Lord Philip's Christmas (Regency Belles &Beaux Book 2) Read online

  The two men looked at each other. “What did he say to you to make you use the cross-block? That was not a kind thing to do, with a man of his accomplishments.”

  “Or lack of them. He cursed me in English, Marco, not knowing that I speak the language. I prefer not to hear my mother called a whore and my ancestors for several generations accused of impossible and painful perversions.”

  Marco laughed. “Nor I, my friend, but Louis, do not lose me too many customers because you cannot keep your temper when someone insults you. Your skills I admire but I can’t afford the loss of income. What if this man should carry the tale to his compatriots and they decide not to come here?”

  “They’re more likely to flock to you, out of curiosity if for no other reason. He enjoyed a reputation in England, or so he told me. His defeat is certain to be talked about and people will want to find out the truth of what happened.”

  “Let’s hope so, for both out sakes.”

  Marco said no more but the reprimand stung. Philip understood that, while Marco was a friend, he would not continue to employ him if he acted again as he had tonight. Fencing masters were not allowed to duel down an opponent who annoyed them; only gentlemen enjoyed that particular privilege. Some might say that Philip gave up his right to act like a gentleman when he fled from England. Lord Philip Sutherland, second son of the Earl of Kirkmore, was born one of the Upper Ten Thousand and any man’s equal. Baron Louis de Vezey, once aide to the Duc de Vicenze and now a lowly teacher of the art of swordplay, could not afford to lose his employment. He would not be the only person to starve if he did so.

  As Philip walked through the darkened streets of the capital, snow started to fall from the cloudy sky. He looked up, catching a brief sight of an icy moon looking down and filling the foetid alleyways with a milky light. It was December when the winter chill fell on the city and people died. For a moment Philip wished he was walking back to his home in the north of England. Even Kirkmore would be warm and welcoming on such a night, in stark contrast to what he knew awaited him at his lodgings.

  He stopped at a shop, bought a few vegetables and a hunk of cheese. A bottle of non-descript wine would help to make this unpalatable fare seem more like a feast, or so he hoped. He wished there were flowers to bring home, an early Christmas gift. Celia loved flowers, but they were impossible to find in this area of the city in winter. Trudging up the stairs to the rooms Philip rented in the dismal lodging house, he kept thinking that life could have been so different. If Celia’s father had not refused his offer for her hand in marriage. If Celia had not been made to marry a bully and a wife beater. If Philip had killed Staunton in the duel he had forced upon him as he intended. They would have been married and living in London or even at Kirkmore with perhaps a child on the way. They would have been happy; there was no doubt in Philip’s mind that this would have been so. Now they were existing precariously in this dirty place, whose putrid airs did not to allow Celia to recover her health. Ever since he rescued her from England, she had been ailing.

  I wanted to bring her to my aunt in the vineyards by the Isère, Philip thought, but if we had continued our journey, she would have died. Ifs, ifs nothing but ifs.

  He had been sure at the time that it was the right thing to do, resting for a while in Paris where he had contacts. The jolting of the stagecoach over the muddy autumn roads had made him fear for Celia’s life, but even when they stayed still, she did not become stronger. Every day, he dreaded the moment when he walked through the door of his apartment. Some days Celia would be waiting for him, alert and happy to see him. More often she lay in her bed, unwilling or unable to move. He had hired a young girl, Agathe, to care for her. It cost more than he could afford, so he had to send his manservant, Jacques, back to his home in Dauphiné. This was a blow, because they had become fast friends but he was not able to support two servants. Celia needed a woman to stay with her, in case anything happened, more than he needed a groom.

  Today it was Agathe who met him. She put a finger to her lips, ordering his silence.

  “How is she?” he whispered.

  “Asleep.”

