Lady Sophie's Christmas Wish - By Grace Burrowes Page 0,110

they’ve earned some years in high pasture?”

The old fellow turned to glare at St. Just. “We manage well enow.”

“It isn’t smart, letting the entire herd age,” St. Just replied. “You need the elders to keep peace and maintain order, but you don’t put your old guard in the traces beyond a certain point. The young ones need to learn and serve their turn.”

“Tell that to yon strappin’ baron.”

The groom shuffled away, muttering in the Irish—which happened to be St. Just’s mother tongue—about young men too happy to gallivant about the globe when they were needed to look after their family at home.

“Madame.” St. Just addressed the mare. “I’ll come for you soon. The grooms at Morelands are bedding your stall with enough oat straw for an entire team. Nonetheless, try to look downcast when you take your leave here, hmm?”

She regarded him out of large, patient eyes, her mental workings as unfathomable as any female’s.

St. Just made his way to the manor, noting the number of horses in the Sidling paddocks and the several conveyances outside the carriage house. Her Grace said the Charpentier family gathered for the holidays, and it looked like what ought to be a quick exchange of coin, documents, and a toast in the viscount’s study was going to require some seasonal socializing to go with it.

He looked at the sky, which bore the same sun as was shining at that very moment on his wife and daughters in Yorkshire. A comforting thought.

“Rosecroft! Come ye in and sing wassail!” Rothgreb stood grinning at the front door, his nose a bright red contrast to his green velvet jacket. “The place hasn’t been this full of noise since the old lord’s third wedding breakfast.”

“My lord.” St. Just stopped just inside the door and bowed to the older man. “I didn’t mean to impose, but came to fetch the mare and thought I’d—”

“Here they come!”

St. Just looked up to see a half-dozen very young ladies trotting up the hallway in a giggling, laughing cloud of skirts and smiles.

“Another guest, girls! This is Lord Rosecroft. Make your curtsies and then line up.” The ladies assembled with an alacrity that would have done St. Just’s recruits in Spain proud. “All right, Rosecroft, best be about it. They get bold if you make ’em wait.”

St. Just looked askance at his host, who was grinning like a fiend.

“It’s the kissing bough,” Vim Charpentier said as he emerged from the hallway, a tumbler in his hand. “You have to kiss them each and every one, or they’ll pout. And, Rosecroft, they’ve been collecting kisses all afternoon between trips to the punch bowl, so you’d be well advised to acquit yourself to the best of your ability. They will compare notes all year. So far, I believe I’m your competition.” He took a sip of his drink, eyeing his cousins balefully.

“I’ve charged headlong into French infantry,” St. Just said, smiling at the ladies, “praying I might survive to enjoy just such a gauntlet as this.” He went down the line, leaving a wake of blushes, kissing each cheek until he got to a little girl so small he had to hunker down to kiss her.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Cynthia Weeze Simmons.”

“The prettiest has been saved for last.” He kissed a delicate cheek and rose. “Any more? I was cavalry, you know, legendary for our charm and stamina.” This was said to tease the young ladies, but they all looked at their grandfather without breaking ranks.

“Once with you lot is enough,” the old man barked. “Shoo.” They departed amid more giggles.

Sindal looked disgruntled. “You made that look easy.”

“I have daughters, and I’m half Irish. It was easy, also fun. Rothgreb, can we repair somewhere private to transact a little business?”

“What? Business? Sindal can deal with those details. I’m going to find my viscountess and tell her she missed a chance to kiss Moreland’s war hero.”

Sindal passed St. Just the tumbler. “It helps if you’re as half seas over as the rest of the household. I have never longed more ardently for sunset. Uncle has set himself up as the Lord of Misrule until then.”

“And you’re not feeling the seasonal cheer?”

“Bah, to quote my uncle.” An odd smile flitted across Sindal’s face. “Among others. Let’s repair to the study. There’s a bill of sale and a decanter—and no damned mistletoe.”

“I rather like mistletoe.”

“I rather like a fine brandy.”

They dealt with the documents quickly, but Sindal had to hunt up the sand with which to blot them. “It should