Page 17 of How the Belle Stole Christmas

“Under the circumstances, my love, do you think this wise?” Balwyn’s eyes were bleary. He was slightly foxed. They all were. The cheese was gone. The fruit eaten. A plate of mincemeat pies had appeared, but no one had dared touch them.

She’d instructed Owen to have Ann and Betsy, the two kitchen maids, start baking bread. Biscuits. Anything, really.

“Not in the least,” she murmured, strolling a bit unsteadily into the drawing room. But she’d promised Alicia, and considering the girl was convinced Maria had tried to poison her, perhaps a game of Snapdragon would make amends. Or a match with Dr. Forester.

“We have a request,” Maria clapped her hands.

“Miss Smithers has asked for Snapdragon.” She waved Owen forward with the bowl of heated brandy, filled with raisins, bits of dried currant and something she couldn’t identify.

Maria hoped it was dried fruit and not squash…

because it looked very much like squash.

Wilma, prepared to show off her assets in her holiday finery, stepped forward immediately. As did Alicia and Dr. Forester.

A good sign. Though the likelihood of injuries was quite high.

“I’ll play as well.” Uncle Leonard shuffled forward, squeezing next to Wilma.

Owen lit the brandy, and the small bits of fruit—and possibly squash—floated about the flames.

Dr. Forester went first, snatching out a currant with surgical precision.

He presented it to Alicia who boldly popped it into her mouth, beaming at him the entire time.

Giggling, she went next, shrieking as she fished out a whiteish square.

Placing it in her mouth, she frowned and set it on a side table.

Owen whisked it away without being told.

I do hope that wasn’t a bit of leftover mackerel.

Wilma was triumphant in snatching out a raisin. She held it up in a vaguely seductive manner to Balwyn, before placing it in her mouth and licking at her lips.

“More punch, Owen.” Maria held out her glass. She decided she wouldn’t mind if Wilma caught on fire.

Uncle Leonard stumbled over to the flaming bowl of brandy. Wiggling his brows he said, “What sort of treat would you like, sweet Wilma?” His bleary eyes strayed to her bosom. “A currant?” He examined the bowl. “Or whatever that is.”

“A raisin, Mr. Adams. They are a favorite of mine.” She batted her eyes, flirting shamelessly with the older man.

I am not the only one who has had too much punch.

“I’ll retrieve one for you, my dove.” Reaching into the bowl with shaking, gnarled fingers, Uncle Leonard attempted to focus his intoxicated gaze on a raisin.

Finally spying his quarry, he grabbed a raisin between two fingers.

“Bloody hell, that’s hot.” He tossed the flaming raisin into the air, where it landed on Achilles.

Or possibly Archimedes. Maria leaned over to peer at the animal. She still couldn’t quite tell them apart.

The pug yelped, the searing hot raisin stuck to its backside, which the dog then proceeded to drag across Maria’s rug.

“Good grief,” Balwyn plopped down beside her. “You should have Owen burn that rug tomorrow, given all it has tolerated in the last few days.” He calmly sipped his own punch. “Never mind. I’ll do it myself.”

“Achilles!” Lady Piedmont jumped from her chair. “My baby.”

“Next year, we are going to Windhaven,” Balwyn whispered to her. “Promise me.”

“I think that a foregone conclusion.”

Cuddling Achilles in her arms, Lady Piedmont stomped over to where Maria and Balwyn sat. “Stop this atrocious game. This instant. Alicia, back away.”

“Aunt—” Alicia was…giggling. Had she had the rum punch? “Achilles is perfectly fine. And you must admit, it is all quite amusing.”

“I’ll say nothing of the kind. There is nothing at all amusing about this evening. Nor the visit. The holiday is ruined.”

Archimedes, who had been laying quietly in the corner, suddenly launched himself at Uncle Leonard’s legs, perhaps in retaliation for the injury of Achilles.

Uncle Leonard grabbed hold of the small table holding the fiery bowl of brandy. The table wobbled, tilting wildly to the side.

Oh. Dear.

Maria and Balwyn stood at the same time. “Owen, perhaps we should—find Johns,” she said weakly, already knowing it was far too late.

The bowl of brandy tilted, finally sliding to the floor, with a splash, dousing Lady Piedmont’s skirts with spirits.

A tiny flame burned at the very edge of her gown, sending the scent of burning wool into the air.

She screamed, flinging Achilles away from her.

Before Balwyn or anyone else could come to her aid, Lord Piedmont, in a burst of unforeseen heroism, launched himself at his wife.

He knocked her to the ground, rolling Lady Piedmont about rather…

intensely and swatted at the small bit of charred wool.

“I’d forgotten my sister had ankles,” Balwyn mused.

Maria pressed her lips together. “She could have been injured.”

“Doubtful. She merely reeks of brandy. The gown, however, is a total loss.” Balwyn didn’t sound at all concerned. “I’ve never seen Piedmont move so fast. He’ll sleep for weeks after this.”

The entire room watched as Lord Piedmont helped his wife to her feet, everyone biting the insides of their cheeks to keep from bursting into laughter, even Wilma. Truly, there was no harm done to Balwyn’s sister except a bit of wounded pride.

Lady Piedmont pushed her husband away. “Stop, you oaf. Get away. I’ve never been so mortified in all my days.” Hands on her hips, she marched to stand before Maria.