  He picked up a lantern and tiptoed into the closet which held Celia’s bed. It was not one he was able to share with her. She had been too ill or too frightened to respond to him and so he used a paillasse beside the fire in the main room. A glance at Celia’s face made his heart start to pound. She was sheet white and, for a moment, she seemed not to be breathing. He put his hand to her neck, seeking her pulse and, with a surge of relief, he felt the faint beat. She did not stir as he touched her and this alarmed him.

  “Celia! Celia!” he cried. Her eyelids fluttered but she made no other response and his heart contracted. He hurried back into the main room.

  “Agathe, go quickly and fetch the doctor to Madame. I think she is worse. Why didn’t you send for me sooner?”

  “She was better this afternoon and went out for a short walk. It was only after she returned that she said she felt ill and took to her bed. At first I thought she was sleeping and by the time I realised she was worse, you would have been on your way here. Tell me I did not do wrong, Monsieur?”

  Philip wondered what to say. She should have sent for him, but how could this young girl know the difference between sleep and unconsciousness? So, he said,

  “Of course not, Agathe. Go now and hurry.”

  When she had gone, Philip retrieved the few francs he kept secreted beneath a floorboard under a small press in the corner of the room. He would need them to pay the doctor. Agathe was trustworthy up to a point, but he hid the few things of value he possessed and could not afford to lose. She was a comely enough girl and might have a boyfriend who was none too scrupulous. He never inquired about her life when she was not at the apartment.

  Docteur Nicot arrived, examined Celia and gave it as his opinion that she should be bled.

  “She is too weak to survive such a procedure, surely?” Philip objected.

  “She’s unlikely to survive in any case and without bleeding, she certainly won’t.” He went over to his bag and removed a knife and a bowl. He turned over Celia’s wrist and said,

  “Please hold her still.”

  The blade was descending when Philip caught his hand and pushed it away. The doctor glared at him. “Are you rejecting my care?” he demanded in a loud voice.

  “I am.” Philip met his eyes and held them, although he was shaking. “She’s weak enough. Wounding her will weaken her further.”

  “Unless the poisoned humours are released, she won’t recover, I tell you. If you don’t allow me to continue, then she is sure to die and the blame is yours.”

  For a second Philip’s resolve weakened and then he shook his head. “Can you suggest anything else, Docteur?”

  “Keep her warm, give her liquids while she can still swallow and pray. That’s all I can advise you to do, young man. The rest is up to her. If you forbid me to bleed her, there is nothing further I can do, unless she passes the crisis and regains consciousness. If she does, send for me.”

  Philip showed him to the door and paid him his fee, grudgingly. Then he told Agathe to heat some bricks on the fire. He opened the bottle of wine he had bought and tried to force a few drops between Celia’s lips but they ran out of the corner of her mouth. The bricks were put beside her in the bed. After a while, Philip saw sweat on Celia’s brow. He prayed that it was a good sign even as he mopped the moisture away.

  Agathe had crept into the room and shared his vigil. From time to time she replaced the hot bricks and tried, in her turn, to help the young lady to drink but she was even less successful. She would have brought food to Philip, but he told her he did not want to eat. It would sicken him. She offered to fetch her mother who had more experience of sickness than she had herself. This offer was accepted but, when Madame Buchard arrived, she had little advice to give him.

  “Is your wife with child, Monsieur?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” Philip was so sh
ocked by the question he blurted out, “Not by me, at least. She is not my wife.”

  “You have misled me Monsieur. I can’t have my Agathe continue living with you in a house of sin.”

  “Madame, I had no intention of ever deceiving you. Celia married a man who misused her. When she told me of her plight, I took her away from him in order to keep her safe. I intended to put her under the protection of my aunt but Celia has been too ill to travel to her home, which is in the east. Celia is my childhood friend; I could not have abandoned her to that brute. I swear to you I’ve never laid an unclean hand upon her. Agathe will tell you herself that she hasn’t seen the slightest thing wrong. Now Celia is so weak, she may die. Please let Agathe remain to help me until we know for sure.”

