Under a Christmas Spell

The unpleasantness had taken its toll on Lucille, too, but in an opposite way—a constant need to be with people, to be up and doing.

“He shows no interest in women. He will not even take a mistress,” her hostess said. “And no, he doesn’t prefer men, nor was he wounded and incapacitated. His is an emotional problem that must be resolved, and you, my dear, can arouse even the most difficult cases. Think of it as a way to use your talents in a peaceful cause.”

It would be a challenge. It might occupy her mind for a while. Maybe it would help her to forget. But she could never be forgiven, and that was what mattered most.

“The peerage is far too full of substandard fools,” the mistress said. “For the future of England, one cannot let even one intelligent nobleman refuse to marry and carry on his lineage.” She passed Lucille a scented envelope. “Here are the particulars. It has come to our attention that Lord Westerly’s aunt is planning a fortnight of Christmas festivities at his Hampshire estate. You will doubtless find a way to attend.”

An English country Christmas! During her childhood, Lucille had spent several years with an English family. Holly and mistletoe, plum pudding and roast goose... She sat back in her chair and sipped her tea. Perhaps some aspects of this mission would be fun.

Hampshire, a few weeks later

Shortly before dusk on the twenty-third of December, Lord Valiant Oakenhurst rode into a copse a short distance from Westerly House. He hadn’t done what he was about to do in ages, and the last time he’d been lucky not to kill himself in the process.

This time he was slightly better prepared. He wouldn’t ruin good clothes in the process, because this was England, not wartime France, so he didn’t need perfect cover. Today he had purposely chosen a threadbare shirt and a too large coat he wouldn’t have given to a groom. He took out two cravats and set them conveniently ready for use.

Then he removed a loaded pistol from his saddlebag, took very, very careful aim, and shot himself in the arm.

Hell! It was only a scratch, but it hurt as badly as last time. His horse, formerly a cavalry mount, must have forgotten its training, for it took exception to the sudden noise, snorting and sidling, and almost unseated Valiant against a tree. Cursing, he got it under control, barely preventing the cravats from slipping to the ground. He shed his ruined coat, wound the cloths about his arm and tied them as tight as he could with his free hand and his teeth. He was still bleeding, but it would have to do.

He wheeled his horse and set out for Westerly House.

* * *

As dusk fell, a coach-and-pair carrying Lucille Beaulieu and her new friend, Theodora Southern, turned through the gates of Westerly House and slogged slowly up the drive.

It had been all too easy to arrange. One look at the guest list the mistress had supplied her, and she’d known whom to choose. She and Theodora moved in different circles, but occasionally they had attended the same ball in London. A carriage breakdown before the gates of the vicarage where Theodora lived with her parents and a fault in the axle that would take more than a week to fix—an obvious ploy to anyone in the game—was all it took. The Southerns wouldn’t have dreamed of turning a stranded gentlewoman away, and Theodora was far too polite to admit that she didn’t remember meeting Lucille. She had succumbed readily, allowing acquaintance to become friendship, and had even seemed pleased when Lucille suggested accompanying her to the house party. The ease of it, which would have been a relief during the war, now made Lucille rather sick.

She tried to concentrate on the positive aspects of this journey. Every country house had its traditions. Perhaps the ladies would accompany the gentlemen into a wood to fetch the Yule log. They might assist in delivering gifts of food to the tenants on Lord Westerly’s estate. She longed for the comfort of traditions. Of family life, which she had never truly known. Since the age of four, when the soldiers had taken her parents away forever, she had always been the outsider—fostered by families in France, then Spain, and lastly England, allowed in on sufferance, never truly belonging.

She followed Theodora’s gaze out the carriage window. Westerly House had not yet come into view, but up a small rise stood the tumbledown walls of an abbey.

“Those are the famously romantic ruins?” Lucille asked. So bleak and desolate, resembling her life. She liked Theodora—such a calm, composed woman, sure of her worth but not the least high in the instep, and with a lively sense of humour. So...well-balanced. In other words, what Lucille was not and didn’t know how to be.

Theodora’s pause and her tiny shake of the head showed that her thoughts had been elsewhere. “Yes, aren’t they beautiful? Just like in a Gothic novel.” A tall man came into view, striding up the rise toward the ruins, and she uttered a soft, “Oh.”

Lucille’s heart sank. She’d wondered, judging by tiny nuances in Theodora’s speech, if she had a tendre for Lord Westerly. Theodora had told her that she’d decided long ago to marry for love or not at all. Perhaps this was the reason why. “Is that Lord Westerly?” Lucille asked.

“I can’t tell for sure from behind,” Theodora said after another pause. That was almost certainly a lie. “I haven’t seen him for several years. He’s the right height and build, though.”

