Catherine felt a mild twinge of unease. “Does it matter?”
“No, of course it doesn’t.” Smiling, he gazed up at the tree again. “Right, my love, let’s find those sticks.”
*
By dinnertime thatevening, the sweet scent of evergreens and other Christmas foliage, permeated the air at Myddleton, blending with the delicious aromas of roasted pheasant and beef. The house glowed and glittered with candlelight. Fireplace mantels were laden with sprigs of red-berried holly and polished ivy, while hearths crackled with burning logs or coal. The genteel hum of conversation flowed unhindered beside a harpist’s serenade. And, here and there, sprigs of mistletoe, felled from their branches by some well-aimed sticks, hung from chandeliers.
Gifts were exchanged after dinner, and then Lord and Lady Hutton excused themselves, and went below stairs to distribute gifts to the household staff. The rest of the family and guests spread themselves through the house accordingly. Lysander and Catherine found a cozy spot on a settee in the west parlor, where a fire burned brightly in the massive hearth.
Lysander took the gold fob watch from his pocket and flicked the case open. “It is precisely twenty-seven minutes past ten,” he said, and snapped the case closed again.
Catherine laughed. “Are you going to be doing that for the rest of the evening?”
“Undoubtedly,” he replied, waggling a brow at her. “It gives me pleasure to do so.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
“I love it.” He tucked the watch back into his pocket. “It’s the perfect gift. I shall treasure it always.”
Catherine regarded the emerald bracelet encircling her wrist. “And I shall do likewise,” she replied. “It’s magnificent.”
Lysander didn’t answer. His attention had shifted to an approaching footman, carrying a salver. “A letter has arrived for you, Lord Hawes,” the man said, presenting the tray.
Frowning, Lysander took the missive. “At this hour?”
“Yes, my lord. The man is still here, awaiting your response.”
A prickle ran across Lysander’s scalp as he broke the seal. He opened the letter and began to read. By the time he reached the end of the brief epistle, his life had changed completely. Stomach churning, he read the words again, absorbing them.
Understanding them.
Feeling slightly sick, he got to his feet. “Tell the man I’ll be with him shortly,” he said. The footman gave a nod and departed.
“Lysander?” Catherine rose and stood at his side. “What is it? What’s wrong? My goodness, you’ve gone quite pale.”
“It’s my father,” he said, clenching his jaw as he folded the paper and put it in his pocket. “He’s had a stroke, they believe. He’s gravely ill, and not expected to recover. It’s recommended I return to Malvern immediately.”
“Oh, dear God.” Catherine clasped her hands, prayer-like, beneath her chin. “I’m so sorry, my love.”
“The letter was written yesterday. I can only pray he’ll still be alive when I get to Malvern. I have to go, Cat. There’s a coach waiting for me.”
“I understand, of course.”
“I love you.” He bent and kissed her cheek. “I’m sorry to leave you like this. I’ll write.”
Not twenty minutes later, after a hail of farewells and good wishes, Lysander, along with Finney, his valet, clambered into the waiting carriage, and went off into the winter’s night.
Chapter Four
Malvern House
Nottinghamshire
January 3rd, 1828
Lysander opened theoffice door, paused on the threshold, and cast his gaze around the familiar room. Inhaling deeply, he savored the familiar scent of beeswax, old books, tobacco smoke and, surely, he did not imagine the lingering scent of his father’s cologne. The curtains were still open to the view of the gardens beyond, though the perfectly trimmed lawns and hedges were not visible through the ferocious blizzard that had swept in from the northwest almost an hour ago.
He turned his attention back to the office, where shadows, cast by candlelight and the flickering flames of the coal fire, danced across the wood-paneled walls and portraits of those who had gone before. His father’s portrait hung over the fireplace, the shimmer of light giving the impression of movement, as if the painted eyes had come to life, and were watching him.
