Mistletoe and Folly

Sandra Heath

Sir Richard Curzon left Lady Finch’s Christmas ball unexpectedly early. The diamond pin in his starched muslin neckcloth flashed in the light of a street lamp as he strolled slowly along the snowy Mayfair pavement of Pargeter Street. His fashionable Polish greatcoat was unbuttoned as he walked through the starry December night toward nearby Park Lane, and his town residence overlooking Hyde Park.

It had been Christmas Eve since the stroke of midnight, and the sounds of revelry followed him as London’s haut ton danced the night away. They’d do the same the next night at the lavish masquerade to be held at Holland House, and Richard’s name figured prominently on that guest list as well, but given the mood he was in at present he didn’t know if it would be advisable to attend.

He breathed deeply of the keen winter air. The December of 1819 had been bitterly cold so far, almost as cold as the winter of 1814 when the Thames had frozen over, and somehow he didn’t think it would improve before the new year. Lifting his cane he dashed some snow from an overhanging branch. Pargeter Street was a place of elegant mansions and high-walled gardens, and tonight it was filled with that air of excitement that always accompanied Christmas. A line of fine carriages was drawn up near Finch House, red-ribboned wreaths adorned all doorways, and more greenery could be seen through brightly lit windows, for it was as traditional to decorate one’s house in Mayfair as it was any country cottage. Richard strolled on, feeling no excitement at all, just an unsettling restlessness, as if something of tremendous importance was about to happen to him.

His tall-crowned hat was tipped back on his blonde hair, and the astrakhan collar of his greatcoat was turned up. Beneath the coat he wore the tight-fitting black velvet evening coat and white silk pantaloons that were de rigueur for a man of fashion, and altogether he presented the perfect picture of Bond Street elegance. He was handsome, charming, and much sought after in society, but tonight there was a pensive look in his blue eyes, and an unsmiling set to his fine lips.

The ball would continue until daylight, but he hadn’t been enjoying the diversion, not even when he’d held Isabel in his arms for the waltz. Miss Isabel Hamilton was the woman he was to marry, and he loved her very much, but that hadn’t prevented him from behaving aloofly all evening, so much so that in the end he’d felt obliged to remove himself. Isabel hadn’t understood, indeed she’d been so displeased that she’d tossed her head in that willful but fascinating way of hers, and, much to the annoyance of that lord’s shrew of a duchess, had promptly requested the good-looking young Duke of Laroche to partner her in a cotillion. She’d given Laroche her full and flattering attention, and hadn’t glanced again at the fiancé who’d displeased her so.

With a sigh Richard jabbed his silver-tipped cane into the deep snow at the side of the pavement. Things weren’t going well in his private life, for of late there’d been far too much friction and misunderstanding. Isabel was the belle of London, having taken society by storm when she’d arrived from her home in Scotland the year before. She had no title or fortune, but was very beautiful and from a good family, and she’d been besieged by admirers from the moment she arrived. With her shining short dark curls and melting brown eyes she was quite the most heart-stoppingly lovely creature in the realm, and he was the envy of his many rivals for having won her hand. But as the months of the betrothal had passed he’d begun to see a side of her of which his rivals knew nothing. She could be flirtatious, capricious, selfish and untruthful, and these traits had rubbed a little of his happiness away. He still loved her, but deep in his heart he was beginning to have grave doubts about the wisdom of making her his wife.

But tonight he’d behaved boorishly, and she’d been perfectly justified in showing her displeasure. They were due to take a ride in Hyde Park in the morning, and he’d do his best to smooth her ruffled feathers. He’d do the same at the Holland House masquerade, which he reluctantly accepted he’d have to attend if he was to put matters entirely right with Isabel. But it all depended on his being able to shrug off this damned restlessness.

Something made him pause suddenly and whirl about to look swiftly back along the pavement. He had the strong feeling that he was being followed, but all he could see was the line of elegant carriages drawn up at the curbside outside Finch House, and the small groups of coachmen laughing and talking together as they whiled away the long hours of the ball. He continued to look back, for the feeling was so strong that every instinct told him someone was there, but there was nothing, just the empty pavement and the entrances to the mansions he’d passed. Someone could be hiding in one of those entrances. . . . For a moment he considered going back to look, but then decided against it. He had his cane and was well able to take care of himself against any footpad.

The sounds of the ball began to dwindle away behind him as he walked on again, but as the night became more quiet, there was a new sound as a travel-stained post-chaise turned the corner from Park Lane, driving toward him at the sort of weary trot that told of a long and arduous journey. The yellow-jacketed postboy scanned the houses on either side of the street until at last he saw the address he sought, and with relief maneuvered his tired horses to a standstill outside number forty-four, a few yards in front of Richard.

The owners of the house, Mr. and Mrs. Josiah Fitzhaven, were acquaintances of his, and he half-expected to see them in the chaise as he glanced toward it, but instead he saw two women, a rather elderly maid in a poke bonnet and prim brown mantle, and a young woman in a hooded crimson velvet cloak. He caught a glimpse of the latter’s sweet profile by the light of a streep lamp opposite as she prepared to open the chaise door.

Instinctively Richard hastened forward to open it for her, extending his white-gloved hand to help her out. She slipped her fingers from the warm depths of her white swansdown muff, and as she accepted his hand he was conscious of the hardness of her wedding ring. The fragrance of lily-of-the-valley drifted over him as she stepped down to the snowy pavement; it was a perfume that evoked the past with a poignancy that was almost as tangible as her ring. Memories of a lost love were all around as she turned to thank him, and her hood fell back to reveal a face he’d never expected to see again.

His heart almost missed a beat. ‘‘Diana?’’ he whispered. ‘‘Diana, is it really you?’’

With a gasp she stared at him, her magnificent green eyes wide with shock. ‘‘Richard?’’ she breathed, withdrawing her hand as if burned by his touch.

He gazed into the face he’d once adored to distraction. Her eyes were of a fathomless emerald, and she had a cascade of rich burnished chestnut curls which had always defied the efforts of pins to restrain them. She was that rarest of creatures, a flame-haired beauty with a flawless creamy-white complexion, and as he looked at her again, he knew there wasn’t a woman on earth to compare with Miss Diana Laverick.

For the space of another heartbeat he was under her spell again, captivated by emotions he’d striven so desperately to deny since the last bitterly cold winter in 1814. But as he drank in the sweetly remembered face, the spell snapped suddenly, and reality rushed over him. She wasn’t Miss Diana Laverick anymore; she was Mrs. Robert Beaumont, and she didn’t deserve his love. She deserved his loathing.

All these years before in his home county of Cheshire, when he’d been a second son without hope of inheriting his father’s wealth or title, he’d been unbelievably happy when he’d fallen in love with her. He’d been foolish enough to think she returned his love, but she was too ambitious and grasping to regard him as more than an idle fancy, and on Christmas Eve 1814 he’d learned of her sudden marriage to Robert Beaumont, a fabulously wealthy plantation owner who’d immediately swept her away to a life of luxury in Jamaica. She’d remained out of England ever since, and her heartbroken lover had at last managed to put his life in some sort of order again, but here she was on another Christmas Eve, stepping down to bring back all the torment he’d suffered at her hands. Perfidious, cold, calculating Diana, the bane of his life.

Bitter resentment gripped him anew, and his blue eyes were suddenly ice-cold. ‘‘So, London is to be honored with your presence, is it? May I enquire if Mr. Beaumont is with you?’’

She glanced back at the chaise, from which the elderly maid was alighting. ‘‘As you can see, Richard, Mr. Beaumont is not with me.’’

‘‘Will he be joining you?’’

‘‘No.’’ She gave the maid a warning look, as if to prevent her from saying something which might be out of turn.

The maid met her mistress’s gaze, and remained silent, but she looked at Richard in an unsmiling way that conveyed her disapproval of him. He knew her. Her name was Mary Keating, and she’d been in Diana’s service for many years. She was a small, slight person with sharp gray eyes and a questing nose, and she always guarded her mistress as fiercely as any mother cat defending her kitten. In the past she hadn’t disapproved of him, but she obviously did now.

Diana nodded at her. ‘‘See that Mr. and Mrs. Fitzhaven are informed of our arrival, and have their butler instruct some men to assist with the luggage.’’

‘‘Yes, Miss Diana.’’ Mary went to the door of the mansion, reaching up past the wreath of holly and mistletoe to rap the lion’s head knocker.

Richard glanced at the house. ‘‘You’re staying with the Fitzhavens?’’ he asked Diana.

‘‘Very fleetingly.’’

‘‘I had no idea you knew them.’’

‘‘Mrs. Fitzhaven is my mother’s second cousin, and she very kindly invited me to stay with them during my . . . She invited me to stay with them,’’ she finished, as if deciding against a further explanation of her presence in London. She looked at him again. ‘‘I understand that you are now Sir Richard?’’

‘‘Yes.’’

‘‘I was very sorry to learn that both your father and brother were lost on board the Wanderer.’’

He didn’t reply.

‘‘Are you married?’’ she asked.

‘‘I’m betrothed to Miss Isabel Hamilton.’’

‘‘The name means nothing to me.’’ She gave the faintest of smiles. ‘‘As you may remember, I never left Cheshire before my marriage, and this is the first time I’ve been to London.’’

‘‘I’m afraid I don’t recall the details of your life, Mrs. Beaumont,’’ he answered coolly. Anger bubbled beneath the surface of his calm. It was preposterous to be standing here exchanging pleasantries when he really wished to shake her and make her say she was sorry for all the hurt and anguish she’d caused him.

She couldn’t ignore the chill in his voice, or the resentment in his eyes. ‘‘Richard, I’ll only be here for a day or so, and I don’t anticipate that you and I will meet again . . .’’

‘‘I sincerely trust not,’’ he replied cuttingly.

The door of the house had been opened now, and light flooded out as footmen hastened to attend to the luggage at the rear of the chaise. Mary stood at the top of the steps, watching Richard and her mistress.

Diana gave him a ghost of a smile. ‘‘Given what you’ve just said, it would obviously be inappropriate to say that I’m glad we encountered each other like this.’’

‘‘Very inappropriate indeed, madam.’’ The rancor he felt was suddenly so great that he couldn’t trust himself to prolong the meeting a moment more. ‘‘Goodbye, Mrs. Beaumont,’’ he said tersely, ‘‘I trust this Christmas brings you everything you so richly deserve.’’ Inclining his head in a gesture calculated to be insulting, he strolled on, his cane swinging as if nothing of any consequence had occurred.

Diana watched him until he turned the corner into Park Lane, where she remembered his town house was to be found. How full of resentment he still was, and how little he understood, even after all this time. Tears stung her eyes, and she blinked them back. He’d never forgive her—he’d made that plain enough when he’d ignored the letter she’d sent explaining her swift marriage to Robert. Oh, how sad Christmas always made her feel now. It was the time of year she dreaded most of all. She took a deep breath. The sooner all this was over and done with, the better for all concerned.

Mary came down the steps toward her. ‘‘Come inside out of the cold, Miss Diana.’’

‘‘I’m coming, Mary.’’

‘‘Mr. and Mrs. Fitzhaven have been called away unexpectedly because Mr. Fitzhaven’s father is unwell, but they’ve left word that the house is entirely at your disposal.’’

Diana was about to reply when something made her look back along the pavement toward the crush of carriages outside Finch House. She’d heard a soft sound, a small scuffling noise as if someone was hiding in the shadows nearby.

‘‘What is it, Miss Diana?’’ asked Mary, looking anxiously at her.

‘‘I thought I heard something. Mary, I think there’s someone watching us.’’

Mary shivered. ‘‘Then come inside straightaway, Miss Diana,’’ she said firmly, ushering her mistress toward the steps.

Diana allowed herself to be drawn into the brightly lit entrance hall, where a kissing bunch of mistletoe, holly, red apples, and lighted candles was suspended low beneath two glittering chandeliers. The walls were a cool classical blue-and-white, and the floor patterned with black-and-white tiles. Two sapphire-blue brocade sofas were placed on either side of a white marble fireplace, where a huge yule log burned slowly in the hearth. Elegant console tables stood against the walls, each one presided over by a tall gilt-framed mirror adorned with girandoles, and at the far end a grand staircase led up to the floor above, vanishing between tall Corinthian columns that emphasized the spaciousness and grandeur of the house.

