Chapter 1
Chapter One
On the Proper Hanging & Execution of mistletoe.
Your mistletoe must be fresh. It must also include drupes. Only so long as there are drupes remaining to be plucked, kisses may be commanded. Pluck one for every kiss request, and once all the drupes have been plundered, there will be no more kisses to be commanded.
The London house was running amok.
Hands on her hips, Alexandra Grace Huntington eyed the well-plundered sprig of Viscum album hanging near the kitchen with keen disapproval.
Mistletoe.
With her father gone, the servants were well out of hand, and with little more than a week remaining till Christmas, the drupes were all plucked.
Every. Single. One. And still, despite that there were no more kisses to be commanded, she knew it wouldn’t stop the servants from canoodling in closets.
So it seemed, everybody had somebody to kiss… everybody except Alexandra.
Really, it wasn’t so much that she was resentful.
That wasn’t the thing at all. It was more the fact that she felt as though she could be losing control—not only over the household she’d been left alone to manage, but over her entire life.
Like that little sprig of mistletoe, she, too, was hanging by a thread.
Unbidden, a bittersweet memory accosted her, bringing a telltale sting to her eyes and a burn to her cheeks—why, she hadn’t any clue, because, in truth, she had so little left to be scandalized over. After all, how did one forget one’s own father was a villain?
After everything that transpired this past year, her mother was in high dudgeon, her best friend had forsaken her, and her father was in gaol. There was nothing left to celebrate.
Nothing at all.
Moreover, her best friend’s wedding plans were proceeding entirely without her. All of London was atwitter over the news, and everything Lexie had learned about the exalted occasion, she’d gleaned from the paper, not from Claire.
Supposedly, confronted by his long-lost son, the King of Meridian was now abdicating his throne, leaving his entire kingdom to a penurious lord from Scotland.
From rags to riches, that was the story.
Brought together by extraordinary circumstance, a London bluestocking was now a society darling, and a penniless Earl would soon be a celebrated king.
And to make matters worse—or better, depending upon the perspective—the two had overcome ill-fortune at the hands of Lexie’s own father, only to rise above it all and shine.
Astounding.
Incredible.
Unthinkable.
And nevertheless, Alexandra had half a mind to tear down that bloody sprig, although she couldn’t quite allow herself to indulge in such a fit of temper.
Really, if she was angry over the turn of her own fate, it wasn’t Claire’s fault, nor was it the servants’ faults.
Claire was brave, smart and beautiful, never afraid to speak her mind.
Nor was she one to sit idly by, leaving the men in her life to save her.
When hardship presented itself, Claire took her brother’s trials to heart, putting on her walking boots and scouring the streets—quite literally—for an answer to save him.
In doing so, she’d stumbled upon her own providence.
During the course of saving Ben, she’d met her fiancé—or rather, he ran her down, again very literally, as she was crossing High Street.
The thought turned Alexandra’s lips ever so slightly, and really, if it weren’t due to the troubles her own father heaped upon that poor family, she might have laughed over the sweet turn of fate.
Let the servants have turns in the closet, she decided, and feeling lonelier than she had in her entire life—and that was saying quite a lot—she turned her back on the offending sprig and walked away, any desire for peaches and cream for breakfast entirely quashed.
Tears pricked at her eyes.
Sadness enveloped her.
Somewhere out there, folks were ringing in the holidays. House parties were being planned, Christmas geese were prepared for roasting, pianofortes being tuned and shined, and all about good cheer was being had. But not here at Huntington Manor, and not for a long time.
If Alexandra must speak true, this misery had been a long, long time coming.
Her mother had retreated to the country years ago, and her father had never bothered to see himself home for the holidays.
Most often, he’d spent his Christmases abroad.
Her parents were adversaries in every respect, and so it had seemed to Alexandra that her mother was too quick to find fault and too easy to rile, not merely with her father, but with Lexie as well—and particularly after that “incident” in Shropshire.
Don’t think for a moment she didn’t recall all the arguments ringing through their halls, only now that she understood so much about her father, she felt chagrined over ever having taken his side.
