One Winter's Night

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Of Jo Ann Ferguson:

Ferguson is a wonderful storyteller with a fine sense of how suspense and sexual tension can bring the stakes of a novel to another level.

—Rakehell

This is a truly talented author.

—Romantic Times Magazine

Of Karen Frisch:

Frisch has a knack for drawing the reader into her stories using vividly descriptive prose so we feel like we’re transported back into the scene. Her characters are incredibly realistic and engaging.

—Brenda Scott, Manchester Examiner

Her vivid characters are simply wonderful. If you’ve never read her works, you’re truly missing out.

—Author J.M. Paglio

Of Sharon Sobel:

A fascinating romantic tale in a magnificent Regency voice. Secrets, layer upon layer, skillfully unfold.

—Affaire de Coeur on Family Portrait

. . . deeply romantic, lush read, full of vivid characters and fascinating historical details. A lyrical gem.

—Mary Beth Bass, author of Follow Me, on The Hermitage

Of Shereen Vedam:

The author has a beautiful writing style that allows the story to flow steadily with perfection from word to word and page to page.

—Shelly Hammond on Amazon Full Review

If something can in fact be adorably passionate Vedam manages it here!

—Falon Wallace Goblin Queen on Amazon Full Review

One Winter’s Night

A Regency Yuletide Collection

by

Jo Ann Ferguson

Karen Frisch

Sharon Sobel

Shereen Vedam

ImaJinn Books

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

ImaJinn Books

PO BOX 300921

Memphis, TN 38130

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-535-5

Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-550-8

ImaJinn Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

Yule be mine: copyright © 2014 by Jo Ann. Ferguson

No Room at the Inn: copyright © 2014 by Karen Frisch Dennen

In the Season of Light and Love: copyright © 2014 by Sharon Sobel

A Season for Giving: copyright © 2014 by Shereen Vedam

Printed and bound in the United States of America.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

ImaJinn Books was founded by Linda Kichline.

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Cover design: Debra Dixon

Interior design: Hank Smith

Photo/Art credits:

Background (manipulated) © Almoond | Dreamstime.com

Background (manipulated) © Annnmei | Dreamstime.com

Sleigh (manipulated) © Carol Gallmeyer | Dreamstime.com

Banner & Snowflakes © Jaguarwoman Designs

Snowflakes (manipulated) © Tiago Fidalgo (DesignFera)

:Emyu:01:

Yule Be Mine

by Jo Ann Ferguson

Chapter One

Cornwall

Two Weeks ’Til Christmas

WHEN LADY PRISCILLA Flanders Hathaway felt their carriage dip down the steep road to the house on her husband’s estate in Cornwall, she wanted to jump to her feet and dance. She was exhausted after the long journey down from London and the whining of Daphne, her older daughter, who did not want to leave her suitor behind for the Christmas holidays. Daphne’s complaints had begun moments after they had left their home on Bedford Square and had not eased through all the long miles west into Cornwall. To make matters worse, her younger daughter, Leah, had spent this final day of their journey suffering from an appalling case of carriage-sickness after eating too much dessert at supper the previous night. Then, she had to contend with her son, Isaac, who never missed a chance to needle both his sisters, even when one was as sick as a cat. The final straw was when Neville, her husband, fled to the box ostensibly to assist the coachee on the last day’s long hours of driving. However, Priscilla knew Neville had been desperate to escape the bickering, complaining, and threats of being ill in the carriage.

If he had stayed inside, she might have escaped to the box herself. She loved her children, but after so many days, she was tired of their company.

Mama, complained Leah, how much farther do we need to go?

Not much. She leaned her younger daughter’s head against her shoulder as the carriage lurched. See? We are beginning the descent toward Shadows Fall.

Isaac lifted the curtain on the window, even though he could not see anything through the night. Clouds had evolved into mist before midday, slowing their journey west. The chill gnawed into Priscilla’s bones, warning that the upcoming winter might be as harsh as the previous ones.

Put that down, Daphne cried. Do you want to freeze us to death?

