Mistletoe Magic

Dear Reader

Merry Christmas and welcome to the Regency-era holiday celebrations.

My friend Sharon Sobel and I have intertwined our linked holiday stories, the ONCE UPON A REGENCY CHRISTMAS series, in complementary tales of finding love in unexpected places and circumstances. We both have a great appreciation of England and all things Regency, and what better way to celebrate holidays than with romance? Especially when we have all of our characters snowed in together?

After the eruption of an Indonesian volcano in 1815, the planet went into a volcanic winter that lasted for a few years. The English summer of 1816 was still cold and wet, and it affected harvests and politics. Record amounts of snow blanketed England that winter, and the area of Rye in Sussex was hit particularly hard. Sharon chose this location for the lovely country home of Seabury, the perfect place for our stories to be told.

We hope you enjoy Under a Christmas Sky with Will and Julia, Mistletoe Magic with Nick and Chary, and their ventures into the snowy English countryside during the Christmas season. May it be a magical holiday for all of you!

—Virginia Brown

Books by Virginia Brown

Angel Series

Heaven On Earth

(Sequel to Touch of Heaven. Released in 2015)

Harley Jean Davidson Mystery Series

Hound Dog Blues

Harley Rushes In

Suspicious Mimes

Return to Fender

Dixie Divas Mystery Series

Dixie Divas

Drop Dead Divas

Dixie Diva Blues

Divas and Dead Rebels

Divas Do Tell

Regency Christmas Anthology Series

Once Upon a Child

Mistletoe and Mayhem

Mistletoe Magic

by

Virginia Brown

Bell Bridge 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.

Bell Bridge Books

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Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-831-8

Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-845-5

Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

Copyright © 2017 by Virginia Brown

Published in the United States of America.

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Cover design: Debra Dixon

Interior design: Hank Smith

Photo/Art credits:

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Dedication

To all those who have suffered from natural disasters, whether volcanos, wildfires, or hurricanes. You are not forgotten.

Endurance: It is the spirit which can bear things, not simply with resignation, but with blazing hope.

—Anonymous

Prologue

Bay of Makassar, Sulawesi

April 1, 1815

NAPOLÉON IS LOOSE.

Nicholas Hawkely, captain of the British ship Renown, looked sharply at his companion standing in the open cabin door. The devil you say.

Lord Willem Wakefield smiled ruefully. The devil is right. Word just came by a Dutch frigate. He escaped Elba on February 25th and is believed to be headed for Paris.

A gentle swell lifted the ship slightly. Nick held to his cup of wine, sighing wearily. I’ll most likely be recalled to join the fray, then. I had thought—hoped—to be done with battle for a while. Java has been a rather pleasant interlude, and confirmed my aspirations to be done with the Royal Navy and strike out on my own.

Done with the Navy? Fading light pierced the bank of thick leaded windows in the captain’s cabin, playing over Willem’s surprised expression. He shook his head, pale hair gleaming softly in the gloom, and took a seat at the table. He waited until the steward poured wine and left before asking, What will you do, Nick?

I’m not an intellectual like you, Will. I have dreams of exploring places I haven’t yet seen and returning to further explore some of the places I have been.

What about your properties?

I’ll hire stewards to manage them. I can give up my flat in Albany House, send my staff to the country house, and sail to places I’ve wanted to visit. I’ve spent most of my time in the Navy as cannon fodder. It would be nice to sail the open seas without the smell of gunpowder in the air. He paused, then added, It would also be nice to call my time my own for a change.

Anchored just off Makassar, the Renown dipped sharply on a crest at high tide. The familiar creak of rigging and ship decking sounded familiar, and he lifted his head as men shouted above-deck. He glanced at the Dutch clock. Moonrise was still over an hour distant.

Personally, I’ll be glad to be on dry land for a while, Wakefield commented, and sipped his wine carefully. All the supplies are unloaded and should last us. You will sail with the early morning tide, I assume.

Yes. I will return for you in a month. Nick leaned back in his chair. He still wore his blue officer’s coat with white-laced buttons. Gold braid adorned sleeves and the shoulder epaulettes. Heat pressed down, suffocating, and he got up to open a window. A sultry breeze drifted in, smelling of brine and cooling the stuffy cabin. Several square-rigged small boats natives called perahus skimmed the surface of the sea like dragonflies darting around the bay, the Sulawesi sailors expertly avoiding collision with other vessels. That should give me enough time to talk to the village elders and negotiate an agreement that will allow us to explore the area for hidden temples, said Will. If they will cooperate.

You have a silver tongue. Nick turned with a smile. I suppose being half Dutch helps you maneuver your way into staying in the Speelman’s House at Fort Rotterdam.

It is a definite asset. Will grinned. Being a diplomat has its advantages, too.

