“Miss Amanda, ye oughtn’t to give yer money away so freely,” Sukey chided, following her into the house and closing the door against a rush of bitter wind. “‘Twouldn’t harm those children to stay out a bit longer.”
Amanda laughed and wrapped her knitted shawl more tightly around herself. “Don’t scold, Sukey. It’s Christmas Day. Now, let us hurry…Mr. Devlin’s carriage will be arriving for me soon.”
While Amanda attended the Christmas party at Jack Devlin’s home, Sukey, Charles, and the cook, Violet, would be celebrating elsewhere with their own friends. Tomorrow, known as Boxing Day because coins and boxes of cast-off clothing and utensils were donated to the poor, Amanda and her servants would travel to Windsor for a weeklong holiday at her sister Sophia’s home.
Amanda would be glad to see her relatives on the morrow, but she was very pleased that she would spend today in London. How nice it was to do something different this year. She felt positively gleeful that from now on, her relatives would not always be certain of what to expect from her. “Amanda not coming?” she could almost hear her crotchety great-aunt exclaim. “But she always comes for Christmas Day—she has no family of her own. And who will make the brandy punch?…”
Instead, she would dance and dine with Jack Devlin. Perhaps she might even allow him to catch her under a sprig of mistletoe.
“Well, Mr. Devlin,” she murmured, filled with anticipation, “we’ll see what this Christmas Day will bring the both of us.”
After taking a luxuriously hot bath, Amanda donned a robe and sat before the fire in her bedroom grate. She combed her hair until it dried in an explosion of reddish-brown curls. Deftly she twisted it into a coil atop her head, and allowed a few tendrils to dangle around her forehead and face.
With Sukey’s assistance, she dressed in an emerald-green, corded-silk gown with two rows of fluted green velvet banding at the hem. The long velvet sleeves were confined at the wrist with jade bead bracelets, and the square neckline was cut low enough to reveal an enticing hint of cleavage. As a concession to the cold climate, she draped a burgundy silk-fringed shawl over her shoulders. A pair of Flemish-style earrings dangled from her ears like golden teardrops, gently swinging against the sides of her neck. Studying the overall effect in the mirror, Amanda smiled with pleasure, knowing that she had never looked better. There was no need to pinch her cheeks, as they were already pink with excitement. A fluff of powder on her nose, a dab of perfume behind her ears, and she was ready.
Wandering over to the window, Amanda sipped her cooling tea, and tried to still the leap of her heart when she saw that the carriage Devlin had sent for her had arrived. “How silly, at my age, to feel like Cinderella,” she told herself dryly, but the ebullient feeling remained as she hurried downstairs in search of her cloak.
After the footman had handed her into the carriage, complete with foot warmers and fur-lined lap blanket, Amanda saw a wrapped present on the seat. Tentatively she touched the jaunty red bow atop the small square package, and extracted the folded notecard that had been tucked beneath the ribbon. A smile tugged at her lips as she read the brief note.
Although this is not quite as stimulating as Madam B’s memoirs, you may find it of interest. Merry Christmas—
J. Devlin
While the carriage rolled along the icy street, Amanda unwrapped the present and stared at it with a quizzical smile. A book…a small and very old one, the leather cover ancient, the pages fragile and brown. Handling the volume with extreme gentleness, Amanda turned to the title page. “Travels into several Remote Nations of the World,” she read aloud. “In Four Parts. By Lemuel Gulliver…”
She paused and then laughed in delight. “Gulliver’s Travels!” She had once confided to Devlin that this “anonymous” work by Jonathan Swift, the Irish clergyman and satirist, had been one of her favorite childhood stories. This particular edition was the 1726 Motte original printing, impossibly rare.
Smiling, Amanda reflected that this small volume pleased her more than a king’s ransom in jewels. No doubt she should refuse a gift that was so obviously valuable, but she couldn’t make herself part with it.
She held the book in her lap as the carriage continued toward the fashionable area of St. James’s. Although Amanda had never visited Jack Devlin’s home before, she had heard about the place from Oscar Fretwell. Devlin had purchased the mansion from a former ambassador to France, who had decided in his declining years to establish residence on the Continent and relinquish his English holdings.