He did, but grinned at her. You know, Mama always did warn you that if you kept making such silly expressions, your face might freeze that way. My dear, dear, dearest Burke, he said, imitating Daphne’s words and tone perfectly, would run in the other direction if he saw his dear, dear, dearest Daphne now!

Mama!

Priscilla sighed, not surprised that her son continued to tease his sister about her infatuation and preoccupation with Lord Witherspoon. The young marquess had been calling on Daphne for almost two years. She had been enamored with him from the beginning, but had come to understand that neither her mother nor her stepfather would allow her to become betrothed when she was only sixteen. With every passing day, Daphne became less subtle in her hints that her suitor was eager to offer marriage. Her hope that he would propose for Christmas had been dashed when Neville announced that they would spend the Yuletide in Cornwall.

Before Priscilla could chide them both and remind them that during the holiday season they should set aside their hoaxing and annoyance, the small door on the top of the carriage opened.

Hold tight, Neville said in a deep voice. We are watching for patches of ice.

We will, Priscilla called back just before the door swung shut again. She wrapped her arms around her two younger children and motioned for Daphne to brace her feet against the floor, so she would not be thrown if the carriage took a strong lurch to the side.

No one spoke, and Priscilla held her breath as the carriage continued down the steep hill. At least the house and its extensive gardens were between them and the cliffs that dropped sharply into the sea. Then, the carriage’s floor grew level as they slowed.

We made it! shouted Isaac when the vehicle came to a complete stop.

Never any doubt, Neville said as he opened the door to Priscilla’s left. Are you ready to see the house now that the repairs are done?

Priscilla smiled as he handed her out, then turned to assist her daughters. She found it difficult not to smile when Neville was nearby. In the year and a half since their wedding, her love for him had only grown. Her late husband, Lazarus, had counted Neville as one of his best friends, and she was sure that he would have approved of their marriage. Neville’s handsome, chiseled features still made her heart beat a bit faster, and the twinkle in his eyes, often as mischievous as her son’s, delighted her.

It’s cold, Leah said. Let’s get inside.

Go, go, go! urged Neville with a chuckle. He offered his arm to Priscilla. Just watch out for the ice.

There isn’t any ice! Isaac had already rushed to the door and then back to them.

Imagine that. Neville gave a wink that Priscilla could see in the faint light from lamps hanging by the front door.

As Isaac ran to the door again, she asked, Was there any on the road?

That road can be dangerous in this weather. Mists off the sea and cool air ice it up quickly.

But this evening? Did you see any ice this evening?

Not exactly, but the warning served its purpose.

By frightening us?

He gave her an innocent expression that did not seem to suit him. I thought your ears might need a rest, and it sounded much quieter inside the carriage.

Is that guilt from abandoning us to ride outside?

Where I could keep out an eye for ice that could endanger everyone in the carriage?

Priscilla laughed. Getting a straight answer out of him at a time like this was impossible, but she had to appreciate his concern for her, even if he had an unorthodox way of showing it.

Ah, Neville, you are always thinking of others, aren’t you? she asked.

"No, but I am always thinking of you, Pris."

She linked her arm with his and walked toward where the children waited by the front door. Her happiness wavered when the door remained closed. During their most recent visit, she had urged the butler and housekeeper to engage more staff. The repairs to the house, a multi-year project, should have been finished a few weeks ago. That had allowed plenty of time to make sure one of the footmen was always at the front door which should be opened whenever a carriage stopped in front of the house.

Odd, murmured Neville, who seldom showed any distress. Even so, she felt his arm tense. He had held down many positions before he inherited his family’s somewhat blemished title, including serving as a boy in a great house like Shadows Fall.

Or so she thought, because Neville, though unashamed of his past that also included stints in the theater and as a professional gambler, preferred not to speak of his life before he met Reverend Mr. Lazarus Flanders and began on the path to becoming the man he was now.

He reached past the children and opened the door. Inside, the circular entry hall was dimly lit. She thought she heard him mutter about incompetence, but had no chance to ask.

