Page 11 of How the Belle Stole Christmas

Christmas Eve

Dinner was not a complete disaster.

Mrs. Killigrew did not burn the capons, though the small birds were a trifle overcooked.

The mackerel was…rather minty. Sprigs of the herb were heaped about the fish in small piles.

The vegetables served, some sort of beans and the ever-present potatoes, were smothered in a wine butter sauce, not delectable but perfectly edible.

The artichoke soup, however, was delicious.

Given Lord Denton had been consigned to mostly broth and soup for the last few years of his life, Maria had expected as much.

“Delicious,” Uncle Leonard stated with an eruption of burps after polishing off three capons and a plate of the fish surrounded by a mound of potatoes.

He washed everything down with a bottle of Maria’s best wine.

Frankly, she was surprised he was still somewhat coherent. “Don’t you think, Piedmont?”

“Poor dear has nodded off again,” Lady Piedmont gave her husband a look of adoration, which anyone with eyes could see was false. “All the salt air, uncle, has had an adverse effect on him.”

Uncle Leonard leaned over. Sniffed. “Or the brandy. Never could tolerate his brandy properly. Told you that when he fell over at your wedding.”

Maria pressed a napkin to her lips to keep from laughing.

Fishing around in his pocket, Uncle Leonard pulled out the remains of a cheroot, the end bitten and chewed upon. “Don’t mind, do you?” He nodded at Maria. “Don’t want to freeze my bollocks off by stepping outside. Besides, it will cover up the scent of the mackerel.”

Balwyn pointed at Uncle Leonard with the end of his fork. “Don’t you dare. Put that away. I’ll take you to the study for a brandy once the meal has ended.”

Uncle Leonard huffed but put the cheroot back in his pocket.

Jonathan was seated next to Alicia, his gaze on her the entire meal. He kept staring at her rash, keen gaze traveling over her neck, until the girl stammered and blushed.

Once the meal ended, her guests gathered once more in the drawing room, save Balwyn and Uncle Leonard. Maria made her way to the fireplace. A small collection of embers lay banked, ready for the addition of this year’s yule log and the leftover ashes of the previous year.

“Well,” said Lady Piedmont as she sauntered in, Archimedes and Achilles dancing at her heels. “I suppose we will not be able to attend services tomorrow in your quaint little church. Not in this weather. Look at poor Wilma. She’s most disappointed.”

“Yes, given her pious nature,” Maria said to no one in particular.

“That is why I deplore the ocean—”

“Yes, we know, Harriet.” Balwyn walked in, his sot of an uncle following behind, panting and belching as much as the pugs.

Dear God. Maria hoped dear Uncle Leonard didn’t piss on the rugs as well.

“The salt. The sea air,” Balwyn snapped.

“The wet of it all, though London is far worse. You are the only person in existence to not find the ocean air to be calming, and I grow weary of your continued complaints. At the very least, I beg you to use something more original. You claim to be a brilliant conversationalist, do you not?”

Lady Piedmont sat with a huff. “There is no reason to be rude, Balwyn. I am only expressing my opinion.”

Balwyn went to the sideboard after hissing at his uncle, who had managed to pull out yet another gnawed cheroot from a vase sitting on a table behind the settee.

He’s probably hidden those foul things all over the house by now.

“Don’t you dare, uncle. I’ll throw you outside myself, along with Harriet’s ill-behaved dogs.”

“Achilles and Archimedes are not ill-behaved. Only rambunctious,” his sister pouted.

“They are atrocious, as well you know. Wilma.” He turned to the woman, who brightened, preening like a peacock spreading it’s feathers.

“I believe you promised to entertain us.” Balwyn pointed in the direction of the pianoforte.

“Please do so. And Piedmont,” he said to the earl stumbling near the fire, “if you must drift off at every opportunity, do so away from the hearth. If you fall in, we won’t catch you in time. ”

Every nerve in Maria’s body lit up. She adored Balwyn but especially when he strode about with such authority.

“I’ve recently had the pianoforte tuned.” Maria waved her forward. “I hope you find the instrument suitable.”

“I’m certain I shall.” Wilma strolled sedately to the pianoforte with slow, methodical steps, hips twitching far too seductively, in Maria’s opinion.

