Season's Regency Greetings by Carla Kelly Page A

fear.
    â€œ They’ll be here tomorrow,” she soothed. “Davy, I promise to take very good care of your uncle.”
    Her words seemed to reassure them all, and she could only applaud her acting ability, a talent she had not been aware of before this night. After a sweet course that no one ate, Janet rose from the table and calmly invited her younger brother and sister to follow her. Cecilia followed them into the hall, and waited there until they returned from their rooms bundled against the cold.
    Janet looked almost cheerful. She tucked her arm through Lucinda’s and reached for Davy. “Do you know, this is my last Christmas to be a child,” she said to Cecilia. “I will be married in February, and this part of my life will be over.” She looked at her siblings. “Lucinda, you will marry someday, and even you, Davy!” He made a face at her, and she laughed softly. “I am lucky, Miss Ambrose, and I did need reminding.”
    â€œ We all do, now and then,” Cecilia replied. She opened the door, and kissed each of them as they passed through. “If you get cold, come back inside, of course, but do leave me alone in the book room with your uncle.”
    â€˜ Take good care of him,” Lucinda begged.
    â€œ I will,” she said. “I promise you.”
    Easier said than done. When the house was quiet, she found a shawl, wrapped it tight around her for courage, and went to the book room. She knocked. When he did not answer, she let herself into the room.
    He sat at the desk still. This time there was only one file in front of him. He looked at her and his eyes were dark and troubled. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice harsh.
    â€œ The children wanted to spend Christmas in the stable,” she said. “It’s a silly thing.”
    â€œ I remember when they did that, years ago,” he said. “I remember ….” Then he looked at the file before him, and he was silent.
    Her heart in her throat, she came into the room and around the desk to stand beside him. “Is that Jimmy Daw’s file?” she asked.
    He put his hand over the name, as though to protect it. She wanted to touch him, to put her arms around his shoulders and press her cheek against his, all the while murmuring something in his ear that he might interpret as comfort. Instead, she moved to the front of the desk again and pulled up a chair.
    â€œ He died eleven years ago this night, didn’t he?” She kept her voice normal, conversational.
    Lord Trevor narrowed his eyes and glared at her. “You know he did. I told you.”
    â€œ What is it you do on Christmas Eve to remember him?” There.
    Silence. “Shouldn’t you be in bed, Miss Ambrose?” he asked finally, in a most dismissive tone.
    She smiled and leaned forward. “No. It’s Christmas Eve, and the children are busy. I think I will just stay here with you, and see what you do to remember Jimmy Daw, because that’s what you do, isn’t it? You probably plan this all year.”
    More silence.
    â€œ Do you go to church? Read from the Bible? Work on someone else’s charts? Visit old friends in the City? Have dinner out with your fellow barristers? Sing Christmas carols? Squeeze in another good work or two?” She stopped, hating the sound of her own rising voice and its relentless questions. She looked him straight in the eye. “Or do you just sit at your desk hating yourself?”
    He leaped to his feet, fire in his eyes, and slammed the file onto the table like a truncheon. “I don’t need this!”
    She looked away, frightened, but held herself completely still in the chair. It was then that she noticed the row of bottles against the wall. My God, she thought, my God. With courage she knew she did not possess, she stood in front of him until they were practically toe to toe. “Or do you try to drink yourself to death, because