Page 17 of The Dare Before Christmas

“Safe. Not so safe as it could be,” Louis replied firmly. “Not for a young woman alone. Anything might happen. You had best ensure she’s not up to mischief, my friend, though I shall regret losing your company. Is there anything I may purchase for you as you are missing the trip?”

“Yes, something for my aunt, drat you, Louis. The last thing I need is a day in Lady Victoria’s company, but I shall spend the entire day imagining her falling through rotten floorboards or in a frozen pile, lost in the woods if I don’t ensure she’s not up to something.”

“Indeed, and I am sorry for it, but you’d best hurry back, just in case.”

Barnaby huffed and swung open the carriage door, jumping out without bothering to put down the steps. Glancing back in, he noticed Evie biting her lip as if trying not to laugh. He wondered what the devil was funny about the situation, but he was too annoyed to consider it. Instead, he closed the carriage door and strode down the long driveway that led back to Heart’s Folly.

Chapter 5

Dearest Rex,

I am bored and desire company. That wretched brother of mine is no doubt making your life unbearable, so I want you to come and stay with me for Christmas, and your sister, Delia, naturally. After your last visit, I instructed the staff not to move so much as a candlestick out of place, so it will be just as you remember it. We shall have such a jolly time without the duke to spoil it.

I am depending on you, my boy, or I shall be piteously alone for the season of goodwill.

―Excerpt of a letter to Leander Steyning, The Most Hon’ble Marquess of Wrexham from his aunt, The Lady Lucinda Steyning.

18th December 1844, Heart’s Folly, East Sussex.

“Ouch!” Torie muttered a curse and tugged off her glove, sucking at the sore pad of her finger where she had accidentally stabbed herself with a bramble thorn.

She sighed, staring around her despondently. Exploring by herself was not as much fun as she’d hoped. One really needed a partner in crime for such an adventure. Perhaps she ought to have asked Emmeline to stay, but her friend had been looking forward to her day out and Torie did not want to spoil it for her. Emmeline did not share her fascination with Gothic tales, ghosts and hidden treasure. Indeed, the mere mention of phantoms was enough to turn the girl quite green. Torie smiled at the thought. She was a dear creature and a good friend, but not one for exploring the woods in the freezing cold. So, Torie owed it to her to have something to report, or the poor thing would feel guilty for leaving her by herself… and that wouldn’t do at all.

Pulling her glove back on, she strode resolutely through the thickening trees and undergrowth, doing her best to avoid getting snagged on twigs and brambles. Layers of skirts and petticoats were not ideal for such a venture, but she would not let the stupid fashions of the day hinder her any more than need be. Mama was always cursing the new fashions. In her day, women had been much less restricted, but the new corsets made bending impossible, and the tight dropped shoulders hindered the ability to even lift your arms. Mama said the men of society were trying to restrain women in all aspects of their lives and that these new fashions were nothing more than a cage hidden behind layers of pretty silk and lace. Torie was inclined to agree, but society would also judge you harshly for doing away with corsets or not dressing appropriately. Much as it made her mother wild, there was little choice other than to conform, though Mama rebelled in other ways, supporting many women’s charities that promoted education and opportunities for women in all walks of life, and by raising her daughters to be independent thinkers.

Torie knew that was why she could not stomach the idea of marrying most any of the men who would be considered eligible for a woman of her station. Nearly all of them would think of her as property, would take her dowry and spend it as they saw fit. She would be nothing more than another possession, the mother of the next generation, expected to turn a blind eye to infidelity and to be the perfect hostess whenever her husband needed to curry favour, whether politically or socially. No. That was not enough. Thank heavens her parents agreed wholeheartedly and would never force a match, but it was still a dismal state of affairs. For there was Barnaby, so good and honourable, and quite able to appreciate the fact that she had a brain in her head, even if he was a tad overprotective. She sighed.

“Stop it. Stop thinking about Barnaby dratted Godwin,” she scolded herself, and then paused as she recognised the overgrown shape before her. “Oh! I found it,” she said with relief.

Hurrying closer, she surveyed the thick tangle of ivy and bramble. It was definitely a building, a small one and in a poor state of repair beneath the undergrowth… was that a tree growing out of the roof? Torie made her way around the building, peering through the tangle to what lay beneath. It was built from the same flint and stone as the house, though it was a tiny building in comparison, and she wondered what use it had served. Digging into her pocket, she drew out the secateurs she had borrowed from one of the gardeners and began clipping away at what she suspected might be the entrance. Some twenty minutes later, she gave a little yip of triumph as she saw she had been quite correct. Behind the wall of ivy was a solid oak door.

Doggedly, she returned to her work, snipping away until her fingers ached, but finally there was enough space to stand before the door and reach the handle. Torie turned it, her heart pounding with excitement, but although the handle turned, the door was stuck.