Mary led her across to some handsome white-and-gold double doors, opening them to show her into the sumptuous drawing room beyond. There was rose-pink silk on the walls, and gilded French furniture, and more chandeliers that cast a rich, warm glow over everything.

Mary relieved Diana of the crimson velvet cloak and the swansdown muff, and watched as she went to hold her hands out to the fire burning so brightly in the magnificent black marble fireplace. The maid’s eyes were sad. ‘‘It will be over soon, Miss Diana, and then we can go home again.’’

‘‘Home?’’ Diana turned to give her a rather wry smile.

‘‘Well, it is, isn’t it?’’

‘‘I suppose so.’’

Mary was worried about her, for she’d been through so much recently. The long journey hadn’t helped, for although she, Mary, had been able to sleep when the chance arose, she knew that her mistress had had very little rest. ‘‘Miss Diana, I’ve asked the cook to prepare you a warm drink and a light supper, and there’s a maid attending to your bedroom right now, so that when you’ve had some refreshment, you can get some sleep at last. I’m sure you’ll feel a great deal better in the morning.’’

‘‘In readiness for my fateful meeting with the lawyer in the afternoon,’’ murmured Diana, thinking of how they’d traveled at breakneck speed from Falmouth in order to be in London in time.

‘‘It may not be all bad news, Miss Diana,’’ said Mary as reassuringly as she could.

‘‘I wish I could feel that optimistic,’’ replied Diana, turning to hold her cold hands out to the fire again.

Mary went sadly out, closing the doors softly behind her.

Diana gazed down into the hearth, but it wasn’t the glow of flames that she saw, it was the ice in Sir Richard Curzon’s blue eyes.

 
As the hired chaise at last pulled away from the curb outside, a secretive figure emerged stealthily from the shelter of some snowy laurels in front of a nearby house. The Honorable Geoffrey Hawksworth, son and heir of Viscount Hawksworth, cursed beneath his breath as snow slithered down the back of his neck and over his fashionable clothes. Standing on the pavement, he carefully brushed the black fur trimming on his elegant ankle-length redingote.

He was a tall young man, thin-faced and pale, with long-lashed hazel eyes and full lips. His curly brown hair was abundant, and cut in an extravagantly modish style. Beneath his redingote he too wore evening clothes, for he’d been following his adversary, Richard, from the ball when the intriguing encounter with the enigmatic Mrs. Beaumont had taken place.

As he looked up at the bright windows of number forty-four, there was a slyly thoughtful expression on his face. Pure chance had caused him to follow Richard, whose puzzling conduct tonight and sudden departure had aroused his curiosity; pure chance had also caused Mrs. Beaumont to step down from the chaise right in front of her old love. Geoffrey was one of the few people in London who knew about Diana, for he’d once been Richard’s close friend, and Richard had told hardly a soul about his heartbreaking affair in Cheshire in the frozen winter of 1814, and he certainly hadn’t told Isabel. He’d told his good friend Geoffrey, however, because Isabel hadn’t entered their lives then, but when she’d arrived in London, and both men had fallen in love with her, they’d fallen out beyond all redemption. In the end she’d given her favor to Richard, but Geoffrey had never given up. Until she became Lady Curzon, the battle was far from over.

Geoffrey’s hazel eyes glittered in the light from a street lamp as he pondered the engrossing encounter he’d just eavesdropped upon. The past had suddenly invaded Richard Curzon’s present, and it was a past that still had the power to destroy that gentleman’s equilibrium. Geoffrey had often wondered what his former friend’s false-hearted Diana had looked like, and now he knew. She was bewitchingly beautiful, and if Richard’s stung reaction had been any gauge, he was far from over her.

Turning, Geoffrey began to stroll back toward the ball, congratulating himself upon so fortuitously choosing to follow Richard. Diana Beaumont’s arrival in town presented the perfect opportunity for driving a wedge between Richard and Isabel, whose dealings with each other hadn’t been going sweetly of late. A plan was already forming in his scheming mind, a plan so simple that it could not possibly fail. He began to hum to himself, and his cane twirled as he walked. He gave no thought to Diana, whose marriage might be put in jeopardy by his machinations. He was only concerned with wresting Isabel from Richard.

Reaching Finch House, he left his top hat, gloves, cane, and redingote in the room provided, and then reentered the dazzling ballroom, where a sea of elegant, bejeweled guests danced beneath a canopy of chandeliers and Christmas garlands. No expense had been spared in the extravagant decorations; there were even German fir trees, their branches laden with tiers of colored wax candles, a continental fashion brought over by Lady Finch from her native Hanover.

Another waltz was playing, and Isabel was again dancing with Henry Daventry, Duke of Laroche. She wore a low-cut cerise silk gown, its hem modishly stiffened with rouleaux and bows, and there was a white feather boa trailing on the sand-strewn floor as she moved. Diamonds sparkled at her throat and trembled from her ears, and flouncy white ostrich plumes, her favorites, sprang from the circlet around her short dark hair. She was laughing at something Laroche had said, and her brown eyes were soft and teasing as she looked up into his good-looking face.

Geoffrey paused at the foot of the ballroom steps, toying with the lace spilling from his black velvet cuff. His adoring, intense gaze followed her every step, lingering on her exquisite face. Soon she would be his, he didn’t doubt it for a moment now that he possessed such invaluable information about her loathed fiancé.

Stepping on to the crowded floor, he pushed his way toward her, tapping the duke on the shoulder. Laroche was an old acquaintance from school days, and no one ever called him by his first name; he was always simply Laroche. ‘‘Come now, Laroche, you’re being greedy,’’ said Geoffrey. ‘‘You mustn’t hog the loveliest lady in the room, it’s my turn now, besides, I’ve just seen your wife, she’s looking for you. I suggest you adjourn to the card room, she’s already searched there.’’ It was a deliberate lie, for Geoffrey hadn’t seen the duchess at all, but he knew the thought of his wife’s approach would be sufficient to get rid of Laroche, whose dalliances outside the marriage bed had made the duchess an extremely jealous and suspicious woman.

Laroche swiftly relinquished Isabel to Geoffrey, and melted away into the press of guests. Isabel pouted after him, and then gave Geoffrey a reproachful look.

‘‘You haven’t seen the duchess at all, have you?’’ she said in her soft Scottish voice.

‘‘Would I tell fibs at Christmas?’’ he replied, whirling her away into the waltz.

‘‘Yes, Geoffrey, you would, just as you’d tell fibs on any other time of the year if it suited you,’’ she answered, smiling coquettishly.

‘‘You look breathtakingly lovely tonight, Isabel,’’ he whispered.

‘‘Why, thank you, sir,’’ she said in that teasingly flirtatious way that always played havoc with him. ‘‘It’s so very agreeable to be paid compliments by an admirer, instead of having to endure one’s fiancé’s contrariness.’’

‘‘Have you and Curzon quarreled again?’’

‘‘Not exactly, he’s just seen fit to take himself home. He was in a most beastly mood, quite the surly bear, and I wish now that I’d told him not to call on me again until he’s improved his manners. However, I didn’t say any such thing, so he’ll be taking me riding in Hyde Park tomorrow morning, and to the masquerade tomorrow night. Or should I say tonight? It’s Christmas Eve now, isn’t it?’’

‘‘It is indeed,’’ he replied, exulting not only in the pleasure of holding her, but in the fact that she was quite obviously very disenchanted indeed with the man she was to marry. ‘‘Isabel, if you were mine I’d never be a surly bear, and I’d certainly never leave early.’’

‘‘I know you wouldn’t, Geoffrey, for you’re the most of an angel I ever knew.’’

‘‘You should have chosen me.’’

‘‘I know.’’ She sighed, her lips pouting a little again. ‘‘Richard’s been so very hurtful of late, he’s even declined to buy me the little Christmas gift I crave more than anything else in the world.’’

‘‘Little Christmas gift?’’

‘‘It’s only a little brooch, a golden sunburst that would look the very thing on the tartan sash I intend to wear with my new white silk gown, and he knows how much I want it, but this morning it was still in Cranford’s window.’’

‘‘Oh, my poor darling,’’ murmured Geoffrey, drawing her just a little closer. His mind was racing, for he’d just thought of a way of adding to his plan in order to make it even more assured of success.

 
As dawn began to lighten the eastern sky, and Lady Finch’s guests departed, Geoffrey’s carriage drove slowly down Bond Street, drawing up outside the premises of Messrs Cranford, the fashionable jewelers. Stepping down, he looked in at the exquisite items shining in the light of a street lamp. The sunburst brooch reposed in a little red leather box, and, as Isabel had said, it would indeed look perfect with her tartan sash. Tartan accessories were all the rage now because of Sir Walter Scott’s popular novels, and no one wore them to better advantage than Isabel.

Returning to the carriage, he instructed the coachman to drive to Piccadilly, and the premises of Messrs Duvall & Carrier, fanmakers and glovers to royalty. A few minutes later he alighted again, this time to study a window display of dainty gloves and fans of every description.

It wasn’t long before his glance fell upon a fan that fitted his requirements in every way, for not only was it made of Isabel’s adored white plumes, but it was also trimmed with little tartan bows. Next to it there was a small folding fan with gold-embroidered gray satin fixed upon sticks of gilded, carved ivory. He didn’t know Mrs. Diana Beaumont, but intuition told him that she’d find such a fan very much to her liking.

He returned to the carriage again, and it drove away along the virtually deserted street toward his Mayfair residence in North Street. It would be several hours yet before the shops opened for the hectic business of Christmas Eve, and in the meantime he had much to do. It would be a long time before he could get some sleep, but somehow he didn’t feel even remotely tired. He had far too much on his mind for that.

As his carriage drove slowly along Park Lane, past Richard’s imposing town house, the church bells of London began to strike seven.

 
The sound of the bells died away, but everything was quiet in the sumptuous green-and-gold drawing room where Richard had fallen asleep in a fireside chair, an almost empty cognac glass resting precariously in his hand.

The only light came from the fire, and shadows moved softly over the hand-painted Chinese silk on the walls, and over the rich green velvet curtains drawn across the tall windows overlooking Park Lane and Hyde Park. The whole room was in the Chinese style, with life-size porcelain figures, pieces of jade, dragon- and chrysanthemum-embroidered chairs and sofas, and lotus-blossom carved on every wooden surface.

Richard didn’t hear the church bells, for the windows were shuttered. His evening coat had been idly discarded on a nearby sofa, and his lace-edged shirt and white satin waistcoat had been partially unbuttoned. His crumpled neckcloth hung loose, and the diamond pin had been left on the marble mantelpiece amid the sprays of seasonal holly, mistletoe, ivy, and myrtle arranged with such care by the maids.

He was dreaming about Diana, and the Christmas five years before when he’d last held her in his arms. She’d been wearing a lilac gown, with a low neckline and long diaphanous sleeves gathered in rich frills at her slender wrists. Her cloud of chestnut hair had been brushed loose, tumbling down about her shoulders in that wanton way he loved so much. They’d slipped away from her family to the seclusion of the minstrels’ gallery above the great hall of her parents’ Cheshire manor house, and masked mummers from the nearby village had been playing in the hall below. He and Diana had been engrossed only in themselves as they stood in each other’s arms in the holly-garlanded shadows. Her lips had tasted so sweet as her supple body yielded against his, and she’d felt so warm and alive through the soft stuff of her gown. His love had never been stronger or more sure than it had been in those magical minutes, and yet within a day or so he was to learn of her marriage to Robert Beaumont, a man of whose existence he knew nothing.

The fire shifted in the hearth, and the flames began to crackle loudly around a half-burned log. Richard awoke with a start, and the glass fell from his fingers, shattering on the polished fender. For a moment he was confused, the tentacles of the dream still coiling around him, but then it faded away, and he remembered.

He leaned his head back wearily. Why had Diana come back to torment him again? Why couldn’t she have stayed in Jamaica? He wished he’d been able to put her firmly in the past, but now that he’d seen her again, he knew that he’d never be able to turn his back finally upon his first great love.

Getting up, he crossed to one of the windows, drawing the curtains back and then folding the shutters aside to look out at snowy Park Lane and Hyde Park. A few tradesmen’s carts were making their way along the street toward the fashionable shops of Oxford Street and Piccadilly, where soon the most profitable day of the year would be in full swing.

