Page 7 of The Scoundrel's Christmas Challenge
“It seems one must have a personal invite to be admitted. The wording is quite cryptic.” Will grinned at his friend. “Would you mind showing it to him?”
Charles set down his satchel, opened it, and pulled out a thick lavender card with holly and ivy entwined around the edges. He handed it to Lucius.
Admits bearer to the private house party
Of the Countess of Winfield at Falcon Hall.
Guests shall arrive 24 December.
The competition for the desired prize begins 25 December thru 6 January.
Lady Winfield will only accept the proposal of the gentleman
Claiming victory of three or more challenges.
The favor of an answer is requested.
His mouth fell open. What was the chit up to? The vague wording of this left too many questions. Marriage? “Mr. Wilkens, I have questions and a proposition for you.”
***
Falcon Hall, Norfolk
Christiana looked about the drawing room, happy with the decorations. Each room she would use for entertainment was festive with greenery, holly, and the scent of pine. But no mistletoe. It wasn’t that kind of party. The Widows League had been instrumental in arranging this event. Lady Wyndam had written back within a week.
Dear Lady Winfield,
On behalf of the Widows League, I would like to thank you for your generous donation this year. We will be sure it helps those most in need.
As to your dilemma, several of us put our heads together. We believe the men should be given one final chance to obtain what they want from you. Some type of lottery or competition, but here’s the twist: you are who they must beat. Only one of them will receive the prize—their desired property—the others will never bother you again with another request.
We assume from your correspondence that the only asset you are willing to part with is the Welsh property. You will have to be clever to make sure the appropriate contestant wins. However, this solves the issue of being further harassed by the others.
One thought to leave you with, my dear. Marriage would also solve this issue. A gentleman does not harangue another gentleman. It’s bad form. Not that I am pushing any female in such a direction, just something to keep in mind. You are still young, beautiful, and full of life with many years ahead of you. Not all men are termagants.
I am confident your wit shall serve you well and provide us with a most entertaining recount the next we meet.
Your doting friend,
Katherine, Countess of Wyndam
Christiana folded the letter and slipped it inside her own copy of the invitation. The guests were due to arrive any time, and her challenges were in order. If all went well, Sir Horace Franklin would have his way. She didn’t need the slate mines, and they were located next to those of the baronet. It was cumbersome dealing with the manager and the solicitor in Wales. The rest of her property and investments were handled by her solicitor in London. It was simpler to keep all her business under one roof, so to speak.
The money from the Welsh sale would provide a ready fund for the charities she continued to support and for the repairs and improvements needed in the village and around the estate. Some of the tenants would require new roofs this spring, and her steward wanted to expand planting to make the estate more self-sufficient.
After that, she intended to build a small aviary so she could listen to birdsong throughout the year. Christiana remembered the canary her father had bought her as a child. Watching the delicate creature behind the wires, singing for its freedom, had broken her heart. She could never again contain such grace and beauty in a tiny cage.
“The Duke of Scuttleton’s representative has arrived, my lady,” said the butler after knocking on the door. “I’ve shown him to his room, next to Lord Bentson, with instructions for dinner.” He stood tall and lean in his dark suit, hands behind his back, silver temples blending into his raven hair. A scar formed an X near his right eye, and another down his left cheek was evidence of his years as a soldier, then pugilist, now butler and protector. “Sir Horace Franklin’s man is also in residence. Lord Elwood sent word they will arrive this evening promptly at eight.”
“Thank you, Mr. Jensen.” She watched him turn to go. “Remember to stick to the plan.”
“Of course,” he said, rubbing one fist in his palm. “I shall always be within earshot. One untoward word, and I will make my presence known.”
Christiana smiled. “I know you will.”
Constance entered, reminding her it was time to dress for the evening. Once in her bedchamber, Christiana chose a simple silk gown of the palest rose, the square bodice cut low and beaded with tiny pearls, the same pattern repeated on the puffed sleeves and hem. A sheer gossamer shawl of cream, a pearl pendant, and earbobs completed her outfit.
“You’re lovely, my lady,” her maid gushed, poking another pearl hairpin into Christiana’s loose chignon. “The men will be sorry you are not the prize.”
