Page 9 of How the Belle Stole Christmas

“Had I wanted nonstop rain, Lady Talbot, I could have stayed in London. That is the problem with having a home near water. The endless rain.”

“Thank goodness London has only the Thames, which is vastly preferable, particularly in the summer. But perhaps you’ve never noticed.” The stink of the Thames was notorious, especially when the weather was warm. One couldn’t help but smell it.

Lady Piedmont’s lips thinned. “At least dear Wilma decided to join us. Thank goodness. She brings such joy to any celebration. Such a droll wit and amusing manner. She and Balwyn will probably spend the day playing chess. They…enjoy each other’s skills.

” She chuckled. “Goodness, that sounds quite impolite, doesn’t it? I meant at chess. Don’t they, Alicia?”

Alicia looked up at her aunt, shrugged, and returned to her sketchbook.

“Do you play chess, Lady Talbot?”

“I’m afraid not.” Talbot had spent a great deal of time attempting to teach her the game, but the sight of all those carefully carved pieces and talk of strategy never failed to bore her. She didn’t even enjoy draughts very much.

“Oh, don’t apologize. Not many grasp the complexity of the game.”

Would it be rude if she threw her book at Lady Piedmont’s self-important head?

Probably. And Alicia would be a witness to her poor behavior.

Or even opt to defend her aunt. Maria would be wrestled to the ground in her own home.

The pugs would launch an attack, tearing at her clothing.

Owen would have to beat those drooling rats off her skirts.

“Wilma excels at chess.”

Oh, of course she does.

“Balwyn has often commented what a challenge she presents.” Lady Piedmont shot her a patent smug look. “A gentleman enjoys a challenge. One that is not mastered too quickly.”

“Hmm,” Maria said. Lady Piedmont was exhausting. In less than a quarter hour, she had insulted Maria’s hospitality, intelligence and suggested Maria was a trollop. “Or one that becomes too tiresome, I think. A gentleman will lose interest after a time. Don’t you agree, Lord Piedmont?”

Maria glanced at the man swilling her brandy as if it were water.

Her opponent made a small gasp of disbelief.

Goodness. That felt wonderful. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some matters to see to. I’ll have Owen show you the library.”

The two ridiculously named pugs raced into the room, chasing each other and knocking over a table. A vase crashed to the floor, along with a decorative snuff box.

“Oh, dear. You boys are rambunctious, aren’t you? Come to mommy.” Lady Piedmont patted her skirts. “Poor things. Trapped inside due to the foul weather.”

Achilles and Archimedes slobbered at Lady Piedmont’s legs. She tossed down the pillow at her back, clapping her hands when the dogs attacked, sending bits of thread, damask, and feathers into the air.

Do not scream, Maria. Do not.

She got as far as the drawing room door when Lady Piedmont exclaimed, “Archimedes. Such a bad boy.

A foul odor filled the air, making Maria’s nose wrinkle in disgust.

“Owen, please have someone clean this up immediately. I thought you assigned a maid to see to their needs,” Lady Piedmont snapped at the butler, not bothering to apologize.

Maria counted to ten and continued into the hall.

Perhaps Elizabeth, the unlucky maid assigned to watch those two rodents could forget them in the garden for an hour or so.

Balwyn had not yet left the study, so he’d either fallen asleep on the leather sofa, something he’d done in the past, or he was still working.

Maybe, Maria thought with trickle of anticipation, she could coax Balwyn into napping upstairs. With her.

The study door was ajar, and Wilma’s, musical laughter floated into the hall. “How did you possibly anticipate that move, my lord? You know me far too well, it seems.”

Maria rolled her eyes and peeked inside.

Balwyn and Wilma sat facing each other, a chess board on the table between them. He seemed intent on the board, a pawn dangling between his fingers.

Wilma, however…

The woman possessed an overly large bosom, impossible to hide under any circumstances.

Even wearing a modest day dress, there was no missing her generous curves.

That was not in debate. But she deliberately leaned so far over the chessboard that one of the pieces was in danger of being swallowed by her cleavage, disappearing into the valley between those two massive globes forever.

Balwyn, bless him, seemed oblivious.

But Wilma knew exactly what she was doing despite her pretense of being a demure, modest widow with a love of macarons and architecture.

Maria was just about to announce herself and come to her lover’s rescue when Johns, her footman, appeared.

“Lady Talbot.” Johns appeared quite…distraught. Considering how things had been unraveling during the last few days, it was not a good sign.

“What is it?” Maria kept one eye on Wilma and her bosom.

“You’re needed in the kitchens. Owen is occupied with Lady Piedmont.

There is an elderly beggar at the kitchen door.

