Page 1 of A Rogues & Gentlemen Christmas

Winter’s Wild Melody

Chapter 1

“Wherein a bit of a deviation...”

12thDecember 1817. Belvedere House, Dorset.

Chance had not intended to spend quite so long in the company of his friends. He really hadn’t. Well, yes, all right, he had intended to avoid going home for as long as he possibly could, but… that was beside the point. The point was, somehow it had become the twelfth of December, and he’d been expected at home sometime… sometime on the tenth.

“Are you sure you must go?”

Chance looked around at his friend Tommy, the Earl of Stanthorpe. The earl was regarding the weather outside his luxurious home in Dorset with a frown of consternation. It had been damned cold the past few days, and was now threatening to snow.

“Yes, very sure. It will take me two days if I’m lucky. My father will be fit to be tied as it is.”

Tommy nodded sympathetically. “Leg-shackled, eh?”

Chance frowned at his boots, buffed to a mirror-like shine by Tommy’s excellent valet. “Not if I can help it.”

“But I thought it was all arranged. You said if you hadn’t found a wife by the end of this year, your dear old pa was going to arrange it all for you. Got a bride lined up, you said.”

Chance rolled his eyes. Really, Tommy was a kind-hearted fellow and a devilish good sort, but sometimes he seemed to miss the point. “Yes, he has. She’ll be there waiting to meet me.”

“What’s she like? Is she pretty?”

“How the deuce should I know? I never met the creature. I don’t even know her name,” Chance said, a little exasperated that Tommy didn’t immediately understand his fury. “My father won’t give two hoots if she looks like the backside of a horse, so long as her pedigree is a thing of beauty, Tom. He’d narrowed it down to a dozen candidates last time I saw him, but now he’s made his choice. Not that he’s told me a single thing about her, only that I need to come and introduce myself, and propose whilst I’m about it, no doubt. Why the devil do you think I’ve been hiding out here?”

“Oh,” Tommy said, face clearing. “But why go at all, then? Mind you, bad form, old chap. Poor girl will be sat upon thorns by now. Dreadful slight.”

“Ugh,” Chance exclaimed, throwing up his hands. “I know! I ought not to have stayed this long. I blame that bloody brandy you served the night before last.”

“Well, I didn’t exactly pour it down your throat,” Tommy remarked, folding his arms.

“I know, I know, that bit was certainly my fault, but if I’d realised the magnitude of the hangover I was in for, I’d have been a bit more circumspect.”

Tommy snorted and Chance had to concede the point. It wouldn’t have made a blind bit of difference. Still, the fact of the matter was, he was going to be at least four days late going to meet the young lady his father was trying to make a match with. That Chance did not wish for the match did not matter a jot. His father was putting his foot down: marry, or he’d be out in the cold. Chance was angry at being manipulated and not looking forward to the inevitable confrontation. However, it wasn’t the girl’s fault and Tommy was right. She must be dreadfully embarrassed by his failing to arrive. It was a dreadful slight, and his father would murder him for it. With that happy thought in the forefront of his mind, Chase set off on his journey home.

The first day passed uneventfully. As he had plenty of time to think, Chance had the opportunity to visualise many uncomfortable versions of the reception he would receive upon arriving home. With each mile, he became increasingly gloomy and almost turned his horse around and went back to Tommy’s, where his reappearance would be greeted with pleasure.

By the time he stopped for the night, Chance’s fingers were blue, and he’d lost all feeling in his toes. Once he’d ensured his horse, Ransom, was tucked up snug in a cosy stable, Chance warmed himself with brandy and a good meal, and fell into bed with relief.

The next day was worse than the first. The snow that had been threatening since before he left finally arrived. At first it was flurries of tiny white dots that left no trace upon the ground, but by mid-morning big fat flakes were tumbling softly and settling over the countryside like duck down.

“I don’t like this,” Chance muttered to Ransom, patting the big gelding’s neck. “But if I don’t arrive, my life expectancy is going to diminish faster than I wish to contemplate. Ah, well, we’d best push on, old fella.”

By late afternoon, the weather had closed in, the snow tumbling so thick and fast that Chance could barely see his hand in front of his face. They were already on his father’s land but, bearing in mind the estate covered over thirteen thousand acres, it did not mean he was close to home. The snow already lay in thick drifts and showed no signs of stopping. Even if he wasn’t chilled to the bone himself, he could not force Ransom on through this.

Turning his horse down a narrow track that was invisible to anyone who didn’t know every inch of the estate in detail, Chance headed towards Corry Brook Farm. The previous tenant, old Mr Burrough, had died three months ago, and his wife had gone to live with her sister. The farm was empty now, awaiting the new tenants who were arriving in the New Year. Chance would just have to put up there for the night and hope he could get home in the morning.

“Come on, my lad,” Chance said, dismounting with a curse of pain as his frozen toes hit the ground.

He guided Ransom into the stables, relieved to be out of the wind and snow. His face was burning with cold and he longed to get inside and light a fire, but he settled Ransom first, surprised and relieved to discover a good supply of hay for him. Once his horse was comfortable, Chance hurried to the farmhouse, trying to find a way in. The doors were locked and far too sturdy to force, but he found a window which was not in the best of repair and wriggled the latch open. It was an effort to squeeze himself through the small gap, but there was no way he was spending another moment out in this bloody freezing gale. With a muttered curse and a thud, Chance hit the floor, shoulder first. Well, at least he was in.

He felt bad about breaking in, though technically it was his father’s property, but Mr Burrough had been a kindly fellow and Chance had often ridden out this way when he was a boy. The couple had never had children of their own, and they’d always welcomed him. Mr Burrough had taught him much about the land and farming, far more than his own father, who was far too high in the instep for such talk of manual labour. Chance had loved his visits, and Mrs Burrough never failed to send him off with a hot pie or a cake and a fond smile. It seemed wrong to be here like this, with the old man dead and his wife gone, but it wasn’t theirs any longer. Sorrow sat in Chance’s gut like a pebble, and he felt uncharacteristically melancholy.

“Buck up,” he told himself, and got to his feet, moving through the gloom to the kitchen.

Though it was not yet evening, the world outside was a blur of white and the house was all cast in shadow, yet the kitchen was not as icy cold as he’d expected. In fact, it was warm. Chance moved closer to the fireplace, where a fire burned low in the grate. Strange. He turned in a circle, frowning.