What a Lady Needs for Christmas (39 page)

While buying Valmonte’s business would mean a fat mortgage on the only mill Dante owned outright.

“Your mama will kill you? And when you cower before your mother’s tantrums, does Lady Dorcas find an example for how her marriage will go on?” Rather than ask that question, Dante might as well have swung the cast-iron poker at Valmonte’s balls, and because that was a cheering realization, he didn’t stop there.

“Bad enough that you watch your family’s fortunes drain away one ball gown, carriage, or gambling debt at a time, but what will your children have, Valmonte?”

“My sons will be gentlemen, my daughters, ladies.”

Oh, for God’s sake.

Any aspiration Dante had ever held to the status of gentleman drifted up the flue like so much ash. Gentlemen could be scoundrels, sneak thieves, seducers, and cowards.

How much better to be Lady Joan’s plain, simple, devoted husband.

“Sell me the business,” Dante said. “Joan might keep the name the same, though I won’t encourage that. Remove to Paris where everything is cheaper, rent out your properties to men of my
humble
origins
, and invest what capital you have.”

Hector could have written entire memos for the idiot about that plan, the only one that held a prayer of rescuing Valmonte from penury before his children were grown.

“That advice is my holiday gift to you, Valmonte, but my patience is at an end. This is a contract of sale, and the amount is the same. You either admit you’re a rapist, or you give up a business you’re not running very well to begin with. Choose.”

“I’m not allowed to read them?”

“How much time did you give Joan to gather her wits before you stole her sketches and her good name?” Moreover, Valmonte likely could not comprehend a business document if he were given all day to decipher it, and Dante wanted to breathe the fresh Scottish air sooner rather than later.

Valmonte peered at the contract of sale, which Dante had kept as simple as such an agreement could be. The confession, by contrast, was problematic, because Valmonte could later credibly claim he’d been forced to sign it under duress.

In which case, his lordship became the victim, not Joan.

Valmonte dipped the pen and pulled the contract for sale closer.

“Sign legibly,” Dante warned, “and all three copies. Send your uncle around to Balfour’s town house to vouch for your signature.”

For Dante had already signed the documents, and had stepped off the train long enough to pass a bottle of good whiskey to old MacDeever, and to have the man and his porter witness Dante’s signatures.

“What’s the third copy for?”

Valmonte didn’t sign the documents so much as he sketched an affectation of a signature, but did this man know nothing of business?

“I’ll store the third copy in my bank vault, where moth, rust, or fire cannot destroy it, nor thieves break in and steal it.”

Nor thieving viscounts pretend the contract had never existed.

Valmonte sat back when he’d decorated the third copy with his penmanship. “Now what?”

“Now I own a dress shop with airs above its station. You’ll have a bank draft within the week.” And Dante’s mill—Love Mill—would carry a substantial mortgage too.

His first, but well worth the debt.

“It’s a house of fashion,” Valmonte sniffed. “Worthy of any of its rivals in Paris or London.”

“I’d like the key to my house of fashion,” Dante said. “Now. And lest you think to clean out the cash box or make off with the inventory, the doors to the place are under surveillance by fellows I trust who are,
alas
, of humble origins. If you or any member of your family come on the premises, you will be politely escorted at all times.”

Valmonte replaced the pen in its stand, his expression perplexed. “I can’t think like you do. You’re not a gentleman, and I’d never steal—”

“Exactly. I am not a gentleman, so you’d best quit talking while you’re still alive and able to sire children.” Dante rose, before Valmonte’s attempted thieving from Joan resulted in multiple accidents all around. “Either of us can repudiate that contract in the next three business days, but by Friday, that deal is final.”

Valmonte rose as well, by virtue of bracing both hands on the desk and pushing to his feet like an old man or a young sot. “It says that?”

“Second page, paragraph seventeen. Prevents an argument of duress, and limits excuses about fraud in the inducement.”

Which was so much Mandarin to the
gentleman
blinking at Dante. “We’re done then?”

“I’m finished with you, unless I or my family hears the first hint of discredit to Lady Joan’s name.” Dante would have to rely on his betters to patrol those borders, because he belonged to not a single club that his lordship would dine in even as a guest.