Lady Piedmont believed her friend to be barely a step from becoming a nun, a paragon of womanhood and an excellent mother.

Capable of presenting Balwyn with a dozen heirs, if only Maria could be vanquished.

What a pile of horse manure.

With a backward glance at Balwyn, Wilma settled on the bench before the instrument, taking the time to fluff out her skirts and show a bit of ankle to the room.

Features absent of guile, she smiled at Jonathan before glancing once more at Balwyn.

“Who would like to turn the pages for me?” Wilma blinked prettily at both men.

Trollop.

“Oh, I will, my dear.” Uncle Leonard hobbled over, bringing the reek of spirits with him. He sat beside her, shamefully rubbing his thigh against hers.

A polite smile strained her lips. “How delightful.”

“The yule log, my lady.” Owen waved Johns forward as Wilma began to sing. Her lovely voice was drowned out, however, by the drunken warbling of Uncle Leonard.

“I’m not nearly as poor at singing, my lord,” Maria couldn’t help whispering to Balwyn as she passed him, pleased when he chuckled.

A roll of thunder echoed through the house, following by an increase in rain pounding on the roof.

The brief respite in the weather had been enough, it seemed, to allow Dr. Forester to arrive and little else.

Lady Piedmont had been correct—there would be no travel at all tomorrow, not even for Christmas services.

What was next? A plague of locusts, perhaps?

Maria tapped her chin.

Was a plague of locusts enough to carry off the pugs?

Owen brought forth the box of ashes, likely from the kitchens and definitely not from last year’s celebration. Maria made a great show of having him place them around the new yule log.

“Tempting fate,” Owen murmured.

“Merely superstition,” Maria said. “I think we’re ready,” she proclaimed loudly to the room.

“My home is full,” Maria said, looking at Balwyn, “as is my heart. May we all be blessed in the year to come. Happy Christmas.” She lit the yule log, flames catching immediately, and clapped, facing her guests.

A sound came from the chimney, drowning out the sound of the tune Wilma was playing.

Maria and Owen glanced first at each other, and then at the fireplace.

“What was that?” she whispered to the butler. “I thought you had the all the chimney’s cleaned before we arrived.”

“I did.”

Another loud splintering. The echo of bricks tumbling and falling came next. Then a low groan, as if a banshee or some other terrible spirit was trapped inside the chimney.

“Oh…oh, no.” She fell back as a giant cloud of black dust billowed out of the fireplace, sending sparks over the rug before effectively dousing the yule log. The soot settled over Maria and Owen, blanketing them both. Bricks rained down on the yule log, knocking it out of the fireplace.

Two bats shot out of the chimney, wings trailing with soot. One landed atop Wilma’s head.

“Dear lord,” Maria whispered, coughing on the soot.

“Get it off. Get it off,” Wilma shrieked, pushing Uncle Leonard off the bench in her panic. Spinning like a child’s top, she swatted at her head, until one foot caught in her skirts. She fell, rolling over the floor.

“I’ll save you.” Leonard launched himself at poor Wilma, landing squarely on top of her, his face pressed firmly against her bosom.

Wilma screeched louder.

“Piedmont, do something,” Lady Piedmont shouted, hands held up to ward off the second bat, which was attempting to hide beneath the settee. She swooned. Wobbled. Dr. Forester rushed forward to catch Balwyn’s sister before she hit the floor.

“Aunt.” Alicia jumped up, scratching furiously at her chin.

Balwyn was on his hands and knees next to the screaming Wilma, who was swatting at Uncle Leonard as much as the bat.

Taking his coat, Balwyn managed to scoop up the poor creature.

He stood and walked purposefully towards the terrace doors.

“Johns, catch the other. It’s between Lady Piedmont’s feet. ”

Lady Piedmont roused long enough to see the soot-stained bat crawl up her skirts before fainting once more.

Maria looked down at her blackened hands, to the soot covering her dress, to the sobbing Wilma, helped to her feet by Uncle Leonard. Dr. Forester was waving smelling salts beneath the nose of Lady Piedmont, gently slapping her cheeks.

“Well, my lady.” Owens coughed. “I don’t suppose there will be anymore singing tonight.”