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  A Dangerous Nativity

  By Caroline Warfield

  Copyright © 2015 by Caroline Warfield.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Smashwords Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

  Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of fiction or are used in a fictitious manner, including portrayal of historical figures and situations. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Mari Christie

  Dedication

  To the Bluestocking Belles—sine qua non.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  About Caroline Warfield

  More by This Author

  Chapter One

  Pounding hooves and frustration drove the Earl of Chadbourn in a fog of discouragement toward an unfamiliar fence line. He rode head down into the wind until an unexpected sight startled him out of his dismals. He pulled Mercury to a sudden stop. The fence looked to be in good repair. Thank God, he thought.

  Frustration had driven him from his sister's house, but his neck-or-nothing ride across the fields had done nothing to ease his burdens, raise his spirits, or banish his demons. This did.

  Can some part of Emery Wheatly's benighted property actually be in repair?

  William Landrum, 10th Earl of Chadbourn badly needed some sign of order. In the two months he had spent struggling with his late unlamented brother-in-law's over-grazed estate, falling fences had been the norm. So had unrepaired tenant cottages, sodden fields, and poorly managed pastures. The only things in good heart he had found so far were those that directly impacted the late Duke of Murnane's personal comfort. If it weren't for Chadbourn's nephew, the duke's son and heir—now his ward—the urge to chuck the whole thing and throw it back on the Crown might be irresistible. He longed to get back to his own land.

  Will breathed deeply of the crisp November air, leapt down, and gave his mount a reassuring caress along its neck. He bent to examine the fence, sliding his gloved hand across the top rail. He shook the posts to test their stability. He examined the crossbars. Perfect. The earl admired quality workmanship; he rated this work highly indeed.

  A short walk took him past a neatly pruned orchard. The cuttings appeared recent, done just after last week's hard frost. The orchard could not be on the Duke of Murnane's land. Eversham Hall boasted no such careful husbandry. He had ridden farther than planned. What neighbors are these? he wondered. Sylvia never mentioned them, but then, my sister doesn't tell me much these days.

  The fence turned at a lane and curved past the orchard. Still leading Mercury, he let his curiosity pull him along until a farmhouse came into view. He stood at the top of a gentle slope looking down at a trim, thatched cottage, solid barn, and garden beds, neat even in late fall, the dried remnants of flowers to the front of the cottage, vegetable patch out behind.

  In five years of marching through mud and blood, dreams of just such a scene had been his safe talisman, the peace of rural England keeping the horrors of death and dismemberment at bay. Seeing it in reality, after two months of managing Murnane's damaged legacy, warmed his heart.

  He walked down the lane bathed in contentment, drawn by the need to absorb the place's serenity and order until barnyard chaos upended his fanciful notions. He had stumbled onto a domestic crisis. He chuckled as he went.

  Piglets ran in several directions, while a goat charged up the hill toward him, eyes wide with panic. Two boys ran in circles trying to catch rioting pigs. The more they ran, the more they sent a flock of geese into a frenzy of honking and feathers. A dog barked frantically on one side, only to run to the other and bark more. In the center of the chaos a woman stood, one hand raised above her head and the other holding her skirts above the confusion.

  Will's vision narrowed to the woman. Tall and serene, she put him in mind of Athena, striding above the fray to command calm. Intense longing for her serenity, for her strength, and for order filled him. For a moment, he could think of nothing else.

  Frantic bleating brought him back to earth. The goat pelted up the hill toward him. He caught the piece of rope dangling from a loop around the animal's neck before it could charge past him. The panicked beast sent Mercury skittering to the side. A hard yank brought the bleater to an abrupt stop, and a gentle hand and soft voice calmed it. He could see that the rope had been violently torn from a longer piece. There's a story here, he thought, a smile twitching his lips. He led the goat down the lane trusting his horse to follow.

  ***

  "Enough!" Catherine shouted. "Quiet." The dog at least obeyed. Her youngest brother, Randy, skidded to a halt and glanced at her sheepishly while he shouted, "Behind you, Freddy. There's one behind you!"

  "Frederick, stop this instant and look at me."

  The older of her two siblings stopped his gleeful pursuit reluctantly and turned to look at his sister.

  "But the pigs, Cath, I—gore!" Freddy exclaimed. His eyes widened, fixated on a sight past Catherine's shoulder. "That's a fine beast."

  Catherine spun on her heels and gasped. A man—and a fine specimen indeed—stood not ten feet away. Tall and broad shouldered, the man exuded the unmistakable confidence of the upper classes. Sunshine did interesting things with the lights in his soft brown hair and his eyes… She found herself momentarily at a loss.

  "This animal belongs to you, I presume?" the man asked. His deep rich voice rumbled through Catherine's bemused distraction. She looked up at the huge bay stallion following the man as meekly as a lamb, opened her mouth to deny it, but caught sight of the ragged rope in his hands. He had dragged her irritable goat home.

  "Yes. Rosalinda. Thank you." Catherine stumbled over the words.