The house was located in a distinctly masculine preserve filled with handsome estates, bachelor lodgings, and exclusive shops. It was unusual for a businessman to own a mansion in St. James’s, as most wealthy professionals built homes south of the river or in Bloomsbury. However, Devlin did have some aristocratic blood in his veins, and perhaps this, combined with his considerable wealth, made his presence more palatable to the neighbors.
The carriage slowed to join a queue of vehicles that had lined along the street, depositing their passengers in turn at the pavement leading to a magnificent house. Amanda could not prevent her jaw from hanging slack in astonishment as she stared through the frosted window.
The house was a splendid, towering, Georgian-style residence, red brick fronted with massive white columns and pediments, and rows of oversized Palladian windows. The sides of the building were framed by immaculately trimmed yew and beech hedges that led to groves of coppiced trees underplanted with carpets of fresh white cyclamen.
It was a home that any person of consequence would be proud to claim. Amanda’s imagination sparked to life while she waited for the carriage to reach the front walk. She pictured Jack Devlin as a boy at school, daydreaming about the life outside the grim walls of Knatchford Heath. Had he known somehow that he would someday live in such a place as this? What emotions had motivated him on the long, difficult climb from there to here? More important, would he ever find a respite from his own endless ambition, or would it keep driving him ruthlessly until the day he died?
Devlin didn’t have the necessary limits that ordinary men possessed…he lacked the ability to relax, to feel contentment, to enjoy his own accomplishments. Despite that, or perhaps because of it, Amanda thought that Devlin was possibly the most fascinating person she had ever encountered. And she knew without a doubt that he was dangerous.
“But I am not some dreamy-headed schoolgirl,” Amanda told herself, finding comfort in the knowledge of her own good sense. “I am a woman who can see Jack Devlin for what he is…and there is no danger as long as I don’t allow myself to do something ridiculous.” Such as fall in love with him. No; her heart contracted anxiously at the very thought. She did not love him, nor did she wish to. Finding amusement in his company was enough. She would keep reminding herself that Devlin was not a man whom a woman could have for a lifetime.
The carriage stopped, and a footman hastened to help Amanda to the pavement. She took his arm as he guided her up the icy, sanded steps that led to the double entrance doors. Conversation, music, and heat billowed from the brilliantly lit interior. Boughs of holly and mistletoe were strung along the banisters and cornices with scarlet velvet ribbons. The smell of spicy greenery and flowers mingled with the promising scents of an elaborate dinner being set out in the dining room.
There were many more guests than Amanda had expected, at least two hundred. While the children played in a separate parlor that had been designated for their use, the adults moved about in a large circuit of visiting rooms. Cheerful music that originated in the drawing room filtered throughout the house.
Amanda felt a pleasurable quake of her nerves as Devlin found her. He was elegant in a black coat and trousers, with a charcoal waistcoat tailored neatly to his lean torso. However, the gentlemanly attire did nothing to conceal his piratical nature. He was too irreverent and too obviously calculating to fool anyone into thinking he was a gentleman.
“Miss Briars,” he said in a low voice, taking both her gloved han
ds in his. He raked her with a frankly approving glance. “You look like a Christmas angel.”
Amanda laughed at his flattery. “Thank you for the lovely book, Mr. Devlin. I will treasure it. But I’m afraid I have nothing for you.”
“The sight of you in that low-cut dress is the only gift I want.”
She frowned at him, casting a quick glance around them to see if anyone was close by. “Hush…what if someone were to overhear you?”
“They would think that I have an itch for you,” he murmured sotto voce. “And they would be correct.”
“An itch,” she repeated coolly, inwardly delighting in the exchange. “Dear me, how poetic.”
He grinned at her. “I haven’t your talent for writing rapturous descriptions of carnal lust, I’ll freely admit—”
“I’ll thank you not to mention such filthy subjects on a sacred holiday,” she whispered sharply, her cheeks flaming.
