It Happened One Holiday Read online

  It Happened One Holiday

  Danelle

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be sold, copied, distributed, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical or digital, including photocopying and recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of both the publisher, Oliver Heber Books and the author, Danelle Harmon, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  PUBLISHER'S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  COPYRIGHT 2015 © Danelle Harmon

  Published by Oliver-Heber Books & Gnarly Wool Publishing

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  Contents

  The Fox and the Angel

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  My First Noel

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Scandal at Christmas

  Chapter 1

  Prologue

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Also by Danelle

  About the Author

  The Fox and the Angel

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  People weren’t supposed to die at Christmas.

  It was a universal truth. Or should have been, mused Sir Roger Foxcote, Esquire, as he poured himself another glass of sherry — one glass too many, really, but it was Christmas Eve, he was stranded at this dubious inn five miles from his destination, and if he didn’t quite deserve another drink, he certainly needed one.

  Think of the Christ child. Think of the true meaning of Christmas. He downed another swallow of the sherry, and his thoughts turned cynical. True meaning? Hope? Light? Faith? Joy? He gave a mocking laugh.

  Joy.

  Bollocks.

  He heard the laughter of revelers downstairs, toasts to Christmas, good health, and the merriment that went with the season. Others, enjoying this “most special time of year.” He wished he could block out the sounds.

  He took another sip of the sherry, letting it sit on his tongue for a long moment as he stared into the coals of the fire that tried, vainly, to throw both light and warmth into the room.

  Into his heart.

  Into his soul, which tonight, felt as cold and lonely as the world outside that black window.

  A gust of wind rattled the glass in its casement, and cold silent fingers crept beneath the loose-fitting embrasure and into this upstairs room. Outside, sleet tinkled against the leaded pane and giant snowflakes began to hove into sight from out of the darkness, seen one moment, gone the next as the wind hurled them back out into the night.

  Fox reached for that next, forbidden glass of sherry, and heard the door bang open downstairs and a cacophony of shouting.

  “Damned wench stole my horse, she did! Wot was that? Magistrate? Ye say there’s a magistrate upstairs?”

  Bloody hell, thought Fox. He wondered if there was a way to escape out the window and slide down the slate roof, icy now, without breaking his deuced neck. He put down the glass. Damn the weather. Damn this seedy inn. Damn everyone, and damn everything. Five more miles and I would have reached Blackheath Castle. Five more miles and I could be spending this wretched night with my best friend and his family instead of in a cold and drafty — not to mention, crowded — inn where, in all likelihood, all manner of vermin lurk beneath the sheets and, by the sound of things, a colossal brawl is about to erupt downstairs.

  “I didn’t steal your horse, I simply took possession of it because you, sir, were abusing it,” came an equally indignant voice, aristocratic, calm, and female. “By all means summon this magistrate, if the old man isn’t already in his bed.”

  “Ye’re a horse thief!”

  “And you don’t deserve to own one.”

  “Oi can do what Oi want to my own animal, he’s my property!”

  “If you won’t summon this supposed magistrate, then I will.”

  The innkeeper’s pleading voice pierced the rising argument. “Sir Roger ‘as left strict instructions that ‘e is not to be disturbed. Madam? Madam!”

  Footsteps began marching up the stairs.

  “Madam, ye can't go disturbin’ our paid guests—”

  The innkeeper’s pleas dissolved into an argument with the accuser, and the footsteps grew louder. With a sigh, Fox put down his glass, reached for his powdered bagwig and donning it, gave his reflection a quick perusal in the cracked looking glass as a persistent knocking sounded on his door.

  He crossed the room, pulled up the latch, and found himself looking down the length of his nose at an extraordinarily beautiful young woman who was strangely, oddly, disturbingly, familiar.

  His mouth fell open, and for a moment he could not speak.

  “M-Margaret?”

  “Are you the magistrate?” she demanded.

  He stared at her. Those eyes. Those eyes, so like hers, a clear, intense blue striated with green that saw through to the bottom of his soul and laid bare its very secrets; eyes that knew more about him than he could ever know about himself, eyes full of mischief, eyes full of passion, eyes that he had stared into a thousand times before, dreamed about . . . loved.

  But no. He had never seen this woman in his life.

  “I asked you, are you the magistrate?”

  He remembered himself, and gave her an elegant leg. “Sir Roger Foxcote, at your service, ma’m.”

  “My lady, to you. I am the Dowager Baroness of Twyford. I request your services. Immediately.”

  “Ah, yes, something about the theft of a horse, if my hearing serves me correctly.”

  “Your hearing serves you well enough. Come with me.”

