Mistletoe and Mayhem - Cheryl Bolen Page 0,35

Parker. If I were advanced in years and possessed of a weak heart, you’d have me finished off, and you’d be seeking new employment,” he complained even as he held out his hand for the journal.

“Apologies, my lord,” Parker murmured as a slight weight settled on Hector’s palm.

He brought the journal to his chest and caressed the familiar leather. “What news?”

“No one is talking still. Not about her or the child.”

“Is she still here?”

“Indeed, yes. A large breakfast tray was sent to her chamber early.”

“One to the nursery, too?”

“No. The nursery remains empty.”

Wealthy women did not often share their beds, their chambers, with their offspring. They shunted them off to the servants to care for their needs. Lord Clement had been assigned four servants by his father when he was a boy, and Hector, from a slightly less-well-off family, had been granted two. “What about her servants?”

“There are plenty about, but none of them seem to belong to the lady. I was curious about the child and went up to see for myself. The nursery is empty and quite cold. Nothing is being done to make it ready for habitation yet.”

“Perhaps the child has gone.”

“No one has left the estate since the carriage departed last night, my lord. Not in this weather.” He shrugged. “There is a visitor expected in a few days, though.”

“Who is it?”

“No one would say.”

“Ah, well that’s something to look forward to.” Hopefully not another of Vyne’s unwelcome surprises like last year. Last year, Vyne had tried to match his son with the daughter of one of his toadies. “Keep your ears open.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Hector hoped that whoever was coming was someone nearer to his age rather than Lord Vyne’s. Older men tended to become stodgy and humorless. Lord Vyne was a prime example of what happened when men reached a certain age.

He peered at his valet, who was still hovering at his side. “Any word from Lord Vyne?”

“None, my lord. I believe he does not rise early, though.”

“Or at all. Well, perhaps I’ll see Vyne in the afternoon.” But for now, it seemed the morning was likely free to spend as he liked. He couldn’t imagine Clement forging on in this dreadful weather, not with Meg along and likely complaining of the cold every half-mile. “You can go. Why don’t you go butter up a maid and find out more about our mysterious lady guest?”

The fellow’s eyes lit up with amusement. “Shall I take that as an order to consort, my lord?”

He shrugged. “As close as you’ll ever get from me, I should think. But remember, I’ll not rescue you from any below-stairs scandal should you get a child on any chit. You’d have to marry her etcetera, etcetera.”

“Never fear. Like you, I value my independence far too much to make such a careless mistake with a woman.” He bowed and sauntered from the room, leaving Hector to his solitary comforts.

But first.

The journal.

Hector got to his feet, rounded the impressive library desk, and sat down in the well-padded leather chair. He reached for quill and ink and added a few words about his arrival at The Vynes. There wasn’t very much to say, unfortunately.

December 18 ~ Dreadful weather. Arrived before Meg and Clement. Lord Vyne indisposed to conversation. Port before bedtime an excellent vintage. Slept well. Breakfast ham was a little dry. Mysterious guests intrigue me.

Chore done, Hector closed the book. He’d kept a daily record of his life from the moment he’d inherited the title. In those pages were scandals and conquests, joy and heartbreak. All the things he’d experienced. He did not censor himself. He wrote the unvarnished truth so that his own son would know more of him than Hector had of his father.

He was about to rise from the desk when a child suddenly raced into the room—a small boy, wearing a rumpled brown suit. The child’s face was narrow and pointed, hair pale and falling to his shoulders. The child laughed before flopping onto a wide velvet chaise.

A willowy beauty raced into the room, scolding someone called Pip about daring to run away. They did not see Hector sitting across the chamber, so they carried on with their own business.

The woman punched her hands to her hips but smiled down at the boy. “What am I going to do with you, young man?”

“Love me,” the boy replied, giggling as he wriggled on his back on the velvet chaise looking up at her.

“Oh, I do love you, my lad,” the woman