  The woman stared at him for a long time before she nodded slowly and said,

  “Ah la pauvre petite. Quelle vie. Agathe can stay until the lady recovers. When she does, you must send her home to me at once.”

  “My word on it, Madame.”

  Agathe’s mother left and they settled down beside the bed, waiting for Celia’s condition to change. The night was the longest Philip ever remembered. He sat shivering, despite a blanket around his shoulders and a glass of warmed wine in his hands. Agathe stayed with him most of the time, watching the pale face that seemed to become even paler as the sky lightened with the dawn of a new day.

  Philip was dozing when he felt a flicker of movement under his fingers as he held Celia’s hand. He jerked awake and looked at Celia. Her eyes were open and staring at him. There was a half-smile on her lips. Ever afterwards, he would swear that he heard her say, “My love…” Then her eyes closed, her hand fell away from his and she spoke no more.

  “Celia!” He jumped to his feet and leaned over her in sudden fright. “Fetch a mirror,” he barked at Agathe who had wakened at his shout and was staring at him with a frightened expression. “Anything bright will do. I must see if she still breathes.”

  She brought him a knife and he held the blade under Celia’s nose. Nothing marred the shiny surface. He touched her neck and her wrist but felt no more movement so he squeezed her chest, willing her to breathe again. Tears were running unchecked down his face and he did not realise that he was shouting. It was not until the girl’s arms seized him and tried to pull him away did he turn, his hand raised as if to strike her. Agathe reeled backwards, whimpering,

  “She’s gone, Monsieur. There is nothing more you can do. The good lady is dead. May the holy Mother of God look after her now. Let me do what is needful.”

  “No. Leave me alone.”

  He did not hear her go out. For a moment, he stood silent then his shoulders drooped.

  “What will I do now?” he murmured in a broken voice. “Whatever will I do without her?”

  Chapter Two

  “Monsieur, you must eat something,” Agathe said in a timid voice. Philip did not answer. He sat beside the bed, his head bowed onto the covers, holding Celia’s cold hand in his. With a jerk, he came out of a beautiful daydream where the two of them had been playing with their children in a meadow full of flowers. The grey dawn of reality pierced his eyes as he awoke.

  “What?”

  “Some food, Monsieur?” She held a platter with bread and cheese upon it.

  “No!” The thought revolted him.

  “Wine then?”

  “Yes, wine.” Wine might help him to forget that the dream could never come true now. He had finished the bottle when Agathe came to him again.

  “If you want more, Monsieur, then I must go out to buy some.”

  He thrust his hand into his pocket and pulled out some coins. “Here.”

  When she returned, she was accompanied by her mother and another, older, woman, whom she introduced as Madame Dupan. By this time, Philip’s thoughts had become muddled and he found it difficult to understand what they were telling him.

  “You must leave, Monsieur, while we get her ready.”

  “Ready for what?”

  “Why for her burial, of course. The curé is waiting to discuss it with you. Come now.” Madame Dupan took his arm in a firm grip and led him away from the bed. In the doorway, the impact of her words hit him and he twisted around violently.

  “No! You can’t take her from me.” He tried to surge forwards but stronger arms caught him and pulled him away.

  “She must have a proper burial, mon fils. Would you deny her that? Come sit beside me and tell me about her while the women do their work. They will treat her with all respect, have no fear.” The priest led him to a seat by the newly made up fire and eased him into it. “What was her name?”

  “Celia Staunton,” Philip’s tongue stumbled over the words. “But I knew her first as Celia Blackwood.”

  “Your wife?”

  “No, only a friend, although I wished to marry her.”

  “Yet you were living with her alone?”

  “Yes, but it is not what you think, Father. I am a man and I loved Celia very much. She also cared for me, but we were not in a position to wed. She married a monster who beat her so often and so badly that he nearly killed her. I rescued her and brought her from England to France. All the time we were together, she was too ill to consummate our love.” Philip raised his eyes and looked at the priest. “I won’t lie to you, Father, had she been well enough, I doubt I would have been able to restrain myself from touching her. It was circumstances that prevented us, not desire.”

