Christmas Keepsakes by Mary Balogh and Julia Justiss and Nicola Cornick
THE LETTER arrived with his breakfast. It was written in an unmistakably feminine hand and it smelled faintly of jasmine perfume. Sebastian, Duke of Fleet, was not pleased to see it. Letters from ladies, especially those that arrived early in the morning, usually presaged bad news. Either some misguided woman was threatening to sue him for breach of promise, or his great aunt was coming to stay, and he welcomed neither.
"Perch, what is this?" the Duke asked, tapping the parchment with his finger. His butler continued to unload the breakfast from the silver tray, placing the coffeepot at an exact degree from the cup, and the milk jug at the perfect angle from both. Perch was a butler of precision.
"It is a letter from a lady, your grace."
The duke's brows drew together in an intimidating frown. He had spent much of the previous night at Whites; both the drink and the play had been heavy, and this morning his mind was not very clear.
At least he had had the sense to reject the amorous advances of one of London's latest courtesans. He had had no wish to wake up with her painted face beside him. He had an unwelcome suspicion that he was getting too old for drinking and debauchery, a superannuated rake. Once he started to wear a wig and use face paint to cover the ravages of age, he would have to ask Perch to shoot him. He pushed aside the dispiriting thought. Without the wine and the gambling and the women there was little left for him, except a rambling old mausoleum of a house that, on this December day, was particularly difficult to heat. Indeed, his hot water bottle had burst in the night, adding another unpleasant dimension to his night's slumber.
"I perceive it is from a lady," he said coldly. "I simply wondered which lady was attempting to communicate with me?"
Perch's expression suggested that his master might consider breaking open the seal in order to find out, but after a moment he answered him. "The letter was delivered by a man in the Davencourt livery, your grace."
The duke reached thoughtfully for the coffeepot and poured for himself, then he slid his knife under the seal, scattering little bits of wax across the table, where they mixed with the crumbs from the toast.
Perch winced at the mess. Seb ignored him. What benefit was there in being a Duke if one could not scatter crumbs as one pleased? After all, he attended to his ducal responsibilities in exemplary fashion. He had improved the family seat at Fleet Castle, he was generous to his tenants, he had even been known to attend the House of Lords if there was a particularly important debate taking place. His days were perfectly ordered — and damnably boring. Life was hard when one had done everything there was to do. He unfolded the letter and looked at the signature.
Yours sincerely, Miss Clara Davencourt.
He was aware of rather more pleasure than seemed quite appropriate. He had not seen Clara Davencourt for almost eighteen months and had not known she was currently in London. He sipped his coffee, rested the letter on the table and swiftly scanned the contents.
Your Grace…
That was rather more formal than some of the things Miss Davencourt had called him during their last encounter.Arrogant, conceited and rude were the words that sprang immediately to his memory.
I find myself in something of a dilemma…
Seb's blue eyes narrowed. The combination of Miss Davencourt and a dilemma was sufficient to strike dread into the strongest constitution.
I find that I need some paternal advice…
A smile curled the corner of Seb's firm mouth. Paternal advice, indeed! If Miss Clara Davencourt had deliberately set out to depress his pretensions as the most notorious rake in Town she could not have done a better job. He was only twelve years her senior and had not begun his life of dissipation at so young an age that he was qualified to be her father.
My brother is preoccupied with affairs of state and all the more suitable of his friends are unavailable at present, which only leaves you…
Seb winced. The minx. She knew how to deliver a neat insult.
I therefore have no alternative than to beg your help.
If you would call at Davencourt House at the earliest opportunity I should be most grateful.
Seb sat back in his chair. Calling on young ladies in order to play the role of paternal confidant was so foreign to him as to be ludicrous. He could not imagine what had possessed Clara even to ask. Of course, he would not comply. It was out of the question. If she needed advice she should be sending for a female friend, not the greatest rake in London.