His gaze moved across to the park with its ghostly white trees. Would Isabel still be prepared to ride with him later on, or had he offended her too much? He wished now that he hadn’t given in to his strange mood, but had remained at the ball, for then he’d have been spared the encounter with Diana. Damn her for coming back, and damn her even more for still being able to stop his heart with a glance.

 
In Pargeter Street, Diana was sleeping the sleep of the exhausted. Her flame-colored hair spilled over her pillow like molten copper, and there were no dreams to disturb her slumber. She had no idea of the stir her return was about to cause due to the underhanded intentions of one Geoffrey Hawksworth, who, the moment he’d entered his residence in North Street, had sat down at the great writing desk in his library with pen, ink, and many sheets of quality vellum upon which to perfect a more than passing resemblance to Sir Richard Curzon’s rather distinctive writing. Letters had been exchanged during the days of the two men’s friendship, and so Geoffrey did not lack examples from which to copy. It was painstaking work, but in the end he was satisfied that the only person who would be able to tell his work from the real thing would be Richard himself.

While this clandestine activity was taking place, Diana slept on, not waking until the ormulu clock on the mantelpiece struck nine, and Mary came in with a dish of morning tea, which she placed on the elegant marquetry table beside the four poster bed before going to draw back the curtains and fold the shutters aside.

It was a sunny morning, made brighter by all the snow, and the fresh light flooded into the bedroom, lying in sunbeamed shafts across the aquamarine-canopied bed, the brocade curtains of which were tied back with golden ropes. There was gray-and-white-striped silk on the walls, and a dressing table that was lavishly draped with frilled white muslin. A dressing room lined with wardrobes led off to one side, and a lacquered Chinese screen shielded the alcove where the washstand stood. There were two comfortable chairs by the fireplace, and above the mantelpiece was a mirror so large that Diana could see herself in the bed as she sat up.

Mary came to the foot of the bed. ‘‘Good morning, Miss Diana.’’

‘‘Good morning, Mary,’’ replied Diana, picking up the dish of tea and sipping it.

Mary went through into the dressing room, and emerged in a moment with a very odd assortment of clothes, an apricot velvet spencer, and a lightweight cherry wool riding habit.

Diana stared at the garments. ‘‘Mary, what are you thinking of . . . ?’’

‘‘It’s not as foolish a choice as you may think, Miss Diana, for I’ve learned that there is an excellent riding school in the mews behind here, where fine horses can be hired for riding in Hyde Park. I know how much you like riding, and I also know that such exercise would do you good, so I’ve taken the liberty of ordering a saddle horse for you.’’

Diana stared at her in dismay. ‘‘Oh, Mary, the last thing I want to do is be seen somewhere as public and undoubtedly crowded as Rotten Row!’’

‘‘No one here knows you, except for Sir Richard Curzon, and it’s doubtful if he would acknowledge you anyway.’’ Mary draped the clothes over the back of one of the fireside chairs. ‘‘It’s much colder here than in Jamaica, which is why I thought this spencer would go neatly under the coat of your riding habit. No one will know it’s there, but it will keep you warm while you’re out.’’

‘‘Mary . . .’’ began Diana again, but the maid fixed her with a stern look.

‘‘A ride will do you good, Miss Diana, you need a little diversion to take your mind off the appointment with the lawyer this afternoon.’’

For a moment Diana considered arguing, but she recognized that look, and knew it signified that Mary Keating would keep on until she gave in. ‘‘Oh, very well,’’ she said with a sigh, ‘‘I’ll go riding if you insist.’’

It was a decision that was to play right into Geoffrey Hawksworth’s hands.

 
As Diana dressed for riding after breakfast, Geoffrey set off in his carriage, first of all for Messrs Duvall & Carrier in Piccadilly, and after that for Cranford’s in Bond Street. The carriage blinds were lowered, for he didn’t wish to be seen, and he wasn’t alone in the vehicle, his reluctant valet was with him.

The carriage drew up at the curb in Piccadilly on the first part of the stratagem, and Geoffrey took a letter of authority, two sealed notes, and a fat purse from his pocket. He pushed them all into the valet’s hands.

‘‘I trust that by now you know exactly what you are to do. You are to tell the assistant that you are Sir Richard Curzon’s man, and you are to hand over the letter of authority. It describes exactly the two fans in question, and it gives clear instructions as to the names and addresses of the two ladies to which they are to be sent. It also says that the fans are to be despatched without delay. You must be sure to give them the purse and see that they put the correct sealed note with the correct fan.’’

‘‘Yes, sir.’’

The man’s response was half-hearted, and Geoffrey gave him a testy look. ‘‘Is there something wrong?’’

The valet swallowed, taking his courage in both hands in order to stand up to his master just a little. ‘‘Is it not just a little dishonest for me to pretend to be Sir Richard’s man?’’

Geoffrey’s gaze was frozen. ‘‘If you wish to remain in my employ, I suggest you forget your conscience and just do as you’re told.’’

‘‘Yes, sir.’’

‘‘Then get on with it!’’ snapped Geoffrey, leaning across to fling open the carriage door.

The noise of the busy street leapt in at them, a mixture of voices, footsteps, hooves, and wheels. A fiddler and a blind penny-whistler were playing Good King Wenceslas, a pieman was ringing his handbell and shouting the virtues of his hot pies, and a stagecoach was just leaving the nearby Gloucester Coffee House, its horn ringing out sharply. The valet climbed out, pausing on the pavement for a moment before turning to carefully close the carriage door again and then go into the shop.

Geoffrey held the blind slightly aside so that he could see what was happening. He could just make out the silhouette of the valet, and that of the young man behind the counter. The assistant was nodding, and then came to the window, opening the glass case and removing the two fans Geoffrey had selected at dawn.

A satisfied smile played on Geoffrey’s full lips. It was going without a hitch. But then the smile was abruptly cancelled, for a formidable female face looked in through the carriage window barely inches away from him. He gave a start, drawing back and releasing the blind so that it fell back in place, but almost immediately the carriage door was opened, and the same fearsome face appeared again. It belonged to his great-aunt, his father’s aunt, and a personage who was undoubtedly the scourge of the Hawksworth family, for she always demanded, and got, her own way. Small, rosy-faced and possessed of a curiously sweet smile, she was nevertheless a harpy of the highest order, and she seemed to take particular delight in imposing upon him whenever the mood took her. The mood had evidently taken her now.

‘‘Ah, so it is you skulking in here like a felon, Geoffrey! What on earth are you up to?’’

‘‘Er, nothing in particular, Great-Aunt.’’

‘‘No? Excellent, for that means that you can be of singular assistance to me.’’

‘‘It does?’’ His heart sank. What did the old harridan want him to do? Whatever it was, he’d have to bow to her wishes, for she had considerable influence with his father, and therefore with the family purse strings. Geoffrey had no intention of risking a reduction in his allowance simply because this medusa had been mildly offended.

‘‘Yes,’’ she said, opening the door fully and holding out her hand to him for assistance. ‘‘Well, help me in, sir, or would you see me struggle?’’

Reluctantly he took the hand, and in a rustle of piped damson silk, she climbed in and took the seat opposite him. Her pelisse and matching gown were tightly fitted at the throat and cuffs, and her hands were plunged into a fur-lined muff of the same piped damson silk. She wore a plain black hat with a small black net veil through which her button-bright eyes were clearly seen. Her hair was tugged back in a knot at the back of her head, and she wore no jewelry at all.

As she made herself comfortable, Geoffrey was dismayed still further to see that she wasn’t alone, but was accompanied by two maids carrying bundles of Christmas purchases. They proceeded to enter the carriage as well, taking up the two remaining seats. Now there wasn’t any room left for his valet.

Geoffrey began to protest. ‘‘I say, Great-Aunt . . .’’

‘‘You said you weren’t doing anything in particular, Geoffrey, and so I expect you to convey me home to Hampstead. My fool of a coachman has managed to break the wheel of my barouche on a corner curbstone, and I require transport. I saw your carriage waiting here, and knew that you’d been heaven sent to assist me in my predicament.’’

Geoffrey stared at her, too appalled to speak. Hampstead was over four miles away, and uphill through snow all the way! He still had Cranford’s to visit, but could hardly do that with the old biddy watching his every move. Plague take her, for she was interfering with his plans! For a moment he considered getting out and leaving her the use of his carriage, but almost immediately he discounted such a course of action, for she’d regard it as a slight, and his father would be regaled with the tale of his son’s disappointing manners.

The old lady’s eyes were upon him. ‘‘Well, Geoffrey? Are we to remain here all day? Instruct the coachman to take us to Hampstead.’’

There was nothing for it but to do as she ordered. With ill grace, Geoffrey leaned out of the door to tell the coachman what he was to do, and the carriage pulled away just as the valet emerged from the shop, his errand completed. He stood on the curb, staring after the carriage as it vanished amid the crush of Piccadilly.

With a sigh, the valet turned to make his way back to his master’s residence in North Street. He’d done all he’d been instructed to do, and soon the two fans would be on their way. He didn’t know what his master was up to, but he did know that it wasn’t to any good.

 
While Geoffrey unwillingly commenced the short but arduous journey to the heights of Hampstead, Diana had set out on her ride in Hyde Park.

In spite of the snow, Rotten Row was a throng of fashionable riders, both ladies and gentlemen. Gleaming horses were handled with excellence, and there was a display of high fashion that was second to none as the beau monde rode to and fro along the famous way where it was only the reigning monarch’s prerogative to drive in a carriage.

There was skating on the frozen Serpentine, and nearby there was a great deal of interest in an American horsedrawn sleigh driven with consummate skill by a gentleman from Washington. A party of mounted Bow Street Runners was making its way west toward Kensington Palace, and numerous people were simply taking in the air as they strolled in the snow. Diana had at last gained the measure of the bright chestnut horse provided by the riding school. It had proved a surprisingly mettlesome mount, tossing its head and capering as if it would seize the very first opportunity to get the better of her, but as she rode into Rotten Row, she had it firmly under control.

She attracted many admiring glances from the gentlemen, for she was very eye-catching in her cherry wool riding habit, her flame-colored hair almost matching the sheen on her mount’s chestnut coat. There was a jaunty black beaver hat on her head, black gloves on her hands, and she carried a riding crop that she had no need to resort to. She appeared to great advantage, and she knew it, and under other circumstances she would have reveled in all the admiration, but today her real wish was to blend into the background, which was something she’d failed abysmally to achieve.

There was a second lady who looked particularly delightful in Rotten Row that morning, for she was beautifully turned out in a ruffed lime-green velvet riding habit trimmed with black military frogging. She rode a pretty strawberry roan mare, and her lovely dark-eyed face was sweetly framed by the lime-green gauze scarf encircling her little wide-brimmed black hat. Miss Isabel Hamilton was used to being the center of attention in the park, and she was vain enough to deliberately incite her easygoing mount to dance around a little, in order to show off her riding skills.

She rode with Richard, with whom she’d at first been sulky and difficult when he’d called upon her at the Hanover Square house of the wealthy relatives with whom she lived, she most definitely being from the poor branch of the family. She’d been offhand and awkward whatever Richard had said, but it was virtually impossible to remain in a sulk with him when he was disposed to exert his immense charm. If he’d been in a strange mood at the ball, he was certainly endeavoring to make up for it now, for no gentleman could have been more gallant and attentive than he. If she hadn’t known him better, she’d have concluded rather uncharitably and suspiciously that he had a guilty conscience, and not concerning his manners at the ball! But Richard wasn’t the sort of man to play her false with another, and so she could only believe that the transformation this morning was due entirely to his acceptance that he’d behaved badly the night before.

At her side, Richard rode a large black Hanoverian that few others would have cared to take on, for it could be a savage beast at times, given to snapping its bared teeth at other nearby mounts. He had it under a tight rein, for he wished to concentrate upon sweetening Isabel, not upon the caprices of a disagreeable horse. He tipped his top hat back on his blonde hair, and took a deep breath of the icy morning air. He wore a pine-green coat and tight pale-gray breeches, and the shine on his top boots bore witness to his valet’s devotion to duty. He was beginning to feel he’d smoothed the troubled waters of his dealings with Isabel, and no one could have been further from his thoughts than Diana, who was at that very moment riding through the crowds toward him.

