Five Golden Rings: A Christmas Collection Read online

  Five Golden Rings

  A CHRISTMAS COLLECTION

  SOPHIE BARNES, KAREN ERICKSON, RENA GREGORY, SANDRA JONES, VIVIENNE LORRET

  Contents

  Mistletoe Magic by Sophie Barnes

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  About Sophie Barnes

  His Perfect Gift by Karen Erickson

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  About Karen Erickson

  War of the Magi by Rena Gregory

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  About Rena Gregory

  Her Christmas Knight by Sandra Jones

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  About Sandra Jones

  Tempting Mr. Weatherstone by Vivienne Lorret

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Epilogue—Christmas

  About Vivienne Lorret

  An Excerpt from Nights of Steel by Nico Rosso

  An Excerpt from Alice’s Wonderland by Allison Dobell

  An Excerpt from One Fine Fireman by Jennifer Bernard

  An Excerpt from There’s Something About Lady Mary by Sophie Barnes

  An Excerpt from The Secret Life of Lady Lucinda by Sophie Barnes

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Mistletoe Magic

  SOPHIE BARNES

  Chapter One

  Hallidan

  December 1, 1810

  A LOUD RAP at the door announced the arrival of yet another afternoon caller at Rosedale Park. Having said good-bye to her previous guest no more than five minutes earlier, Leonora Campton was standing precisely halfway between the parlor door and the taupe silk sofa when the heavy knocker that her father had installed right before his departure for the East Indies sent a shudder through the old brick walls of the house. Whoever it was seemed quite determined to be heard. One thing was for certain, Leonora decided as she swiftly perched herself on the nearest seat, arranged her skirts, and cast a quick glance at the tea tray: a maid would soon materialize without her ringing the bellpull, for the sound must surely have carried throughout the house, to the attic and all the way to the kitchen below.

  Not knowing whom to expect, Leonora neatly folded her hands in her lap and regarded the parlor door with the perfect poise that her mother had put such effort into teaching her. Chin up and shoulders back, she made a conscious effort to smile just enough to look polite—a delicate balance that had taken hours in front of her looking glass to master, for in her own estimation, she always felt she looked like a grinning idiot whenever she was forced to play the part of the ever-hospitable lady of breeding.

  Whatever concerns she might have had, however, quickly fled with the arrival of a graceful woman dressed in a lovely pink gown topped with a fuchsia-colored velvet spencer. “Duchess,” Leonora said, rising to her feet as the lady in question swept past Simpson, the butler, who’d barely managed to open the parlor door, much less announce the Duchess of Arbergail’s arrival before the woman had managed to cut across the floor to his mistress. “What a pleasure it is to see you again.”

  “How very kind of you to say so, my dear,” the duchess replied, pausing for a moment to give Leonora a complete, head-to-toe inspection. “Though I must say that it is high time you exchanged your mourning gowns for something more lively. You are still young, after all, and one must not forget that it was your mother herself who always said that life is not for the dead but for the living.”

  “It seems wrong somehow,” Leonora began, her mother’s all-too-early death still a fresh wound in her heart. “I cannot help but feel as though I’d be betraying her by moving on so soon.”

  “My dear girl.” The duchess’s voice was filled with genuine concern as she took Leonora’s hand in hers and pulled her down onto the sofa that stood nearest the fire for what seemed to be rapidly developing into one of the duchess’s typical tête-à-têtes. “Your mother and I were the closest of friends—so much so that we might as well have been sisters. I have mourned her passing every moment of every day, and I shall continue to do so until I draw my very last breath, but rest assured when I tell you that this . . .” She made an elaborate gesticulation with both of her hands to indicate that Leonora’s ensemble did not pass muster as far as she was concerned, no matter the circumstances. “. . . is not what she would have wanted for you. She was a spirited woman, your mother, and I can assure you that it would grieve her to know that her otherwise vibrant daughter had withered away the moment she departed this earth, as you so clearly appear to have done.”

  “I lost my mother,” Leonora felt compelled to point out. They had been close, the two of them, for she was an only child. What she didn’t care to discuss was that she’d practically lost her father too, for he’d sought a means of escape from all the heartache and grief by setting sail as soon as the first opportunity had arisen. He’d returned a week ago, only to set out again two days later, and while Leonora could easily understand his reasoning (for she knew she would have done the same had she been in his shoes), she still wished he would have stayed a little longer, for her sake—after all, he was her father, and the truth of it was that she rather missed him.

  A soft knock at the door sounded, and they were momentarily interrupted as a maid, just as Leonora had predicted, arrived with a fresh pot of tea on a tray that also carried cups and a plateful of biscuits.