Sadly, her mother now refused to forgive her “betrayal,” considering it a disloyalty of royal proportions that her only daughter had chosen to remain in London with her “tosspot” father.
Siblings had never been in question for Alexandra, and she had so oft wondered how she was ever conceived at all.
And now, here she was, with her father incarcerated, her mother disaffected, no siblings to consider, no friends…
and so it was that, here again, she was pathetically alone for the holidays.
“Fa la la la la,” she groused.
And really, who cared if the servants were all cavorting! She had spent too many years being overly concerned about propriety. What had it gotten her?
Nothing.
Nothing at all.
Conversely, Claire had flouted nearly every rule, and here she was, soon to be a queen! How very extraordinary! How titillating! Or, at least it might be if Alexandra were allowed to share in her good friend’s fortune. Instead, she was left alone to oversee a household of delinquent servants.
Missing Claire so very desperately, she made her way toward the stairwell, fully intending to go upstairs and read…
or sketch… or perhaps both. After all this time, sketching was still her greatest joy.
It helped to pass the time and kept her mind off other matters she ought not to be dwelling upon.
She no longer cared what anybody thought about her passions, and Claire would marvel most of all over the changes that had come over her—but this was the saddest part of all: Claire might never know it.
And Ben…
Well, she’d rather not think about him at all.
Ben, with those startling green eyes. Ben, with his silky, sun-kissed hair. Ben, with his ever-so-patrician nose. And, no, don’t dare think about his lips!
No, no, no, no.
Determined to forget the Wentworths entirely, Alexandra had one foot on the steps, ready to ascend when there came a very unexpected knock on the front door.
A bell rang in the servant’s quarters, and a distant door opened and closed. Before Alexandra could turn, she heard the butler’s footsteps rushing down the hall. Hair mussed and red-faced, Mr. Robinson appeared, straightening his collar. “I’ll get it, Miss Huntington,” he said, hurrying past.
“Certainly,” Alexandra said, curious to see who it might be. No one ever called upon their residence anymore. Huntington Manor was nothing more than a curiosity now, a thing to point the finger at whilst passing in a hansom.
“It’s for Lady Alexandra,” the courier said—a man with a foreign accent. Alexandra lingered, eavesdropping.
“Thank you,” said Mr. Robinson, “I will deliver it.”
Lexie frowned. Turning on the step, curling her toes in her slippers, waiting eagerly for Mr. Robinson to close the door, and when he did, she tilted him a questioning glance.
“For you,” the butler said, the color still high in his cheeks—no doubt flushed over his exertions in the closet.
“Thank you,” Alexandra said, and though she would have also liked to give him her blessing for whatever he was about in that closet, she hadn’t very much good will left to squander. Even so, she wouldn’t scold him, either.
Sighing wearily, she accepted the envelope…
a letter addressed to her—perhaps from her father in Newgate.
He’d been placed in a convict’s prison—no mere debtor’s gaol, like Fleet or Marshalsea.
And now that his fate was sealed, he was doling out their private, financial information and instructions in measures.
But the letter wasn’t from her father. It smelled of…
lavender. She turned it over… and sucked in a breath.
Claire.
Like a child with a present, she thrust a finger eagerly beneath the seal in order to break it and tore open the envelope. Alexandra was still holding her breath when she drew out the folded invitation and began to read…
His Royal Highness, the Prince of Meridian and his esteemed wife cordially invite you to spend the holiday in celebration with friends and family. Wednesday, 19 December through Sunday, 1 January.
Surrey. There was an unfamiliar address attached, with instructions for the driver.
Was it true? Was Claire inviting her to share the holiday?
A glimmer of joy ignited in Alexandra’s breast. Months and months and months had passed without word from Claire, but no matter. Here was an invitation to share the holiday!
“Thank you so much!” she exclaimed to Mr. Robinson. “Thank you!” And she pressed the note to her bosom and rushed up the stairs, her stomach flip-flopping with glee—a feeling not so unlike the one she used to get when she thought about seeing Ben. Joy soared through her.
Let the servants have their way with the house.
Surrey, here I come!
* * *
It was high time to set things right.