Shouts erupted around them. A hand grasped Priscilla’s arm, spinning her away from Neville. Shrieks came from her daughters, and she heard Isaac yell a word that even Neville would not speak in her presence.

Her children! She must protect her children! Neville would try, but she knew him too well. He would be in the middle of the attack, fighting with every skill he had honed during his years of rough living.

An arm wrapped around her middle. She was hoisted from her feet. She swung back her right one. Hard. The arm loosened from her waist as a groan rumbled from her erstwhile captor. That told her exactly where he stood. She drew back her arm and drove her fist into the surprisingly lush and soft flesh of the man’s gut.

All around her, the sound of scuffling was loud in the space that reached several stories up toward the roof. She called for her children.

Suddenly, the entry hall was flooded with light. From the stairs, Stoddard bellowed. The butler, who had begun his service at Shadows Fall before he was ten years old, could rattle the very stones of the estate with his shout for Keel, one of the footmen. He held one lamp on the stairs. Coming from deeper in the house, the housekeeper, Mrs. Crosby, appeared with another lantern. Keel, a lanky young man in a footman’s livery followed her and glanced warily at the butler.

Priscilla looked around in astonishment. Her son sat on a man who was sprawled on the floor while Neville had her daughters pushed behind him, his fists threatening a man who cowered with his arms over his head. Two women had their hands pressed over their mouths. Not a hint of color brightened either face.

Then, one gave a cry and rushed to the man lying senseless with Isaac on his chest. Priscilla rushed over and plucked her son off the man.

A moan came from where she had been standing moments before.

Oh, my! Priscilla stared at the man on his knees in the middle of the entry hall.

His hands were clamped over his belly, and he looked as if he was about to cast up his accounts. Pricilla had seen enough sickness already that day with Leah.

Then she heard a laugh.

Neville!

She whirled to see him bent forward, his hands on the thighs of his black breeches, as he surrendered to laughter.

What is so funny? she demanded. If this is your idea of a jest, Neville—

He straightened. Not mine, but I daresay it was someone’s. He looked around the entry hall as the man came to, mumbling obscenities. I may have forgotten to mention that a few friends had discussed celebrating my elevation to the peerage.

Only a few weeks before, Neville had been awarded a baronage by the Prince Regent, for reasons neither man had disclosed. The one-time Sir Neville Hathaway had become Neville, Lord Hathaway, and the lands belonging to this estate had become part of his baronage along with some property in the Lake District far to the north.

Forgot to mention? Priscilla scowled as the man on his knees pushed himself to his feet. Do not try to lather me with such tales, Neville Hathaway! I know you too well, and I know you never forget anything of import.

Especially when it has to do with celebrating, called the man who had just stood. She was not surprised to hear his German accent. Neville had friends from apparently everywhere and at every level of society.

The man beside the German nudged him in the side with an elbow, and the German’s face became a sallow green that warned he was again struggling not to be ill.

Priscilla looked hastily away, so quickly that she caught the hint of a smile on Mrs. Crosby’s usually staid face. It was masked so fast that Priscilla wondered if she had actually seen the housekeeper smile.

Honestly, as sure as my name is Neville Hathaway, I truly forgot to mention there might be guests awaiting us.

Lying in wait would be more accurate. She put her arms around her daughters who were staring wide-eyed at the strangers.

Forgive us, my lady, said the man with the German accent. I fear our enthusiastic greeting was mistaken for something more sinister.

Shall we leave this discussion until everyone is settled? Neville asked coolly.

"Don’t think that I shall forget." Priscilla was curious why he had failed to mention that he had asked others to Shadows Fall. She had assumed they would have a quiet Christmas week en famille.

I shan’t, Pris. He winked at her as he turned to give instruction to Stoddard and Mrs. Crosby, the housekeeper, who had watched the antics with their usual aplomb. But first, introductions . . . He gestured toward the German man. "Allow me to introduce Graf Jakob von Zell."

Priscilla hoped her face was not bright with a blush as she greeted the Graf, which she knew was a title equal to that of an English earl. Realizing that, the fact that she had struck him like an unmannered street urchin was horrifying. Yet, he had grabbed her as if she were a doxy plying her trade on the street.

