Chapter One
If truth be told, Hope Shackleford did not relish spending the festive season under the same roof as her entire family, even though the roof beneath which the gathering was to take place belonged to the Earl of Ravenstone and was far grander than the modest vicarage in which she’d spent her whole life.
Indeed, given that her two eldest sisters were married to influential members of theton,it had to be said that her family were becoming increasingly accustomed to indulgences entirely above their station.
Hope on the other hand, despite possessing a head of flaming red hair giving indication to the contrary, was a practical young woman who eschewed both whimsy and optimism, unlike the rest of her eccentric family - in particular her father whose calling as a man of the cloth seemed in recent years to play a secondary role to his passion for meddling in affairs that in Hope’s view were entirely none of his business.
Thus, the chances of their Christmas festivities being wholly focused on the simple joys of the season were, in Hope’s opinion, slim to none.
While the rest of her family had already departed for Ravenstone in a comfortable fleet of carriages sent by the Earl the day before, Reverend Shackleford naturally had his duties as the spiritual mentor of his flock to perform before he would be free to take part in more frivolous pursuits.
As usual, her stepmother Agnes had decided it would be far too much strain on her delicate sensibilities to remain behind in support of her husband and given the speed at which the Reverend had agreed, Hope suspected he had no wish to spend any more time alone with his wife than she did him.
It had therefore summarily been decided that she, being the eldest child living at home, would remain to provide succour to her father until after the service on Christmas morning when they would depart for Ravenstone to join in the festivities.
Still, it meant that now, after a more than passable dinner provided by their cook Mrs Tomlinson, Hope was able to spend a quiet contemplative Christmas Eve with a good book while her father readied himself for the midnight service to come.
Indeed, with the parlour so cosy and warm, a fire roaring in the hearth and Freddy, her father’s foxhound snoring contentedly at her feet, Hope was persuaded that she had indeed been given a fortuitous reprieve from the foolish games and ridiculous diversions she was sure were even now being indulged in by her sisters and brother. Naturally she would attend the midnight service along with most of the villagers, but for the next couple of hours she intended to make the most of her rare solitude.
∞∞∞
Gabriel Atwood, one time Viscount Northwood couldn’t help wondering if he would ever manage to thaw out, or possibly more importantly whether he would actually survive the night.
Being Christmas Eve, the only conveyance he could find that would take him from the port of Dartmouth to the village of Blackmore was a farmer’s wagon. The farmer in question had been visiting with his sister and after being almost flung from the cart for the umpteenth time due to his saviour’s erratic driving, Gabriel very much feared the man was mauled.
Gripping the slatted bench beneath him, Gabriel gritted his teeth as he shifted with difficulty and suddenly found himself focused on his nether regions. God’s teeth, he wasn’t sure his arse would ever recover. He glanced over at the silent, surly man beside him. Clearly, the bumpkin was not a cheerful drunk.
Grimacing, he hunkered down into his flimsy coat and tried to ignore the gnawing in his stomach. He couldn’t actually remember the last time he’d eaten. Grimacing he looked down at his filthy hands and stained britches. He had no fear that anyone would recognise him as a member of England’s Upper Ten Thousand. In his current state, he looked more like a gallows bird, and he suspected that had his companion not been in his cups, greed would not have overcome common sense.
The fact of the matter was that everyone who knew him or of him currently believed him dead. The bastards who’d betrayed him would have made sure of that.
His only hope was to seek aid from Nicholas Sinclair, the current Duke of Blackmore before his enemies realised that news of his demise had been greatly exaggerated.
∞∞∞
At just after eleven o’clock, Hope reluctantly laid aside her book and rose to ready herself for the first service of Christmas Day.
She left Freddy in the kitchen after letting him out to do his business. The dog had wasted no time in speedily cocking his leg up the nearest object before hastening back into the warmth of the silent kitchen and curling himself up in front of the embers still burning merrily in the large fireplace.
After checking that the greedy hound was not able to help himself to the plate of cold meats and cheese kindly left by Mrs Tomlinson to refresh them after the service, Hope donned her warmest cloak and ventured out into the night. The weather was unusually cold for South Devon and shivering, she wondered whether they might even be in for some snow. The ground was crisp underfoot and she took care picking her way towards the shadowed outline of the church just as the bells began to ring.
As she neared the entrance, the hazards of falling over something nasty in the dark gradually lessened due to the soft candlelight shining from inside and eventually she joined the queue of villagers devout enough to brave more than one sermon written by her father’s curate in a twenty-four-hour period. Whilst she smiled and shook excited hands though, she suspected it might well have been nosiness rather than piety that had brought most of Blackmore’s residents out on such a cold evening, as it was generally accepted that one never knew what Reverend Shackleford would get up to next and no-one wanted to miss out.
As it was, those who had believed sleep more important would undoubtedly later bemoan the fact that they missed the Christmas Eve service of eighteen ten, although the telling of it would undoubtedly be embellished until the actual events were entirely lost in translation.
But then, as the Reverend always said, ‘One should never let the truth get in the way of a good story.’
∞∞∞
It was nearing midnight by the time Gabriel Atwood finally reached his destination, but as he stood at the foot of the steps leading up to the imposing front door of the Duke’s magnificent Seat, he felt sick to his stomach. Blackmore was shrouded in darkness. Which could only mean that Nicholas Sinclair was not in residence. Why the bloody hell hadn’t he considered the possibility that his former commanding officer might actually be spending the festive season in one of his other damned houses?
Despairingly Gabriel climbed the steps and hammered on the front door. Surely there must be servants who’d remained to watch over such a valuable property. After ten minutes he kicked at the door in frustration.Imbecilehe fumed to himself. He’d placed all his eggs in one bloody basket, and he didn’t know what the devil to do next.
He was just about to begin hammering again when he suddenly heard church bells. He paused listening. Mayhap the staff were attending the midnight service. With a small sliver of hope, he started back down the steps and wearily made his way down the shadowed drive towards the festive ringing. He had no illusions that Nicholas might also be there - the house behind him had clearly been shut up for the season. Nevertheless, there was a good chance there would be someone in the church privy to where the Duke had gone.
God help him if there wasn’t.
∞∞∞
