Mackenzie Family Christmas: The Perfect Gift (10 page)

A maid opened the door from the inside, gave David a deferential smile, then slipped away, carrying out whatever tray she'd come here to remove.

Hart Mackenzie, the Duke of Bloody Kilmorgan, sat on a gilded chair from the last century, ruining its finish by rocking back on the chair's legs and resting his feet on the large bed beside him.

In that bed, like a queen on her throne, reposed Eleanor, Duchess of Kilmorgan, formerly Lady Eleanor Ramsay, the woman whom David, once upon a time, had fallen madly in love with.

Tonight she lay in a modest dressing gown, pillows behind her, covers pulled up under her arms. Nothing could hide the large bulge of her abdomen, the symbol of her love for David's oldest friend, Hart Mackenzie.

* * * * *

Chapter Nine

"David." Hart brought his legs down and swung up and out of the chair, sounding genuinely glad to see him. "Welcome."

His handshake was warm and strong, Hart's clap on David's shoulder as hard as ever.

"Forgive me for not rising," Eleanor said, her smile as lovely as ever. "For obvious reasons. I had an awful morning, and I was told unequivocally that I needed to rest." She glanced at Hart, who paid no attention. "It's good to see you, David. Come and give me a kiss."

Oh Lord.
David pasted on a smile as he crossed the room, took Eleanor's outstretched hands, and leaned down to kiss her cheek. She smelled of honey and lavender, and she was still beautiful, even with, or perhaps because of, her face and hands plump with her pregnancy.

"I'm so glad you've come," Eleanor said softly.

No false politeness. She meant it.

David didn't deceive himself, however. He'd always known he hadn't stood a chance with Eleanor, no matter how besotted he'd become. Eleanor had refused David years ago, after Eleanor and Hart's very public breakup, and she'd never married at all until she had a chance again with Hart. It had always been Hart with her.

"Better than me rotting at home alone at Christmas," David said in a jovial voice. "A Christmas cracker isn't much fun to pull open on your own."

Eleanor winked at him as she released his hands. "There will be plenty of people to break them with here. Especially a few young ladies."

David backed away from the bed and dropped into a chair. Dear God, even the decorative furniture in this room was comfortable.

"No matchmaking, El," David said. "Don't you dare. I'm a drunken sot, and the women who like me are not the sort I'd introduce to my mother. I prefer it that way."

Hart had resumed his chair, observing the exchange in his eagle-eyed way. He didn't hover and growl like a jealous husband, but the watchfulness was there.

Foolish man. Eleanor was madly in love with Hart, the Lord only knew why. Hart had been the very definition of the decadent rake in his younger days, with David his avid disciple, though sometimes his tutor.

"I feel certain there is someone out there for you," Eleanor said. "It's only a matter of narrowing down possibilities and presenting opportunities."

"No," David said emphatically. He hooked his ankle around a footstool and dragged it to him, settling his dirty boots on it. Exhaustion was beating on him, making his eyelids sandy.

"Leave him be, El. He's our guest." Hmm. Was that Hart Mackenzie being so kind and understanding?

"True," Eleanor said. "And there's the matter of the little task we need him to do."

Ah ha.
Hart was never kind without a reason.

"So you called me here to work, did you?" David asked. "And all I thought was that I'd take advantage of your soft beds and excellent food."

"And you will," Eleanor said, smiling that smile that meant she was up to something. "We need it done before Christmas Eve, and then you can sit back and feast as much as you wish."

"Good." David's eyes narrowed. "What is this task for which you need my expertise?"

"Blackmail the Earl of Glastonby," Eleanor said.

She spoke in a matter-of-fact voice, as though she commanded her husband's friends to blackmail a gentleman every morning, two after teatime.

"Glastonby?" David's tiredness ebbed as interest took over. "Prudy Preston that was? He was head lad at school," he explained to Eleanor. "Ready to pounce as soon as you even looked as though you thought about breaking a rule. Still that way. What has he done to be blackmailed by
you
, Eleanor?"