So it seems. Nick felt as if he’d spent his entire life aboard a ship, when it had only been ten years. He was ready to put it behind him. The promise of exploring new lands intrigued him, lent excitement to days that had become far too tedious. At least he’d not encountered enemy ships or pirates in Java, although that good luck may well change now that Napoléon was on the march again. Bloody hell. Time for him to leave the Navy.

He went to his desk and lit a lantern; light spread through the cabin, illuminating maps curled and stowed in cubbyholes, a sextant, compass, and gleaming brass chronometer atop his desk. He shuffled papers, the captain’s log, bills of lading from his purser, and found what he was looking for.

Lieutenant Governor Raffles is being recalled from Java soon, he said before turning around to look at Wakefield and handing him a letter. Rumor has it that John Fendall from Calcutta may take over.

Frowning, Willem took a moment to read the letter. It may be true. The Lieutenant Governor has appealed the recall. Raffles has succeeded in doing a lot of good, but his failure to make it profitable may ruin him. Lord Castlereagh ardently opposes British retention of Dutch holdings in the East. He may well succeed in blocking a reversal.

I lack enough interest in politics to find myself too concerned, although Raffles is a good man in many ways. Whatever he puts his hand to next will surely benefit. I hope to find the same satisfaction.

Raffles yearns to write a history of Java and the culture. He’s asked me to edit for him.

Nick pushed a hand through his dark hair, watching Wakefield. And have you agreed?

Not yet. It sounds interesting, though.

It sounds like my vision of purgatory. Nick shook his head. You’re the scholar. I preferred other avenues of entertainment in school, which is why I find myself at nearly twenty-nine wondering what the hell I’m doing here.

You’re here because you chose this way to serve your country. And you’ve served it well for ten years now. Perhaps it’s time you served yourself.

Nick thought about it, then nodded. You’re a good friend, Will. Despite your tendency to bore the wits out of a man at times, I know I can always count on you to be there when you’re needed.

Grinning, Will tossed the letter to the table and lifted his cup in a toast. To friendship and new seas to sail.

Aye! Nick drank deeply.

Wakefield didn’t leave until six bells of the dog watch and the night sky spread stars overhead with few clouds. Standing on the foredeck, Nick watched the lights bob on the water as the pinnace carrying passengers to shore skimmed the sea between ship and dock. He lay in his bunk that night feeling as if new adventures would finally be open to him.

GOOD WINDS SWEPT the Renown back to Java by the afternoon of April 5th, and the ship’s crew dropped anchor in the bay. It had been an uneventful voyage for the most part. Lieutenant Governor Raffles was still organizing his impending departure, crating up household items and possessions to send back to England to await his eventual arrival, once Java was returned to the Dutch. The ship’s hold carried stacks of wooden crates. Nick’s purser, Delaney, had carefully catalogued the items and stowed them in a safe part of the Renown’s cargo area. Channing, Raffles’s own personal purser, had taken great care to see that the Lieutenant Governor’s collection of artifacts had been carefully packed, to be shipped to the King on the Renown. No doubt, the Regent would be most intrigued with the native artifacts when Nick got them safely to England.

After reporting to the Lieutenant Governor, Nick returned to the Renown to change his clothes, with the intention of spending a night in Batavia. There was a winsome young lady he’d chanced to meet who would make very good company for the evening.

It was near sunset when he heard the first cannonade of booming thunder, and he went above deck to learn the cause. First Mate Ralston met him on the foredeck with a spyglass. No sign of enemy ships, Captain. It must be coming from the islands farther east.

It won’t be long until we hear from the Lieutenant Governor if there’s trouble, Nick said. And he was right.

Within an hour, Raffles had sent orders to search the Java Sea for signs of any native uprisings, ships in distress, or attack by enemy ships, and to lend aid where possible. The Renown sailed on the high tide, with clouds masking stars and moon to make navigation more difficult. Morning brought the cause of the booming into evidence: a volcanic eruption. Light ash fell steadily, but the rumblings grew less frequent as he sailed east on the Java Sea. Nick suspected it might be Mount Merapi, fire mountain in Javanese, as it erupted frequently. He worried that his friend Wakefield might be caught in its path if it was a huge eruption. Without hesitation, he set course for Makassar.

By noon of April 10th, he dropped anchor in Makassar Bay. Once he was ashore, Nick went looking for Wakefield and found him at the Speelman’s House in Fort Rotterdam. The normally white building was coated in gray ash, as were the grounds. Perpetual twilight lent gloom to the atmosphere, and the air was humid and oppressive.

It’s Tambora, Willem said, speaking of the islands east of Batavia. I’m sure of it.

I thought Mount Tambora is an extinct volcano.

Is there such a thing? Wakefield tossed documents into a wooden box and latched it, then added it to the pile. I barely got started here, but I can always come back.