Devlin grinned and placed one of her hands on his arm. “Very well,” he said, relenting, “I’ll behave like a choirboy for the rest of the day, if that will please you.”
“It would be a pleasant change,” she said primly, making him chuckle.
“Come with me—I want to introduce you to some friends.”
It was not lost on Amanda that Devlin wore a distinctly proprietary air as he walked her into the large drawing room. Moving from one group of smiling guests to another, he deftly made introductions, exchanged good wishes, and offered a few small jokes with a natural ease that amazed her.
Although he had not staked a claim in any overt manner, there was something in his tone or expression that implied that he and Amanda were linked in a way that went beyond business. She was disconcerted by her own reaction to it. She had never been half of a couple before, had never received envious glances from other women, or admiring stares from men. In fact, no man had ever made the effort of publicly establishing his claim on her, and yet in a subtle way, she sensed this was what Devlin was doing.
They progressed through the circle of large visiting rooms. For those guests who did not wish to dance or sing, there was a mahogany-paneled parlor in which a crowd was busily engaged in a game of charades, and another in which people sat at card tables to enjoy games of whist. Amanda recognized many of the guests—writers, publishers, and journalists whom she had encountered at various social events in the past few months. It was a lively crowd, the infectious holiday spirit seeming to spread from the youngest face to the oldest.
Devlin brought Amanda to a halt by a refreshment table, where a few children were engaged in a game of snapdragon. They stood on chairs around a bowl of steaming-hot punch, snatching up burning raisins in their small fingers and popping them quickly into their mouths. Devlin laughed at the sight of the sticky faces that turned toward him.
“Who is winning?” he asked, and they all pointed to a pudgy, mop-haired boy.
“Georgie is! He’s gotten the most raisins so far.”
“I have the quickest fingers, sir,” the boy admitted with a sugar-smeared grin.
Devlin smiled and urged Amanda toward the huge bowl. “Have a try,” he coaxed, and the children all began to giggle.
Amanda sent him a discreet frown. “I am afraid it would take too long to remove my gloves,” she said demurely.
Devlin’s blue eyes sparkled with wicked amusement. “I’ll do it for you, then.”
He stripped off his own glove, and before Amanda could utter a word of protest, he reached into the bowl. Snatching up a hot raisin, he popped it into her mouth. Amanda took it automatically, the morsel seeming to burn a hole in her tongue. The children erupted into gales of approving laughter. Amanda ducked her face to hide an irrepressible smile, while the rich-brandied raisin spread its sweet flavor through the interior of her mouth. After swallowing the little tidbit, she raised her head and regarded him reprovingly.
“Another?” Devlin asked with studied innocence, his fingers poised over the bowl once more.
“Thank you, no. I don’t wish to spoil my appetite.”
Devlin smiled and sucked the sticky spot the raisin had left on his finger, then replaced his glove. The children congregated around the bowl once more, resuming their game. They gave little pretend shrieks of pain as their fingers hovered over the scalding liquid. “What next?” he asked, leading Amanda away from the punch table. “Would you like some wine?”
“I shouldn’t like to monopolize your time—surely you should be receiving your guests.”
Devlin took her to a corner of the drawing room, taking a glass of wine from the tray of a passing servant. He gave the glass to Amanda and lowered his head to murmur in her ear. “There’s only one guest who matters to me.”
Amanda felt a prickling blush rise in her cheeks. She felt as if she were in a dream. This couldn’t be happening to Amanda Briars, the spinster from Windsor…the sweet music, the lovely surroundings, the handsome man whispering seductive nonsense in her ear. “You have a beautiful home,” she said unsteadily, in an effort to break the spell he seemed to have cast on her.
“I take no credit for it. I bought the place as I found it, furnishings and all.”
“It’s a very large house for just one person.”
“I entertain a great deal.”
“Have you ever kept a mistress here?” Amanda had no idea why she had dared to voice the shocking question that had popped into her mind.
He smiled, his voice gently mocking. “Why, Miss Briars…asking such a question on a sacred holiday…”
“Well, have you?” she persisted, having ventured too far to retreat now.
