their friendship.
She didn’t appear to notice his silence. “Thomas, remove the baby from the earl.”
“Mother, I—”
“Do it!” She glared at her son. “We’ve already talked about this. We have no choice.”
The youth closed the distance between him and Miles. “The baby, Lord Archewyne.” He held out his arms.
“I refuse to surrender my son.” Anxiety rose the statement. Charles began to fuss. He clutched at one of the capes on Miles’ greatcoat.
“We are beyond caring what you think, my lord.” The cock of the pistol rang in the eerie silence. “If you do not, I won’t hesitate to kill the baby and leave you mortally wounded as well.”
What to do? Miles peered at the boy in front of him. “What will you do with him?” Was giving the child over the lesser of two evils?
“I don’t know.” His eyes implored Miles. “But I do know she’ll kill you both if you don’t follow instructions.” He dropped his voice. “Since Father... died... she hasn’t been well.”
“Thomas! He does not deserve your compassion. This man killed your father.” The woman stamped her foot. “Give him the baby, Lord Archewyne.”
Against his better judgment, Miles handed Charles to the youth. If he could overpower the woman, all would be well.
“Since I had to watch as my husband was hanged, my son is fatherless. Now your son will know that same agony and your wife that same grief.” She gestured with the pistol. “Put the baby beneath the body of my husband’s replacement. Perhaps he won’t freeze before someone finds him.” She nudged Hudson’s form with the toe of her boot.
At least she had some gumption of what was right. It didn’t align to the state of her mind. Miles took a step forward but halted when the woman brought the pistol around and pointed the nose at his heart. “This is careless.” He held up his hands, palms outward. “Reconsider.”
“So is what you allowed to happen to my husband.” Her glare didn’t lessen while Thomas carefully placed the baby against Hudson’s side and rearranged the valet’s arm about him.
“Here.” Miles unwound his muffler and tossed it to the youth. “Wrap this around him, give him more of a chance for survival.” His stomach clenched. Please, God, let someone come looking for Hudson.
“Shut up!” The woman’s screech echoed through the trees. “You could have pardoned my husband, looked the other way due to your friendship and influence. You could have let him come home to me, ordered us all to a penal colony so we could be together, but instead you saw him in Newgate.”
Miles rolled his eyes. “Whatever else your husband was, he was a traitor to this country. He attempted to kill my wife. I do not take kindly to such things.” Not to mention Peterson had violated his marriage vows by seducing Emmaline’s maid, Sarah, last Christmas in Italy.
“No!” She shook her head. The wind clawed at her hair. The snow came down harder. “You and your contemporaries in the peerage, you high and mighty lords think you can do anything, and everyone below your station will dance to your whims. Every one of you have my husband’s blood on your hands.”
He couldn’t explain that he was a King’s agent without revealing his cover or endangering other agent’s lives. It was doubtful she had even known of Peterson’s employment with the Crown. Finally, he said, “Perhaps.” But he stood by his decision to see Peterson hanged. Actions had consequences. And, in his defense, he didn’t know that his former friend had a family.
Not that it would have made a difference.
“You bloody bastard.” She closed the distance and then slapped his face—hard.
Without the recourse of explanation, Miles said nothing, not even when she slapped his other cheek. His skin warmed with pain.
“Say something,” she dared him.
He didn’t and when she spit on his chest, he stood silent, taking it with all the dignity he could muster. The woman was still grieving and those emotions guided her actions now. There was nothing he could do or say that would make that journey any easier, and he certainly couldn’t bring Peterson back.
“Mother, we should go.” The sound of Thomas’ voice snapped the woman from her rage.
“Yes.” She nodded. “Did you bring the rope?” When he produced a length of it from a coat pocket, she gestured with the pistol. “Tie his wrists behind him. Tight. We don’t want him to escape before I’m ready to kill him.”
As Thomas came close and Miles obliged him by putting his arms behind his back, he caught embarrassment and hopelessness in the boy’s eyes. There was no anger, no ire like with the mother. Perhaps I can appeal to that. And thereby avoid violence.
He refused to let a rage-filled, grieving widow destroy his family.