  His raised a brow. There she was, full of her own importance, a tiny little thing whose head came only to his shoulders. Yet, she was bristling with indignation and an authority that surpassed her tender years. She couldn’t be more than five and twenty, if she was a day. Fox gave his glass of sherry a last wistful glance, smoothed a wrinkle on his elegant green and gold waistcoat and retrieving his sword, followed her out the door and down the stairs.

  He found the parlor in an uproar.

  “Sir Roger!” It was the innkeeper, a tall, gaunt man with drooping jowls and a bulbous red nose, who disengaged himself from the fray and got to him first. “I beg yer pardon for disturbing ye, but we seem to ‘ave a problem ‘ere . . . as the local magistrate, perhaps ye can settle this affair and restore some peace to this night that, being Christmas Eve and all, should be all about goodwill toward men—”

  “And poor, abused beasts,” snapped the lady, glaring at a huge man standing near the fireplace and chewing a hangnail. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  Fox was still staring at the woman, and wishing he hadn’t had that second glass of sherry. He needed to think.

  Or maybe not.

  He kneaded his weary brow. “Right.
What is the problem here?”

  The man by the fireplace straightened up. “Oi was just pulling into the courtyard outside when this ‘ere wench came up to me, unbuckled my horse from its harness and led it away loike she owned it. That’s horse stealing, in my book, it is.”

  “You were whipping the animal!”

  “It fell on the icy cobbles. Needed whippin’ to make it get up. Don’t ye know anythink about horses?”

  “I know that you’ll get a lot farther with kindness than you will abuse.”

  “And Oi knows that some folks ought t’ be mindin’ their own business.”

  “If I see something that offends God’s creation, I will make it my business!”

  Fox sat down. His eyes burned with fatigue and smoke from the fire, which was choking on its own fuel as a backdraft stole down the chimney and sent a cloud of smoke billowing out across the room. His wig suddenly felt too tight around his skull, and a headache began to press behind his eyes. Someone jostled his elbow as the other patrons of the inn gathered around, eager to see what he would do about the grizzled and grimy man who owned the horse, and the indignant young woman, her dark auburn hair glinting in the firelight, snow melting atop her cloaked shoulders, who wasn’t backing down one inch.

  But Sir Roger had once earned the nickname “Clever Fox” from none other than King George himself for saving the monarch’s friend from the gallows, and he had been knighted as a result. He was good at what he did. There was, of course, a fair solution to this impasse. A reasonable one.

  Even if it did concern a woman.

  “How valuable is the horse to you?” Fox asked the man, at length. “Do you have any particular attachment to him?”

  “Damned thing’s old and broken and not worth the oats it takes to keep flesh on ‘is ribs, ‘e ain’t.”

  Fox nodded. “Lady Twyford,” he said, turning his attention to the young woman. “Would you be prepared to buy this horse?”

  “Buy it? And do what with it?”

  Fox kneaded his weary brow. “I should imagine you might have thought this through before attempting to walk off with it.”

  “Very well, then. I will buy it. As for what I do with it, tomorrow I continue this wretched journey to my cousin’s ancestral home. He has stables. He knows and loves horses. He’ll take the poor beast in, even if I cannot.”

  Fox turned to the man, who was pulling with irritation at his chin whiskers. “How much do you want for the animal?”

  “Oi figure ten shillings’ll be about what the thing’s worth.”

  The lady drew herself up. “Ten shillings?”

  “Give him two pounds,” Fox directed.

  “What?!”

  “I said, give him two pounds, and consider yourself fortunate that he’s not going to press charges.” He looked up at the horse owner. “That will suffice sir, will it not?”

  “Aye, but—”

  “And you have no intention of pressing charges after being paid such a hefty sum for an animal that you, yourself, have stated is old and broken and not worth the oats it takes to keep flesh on his ribs?”

  “Aye, Oi did, but—”

  “Very well then, I shall consider this matter amicably settled.”

  “Now see here,” the woman began to sputter.

  “This matter is resolved.” Fox got to his feet.

  “Where am I going to keep the animal, tonight?”

  Fox headed for the stairs. “Keep it here and worry about it in the morning.”

  The innkeeper’s voice came from behind him. “’Twill cost ye, milady.”

  “Cost me?”

  “Eh, but not much . . . I reckon with oats and water and a blanketin’, ye’re getting a bargain at a pound.”

  “A pound!”

  “I’ll throw in extra hay for another shilling.”

  “What?!”

  “Fresh water, too.”

  “That is highway robbery!”

