The Christmas Cuckoo, Page 3

  Before Phoebe could reply, the outside door swung open and their guest—large, unkempt, and gently dripping water from his soaking garments—appeared in the doorway between hall and kitchen. Now that the danger had passed, his decisiveness was gone and he had lapsed back into dazed confusion.

  Meg stepped forward and handed him the other mug of fortified tea. "Drink this."

  It took him a moment to comprehend her command. Then he took the mug and downed the contents in one long swallow that must have scorched his mouth and throat.

  Phoebe took over, seating both orphans of the storm by the fire, then feeding them potato-cabbage soup hot from the hob. Warmed both inside and out, Meg felt considerably better. She assumed the major did, too, though he did not speak, simply ate his soup with clumsy hands and an unfocused gaze.

  When he was done, Meg said, "Time for bed." Taking his hand, she led him upstairs as if he were a child. "Leave your wet clothes outside the door and we'll dry them tonight."

  Reaching the bedroom that had been assigned to the guest, Meg opened the door and gave the major a gentle push. "Put your wet clothes outside," she repeated, hoping he understood.

  Before Meg could leave, the major peeled off his blue coat and dropped it on the floor. It landed with a wet, squishy sound and was joined by his shirt a moment later.

  Meg's mouth dropped open in astonishment. He really was a splendid specimen of masculinity. Her gaze riveted to her guest's muscular torso and the dark hair that patterned his broad chest.

  Oblivious of his shocking impropriety, the major began to unbutton his trousers.

  Released from her paralysis, Meg blushed scarlet and beat a hasty retreat. "There are towels on the washstand," she called over her shoulder before shutting the door. "And hot bricks in the bed."

  Downstairs Phoebe waited, her expression doubtful. "He isn't at all what I expected. And ... is it possible he has been drinking?"

  "I'm afraid so," Meg admitted as she went to stand in front of the fire. "But in spite of that, he has been very gentlemanly. He also just saved me from drowning." Remembering how important it was for Phoebe to like their guest, Meg spent the next ten minutes giving a glowing description of the major's virtues.

  All the while, she listened for the sound of the bedroom door, but upstairs there was only silence. Finally Meg sighed. "He must have fallen asleep right away. I'd better get his clothing so it can dry. Perhaps we can find his baggage in the daylight, but if not, the major has nothing to wear but what he had on. Jeremy's garments certainly aren't large enough."

  "Let me get his things," Phoebe offered. "You should be in bed."

  Meg was tired enough to be tempted to accept. Then a vivid memory of Major Howard unbuttoning his trousers made her shake her head. There was no telling what condition their guest was in, and Meg was not about to let her innocent young sister find out. "This will take just a moment. While I'm upstairs, will you make me another cup of tea?"

  "Of course."

  Meg was unsurprised when there was no answer to her knock. Steeling herself, she opened the door and was greatly relieved to find the major in bed and mostly covered.

  The wet garments lay scattered across the room, but before collecting them, Meg found herself walking quietly to the bed and looking down at her guest. The blankets were drawn only to midchest, as if he had been too tired to finish covering himself, so Meg pulled them up around his throat. In spite of his ruffianly appearance, he looked exhausted and vulnerable.

  With a surge of tenderness, she brushed back his thick brown hair, as she would have done with a slumbering child. "Sleep well, Jack Howard," she whispered.

  As Meg made her way downstairs again, she thought that it would certainly be an interesting Christmas.

  FOR a long time Jack hovered in the twilight area between sleep and waking, instinctively knowing that full awareness would not be a desirable state this morning. Then a bloodcurdling shriek shattered the last remnants of slumber.

  Reflexively he opened his eyes and started to sit up. A wave of nausea swept over him. He fell back against the pillows, heart pounding and eyes closed against the sunlight streaming through the window. Though it had been at least a decade since he had experienced this particular kind of wretchedness, Jack recognized it immediately as the aftermath of a truly appalling carouse.

  The shriek sounded from outside again, the noise stabbing his throbbing temples. After identifying the sound as avian and presumably harmless, Jack dismissed it from his mind.

