A Homespun Regency Christmas

Captain Lord Rhys Edward-Jones studied the almost startlingly beautiful woman who was wearing breeches and had, until a moment earlier, been in the arms of a fussy little cherub, and wondered why the favors he did for his brother never seemed to involve ordinary specimens of humanity. He sighed.

‘‘Yes, yes,’’ the lady interrupted, briskly brushing the man’s lingering pudgy fingers from her waist, ‘‘we know. You are Captain Lawrence Jones, representing the Duke of Llans in his purchase of Hollymore. Mr. Dunn told me. He also told me you were scheduled to arrive a fortnight from now.’’

As Rhys watched, a young man with brilliantly red hair and a bulging sack came trotting into view from the house. The sack seemed to be alternately swelling and deflating in his grasp and, if Rhys wasn’t mistaken, was emitting an odd, muffled sort of shriek. Neither Fitzhollis nor his companion seemed to notice. Only when the fellow opened the sack and released a large, screeching owl did the lady turn. She gave a cool, satisfied nod, then swung her emerald gaze back to Rhys.

Before Rhys could reply, or inquire just who she was to be ready or not, the man on the lawn gave a dismayed yelp. As the party on the terrace watched, the owl did a slightly clumsy turn midair and flew back toward the house, where it abruptly vanished from view. Shoulders slumped, the young man tucked the sack under his arm and shuffled back up the lawn.

Rhys waited for an explanation. Instead, the cherub shoved an overlarge pinch of snuff up his button nose, sneezed, and demanded, ‘‘Do tell me, Captain, how the duke is faring. Well, I trust, marvelous fellow. Anticipating a smashing grouse season.’’

Rhys was not aware of his brother Timothy ever anticipating anything about grouse. He was, however, well aware of the fact that Fitzhollis’s sole dealings with the marvelous Duke of Llans had been through Timothy’s able man-of-affairs. Fitzhollis wouldn’t have known the duke if the duke had walked over him. Rhys was spared the necessity of reply, however, by a crash that resounded through the open door behind him. It was followed by several smaller crunches and one pained squawk. Human, he thought.

What he would like was for her to get his name right and offer her own, along with an explanation of sorts. He had no idea who she was; she clearly had some bungled idea of who he was. After that, he wanted a bath and meal. The journey from Wales across the Irish Sea had been uneventful but long. The experience of trying to hire a coach and get to County Wexford had been long and extremely trying. In the end, it had involved a crowded public conveyance containing a ripe and motley collection of travelers, an equally uncomfortable ride from Wexford town in a farmer’s wagon, and a long walk up Hollymore’s sweeping drive. His valise was still at the bottom, by the listing stone gateposts.

Nor had the sight at the end of the long and bumpy drive improved Rhys’s mood. Hollymore was, to put it mildly, a crumbling monstrosity of countless different architectural styles and tastes, a squat, sprawling beast of a house. If his brother were wise, he would raze the thing before setting foot on Irish soil and build himself a nice, solid hunting lodge without a headless medieval gargoyle or frill-less Elizabethan frill to be found on it.

‘‘What I would like, madam,’’ he began, and was interrupted by a discreet cough from behind him. ‘‘Ah, yes, of course,’’ he muttered. ‘‘We mustn’t be unmannerly. Allow me to introduce my nephew, Vi—’’

‘‘Andrew Jones, at your service.’’ Seventeen-year-old Andrew, otherwise known as Viscount Tallasey, gave him a small jab in the ribs as he pushed past.

‘‘My house,’’ her cousin corrected, winking at the other two gentlemen as he spoke. ‘‘Ladies and their notions, you know.’’

From the mutinous set of Elizabeth’s jaw, Rhys decided that statement from her fiancé had not gone over well. He also decided that Timothy’s efficient man-of-affairs was not quite as efficient as he seemed. Aging spinster, the man’s report had read. Merits little or no attention in the matter.

If this was anyone’s idea of an aging spinster, Rhys was the King of Connaught. He also had a strong suspicion that Elizabeth Fitzhollis would merit at least a little attention. She could not possibly be ignored.