“No,” he admitted. “I’ve had an affair or two, but no mistresses. From what I’ve observed, it’s too damned inconvenient—not to mention expensive—to get rid of a mistress once a man tires of her.”
“When did your last affair end?”
Devlin laughed quietly. “I’m not answering any more questions until you tell me why you’ve taken such an interest in my bedroom activities.”
“I may decide to base a character on you someday.”
The remnants of a delicious grin lingered on his lips. “Then you may as well learn something else about me, my inquisitive little friend—I like to dance. And I’m rather good at it. So if you’ll allow me to demonstrate…”
He removed the wineglass from her hand and set it on a small table, then led her toward the drawing room.
For the next few hours, the dreamlike feeling remained as Amanda danced, drank, laughed, and participated in holiday games. Devlin’s duties as host occasionally took him away from her side, but even when he was standing on the other side of the room, Amanda was aware of his gaze on her. To her amusement, he sent her frankly brooding stares when she talked too long with any particular gentleman, for all the world as if he were jealous. In fact, Devlin actually dispatched Oscar Fretwell to intervene after she had danced twice with a charming banker named “King” Mitchell.
“Miss Briars,” Fretwell exclaimed pleasantly, his blond hair gleaming beneath the light of the chandeliers, “I don’t believe you’ve danced with me yet…and Mr. Mitchell cannot be allowed to keep such a charming lady all to himself.”
Regretfully Mitchell handed her over to the manager, and Amanda smiled at Fretwell as they began a quadrille. “Devlin sent you, didn’t he?” she asked dryly.
Fretwell grinned sheepishly and didn’t bother to deny it. “I was told to inform you that King Mitchell is a divorced man and a gambler, and is very bad company.”
“I thought him quite entertaining,” Amanda replied archly, and moved through the next figures of the quadrille. She caught sight of Devlin, standing in the wide arch between the drawing room and the parlor. Returning his frowning gaze with a cheerful little wave, Amanda continued the quadrille with Fretwell.
When the dance concluded, Fretwell escorted her to the refreshment table for a cup of punch. As a servant ladled the raspberry-colored liquid into a crystal cup, Amanda became aware of a stranger
standing at her elbow. She turned and smiled at the man.
“Have we met, sir?”
“To my great regret, no.” He was a tall, rather plain-looking man, his ordinary appearance enhanced by one of the close-trimmed beards that had recently become fashionable. His large nose was balanced by a pair of handsome brown eyes, and his mouth curved in an easy, comfortable smile. A full head of cropped russet hair was threaded with silver at the temples. Amanda judged him to be at least five or even ten years older than she…a mature man, established and quietly confident.
“Allow me to make the introductions,” Fretwell said, adjusting his spectacles more securely on his nose. “Miss Amanda Briars, this is Mr. Charles Hartley. As it happens, the two of you write for the same publisher.”
Amanda was intrigued by the fact that Hartley was also employed by Jack Devlin. “Mr. Hartley has my sympathy,” she said, making both gentlemen laugh.
“With your permission, Miss Briars,” Fretwell murmured with clear amusement, “I’ll leave the two of you to commiserate while I go to greet some old friends who have just arrived.”
“Certainly,” Amanda said, sipping the tart, sweet punch. She glanced at Hartley as his name struck a chord of recognition. “Surely you’re not Uncle Hartley?” she asked in delight. “The one who writes books of children’s verse?” Receiving his nod of confirmation, she laughed and touched his arm impulsively. “Your work is wonderful. Truly wonderful. I’ve read your stories to my nieces and nephews. My favorite is about the elephant who complains all the time, or perhaps the king who finds the magical cat—”
“Yes, my immortal verses,” he said in a dry, self-deprecating tone.
“But you’re so clever,” Amanda said sincerely. “And it’s so difficult to write for children. I could never come up with a thing that interests them.”
He smiled with a warmth that made his ordinary face seem almost handsome. “I find it difficult to believe that any subject would be beyond your talent, Miss Briars.”