Nick glanced around the spacious room; white walls usually bathed with sunlight held a grimy coating that filtered through shuttered windows. A dusting of fine ash coated everything from tables to water pitchers.

Ash is still falling, he said after Will called for a man to come for his baggage. I have a bad feeling about this.

Tambora, Will repeated. It’s on Sumbawa about two hundred forty miles southwest of here, but the natives say it’s been rumbling for the past year.

Yet I heard it, and Batavia is over eight hundred miles away. Skeptical, Nick followed Wakefield out into the sunbaked yard of Fort Rotterdam, his boots scuffing through drifts of ash and tiny dark particles. We’ve cleared ash from the decks for the last two days. Are you sure it’s Tambora?

Will’s expression was unusually taut, his words flat. My calculations put it southwest of here. There was a plume of debris rising nearly twenty miles into the air and I could see it through the glass.

We’ll leave on high tide and see what we can find in that direction.

Unfortunately, before eleven that night, a series of thundering explosions filled the air. The dark sea roiled, the winds howled, and the very ground shook, causing the buildings in the fort to shudder from the force. Close to morning and high tide, the booming thuds came in quick succession, like several of the ship’s guns firing together, shaking the vessel. Dawn saw them sailing southward, the ominous sky filled with what looked like squall clouds, the horizon heavy with a red glow. Two hours before noon, it had grown so dark, it was hard to spot the shoreline of an island only a mile away. Ash fell thickly on the ship’s decks, rigging, wheel house, and sailors. By noon it was pitch black around them, and the falling debris came down like rain, bearing thicker particles of pumice. Nick ordered awnings put out on the deck to cover as much as possible, and the crew still had to scrape the particles through the scuppers to clear the decks. By the next day, they were tossing buckets of it overboard, from where it had piled in drifts nearly a foot high.

It was noon of the third day before sunlight pierced the dense clouds at last, and the ship hove into sight of Sumbawa. Mount Tambora smoldered, the top blown off, destruction and death surrounding it. Silence fell among the crew. Flames still licked the lower part of the mountain, lava flows sullenly glowering over the beach to hiss loudly into the sea. There was no sign of survivors here, but farther down the coast where the ground was covered with ash three feet high and most of the inhabitants were dead, a few ragged souls straggled into sight.

Nick sent crew in the pinnace to carry them a barrel of fresh water and some supplies, and Will insisted on going with them. Even from the ship, Nick was barely able to believe the sight of charred bodies, both human and animal, that lay strewn across the area.

Their need is too great, said Wakefield quietly when he returned. His face reflected grief and pallor. We do not have enough supplies for them.

He slumped into a chair and covered his eyes with one hand; Nick was surprised to see it tremble slightly. That was unlike Will. He rarely showed emotion of any kind.

Nick poured a cup of wine and set it in front of him, and when Will reached for it, Nick saw a large burn marring his palm. Will, you’re hurt. I’ll call for the surgeon.

Glancing up, Will shook his head. No. This wound is nothing. Leena is dead.

Leena, a native girl from Sumbawa. Oh God . . . she must be the girl Nick had heard rumors about, the one who had captured Wakefield’s attention these last months. The eruption? he asked quietly.

She had come home to find her family. I had to look for her, had to know . . . She was in the rubble of their hut. It’s all still in flames in places, still so hot . . . damn. I couldn’t save her, but I tried . . . tried to give her dignity in death.

When Will drained the wine, Nick refilled his cup. Useless platitudes did nothing to lend comfort, so he offered a distraction.

We’ll go back to Batavia. Raffles will organize rescue ships to see what can be done.

The voyage back took longer than he’d expected, as they stopped to assist survivors at what was left of once beautiful islands that were now thick with pumice and ash. The very sea itself impeded their progress, for masses of cinders floated on the water’s surface more than a foot thick and several miles across, like small islands, and the Renown had to weave through them.

Arrival back in Batavia found the shipping offices in chaos. Reports of the devastation had filtered in from other ships, and Raffles was determined to get his prized artifacts off the island as quickly as possible. Channing, his purser, boarded the Renown with bills of lading and requests from the Lieutenant Governor that Captain Hawkely take aboard all he could safely stow.

Within a week, Nick set sail for London with the precious cargo bound for the King and Prince Regent’s attention. He parted company with Wakefield on the Batavia docks while supervising the last of the cargo being loaded.

We may not meet again for a while, said Nick, and Willem nodded.

So, you still intend to sell your commission?

At the first opportunity. Investments should support me well enough.

Wakefield smiled. Unless you go into the family business, our paths may not cross for some time.

As I am the spare and not the heir, I will not be involved in the matters of Parliament, for which I am very grateful. I leave that to the Duke and Marquess, and they are welcome to it. Second sons are blessedly expendable.