‘‘An honor and a pleasure, Miss Fitzhollis.’’ Andrew, flashing the Edward-Jones smile that made him look exactly like his father and sent most ladies and scullery maids alike into moon-eyed sighing, bent over Elizabeth’s hand. She went neither moon-eyed nor breathy. She didn’t even smile. Then Andrew announced, ‘‘Allow me to say how extraordinary your home is,’’ and suddenly Rhys found his own eyes going a bit crossed.

An irritable-looking Elizabeth Fitzhollis was beautiful. A smiling one was absolutely dazzling. Her cousin, Rhys noted, was nearly slobbering at her side and even his own, ever-poised nephew was goggling slightly.

‘‘Isn’t it wonderful?’’ she breathed, turning that astonishing smile onto the crumbling pile behind them. ‘‘There is not a house standing in all the isles to equal it.’’

There might not be, Rhys agreed silently, making a determined effort to drag his eyes from the lady to the pile of stones behind him. But he’d seen any number of abandoned ruins that were quite on a par with Hollymore.

Andrew’s brows went up, but he continued to smile pleasantly at Elizabeth. She, for her part, rolled her eyes. ‘‘Oh, Percy. Really. I would be delighted to show you Hollymore, Mr. Jones. And Captain Jones, of course,’’ she added eventually, almost as an afterthought.

Elizabeth ignored Rhys entirely, but smiled at Andrew as she stalked across the terrace on—Rhys couldn’t help but notice, considering her garb—very long, very nicely shaped legs. She stepped over the fallen gutter and pulled the French door closed with a rattling thump. There was paper jammed into several cracked panes.

‘‘Yes, the mud would most certainly ruin the gloss on your boots, Percy,’’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘‘I suggest you go home.’’

‘‘No, of course you won’t.’’ She smiled, but it was not even close to the blazing smile that had lit the very air. ‘‘I wonder, do you think Aunt Gregoria would care to discuss the state of her sherry reserve?’’

Whatever that meant, it had a quick and notable effect on the man. Fitzhollis flushed a bright pink and took himself off so quickly that he nearly left his highly polished, high-heeled boots behind. His fragmented farewells trailed in his wake.

Rhys, watching this display with some amazement, felt a distinct if fleeting surge of pity for Fitzhollis. By all appearances, the pair were a match made somewhat south of heaven. Despite the fact that Elizabeth Fitzhollis was easily the loveliest sight he’d seen in aeons, she seemed a bit scatty. And officious. There was little question of who would be running the household. And judging from what Rhys had seen so far of this household, the lady was not much of a manager.

He ignored the following thought: that there was something under Elizabeth Fitzhollis’s surface, something deeper than beauty, that should have been well above the touch of anyone like her cousin.

Rhys thrust away that foolish sentiment and turned his attention back to the matter at hand. ‘‘Miss Fitzhollis, I really must inform you—’’

‘‘Come along, Uncle Lawrence,’’ Andrew interrupted. The little sod was grinning like a fox. ‘‘I am all eagerness to see what the duke has done this time. One can always be certain of a surprise or two when he decides to toss his money about.’’

It was on the tip of Rhys’s tongue to reply that it was ultimately part of Andrew’s inheritance that Timothy was tossing into this ramshackle heap of stone. Tim had always enjoyed a good jest, and he had passed that unfortunate quirk on to his son. For the first time, Rhys wished this was one of those jests. Pity he knew better. His brother had taken it into his head that he needed an Irish hunting box. Apparently it would be here.

Rhys had willingly enough undertaken the task of overseeing the preparations. Timothy and his wife were visiting friends on some godforsaken little Hebridean island, and Rhys had little to do now that he was in the process of selling out of the navy. His years on the seas had left him wealthy, a bit weary, and heartily sick of salt water. So when his brother had declared the need to visit the Wexford property, Rhys had offered to make the journey. He had sailed from Cork countless times, and had developed an appreciation for Ireland. The landscape, once one got away from the coast, was refreshingly green, the people were pleasant, and the whiskey was exceptional.