Isabel was talking about the masquerade that night. ‘‘What shall you wear, Richard? I think you would make a splendid cavalier.’’

‘‘I think I’ll just content myself with my ordinary evening wear and a mask,’’ he replied, for if there was one thing he loathed it was dressing up. The invitation from Holland House hadn’t stipulated fancy dress, and that was sufficient excuse for him. He smiled at her. ‘‘What do you intend to wear?’’

‘‘Oh, I haven’t decided yet,’’ she replied vaguely.

He was more than a little surprised. ‘‘You haven’t decided? But I thought such matters were considered long before the actual day!’’

‘‘Well, I haven’t made up my mind, and that’s the end of it,’’ she replied rather shortly.

He fell silent. It was strange that someone as particular as Isabel had yet to make up her mind about something she would normally have regarded as vitally important. Matters of clothing usually preoccupied her to the exclusion of all else.

It was Isabel who first became aware of the slight stir among the riders in front of them. The ladies looked far from pleased about something, and the gentlemen were equally far from being displeased. Then she saw the cause of it, a dainty red-haired figure in cherry, mounted on a spirited chestnut. Isabel’s lips became set in a sour line, for the last thing she wanted was a rival in the beauty stakes, and this stranger was definitely as head-turning as she.

Diana rode toward them without realizing, but then something made her look directly at Richard, and with a gasp, she reined in. Her face became suddenly pale as she gazed at him. Her gloved hands tightened on the reins, and for a moment it seemed she would speak to him, but then her glance flickered toward Isabel, whose cold gaze was very pronounced. Diana kicked her heel, and urged her mount on past them, swiftly vanishing among the riders behind.

Isabel had reined in as well, and turned in the saddle to gaze after her. Then she looked sharply at Richard, whose discomfort was only too plain. ‘‘Who was she?’’ she demanded.

‘‘Er, I believe her name is Beaumont, Mrs. Beaumont,’’ he said lamely.

‘‘I’ve never seen her before, and I don’t believe I know the name. Do you know her well?’’

‘‘Hardly at all.’’

‘‘Then don’t you think her reaction to you was somewhat strange?’’ Suspicion burgeoned in Isabel’s heart, for his responses were hardly reassuring. She wondered again about his remarkable attentiveness this morning. Was there something going on?

‘‘I really have no idea why she behaved as she did,’’ he said, meeting her eyes. ‘‘As I said, the woman is hardly known to me.’’

‘‘I thought her rather vulgar, didn’t you? So much red is hardly tasteful.’’

He didn’t reply, for in truth he’d thought Diana looked magnificent, so magnificent that she’d stopped his breath with admiration. Oh, damn Diana, how he wished she’d stayed out of his life!

His silence displeased Isabel still more, and she too fell into a heavy silence as they rode on. A moment later they were joined by the familiar figure of Laroche, who presented a dashing sight on his highly bred bay Arabian horse, his greyhounds padding faithfully at the horse’s heels. He wore a corbeau-colored riding coat and beige breeches, and he gave them both a lazily good-natured grin.

‘‘Eh, bien, mes enfants, did you see the fair incognita on the chestnut? I vow several gentlemen turned their heads so sharply they almost severed them on their stocks!’’

It wasn’t a remark calculated to please Isabel, who gave him a stormy look. ‘‘Are you referring to the loud creature in scarlet? Richard knows her, he says her name is Mrs. Beaumont. Perhaps he also knows if she is indeed as brash as she looks. Is she, Richard?’’ There was a challenging note in her voice, and her dark eyes were accusing.

Richard’s lips pressed angrily together for a moment. ‘‘Isabel, I told you, I hardly know her. As to her character, I promise you that it is of no interest to me.’’

Isabel searched his face, and evidently found something there she did not trust. ‘‘You’re a liar, Richard Curzon!’’ she declared suddenly, in a tone loud enough to carry to several riders nearby. ‘‘That odious creature is known to you far more than you’re saying!’’ Kicking her heels, she urged her startled mount away from them.

Richard made no move to follow her, and Laroche looked at him in surprise. ‘‘Hadn’t you better make your peace with her, dear boy?’’

‘‘I don’t think that at this precise moment she’s open to reason, do you?’’

Laroche pursed his lips, and then shrugged. ‘‘Richard, she’s the loveliest woman in London, and you’ve snapped her up. You can’t afford to rest on your laurels, not when the monde’s wolves are always prowling about.’’

‘‘Isabel can be very unreasonable.’’

‘‘But, in this particular instance, I wonder if her suspicions aren’t just a little justified?’’ Laroche gave him a sly look. ‘‘How well do you know that proud Titania, eh?’’

‘‘There’s nothing between Mrs. Beaumont and me, Laroche, and I’d thank you not to hint to the contrary!’’ replied Richard sharply.

‘‘Alright, alright, don’t bite my head off, I believe you!’’ protested Laroche, pretending to put up his hands in self-defense. ‘‘But if you love Isabel and wish to keep her, then I suggest you pay more attention to her wishes.’’

‘‘Her wishes?’’

‘‘In matters such as that brooch she covets.’’

‘‘So she’s told you about that, has she?’’

‘‘She confides a great deal in me.’’

‘‘Then let me explain that the brooch in Cranford’s doesn’t stand up to a close inspection, indeed it is somewhat inferior, which is why it still reposes in their window, and why I’ve taken the step of ordering an alternative which I intend to take delivery of this afternoon. I’ll give it to her at the masquerade tonight, and when she sees it, I rather think she’ll forget about the tawdry bauble she’s convinced herself is essential to her happiness. I’m not an uncaring monster, Laroche, indeed I’m far from it.’’

Laroche looked at him for a long moment. ‘‘Do you love her, Richard?’’ he asked quietly.

Richard hesitated, and then lowered his eyes, for when he tried to picture Isabel’s face, all he saw was Diana.

The silence was eloquent, and Laroche shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. ‘‘I, er, think I’d better be toddling along,’’ he said, gathering his reins.

‘‘No doubt I’ll see you tonight at the masquerade.’’

‘‘Er, no, I fear not. I have other plans.’’

Richard looked at him in surprise. ‘‘But I thought your wife was looking forward to it.’’

‘‘She is, and as far as I’m concerned she can go, but I have something else to attend to.’’ Laroche touched his top hat, and then urged his Arabian horse away. Followed by his greyhounds, he disappeared in the crush of riders.

Richard remained where he was, the only motionless figure in a moving sea of equestrians. Faced with the direct question about whether or not he loved Isabel, he hadn’t been able to answer. This morning he’d striven to placate her, but the moment Diana appeared . . . His thoughts trailed away in confusion. What in God’s name did he feel?

 
Isabel rode furiously back to Hanover Square, thrusting the reins of her sweating horse into the hands of the groom who waited in front of the house, and then hurrying into the rather austere white marble entrance hall, where tall Doric columns rose toward a lofty ceiling. Following Lady Finch’s lead, Isabel’s aunt, Mrs. Graham, had had German fir trees placed on either side of the fireplace, their tiers of colored wax candles shining softly in the gloomy light cast down from the window above the main doorway. The Doric columns were festooned with seasonal branches, and an enormous bunch of mistletoe was suspended low from the ceiling, turning slowly in the draft caused by her entry.

There was a beautiful inlaid table standing in the center of the red-and-cream-tiled floor, and on it there was a large bowl of red-berried holly, and a silver dish for visiting cards. There was also a brown paper package, and Isabel was drawn to it like a pin to a magnet.

Putting her gloves on the table, she picked up the parcel, swiftly opening it as she saw that it was addressed to her. Oh, how she loved opening packages! Her breath caught with delight as she saw the fan inside, and she ran her fingertips over the soft white plumage and dainty tartan bows. It was the most perfect thing imaginable! Her glance fell on the sealed note that had fallen out on to the table, and her eyes softened a little as she recognized Richard’s writing. Maybe he had some redeeming qualities after all . . .

Breaking the seal, she began to read the message inside. My darling Diana, Words cannot say how overjoyed I am that you are part of my life again, nor can they convey the yearning I feel for the moment I’ve set you up in a house where I may visit you whenever I wish. My marriage will make no difference to my love for you. You are my heart, my mistress, and my life, and if you were free I’d make you mine forever. I adore thee. Richard.

Thunderstruck, Isabel stared at the note. His darling Diana? A house? His mistress? The note dropped to the table and she clutched the exquisite fan to her breast, trying to gather her scattered composure. So he was up to something behind her back! Oh, the monster! He had a mistress and had been found out because he’d made the foolish mistake of sending the wrong note to Hanover Square!

Fury seized her, and she flung the fan across the floor where it came to rest at the foot of one of the German fir trees. Her eyes flashed and her lips were a thin line of rage. How dared he! How dared he!

Unbidden, a vision of the creature in the cherry wool riding habit entered her head. Was that brazen Mrs. Beaumont his precious inamorata? If she was it would certainly explain the odd way both she and Richard had reacted on seeing each other. Isabel hurried to retrieve the fan, examining the handle as she searched for the maker’s mark. She soon found the name of Messrs Duvall & Carrier. If she guessed correctly, then there had been a second fan, one intended for the unknown Diana, only it contained the message intended for Hanover Square! A visit to Piccadilly was most definitely necessary in order to establish all the facts, before Sir Richard Curzon could be faced with his vile infidelity and deceit!

She called for a footman, and one emerged hastily from the shadows, quailing a little at the blazing fury in her eyes. ‘‘Yes, Miss Hamilton?’’

‘‘Have another horse saddled for me without delay!’’

‘‘Yes, Miss Hamilton.’’ Turning, he almost ran from her presence.

She pulled on her gloves, flexing her fingers like the claws of a cat. So, Richard was making a fool of her, was he? He was keeping a mistress and paying court to the belle of London society! Well, he was about to find out that Miss Isabel Hamilton couldn’t be treated like that. If anyone was going to be made a fool of, it was Richard himself!

With sudden decision she hurried through into the library, where she sat at the writing desk and dipped a quill in the ink. She wrote a very hasty note, and immediately sanded and sealed it, then she wrote a gentleman’s name on it. She’d been hesitating about taking such a shocking course as the one she now intended, but Richard’s duplicity had made her mind up for her. London was about to be scandalized, and Sir Richard Curzon would be left looking very foolish.

Reentering the hall, she found the footman waiting. ‘‘Have this delivered immediately,’’ she said, giving him the note.

‘‘Very well, Miss Hamilton. Your horse has been brought around to the front.’’

She nodded, but hesitated before going out. ‘‘See that the note is given to the gentleman himself, for it’s important that it doesn’t fall into the wrong hands.’’

‘‘Very well, Miss Hamilton.’’ The footman was the soul of discretion, giving no hint at all of his intense curiosity as to why she should be sending messages to such a gentleman.

A moment later she left the house again to ride to Piccadilly, and the premises of Messrs Duvall & Carrier.

 
No sooner had the sound of Isabel’s horse died away in Hanover Square, than Diana returned to the riding stables in the mews behind Pargeter Street. She walked back to the house through the garden at the rear, where a stone nymph stood in frozen nakedness in the center of an ice-covered pool. The trees were heavily laden with snow, and a robin redbreast sang his heart out from the wall, his bright eyes watching her as she made her way toward the house.

She was still thinking about the encounter in the park. The lady in lime-green must be the Miss Hamilton Richard was to marry. She was very beautiful indeed, and unnecessarily jealous and suspicious, for Richard hadn’t been even remotely warm toward his former love, in fact he’d looked right through her. Diana sighed, recalling the chill in his gaze. If it hadn’t been for that invisible barrier he’d placed so firmly between them, she’d have spoken to him, for what point was there in prolonging the bitterness of the past? But he’d given her no encouragement at all, and so she’d ridden on. But, oh, how she wished it could be different.

Entering the house, she found Mary waiting for her in the drawing room. ‘‘What is it, Mary?’’ she asked quickly, sensing that something had happened.

Mary went to a table and picked up a small brown paper package. ‘‘This was delivered a short while ago. It’s addressed to you.’’

‘‘To me?’’ Diana put her riding crop down, and began to tease off her gloves. ‘‘But who would send anything to me?’’