He keeps insisting he’s an invited guest. Won’t take a scrap of food.

” His cheeks reddened. “Mrs. Killigrew is chasing him about the worktable with a rolling pin.” A crash sounded in the distance.

Drat.

She’d have to leave Balwyn in the clutches of Wilma. Maria only prayed Talbot’s chessboard—and her lover—survived such a brazen assault of bosom.

A muted scream, like that of a wounded animal, echoed up the hall.

Good lord, what was happening?

Maria headed towards the kitchens, Johns at her heels, for which she was grateful. She’d no idea what would greet her, given Mrs. Killigrew. Stepping inside, she halted abruptly.

Mrs. Killigrew, pipe dangling from her lips, chased a short, untidy man dressed in a saffron-colored coat around the kitchen worktable.

She clutched a rolling pin in one of her hands, waving it in a threatening manner.

Curses spewed from Maria’s temporary cook, so vile in nature even Johns was blushing.

The man, obviously a beggar, froze, a fork clutched in one hand like a sword.

“Stop.” Maria hollered. “This instant.”

Both combatants froze.

“Mrs. Killigrew, the holidays are a time for charity and goodwill. We do not attack those less fortunate with kitchen implements in my house.” Maria placed her hands on her hips. “It is Christmas. Or nearly.”

The cook’s arm froze above her head, rolling pin at the ready, her other hand on a large butcher knife. Frowning, pipe snapping between her teeth, she ceased in her pursuit of the beggar. “Vile little creature,” she spat out.

Light shone off the bald head of the beggar. A pair of spectacles perched on his nose, eyes enormous behind the ridiculously thick, glass giving him the appearance of a wrinkled frog.

“Hag,” he shouted, pointing the fork at Mrs. Killigrew. “I’m not a beggar,” he insisted. “I am a beloved family member.” The stench of gin emanating from him was so strong, Maria nearly choked on it.

This was the man Owen had turned away earlier.

Obviously, he was confused. Drunk. Perhaps both, if he assumed he’d been invited to Cove House by Maria.

The poor man was in dire need of help. The least Maria could do was provide him a warm meal before sending him on his way.

The small church in Appleton would take him in for the night.

“Sir,” she started. “May I assist you in—”

“I was invited here for Christmas,” he declared, gin-soaked breath rolling across the mincemeat pies laid out on the worktable.

Mrs. Killigrew made a sound. She slammed the butcher’s knife down on the table but did not let go of the rolling pin, eyeing the man with great distaste.

“You insult me. I don’t seek charity. I was invited here by my family. As a guest.”

“This is my home, sir. And I don’t believe we’ve ever met.

” Definitely addled. “I can have Johns take you to Appleton. Vicar Palmer will welcome and provide you shelter.” She motioned towards Johns.

“Perhaps a coin or two.” Beggars were uncommon, but there was a ragman who lived behind the sawmill in Appleton.

Perhaps that was where this man had come from.

“Coin,” he said in an insulted tone. “Sent on my way.” He shuffled towards Maria, bleary eyes taking her in. “My niece, Lady Piedmont, requested I come for Christmas so I could get a look at Balwyn’s harlot.”

The entire kitchen went silent. Mrs. Killigrew lowered the rolling pin. Johns shuffled behind her. Ann and Betsy, the two kitchen maids, lowered their gazes.

“I am Mr. Leonard Adams.” He pushed the pair of spectacles farther up his nose. “You must be her.” He took a flask out of his coat pocket and gulped down the contents. “The harlot.”

I should have allowed Mrs. Killigrew to bludgeon him.

“My apologies, Mr. Adams.” Maria wracked her brain. Balwyn had never mentioned an uncle, especially one who was a sot. “I was not informed you would be joining us.”

“Humph. You likely forgot. My niece claims you to be unintelligent. But I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt.”

Maria made a noncommittal sound.

Licking the edge of the flask, as if to get every drop, he returned it to the inside of his coat. “I’ve taken great pains to be here. Great pains. I had to pay a large sum to be transported here from that little village.”

“Appleton,” Maria murmured.

“Where the coach dropped me. The weather was so bad, I had to stay at the inn. And then to receive such a greeting,” he whined.

“My apologies, Mr. Adams.”

“Uncle Leonard. Given your relationship to Balwyn, you have my permission to address me as such.”

Lovely.

“Very well. Johns, please escort Uncle Leonard to the drawing room where the rest of the family is gathered. Advise Owen to prepare another guest room.”

“You have a decent sideboard?” Uncle Leonard asked, lifting his chin as Johns waved him forward.

“Of course.” She turned to Mrs. Killigrew. “There will be one more for dinner.”