Evidently he dwelt firmly in Theodora’s memory and heart. She didn’t think Theodora had any hope of marrying Lord Westerly—if he had wanted her, he could have asked her long ago, for they had known one another since childhood—and yet Lucille’s own heart squeezed at the thought of seducing her new friend’s secret love. It was a betrayal, and Lucille wanted no more of those.

She didn’t think this would be a happy Christmas for Theodora. His lordship’s aunt had invited a number of eligible young ladies in the hope that he would take a fancy to one of them, and Theodora’s role was to help out as a sort of secondary hostess.

“He’s a fine figure of a man,” murmured Lucille.

“He was a soldier,” Theodora said. “Maybe that keeps a man in good trim.”

Perhaps I can arouse him without seducing him, Lucille thought. That would not be so despicable. “Perhaps I shall flirt with him,” she said tentatively. “It will make this aunt of his angry, non?”

“You are a strange person, Lucille,” Theodora said frankly, but she was smiling. “First you invite yourself to someone’s party, and then you make plans to annoy them.”

Lucille chuckled. “I am truly bad, n’est-ce pas? But I am no danger to these young things from whom he will choose. I don’t wish to marry again, merely to amuse myself. Will there be many handsome men, do you think?”

“Unfortunately not,” Theodora said. “I am acquainted with everyone on the guest list. Lady Westerly—” that was his lordship’s aunt “—has made a point of ensuring that all the male guests are either married, inept or dead bores.”

This wasn’t the best of news, but if Lucille flirted with the other men, as well, her concentration on Lord Westerly would not be obvious. If she sent him sensual dreams, too, it might suffice. There would be good food and drink, and festivities to keep her mind off things she preferred not to think about. And best of all, nothing to remind her of the game.

* * *

It was only a mile or so, but by the time Lord Valiant reached Westerly House, he didn’t have to feign feeling a trifle under the weather. Strange how the lack of any real danger robbed one of the usual grim control.

He urged his horse up the drive to where a gentleman and two ladies hovered outside a coach while footmen unloaded trunks and bandboxes. It seemed an ideal moment for a dramatic arrival until he glimpsed a familiar pair of wide violet eyes. He blinked, so astonished and overwhelmed by memory that he swayed in the saddle.

He stared. It was truly Lucie. Damn and blast the master. What was she doing here? A surge of rage sent him into wartime mode. This wasn’t what it seemed.

Back into the game.

As he slid off the horse, people hurried around the coach. “Highwaymen,” he croaked, grasping his injured arm and stumbling to one knee, sensing without seeing the contempt in Lucie’s gaze. “Winged me.”

“Heavens, how dreadful!” The other lady rushed forward—an ordinary-looking Englishwoman, not a conniving succubus. “Lord Westerly, send a man for the doctor,” she ordered. “James, Charles, help this poor man into the house.”

“Lord Valiant Oakenhurst?” said Lord Westerly as two footmen set down the trunk they carried and hurried around to help. “What the deuce are you doing in Hampshire?”

“Getting shot,” Valiant mumbled. “It’s only a scratch.” He squeezed his eyes shut as if in agonizing pain—actually, the throbbing in his arm was nothing compared to seeing Lucie again—and reopened them. “I could ask the same of you.”

“I live here,” Lord Westerly said.

“The devil you say.” Val infused surprise tinged with distaste into his voice, slung his good arm across the shoulders of one of the footmen, and made the most of staggering into the house.

* * *

What in the name of God and all the saints was Val doing here?

Lucille watched aghast as one footman helped her former lover into the house, while the other ran to the stables to send a groom for the doctor. She’d always wondered about his background, which could have been anything judging by the many roles he had played. Now she knew, and a cold trickle of fear invaded her gut. Oakenhurst was the family name of the Marquis of Staves. Val was not only a spy and assassin, but a man of power and influence in England.

Whereas she was a traitor to both France, the country of her birth, and England, which had given her sanctuary, and Valiant Oakenhurst was the only one who knew. What an unusual name Valiant was, but appropriate. She’d known him by several names, but during their intimacy he’d been simply Val.

But why would a man of high birth use a desperate ploy to gain entrance to Westerly House? The last time he’d shot himself in the arm, he had nearly bled to death. Lucille knew because she had been the one to save his life.

She’d caught that flicker of rage in his eyes. He still hated her, even though the war was over and France had gone down to bitter defeat. He had followed her for months after the betrayal and had had her watched during Napoleon’s first exile. She had lived in daily expectation of violent death. After Waterloo, she’d hoped it was all over. Lately, she had almost begun to believe she was safe.

Evidently not. None of it should matter anymore, but he would never understand, brutal, uncomplicated Englishman that he was. He had surely come here because of her, but how had he known she would be here? And what did he intend to do?

A ghastly question yawned chasm-like before her. Was she prepared to take his life to save her own?

* * *

Valiant hadn’t killed anyone for several months. With the war over and done he shouldn’t have to, but he knew a brief, furious urge to return to London and murder the master. He didn’t want to deal with Lucie.