The Lady Who Stole Christmas: Rakes on the Run, #5

By Sydney Jane Baily

Amid mistletoe and missing jewels, a wealthy widow and a sexy sleuth play a game of cat and mouse.

 

A Yuletide gathering at Forde Hall is bursting with mince pies, mulled wine, merriment, and . . . mischief! Prinny's trusted man, Lord Miles Denbigh, is tasked with discovering the identity of a wily thief who has been plaguing the ton's house parties and stealing their jewels.

 

Comely widow Lady Sarah Worthington has enjoyed Denbigh's company before. However, much as she likes the viscount, she had not expected to spend Twelvetide in his company, not when she has a secret mission, and certainly not when he suspects she's up to something.

 

Just because he's right, doesn't mean she has to like it!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cat Whisker Press
• Release date: Jul 22, 2020
• ISBN: 9781957421339

Sydney Jane Baily

USA Today bestselling author Sydney Jane Baily writes historical romance set in Victorian England, late 19th-century America, the Middle Ages, the Georgian era, and the Regency period. She believes in happily-ever-after stories with engaging characters and attention to period detail. Born and raised in California, she has traveled the world, spending a lot of exceedingly happy time in the U.K. where her extended family resides, eating fish and chips, drinking shandies, and snacking on Maltesers and Cadbury bars. Sydney currently lives in New England with her family — human, canine, and feline. At her website, SydneyJaneBaily.com, you can learn more about her books, read her blog, sign up for her newsletter (& get a free book), and contact her. She loves to hear from her readers. To be notified of her new releases, please follow Sydney on BookBub or Amazon. Or you can connect with her on Facebook.

Book preview

Dedication

To those who keep the spirit of Christmas alive all year long, I salute you!

Acknowledgments

Ihad three dashing -good beta readers for this quick-paced novella: Toni Young, Lesley Walsh, and Philip Thomas. My story was made better by each of them, and I offer my sincere gratitude. And as always, a big thank you to my lovely mom, Beryl Baily, for her encouragement and love.

Chapter One

Great Oakley, 1814

The carriage rocked sharply, before tilting wildly, causing Lady Sarah Worthington and her maid to shriek as they slid across the leather squabs and crashed against the inside of the door. Thankfully, the door latch held, and they didn’t pop out onto the frozen ground. Finally, the vehicle came to a halt.

Drats! Sarah exclaimed aloud. They were close to their destination — Forde Hall and Lady Macroun’s Twelvetide house party — but not so close they could walk, especially with the afternoon air being so chilly one could see one’s breath. The only blessing was the lack of snow so far that winter, though she knew circumstances could change within a few hours.

An instant later, her footman’s face appeared at the window, which she lowered.

A broken wheel, my lady. Went down a rut and four spokes shattered.

Repairable, Henley? she asked, her mind thinking of alternatives because even if it were fixable, it would take ages. Far more quickly, her coachman could unhitch the horses, and she and her maid, Dorie, could ride.

Before Henley could answer, she turned to Dorie with a question she’d never considered before. Can you ride?

I don’t know, my lady. I never have tried in my life.

Sarah would consider that answer to be firmly in the negative. She wouldn’t risk Dorie atop a steed, only to have the horse run off with her or for her maid to fall and get injured.

Turning her attention back to her footman, she realized, he wasn’t looking in the window anymore but behind them.

Another carriage approaching, my lady.

Then hail it, Henley. We are saved!

LORD MILES DENBIGH felt his carriage slowing down and leaned over so he could look out the window. Another conveyance was blocking the path and was clearly disabled. It seemed a genuine accident of some kind, however such tricks were often used by highwaymen. Reaching under his seat, he grabbed his pistol, already loaded and ready. Although he was not one of the Robin Redbreasts, who sought out and disarmed highway robbers, he had worked for Bow Street long enough to have a healthy dose of suspicion.

His carriage had hardly come to a halt when he opened the door and jumped down, not the type to wait for the assistance of his footman or even have the iron steps lowered. Maybe when he was eighty, he would allow such luxuries.