  Randy rushed forward to take the rope.

  "Thank you ever so much, sir. So frightened she was, I might have had to chase her clear to the road. If she went onto His Grace's land again, the steward said he'd roast her for dinner." The boy chattered while he tied the animal to the broken gate of the pigsty. "As it is, the mother hog is probably halfway to Wheatton by now."

  Warm brown eyes held Catherine's. She found herself unable to speak.

  "I say, sir. That horse is a beauty, Mr.—" Freddy began.

  "Chadbourn. At your service."

  Chadbourn? The earl? Catherine looked in chagrin at her third-best work dress with its patched hem and faded colors. The one time someone from that family appeared on their doorstep, and he found her looking bedraggled.

  "Chadbourn?" Freddy echoed. "You can't be. They never come here."

  The earl looked confused.

  "Frederick!" Catherine snapped, coming sharply to attention. "Mind your manners."

  Freddy remained unrepentant as always. "Sorry, Cath, but they don't." He looked at the earl. "May I pet him?" He didn't wait for permi
ssion, and the horse seemed willing enough.

  "Gently, now," Chadbourn told him.

  The sound of the geese faded as the birds ran through the barn. It reminded her that the earl also found Songbird Cottage in confusion. He ought at least to know they possessed manners. She looked to her own manners and began introductions.

  "Thank you for your assistance, my lord. I—"

  "Your vegetables!" the earl exclaimed.

  Vegetables?

  He strode past Catherine. She turned around to see that the piglets had settled down to root happily among the last of the unharvested potatoes and turnips, just beyond the kitchen door.

  Freddy started to run toward them. The earl put out a hand.

  "Steady on. Let them think they've outwitted us, and we'll take them by surprise."

  Freddy grinned up at the man and mimicked his stealthy moves until they were almost upon the little beasties. In short order, the boys, the earl, and Catherine held seven piglets by their rear legs and deposited them back in their sty, Randy holding the gate so Freddy could tie it shut.

  "Th-thank you for your help, my lord," Catherine stammered, wiping her hands on her skirt and to avoid looking at him. Must he watch me so intently? "We would have managed, but thank you, all the same."

  "That pen will require mending."

  She nodded. "Our man-of-all-work will see to it. Frederick and Randolph, you two may spend the rest of the day restoring the hay to the loft. You've undone two days' work."

  "But, Cath! We needed a safe landing place," Freddy insisted.

  "Nonsense! Get on with it," she said.

  "Safe landing place?" the earl asked.

  Randy launched into a breathless description of plans he and Frederick had made for a nativity reenactment involving only animals. Rosalinda, it seems, was intended for the part of archangel.

  "She's all white, you see. But we had to test lowering her from the loft. Christmas is six weeks away, and we can't leave it all for the end."

  "That explains the broken rope," the earl said in a queer voice. "What happened to the gate of the pen?"

  "Kicked on the way down. Swung the wrong way," Freddy answered. "Flew out and landed in the pen. Mother sow took offense and whacked right through the gate on a run. Maybe I should fetch her?" He looked around hopefully.

  "An all-animal reenactment?" Chadbourn asked in a strangled voice.

  "Yes, well, Freddy thought the runt pig would make a good baby, and Bertha," Randy pointed to the dog, "is ever so good a mother, so we thought it might work." He scratched his head. "But we don't have sheep, and I can't see who might be a king."

  "Perhaps it wasn't one of our better ideas," Freddy mumbled. "Needs work."

  "Apparently it does," the earl said, looking like he was holding his breath.

  "Both of you, hayloft now. That sow is too lazy to go far." Catherine cut in. To their credit, they both obeyed.

  She stared after them. What on earth could she say to this man after that recital? She looked around to see him biting his lip to keep from laughing. Amusement or mockery? She had no way to tell. When he sobered, his question surprised her.

  "Did your crew bring in sufficient silage for winter?" he asked, looking at the animals. He sounded genuinely interested.

  "Of course. We had a good harvest across the board. Why do you ask?"

  "Did most of the county enjoy a good harvest?"

  Catherine launched into an overview of yields for the year, crop by crop, compared to the past three harvests for the farms thereabouts. She caught herself in her peculiarly unfeminine enthusiasms and colored. "That's more than you asked," she said. "Do you have an interest in farming?"

  He smiled and looked as if he were about to say something, but changed his mind. Silence became uncomfortable.

  "Thank you again," she began.

  "Tell your husband I admire the condition of your orchard. Your fences are first-rate," he said.

  "I-I'm not married," she stammered. "The farm is my father's." Damn the man. At twenty-six, Catherine knew well enough that the age when women married had passed. She also knew that option had never been available to her. She didn't need some prancing nobleman to rub it in.

  The earl looked disconcerted. "My apologies, ma'am. To your father, then, Miss—"

  "Catherine," she replied, with a belated curtsey to his title.

  He waited a moment, but when she didn't add a surname, he mounted and rode off.