‘‘I don’t know, Miss Diana,’’ replied Mary unhappily, for every instinct told her that the package meant trouble.

Diana took the package and opened it, pausing in astonishment as she saw the exquisite gray silk fan inside. ‘‘Why, it’s beautiful,’’ she breathed, then she glanced down to the floor as the sealed note fell. Her face became still as she recognized Richard’s writing.

Mary recognized the writing as well, for in the past she’d seen many letters written to her mistress by Sir Richard Curzon. Bending, she retrieved it. ‘‘It’s from . . .’’

‘‘I know who it’s from, Mary,’’ replied Diana quietly, putting the fan and the brown paper wrapping on the table.

‘‘But . . .’’

‘‘Mary, I’ve just encountered him in the park, and he looked through me so coldly that I could have turned to ice. Whatever this fan is, it isn’t sent kindly, of that I can be sure.’’

‘‘Perhaps you’re wrong. Shouldn’t you at least read the note?’’

‘‘I’m not wrong, but I’ll read it,’’ replied Diana, taking the note and breaking the seal. She read it aloud.

 
My beloved,

Let this Christmas be the signal for a new future together. Let us forget the misunderstandings of the past and accept our undying love for each other. I will adore you throughout eternity. Richard.

 
She dropped the note on to the fan, and began to wrap the package up again. ‘‘That Richard Curzon was resentful I’ve always known, but I didn’t think he was also unspeakably petty and spiteful.’’

‘‘Oh, Miss Diana . . .’’

‘‘I want this sent back to him at his Park Lane residence, with the message that I wish him to refrain from communicating with me again.’’

‘‘Yes, Miss Diana.’’

Turning, Diana left the room, but as she hurried up the grand staircase there were tears in her eyes.

 
The church bells were sounding midday as Isabel reined her horse in by the doors of Messrs Duvall & Carrier. Giving the reins and a coin to a man selling mistletoe, she entered the dark confines of the exclusive establishment, and a superior young man came to assist her. He was dressed in a charcoal coat and starched blue-and-white-spotted silk neckcloth, and he placed his fingertips very precisely on the dark oak counter. He stood directly beneath a very pretty Christmas kissing bunch, and was so filled with a sense of his own importance that he made Isabel more furious than ever.

‘‘May I be of assistance, madam?’’ he inquired.

‘‘Possibly,’’ she replied icily. ‘‘I have been sent a fan that was purchased at this establishment, but I believe there must have been a mistake made with the order, and that I’ve been sent the wrong fan.’’

‘‘Mistake, madam?’’ He evinced amazement that anyone could believe such hallowed premises capable of perpetrating an error of any kind.

‘‘Yes, sir, a mistake, sir,’’ she said coldly. ‘‘The fan was purchased by Sir Richard Curzon.’’

‘‘Ah, yes, I recall the order, indeed I handled it myself. Sir Richard sent his man to act on his behalf.’’

‘‘And there were two fans concerned in the order?’’ She asked the question lightly, as if she already knew all about it and was just confirming the facts.

‘‘Yes, madam, there were indeed two fans.’’

‘‘As I thought, and you, sir, have sent the wrong one to me.’’

‘‘Oh, that cannot possibly be so,’’ he replied vainly, ‘‘for the letter of authority was quite specific.’’

‘‘May I see it?’’

He stared at her. ‘‘See the letter? Oh, I’m afraid that would be a little irregular.’’

‘‘Then be irregular, sir, or else I shall make such a noise that you will very swiftly regret your obstinacy!’’

He blinked, and then decided that discretion was the better part of valor, for she did indeed look as if she was capable of making a fuss to end all fusses. ‘‘Very well, madam, I’ll go and get it now.’’

Turning, he went through a door at the rear of the shop, reemerging a moment later with the letter in his hand. As he held it out to her, she almost snatched it from him. Richard’s telltale writing leapt out at her, as did the name of the recipient of the second fan: Mrs. Diana Beaumont. So, the creature in the park and his beloved Diana seemed to be one and the same, indeed the coincidence was too great for it to be otherwise. No wonder Richard had affected such vagueness in Rotten Row when they’d come face to face with his doxy! He must have thought himself undone! Well, he hadn’t been undone then, but he most certainly was now!

Thrusting the letter back into the assistant’s hand, she turned on her heel and marched out again, slamming the door so fiercely behind her that the little kissing bunch began to revolve on its scarlet ribbons. The mistletoe-seller saw the glint in her eyes and hastily held out the reins of her horse before retreating to what he felt was a safe distance. It was a wise move, for she mounted very swiftly, turning the horse actually on the pavement itself, much to the alarm of the unfortunate pedestrians nearby. Employing her riding crop on the horse’s flank, she urged it away toward Park Lane, riding like a demon through the heavy Christmas traffic.

Piccadilly paused in amazement to watch the progress of the fury in the lime green riding habit. She rode without any thought for others, weaving her nervous horse between the crowded vehicles and managing to knock a hamper and a brace of Christmas pheasants from the back of a stagecoach. She stopped some carolsingers in mid-song by cutting the corner into Park Lane and thus riding straight through them, and she was very nearly the cause of a spillage of yule logs all over the London street when she forced a heavily laden cart to swerve in order to get out of her way.

She reined in outside Richard’s elegant town house, only just managing to control her lathered horse, which was now thoroughly upset. Dismounting, she dropped the reins and gathered her skirts to advance furiously on the front door.

Her angry knocking brought the butler as quickly as his legs could carry him, and he stood aside in astonishment as she strode in.

‘‘M-Miss Hamilton . . . ?’’

‘‘Have someone attend to my horse,’’ she answered shortly, glancing around the entrance hall with its Chinese paintings and lotus blossom chandeliers. ‘‘Where is Sir Richard?’’

‘‘In the conservatory, madam. Shall I announce . . . ?’’

‘‘That won’t be necessary,’’ she replied, marching away determinedly toward the rear of the house.

The butler gazed uneasily after her, for her mood didn’t bode at all well for his master.

The conservatory was a lofty, spacious place, its many glass panes facing over the snowy gardens. Tropical leaves pressed all around, and the air was warm, fragrant, and damp. Richard was lounging on one of the white-painted wrought iron chairs set by a matching table. A decanter of cognac stood on the table, and he was sipping a glass as he glanced through a newspaper. Hearing her angry steps approaching, he put the glass and the newspaper down quickly, and rose to his feet.

‘‘Isabel?’’

‘‘Good afternoon, sir.’’

A light passed through his eyes at her cold, angry tone. ‘‘Is something wrong?’’ he asked.

‘‘Wrong, sir? Oh, yes, something is indeed wrong. You’ve been found out!’’

‘‘Found out? I don’t understand . . .’’

‘‘I know all about your belle de nuit!’’

He looked blankly at her. ‘‘I’m afraid I don’t understand. What belle de nuit?’’

‘‘Your precious Mrs. Beaumont!’’ she snapped.

His eyes cleared. So that was it: somehow she’d found out about Diana’s part in his past. ‘‘Isabel, I can explain all about Diana . . .’’

She flashed him a look so bright and furious that it was as if her eyes were on fire. ‘‘So, you admit it! You admit she is more to you than a person with whom you are vaguely acquainted.’’

‘‘Yes, I admit that much, but I assure you she . . .’’

‘‘Don’t attempt to lie to me, sir, for it won’t wash. You’ve been found out, and you have only yourself to blame. How foolish and careless of you to address the wrong note to me!’’

He stared at her. ‘‘Isabel, what on earth are you talking about? What note?’’

‘‘I’m not a fool, sir, so don’t treat me like one! You know perfectly well what note, for it can only be the one you penned to your vulgar little inamorata, but which you managed to send to me instead! How dare you deceive me, how dare you keep a mistress!’’

His face became very still. ‘‘Isabel, I swear to you that I have no idea what you’re talking about. I haven’t written any notes, not to you or to anyone else!’’

‘‘And I suppose you didn’t send your man to Duvall & Carrier’s to purchase the two fans you’d picked out?’’ she replied frostily.

‘‘No, damn it, I most certainly did not!’’ he snapped.

‘‘Then the letter of authority in your handwriting just conjured itself out of nothing? As did the note for your precious Diana? No doubt she is at this very moment gazing upon the billet doux meant for me!’’

For a long moment he was silent, then he spoke in a quietly incensed voice. ‘‘Are you telling me that someone has purchased two fans in my name, and had one sent to you and the other to Diana Beaumont?’’

‘‘Does it amuse you to ask something you know only too well, sir? Of course that’s what I’m telling you! How long did you imagine you’d get away with it? Obviously you meant to continue keeping her after our marriage. . . .’’

‘‘Isabel, I am not keeping her, and I never have!’’

‘‘Monster! How can you face me and utter such manifest untruths!’’ she cried. ‘‘In the park earlier you said that she was hardly known to you, and yet now it’s rather clear that that was a bare-faced lie. How long have you known her?’’

‘‘Over five years.’’

Isabel stared at him. ‘‘Are you telling me you’ve been keeping her all that time?’’

‘‘No, I’m just telling you how long I’ve known her. She was Diana Laverick then, and if I could have married her, I would, but she chose a wealthier husband and went with him to live in Jamaica. She returned to England yesterday, and that is the extent of my recent knowledge of her. She is not my mistress, I’d swear that on the Bible itself! Someone is up to something, Isabel, for I did not write any letter or any notes. I did not order any fans, and I did not send my man to Duvall & Carrier’s.’’

‘‘The note I received and the letter are both in your handwriting, sirrah.’’

‘‘Then someone has forged my writing!’’ he replied shortly. ‘‘Damn it, Isabel, do you really imagine I’d conduct myself in such a way as to keep a mistress when I am betrothed to you? Do you honestly believe that I’d be so low and deceitful as to see someone else behind your back?’’

She lowered her eyes. ‘‘Such things have been known, sir,’’ she replied softly.

‘‘You should trust me more, madam.’’

‘‘Should I? Why, when you’ve lied already where that brazen doxy is concerned?’’

‘‘Isabel, Diana Beaumont is neither brazen nor a doxy. She is a respectably married woman who has done nothing to warrant being involved in this . . . this whatever it is. Someone has seen fit to meddle in our affairs, and I intend to find out who.’’ He held her gaze. ‘‘Do you trust me, Isabel?’’ he asked softly.

She met his eyes, still remembering the encounter in the park. ‘‘No,’’ she replied. ‘‘No, I don’t trust you, sir.’’

‘‘Then I think our betrothal must be at an end, don’t you?’’ he said coldly.

‘‘As you wish, sirrah,’’ she replied, her chin raised proudly. For a moment she considered making the grand gesture of tossing his ring at him, but then she thought better of it, for the ring was very valuable, and she liked it a great deal. Conflicting emotions crossed her lovely face, but then she turned on her heel and left him. So, he thought to end the betrothal, did he? Well, she didn’t intend to tell the world about it; she just intended to teach him the lesson of his life, making him the laughingstock of society in the process! The shoe was about to be on the other foot, oh, how it was to be on the other foot!

As she flung from the conservatory, Richard turned to gaze angrily out at the snow-covered gardens. What was going on? Who was scheming against him like this? An obvious name came to mind, Geoffrey Hawksworth, but how would Geoffrey know about Diana? Then he remembered, in the days before Isabel, when he’d been intimate enough with Geoffrey to confide in him. Yes, Geoffrey knew all about Diana, and, coincidentally, Geoffrey also happened to covet Isabel. If that same Geoffrey had somehow learned of Diana’s return to England . . . Richard took a long breath. He’d lay odds that Geoffrey Hawksworth was behind all this, and the best way to start making enquiries was to adjourn to Messrs Duvall & Carrier to see what was what.

First things first, however, for there was the matter of setting Diana straight concerning the fan she had apparently received in his name. The lord alone knew what message had accompanied it, but . . .

‘‘Sir Richard?’’

He turned to see the butler standing there with a crumpled brown paper package in his hand. ‘‘Yes? What is it?’’

‘‘This has just been delivered from Mrs. Beaumont of Pargeter Street, sir.’’

