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“Very little,” Ross replied. “He keeps himself to himself. But young Mary, here, might know more,” he gestured to the maidservant—a girl barely out of childhood—who’d brought in the potatoes. “Your grandmother cooks for Mr. Scrimgeour, does she not?”
“That’s right, Mr. Trelawney, sir,” the maid said.
“Is he a good employer?”
Mary blushed. “He pays grandma right enough, but he counts every penny as if it were his last. ‘Rotten old miser,’ grandma calls him, begging your pardon, sir.”
“And is he a good sort of man, Mary?” Miss Claybone asked.
“Not at all, miss,” Mary replied. “He’s called the Beast of Boscarne in the village. His wife died four years back. They say he murdered her, and that her ghost inhabits Boscarne House. Grandma says it’s nonsense, and that Mrs. Scrimgeour died of childbed fever, but some say he strangled her while she lay in the bed and he then ate the child. Grandma’s the only one brave enough to venture there. Save some of the local young ’uns who go there for a dare, to see if they’d be eaten up, too. I went there once, even though my brother Billy said I’d get all eaten up, and I heard this strange wailing, just as if the ghost of…”
“That’s enough, Mary!” Alice said sharply. Amelia and Georgia were focused on Mary, their mouths open in wonder at her tale. “Please refrain from gossiping about your betters.”
“Yes ma’am, sorry ma’am.” Mary bobbed a curtsey, then exited the dining room.
“You must forgive Mary,” Alice said. “She’s a good-natured girl, but has rather a loose tongue.”
“But you must admit that gossip is often founded on truth,” Stiles said.
“I trust you don’t adopt that principle when presiding over one of your hearings,” Miss Claybone said sharply. “A magistrate must display impartiality.”
“True, but he must also ascertain the truth as presented to him. An advocate will always be biased in favor of the man he champions. The skilled magistrate must therefore glean just as much from what isnotsaid in court, as he does from what is presented before him.”
“And does he place weight on gossip borne of malice, Lord Stiles?”
Jeanette nudged her sister. “Have a care, Sue,” she whispered. “Perhaps this is not a suitable subject for discussion at the dinner table.”
“I fail to see why not,” Miss Claybone said. “After all, we’re all judging this Mr. Scrimgeour based on local tongue-wagging, are we not? What about you, Jeanie? Weren’t you known as the Holmestead Harlot before you married Henry?”
Jeanette colored and the duke cleared his throat, but Miss Claybone was not to be stopped. “And Countess Stiles had a reputation for insanity, if I recall. As for Mrs. Trelawney here, she was once known as the Deranged Duchess.”
Ross slammed his glass on the table, and Alice reached for his hand. Their gazes met, and she shook her head. His eyes, dark with anger, softened as she curled her fingers round his.
“Sister, that’s enough!” the duke growled. “Would you insult our hostess, not to mention our fellow guests?”
Miss Claybone colored and sat back. “Forgive me,” she said. “I meant no offense. I was merely pointing out that many of us have been made to suffer as a result of past misunderstandings. We, of all people, should understand the pain caused by a cruel nickname.”
“Miss Claybone is right, of course,” Alice said. “But now, perhaps, we can find something a little more pleasant as a topic for discussion. We are, after all, supposed to be enjoying Christmas. Ross, my love, were you able to procure some holly to decorate the drawing room with?”
Ross nodded, and the conversation soon turned to the forthcoming festivities. Mrs. Bascomb had promised to present them with the biggest roast goose to grace the tables of Cornwall since the Great Goose Incident of 1806—when the roast was so heavy that, according to the cook, it had split Sir Hugh Tremelling’s dining table in two.
The rest of the evening passed without incident, though Alice spent most of the meal picking at her food. She had been suffering from a bout of indigestion and, as much as she loved star-gazy pie, even small mouthfuls caused her stomach to cramp. After supper, Jeanette entertained the company at the pianoforte while Monty and Twinkle snored on in their baskets, Twinkle none the worse for wear after her adventure. By the time Alice had dismissed her maid and slipped into bed, the pain in her stomach had abated, soothed, no doubt, by the port she’d sipped while listening to the music.
The door opened and Ross appeared in the doorway, shirt unlaced, revealing a tempting thatch of curls on his chest, which she knew grew thicker lower down.
“May I join you?” he asked.
“Of course,” she said, drawing back the bedsheet, “though you seem somewhat overdressed for the occasion.”
His eyes widened at the sight of her naked body, and he ripped his shirt off and approached the bed. By the time he slipped in beside her, the rest of his clothes lay scattered about the floor. He pulled her against his body, her back against his chest.
“Are you still hungry after supper?” she teased. “Mrs. Bascomb will be most disappointed for not having given satisfaction.”
“It’s not Mrs. Bascomb I want to please tonight,” he said, his breath tickling against her ear, “neither do I wish to seek satisfaction from her.”
She relaxed into his arms, relishing the strength of his body, and the feel of him—hard, hot, and ready—against her back.
“Miss Claybone’s a prickly character, isn’t she?” he murmured, nuzzling against her ear.