Godspeed, Hawkely.

It was, thought Nick as he sailed from Java through a sea thick with floating islands of charred trees, pumice, and ash, a new beginning that he highly anticipated. The future should be very interesting.

CAPTAIN HAWKELY, the barrister beckoned, and Nick followed him into a small chamber paneled in dark mahogany. A lettered sign pointed to Court of King’s Bench, Crown Side, a reminder that he had fallen afoul of the king’s justice.

To his relief, Lord Willem Wakefield stood near a bank of windows, his hands clasped behind his back and his expression unreadable. Will could testify that he had no part in the theft of Javanese artifacts from the Renown. More importantly, he would be able to testify as to his character.

The barrister cleared his throat. Captain, there is a complaint registered by Lieutenant Governor Raffles of Batavia that a shipment of valuable artifacts he entrusted to your custody has disappeared. How say you?

It sounded odd, as if the accusation was official, but he answered honestly. Perhaps he should have listened to his father and hired his own counsel, but the charges seemed so ludicrous, he’d thought it unnecessary.

We docked at Gravesend, and—

Why Gravesend instead of the Naval harbor at Northfleet? the barrister interrupted.

Lieutenant Governor Raffles is not in the Royal Navy. Much of the cargo we carried for him included personal items, save the artifacts intended for the king. I thought it expedient to dock there first.

He glanced at Wakefield, who remained silent, his arms clasped over his chest as he stared at the floor. Window light behind him kept his face in shadow, so Nick had no idea what he thought.

More questions followed, a rapid avalanche no doubt designed to catch him out, but he answered them all to the best of his knowledge. It was a deposition, no more than that, he’d been told, but it felt as if he’d been placed in the dock before the judge. The barrister wore a wig atop flaming red hair and took his position quite seriously.

Finally, he asked, Do you have any witnesses to your claim of innocence, Captain?

Nick looked at Wakefield. His friend had remained silent during the entire deposition, but Will looked up now, still expressionless. For a moment, Nick thought he might speak, but he said nothing. The silence stretched out long and tense, until Nick looked at the barrister and said curtly, No.

Indeed.

There are no witnesses, save the crew loading the cargo, bills of lading, and my purser, whom you have already spoken with about the matter.

Mr. Delaney avows no knowledge of missing artifacts. All cargo is accounted for if his records are to be believed.

There is no reason to suspect Delaney. He has always been an exemplary purser.

The ultimate responsibility lies with you, Captain Hawkely.

As I have stated several times.

So you have. I must confer with associates before I render a decision. Good day, sir.

Summarily dismissed, he waited in Westminster Hall until Wakefield appeared. He caught up with him outside St. Stephen’s porch in the cloister court. A light rain fell in the October chill, glistening on the stones, dripping from figures intricately carved into the walls.

What the bloody hell is going on, Will? he demanded. You know I had nothing to do with stealing artifacts. Why didn’t you speak up for me?

Willem looked at him warily. I have an obligation to report what I saw or heard. Since I witnessed nothing regarding the missing cargo, I could say nothing.

Nick knew how it had to appear to Will; missing artifacts of great value, bills of lading to mark their loading onto the Renown, then the ultimate discovery that the crates held worthless claptrap instead of antiquities—it all begged an explanation. And he had none. The truth was all he had as a defense, and apparently that wasn’t enough for Wakefield, much less the king’s barrister who didn’t know him. But bloody hell, Will knew him! He was supposed to be his friend, not a stranger judging an unlikely story. Bitter anger rose, and his question came out harshly: Then why were you there?

I delivered the Lieutenant Governor’s accusations to file charges for him.

It knocked the wind from him. He stared at Wakefield as if he’d never seen him before, and the betrayal cut deep. His hand shifted automatically to his sword hilt, but he recalled he had not worn his sword to Westminster Hall.

Curling his fingers into his palm, he resisted the urge to throttle Wakefield where he stood. Fury rose hot and high, and he took a step back to keep from doing something stupid. It would not help his cause.

Nick—

Shut up. You had nothing to say for me when it would have helped, and I’m damned if I want to hear anything you say now.

No official charges will be made against you, Wakefield said. I’m sorry. That’s all I could do. But Nick turned and walked away.

Chapter 1

London, November 1816

YOU WILL MARRY Miss St. John, said the duke, flicking back the lace on his cuff in a negligent motion that riveted his son’s attention. It is in your best interests.

I am a bit old to be told what I have to do, replied Lord Nicholas Hawkely nonchalantly, despite his irritation. He was still suffering the ill effects of too much arrack punch when he’d been peremptorily summoned to attend Avonhurst.

Carefully sanding the wet ink on a newly signed document on his desk, the duke didn’t look up. Nevertheless, it is the best choice you have been given.

Irritation deepened to resentment. "And if I choose not to marry