Lady It's Cold Outside: A Half Moon House Novella (Half Moon House Series) Read online

  Lady, It’s Cold Outside

  A Half Moon House Novella

  Deb Marlowe

  Deb Marlowe

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  About Deb Marlowe

  Also by Deb Marlowe

  Copyright © 2015 by Deb Marlowe

  Cover Design by Lily Smith

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  ISBN: 978-0-9976446-1-6

  Created with Vellum

  For my Grandpap.

  The best man I ever knew. I don’t need a book of your adventures to know that you will always be in my heart.

  1

  London, England

  December, 1816

  The wagon, loaded down with the remnants of her life, rolled away. It took only moments for it to ease into the traffic on Paternoster Street and quickly move out of sight. Miss Glenna Bolton, clutching a large, leather-bound tome, continued to stare long after it disappeared.

  “Fer the love of— Oy! Beggin’ yer pardon, but do ye mean to move outta the way or just to block the pavement fer the rest o’ the night?”

  The impatient young urchin’s voice barely registered with Glenna.

  “Stars—will ye move? I’m ‘bout to freeze to the pavin’ stones. Lady? Lady, it’s cold outside!”

  Glenna shook herself awake. “Oh! My apologies.”

  She stepped back and the urchin moved on, muttering to himself. Turning to enter the bookshop, she paused on the threshold. “It’s cold inside, too, my lad,” she said quietly.

  There was no one to hear her. Last Christmas she had hung greenery at the windows and simmered mulled wine over the fire, letting the smell of cinnamon and spice compete with the usual scents of new leather and old books. Her grandfather had sat writing letters and reading, wrapped up against the chill, while she’d hummed carols and gone about the business of running the shop.

  Now there was nothing left but an empty shell.

  At the counter she gently set down her oversized book. One last round, then.

  She made her way through the space, touching the empty shelves and the cold hearth stones, running her hand along the worn settee positioned to catch the window’s light, and up the side of the window in the back, the one that always gave her fits in the summer time when it swelled too far to open easily.

  She finished back at the scarred, wooden counter. This was it. All she had left—her grandfather’s book. He was gone now, along with her parents, her home and her dreams of keeping the store going.

  She touched the soft binding once more, then slid a creased paper from within. One other thing she had now, it seemed—the interest of her father’s family, though in all her life she’d never known them.

  She should be grateful, she supposed, that their attention came now, when she was alone, with no one and nothing to her name. But the language in the unexpected letter was off-putting. A summons, rather than an invitation.

  It had changed, but not really lessened her fears for her future.

  She took the letter and drifted over to the windows. It seemed a wonder that she did not cry, but 1816 had been a thoroughly difficult year—it had already robbed her of so many things she loved—and all of her tears too.

  Overhead a single star shone through the murky night. Please, she whispered to it. Please let it be all right.

  But her mother had told her that heaven helped those who helped themselves. And there were others, closer, who might come to her aide. She cast off her melancholy mood and donned her cloak and gloves instead. Out into the night she went, moving swiftly through the streets as they darkened, merging into the busy foot traffic along the Strand and making the turn toward the river at Craven Street.

  Halfway down, she stopped. Here were more stars, earthbound, but shining a welcome nonetheless. A half moon of crystal also cut into the fan above the door beckoned her with the promise of help and hope.

  Shoulders squared, she breathed deep, and knocked.

  Across Town, Alexander Murray, Baron Ellesworth, stood in the empty courtyard of a coaching inn. He tilted his head back to take a draft from his flask and found his eye caught fast. A single bright star winked at him from above, blinking in and out of the night’s thick clouds.

  He pulled his coat close and walked on, around and around the empty yard, being careful of the uneven cobblestones. It was a hell of a way to spend the Yuletide Season. Pain lanced up his leg when he paused, and wincing, he began to pace again. The long day’s carriage ride from his estate in Sussex had aggravated his old wound, as he’d known it would. It would only grow worse too, as he traveled all the way to Yorkshire.

  But he would gladly endure worse than pain and a ruined holiday for the chance he hoped to find at the end of this journey—the chance to save Elleshaven.

  His estate was in nearly as sorry a state as its master. Worn down by time and a string of careless guardians, bad weather and struggling crops, the situation had reached a crossroads. He knew it and so did his servants and tenants. They’d all tightened their belts and pulled together, but gradually the picture had become clear. If they had any hope of staying solvent, they needed this coming year to be an abundant one, with a bumper number of births and a bountiful harvest.

  For that he needed seed, tools, labor and stud fees.

  And for all of that he needed cash.

  Therein lay the difficulty. There was not much left that wasn’t entailed along with the title—not much that he hadn’t already divested. A smallish Renoir had renovated the cowsheds and barns. An Etruscan pot had paid for the pigsties. He couldn’t touch the silver or the rest of the art, but one of his sleepless nights limping in the library had lead to a new idea.