"Nothing yet," Hart said quietly.

"Now, this sounds more intriguing." David reached for the flask inside his coat and took a drink of whiskey. "I believe I take your meaning. You wish me to goad Glastonby into a compromising position, and then threaten to tell the world about it, unless he gives me . . . what?"

"A Ming bowl," Hart said.

"A Ming . . . You've lost me."

"For Ian," Eleanor said. She'd placed her hands on her abdomen, and her face took a faraway expression, a mother lost in the contemplation of her child.

Pain like a poisoned dart stabbed David's heart. He did not so much wish anymore that Eleanor would carry
his
child, but he envied Hart for having a beautiful wife, thick with his firstborn, so in love with her husband that she'd help him ask his friend to do a spot of blackmail for him.

David shifted uncomfortably, wishing the pain would go away. "Ian collects Ming bowls, yes," he said. "And you are saying Glastonby has one. The question I ask myself is, why do you not simply purchase the bowl from Glastonby?"

"He won't sell," Hart said. "I've spent the last week and a half tracking down a bowl almost exactly like one of Ian's that was broken--a blue one. The design has to be blue, Beth says. Glastonby has the closest I can find. I made a large offer for it, which he promptly turned down. Won't sell to a Mackenzie, he said. Not to me, not to Ian, not to any of our wives. We are tainted and don't deserve to possess such beauty."

"Sounds like something Prudy Preston would say."

"Quite vexing of him," Eleanor said. "Ainsley offered to steal it, leaving a substantial payment for it, of course, but Hart's idea is better. You can obtain the bowl for us and put your Prudy Preston in his place at the same time."

She looked so smug, so confident as she plotted Glastonby's doom. The man didn't stand a chance.

David took another sip of whiskey. "Your wife is dangerous, Hart. Do you know that?"

"Aye, so I've learned." Hart's solemn tone made David want to laugh. The great Mackenzie, feared by men and adored by women, had been brought to his knees by blue eyes, a wide smile, and a bloody devious mind.

"And therefore," David said, "you called in the expert on all things perfidious, your old friend, David Fleming."

"You'll do it?" Eleanor asked. "Excellent."

"Of course I will do it. I'd do anything for you, El, and you knew that, which is why you had your servant send me up here. What had you planned to offer me as a reward?"

Eleanor shrugged. "Soft beds, a feast at Christmas and Hogmanay."

"All very tame and domestic. I'll do this, but we'll discuss my price later. That will give me time to think of something outrageous--"

A soft tap on the door cut off David's speech, followed by the door opening, and the creaking Wilfred putting his head around the doorframe. "Your Grace. There is the matter of letters to sign before I depart for Kent." Wilfred's tone was less apologetic than reproachful.

Hart rose at once.
Tamed by his wife, tamed by his secretary.
Amusing.

David's amusement faded when Hart leaned down and gave Eleanor a kiss. The kiss turned from a brief good-bye to something more passionate, more intimate, more private.

The look Eleanor gave Hart when he lifted away shattered any illusion David might have harbored that Eleanor ever had been torn between the two men. She looked at Hart with pure love, nothing less.

"Talk to El for a moment," Hart said, following Wilfred. "Don't upset her." The flash in his eyes told David that all the wars of the world would be nothing to Hart's rage if Eleanor was upset.

David saluted with his free hand. He took another pull of whiskey as Hart closed the door, then tucked the flask back into his pocket.

"How are you, Eleanor? Truly. You can tell Cousin David."

"Truly wonderful. Running such a large household has its difficulties, but we are weathering."

"Even having to run it while you're laid up?" David gazed at her distended belly under the covers. "Once upon a time, I'd hoped that . . ." He gave the unborn Mackenzie a nod. "But it wasn't meant to be, I suppose."

"No, it wasn't. I'm sorry, David, if I ever hurt you."