Valmonte fingered the fringe of the brocade bellpull, but didn’t summon anybody. “I wouldn’t have signed that other, about the rape.”

Dante tarried, because Valmonte wasn’t rattling his toy swords—or pokers—at this juncture. “Why not?”

“Because I didn’t. One imbibes, you know, then imbibes a bit more, and certain functions diminish. Even if I’d entertained such notions—and I’m not admitting that I did, not for very long—Joan could talk about those damned sketches for hours, and it grew late, and well…I
didn’t
.”

“You’re sure?”

“Have you ever tried to take liberties with a properly dressed woman? A moat, drawbridge, and portcullis could not defend her virtue more effectively than all those petticoats and bustles and knickers… Particularly in winter. To say nothing of her damned corsetry. Unless she’s enthusiastic about the business too, importuning a properly dressed woman is a futile undertaking.”

And Joan had not in any way been enthusiastic about the undertaking. That Valmonte knew as much was bad enough, but Dante let him live anyway.

It was, after all, Christmas.

“Go to Paris,” Dante said. “And my regards to your mama and fiancée.”

He collected two copies of the contract and showed himself out, eager to present to Joan the happy developments of the day.

***

“Ye mun stop pacing,” Margaret said. “Dante will get here when he gets here.”

Hector took a seat then popped right back to his feet, while Joan exchanged a look of mutual exasperation with Dante’s sister.

“Hector, he won’t blame you,” Joan said. “The holidays throw everything into an uproar, and mills are prone to fires.”

Dante would blame himself. He’d construct some male fancy of surpassing logic that made him as responsible for the day’s dismal events as if he were laird of a medieval Highland demesne and answerable only to God.

While Joan, too, felt that the tragedy at the mill was her fault. If she hadn’t distracted Dante from the business upon which he thrived, if she hadn’t added scandal and holy matrimony to his already taxing schedule, if she’d let him focus on finding the investors he’d sought—

“That’s him,” Margaret said as the front door to Balfour’s elegant town house swung solidly shut outside the family parlor. “Let me tell him, Hector. You’ll muck it up.”

“I’ll tell him,” Hector shot back. “I’m his man of business, and I’m responsib—”

Joan rose and went to the door. “Out, both of you. I will convey to my husband this news, and you will stop carping at each other. Things could be much, much worse. Dante is sensible, and he will agree with me on that.”

Joan had debated wearing black, though. In this holiday season, she’d considered wearing the most somber attire a woman could don.

“Greetings, all.” Dante positively swaggered into the family parlor, a cozy, comfortable space Balfour had turned over to Joan’s use. “My lovely wife, you’ve joined me a day early, but happy Christmas.”

He kissed her, his kilt swinging about his knees.

“Happy Christmas, dear Husband. Hector and Margaret, you will please excuse us?”

“Yes,” Dante said, drawing Joan closer to the fire. “I have glad tidings to share with my wife. Be off with you two. Find some mistletoe, a wee dram, and a cozy parlor of your own.”

Hector took Margaret by the elbow and drew her from the room. The door had barely closed before Dante’s arms were around Joan and his mouth on hers.

“I was so naughty, Wife. You’ll have to spank me for it, I’m sure. I did not follow Spathfoy’s instructions. I did not behave with anything approaching prudence. We’re in debt. Wonderfully in debt. For the first time in years, I’ve taken on substantial debt.”

He kissed her again, as if this debt was the best gift the holidays might have produced.

Joan kissed him back, because for one moment, she wanted to imprint on her memory this impression of Dante Hartwell suffused with joy. Whatever had transpired with Valmonte, Dante had acquitted himself well, and he was magnificent in victory.

“Dante, I have some news.”

He linked his hands behind Joan’s neck, his arms a heavy weight on her shoulders. “Are ye well? You look pale. Valmonte shared with me some news, too. I think you’ll want to hear it.”

“Dante, you should hear my news first.” She drew him close and hugged him fiercely. “The mill you call Love has burned to the ground. The structure is a complete loss.”

The shock of it went through him the way cutting off the gas doused a bright lamp to nothing more than a lingering whiff of smoke. One instant he was alive with joie de vivre and full of his accomplishments, the next he was relying on Joan simply to keep him upright.