Von Zell, my wife Priscilla, Lady Hathaway.

He clicked the heels of his brightly shined boots together and bowed. "Es ist mir eine Freude, Sie zu treffen, meine Dame."

She knew enough German to guess that he was expressing his pleasure in meeting her. "Graf von Zell, I must ask you to forgive me for striking you."

Nonsense! I have come to see that English women possess a courage that is exemplary. His accent was not so strong that she had trouble understanding him. Perhaps if our own women were so strong, Napoleon would not have overrun the Black Forest and claimed it for his own.

But that region no longer is considered a part of the French Empire. She looked to Neville for confirmation, hoping that the tide had not turned again on the Continent and the French emperor had regained control of the lands along the Rhine.

And, Pris, Neville continued with a quick frown that let her know he did not wish to speak of the war now, allow me to introduce Vicomte Antoine de Romilly and his lovely wife Eveline along with their son, Jean-Paul, and beautiful daughter, Lisette.

Welcome to our home, she said.

Thank you, madame, the vicomte said in a charming French accent that instantly identified him as having been born and raised not far from Paris.

As his daughter, who was probably around Isaac’s age, giggled, he turned to the tall and thin couple who stood beside the French family. Puzzled, he added, And I am unsure who . . .

Forgive me, the Graf hurried to say. May I introduce my friends Herr and Frau Bernard Tolbert, who hail from distant Montreal in Canada. I hope it is no problem that my dear, dear friends asked if they might travel here with me. He turned toward Priscilla.

You have nothing to ask forgiveness for. She shot a scowl at Neville, but it was futile. He simply grinned more widely as he spoke with the vicomte and his family.

Mr. Tolbert, a handsome, dark-haired man, offered a courtly bow in her direction. His nasal French accent was quite different from the vicomte’s. It is a pleasure to meet you. We are amazed by your estate in such a wild place.

And that says a lot coming from a man from Montreal, the Graf said with a chuckle.

As she greeted her unexpected guests, Priscilla tried to commit each name to memory. It would be intolerable if, as their hostess, she forgot their names. She drew her children forward so they could be introduced. A sharp glance at Isaac wiped the grin from his face. Later, she would speak to him about how foolish she had been when she struck the Graf and that laughing about it would be impolite. Not that she felt like laughing. Treating a noble in such a manner was unconscionable, but, as she watched her children politely speak with their guests, she knew she would do the same in a heartbeat to protect them. Still, she needed some time to regain her own composure.

It might be simpler if she could understand why these people had gathered at Shadows Fall during the fortnight before Christmas. Had they truly journeyed through the snow and cold simply to toast Neville on being raised to the rank of baron? She was curious why they had not waited until Neville took his seat in the House of Lords at the beginning of the new year.

Neville edged around their guests to stand by her side. Pris, you look as guilty as a knight of the pad ready to face the hangman. To own the truth, you look far guiltier, for no highwayman worth his salt would show any expression other than innocence.

I am not accustomed to welcoming guests by striking them in the stomach. She appreciated his efforts to ease her embarrassment, but it was to no avail.

"It is, in the case of Graf von Zell, Neville said in a falsely officious tone, a target that would be difficult to miss."

She bit her lip before a laugh burst forth. Trust Neville to focus on the most outrageous fact!

All her yearning to laugh vanished when a whoosh of cold air announced the door opening again and she heard a sharp, but instantly familiar voice ask, What is this muddle?

She recognized it instantly. Whirling, she gasped, Aunt Cordelia!

Chapter Two

CORDELIA EMBERLEY Smith Gray Dexter McAndrews frowned as her gaze swept the entry hall, and her scowl deepened when she met Neville’s cool smile. His hope that her marriage to his good friend, Duncan McAndrews, would mellow the old tough had been dashed over and over, but each time Pris’s aunt made an appearance, he dared to believe that she would change. Duncan was no dour Scot, and he enjoyed a good laugh and an excellent dram. Why couldn’t he have been a better influence on his exacting wife?