  Far more important was coming to terms with the events of the previous night, which he recalled with painful accuracy. London. The wet, freezing ride on the stage to Bristol. Jem. Then the coaching inn, where the delightful Miss Lambert had approached and greeted him. She had wanted a Jack Howard, and in his befuddled state he had been more than willing to oblige.

  He winced as he remembered what had happened in the stable. Even three sheets to the wind, he should have known that a female so refined and well-spoken could only be a lady. Instead he had believed her a light-skirt and had lunged at her like a sailor just home from a year at sea. Though in fact she had not seemed to mind, at least not at first. . . .

  Recalling that kiss in detail briefly mitigated Jack's misery. Then the faint sound of voices downstairs brought him back to the present.

  Now that he was sober, Jack could hazard a guess about what had happened. Though the two men had never met, there was another officer named Jack Howard, a captain of the 45th Regiment. Probably there were half a dozen Jack Howards in the army; the name was common enough. And one of them was the friend of Miss Lambert's brother, but it wasn't the Jack Howard presently lying naked in bed in this pleasant farmhouse. That thought led him to offer a swift prayer that he had been conscious enough to undress himself, for the alternative did not bear thinking about. Jack groaned as he considered the dreadful bind he had gotten himself into. How the devil was he going to tell Miss Lambert that he was an unintentional impostor? Last night she had been remarkably tolerant of his disgraceful condition, but the news that she had been misled would make those lovely hazel eyes flash with fury.

  Immersed in his dilemma, Jack failed to hear the soft knock at the door, so Miss Lambert's entry into the bedroom caught him by surprise. He cast one horrified look at her, then behaved like any proper military hero would under such conditions. He dived under the covers and pulled a pillow over his head.

  Unlike the shrieking bird that had awakened him, Miss Lambert's voice was gently soothing. "Forgive me for disturbing you, Major Howard, but are you feeling all right?"

  "Better than I deserve," Jack said in a strangled voice.

  "Sorry, I can't hear you clearly." The pillow was tugged from his clutching fingers. "Were you injured in the accident? Or did you take a chill from falling in the water?"

  Turtle-style, Jack poked his head out from under the covers. Miss Lambert looked as bright and honest as a summer day. She was also remarkably self-possessed, given the fact that she was in the bedroom of a strange man. A man who was in fact considerably stranger than she knew. "The only thing wrong with me is just punishment for my sins."

  "I thought you would be suffering the effects of intemperance." She motioned toward the tray she had set on the bedside table. "That's why I brought up a pot of coffee. Would you like some?"

  "Miss Lambert," Jack said fervently as his head emerged from its cocoon, "you are a woman in a thousand. A million."

  Though he would not be fully recovered before the next day, the large mug of steaming hot coffee went a long way toward restoring Jack's raveled nerves. It also reminded him of the impropriety of this situation. "Miss Lambert," he said, setting down the empty mug, "you should not be here. Have a care for your reputation."

  She laughed and poured him more coffee. "I've been on the shelf far too long to need to worry about my reputation. At least, I won't worry when I am under my own roof with my brother's best friend." She gave him a sudden sharp look. "Of course, it's diffe
rent with Phoebe, who is of marriageable age. I've always taken care to see that she is properly chaperoned."

  Ah, yes, Phoebe, the very pretty, very young female who had let them in the night before. Jack dismissed Phoebe and her perfections without a thought. It was Miss Lambert's good graces he craved, and was about to lose. "Miss Lambert, I owe you a profound apology."

  A hint of color showed in her face and her gaze flickered away from his. "Please, say no more about what happened. You were not yourself last night."

  He had been himself—that was the whole problem.

  While Jack tried to find the words to explain, Miss Lambert continued, "I assume that you imbibed a bit too much when warding off the cold. Consider the episode forgotten."

  Once more Jack braced himself to confess his underlying crime, which was far worse than stealing a kiss. "There is something I must tell you, Miss Lambert."

  "Call me Meg. I'd like to think of you as one of the family. By the way, do you remember my telling you that Jeremy won't be home until after Christmas?"

  Jack nodded.