  “She has been gone for over a year now, Nora,” the duchess told her with a kind sense of familiarity that immediately filled Leonora with warmth. It was true what she’d said earlier—the duchess and her mother had been like sisters, and the duchess had always been like an aunt to Leonora—more so than her real aunts had been, for she’d had very little contact with her blood relations growing up. “It is high time that you got on with living your own life—it is what she would have wanted for you.”

  Leonora hesitated. She knew that the duchess was right—if for no other reason than her mother had made her promise on her deathbed that she would mourn for no more than a year at most, after which she must move on, venture back out into society, and make a heartfelt attempt at finding a husband. This had been her mother’s utmost desire—that her daughter would find both love and happiness with a houseful of boisterous children. In light of the fact that she’d still been in mourning during the summer season, Leonora had hoped to shirk this particular duty for a while yet. Still, Christmas spent in complete solitude did sound a bit too depressing. “Perhaps you are right,” she heard herself say, though she realized that her voice sounded anything but certain.

  The Duchess o
f Arbergail apparently didn’t notice, or if she did, she chose to ignore it, for her face brightened as she clapped her hands together saying, “Wonderful!” She then poured each of them a cup of tea, eyeing Leonora with a conspiratorial twinkle to her eyes over the brim of her teacup as she took a healthy sip. Setting her cup on the table, she then confessed, “In truth, I must admit to having an ulterior motive for wishing you return to society right now.”

  Leonora paused momentarily, with the brim of her teacup resting against her lips. She then took a tentative sip.

  What on earth can the duchess be up to now?

  She didn’t have to wait long before the duchess reached for her reticule, opened it, and promptly pulled out an object that had been carefully wrapped in a burgundy piece of velvet. “This is for you,” she said as she offered Leonora the small bundle. “It is time for you to resume your mother’s work.”

  Leonora raised her eyes to meet the duchess’s gaze, but found no answers there—just a reassuring smile and a small nod. Leonora was finding it difficult to imagine what her mother and the duchess had been up to. Eager for answers, she quickly began unfolding the velvet until a small, leather-bound book was revealed. Again she paused, sensing that opening it might reveal a secret she’d rather not know.

  “It’s quite all right,” the duchess said. “Your mother wanted you to have this.”

  Taking a deep breath as she pushed her misgivings aside, Leonora slowly opened the book to the first page, upon which was written her mother’s name in her own hand. Swallowing hard, she forced back the threatening tears and the tightness in her throat as she turned the page to reveal a newspaper cutout—a wedding announcement from the twenty-second of May, 1803, asking one and all to rejoice in the most happy occasion of Miss Brookston’s union with the Earl of Margate.

  “I don’t understand,” Leonora muttered, feeling more puzzled than ever, or so she thought until she continued to flip through the pages only to discover many more similar clippings—all of them wedding announcements from the past seven years.

  “This is your mother’s book of achievements,” the Duchess of Arbergail pronounced, as if this explained everything.

  Leonora stared back at her, completely confused, until it suddenly came to her. “Oh dear Lord, Mama was a matchmaker.”

  The duchess chuckled as she shook her head with obvious amusement.

  Apparently she’d decided to take her time with her explanation, for rather than say anything further, she simply reached for a biscuit and proceeded to peck away at it. Leonora took a deep breath.

  Dratted woman—if only she would get to the point.

  “In a way, I suppose you are correct,” the duchess finally ventured. “But she was so much more than that.” Eyeing the four corners of the room as if she half expected an eavesdropper to be lurking behind the silk curtains, she lowered her voice to an almost inaudible whisper. “She was a guardian—one of only six ladies comprising The Ring of Protectors.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Really, what else was there to say in response to such an outrageous statement—and about her own mother no less?

  Surely the duchess must have a few bats loose in the belfry.

  “We are a very private club with the sole purpose of promoting the marriageability of wallflowers, bluestockings, and such—women who would make excellent wives if someone would only take them under their wing and offer them a bit of proper guidance. After all, when everything is said and done, a man would love to have an intelligent and kindhearted woman by his side, but first, he must be made aware of her existence. That’s where The Ring of Protectors steps in.”

  Leonora gaped at the duchess. “My mother was a part of this, you say? In earnest?”

  “Oh yes,” the duchess said, taking another sip of her tea. “Your mother was quite successful—very discreet and with fourteen successful marriages to speak of.”

  “I had no idea,” Leonora muttered as she slumped back against the sofa. In truth, she was filled with a multitude of emotions all at once—pride in her mother’s accomplishments, disappointment that she’d never shared this part of her life with her, sadness that she never would, and an unwilling jealousy toward the many women who had. It was all very confusing.

  “Well,” the duchess said with a note of apology. “The important thing is that you’re finding out about it now—especially since we would all be thrilled for you to take your mother’s seat in the ring. After all, she inherited hers from your grandmother, so it only seems—”

  “My grandmother was a part of this?”

