Page 31 of The Twelve Days of Christmas

She had turned her head to look, and found herself unable to finish, for said swan was no longer in the pond.

In point of fact, it was now standing beside its mate, and both birds were staring up at them from the frosted lawn, watching the pair of them in such a manner as might be taken for disgust. With a mixture of relief and chagrin Charlotte pinched her lips together and turned back to Lord Heysten.

‘Well. Clearly the breaking of the ice and you barging in to manhandle me as you did, enabled the bird to get away.’

‘Manhandle you?’ His lordship ran a hand through his wet hair, exposing a lined forehead. ‘You and I have a very different way of looking at things—’

‘So it seems—’

‘But I would much rather discuss this on dry land, would you not? It’s damned cold in here, and I have no wish to lose my limbs from frostbite.’

It was in that moment that Charlotte realised she was shivering, and with chattering teeth she pushed past him and waded through the freezing water for the lip of the pond. She sensed rather than saw his attempt to assist her.

‘I do not need your help!’

Charles narrowed his eyes but dropped his arms, and though he shook dreadfully in his waterlogged hessians and felt exceedingly vexed, he watched Miss Pépin’s inelegant attempts at heaving herself out of the water with something bordering on admiration and a touch of reluctant amusement.

He had of course met stubborn women in his time.

Had Clarissa not been of a similar disposition?

Thinking of that woman his jaw clenched (for he had not thought about the countess for some time), and once Miss Pépin had extricated herself from the pond Charles in turn did the same, committing himself to standing a respectable distance away from Viscount Pépin’s wilful daughter.

The larger swan, observing their return to land from an equally respectful distance, grunted, then emitted one single hiss for good measure. Miss Pépin sent the bird a sour look, and proceeded to mutter something under her breath.

‘What was that?’

‘Nothing,’ she snapped.

‘It did not sound like nothing.’

At this Miss Pépin tossed her head, which might have given her look of contempt a little more credibility were it not for the fact that some of her dark hair had fallen from its pins and stuck lank and wet about her face.

‘I called it ungrateful.’

‘Ah! You know, then, what ungrateful means?’

Charlotte Pépin scowled.

‘If I were in need of rescuing, Lord Heysten, I might accede to the service you rendered me. But I can assure you it was not needed. I was perfectly able to right myself.’

‘Balderdash. You were struggling in the water and panic had overtaken you, that much was clear. What I cannot fathom is why you should have thought a swan needed rescuing at all. I understood from my previous visits here that you were the clever one. Swans are more than capable of breaking any ice that forms around them. It would have set itself free when it was ready to. If you had read Bewick’s History of Birds you would have known that. ’

She glared at him. ‘Mercy me, you really are boorish!’

Charles blinked. It was not an insult unfamiliar to him; he had been called such and worse often enough, and cared not one single damn about the fact. But somehow, from Miss Pépin’s lips, the insult stung. He had done her a service, had he not, yet this was her response?

‘You should be mindful, my lady,’ Charles said darkly, ‘of how you address others. Do your parents know how free your tongue is?’

‘Indeed they do. I am reminded of my shortcomings daily.’

Miss Pépin let out her breath then, and something in the manner of her reply made Charles contemplate her with new interest.

He understood well what it was to be frowned upon by a parent.

His mother – having died in childbirth – he could not account for, but his father …

Had it not been for Archibald’s cruelty, his harsh words and even harsher punishments, Charles might not have left Heysten Park and spent so many years away from home.

He doubted, of course, that Miss Pépin suffered as he had once done, but all the same he recognised in her a kindred spirit, and as she turned her head to pick up her sodden skirts Charles caught a glimpse of passion in her expression that made him quite forget the cold he felt.

She was not beautiful, not beautiful like Clarissa had been, but then, no woman was.

Yet even soaking wet Miss Pépin was handsome, with a striking pair of brown eyes that had a spark of gold in them, like crystallised honey.

But then the moment was gone; Miss Pépin had swept past him, elegant head held high.

Charles let her go only ten steps before he turned on his heel and called her name. She stopped, spun about.

‘What?’

Her answer came like a shot. Charles liked her spirit, and in that moment could not help being just a little bit wicked.

‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘I do not believe so.’

‘ I believe so. I believe you have forgotten to thank me. You may think you did not need my help, but I helped you all the same.’

That scowl again. The smouldering glint of honey. But the woman was sensible enough not to ignore propriety entirely and so she dipped into a condescending (albeit very wet) curtsey and said:

‘Thank you , Lord Heysten.’

When she raised herself, she gave him what Charles supposed was the haughtiest look she could muster.

‘You can see yourself to the house, I presume?’

With that she turned on her heel and crunched wetly across the snowy lawns without a backwards glance.

Charles took a calming breath, squeezed his cold and sodden cuffs, vaguely conscious of the fact that due to yet another Pépin sister, his garments had been ruined once again.

He watched said sister, a small figure now, striding with purpose around the side of Wakely Hall, and shook his head.

His horse, waiting some paces away, shook its head impatiently in turn.

‘All right, Samson. All right.’

It was only as Charles was gathering the Arabian’s reins that the two swans – which he had forgotten were there at all – gave a flurry of loud and almighty honks.

‘Oh really?’ he replied. ‘Is that all you have to say for yourselves?’

And when the larger of the two merely stretched and flapped its snowy wings, Charles could not help but grin.

It was almost an hour later – having been obliged to change into a spare set of clothes belonging to the viscount (whose stature, thankfully, was not dissimilar to his own), and then proffered a warming glass of cognac – when he was finally able to demand to see the little girl presently under the Pépins’ care.

Upon being advised the child would be sent for, Charles found himself being shewn by the viscountess to her husband’s study where they were to wait.

He had expected to find only Viscount Pépin behind that study door, and so it was a surprise to see – lounging on a sopha beside the roaring fire, book in hand and ginger cat on lap – Charlotte Pépin.

She appeared quite recovered from their escapade in the pond; the only indication of it was that her hair now fell loose about her shoulders in a mass of dark waves.

Her eyebrows shot up high when she saw him enter in the wake of her mother, and sticking a finger between the pages of her book she slowly closed it.

‘Charlotte, my dear,’ said the viscountess when she saw her. ‘What do you do here? Surely you would be more comfortable in the library?’

The young woman hesitated. Her eyes darkened.

‘Mr Busgrove,’ was all she said.

‘Ah,’ came the knowing reply. ‘Be that as it may, I do not think—’

‘There is no need for Miss Pépin to leave,’ interjected Charles. ‘If the child is indeed my Faith, then I have much to reveal in regards to her. Your daughter might as well hear what I have to say.’

At this the viscountess looked confused, but she inclined her head nonetheless.

‘Very well,’ said she, and in that moment seemed to notice the disarray of her daughter’s unruly tresses. ‘Heavens, Charlotte, why did you not have one of the maids dress your hair?’

Miss Pépin merely sighed, reopened her book, and the viscountess shook her head in response. It was clear, then, she had no notion of their early-morning exploits, and for that, Charles was thankful.

‘Lord Heysten,’ said Viscount Pépin now, rising from his desk to shake his hand. ‘I trust my garments are adequate?’

‘Most adequate, I thank you. And please, do forgive me for the borrowing of them,’ said Charles. ‘In my haste to get here I fell from my horse into the river running through Wakely Forest.’

He did not dare look at Miss Pépin, who had gone quite still on the sopha but otherwise shewed no indication she acknowledged his falsehood.

‘Is that so?’ exclaimed the viscount. ‘And here was I thinking you to be an expert horseman.’

Charles allowed a hollow laugh. Viscount Pépin laughed in turn, but it was clear there was a question in it, and when no further comment was forthcoming, the elder man indicated the chair opposite and bid his guest be seated.

The customary pleasantries were exchanged, but when these had been exhausted no further conversation was had.

Indeed, Charles found himself too agitated to speak in any case.

Aside from finding Miss Charlotte Pépin far too distracting to look at (all that glorious hair!), Charles could not stem his nerves about the child who would soon join them.

His heart told him the girl must be Faith, but his head told him she could not possibly be so.

As the minutes crept by a hard knot of anticipation formed in the pit of Charles’ stomach, and when there came the distinct sound of footsteps approaching, he felt positively nauseous.