  Chapter Two

  Will's laughter followed him home. It broke loose as soon as he rode out of earshot and was no longer in danger of offending his charming hosts. Angelic goat! He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed so hard. Mercury trotted toward Eversham Hall while the earl reveled in his encounter with the neighbors.

  Even the confirmation that most of the county enjoyed a good harvest buoyed him. He admired the woman's knowledgeable account. It proved he had been right to fire Eversham's land steward. The fool had botched the harvest. He put what little they had harvested in a damaged shed on top of rotting hay. His incompetence forced them to buy feed for the winter. Being right gave Will cold comfort.

  His elation dimmed completely when Stowe, Eversham Hall's morose butler, greeted him in the foyer.

  "Her Grace wishes to see you, my lord," the old man intoned. "She said to tell you it is most urgent."

  "It always is," Will muttered, as he dragged his feet up the stairs toward Sylvia's sitting room. Unrepaired fences paled next to the damage Emery Wheatly had done in private. He had reduced Will's beautiful, vividly alive little sister to a weeping bundle of misery.

  If God is just—and I know He is—coals are being heaped on Emery's sinful carcass right now, while I repair the havoc he left behind. That thought sat ill in his belly. He had to pause in front of Sylvia's door to gather his self-control. When he pushed the door open, heavy, uncirculated air and the suffocating smell of lavender and burnt feathers assaulted his nose. Heavy draperies over every window made the room so dim he had to blink to adjust. He longed for the sunny barnyard he had just left.

  Sylvia Wheatly, Duchess of Murnane, swathed in black, languished on a chaise lounge, holding a handkerchief to her nose. Thin, pale, and perpetually ailing, she bore no resemblance to the confident young woman who had danced through her first Season just before Will left to join the army in 1803. Upended books and broken porcelain littered the floor.

  "Why can't he come when I call him? Doesn't he know I need him?" she complained loudly.

  Who, the late duke or me? It didn't matter. Her rant sounded like a tired litany. She craved a man's attention. Hell, she thinks she needs a man to validate her every thought.

  "Oh, Chadbourn, thank goodness you're here. Fire this woman!" his sister demanded, pointing with an upswept arm toward her lady's maid, cowering in the door to Her Grace's dressing room. The duchess collapsed back against the chaise.

  "She is utterly incompetent," Sylvia whispered, her breathing raspy and ragged. "She misplaced my tonic and only found it moments ago. Turn her out without a character." She finished her pronouncement with a dramatic arm across her eyes.

  The maid's pleading look tore at Will. He had ordered her to hide the opium-laced tonic. Obviously, she had not been able to withstand the duchess's whining. How on earth am I going to find a position for a lady's maid?

  Sylvia peeped out. "Is she gone?"

  Will sighed. He gestured toward the hall and followed the maid to the door. His whispered reassurance and request to meet him in the butler's pantry in an hour did little to wipe the fear from her face. He would think of something.

  "Is she gone?" Sylvia's voice quavered.

  "We will reassign her."

  "No! I demand she be turned off without a reference!"

  One thing he had learned: his sister cowered before the voice of authority. "You will leave that to me," he said as firmly as he could manage.

  Sylvia crumpled immediately, and Will's heart sank. "Yes, Chadbourn, of cour
se," she whined. "Do as you see fit." He would rather she showed some spirit and railed at him. Not that he would turn the maid off. He would just have to make sure the poor girl came nowhere near the duchess. That, and find a lady's maid made of sterner stuff.

  The duchess lay back with her eyes closed and moaned. "You don't know what I suffer."

  Will struggled to formulate a reply. He bit back a harsh rebuke. "Get up, get outside, get fresh air," had not worked in any of the dozen ways he'd worded it so far. Guilt, all too familiar, plagued him. He had failed to protect her during her debutante year. He left her in the care of his naïve parents, who saw only the good in people. If he had stayed, he'd have investigated Emery Wheatly and known him for the selfish rotter he was. He wouldn't fail her again.

  A discreet scratch at the door relieved him of the necessity of a reply.

  Sylvia ignored the knock.

  "Enter," Will said.

  The door opened, and a young boy trussed in formal clothing and unsullied linen entered the room, escorted by his tutor. The boy looked ready to choke on his collar. Charles, the new duke, worried him even more than his sister did. The boy acted like an old man—a fearful, perpetually nervous old man—nothing like a child, nothing like the delightful boys who chased pigs and imagined goats as angels. At ten, he had yet to attend school, yet to visit London, yet to ride a horse. The late duke intended him for Eton, but any effort on Will's part to broach the subject with the boy's mother resulted in another outburst of uncontrolled weeping.

  "My darling!" Sylvia exclaimed. "Come read to me while my tonic works its magic. You know how your voice soothes me."

  "Sorry, Mother. We are in the midst of studies and—"

  "Do studies matter more than your mother?" she snapped.

  "Of course not," Mr. Franklin, the tutor soothed. "Your Grace's needs always come first." He gave Charles a shove toward his mother.