Richard lowered his gaze to the package. ‘‘Indeed?’’ he murmured, going to take it. As he opened it, he saw the exquisite gray silk fan inside, and the note that purported to come from him. Oh, it was a clever forgery, that was for sure. No wonder Isabel believed it to have come from him. He read the brief but loving message.

 
My beloved,

Let this Christmas be the signal for a new future together. Let us forget the misunderstandings of the past and accept our undying love for each other. I will adore you throughout eternity. Richard.

 
He closed his eyes for a moment. Diana had received this?

The butler cleared his throat. ‘‘Sir, I fear there was an, er, communication from the lady.’’

‘‘Communication?’’

‘‘The fellow who brought it said that he was instructed to say that Mrs. Beaumont does not wish to receive any further gifts, and that she wishes to be left alone.’’ The man looked hugely embarrassed at having to repeat such a message.

Richard tossed the package and the note down on the table. ‘‘Have my horse saddled.’’

‘‘Very well, sir.’’

‘‘I won’t be out for long, but if I’m needed urgently you’ll find me either at Duvall & Carrier’s in Piccadilly, or at 44 Pargeter Street.’’

‘‘Yes, sir.’’ The butler withdrew.

Richard stood looking down at the package. If Geoffrey Hawksworth was responsible for this, he’d pay dearly for such unwarranted meddling! Picking up his glass, Richard drained it of the cognac he’d been drinking before Isabel’s arrival, but as he put it down on the table again, the incredulous realization flooded over him that his betrothal was at an end. He’d severed the engagement to the woman he’d pursued for so long, and he felt nothing, nothing at all.

 
Diana was at that moment leaving the house in Pargeter Street to enter the hired chaise that was to convey her, with Mary, to the lawyer’s chambers in Lincoln’s Inn. She wore a peach woolen mantle richly embellished with beaded black embroidery, and a wide-brimmed peach hat adorned with small black plumes. The distress caused by the arrival of the fan and its accompanying note had subsided a little now, and she was quite composed as the chaise drew away to set off east toward the city. Opposite her, Mary sat quietly in her corner seat thinking about Sir Richard Curzon. He’d taken refuge in his hurt pride five years before when he’d ignored Diana’s long, tear-stained letter, and now he was exacting spiteful revenge. In the past Mary had believed him to be all that was right for her mistress, but she’d been forced to make a reappraisal of his character. That second opinion of him was now proving to be only too correct, for he was a mean-hearted, shabby toad to do such a monstrous thing to someone as sweet as Miss Diana.

The chaise drove swiftly eastward through the Christmas traffic, through streets that tingled with seasonal excitement and anticipation, but Diana kept her eyes downcast. She knew only too well what the lawyer was going to tell her, but she couldn’t help, deep in her heart of hearts, hoping that there would be a little good news as well.

In Piccadilly, which was soon far behind the chaise, Richard reined his horse in outside Duvall & Carrier’s, and, as chance would have it, tossed a coin to the same mistletoe-seller to look after the animal while he made enquiries inside. The very same assistant came to wait upon him, and evinced an ill-placed air of bewildered irritability on being asked yet again about the order for the fans.

‘‘Sir, I am not at liberty to . . . !’’

His words were choked in mid-sentence as Richard leaned across the counter to seize him by his immaculate blue-and-white-spotted neckcloth. ‘‘Now listen to me, my fine fellow,’’ breathed Richard through clenched teeth, ‘‘someone has been playing fast and loose with my name, and I intend to get to the bottom of it. Either show me the letter I am supposed to have written, or I will suspend you from the ceiling alongside that damned kissing bunch! Do I make myself crystal clear?’’

‘‘Yes, sir!’’ squeaked the assistant, closing his eyes with relief as Richard relaxed his grip.

A moment later the letter had again been produced, and a nerve flickered angrily at Richard’s temple as he read it. Geoffrey Hawksworth’s name still came to mind, for somehow it had that sly gentleman’s disagreeable mark all over it. He looked at the red-faced assistant, who was rubbing his throat as if he’d been half-strangled. ‘‘I understand my man is supposed to have brought this?’’

‘‘Yes, Sir Richard.’’

‘‘Describe him to me.’’

‘‘Well, sir, he was small and wiry, like a groom or a jockey, and. . . .’’

Hawksworth’s valet to a tee! Without another word, Richard turned on his heel and strode out again, leaving the assistant to stare thankfully after him. The kissing bunch swayed a little in the draft from the doorway, and the man’s eyes moved nervously toward it. There had been something in Sir Richard’s tone that had suggested most strongly that the threat hadn’t been uttered idly.

Richard rode to Geoffrey’s residence in North Street, but was told that he wasn’t at home. He was also told that Geoffrey’s valet wasn’t in the house, although if the truth were known that nervous fellow was at that very moment peeping down through the marble bannisters from the floor above, from whence he’d been about to descend with some of his master’s clothes. Hearing Sir Richard Curzon’s name announced, and detecting the anger in his voice, the valet had stayed wisely well out of sight. It was obvious that Sir Richard had put two and two together, and had come up with the correct answer, which meant that it had all suddenly become a little hazardous for the likes of the Honorable Geoffrey Hawksworth’s unfortunate man.

Thanking his stars that the footman who’d answered the door really did believe him to be out of the house, the valet emerged from hiding as Richard rode away again. A gentleman in such a justifiable fury was to be avoided at all costs, so maybe now was the perfect moment to pay a visit to the family in Newmarket. The valet drew a long breath. Yes, London was a dangerous place now, and Newmarket a haven of peace and tranquility! He’d leave as soon as he possibly could.

 
At Pargeter Street, Richard’s next destination, he was told that Diana was keeping an appointment with her lawyer in Lincoln’s Inn and wouldn’t be back for at least another hour, so he returned to Park Lane. As he entered his house, Geoffrey Hawksworth’s carriage was at that very moment turning from Brook Street into Hanover Square, having at last returned from the lengthy and unwanted visit to Hampstead. His great-aunt hadn’t been content with merely insisting upon being driven home, she’d made it plain that she’d be very displeased indeed if he didn’t stay for a while. He’d therefore had to kick his heels drinking tea and nibbling wretched wafers until at last she’d relented and allowed him to leave. The Devil take the old tabby, for if ever there’d been a day when he’d wished her on another planet, this was that day!

But at least he’d now managed to complete the preparations for his stratagem, having stopped at Cranford’s in Bond Street to attend to the business of the sunburst brooch. There hadn’t been time to return to North Street for his valet, so he’d had to do it himself. He’d astonished his coachman by demanding the use of his box coat and wide-brimmed hat, but it was a necessary precaution in a shop where he’d recently made two purchases, and might be recognized. Disguising his voice, he’d pretended to be Richard’s man, and had handed over a second letter of authority, together with a purse and another sealed note. The shop had readily agreed to despatch the brooch to the lady concerned, and now he was at liberty to proceed with the rest of his plan.

The afternoon light was just beginning to fade as the carriage turned the corner out of Brook Street. Geoffrey glanced out and was just in time to see a face he knew riding past on a gleaming Arabian horse. Swiftly lowering the glass, he leaned out.

‘‘Laroche! I say, Laroche!’’

The carriage halted, and Laroche turned in the saddle, reining in as he recognized Geoffrey. He glanced back across Hanover Square, but then rode toward the carriage, followed by his greyhounds. ‘‘Good afternoon, Geoffrey.’’

‘‘About last night at the ball . . .’’

‘‘Ah, yes, and the fact that you lied to me about my wife.’’

Geoffrey gave him an apologetic grin. ‘‘It was all I could think of to get you away from Isabel.’’

‘‘And it worked handsomely.’’

‘‘Forgive me. I promise not to resort to such trickery again tonight.’’

‘‘Tonight?’’

‘‘The Holland House masquerade.’’

Laroche gave a slight smile. ‘‘Resort to whatever you wish tonight, dear boy, it’s immaterial to me.’’

‘‘Immaterial?’’

‘‘Because I will not be there. And now, if you have nothing further to say, I fear I have to be on my way. I’ve got a great deal to do before tonight.’’

‘‘Oh, very well, if that’s the way of it,’’ replied Geoffrey. ‘‘Perhaps I’d better take this opportunity to wish you a very happy Christmas.’’

Laroche laughed. ‘‘My dear Geoffrey, I intend this to be the happiest Christmas of my life. Goodbye.’’ Touching his top hat, he rode on into Brook Street, his greyhounds still padding at his horse’s heels.

Shrugging at the fellow’s somewhat odd manner, Geoffrey sat back again, and the carriage drove around Hanover Square, coming to a halt at the curb outside the Graham residence.

Geoffrey paused for a moment before alighting. Isabel must by now have received the fan and read the note, which meant that she’d have leapt to the conclusion that Richard was keeping Diana Beaumont as his secret mistress. What developments had there been? If it hadn’t been for his old biddy of a great-aunt he’d have been here much sooner than this, and would have been able to manipulate things with a few well-chosen words here and there, but as it was he knew nothing about what may or may not have been going on, and he’d have to play it by ear.

Taking a deep breath, he climbed down from the carriage, looking up at the house. As the shadows lengthened, so the lights were being lit inside, and already the houses in the gracious square were bright for Christmas Eve. A girl was selling little kissing bunches on the pavement nearby, and her sweet, clear voice rang out. Kissing bunches, kissing bunches for your sweetheart.

Geoffrey smiled to himself, for if things went as he’d planned, he and Isabel would have no need of a kissing bunch to encourage them this Christmas . . .

He rapped his cane on the gleaming door, and the butler opened it almost immediately. ‘‘Ah, your grace, I was about to send your . . .’’ The man’s face changed as he recognized Geoffrey. ‘‘Oh, forgive me, sir, I thought you were the Duke of Laroche returned for his riding crop.’’

Laroche had been here? Geoffrey was about to speak when Isabel herself appeared at the top of the grand staircase, looking delightful in a pink sprigged muslin gown that had a lavishly stiffened hem. A black-and-gold cashmere shawl trailed behind her as she hurried down the staircase, and there was a vivacious smile on her lips. She hesitated then, seeing Geoffrey.

‘‘Oh, it’s you,’’ she said, her smile becoming a little fixed.

‘‘Yes, it’s me.’’ He hardly noticed her lack of enthusiasm on seeing him, he was too surprised by her manner immediately prior to that. She’d looked positively blooming, and there was certainly no sign of the distress he’d expected. Had Duvall & Carrier failed to deliver the fan? It had to be something like that, for what else would explain her light-hearted manner? If she’d read his carefully worded note, she’d by now believe that Richard was Diana Beaumont’s protector, and the last thing she’d be was light-hearted!

Geoffrey’s mind raced in those few seconds, and he decided that there was nothing for it but to put the second part of his plan into action. He smiled at her. ‘‘I’ve come to take you to buy your Christmas gift.’’

‘‘Christmas gift?’’ She returned the smile. ‘‘Why, Geoffrey, how sweet of you. What are you going to buy me?’’

‘‘That I will not say, but suffice it that it is something from Cranford’s.’’

She clapped her hands in delight. ‘‘Oh, Geoffrey! You absolute darling! Are we going now?’’

‘‘I am at your disposal,’’ he replied, sketching her a bow.

‘‘I’ll put some outdoor clothes on,’’ she replied, gathering her skirts and hurrying back up the staircase, the shawl still dragging prettily behind her.

She returned a few minutes later wearing a gray three-quarter-length velvet pelisse over the pink muslin gown. A gray jockey bonnet rested on her shining dark curls, with a pink gauze scarf tied around the crown and hanging down to her hem at the back. Linking her little hand lightly through his proferred arm, she allowed him to lead her out into the increasingly dark late afternoon.

The streetseller’s sweet cries rang out again. Kissing bunches, kissing bunches for your sweetheart . . .

 
In nearby Pargeter Street, Diana’s hired chaise had just returned, and she and Mary had entered the drawing room. Diana teased off her gloves, and faced the maid.

‘‘It was as bad as I always feared. Oh, why was I foolish enough to let myself hope . . . ?’’

The butler came to the doors. ‘‘Begging your pardon, Mrs. Beaumont, but Sir Richard Curzon has called.’’

Without ceremony, Richard strode past him into the drawing room. ‘‘I wish to speak to you, madam,’’ he said, tossing his hat, gloves, and cane on to a table.

Diana nodded at Mary. ‘‘That will be all for the moment, Mary.’’