What he had on hand was a disapprovingly stiff golden goddess in attire that, against all his good sense and inclination, was making parts of his own anatomy go taut. He tugged his greatcoat closed.

It seemed Andrew’s glib comment about tossing money had struck an unpleasant chord. ‘‘I hadn’t meant to say this quite so soon,’’ Elizabeth was saying crisply, ‘‘but since you’ve caught us unaware, I don’t suppose I have a choice.’’ She turned to face Rhys fully, hands on nicely rounded hips. ‘‘I don’t mean to speak ill of the duke, especially since I do not know him and he is your employer, but he is making a terrible mistake with Hollymore.’’

‘‘Is he?’’ Rhys replied. Judging from what he’d seen so far, he was inclined to agree. He suspected, however, that he and the lady of the house would have very different opinions as to why.

‘‘I do not blame His Grace. Or I am trying not to. Men of his ilk are seldom bothered to attend the smaller details of business transactions. I suppose it simply did not occur to him to come see Hollymore himself. He really ought to have done so. Seeing the estate would almost certainly have changed his plans.’’

And there was the divergence. Had Timothy seen the house, he would most certainly have insisted it be razed before allowing his son anywhere near the place.

Rhys bit back his own sarcastic retort. ‘‘I assure you, Miss Fitzhollis, that your Mr. Dunn was informed of my anticipated arrival date in the letter that was posted nearly a month ago.’’

‘‘A month ago?’’ She sighed. ‘‘Ah, well, that would explain that. Mr. Dunn is not as sharp of mind or eye as he once was. Still, Captain, I confess I find it odd that you would arrange to be here over Christmas.’’

Andrew, who had expressed much the same sentiment more than once, gave a not particularly discreet snort. Rhys shrugged. ‘‘It is just a day, Miss Fitzhollis. I assume we will find a Church of Ireland Christmas service just as long and hymn-filled as one at home. Perhaps you will be so kind as to allow us to accompany you.’’

‘‘No, as it happens, I am not. But most of the nearby residents are. And they take the holidays quite seriously. There is a great deal more to the next fortnight than one long and hymn-filled church service.’’

Andrew snorted again. ‘‘Don’t expect him to understand, Miss Fitzhollis. My uncle was off practicing military drills when they handed out holiday spirit.’’

‘‘Watch your tongue, puppy,’’ Rhys muttered resignedly. In a family that possessed an overabundance of every sort of spirit, he stood alone in his preference for contained emotions. And said family delighted in reminding him of that fact at every opportunity.

‘‘No one is immune to an Irish Christmas,’’ Elizabeth announced. Then, with a decisive nod, she gestured toward the muddy expanse before them, broken only by an oddly shaped copse of spiny holly bushes. ‘‘Shall we walk?’’

She strode off down the rocky slope on her long legs, Andrew grinning at her side. Rhys followed with less cheer than his nephew, but with a far better view of Elizabeth’s pert bottom as it flashed in and out of view. The man’s wool coat she was wearing looked to have been mended one too many times. The split above the tails appeared destined to stay split.

Cursing under his breath, he dragged his gaze away. Of all the views he should be studying, Elizabeth Fitzhollis’s posterior was not among them. With luck, she would complete her tour and take herself off to wherever she was residing and out of his sight. Rhys recalled something about a maiden auntie. He pictured a tidy, rose-covered cottage with a profusion of lace doilies and china shepherdesses. God only knew what sort of havoc Elizabeth would wreak on bric-a-brac with her brisk, arm-swinging movement.

‘‘There,’’ she announced, pointing to a listing stone bench, ‘‘is where Jonathan Swift is reputed to have first conceived of Gulliver’s Travels.’’

She heard him. ‘‘So he said, apparently,’’ she shot back smartly, ‘‘but I expect it was my great-grandfather’s whiskey.’’

Here was the remnant of the moat into which King Henry II had taken an unexpected tumble. ‘‘He made a great joke of it,’’ Elizabeth informed them, as if the event had taken place last month, rather than seven centuries earlier, ‘‘demanding that a stone tablet be placed to mark the spot of Henry’s downfall.’’ She’d then glanced around bemusedly. ‘‘I have no idea where that went. The largest piece used to be around here somewhere.’’