“I did not want to come here, Balwyn. Every instinct told me not to. But I did so out of affection for you. I know you think yourself enamored. That you wish to…” She pushed a wave of hair that had come free from her coiffure from her cheek.

“But if you think, for one moment, that I will condone or otherwise give my blessing for you to wed this…this…woman. After the humiliation I have suffered.” Her finger shook as she pointed at Maria.

“You are mistaken. She is not acceptable. Not the sort you make a wife. You would be far better off with Wilma, or literally anyone else but Lady Talbot.” She made a huffing sound.

“Harriet,” Balwyn said in an icy tone. “You’ve had an excess of wine. Behaved poorly this entire visit. Sit. Down.”

“Look at her, laughing at the pain of poor Achilles. She poisoned your daughter. Treated your Uncle as if he were some sort of vagrant. And she’s invited her lover”—she pointed at poor Dr. Forester—“to dine with us. He’s probably already seduced Alicia.”

Alicia’s mouth popped open.

“London buzzes with her degenerate nature. The company she keeps. Hazel Dartmont, of all people. Another woman well known for her escapades.”

“She is the Duchess of Courtland.” Maria’s hands clasped before her. “And my dearest friend.”

Lady Piedmont ignored her. “My niece and I are in agreement, Balwyn. We spoke just this morning. If you continue to pursue this course, actually wed this woman, Alicia will come live with me. I will no longer—”

“Enough,” Balwyn thundered. “Not another word.”

Maria swayed on her feet. Completely…stricken. Deflated. She took several steps back. Fell against the cushions of the settee. Lady Piedmont and Alicia were in agreement that she was unacceptable. Not only would Balwyn lose his sister, but his only child. Because of her.

This wasn’t what she had wanted. Poor Balwyn. Look what she’d caused. Yet another estrangement. Just like Talbot. If she loved Balwyn, truly loved him, her rum-muddled brain shouted, she would let him go. So he could be happy with that pious tart and her splendid bosom.

“Balwyn,” Lady Piedmont sputtered.

“Had I wanted to wed Wilma, or any of the dozens of women you’ve pushed at me, I would have done so.

Uncle Leonard…” He reached over and slapped the cheroot the older man put to his lips.

“Go outside if you wish to smoke. And Alicia, stop frowning and sputtering about or Dr. Forester will never ask permission to call on you. Which I will give and not your aunt.”

“I would like to call upon Miss Smithers,” poor Jonathan whispered, the tips of his ears bright red.

“Wonderful,” Balwyn thundered.

“This—this—” Lady Piedmont lifted her chin. “I will not be treated in such a manner. Not by my own brother. Insulted by this harlot.” She pointed at Maria. “Who has put you under her spell and—”

Maria shut her eyes. Swayed against the cushions.

“Wife, silence.” Lord Piedmont snapped. “For once in your life, shut up.”

Lady Piedmont’s eyes widened. “But.” Her lower lip trembled. “Piedmont.”

“This”—Balwyn took up Maria’s hand, pulling Maria to her feet—“is the future Lady Balwyn, if she’ll have me. And considering the behavior of my family, I’m not sure I’ll be able to convince her. I am ashamed and embarrassed of all of you. Except you, Dr. Forester. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Thank you.” Jonathan looked like he wanted to crawl beneath the settee. “My lord.”

“Owen.”

“My lord.” The butler snapped to attention.

“Pack them up. All of them.” Balwyn snapped his fingers. “This instant.”

“Father,” Alicia sputtered.

“I want the lot of them on their way to London at first light. I don’t care if the trip will be mud-stained or how many coaching inns must suffer their presence.

I want them gone.” He turned to his daughter, tone softening only slightly.

“Even you, Alicia. Go stay with your aunt since you and she are of like mind.”

Lady Piedmont let out a wail. “You can’t be serious. I will not accept this.”

Wilma sat down looking as if she might burst into tears.

“I don’t care,” Balwyn snapped.

“Lord Balwyn,” Jonathan started, looking at Alicia.

“This is not the time, my good doctor. I’ve given my permission, but do not wish to discuss matters further at this time. Do not test my mood. Call upon me in London.”

“Yes, my lord.” Jonathan bowed and cast a look of longing in Alicia’s direction. “I’ll gather my things.”

Balwyn pulled Maria close. “Go upstairs, my love. I will handle the rest of this mess, including the firing of Mrs. Killigrew. I’ll enjoy that quite a bit. I’ll be kind. She nearly smacked my uncle with a rolling pin, which he greatly deserves.”

“Owen is going to dismiss her tonight,” Maria whispered.

“He’s going to be otherwise occupied with all the travel preparations.” He pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Did I ever tell you I know how to cook? Not a great deal, but enough that with two kitchen maids, we won’t starve. I can make an omelet, for instance.”

“I didn’t realize you could cook,” Maria said, a tear running down her cheek.

She gazed around the room at the huffing Lady Piedmont, a pained but resolute Wilma who was swatting away Uncle Leonard’s wandering hands, and Alicia, who was still staring at the space Jonathan had stood moments ago. “Are you sure?”

“I have never been surer of anything in my life.” He kissed her, rather forcefully, in front of the entire room. “Will you have me? Despite…” Balwyn waved an arm in the general direction of his family. “Them?”

Maria cupped his cheek. “Yes,” she said loudly so Lady Piedmont could hear her. “I believe I shall.”