He looked past Pris’s aunt, but the doorway was empty. Where is Duncan?

He wished to spend the Yuletide with his family, replied Aunt Cordelia. I wished to spend time with mine, so that is what we have done.

He leaned over to give her a kiss on the cheek because he knew that, despite her sharp words which were usually aimed in his direction, she appreciated a welcome from all members of her family. When he married Pris, her family had come along with her as part of the for better or worse. Her children were the better. Her aunt’s sharp tongue was the worse.

As introductions were made and baggage brought in to be taken to the family’s rooms, Neville was relieved when his guests offered to delay their tea until their hosts were able to join them. Pris led them all up the stairs as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Her aplomb would be envied by an ambassador, and a few words to her children conveyed her determination not to let her aunt discover what had occurred upon their arrival.

Neville was not surprised that she had a maid show Aunt Cordelia to her rooms before steering the children up the stairs to where they would sleep. No one would dare call it the nursery. Daphne was still in a miff at the idea that she would be consigned to the children’s region of the house.

Pris’s foresight in getting her aunt settled proved invaluable when Isaac demanded that his mother show him how she had taken the Graf to his knees with a single blow. She quieted him by acting as if she had not heard his question. Leaving the children to clean themselves up from the journey, she told Leah that she need not join everyone if she still felt ill.

I am fine, Mama! Leah replied, appearing shocked that Pris would even suggest such a thing.

Pris nodded, but had a pensive expression when she walked back down the stairs with Neville. He asked her what was amiss. She glanced up toward the door leading to the rooms they must never call the nursery and put her finger to her lips.

He tamped down his curiosity. Even so, it was difficult to keep his questions to himself until they entered the grand master suite of Shadows Fall. It was a room that was both medieval and contemporary at the same time. Pris had done an excellent job incorporating a few feminine elements amidst the masculine lines of thick rafters and stone floors. The tester bed had posts which were the diameter of ancient trees, and the bed-curtains were a lush dark green velvet made to keep out the winter cold. The dressing table looked delicate compared to the bed and the huge cupboards. Two chairs faced the great hearth where a fire struggled to batter back the chill.

As soon as he closed the door, Neville said, Tell me what has you bothered, Pris.

Leah.

Really? He hid his shock at the answer he had not anticipated.

Yes. Before we arrived here, she complained endlessly of stomach cramps. Now she acts as if she never had a sick day in her whole life. Pris untied her bonnet that had somehow remained on her head during the melee in the entry hall. As she removed it and set it on the dressing table, her lush blond hair tumbled down around her shoulders, and his breath caught as it did every time when they were alone and she freed her hair from its prim knot.

She cast him as quick smile, showing she had heard his sharp intake of breath. Pris missed very little.

Maybe she is feeling better, he said when he realized she was waiting for a response from him.

She undid the front of her spencer and frowned. I’m puzzled by the abrupt change.

I did notice her staring at the de Romilly boy. Do you think she is intrigued by him?

Knowing Leah, she might simply have been envisioning how she could prove that she could run faster or climb higher than he can. She shrugged off her coat and placed it on the back of one of the chairs. Going to the dressing table, she sat and began to wind her hair with the ease of practice into a bun at her nape. Or maybe not. Leah is at the very age Daphne was when she started paying attention to boys as something other than annoyances.

He grimaced at their reflections in the glass. By all that’s blue, Pris, what have we ever done to deserve having two daughters who draw boys to them like bees to the honey?

"I daresay I have no idea what I have done, but then I am not the one who entertains the children with outrageous stories of my adventures in the past."

He was about to retort with a teasing rejoinder when a knock was placed on the door. He called for whoever it was to enter. As he had expected, it was a maid coming to check on the fire. He suspected after seeing Stoddard dress down Keel for abandoning his position by the door that all the servants would be even more conscientious than usual. Pris greeted the girl with warmth, asking how her family fared. Other baronesses might act as if the servants were invisible, but, at heart, Pris was still a parson’s wife, concerning herself with everyone whose path intersected hers.

