“Then we agree, Miss St. Claire? You will remain as my guest at Grantham Lodge until Twelfth Night?”
“If there is a proper chaperone amongst your guests, then yes, Your Grace. I can’t think of any reason why I should not.” She offered him as cheerful a smile as she could muster. “It’s kind of you to have me.”
He frowned as if he hadn’t the first idea what to do with her smile or thanks. “Both the Duchess of Basingstoke and the Duchess of Montford will attend the house party. Can you make do with one or the other of them as your chaperone?”
Duchesses? Goodness. “I daresay I can manage, Your Grace.”
“It’s settled, then.” He rubbed his hands together, looking far too pleased with himself. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Miss St. Claire, I have some letters to write.”
“Of course.” She rose from her chair. “Might I have your permission to have a word with Mrs. Watson and your cook, Your Grace?”
“Whatever for?”
“Why, because it’s already December the fourteenth.”
He frowned at her. “Yes? What of it?”
“The Christmas pudding, Your Grace. Stir-up Sunday is November twenty-first. We’re already weeks behind. If you want a proper Christmas pudding, it must be prepared today. Surely, you don’t intend to host a Christmas house party without a proper Christmas pudding?”
He gave her a flat look. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Miss St. Claire.”
“Then I do have your permission to speak to Mrs. Watson, Your Grace?”
“Yes, yes. Go on.” He waved a careless hand toward the door.
“Thank you, Your Grace.” She left him alone at his desk, the frown still on his lips, and skipped out into the corridor, her heart lifting. She and Abby had always made the Christmas pudding together on Stir-up Sunday. It was a tradition at Hammond Court, and every year Ambrose pronounced it the best Christmas pudding he’d ever tasted.
It wouldn’t be the same this year, without him. How could it be?
But it was something.
* * *
Christmas pudding, of all the ridiculous things.
Miss St. Claire’s only home was a crumbling estate, the ceiling of which had collapsed on top of her mere hours ago. She was as destitute as the poor creatures who begged for coins in Covent Garden, and she’d just willingly placed herself in the clutches of a merciless duke who was determined to tear her house to the ground.
One would think a young lady with no money, no connections, and few friends would have enough to worry about without fretting over a Christmas pudding.
Still, fussing about with the pudding was as good a way as any to keep her busy, and thus out of his way. He rose from his desk to close the study door behind her, but a low, sweet sound made him pause with his ear pressed to the gap.
Miss St. Claire was making her way down the hallway, and she was . . .
Humming?By God, she was.
“God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen.” Comfort, joy, and all that nonsense.
He waited until the humming faded, the soft thud of her footsteps receding, then pushed the door closed, returned to his desk, and threw himself into his chair. Why must she be so bloody cheerful all the time? It was most tedious of her, and it made him feel like a perfect villain to take advantage of a lady who took such obvious delight in Christmas puddings and Christmas carols.
If he could so callously manipulate Miss St. Claire, what was next? Drowning kittens? Kicking puppies? Pulling a child’s hair?
Still, he’d solved his most pressing problem. Miss St. Claire would remain at Grantham Lodge until Twelfth Night, just as he wished.
Now, onto the next problem, and a daunting one it was. Not quite as daunting as managing a termagant like Rose St. Claire, but daunting enough.
The house party. Somehow, he’d have to lure a dozen or two of London’s most fashionable people away from their warm firesides on shockingly short notice, and persuade them to spend Christmas in the cold, muddy countryside.
Which would be quite a trick, given evenhedidn’t want to be here.
