Barbara Metzger (27 page)

Aunt Marta’s jaw hung open and Aunt Florrie clapped. The three wise men had indeed come, not in rough costumes, but in velvet and ermine and satin, with gold crowns and jewel-laden pendants, each bearing a silver casket on a pillow.

The youngest, Caspar, coughed and stepped forward. “We come from Lon—ah, the East, where, ah, great tidings are heard.”

The oldest, Melchior, adjusted his spectacles and pulled down his fake beard so he could speak his piece. “We come bearing gifts.”

Balthasar, his clean-shaven face blackened with cork, opened the chest he held to reveal a king’s ransom in jewels and gold. Juneclaire squeezed the dowager’s hand, quietly describing the scene. Then Balthasar hopped forward on his peg leg and laid the casket in the younger countess’s lap. “For you, Fanny, all for you. And don’t you dare swoon, because it took me long enough to coach my players and you have to pay attention.”

Lady Fanny’s lip trembled and she was shredding her handkerchief, but she did not go off in a faint. St. Cloud came to stand behind her, his hand on her shoulder.

Uncle George peered at her, then nodded. “Always knew you were stronger than you let on. Anyway, didn’t know what you’d do with frankincense or myrrh. Buy you all you want, if you say so, of course. Thought you’d be happier with this.” He directed Caspar forward.

Mr. Langbridge, the solicitor, bowed at Fanny’s feet and lifted the lid of his chest. “A royal pardon, my lady.”

“And a pretty penny it cost me too, Fanny. Half my island, the sugar plantations, and two of my ships. Don’t worry, though, puss. There’s plenty left. Oh, and Prinny might throw in a knighthood if I pay a few more of his debts.” He beckoned to Melchior.

Melchior stepped forward with twinkling eyes and opened his offering. Then he started to sneeze so hard from the cat in the room that Uncle George had to take over Vicar Broome’s lines.

“It’s a special license, Fanny, with a dispensation from the archbishop for me to wed my brother’s widow. Will you do it? Will you marry me at last?” He wasn’t fool enough to get down on one knee, not when the other was a piece of ivory, but he sat next to her, reaching for her hand.

Tears were falling from Lady Fanny’s eyes—and a few others in the room—but she raised her handkerchief to wipe the blackening from George’s face, leaving him an older, heavier, gray-haired, and sun-weathered version of the boy in the portrait, but with the same straight nose and cleft chin, and the same love for her shining in laughing eyes. “Can you forgive me for not waiting, George? I tried, but I did not know where you were, and the baby . . .”

“Can you forgive me for doubting you? For staying away so long?” He suddenly recalled the avid audience, family, guests, servants crowded in the entry, and pulled Fanny to her feet. When they were near the door, he turned back and took another paper from one of the silver chests. George tossed it to the earl, saying, “I brought you a gift, too, my lord. It’s another special license. Merry Christmas, Merry.”

 

St. Cloud took two glasses, one of the champagne bottles opened in celebration, and Juneclaire’s hand. “Come, my love.” He frowned down Lady Stanton’s incipient protests and smiled to Aunt Florrie, decking Pansy with the pirate’s treasure like a porcine Christmas tree.

When they reached the library, he quickly looked around. “We never did find the secret panel for this door. I can only hope Mother keeps the old scoundrel busy for a while.” He poured the wine and held a filled glass to Juneclaire. He raised his and toasted: “To happiness and laughter, and joy ever after, and you by my side. I cannot be as dramatic as Uncle George, but will you be my wife, Juneclaire? Will you make me the happiest of men?”

“To satisfy your sense of honor?” Juneclaire knew the answer, but she wanted to hear him say it.

“Honor be damned.”

That was not good enough. “Because Uncle George gave you no choice?”

“Because my heart gave me no choice, Juneclaire.”

He put the glass down and reached into his coat for a small box. “A gift for you.”

Juneclaire waited while he opened the box. A ring rested on a satin bed, a square diamond crowned with an emerald, a ruby, and a sapphire. “It’s the St. Cloud engagement ring. Will you accept it, my love?” He was putting it on her finger before she could answer. That was good enough.

“But I have no gift for you,” Juneclaire protested.

“You have already given me so much, my family, my home. That’s more than any man deserves. Yet I ask for the greatest gift of all. Will you give me your love, too, Juneclaire?”

“You don’t have to ask, Merry. It’s already yours and always has been.”

He lifted his glass again but brought it to her lips. “To us.” After she sipped, he turned the glass so his lips touched where hers had been. “Now all my wishes have come true.” Then he shook his head, put the glass down, and went to lock the library door. He came back and took her in his arms. “On second thought, I still have one wish. . . .”