That was one of the aspects of Pris he loved, because it had allowed her to look past the rumors of his past—some true, some exaggerated—to open her heart to him in spite of her aunt’s many, oft-expressed objections to Pris marrying him. He held out his hand to her as she came to her feet. Drawing her to him, he surrendered to his craving to kiss her. His hunger for her tasty lips and her soft curves grew stronger with each passing day. When her arms curved up his back, he wished they were alone in the manor house, so they could spend the rest of the two weeks leading up to Christmas curled up together in their bed.

The maid closing the door behind her as she let herself out of the room was a reminder that both he and Pris had obligations. Later, they would have time alone. She promised him that with a searing kiss, and he smiled as he walked with her out of the bedchamber. Later could not come soon enough.

AS NEVILLE LED the way down the stairs to the ground floor, he heard a soft clattering against the windows on either side of the heavy door. Pris went to look out. He joined her and muttered an oath when he saw snow. In recent years, winters had been long and hard. The cold arrived sooner and remained deep into what should have been spring. It looked, if the snowflakes fluttering past the windowpanes were any sign, as if this winter would be the same.

Are all your guests here? she asked.

If anyone else planned to come, they would be foolish to attempt the hill in the storm.

She shook her head at him. Trust you not to know exactly whom you have invited.

"I didn’t invite anyone. A few friends decided opening my house and entertaining them would be a good introduction for me to life as a peer."

Excuse me, Neville, if I don’t believe your pose as a victim of your friends’ enthusiasm.

He laughed along with her. You know me too well.

You still surprise me.

"I hope that will never change. It would be the definition of ennui if there were no surprises for us."

As if in answer to his words, a voice called from a room that opened off the entry hall. If ye’re lookin’ fer me, I’m in ’ere. ‘Bout time ye came to greet me.

Neville glanced at Pris. When she shrugged, clearly as unfamiliar with the voice and its low accent as he was, he walked into the parlor. The room was grand. Too grand for his taste, but he had acquiesced when Pris reminded him that he needed a place to welcome guests of higher rank than himself. If he had known that his guests would surge over them in the entry hall, he would have dug in a bit more on his discomfort with decorating the room in the gilt and white and gold satin to match the sparkling lines in the marble around the fireplace. His feet sank into the thick rug that had cost him the equivalent of a year’s wages of his whole household, but he had to own that the space truly befit a baron.

His gaze alighted on a pair of legs hanging over the arm of a winged chair. Filth from the scuffed boots dropped onto the rug. That disturbed him far less than the young man’s lackadaisical attitude as Neville, keeping Pris close to him, rounded the chair to face him.

Stoddard did not alert me to the arrival of another guest, Neville said in lieu of a greeting.

Probably coz I did not announce meself to ’im. The young man’s thick accent identified him as hailing from the north of England. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, but he might be younger. The hard life of the poor aged one prematurely.

Neville folded his arms over his chest. Need I announce to you what your eyes should show you?

Wot’s that?

There is a lady present. Did you fail to take note of that?

The young man arched a brow. Naw.

Then get on your feet.

Why? He draped an arm over the back of the chair. No need fer all of us t’be standin’ now, is there?

Stretching out an arm, Neville caught the young man by the lapels of his road-worn coat and jerked him to his feet. The young man’s fists flew toward Neville. With ease, Neville avoided them, shoving the young man away from him and Pris as if he weighed no more than a piece of fluff. The young man stumbled and almost fell on top of a low table. As he steadied himself, he started to storm toward them.

Pris stepped between Neville and the young man. Holding up her hands, she said, Let us start this anew.

After I peg ’im in the daylights, shouted the young man.

Nobody is going to strike anyone. She glanced over her shoulder at Neville. Nobody. Looking back at the young man, she asked in that calm tone which never failed to take the bluster out of everyone and remind them of their best manners, Do you understand?

Her tone worked yet again, astounding Neville who knew he could never copy it. The young man still scowled, but he nodded reluctantly.

Good, she said. Shall we start with introductions?