Still, his footman had beat him to the ground in a little contest that always occurred between the two of them, but as the man had to walk around the coach, Miles reached the other carriage first.

Obviously, the front left wheel had snapped. A footman, blocking his view of the window, looked alarmed at the sight of a gun and flattened himself against the carriage door. Then, Miles heard the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked.

Looking up, he saw the coachman pointing a flintlock musket at his chest.

Lower your weapon, the driver ordered, and step back from her ladyship’s carriage.

Her ladyship? Interesting.

I don’t mind lowering my weapon, Miles said, as long as you do the same. I stopped only to offer my assistance, but I shall not leave myself open to the potential menace of a robber’s grand scheme. I demand to know the occupant before I lower my pistol.

A tapping at the window made the footman turn to speak with the carriage’s occupant.

Her ladyship asks your name.

Miles sighed. Lord Denbigh.

There was more noise from the carriage, and then the footman was being pushed aside.

Denbigh! came a familiar voice as the door was pushed open before the footman recalled his duties and lowered the step.

Lady Sarah Worthington. He should have known. A house party with many jewels and festive revelers apt to become snockered by midday, ripe for being fleeced — that would be exactly to her liking.

Suddenly, she appeared, offering the footman her hand. As usual, she was stunning, this time in a sable-trimmed blue wool pelisse and matching muff, her blonde hair piled upon her head, with a fur-trimmed hat perched on top.

Not even glancing at her coachman, she ordered him, Lower your weapon, Mr. Higgins. We are safe with my good friend, Lord Denbigh.

Safe, unless they found themselves alone, as had happened upon two occasions. Each time he’d kissed the young widow senseless and relieved them both of pent-up lust, once on a sofa in a sitting room during a dinner party with her skirts raised to her corseted waist, and the second time, far more comfortably, in his own bed.

Without a doubt, they were two of the best, most satisfying dockings he’d ever had, even the hurried one on the sofa when he’d been unable to feast his eyes upon anything except her passion-glazed blue gaze while driving into her. He wouldn’t mind making it a third time for Christmas’ sake. Truth be told, if she wasn’t so inclined to stealing dazzlers from the nobility, he might consider a longer arrangement with her.

That last time, though, she’d left without a word, not even deigning to answer his missive the following day. He’d been a bit shaken by her sang froid.

Miles slipped his gun into the pocket of his overcoat. I was right, he said.

About what? she asked, a fine eyebrow arched.

I was convinced the carriage contained a highwayman setting a trap. And here you are, not a common footpad, but a thief nonetheless.

She sighed, deigning neither to protest nor to respond. Yet after peering past him to his comfortable carriage, she gave him a winsome smile.

His heart clenched. Ignoring his own foolish emotions, he said, I assume you’re heading to Lady Macroun’s house party.

I am. She batted her lashes at him like an actress on the stage. "I didn’t expect you to be there."

Evidently not. She wouldn’t want him keeping an eye on her. Speaking of which, he noticed her shivering.

I am shocked an ice queen such as yourself feels the cold.

Rolling her eyes, she asked, Is that any way to greet me?

He leaned forward so only she could hear. You mean after you left my bed cold and slithered from my townhouse.

Unbothered, she made a moue of her mouth, looking infinitely kissable. Then she leaned forward so he could feel her breath upon his ear.

I did no such thing. I warmed your bed all night, as I recall, and I sauntered from your townhouse because I had better things to do. Then she stood back. Now, greet me properly, or I shall declare you petulant and jealous.

He was neither. However, he had become smitten with her a few months back, despite her penchant for marrying old men who died quickly. But he couldn’t possibly fall for a thief, not when he helped out the magistrates and the runners with some of the more difficult cases.

And Lady Worthington was certainly that. Despite her notoriously humble beginnings, not only had she married into a fortune, jewelry disappeared when she was nearby. He’d experienced it himself with his own diamond cravat pin missing after she’d spent that one extraordinary night with him.

Before the loss of his pin, he’d been ready to help her clear her name, but after slaking her desire with him that evening, she’d walked away, denying him the chance to play the knight in shining armor, not to mention piercing his pride, too.