  Fox was already pivoting on his heel and heading back toward the baroness before things could deteriorate further. Too tired to bother with convention, he took the lady by the elbow, her bones small and dainty beneath his fingers, and ignored her gasp of surprise and indignation. He leaned down. “Pay the man and consider yourself lucky to have gotten out of this so cheaply,” he murmured for her ears alone. “And pay the innkeeper, too. While these may not be the most luxurious of accommodations, I am certain you’ll find them more agreeable than the local gaol.”

  “I’m paying more for the horse’s accommodations than my own!”

  “Then be grateful he’ll be treated like royalty.”

  “Would you please unhand me?”

  “Be quiet and leave things as they are before you find yourself with yet more trouble and another expense.”

  She tried to jerk away. “If you do not let go of my elbow I will scream the place down.”

  “Pray, do not. There are people sleeping.”

  “You are insufferable!”

  “Yes, and you, my lady, need to learn when to open your mouth and when to shut it.” He released her, already missing the feel of her arm beneath his fingers, seeing her own hand come up to her elbow and brush furiously at it, as though to wipe away his touch.

  “And I suppose you, too, want money out of me for your services? she snapped, summoning a young woman nearby who, Fox assumed, was her maid.

  “It’s Christmas Eve,” he said, turning for the stairs and leaving her standing there glaring at him. “Consider it a gift.”

  “You should have made that man back there, not me, pay in some form or another for abusing the animal. You should have arrested him.”

  “And you, my lady, should go to bed. Perhaps sleep will improve your temper.”

  He began to trudge up the stairs, thinking of that waiting glass of sherry.

  “This isn’t the end of this!” she said sharply from behind him. “Don’t think you’ve seen the last of me!”

  He smiled, despite himself. I should hope I haven’t.

  Chapter 3

  Several hours later and a few miles away, the sixth Duke of Blackheath, clad in a warm velvet banyan against the chill, paused to look out the leaded windows of the ancient castle that was his ancestral home as he headed downstairs to break his fast.

  It had snowed the night before and the downs, rolling away and off into the distance, were mantled in white. Snow coated the bare branches of the copper beeches that lined the drive, rimmed the windowpanes, and did much to bring a smile to his face, and why not? It was Christmas. One of his favorite times of the year, especially as it was the birthday of his son and heir, Augustus.

  He and his duchess had much to celebrate.

  He could hear the baby’s happy laughter as he entered the great dining room where his beautiful wife, Eva, sat waiting for him.

  “Good morning, Duke,” she said affectionately, a playful sparkle in her eye.

  “Good morning, Duchess,” he returned, bending down to kiss her. “You are up early this morning.”

  “I couldn’t help it. I wanted Augustus to see his first snow.”

  “And you didn’t wake me?”

  She reached out and slid her hand into his. “You were up so late last night . . . I know you were worried about Angela and why she hadn’t arrived yet. I thought I’d let you sleep in.”

  “And she is still not here?”

  “No, but perhaps she was delayed by the storm.”

  Lucien walked to the window, and checked the drive for wheel tracks in the fresh snow. Nothing.

  Behind him, Eva bounced the baby on her knee and reached for a piece of toast. “Do you think you’re doing the right thing, Lucien?”

  He turned, pretending innocence. “Whatever do you mean, my dear?”

  “You invited her here because you decided to give her the painting. Fox will be most upset.”

  “Fox has an unhealthy attachment to that painting, and it’s time he put aside his infatuation for someone long-dead and ins
tead, found a woman of flesh and blood with whom to fall in love.”

  “It’s Christmas, Lucien. Always a difficult time for him. Have some pity.”

  “He is my best friend, dearest.” He leaned down and brushed his lips across her temple, grinning at her little shiver. “You should know me well enough by now to realize that his interests and welfare are uppermost in my mind.”

  “But it should stay in the family, that painting.”

  “Angela is family, and she has as much right to it as I do. Perhaps even more. After all, she is a Seaford.”

  “As was Margaret.”

  Lucien smiled. “As was Margaret.”

  He straightened back up, and Eva must have seen the telltale gleam in his eye that he was unable to hide.

  “You’re up to something, aren’t you?”

  His lips twitched. “My dear Eva. Did I not promise to stop interfering in the lives of others?”

  “Yes. You did.”

  “This is not . . . interference. Why, I am merely making a Christmas gift of a painting that should have gone to another branch of the family all along. Nothing more.”

  She looked flatly at him, one brow raised.

  He gazed calmly back, all feigned innocence that she saw right through, until his lips began to twitch, for she knew him well and had caught him at his game.

  “Fox was supposed to arrive last night, too, ” he said. “That will put both him and Angela here at the same time.”

  “Oh, dear. . . . And both will be wanting that painting. I had expected a quiet evening, in.”