Stepping around her, Neville said, I am Lord Hathaway. You are . . . ?

Jamie Hathaway.

Hathaway? Neville reappraised the young man. In spite of the black hair needing a good wash and his worn clothes which should be tossed into the rag bag, he could see something of his less-than-illustrious family in the young man’s face. The raw features and the determination in his eyes, perhaps, or maybe the expression that Shakespeare had described so well as a lean and hungry look. The bard had gone on to have Julius Caesar add: He thinks too much; such men are dangerous. If this young man presented any danger to Neville’s family, he would quickly find himself on the far side of the front door, snow or not. I have never heard of a James Hathaway.

The young man grinned, revealing two missing teeth on the right side of his mouth. Neville wondered if he had lost them through disease or in a fight. Reaching under his coat, he pulled out a wrinkled piece of paper. Guess not, but I’m yer closest male relative, m’lord.

Taking the page, Neville opened it to find it was a letter from a solicitor. In the over-flowery language that Neville despised, the solicitor took line after line to explain what the young pup had said with a handful of words. He handed the letter to Pris to read.

He clasped his hands behind his back and affixed young Hathaway with the expressionless countenance that had served him well in other bizarre circumstances. He had known there must be someone in England or elsewhere in the world who was his closest male relative, but he had not given the matter any thought since he married Pris. His assumption that his heir would be the son she gave him had come to naught when she had not become pregnant.

So far, he reminded himself. She had given Lazarus three healthy and intelligent children.

He pushed those thoughts aside. He and Pris had years yet to have a child they shared. I must say, he said, I am no more surprised to see you here than I was to see the family’s representative who came to inform me that I was now the baronet.

But ye’re a baron, aren’t ye? So I get to be a fancy m’lord one of these days. Right?

You clearly have had a long journey to get to Shadows Fall. Priscilla’s gentle voice halted Jamie Hathaway from saying more. As if unknown relatives dropped in on them every day and spoke so casually of assuming the title once Neville was dead, she continued, I shall have Mrs. Crosby ready the green guest room for Mr. Hathaway’s use. Looking at young Hathaway, she added, I assume you wish us to continue to address you so.

The young man blinked, clearly shocked by her genteel words.

Or would you prefer for us to call you Jamie? she continued when she received no answer.

I guess ye should. It’s what I’m used to, ma’am.

My lady, Neville corrected in the same quiet tone Pris used.

So this be yer lawful blanket, Jamie said, his grin returning.

Yes, Neville said. "She is my wife."

Those her kids I saw out in the hallway when I came in? A boy and a girl?

I suspect you saw guests of the household. Lady Hathaway is the mother of three children, two daughters and a son.

A puzzled frown ripped away his bravado to reveal an uncertain young man behind it. Then why am I your heir?

You are my heir—for the time being—because Daphne, Leah, and Isaac are the children of Lady Hathaway and her late husband.

No bantlings of your own?

We are recently wed.

Jamie waved his hand. Babies don’t come solely from marriage beds.

Heirs do. For now, you are my heir presumptive.

What side of the blanket a babe is born on doesn’t matter so much, not where I grew up.

The coast of Northumberland, I would wager.

How did ye know that?

Pris smiled. Lord Hathaway has an acutely keen ear after years of learning dialects on the stage.

Ye were a spoutin’ chap in the theater? Jamie looked from him to Pris and back as if he waited for them to laugh at his gullibility for swallowing such a tale.

Among other things. Neville motioned toward the door where a very subdued Keel waited to escort their newest guest to his room. Someone will come to show you the way down for supper, but if you want something to eat in the meantime, let Keel know and a tray will be brought to you.

Lor’, Jamie breathed, clearly overwhelmed by the change in how he would live, at least until after Epiphany.

Neville knew that Pris would never toss the young fool out before the holidays were past. Family connections, no matter how thin—and Jamie’s were so thin they were almost see-through—were sacred to her.

Once Jamie was led away by the footman, Neville turned to Pris.

She did not wait for him to speak. His grin tells me he is being honest. She ran her fingers along the back of the chair. It reminds me of yours. A bit naughty and a lot of wisdom about things that a peer should have no knowledge of.