“Oh, bother,” she muttered, but it was too tantalising to come this far. She needed to get inside. Determined now, she set her shoulder to the door and pushed. Nothing. Torie took a deep breath and tried again. The door did not budge. She glared at it in frustration. “Now you listen here. If you think I’m leaving before I’ve looked inside, you’ve another think coming. I do not need some big, strong man to open the door for me. I don’t!” she repeated crossly, and slammed her shoulder against the door, putting all her weight behind it. It moved. Only a tiny bit, but it had definitely moved.

“Ha!” she exclaimed, so delighted she did not care that the arm of her gown was thick with dust.

Instead, she did it again, and again, and with each push the door protested and creaked, but opened a little farther. By the time there was enough space for Torie to push through, she was sweaty and breathless, but triumphant. She’d done it.

Squeezing her skirts through the narrow opening was tricky and left her covered with dirt and cobwebs. Torie could only imagine the look on her maid’s face when she saw the damage she’d done to her gown. She would have to give the poor woman an extra afternoon off or buy her something nice to make up for the work she was creating.

But, once she was inside, everything else was forgotten.

It was a chapel. A tiny forgotten chapel in the woods. Miraculously, the windows were mostly intact, and a strange green light filtered through the ivy leaves, bathing the intimate space in dusty shades of emerald, and giving Torie the oddest notions about fairies and mythical creatures. She was so lost in rapturous wonder, her imagination running wild, that she did not notice the scratching of tiny rodent feet, nor the scurrying sound, until something skittered across her toes. She screamed.

Barnaby was in a mood. What kind of mood, he was not entirely certain, as there were too many emotions seething inside him to pinpoint one. As a rule, he was an even-tempered sort of fellow who preferred to look on the bright side of life. Though as susceptible to melancholy as anyone else, he had decided long ago that there was little point in worrying about things he could not change, and his life was a deal jollier if he concentrated on things that made him happy.

For example, his parents did not approve of him. They thought him a dimwit and predicted he would never amount to anything. Family events tended towards the torturous, with stilted conversations and pointed questions about his future, and his unmarried status, that made him feel every bit the failure they expected him to be. So, three years ago, he had decided to save himself the misery, and simply stopped going. He was not entirely certain anyone had noticed. Certainly they’d not come after him, wondering where he was. Now and then he saw his brothers about town, but further than a nod and a how do, they did not speak.

Once, that would have bothered him, for surely brothers ought to look out for one another, but he had come to accept that his brothers would never be that way. Instead, he had focused his attentions on people who appeared to appreciate his company, and especially Louis, who had seemed in desperate need of a confidant, and he had been well rewarded by a friendship of the like he had not expected. Through Louis he had also met several new friends—even Lord Latimer, who seemed to have mellowed towards him, despite their shaky start.

Leo had been right, though: Barnaby had excelled at sports at school. This had been partly self-defence. He’d never been clever academically. Latin and Greek never made the least bit of sense to him, anything requiring numbers made his head ache, and studying anything in a book gave him an unwelcome sense of drowning whilst sitting down, which seemed rather ridiculous but was nonetheless accurate. Naturally, boys being boys, he’d been made an object of scorn. But then he’d discovered—out of necessity—that he could run much faster than anyone else, he had an unerring sense of balance and sharp reflexes, and a desire to win that made him quite ruthless when the opportunity arose.

This, finally, had made him popular when there was a game at stake, but he had never quite got the knack of making close friends, or of being one of the boys. When they started singing bawdy songs and speaking coarsely about this girl or that, and what they had or had not done with her, or wished to do, he always felt uncomfortable. It seemed wrong to him to talk so about a young lady, no matter if she had been as willing and enthusiastic as the fellows made out. Not that he had been entirely innocent. He’d had his share of willing partners too, but he’d always been discreet, and no one had ever known or had cause to speculate about his affairs… one of which had been the headmaster’s daughter.

Now she had been a willing partner, he recalled with a wry smile. Mary was used to the boys trailing after her, sending her love poems and professing their ardent admiration. As one of the few females within miles of the school, it was inevitable, but she had chosen Barnaby. She was married now, with three children, and doing very nicely for herself. They had bumped into each other last year and Mary had smiled with delight at seeing him, teasing him for not being wed and telling him to hurry up and get a move on. It had been good to see her again, especially looking so well and happy. He sighed. It seemed so simple for some people: find a partner, settle down, have children. But it was not simple at all. Not if he wanted to avoid the kind of marriage his parents had. Barnaby shuddered at the thought.

Yet his stupid heart kept getting stuck upon people he had no business falling in love with. Not that he had been in love with Millicent. Nor was he in love with Lady Victoria, nor going to be. She was just so… so… aggravating! The wretched woman had got under his skin and now he did not know what he was feeling, hence his odd mood. He was irritable, impatient and… and plain frustrated, and why not? Lady Victoria was without a doubt the most beautiful woman he had ever set eyes on. She made his heart race and his breath catch, his palms sweaty. In short, she turned him into a blithering idiot, and the addled creature still seemed to want him. Why, though? Whilst Barnaby was not one for blowing his own trumpet, he was not so lacking in self-worth that he indulged in false modesty. He knew his strengths, but a duke’s daughter… well, he wasn’t a halfwit, no matter what his parents believed.