And now she had a cocky, devil-may-care expression that infuriated him.

I should turn you over my knee and spank you, Miles said, half to himself. The danger to her person should she be caught, tried, and found guilty did not bear thinking about.

Oh, do tell, she said, then smirked. I can’t recall, did we try that?

He gritted his teeth. She was implying their encounters were forgettable, and worse, she’d said such in front of their footmen. Reputations had been lost for less. Too late now.

You’d best come with me after all. We’ll have to see if Lady Macroun’s carriage-house has a spare wheel, and a wainwright nearby whom she can send out.

She shrugged delightfully. Perfect.

She was plainly unbothered by such things. Other people took care of them for her, as he was doing at that moment.

Calling up to the coachman, he said, I believe we are about twenty minutes away, so hopefully, within the hour, help shall return.

Yes, sir, thank you.

Turning to her, he offered his hand, noticing his own footman had put the step down. Shall we? he asked.

We shall, she agreed and climbed in.

Are you traveling alone? he asked. Most of the people attending the party were couples, although undoubtedly, there would be single men and women, too, all of them hoping for a festive twelve days, except for himself, who would be working.

And except for Sarah. Miles was afraid he knew what her motive was for attending.

I am alone, apart from my maid, of course. She cocked her head. Why do you ask? Wondering if I might be husband hunting? I hear there will be at least one ride to the hunt.

He smiled at her witticism, although inside, he felt her words like a dart. He might have been interested in being her next husband if she hadn’t walked out and refused to respond to his invitation. How he’d let her get under his skin so easily was beyond him.

I’m quite confident there will be hunting, he agreed, playing along. I’m merely surprised you’re not with your sister for this festive season.

Julia had other obligations, she said cagily. Her presence was requested in Town.

A wealthy nob, no doubt, he said, thinking of Sarah’s equally stunning sister. From what he’d gleaned, Julia Sudbury used her good looks in the same fashion, to manipulate and get what she wanted. They were often at the same London parties, leading men on a merry dance.

I have wondered how a vicar could have two such—

Beautiful daughters, Sarah finished for him, arranging her fur-trimmed pelisse and smoothing her skirts.

He cocked his head. I was going to say conniving and dishonest daughters.

Shame on you, Denbigh. ’Tis the season of peace and good will.

Miles considered. It is, isn’t it? And that’s why I didn’t leave you in the frost to await help.

She paused as if she hadn’t entertained the notion he might not wish for her company. Then she dazzled him with another smile, leaning forward to place her hand upon his pant leg, squeezing his knee in an outrageously bold fashion.

How kind of you, she said.

While his body was still humming from her unexpected touch and his head was filled with her delicately enticing floral fragrance, she added, And my trunks, if you please. I cannot possibly arrive and be unable to change out of these dusty rags.

Sighing, he slid the window down and addressed his footman. In a moment, he felt the weight of her luggage added to his traveling coach. Good thing it had the sturdiest wheels money could provide, unlike hers, which he could see were all for show. Silly things, painted powder blue and probably made out of kindling.

And my maid, she added as he was about to signal his coachman to drive on.

I have come without my valet, he pointed out.

She looked him up and down.

"Such déshabillé is your prerogative. However, I intend to look my best, even in the backward countryside of Great Oakley. Besides, if we show up and I have no companion, tongues will begin to wag at once. Do you want our names to be irrevocably linked in scandal? I don’t mind in the least, but it might interfere with your stellar reputation as one of Prinny’s prized lackeys."

Careful, Lady Worthmore, you’re a guest in my carriage.

She paused. "You just called me Worthmore."

He blinked. Had he? I did not, he insisted. I said Worthington, for your poor, dead husband.

You did, she said with a pretty lifting of her shoulder in a shrug. "And poor is the one thing my husband was not. Anyway, at least I didn’t call you a toady. Nor lickspittle or flunky. My intent was nothing but polite, I assure you."

He had performed a valuable service for the Prince Regent during the War of 1812 as a capable man who could get done certain sensitive tasks, helping to bring about the Treaty of Ghent, which was, in fact, about to be signed in a few days.