  “Oh yes, my dear, our little club is not as new as you might think.” She took Leonora’s hand in hers and offered her a warm smile. “Please tell me you’ll at least consider it. I believe it would not only give you a purpose but allow you to gently ease back into society without feeling too stranded. And the Christmas season here in Hallidan won’t be nearly as overwhelming as what will await you in London next year.”

  “I’m not sure I—”

  “You will make a perfect guardian, of that I assure you. Do you not recall your debut? Everyone was fawning all over you—your poise, your grace, your charm, your looks . . . you would have been a grand success if . . . well . . .” The duchess tactfully stopped herself from continuing that sentence. “What matters is that we get you back out there.”

  “How does it even work? I mean, how do you select your charges?” Leonora asked, warming to the idea of a project that would, as the duchess correctly put it, give her the excuse she needed to attend all of the season’s events as well as focus her energy on something other than her grief.

  “Well,” the duchess said—her tone increasingly enthusiastic. “We have compiled a list of suitable young ladies. There is one at the back of your mother’s book there, but since it was a little out-of-date, I have taken the liberty of updating it.” She nodded toward the small notebook that Leonora still held in her hands. “At the beginning of each season, we decide on who should focus on whom—generally we each have two young ladies to watch over each year, but since this is your first time, we’ve only given you one for now.”

  Leonora could scarcely believe how organized all of it seemed. She had tons of questions, of course, but for now, she asked only the one that she felt mattered the most. “Who is she?”

  The duchess’s smile widened to a victorious grin. “I can only tell you that if you agree to join our cause.”

  Feeling as though she was leaving her past behind and leaping toward an uncertain future, Leonora nodded. “I do.”

  Chapter Two

  “FRANKLY, PENNINGHAM, I’D be most obliged if you could point me in the right direction. This dratted business with Baron Wolfston is beginning to wear me down,” Connor Talbot, the seventh Earl of Redfirn said as he sank back against one the comfortable high-backed chairs that stood in his library at Redfirn Manor, and reached for his brandy.

  Across from him, his friend studied him with a pensive frown before saying, “Really, Redfirn, I still don’t quite comprehend how you managed to end up in this mess to begin with.”

  Connor winced. He should have known the man would be unable to stop himself from stirring up the past and just offer a simple solution to the problem at hand—Penningham’s nature was far too inquisitive. However, in this instance, it did appear as though Penningham had suffered a lapse in memory. “Perhaps because you were foxed at the time,” Connor offered. It was the only explanation really since Penningham had been very much present at the card table that fateful evening three weeks earlier. However, his mind, it seemed, had not.

  Penningham appeared to consider this, for his frown deepened as he gazed off at some point in the distance. Clearly, Connor would have to jog his memory, for his friend did not appear as though he were even remotely close to recalling what it was that had taken place—in his own home, of all places. “It was at one of those blasted liquor and cigar parties of yours. As you can imagine, I had my fair share of brandy—bloody stuff m
ust have clouded my judgment. At any rate, I ended up losing to Wolfston, and now I must do the gentlemanly thing and pay my debt to the man . . . loath though I am to do so. But you know how it is out here by Hallidan. There are no fewer than seven large estates within as little as five miles of the town—eight if I include yours. We’re all rubbing elbows with each other. Avoiding the man will be close to impossible, not to mention that he threatened bringing the matter to my mother’s attention!”

  An annoying grin suddenly appeared on Penningham’s face. “Ah yes—the fog is beginning to clear.” And then he actually had the audacity to laugh. “I bet you wish the stakes had only been a sum of money.”

  It had certainly been one of Connor’s many regrets. That, and the fact that he’d had a glass too many that evening. His head had certainly suffered the consequences, and now, it seemed, so must his pride. Of all the damnable favors, why in the name of all that was holy had the old man insisted that if he lost, he’d play matchmaker for the old man’s son?

  It was beyond pitiful—not only for Connor, but for Grenly too, he’d imagine. The lad might be a little young and awkward, but surely, this went beyond anything that any man might wish for. It was . . . it was . . . oh, bloody hell, it was deplorable. Utterly and completely shameful. Which was probably why Wolfston had insisted that his son was to know nothing about their arrangement. Christ!

  The old blighter knew that Connor was one of the most popular men about town. There really wasn’t much point in denying a fact that was obvious for all to see. And Wolfston had cunningly taken advantage of his inebriated state. It hadn’t been until the following morning that the reality, and severity of the situation, had begun to sink in. He would not only have to befriend Grenly in a manner that did not suggest he’d been coaxed into doing so but find him a wife to boot—a suitable one with good connections. It was enough of a muddle to warrant another glass of brandy. Downing the last few drops from his tumbler, Connor reached for the decanter. “No need to sound so pleased about it,” he muttered.