  Books. He had hundreds, they were not listed as part of the entail—and some might even be worth something.

  He’d contacted his solicitor and put the man on a mission—and good old Eubanks had returned with a Christmas present in the form of an interested buyer.

  Unfortunately, the buyer was only interested in a few specific titles—and he was only interested if Ellesworth would present them himself, in Yorkshire and right away.

  So here he was, days before Christmas, lame of leg and foul of temper and trying to avoid horse dung in the dark. But it was still a better alternative than a lonely holiday dinner at home—and a Boxing Day on which he could not afford to reward his people.

  He drank again, against that lowering thought—and found himself watching that bright star once more. I will do it, he vowed, sending his determination skyward. I will do everything I can—and please, make it all turn out all right.

  2

  Glenna locked the bookshop door, likely for the last time. Turning, she gave a wan smile to the beautiful woman waiting for her.

  “It’s never easy to close a chapter in our lives,” Hestia Wright told her, laying a sympathetic hand on her arm. “But remember, there is a great deal more of your story still to be told.”

  “I cannot thank you enough, Miss Wright,” Glenna said with all sincerity. “I know that you have pledged to help any woman in need, but you hav
e gone above and beyond anything I could have imagined. And so quickly, too!”

  “Please, remember to call me Hestia, my dear. And remember also that I am acquainted with the Duke of Danby. You were quite right in not wanting to arrive at his home looking or feeling like a supplicant. He can be a kind man, but he is quite ruthless and not above a bit of bullying in order to get what he wants. You must give yourself every advantage before the negotiations begin.”

  Glenna only hoped that there were negotiations to be had, and not merely ultimatums. “But the dresses and the ball gown, the pocket money and the private coach,” Glenna gestured toward the waiting carriage. “I’m quite overwhelmed.”

  “Nonsense. You are the man’s grandniece. You must arrive looking the part if you wish to have a chance to hold your own against the old curmudgeon.” Hestia smiled and beckoned the young lady hovering behind her to come forward. “And in any case, you are doing me as great a favor by taking Francis along with you as your companion.”

  “My name is Flightly,” the girl said with a stubborn twitch of her chin.

  “No longer, my dear.” A shadow crossed Hestia’s face, and yet it did not dim her legendary beauty in the slightest. “You are a young woman now. It’s time you saw more of the world, and obtained a bit of polish. Miss Bolton will watch over you even as you help to preserve her respectability.”

  Glenna suffered a twinge at the sour look on the other girl’s face, but Hestia merely laughed. “Oh, my girl, believe me, this is a gift, not a punishment.”

  Francis frowned. “I’d rather have a peppermint and half a crown, like the other girls at Half Moon House.”

  “This will be worth so much more, you shall see,” Hestia said firmly. She took her hand. “You are not a wonderfully brave and useful little girl any longer, but a wonderfully brave young lady with a bright future ahead of her. Now is the time for you to make decisions about your life and about the sort of woman you wish to be. You must see new places and situations and a more varied set of people.”

  The girl still looked mutinous, so Glenna stepped in. “It should not be so bad,” she promised. “Our travel must be comfortable in such a luxurious coach and there will be a Christmas Eve ball at the duke’s estate.” And Francis would not be pressured to find a husband in return for the duke’s hospitality, the way that Glenna feared she would be.

  It had been her greatest fear in accepting the invitation—that it was offered out of a sense of duty and the desire to see an obligation discharged with a hasty marriage. Hestia had only fanned the flames of her anxiety when she confirmed that the Duke was known to be a fanatic about arranging matches for his grandchildren and steering the family into a prolific future.

  Glenna might be poor and currently without prospects, but she had a brain and set of skills—and no wish to be parceled off into marriage to a stranger.

  “In any case, it will only be a short visit for you, my child,” Hestia told her young friend. “You will also provide Miss Bolton a reason to return to London.”

  Glenna followed as the other woman began to move toward the carriage and spoke over her shoulder. “You will answer the Duke’s summons, hear what he has to say and determine if he will listen to your own proposals. Enjoy the holiday and the family you have not met, and then Francis will be required back here in London. At that point you can determine whether or not you wish to return with her.”

  “You’ve worked it all out so neatly,” Glenna said. “I cannot thank you enough.”

  “You already have.” Hestia smiled and then turned to the other girl. She held her at arm’s length for a moment, before pulling her in for a squeeze. “You have grown into a lovely young woman, Francis. Remember that.” She stepped back. “Away with you now,” she said, smiling. “With the freakish weather we’ve had this year, you should travel while the sun is shining.”

  They climbed in and set off, heading north out of the city. Glenna tried to engage her new companion in conversation, but the girl answered only in monosyllables and eventually she gave up. The silence stretched, wide as the sky, and Glenna’s heart shrank, as empty and echoing as the bookshop she’d just left behind. Growing more miserable with each passing mile, she clutched the satchel that held her Grandfather’s book and tried to imagine what the future might hold.