“A fire?”

“Christmas Eve. We’re not sure how it started. Hector will leave for Glasgow tomorrow, if you ask it of him.” As would Joan; she hoped he knew that.

Dante lifted his forehead from Joan’s shoulder, his gaze terrible. “And our people? What about our people? I employ a hundred women and girls at each mill, and—how many lost, Joan?”

“Not a one. You closed the mills for Christmas Eve. Your people were home stuffing themselves with ham, neeps, and tatties.”

He sank onto a sofa as if he’d taken a bullet from an unseen assassin. “Not a one?”

“Not a watchman, not a mouser, as far as we know.” Joan took the place beside him and let him absorb that miracle, which, as endlessly wondrous as it was, might be the last good news for some time.

“They’ll not go hungry,” Dante said fiercely. “We can add a second shift to the two mills remaining, or a third shift for those who are willing, and the insurance settlement will let us rebuild come spring. Rebuilding will employ more than a few of the menfolk, and we can finally modernize the facility.” He looped an arm around Joan and drew her close, kissing her temple. “We’ll manage. We’ve had setbacks before, but we’ll manage.”

And now, she had to tell him the rest.

“There won’t be any insurance money, Dante. Hector found the payment for the policy in Balfour’s library after it had come due. Today was the first day he could send it, and it’s in the post, but the policy will have lapsed.”

Hector and Margaret had explained to Joan how insurance worked, Margaret in particular using terms and examples Joan could comprehend.

“The bloody insurance has lapsed?”

“Hector said that’s what happens when a payment isn’t made on time.”

Dante stared into the fire, his expression intent rather than thunderous. “Hector would know, though I’ll want to check for myself. Each mill has its own policy, and Love is the newest acquisition. Its policy might read differently. This complicates things.”

This complicates things.

The only asset Dante owned outright and a significant source of his income went up in smoke, and to him, it was a
complication
.

“I love you,” Joan said. “I know that doesn’t help, it won’t rebuild any mills, but you know my settlements are available if you need them. Tiberius won’t fight me on that, in fact, he might—”

Dante kissed her. “Hush a moment, dear heart. I’m thinking.”

The moment became five minutes, then ten, with Dante staring into the fire, while Joan’s eyes grew heavy. She dozed off against his side, relieved he’d taken the news so well, but hurting for him, that his endless hard work had earned him only…

More hard work and a wife who’d needed something as simple as insurance explained to her.

Eighteen

“Fiona says Frederick’s not peaked and wan when Babette is with him.” Phillip stroked a small hand over Frederick’s furry back.

The rabbit did, indeed, look more cheerful as he reclined against the wainscoting of the nursery’s playroom. His eyes were bright, his nose in constant motion, and though Babette was at present paying a call on Joan’s lap, Frederick had a contented air.

A
smug
, contented air.

“Frederick will be a papa,” Dante said. “This settles a fellow down.”

Dante’s thoughts would not settle down. He’d spent yesterday in Glasgow, sorting out the aftermath of a fire and watching Hector work himself to exhaustion, while Margs acted as his lieutenant, and Dante…

Tried to make himself useful.

No insurance would be forthcoming. Hector had made certain of that.

“Why is Frederick to be a papa? Because he married Babette?”

Dante picked the rabbit up and settled in beside his son on the hearth rug. “Yes, more or less. Rabbits do these things a bit differently, but Babette will be the mother of his babies.”

Frederick was soft to the touch and shamelessly willing to be stroked and petted. No wonder Joan enjoyed the company of her rabbit.

“Lady Joan is going to have a baby,” Phillip said, running a single finger down Frederick’s back. “I heard her talking about it when the ladies were knitting.”

No, she was not. She wasn’t to have a baby or a dress shop or much in the way of luxury. Dante had until the following day to repudiate the contract with Valmonte, and while the chore needed to be dealt with, he didn’t look forward to it one bit.

“I don’t think there will be a baby showing up any time soon, lad. Not for us, though Frederick will be a papa by spring.”

If a dance competition were held the length and breadth of Scotland, Frederick and Babette would have won top honors in the Bunny Fling.