  Meg gave him a rueful smile. "The household is at sixes and sevens just now. Besides Jeremy being delayed, Phoebe is recovering from a chill, Philip is visiting friends in Gloucester and won't be back until this afternoon, and my two goddaughters are here for Christmas because their older brothers have the measles and their mama asked me to take the girls until everyone is well again. And as if that weren't enough, our maid asked for a fortnight's holiday to visit her mother, who is ailing. I hope you'll forgive the disorganization."

  "All soldiers become accustomed to disorganization."

  Meg chuckled as she knelt on the hearth. "I imagine you'll want to bathe, since falling in a stream is not quite the same thing. I'll build a fire and bring up some hot water."

  Jack sat up. "I'll do that. You shouldn't be acting as a servant for me."

  "Major Howard!" she said, blushing. "If you don't stay where you are, I am going to be very embarrassed in a moment."

  Abruptly remembering his nakedness, Jack slid down and pulled the covers to his chin. "I'm sorry. You are going to think me a complete lack-wit."

  She smiled. "Having raised two younger brothers, I am not easily shocked by male impulsiveness."

  "You raised your brothers?"

  "To a large extent." His hostess struck a spark into the nest of twigs she had laid. Tiny flames began licking around the wood. "I don't suppose Jeremy ever explained the family situation?"

  "He never told me a word," Jack said with perfect truth and a guilty pang. It was hardly the act of a gentleman to listen to her confidences, but he was curious to learn why people of obvious gentility were living in such reduced circumstances.

  Meg sat back on her heel. "We lived at Peacock Hill, a manor about a mile west of here. The estate has been in the Lambert family for generations, and Jeremy expected to inherit it even though Lord Mason, our local nobleman"—her voice became heavily sarcastic—"tried to buy the property several times. Peacock Hill adjoins Lord Mason's estate, and his lordship has coveted it for years, but of course Papa never considered selling.

  "Five years ago, my father died quite unexpectedly and I was left as guardian of the younger children. The day after the funeral, Lord Mason called and informed me that Papa had lost the manor to him in a card game several months earlier."

  Jack sat up in the bed, remembering just in time to pull the blankets up to cover his bare chest. "Did Lord Mason have any proof of such an outrageous statement?"

  "He had a deed, plus a vowel that he claimed Papa had written. It said that if Papa did not repay five thousand pounds to Lord Mason, Peacock Hill would go to his lordship on my father's death."

  "You say 'claimed.' Were the documents false?"

  "I think so, but I can't prove it, for the handwriting was very like my father's. When I told Lord Mason that I thought they were forgeries, he challenged me to produce a real deed. We searched through all of Papa's papers and everywhere else we could think of, but without success, so perhaps the deed he showed us is the real one."

  "Was your father the sort of man who could have gambled away his children's inheritance?"

  "It's not quite impossible," Meg said reluctantly. "Papa and Lord Mason were friends of sorts, and they did play cards occasionally. In a mad mood Papa might have wagered far beyond his means. If he did and lost, he would have been ashamed to tell anyone what he had done. Since he seemed to be in good health, he would have assumed there was time for him to repay the debt to Lord Mason, perhaps by taking out a mortgage."

  Jack's mouth twisted. Miss Lambert had had to take responsibility for her family when she was not much more than a girl herself. "It's an infamous story. Since you thought the papers forged, did you consider taking the matter to law?"

  "I hired a lawyer. Lord Mason hired three. What chance does a poor person have to win justice from a rich aristocrat?" Her hands, which had been lying quietly on her knees, suddenly clenched. "I despise the nobility."

  Jack flinched back from her intensity, not that he blamed her for being angry. "Is this farm another family property?"

  "No, Brook Farm belongs to me. My mother was the only child of an old yeoman family that has been here even longer than the Lamberts. Neither set of parents was enthralled when she and Papa fell in love, but the farm adjoins Peacock Hill and it made a decent dowry even though my mother's birth was inferior."