‘‘But, Miss Diana . . .’’

‘‘Please leave us.’’

Mary looked at her, and then gave Richard a cold glance, before going out. The butler closed the doors, and Diana was left alone with Richard. She turned away from him, for just being in the same room made her tremble. ‘‘We have nothing to say to each other, sir.’’

‘‘On the contrary, madam, we have much to say, especially apropos the fan you are under the impression I sent to you.’’

‘‘Under the impression? Sir, you did send it!’’ she cried, whirling to face him.

‘‘No, madam, I did not,’’ he replied shortly, but all the while he couldn’t help thinking how exquisitely lovely she was.

‘‘I recognized your writing, sir, and it may surprise you to know that I think you quite capable of malicious and spiteful acts.’’

‘‘Malicious and spiteful? Is that how you see me?’’

‘‘How else? I wrote to you five years ago explaining my marriage to Robert, but you declined to acknowledge it in any way. I think you very shabby, sir, especially now that you’ve stooped to that cruel trick with the fan.’’

‘‘I didn’t receive any letter, madam, because you didn’t send one. You tossed me aside because you found a better match, that’s the beginning and end of the story.’’ Bitterness rang in his voice, and shone in his clear blue eyes as he looked reproachfully at her.

Her green eyes were large and hurt. ‘‘You wrong me, sir,’’ she whispered, taking off her hat and placing it gently on the table. Her hair, too heavy for its pins, fell loose, tumbling down in a flame-colored cascade. The fragrance of lily-of-the-valley drifted sweetly over him, stirring the desire he’d struggled so long to subdue. He still wanted her. He still wanted her as much as ever . . .

She looked at him. ‘‘Please leave, Richard, for we only hurt each other more all the time.’’

He turned to go, but before he knew it he’d reached out to seize her, dragging her roughly into his arms and kissing her on the lips. His fingers curled in her hair, and he crushed her slender body against his. Her perfume was all around him, alluring, beguiling, heartbreakingly poignant . . . He bruised her lips with the force of his passion, but nothing mattered except the sheer ecstasy of holding her again. She was the only woman he’d ever wanted like this, the only woman who’d ever pierced his heart and made him vulnerable. His feelings for Isabel were as nothing compared to the towering emotion Diana Beaumont could arouse in him with just a glance.

She was struggling to escape, trying to beat her fists against him, but he was too strong. Then sanity began to return. He was wrong to do this, wrong to compel her by force . . . Abruptly he released her, and she dealt him a stinging blow, leaving red marks on his cheek. Her eyes were bright and full of unspoken emotions. She didn’t say anything, but shook visibly as she again turned away from him.

For a moment he could only stare at her, drinking in the way her hair fell in such heavy, curling tresses, and the way her figure was outlined by the cut of her clothes. But he didn’t say anything either. Instead he snatched up his hat, gloves, and cane, and left the house.

In the drawing room, Diana hid her face in her hands, her lips still tingling from his kiss. Tears stung her eyes. ‘‘Oh, Richard,’’ she whispered, ‘‘Richard, I still love you so very much . . .’’

Mary came in and found her. ‘‘Oh, Miss Diana . . .’’

‘‘I want to leave London as quickly as possible, Mary. Have the butler send out to see if a chaise can be hired.’’

‘‘But it’s Christmas Eve, Miss Diana, there won’t be a chaise to be had anywhere. And with tomorrow being Christmas Day . . .’’

‘‘Just do it, Mary.’’

‘‘Very well, Miss Diana.’’ As Mary left the drawing room again, her thoughts of Sir Richard Curzon were very dark indeed. He had a great deal to answer for, a great deal.

 
The bell at Cranford’s rang out prettily as Geoffrey ushered Isabel inside, and the proprietor himself came to assist them.

‘‘May I be of service, sir, madam?’’ he inquired. He was a plump man with a balding head, and was much given to wearing bright blue clothes. Today he had on a sky-blue coat and matching cravat, with a frilled white shirt and indigo brocade waistcoat. He thought himself very much the thing, which indeed he was, being Mayfair’s most exclusive and sought after jeweler.

Geoffrey leaned an elbow on the shining counter. ‘‘You have a brooch in the window, a sunburst made entirely of gold.’’

‘‘Ah, you mean the one in the red leather box, sir?’’

‘‘Yes, that’s the one.’’

‘‘I fear it’s already sold, sir. Sir Richard Curzon purchased it a short while ago, and it is just about to be delivered.’’

‘‘Who to?’’ asked Isabel suddenly.

‘‘Madam, I hardly think that that is information I am at liberty to divulge.’’

She glanced around, and her glance fell upon a silver-gilt bowl containing a bouquet of Christmas greenery, holly, mistletoe, ivy, and Christmas roses. Picking it up, she held it aloft, as if about to dash it to the stone-tiled floor. ‘‘Tell me, Mr. Cranford, or it will be the worst for your lovely bowl, which I’m sure will be greatly damaged if it accidentally falls.’’

The jeweler gaped at her, and then nodded quickly. ‘‘Very well, madam, I’ll tell you. The brooch is to be delivered to Mrs. Beaumont at 44 Pargeter Street.’’

‘‘Thank you,’’ she replied, putting the bowl carefully back on the counter.

Geoffrey waited for the outburst of speechless fury, but it didn’t come. Instead Isabel was smiling at him. ‘‘What a shame about the brooch, Geoffrey, but I’m sure Mr. Cranford has more from which I can choose. Don’t you, Mr. Cranford?’’

‘‘Oh, indeed so, madam,’’ that gentleman replied with alacrity, producing a selection which he displayed swiftly before her.

Now it was Geoffrey who was speechless. She’d just learned that Richard had purchased for another woman the brooch she wanted, and yet she was dismissing it as being of no consequence! What was going on? It was inconceivable that Isabel should respond in such a fashion, and yet that was precisely what had happened.

A few minutes later they emerged from the shop, and Geoffrey’s purse was measurably lighter as a consequence of purchasing a delightful little trinket studded with rubies. Isabel hadn’t mentioned Richard again, indeed it was as if he’d ceased to matter in any way. This impression was made more noticeable than ever when she smiled again on settling back in the carriage.

‘‘Oh, Geoffrey, you’re such a darling for giving me this little present. I must think of some way of rewarding you. I know, you shall escort me to the masquerade tonight!’’

‘‘Escort you to the masquerade? But what of Curzon?’’ He was utterly bewildered.

‘‘Richard? Oh, I really have no idea.’’ She pouted. ‘‘Don’t you want to take me to Holland House tonight?’’

‘‘Yes, of course, it’s just that . . .’’

‘‘Then it’s settled, you will take me there. Come to the house at eight, yes, eight should about do it.’’ She smiled again, fixing the brooch on to her pelisse.

Still utterly bewildered, Geoffrey said nothing more. He was completely at a loss to understand her, and totally at a loss for words.

 
Darkness had fallen, and the beau monde was preparing for the masquerade at Holland House. Fancy dress purchased specially for the Christmas Eve occasion was put out in readiness, and at Holland House itself Gunter’s were attending to last minute details of the veritable banquet that was to be served to the hundreds of guests. The orchestra was tuning up, and the house was brilliantly illuminated, every single window boasting festive candles and festoons of yuletide leaves.

At 44 Pargeter Street, everything was quiet. Diana was in the drawing room endeavoring to read one of Sir Walter Scott’s popular novels, and the only sound was the gentle fluttering of the fire in the hearth. She wore a dark green velvet gown, and gazed at the page without really seeing it, for all she could think about was Richard.

She heard someone knock at the front door, and then voices in the entrance hall. A moment later the butler brought her a small packet.

‘‘This has just been delivered, madam,’’ he said, giving it to her.

Her heart sank as she closed the book, for the arrival of this packet bore a marked similarity to the arrival of the fan a little earlier in the day. Reluctantly she opened the packet, and found the little red leather box inside. As she opened the box, she found herself gazing at a pretty sunburst brooch. There was, as she fully expected, another note in Richard’s handwriting.

 
You’re mine, my darling Diana, just as you always were and always will be. The future could be ours.

Richard.

 
Fresh tears stung her eyes, but she willed them back. She nodded at the butler. ‘‘Thank you, that will be all.’’

‘‘Madam.’’ He bowed and withdrew.

Diana put the brooch and its packing on the table next to her chair, and reopened the book. She wouldn’t succumb to her tears again, she wouldn’t! But the tears were stronger than she, welling hotly from her eyes and down her cheeks. She felt so unutterably wretched that she wished she were dead. She curled up in the chair, burying her face in the rich upholstery.

Mary came in shortly afterward, having learned of the brooch’s delivery from the butler. Uneasy on her mistress’s account, she’d hastened immediately to the drawing room, where her worst fears were realized as she found Diana weeping so heart-brokenly in the chair.

Diana was too distressed to even know the maid was there, and she knew nothing as Mary picked up the note that had come with the brooch, read it, and then replaced it. The maid’s eyes were stormy as she withdrew from the room again. It was time that Sir Richard Curzon was set right on certain important points, and she, Mary Keating, was just the one to do it!

Five minutes later, clad in her plain but serviceable cloak, Mary left the house, stepping out into snowy darkness and making for Park Lane.

 
As Mary’s angry, determined steps took her toward Richard’s residence, Isabel was fully occupied in her apartment at the house in Hanover Square. The line of wardrobes in her dressing room were all open, and, together with her long-suffering maid, Isabel was surveying the array of garments inside.

‘‘I’ll take the salmon brocade, the white satin, and the plowman’s gauze. No, not the plowman’s gauze, I’m a little tired of it. I’ll take the green organdy muslin instead.’’

‘‘But, madam . . .’’

‘‘That takes care of the gowns,’’ interrupted Isabel, not listening. ‘‘Now we come to the outer garments. I shall wear the black fur-lined cloak over my vermilion wool, but I shall also need the mantle, the pelisse, and probably the buttercup dimity paletot as well.’’

The maid was appalled. ‘‘But, madam, it’s only a very small valise!’’

‘‘Not that small. Is it?’’ Isabel looked sharply at her. ‘‘Well? Is it that small?’’

‘‘Yes, madam, it is.’’

‘‘Then we’ll take a larger one.’’

The maid sighed inwardly. ‘‘Yes, madam.’’

‘‘And of one thing we must be absolutely certain: we must not forget a single item of my jewelry.’’

‘‘No, madam.’’

Isabel went through into her bedroom, and flung herself on her white silk bed, gazing up at the exquisitely draped canopy. Oh, what a cat was about to be set among the pigeons of Mayfair! And how very foolish Richard was going to look. It served him right, for having the audacity to keep that Beaumont demirep!

 
Mary was conducted to the conservatory, where Richard received her. He was standing by the white wrought iron table, and had been about to pour himself another glass of cognac when his butler had informed him that Mrs. Beaumont’s maid was insisting upon seeing him. One of the last people on earth he wished to see was Mary Keating, who’d have nothing pleasant to say to him, but he knew he behaved more than badly when he’d called at Pargeter Street earlier, and if Mary had come to berate him, then it was no more than he warranted.

He faced her, his blonde hair very golden in the light from the solitary candelabrum standing on the table. Leafy shadows pressed all around, and outside the snowy garden looked almost gray-blue in the night.

‘‘You wished to speak to me, Mary?’’ he said.

Maid or not, in that moment she stood up to him as his equal. ‘‘Yes, Sir Richard, I wish to speak to you, and I trust you will hear me out to the end, for it’s important that you know the truth. You told my mistress that you didn’t receive her letter five years ago ...’’

‘‘I didn’t.’’

‘‘Then, since she will not tell you about it herself, it falls to me to do it for her. You didn’t know it, sir, but five years ago Miss Diana’s father, Mr. Laverick, was in very severe financial difficulties, indeed he was an inch away from debtor’s jail. His debts had to be settled without delay, and they were such that Miss Diana could not have turned to you for help, for you were at that time your father’s second son. Mr. Beaumont had been making his interest known, and he somehow found out about Mr. Laverick’s debts. He offered to settle them without delay, provided Miss Diana agreed to be his wife, and returned with him to his plantation in Jamaica. It broke her heart to agree to such a contract, Sir Richard, but she had to save her father. She wrote to you, because you’d come back here to London for a day or so, and it was a long, tear-stained letter that took a great deal of courage to send. She loved you with all her heart, she felt nothing for Mr. Beaumont, and yet she was prepared to spend the rest of her life as his wife.’’ Mary held his gaze. ‘‘She wrote that letter, sir, and when she’d sealed it I took it to the letter carrier myself. I know it was sent.’’