"Hurt me? You ripped out my heart and kicked it about a mile, but no matter, dear lady. I'm made of resilient stuff." David decided to stop being selfish for two seconds in his life. He let his voice grow gentle. "You're madly in love, El. It shows on you, and it shows well. And it is obvious that Hart is madly in love with you in return. He always has been."

Eleanor's glorious smile spread across her face. "I believe he is, though when I when I was younger, I was too daft to understand that."

"And I have never forgiven Hart for the way he treated you." David got to his feet, alarmed when his legs swayed under him. "He deserves to be thrashed soundly. Although he paid for his mistakes, I would say." David leaned his fists on the bed, more to steady himself than anything else, and leaned down to kiss her cheek. "I am happy for you, El. And for Hart, the blackguard. I'm not so much of a bastard that I'd wish you any unhappiness."

"And you'll always be dear to us, David."

David snorted a laugh as he stood up, or tried to. The nips from the flask had been a mistake. "Don't grow sentimental. I'm only
dear
to Hart when he wants something. David does his dirty deeds."

"This one is in a good cause."

"For baby brother Ian? Yes, I suppose it is. And if you think I loathe to go to the Earl of Glastonby and threaten dire things, you're wrong. I'm looking forward to it." He leaned down and kissed Eleanor again, because what fool wouldn't when he had the chance?

"David." Hart's voice rumbled behind him. "Please take your hands off my wife."

David carefully straightened up, showing that he touched Eleanor only in friendship. Well, he didn't want to, but he'd keep it cordial.

"Leave me alone, you lucky bastard," David said. If he weren't so drunk and exhausted, he'd be more restrained, but if he didn't find a bed soon, he was going to die. He used Hart's arms to steady himself as he passed him. "If you make her unhappy for a single second, my friend, I will shoot you."

"My valet is waiting outside to help you. Sleep it off." Hart patted David on the shoulder.

The pat was friendly, but hard, and David had to struggle to keep to his feet. David blew a mischievous kiss to Eleanor, then swayed out the door and happily let the valet have his way with him.

*** *** ***

"There, guv. How's that?"

Ian, dressing in the dark morning, paused impatiently. He wanted to fetch his children, meet Cameron and Gavina for their early ride, and then get back to his task in the sitting room. Christmas was nearing, and he and Daniel weren't finished.

Now Curry had turned from the wardrobe in Ian's dressing room and faced Ian with something resting on his small palms.

It was a Ming bowl, or what looked like one, but cracked and crazed with bits missing. Ian stared at it a moment, then losing interest, went back to buttoning his riding coat.

"It's your bowl," Curry said. "The one you bought from the Russian. Me and the others below stairs, we stuck it back together for you."

Ian looked at the bowl again. He knew full well that it was the bowl Beth had broken, with its pleasing lines of dragon and vine, and the lovely blue. When Ian had first taken it out of the box, it had sung like a symphony. Now it was broken, like a violin that would never make music again.

"No need," Ian said. "It's ruined."

Curry lowered his hands, his brows drawing down, that look on his face that meant Ian had disappointed him somehow. "You know, working for you can be bloody painful, my lord."

Ian straightened his collar. So Curry had said before. Ian never had any idea how to respond to that.

"This took us a long time, guv. And some of the bits had been broken to powder, so of course it can't be all there again."

He sounded exasperated. But then, Curry often did. Curry had done so much for Ian, however, one constant in Ian's swirling madness. Curry had cared for Ian when no one else had, when the man could have walked away and let Ian drown in his own confusion.

"Curry," Ian said. "Thank you."

"Oh, praise from me master. Do you want the bowl, or not?"

Ian glanced at it again, but the bowl no longer sang, no longer eased his jangled world. "You keep it."

Curry's eyes widened. "You'd give me a priceless Ming bowl?"

"Not priceless anymore. Or throw it away, as you like. I'll buy you a better present."