Page 12 of Ten Lords for the Holidays

John would return to his regiment and happily court the officer’s sister, and forget he ever had feelings for Jane. In fact, John had behaved, since his arrival, as though he’d forgotten those feelings already.

Hopefully, in time, John would forgive her, and they’d continue as friends, as they had been all their lives. But friends with no obligation attached.

“Good-bye, John,” Jane said, and quietly walked out of the room.

* * *

Spencer did not see Jane the rest of the day. He walked through the gardens, the park, the woods, then took a horse and went on a long ride. It was snowing by the time he returned, and dark.

He did not see Barnett either, which was a mercy. Spencer then realized he’d seen no one at all as he returned to his chamber. He washed and changed and descended in search of supper, but the residents of the house were elusive. Where had they all gone?

“Hurry up, lad,” a voice with a Scottish lilt said to him. “You’re the last.”

“The last for what, sir?” Spencer asked Lady Jane’s grandfather as the elderly man tottered to him.

“The hunt, of course. Here’s your list. You’re with Thomas and my daughter. Off you go.”

Spencer gazed down at a paper with a jumble of items written on it: A flat iron, a locket, a horseshoe, a thimble, and a dozen more bizarre things that did not match.

“What is this?” he asked in bewilderment.

“A scavenger hunt, slow-top. The first team to gather the things wins a prize. Go on with ye.”

Spencer hesitated. “Where is Jane? Lady Jane, that is.”

“With the older cousins and a friend from down the lane. Why are you still standing here?”

“The thing is, sir, I… I’m not sure who to speak to…”

The old Scotsman waved him away, his plaids swinging. “Aye, I know all about it. Give the lass time to settle, and she’ll come ’round. She only gave Major Barnett the elbow a few hours ago.”

Spencer’s heart leapt. “She did?”

“Yes. Thank the Lord. Now, hurry away. Enjoy yourself while you’re still young.”

Spencer grinned in sudden hope. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

As he dashed away, he heard Grandfather MacDonald muttering behind him. “In my day, I’d have already put the girl over my shoulder and run off with her. Otherwise, she’d not think I was sincere.”

* * *

Jane handed her spoils—a blue beaded slipper, a quizzing glass, and a small rolling pin—to her cousin Digby, and slipped into the chamber she’d spied her grandfather ducking into. The small anteroom was covered with paintings her father’s father had collected. A strange place for Grandfather MacDonald to hide—he believed Van Dyke and Rubens over-praised. Only Scottish painters like Allan Ramsay and Henry Raeburn had ever been any good.

“Grandfather.”

Grandfather looked up from a settee, where he’d been nodding off, but his eyes were bright, alert. He came to his feet.

“Yes, my dear? Are you well?”

“No.” Jane sank down to a painted silk chair. “Everything is turned upside-down, Grandfather. I need your advice.”

“Do you?” Grandfather plopped back onto the settee, smile in place. “Why come to me, lass? Not your mum?”

“Because when things are topsy-turvy, you seem to know what to do.”

“True. But so do you.”

Jane shivered. “No, I do not. I was perfectly happy with my life as it was. Then John began to change, and Captain Ingram—”

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