‘‘It didn’t arrive.’’

‘‘So you say, sir.’’

Anger stirred through him. ‘‘If I say it didn’t arrive, then it didn’t arrive!’’

‘‘You show wrath that someone should dare to cast doubt on your word, sir, and yet you think nothing of casting doubt on my mistress’s word about that same letter.’’

He met her eyes, and then nodded. ‘‘The point is taken, Mary. Please proceed.’’

‘‘You may think that Miss Diana has been enjoying a life of happiness and plenty since her marriage, Sir Richard, but that is not the case. Mr. Beaumont was a monster, he gambled heavily and drank still more heavily, and when he’d lost at the first and overindulged at the second, he was a very violent man. She endured it as best she could, for she’d meant her wedding vows, but he made it impossible. He was frittering away his fortune, and the plantation was in increasing difficulty. She had no one to turn to, no one to help her, and after one terrible night, when he’d drunk even more than usual, she knew that she couldn’t go on anymore. She told him that she was leaving and coming home to England. In his fury he attacked her and tried to throw her down the stairs, but instead he lost his balance and fell down himself and was killed in an instant.’’

Richard stared at her. ‘‘Is all this true?’’ he breathed.

‘‘Would I lie about such things, sir?’’

‘‘Tell me the rest.’’

‘‘Well, as I said, on the night he died he’d been drinking far more than usual, and it turned out afterward that it was because he’d just gambled away his entire estate. Miss Diana was left with nothing at all, save her clothes, she had to sell what jewelry she had to settle bills he’d left outstanding. As soon as she could, she left Jamaica to come back here. She’s going home to her parents in Cheshire, but first she had to come to London to see Mr. Beaumont’s lawyer and finalize the remainder of his estate. She hoped there might be a small amount left at the end of it all, but there isn’t. She’s absolutely penniless, Sir Richard, but at least she’s free of the man who made her so wretched for five long years. She vowed she wouldn’t wear black for him, not even at his funeral, for he hadn’t earned that tribute from one he’d used so shamelessly during their time together. Now she just wants to live her own life, Sir Richard, and she doesn’t deserve to suffer all over again now, this time at your hands. You shouldn’t keep sending her those gifts, sir, for such spite ill becomes you.’’

‘‘Gifts? I only know of the fan I’m supposed to have sent.’’

‘‘And the brooch, sir. It came tonight, and it upset her so much that that was when I decided to come to you.’’

‘‘I didn’t send the fan, and I didn’t send the brooch, I swear that I didn’t.’’

Mary searched his face, beginning to wonder if he was telling the truth after all.

‘‘Mary, I’m innocent of all this, but I think I know who is behind it. There is someone who would move heaven and earth to win Miss Isabel Hamilton from me. He is also someone who happens to know of Diana’s part in my past.’’

‘‘Well, maybe this man is the guilty one, Sir Richard, I wouldn’t know about that, but I do know that Miss Diana is already desperately unhappy, and is being made more unhappy.’’

He leaned his hands on the wrought iron table, his head bowed. ‘‘If only I’d known all this before, if only that damned letter hadn’t gone astray . . .’’

‘‘Then you concede that there was a letter?’’

He nodded. ‘‘I have no choice.’’

‘‘Well, it’s over and done with now, and you are about to marry Miss Hamilton . . .’’

‘‘No, Mary, I’m not marrying her. The betrothal was ended earlier today.’’ He straightened, and looked at her. ‘‘There is only one woman who will ever really mean everything to me, and I looked into her eyes last night when I assisted her down from her chaise. I still love her, and I think I always will.’’

Mary stared at him. ‘‘Do you really mean that, sir?’’

‘‘With all my heart.’’

‘‘Then tell her so yourself, I beg of you.’’

‘‘Do you think she’ll wish to hear?’’

‘‘I know she will.’’ Mary smiled. ‘‘Come back with me now.’’

 
An unlit carriage waited in the mews lane behind Hanover Square. It was drawn up by the rear entrance of the Graham residence, and its blinds were lowered. The Christmas Eve night was bitterly cold, and there were clouds covering the stars. A few stray snowflakes fluttered silently down.

Suddenly the rear gate of the Graham house was quietly opened, and two women, a lady and her maid, emerged, the latter struggling with a heavy valise. The coachman clambered down to assist the maid, and the lady hastened to the carriage door. She wore a black fur-lined cloak over a vermilion wool gown and matching pelisse, and there was a stylish beaver hat on her short dark hair.

The carriage door opened, and the gentleman inside leaned out. ‘‘Isabel, my darling . . .’’ He reached out to take her outstretched hand.

‘‘Laroche,’’ she whispered, allowing him to draw her up into the vehicle, where she was soon enclosed in his loving embrace.

‘‘Oh, my darling,’’ he breathed, his voice husky with desire. ‘‘I thought you’d change your mind. I thought Richard would win after all.’’

‘‘Never, for my heart has always been yours,’’ she murmured softly, her eyes dark.

‘‘When I received your note today, I couldn’t believe you’d decided to come away with me after all.’’

‘‘I’m not just another diversion, am I? Please tell me that you love me.’’

‘‘I love you,’’ he replied immediately, just as he had to other sweethearts since his marriage.

A moment later the carriage was driving away, the maid seated up beside the coachman. Inside, Isabel and Laroche were wrapped in each other’s arms, whispering sweet words. Isabel smiled to herself in the darkness. Before the night was out the whole of London would be talking about the astonishing flight of Miss Isabel Hamilton with the married Duke of Laroche. She’d be notorious for a while, but in the end she’d triumph, for Laroche had promised to divorce his wife and make her his duchess. How important, wealthy and fine a lady she’d be then, far more important and wealthy than she’d have been as mere Lady Curzon. Her smile became sleek as she pondered Richard’s reaction to the scandal. She’d turned the tables on him, instead of he making a fool of her, she’d made one of him! Oh, what a wonderful Christmas this was!

 
Diana was still curled up in the chair in the drawing room. Her tears had dried now, but her heart felt as if it had been shattered into a thousand unhappy fragments. She didn’t hear the front door being opened, nor did she hear footsteps approaching the drawing room, she knew nothing until Mary spoke.

‘‘Miss Diana?’’

She looked up, her glance going immediately past the maid to where Richard stood. Slowly Diana rose to her feet. ‘‘Sir, I think we’ve said all there is to say.’’

Mary stood aside for him to enter, and then closed the doors upon them.

Richard halted a few feet away from Diana. ‘‘Mary has told me everything,’’ he said quietly.

‘‘She had no right.’’ Diana turned away as hot color rushed into her cheeks.

‘‘I wish you’d told me earlier, instead of letting me ...’’

‘‘Would you have believed me? I think not, for you’d have preferred to continue thinking ill of me.’’

‘‘Forgive me,’’ he said softly, coming a little closer.

‘‘Please go, sir, for I’m sure Miss Hamilton would not understand if she knew you were here.’’

‘‘I’m no longer betrothed to her, Diana.’’

She turned. ‘‘Why?’’

‘‘We were ill-suited, and besides . . .’’

‘‘Yes?’’

‘‘Besides, I still love you.’’

She stared at him, her emerald eyes large and uncertain.

His heart tightened with love for her. ‘‘Diana, I love you so much that I can’t bear to think how you’ve suffered.’’

‘‘Please don’t toy with me, Richard, for I couldn’t bear it.’’

‘‘I’m not toying with you, I’m telling you the absolute truth. I love you, and I want you to be mine. I want the last five years to be wiped away, and for us to begin again.’’

Fresh tears shone in her eyes, and she took a hesitant step toward him. He needed no second bidding, but swept her into his arms, his lips seeking hers in a kiss so passionate and consuming that it was like a flame flaring through them both. Her perfume was all around, lily-of-the-valley, so delicate and exquisite that it seemed as if there was magic in the air. She was his again at last, returning his love just as he’d always dreamed.

 
Geoffrey’s carriage drew up at the curb outside the Graham house in Hanover Square. He sat inside for a moment, adjusting his costume. He was dressed as Harlequin, and would have felt quite the thing had it not been for the unease caused by the discovery of Richard’s angry visit to his residence. The fact that Richard had asked specifically if his valet was available was all the proof Geoffrey needed that Richard had discovered the truth, and as a consequence Geoffrey was very much in two minds about attending the Holland House masquerade. The thought of being confronted by a furious Richard was almost too alarming to contemplate, but now that Isabel was so nearly his, Geoffrey was very loath to forfeit the chance of escorting her. He was in a quandary, and so hesitated before alighting.

His glance fell on the wrist favor he’d purchased for her. It lay on the seat opposite, and was a delightful concoction of velvet mistletoe and holly, to be tied on with a dainty scarlet ribbon. It was such a pretty thing, and he’d been charmed with it the moment he saw it. He must take his courage in both hands, and risk the possibility of Richard’s fury. Isabel was worth it all and more.

Taking a deep breath, he alighted, presenting a strangely lithe figure as he hurried up to the door of the house. Some carolsingers were on the corner, their lusty voices echoing around the elegant lamplit square, where a number of carriages were setting off for the masquerade. The singing was so very redolent of Christmas that Geoffrey turned for a moment to listen. God rest ye merry, gentlemen, Let nothing you dismay . . .

He rapped on the door, which in a moment was opened by a footman, but as Geoffrey made to step inside, the man shook his head. ‘‘I fear Miss Hamilton is no longer here, sir.’’

‘‘Eh? What’s that?’’ Geoffrey stared at him, for it was such an odd choice of words. No longer here? What was the fellow saying?

‘‘She asked me to give you this note, sir,’’ said the footman, holding out a sealed letter.

Puzzled, Geoffrey opened it and read. Mr. Hawksworth. By the time you read this, I shall be long gone from London with the Duke of Laroche, whom I love with all my heart. He is to make me his duchess. Goodbye. Isabel Hamilton.

Geoffrey stared at the letter, a thousand conflicting emotions tumbling through him. Isabel and Laroche? Numb, he looked at the footman, who was all civility.

‘‘Will there be anything else, sir?’’

‘‘Er, no.’’

‘‘Good night, sir, and the compliments of the season to you.’’

‘‘Thank you. And to you.’’ In a daze, Geoffrey turned away from the door. Isabel and Laroche? Oh, what a fool she’d made of him, and of Richard!

Richard. Suddenly Geoffrey thought again of the awfulness of a confrontation with that gentleman. Perhaps now was the time to show discretion, rather than the proverbial valor. Yes, indeed, a Christmas visit to his family in Great Yarmouth would seem to be the wisest move under the circumstances.

Suddenly Geoffrey wished he hadn’t been moved to meddle so. The old adage simply wasn’t true, it wasn’t all fair in love and war; it certainly wasn’t fair to Geoffrey Hawksworth, that was for sure! With Isabel as his prize at the end of it, maybe it was worth the hazard, but now that she’d flitted off with that philanderer Laroche, it had all come to nothing!

The carolsingers were still in full voice on the corner as Geoffrey resumed his place in his carriage. As the vehicle drew away, his glance fell again on the pretty wrist favor. Mistletoe and holly? Mistletoe and folly, more like! He gave it a savage scowl, and then leaned his head back against the upholstery. Suddenly he wasn’t enjoying Christmas at all, in fact it was the most disagreeable season of the entire year!

 
As the church bells struck midnight, and then began to peal out joyfully across London, Richard and Diana were locked in each other’s arms in the house in Pargeter Street.

He drew back, putting his hand tenderly to her cheek. ‘‘It’s Christmas Day,’’ he whispered, ‘‘so will you make me the happiest man on earth by agreeing to be my wife?’’

‘‘Oh, Richard.’’ Her eyes shone with joy.

‘‘Will you?’’ he pressed.

‘‘Yes, oh, yes.’’

‘‘My darling . . .’’ He kissed her again, loving her so much that he felt weak. She was his forever now, and suddenly Christmas was a time of unbelievable happiness.