Andrew earned another brilliant smile when he promised to have a look around for it in the coming days. Rhys silently wished him the best of luck. There were enough treacherous looking stones lying about to make one seven-hundred-year-old fragment feel right at home.

Here came the brackish fountain where the pirate Grace O’Malley had sailed a model of her ship and there the oak tree under which Wolfe Tone had planned his rebellion. Elizabeth’s father, as she explained it, had been instrumental in the strategy, but prevented from participating by her mother, who would not countenance the shedding of any blood, no matter how noble the cause.

As they passed Wolfe Tone’s oak, Rhys shoved a moss-laden branch from in front of his face, and was promptly forced to scuttle forward in a hurry as the whole thing detached itself from the tree and crashed to the ground. Elizabeth gave him a brief backward glance. ‘‘Mind yourself,’’ she murmured, leaving him with the impression that she was scolding him for having attacked the precious tree.

By the time they had done a circuit of the impenetrable maze—Elizabeth had insisted they just have a peek inside the entrance, and Rhys’s coat had suffered greatly from the brief experience—and rocky flower gardens and spectacularly muddy ha-ha, the winter light was all but gone and they had met the figurative ghosts of just about every late, illustrious Irish personage.

‘‘The outer grounds will have to wait until tomorrow,’’ Elizabeth announced as she guided them back up the hill, her stride as brisk as when they’d begun. ‘‘I shall see to readying a set of rooms for you.’’

Rhys hoped she would then take herself off and leave them to whatever peace the house offered. ‘‘Are you in residence near here, Miss Fitzhollis?’’

Where else indeed? Rhys wondered wearily as he pulled a holly spine from his lapel. And vowed to give Timothy’s incompetent man-of-affairs a good dressing-down when they got back to Wales.

He had expected a skeleton staff. He most certainly had not expected a lady of the manor, especially not one with an angel face, racehorse legs, and rapier tongue. As far as he was concerned, matters could not get much worse.

‘‘I think it marvelous,’’ Andrew announced two hours later when they had been settled into their respective moth-eaten chambers and completed their respective lukewarm baths. ‘‘Rather like having a holiday in a moldy old Highland castle.’’

Rhys, eyeing the sagging tester bed on which he was supposed to sleep later, thought of the ancient Highland castle in which his brother and sister-in-law were having their holiday. He doubted it was half as moldy as this place. Nor could he find anything marvelous about the idea.

Other than the faded bed drapes, which he could only hope did not house any owls or other unwelcome creatures, the room had little decoration. It didn’t have much in the way of furniture, either. But there were telltale marks on the floor and walls where various objects had once been. Sold off, he decided, like the contents of so many other estates. All that remained was the bed, a wardrobe that probably would have been sold—or fallen—had it not been firmly attached to the wall, a rickety washstand, and a single painting above the mantel. It depicted the front of the house itself, and was every bit as ugly as the subject.

‘‘God help us,’’ Rhys muttered as he wandered over to study the scraggy white dogs painted into the foreground. It took him a minute to realize they were meant to be sheep.

‘‘Are you still determined to correct them as to our identities?’’ Andrew asked from across the room. He was testing the back of the behemoth wardrobe for a secret door. He enjoyed such pursuits.

Andrew tapped away. ‘‘Oh, I don’t know. I suppose there’s something very pleasant about being plain Andrew Jones for a change. Being Lord Tallasey, heir to the Duke of Llans, does get so heavy sometimes. Don’t you ever tire of being the ever-formal, ever-proper Captain Lord Rhys Edward-Jones?’’

‘‘A beloved family heirloom, no doubt,’’ his nephew suggested, joining him in front of the painting. ‘‘Stop scowling. It is merely old and lacking in taste.’’

‘‘For our sakes,’’ Rhys growled as he and Andrew headed from the room, ‘‘let us hope the same cannot be said of our dinner.’’