And more than a bit rough around the edges.

I daresay you were once the same.

He held out his hand to her. As she took it, he said, How kind of you not to point out that I still have a few rough edges.

I shall leave such appraisals to Aunt Cordelia.

With a groan, he said, Spare me her tuition into what I need to know as a peer.

I would if I could.

Before he could respond to her heartfelt words, he heard, Ah, here you are.

Vicomte de Romilly stood in the doorway until Neville motioned him to enter. The Frenchman was the epitome of refinement and proper manners. Neville doubted if even Aunt Cordelia could find fault with how de Romilly bowed over Pris’s hand.

What can we do for you, de Romilly? Neville asked as Pris gave him the folded sheet. He secured it under his coat, then added, I am sorry for the delay. We were on our way to join you for tea.

I must speak to you first. Alone. As he straightened, his eyes were wild with unrestrained emotions.

If you will excuse me, Pris began.

No, my lady. Stay. You are our hostess, and you should know of this threat, too.

Threat? Neville asked, his voice dropping to a growl. Hasn’t there been enough foolishness for the day?

I do not speak of what happened in your entry hall. He wrung his hands together. I need your help, Hathaway. Someone is trying to kill me.

Chapter Three

PRISCILLA PUT HER hand on the vicomte’s arm and drew him to sit on the closest chair. When she heard the thump of the door closing, she glanced at where Neville had been standing. The door reopened, and he came back in.

He mouthed a single word. Stoddard.

She nodded as she sat facing their guest. The butler would keep anyone from getting close enough to the door to eavesdrop. She assumed Keel had been given the task of escorting Jamie Hathaway to his room.

She bit her lip, hoping Jamie was not involved somehow in the threats against the vicomte. The young man’s arrival might not be simply coincidental. Jamie had not explained how he knew Neville was in Cornwall. That was something they needed to discover as soon as possible because she had learned that coincidences were seldom what they appeared to be.

Now, Neville said as he drew her down to sit beside on him on a white satin settee, start at the beginning, de Romilly, and explain why you think someone here is trying to kill you.

Not here. The vicomte’s voice shook like a twig in a high wind. In London. That is why we had to leave posthaste.

And I thought you were here to celebrate me being elevated to a baron.

Neville, Priscilla warned in barely more than a whisper. One look at the vicomte was enough for her to accept that he believed what he was saying. You made a request of our guest. Allow him a chance to answer.

Thank you, my lady, the vicomte said. "Mais oui, I came here to celebrate with you, Hathaway, but I also knew it was imperative to get my wife and family out of London where I am being stalked. Coming here seemed as good a place as any, because it is almost as far as I can get from London without falling into the sea."

"So you came here where your enemy could endanger my wife and my family."

De Romilly’s face grew gray. "Mon Dieu! I did not consider that. We will leave immediately."

You will not. Priscilla jumped her to her feet. She put her hands on his shoulders when he started to rise. Haven’t you noticed that the weather has taken a turn for the worse? It is snowing. However, you are correct. We are close to Land’s End, and nobody can come to the house unnoticed.

Well, almost nobody . . . Neville drawled.

She fired him a quelling frown as she sat again. Now was not the time to own that Jamie Hathaway had managed to sneak in without anyone being the wiser. The Hathaway family seemed to live by different rules, rules backed up by the skills they gained at an early age to keep them alive.

Why don’t you tell us why you believe there is a threat? Neville asked.

Don’t you believe me? The vicomte sounded frantic.

It doesn’t matter what we believe. What matters are the facts.

Priscilla was about to frown again at Neville because of his unsympathetic tone, but halted when the Frenchman squared his shoulders, clearly pricked by Neville’s sharp words.

The vicomte’s voice became steadier. You know that I believe France exchanged one tyrant for another when we allowed Napoleon to replace King Louis.

Neville nodded. You confided that in me more than two years ago.

I thought my opinions were known only to the few I could trust. I have not told my children, because they might slip and reveal the truth.