  “At least you are aware of the fault, mon fils, and acknowledge it. Nevertheless, no matter what the situation, as the Bible says ‘what God has joined together, let no man put asunder.’ You did wrong to take her away from her husband.”

  “Her last few months have been peaceful. If that is a sin, then I am happy to have committed it and I would do so again,” Philip said looking at him defiantly.

  “You are English and therefore not of my faith perhaps?”

  “I’m not sure I have any faith left, but you are right. I was raised in the Church of England although my mother is French and a Catholic.”

  “That explains your fluency in the language, but the little Agathe called you by a French name?”

  “De Vezey, from my mother’s family. When I arrived in France, Englishmen were not well liked. It was safer to use a French name than my own at the time.”

  “Then may I know to whom I am speaking?”

  “For your ear alone, Father. I was born Philip Sutherland. To the rest of the world I am Louis de Vezey.”

  “A complicated situation but you can rely on my discretion. You know your own business best. To the matter at hand. Unfortunately, it is too late for me to hear the lady’s confession. Can you confirm to the best of your knowledge that she was in a state of grace when she died?”

  “Since I am not of your faith, Father, I am uncertain what you mean by a ‘state of grace’. Celia was a kind, sweet person whom I never saw do any harm to anyone. In the last year of her life, she suffered greatly, so surely any small sins she committed would have been expiated?”

  The priest smiled. “That is a matter for Le Bon Dieu, not for mortal men who are all steeped in sin. Was she baptised?”

  “Yes, she must have been. She lived near me as a child and she attended church on Sundays with her family.”

  He nodded. “What you tell me enables me to bury her in consecrated ground. Since you are not Catholic, would you prefer one of the Protestant pastors to perform the ceremony?”

  Philip shrugged. “I have no idea what Celia would have wanted. We never discussed religion, but for my own part I don’t think it matters, as long as the ceremony is conducted with dignity.”

  “I can assure you of that. I know a pastor who is a good man and whom I will ask to officiate if you wish me to do so.”

  “Perhaps you could pray for her together?”

  “I shall ask him. Tomorrow is the day our Blessed Lord came down onto this earth, so the funeral cannot take place until the day afterwards.”

 
; “As you will.”

  The winter rain fell on their shoulders when Celia Staunton, née Blackwood, was lowered into alien ground. She would rest far from the land where she had been born and had grown to womanhood. It was St. Stephen’s Day, the second of the twelve days of Christmas. A time of past rejoicing but Philip had not even been aware of the feast, alone in his cold lodgings, with only bottles of coarse red wine for his nourishment. No one came near him, not even Agathe or Marco. He had made it perfectly clear to both of them that he wanted to be left alone with his love for as long as it remained possible. He spent the time in daydreams and a welcome unconsciousness, when the wine overcame his senses. It was not until early this morning that his friends returned to help him to get ready for the funeral. Other people carried the flimsy coffin down the stairs and laid it onto the handcart to take it to the cemetery. Now Agathe stood beside Philip, with Marco on his other side. Victor was there too, with Agathe’s mother and the formidable Madame Dupan. They listened to the priest and pastor praying for her, then the grave was closed and the mourners moved away.

  “A man at the Salle asked after you yesterday,” Marco told Philip as they were sipping wine in the nearest tavern. They were trying, not very successfully to thaw their frozen hands and feet.

  “Who was he?” Philip asked indifferently.

  “An Englishman. He said his name was Charville and he begged the privilege of fighting a bout with you.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “He’s not been the only one asking for you since you thrashed the English milord. You were correct that your victory over that miscreant has brought me more customers rather than less.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “When are you coming back to us? The funeral is over and it can’t be good for you to sit brooding alone. Your lady would not want you to, would she?”