Page 15 of How the Belle Stole Christmas

“Oh, there you are, Lady Talbot. Did Balwyn find you? Alicia said you were with Dr. Forester.”

Maria paused at the entrance of the drawing room and regarded her nemesis with a cool head. “Good afternoon, Harriet. How was your walk in the garden?”

Lady Piedmont looked up from the pair of pugs, who were busy shredding another one of Maria’s pillows. Her favorite, as it happened. The pillow with the embroidered bluebird. She distinctly recalled mentioning as much to the termagant before her.

I truly dislike Balwyn’s sister. Why did I ever wish to befriend her?

“I did not realize we had descended into informality, Maria, on such short acquaintance. A hawk nearly flew away with poor Achilles in your wilderness of a garden. My poor baby could have been injured.” She picked up the dog and cradled him in her arms. “A terrible place, your gardens. Not unexpected, given the abundance of salty vapors. The beds are laid out in a manner that is displeasing. Every tree requires a good trim. Poisonous plants abound.”

The only poison existing at Cove House was the woman before her.

“Possibly,” Maria said blithely, dropping all pretense at politeness with this terrible woman. “I’d advise you not to eat anything you don’t recognize at dinner.”

Lady Piedmont’s features hardened to stone. “Given the talent of your cook, that might be difficult.”

The entire drawing room had been cleared of even so much as a speck of soot from the previous evening’s mishap.

A fire crackled in the hearth. The yule log, what remained of it, burned away.

Nearly every green sprig was gone. Jonathan must have alerted Owen even before telling Maria.

Only the dried oranges and some berries remained.

Not at all festive. But no matter. Maria’s celebratory mood, one of gaiety, delicious food, songs, and other amusements had been… pissed on by Archimedes and Achilles.

Dr. Forester appeared, a small bowl clasped in his hands. He was followed by one of the kitchen maids, who carried a pot of tea. Both retreated to the corner of the drawing room, where Alicia had been sitting, completely unnoticed.

“I’ve brought your tea, Miss Smithers,” Jonathan said. “I apologize for the delay, but I found what I needed to make an ointment. Both should help.”

Alicia nodded slowly, features transformed as she looked at him.

He raised a finger to apply the ointment, and Lady Piedmont made a sound. “We don’t know where your hands have been recently, Dr. Forester. I can assist my niece.”

“I am a physician, Lady Piedmont.” He shook his head and moved away but not before handing Alicia the ointment.

“Rub some of this on your cheeks, Miss Smithers. Where the rash persists. Drink all the tea.” He bowed.

“I—must make some notes in my journal. I do so whenever I treat anyone. But perhaps you can help me, Miss Smithers, with the drawing of your rash later? I think it might come in useful should I come across a similar symptom in another patient.”

Utter devotion exuded from Alicia. “I would be pleased to do so, Dr. Forester. Thank you for your timely assistance.”

The other guests filtered into the drawing room over the course of the next hour, though no one seemed to be in an especially merry mood.

Uncle Leonard, Balwyn, Wilma, and Lady Piedmont began a game of cards.

Owen, bless him, brought forth a pitcher of rum punch, a specialty of his and much better than the syllabub that sat untouched on the sideboard.

Balwyn had taken a sniff and immediately moved on to something else.

Eventually, with enough spirits, the mood lightened.

Balwyn took a seat beside her on the settee, ignoring the cries from Lady Piedmont that he was holding up the game. Lacing his fingers with hers, he handed her a glass of the run punch.

“I am a fool. An imbecile. First this morning and then—it is rather off-putting to realize,” he murmured, “that you are jealous of a dead man. More so to be jealous over a doctor nearly half your age. One who will likely ask to court your daughter. Forgive me.”

“Only because it is Christmas.” Her heart lightened. “Apology accepted.”

“We will speak more of this later.” Balwyn pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “Unless Mrs. Killigrew sets the house on fire.”

“Do not say such a thing out loud, my love. The holiday is not yet over,” Maria warned him.

Chuckling, he returned to his card game, waving Alicia and Dr. Forester over to join in, but Maria declined.

She was quite content to sit in a comfortable chair and await the next disaster, nose lifted at the aromas emanating from the kitchens, which were suspiciously delicious.

Sipping the rum punch, she watched Lord Piedmont snoring quietly across from her, wondering how anyone could sleep so much.

If I was wed to Lady Piedmont, I would likely do the same.

Owen wheeled in a tea tray filled with small sandwiches, biscuits, scones, and tiny cakes.

Nothing was burned. Everything was edible.

There was plenty of rum punch and other spirits.

The atmosphere grew quite merry. Wilma was especially giddy given the punch.

Cooing over Balwyn in the most obvious manner, eyes soft and seductive.

Her Christmas attire, a tightly fitted gown of evergreen velvet that clung to her every curve, was nothing short of spectacular.

She sparkled, like a diamond in Maria’s drawing room.

Maybe Balwyn would be better off with Wilma.

The very thought made Maria’s heart ache.

She sucked the rum punch through her teeth. Or she could simply maim Wilma. Rip off her arms. Toss the punchbowl at her head.

Taking a deep breath, she took another swallow of the punch. Such vicious thoughts on Christmas Day were unwelcome, though given the display before her, not unwarranted.

Maria loved Balwyn. Fiercely. Giving him up, especially to that tart, didn’t sit well with her.

But, her rum-muddled brain insisted, the last few days might have changed his opinion of a future together, though Balwyn had just apologized for his own jealous behavior. He loved her. There wasn’t any doubt.

But sometimes, love was not enough.

Wilma giggled, far too loudly, leaning across the table to present her cards with a flourish. The seams holding the velvet of her gown together grew taut as the fabric was stretched to its limits.

“I win again. You’ve been trounced soundly. All of you.” A curl fell artfully over one cheek. “Aren’t you tired of being beaten, my lord?” she said to Balwyn before glancing from beneath her lashes at Maria.

Ugh.

“Owen.” Maria twirled her fingers. “Another glass, if you please. Excellent work on the punch. It nearly makes up for Mrs. Killigrew.”

“Thank you, my lady,” he intoned.

A hostess should not become foxed while entertaining visitors, but quite frankly, that rule only applied to polite, decent guests. Looking around the room, excepting Balwyn and Jonathan, Maria didn’t have any guests fitting that description.

She sipped at her punch and smiled. Maybe another bat would land on Wilma’s head.