  Around midday they stopped for a quick, cold nuncheon and a new team of horses. Glenna sighed as they climbed back in. This would be a tedious journey indeed if it all passed as the morning had.

  But Francis Headly seemed different this time. She shifted in her seat and glanced over at Glenna several times as they moved out onto the road again.

  She decided to wait the girl out.

  It didn’t take long. After perhaps ten minutes of surreptitious wiggling, the girl blurted out, “I’m afraid I might not be much help to you, Miss.”

  Glenna looked up from her novel. “Nonsense. I think we will suit admirably.”

  “The thing is, I’m not a young lady, not a real one, no matter what Hestia says.”

  Glenna blinked. “What makes you say that?”

  Francis gestured toward her satchel of books. “I don’t have a fine education as you do, or fancy relatives, or even a real idea of how to go on.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. You appear quite intelligent and well-mannered to me.”

  The girl flushed a little at the compliment. “Well, I’m glad to hear you say so. I have worked at it. But the truth is—it’s all just a role. I’m just a girl who grew up in the streets—and worse—until Hestia took me in. I love it at Half Moon House, and I love helping Hestia—but she also insisted that I learn to act and speak like a gentry lady.”

  Glenna blanched a little inside at the notion of what might be worse than living in the streets, but she refused to let it show. “I think you are worrying unnecessarily. After all, I’m no Athena, sprung full-grown from the brow of Zeus. Someone had to show me how to act and speak as a lady as well.”

  “You see, that’s what I mean,” Francis said admiringly. “That’s a grand statement—but I don’t understand the reference.”

  Yet she was smart enough to know what she didn’t know. And if Glenna wasn’t mistaken, the girl was eager to learn. So she told her the tale of Athena’s birth, which led her to a few more choice tales from Greek mythology, such as Cronus swallowing his children and Zeus forcing him to release them, and Zeus leading the battles against the Titans.

  “See, now those are good stories. I could listen all day—but I still don’t know what they have to do with you running a bookshop or finding a husband, or with me helping Hestia with her work.”

  Glenna laughed. “Perhaps nothing in the particular, but they are more important in the abstract—in the themes and ideas that carry on even today and govern us as we live our lives.”

  “Oh—you mean about knowing when to honor your father and the importance of protecting your family . . . like that.”

  “Exactly like that.” Glenna beamed. “You see, we are not so different, you and I.”

  “But when I was a girl . . .”

  “I am sure you had many experiences that I wouldn’t understand, but I’m willing to wager you also gained skills that I don’t have.”

  Francis brightened. “That’s true enough. And if things get dicey with this Duke, then they might come in handy.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Glenna said. She frowned suddenly. “Does it feel as if we are slowing?”

  The other girl raised her head. “It does.” Quick as a wink, she let down the carriage window and stuck her head outside. “There’s a carriage ahead of us, stopped in the road.”

  They rocked to a halt. Glenna waited for the coachman to come down and hoped that they wouldn’t need to put her new friend’s unusual talents to use already.

  The carriage was slowing. Ellesworth leaned forward, already groaning. Not in pain, although his leg had stiffened so much that he’d been forced to use his hated cane
, but in frustration. The last thing he wished was for anything to lengthen this blasted journey.

  They pulled to a halt. Impatient, Ellesworth struggled to let down the steps himself. He stumbled out of the coach, knowing he looked ungainly, cursing, his temper growing fouler by the second. Ahead, two carriages had drawn up, blocking the road.

  His scowl deepening, he stepped out to investigate the problem, only to come to an abrupt halt—as if his leg had turned to stone instead of its usual fiery pillar of pain.

  He forgot his hurry, forgot all the pressing reasons for his journey, even the throb of his injury—and froze in the face of the vision that stood before him.

  An utterly lovely young lady, standing in profile. His brain stuttered, suddenly working in only static flashes of imagery. A trim figure. A pert nose. An errant red curl.

  She turned to face him fully and all thoughts of Yorkshire, of the sale of rare books, of Elleshaven, flew from his brain. Absurd to want anything save to stand and admire such pearlescent skin, set off by thick waves of auburn hair. A thin strip of sable edged her hood and brought out deeper chestnut tones in the tresses that curled against her nape. The deep forest colors of her carriage dress and the sprig of holly at the clasp of her cloak echoed the green in her eyes.

  She looked a bit worried, though. Something had drawn a slight furrow in her brow—and Ellesworth suffered the sudden thought that he’d do anything to make this Christmas sprite smile.

  He stepped forward, intent on just that—and promptly grew tangled in his cane, tripped, and landed heavily on one knee.

  Anger and frustration flooded him. He’d forgotten he held the cursed thing. “Damn it all to hell and back,” he growled.

  “Oh, sir! Can we help? My driver will be right back—”

  Mortification burned in his breast. Shaking his head, he kept his gaze glued to the ground and climbed to his feet.