  Using tongs, Meg laid several small pieces of coal on the fledgling fire. "My mother died when I was three, and two years later Papa married again. My stepmother was a wonderful woman and quite wellborn, but she was dowerless and left nothing to her children. So, when Lord Mason claimed Peacock Hill, Brook Farm was all we had left to keep us. A neighboring farmer works most of the land and the rent he pays is enough to support the family. Fortunately Papa had left enough money to buy Jeremy a commission. If Jeremy hadn't gone away, I think he would have gone mad with frustration."

  "So you are devoting your life and your inheritance to caring for your family. You are very generous."

  "It is not generous to perform what is both one's duty and one's pleasure. " Meg's hazel eyes clouded. "Jeremy and Philip can make their own way, but I worry so about Phoebe. She deserves the opportunity to go to London, to see the world and find a man worthy of her."

  "Even if the paragon proved to be a nobleman?"

  "I doubt there are many worthy noblemen," Meg said dryly. "What I want for her is a man of character who will appreciate her sweet disposition as well as her beauty. He needn't be rich, just have sufficient fortune so that she will be cared for."

  Jack was irresistibly reminded of a horse coper, though Phoebe was a much prettier piece of merchandise than a horse. It wasn't hard to deduce that Meg cherished hopes that her brother's friend might form a tendre for her sister.

  Jack shifted uneasily under his blankets. He should have confessed earlier, before Meg Lambert had told him all the family secrets. Now he would have to wait a few hours, until a time when there wasn't such a feeling of closeness between the two of them. "Your concern for your family is admirable, but what do you want for yourself? A London Season? A husband and children of your own?"

  "Heavens, no! No reasonable man would want me, for I'm the managing sort. As for a London Season ..." She looked a little wistful. "Even if I could have made my come-out, I wouldn't have 'taken' in society. I'm not beautiful like Phoebe, nor as well-bred, and owning one small farm hardly qualifies me as an heiress. No, I'm plain and practical and opinionated, and I belong here."

  "I think you underestimate the popularity you might have had," Jack said warmly. "Females who are attractive, charming, and intelligent are always in short supply."

  Meg stood and brushed dust from her hands with quick, nervous movements. "I looked at the wrecked gig this morning, and for a wonder, your bag was still safely inside—it was only the passengers who went in the water. I'll bring the bag up, along with your clothes. They're a bit the wors
e for wear, I'm afraid, but at least everything is dry."

  As she disappeared out the door, Jack folded his hands beneath his head and thoughtfully regarded the ceiling. What a splendid young woman she was, as pretty as she was kind and sensible. He envied the younger Lamberts for being the beneficiaries of her warmth and caring.

  Jack sighed, knowing that he would have to leave Brook Farm as soon as he confessed that he was an impostor. A pity he had to reveal the truth, for a solitary holiday in an inn was not what he would have chosen for his first English Christmas in many years. It would be far more pleasant to stay right where he was.

  Perhaps he shouldn't tell Meg that he was the wrong man.

  Jack found that he was nowhere near as shocked by the thought as he should be. Too many years of military pragmatism had eroded his higher sensibilities. Having found a comfortable billet, he was loath to leave, even though his presence was based on a deception.

  Even if he were shameless enough to conceal the truth, doing so was impractical, for Jeremy Lambert would be home in a few days. Worse, the real Captain Howard could walk in the door at any moment, and when that happened Jack would be in dire trouble.

  Jack winced as he remembered how Meg Lambert had railed at the nobility. The lady had a temper, and she would feel hurt and betrayed by his abuse of her hospitality. At least if he confessed voluntarily, she might forgive his accidental transgression enough to let him call on her in the future.

  He fervently hoped that she would.

  AFTER washing, shaving, and rendering himself as presentable as possible, Jack went downstairs, prepared to confess all to his hostess and throw himself on her mercy. Unfortunately, the only person in the kitchen was Phoebe Lambert, who sat by the fire doing mending.

  Jack paused in the doorway, struck by the room's welcoming warmth. The previous night he had been too exhausted to notice his surroundings, but now he saw that the old-fashioned kitchen was rich with the unpretentious beauty of utility. Delicious scents filled the air, clusters of dried herbs and onions hung from the beamed ceiling, and comfortable wooden chairs circled the scrubbed deal table.