Page 123 of Better Love Next Time
“How close have you gotten to her?” Anthony asked. “Have you really looked at her?”
“I make it a point not to,” Julian said.
Bracing against the stone pillar, Anthony blew out a stream of smoke and watched it billow into the cold air. “Her drapery is the color of sunset.”
“Thank you for that.” Julian grimaced.
“I need you to invite her to the party. I’ll remain well out of sight, but Dixley has something of mine.”
“Your pride?”
Anthony shrugged.
By the rigid offset of his friend’s jaw, this wasn’t a joke. Miss Dixley, or whatever her name was, rose in Julian’s esteem. Except why was she here?
Anthony peered through tendrils of smoke as if reading Julian’s mind. “Perhaps she’s on holiday.”
“Right. Assassins require recreation like the rest of us. I assume killing people must be taxing to one’s nerves.”
“Exhausting,” Anthony said.
And what a peculiar way to seek respite, as a God-fearing, scripture-quoting spinster. Was she hiding?
Julian ruminated on Miss Dixley’s motives with the wintry sun low in the sky before returning inside with Anthony to watch the arrival of the savior, the Magi, shepherds, and a host of angels.
True to her word, Kitty had left the plans for her Christmas party, and the lodge’s staff had seen to every detail. The dining table groaned with roasted venison, goose and brawn, plum puddings, and mince pies. In the morning room, tables had been arranged and piles of holly and pine boughs supplied for the children to create their own Christmas wreaths. In the drawing room, men and women sang carols while Lucretia Carleton accompanied on the pianoforte and Miss Dixley, who Julian had invited on Anthony’s urging, sipped mulled wine with a smitten Jeffrey Dillon.
Anthony, who had made himself scarce owing to Miss Dixley’s presence, was deeply indebted to him. Julian had actually been forced to apologize to Dixley. Apologize. And he had seen past the woman’s judgmental grey eyes when doing so, into something not necessarily dangerous, but altogether cunning.
Julian escaped to the front lawn where a bruising game of football was underway. In the dropping temperature before nightfall, Julian stripped to his shirtsleeves and entered the fray. For the price of a goal, Julian’s nose was the recipient of Sam’s elbow. Spying a group of wives watching the game, he bit back expletives and wiped the blood away with his sleeve. He played on, happy for the exertion and camaraderie which distractedhim from his thoughts: it was Christmastime, he was without Kitty, and she might never return.
Julian scored for the win, and the men shook hands and drank wassail in the twilight. With the women off to warm themselves inside, all took turns drinking to each other’s health in an ear-scorching spirit of ribaldry until snow began falling in earnest.
After dinner, Julian disbursed the Christmas rewards. There were also gifts for each wife and child and various dependent relatives like Jeffrey Dillon’s rheumatic grandmother. Every one of them had been chosen by Kitty.
The children whooped and aahed over their gifts as Julian leaned against the mantel. He studied Miss Dixley. Why was the woman here? His gut said she wasn’t hiding.
Sam sidled up, offering Julian a fresh cup of wassail. “When’s Madame coming back?” he asked.
“She’s not returning. To the office at least.”
“You got rid of her?”
“A harsh turn of phrase, Sam.” But yes, he had.
He should write Kitty and assure her the party had gone off as planned. Thank her for her unorthodox schemes that had given him back his dreams.
“I got something to say,” Sam said.
Julian dragged his gaze from Miss Dixley.
First, Sam took a hearty drink. “We all figured your wife’d be a man-a-hanging when you got word on Lovett.”
“So you’re saying you kept Lovett secret because…” Julian paused for Sam to finish.
“Aye.”
“You knew I would be furious.”
