“Spoilsport,” said Hugh. “It all sounds hilarious. I am devastated to have missed it.”
“Same.” Giles genuinely did look devastated. “I’d have paid good money to watch you get tarred and feathered.”
“It was honey—not tar—but I’ll concur that the end result was much the same. I had to soap my head ten times to get all the sticky out of it.” Gal chuckled himself, because even he could see the funny side of what had happened. “I’m still finding feathers in places feathers have no place being.”
The door opened and he automatically gazed at it to watch her arrival, but instead of Venus it was Giles and Diana’s butler-cum-valet-cum-journalist’s-one-legged-assistant who clonked through.
“Sorry to hear about your bum, Mr. Sinclair.” Dalton lacked social restraints as much as he lacked body parts, and to match his butler’s livery his current eye patch was purple. “I took a musket ball in me hindquarters as a young seaman, so know it’s no picnic. Felt like someone shoved a hot pike up my arse every time I sat down.”
As there was no answer to that except agreement, Gal nodded. “How go things with you, Dalton?”
“Mustn’t grumble, Mr. Sinclair.” With a flick of his mangled hand, Dalton directed all the servants to load the sideboard with dishes. “As you can see, I am in fine fettle.” About as fine a fettle as a man with one eye, one leg, and seven fingers could be.
“And Mrs. Dalton?”
The man beamed. “I just found out that my Dahlia is up the spout again, thanks for asking. We’re hoping this one will be a girl.”
Gal did a quick mental sum in his head. “So this will be number…five?” In just four years. Poor Dahlia seemed perennially pregnant.
“I’ve told him he needs another hobby.” Giles rolled his eyes and pulled a face of disapproval. “Even with two jobs, and more additional young Daltons than this poor world could possibly ever need, he still has too much free time on his hands as he is disgustingly fecund.”
At Gal’s confused expression, Diana helped him out. “It meansfertile,Gal.”
“Ahh…”
“And I’ll make no apologies for it. After four strapping sons, if my Dahlia wants a daughter, as a good husband it is my solemn duty togive her one.” The reprobate winked unrepentantly at his coarse double entendre before he clonked back out again, using his peg leg to hold the door open for Venus.
“You might have told me you were starting dinner.” Her eyes flicked briefly his way before she frowned at her middle sister. Against his better judgment, Gal took the opportunity to surreptitiously soak in the sight of her.
She was wearing a more daring gown than she usually risked in public. Plain. Undeniably simple enough for an intimate family dinner at home, but in a fabric luxurious enough to be as fancy as the occasion warranted. But while the heavy navy velvet had long sleeves in deference to the snow outside, the bodice was cut low enough to show an alluring amount of plump, alabaster cleavage and tight enough to make aman’s mouth water. Gal certainly had to clamp his shut tight in case he drooled.
She glanced around, her movements uncharacteristically jerky. “Where is Lord Dorchester? Has he not arrived yet?”
Beside him Jeremiah shuffled while Minerva, who was on the opposite side of the table from Gal, inspected her cutlery as if her life depended on it.
“Well… um…” Diana looked to her pregnant belly for wisdom for a moment before she decided not to make any excuse for the pompous fool’s absence and swiftly passed the buck. “I left Olivia in charge of all the arrangements.” She tapped her stomach with insincerity. “What with the baby and all the packing still left to do before we all depart for Shropshire…”
Venus glared at Olivia, who smiled in response. “I must confess, I’ve been so busy organizing our own packing, dear, I completely forgot to extend the invitation. Probably because it has traditionally been only us eight for family dinners. I can only apologize for my absentmindedness, Vee.”
“I see.” Although like the rest of them, Venus knew that Olivia hadn’t invited her pompous beau on purpose.
“To be honest, dear, I have probably done Lord Dorchester a favor, as he is bound to feel left out when we all inevitably meander down memory lane as this family are so prone to do at Christmastime. And once again, this is the only chance we have to celebrate the season of goodwill with dear Galahad here.” She narrowed her eyes in mock chastisement. “Especially as he finds so many flimsy excuses to avoid spending the yuletide proper with us the way he so patently should.”
“Hence I am here, Olivia, despite my embarrassing stitches, and quite resigned to my fate.” The annual pre-Christmas dinner was one family occasion a year Gal could never get out of—not even for work—and the one he simultaneously appreciated the most and dreaded at the same time. He appreciated it because it was thrown specifically for him by his cousin to make up for Gal’s perennial absence around the actualChristmas dinner table. He dreaded it because it reminded him that it would soon be Christmas, and he hated Christmas. It dredged up too many painful memories, which were better avoided.
Thankfully, the family never celebrated theirs in town. They alternated between Giles’s sprawling estate in Shropshire, where they were going this year, and Hugh’s stately pile in Hampshire. Gal could always politely refuse, citing The Den as the reason.
“Tonight, in honor of Galahad, we are having roast goose with all the usual festive trimmingsandplum pudding.” Olivia wiggled her eyebrows at Giles, knowing his sweet tooth was his nemesis. “You have a whole pudding to yourself this evening, Giles darling.”
The attempted deflection did little to placate Venus, who was clearly rankled at the distinct lack of her dull old windbag at the table. To her credit, rather than cause more of a scene, she bit her lip and took her allotted seat, not happy that she had been placed directly across from him as well as being denied the scintillating company of her pompous beau. She was also apparently suddenly uncomfortable to be wearing such a revealing dress; while the soup was ladled into bowls, she kept tugging the perfectly fitted bodice upward until she gave up and fiddled with her locket instead. A sure sign that she was rattled by something.
Much to his complete disgust, Gal’s foolish heart hoped it was him.
“You’ll be pleased to know that the Claypoles cleaned all of the feathers and bird droppings up without any trouble.” That had been their allotted task today, the first day of their official punishment, because in the space of one short hour while they were being recaptured, those birds had completely redecorated his new attic. “The honey, on the other hand, proved more problematic.” One of them had to break today’s fresh ice, so he figured it might as well be him. “But Mrs. Witherspoon came to their rescue with some vinegar and two large scrubbing brushes and that did the trick, so everything’s now back the depressing state it was in before the birds and the twins arrived.”
“I am glad that those rascals sorted it.” She snapped open her napkin rather than look at him. “I should probably thank you again for taking all their juvenile pranks like a good sport.” Her fingers briefly grazed her locket again, dragging his eyes to where she toyed with the pendant against her distracting cleavage for a moment before he nailed them front and center on her face. “I cannot fathom what they could have possibly been thinking to do what they did.”
“Can’t you?” He couldn’t let her off entirely scot-free. Especially as the others had already begun chattering among themselves and they had a brief and rare moment to converse without being scrutinized. “You must have realized by now that Tommy Claypole worships you and would do whatever he thought appropriate to avenge you. What did you tell him in the carriage that day to fire his blood?”
