A Rake for Christmas

If he left, she’d be thrilled. She certainly would not miss his sardonic replies to her requests to respect his neighbor’s right to quiet. She’d been foolish in the extreme to look forward to crafting those letters, to matching her wits to those of a man she did not know or want to know.

She waited at the window, wondering if the dissipated rogue would chase after the woman and bring her back. But he didn’t. Disappointed she was not to have the satisfaction of a glimpse of the devil next door, she resumed her trudge up the stairs and into the bedroom where she knelt to entice Ginger out from under the dressing table. “Come on out, puss. It’s all finished.”

Loud knocking on her front door brought her to her feet. Surely the woman wasn’t seeking refuge here? Should she let her in? Would he follow? The thought made her shiver. With fear. It could not be excitement.

She’d had enough excitement in her life. And trouble. Her brother would be mortified if she did anything else to drag his name through the mire. She was lucky she hadn’t ruined his life as well as her own.

The knocking sounded again. How dare they involve her in their argument? Anger a hot bite in her veins, she rushed down the stairs and flung open the door. Angry words died on her lips at the sight of the bent old liveried servant standing on her threshold.

“I thought you’d never hear me,” he said. Snow glistened on his hat as he thrust a paper into her hand. “No reply needed.” The man touched his fetlock and walked down the steps.

Heart sinking, she stared at the sealed note. Messages in the middle of the night brought only disaster. Something must have happened to her brother or his family. There was no other reason to communicate. Not even at Christmas.

At the bottom of the steps, the servant glanced back. “Tell his lordship it’s urgent.”

His lordship? She turned it over. Townsend, Plane House, Hampstead. “Stop!” she called out, her words whipped away by the wind. “You’ve come to the wrong door.” The man was already opening the gate. “Wait!” she called again, but he continued on, oblivious to her cry.

Blast. Could her neighbor be any more troublesome?

His black-painted door huddled to one side of the porch, whereas hers faced the quiet street. It wasn’t the first time someone had knocked on her door instead of his, but usually her servants dealt with it. She’d have the note sent over as soon her staff returned in a day or so.

The servant said it was urgent.

Oh, she really didn’t want to knock on his door. But if an urgent message for her went astray and a neighbor shrugged it off for two days, how would she feel?