Read A Very Selwick Christmas for Free Online Page A

firmly in the decanter.
    “No.” Something in Miles" voice made Richard"s hand still on the stopper. It was perfectly cheerful, but…. Richard looked up from the decanter and met his old friend"s guileless brown eyes. “No more than I do for you.”
    “Hmph,” said Richard.
    Miles played the buffoon so well, it was easy to forget that he was generally brighter than he let on. He was bright enough not to spoil his advantage by pressing it home. Instead, he said cheerfully, “You still have connections among the émigré community in London, haven"t you? And on the coast?”
    Not entirely recent ones, but…. “Yes,” he said guardedly.
    “Excellent! Once Christmas is over—”

    He broke off as Richard abruptly held up a hand. What was that? Old instincts died hard. He had acted before he had even fully identified the noise. There had been a creaking sound, like a floorboard, or a door hinge.
    “Is anyone there?” he called out sharply.
    His instincts were rewarded. The door swung slowly inward, revealing the figure of a woman, her hair drawn into curls at the sides, held up by violet flowers that matched the color of her half-mourning.
    “I"m so sorry,” said Deirdre. No, not Deirdre, Richard reminded himself. Lady Jerard. “I do hope I"m not interrupting.”
    Both gentlemen rose hastily to their feet.
    “Not at all,” said Richard smoothly.
    Miles made a grunting noise that just barely passed for assent, but the expression on his face couldn"t be mistaken for anything other than hostility, iced over with a fragile veneer of good manners. He nodded generally in Deirdre"s direction, without ever looking directly at her.
    Miles had never forgiven Deirdre for Tony.
    “I should be getting back,” Miles said, brushing his hands vigorously against his thighs, as though scrubbing off something unpleasant.
    Richard suppressed a sigh, feeling all the fatigue of the day descending upon him. He didn"t particularly want to deal with Deirdre either, but his reasons weren"t quite the same as Miles".
    When he looked at Deirdre, he didn"t see her crime. He saw his. He had been young and foolish and desperate to impress the object of his infatuation. It had been his indiscretion, boasting to Deirdre of their plans in France, that had led to Tony"s death. Why should Deirdre have suspected her maid of being a French spy? That had been his responsibility, not hers, and he had failed.
    The only crime Deirdre had committed was in choosing Baron Jerard over him, and that was a crime he could easily forgive, although at the time, it had felt like capital treason. Now, years removed, it was hard to remember why. Oh, she was certainly easy on the eyes—she still was, at that—but there had never been anything more. All his memories were of long looks, of worshipful silences, of his own voice singing her praises. They must have conversed, but he couldn"t recall a single conversation worth remembering. When it came down to it, they had never really had anything to say to each other.
    That was not a problem from which he and Amy could be said to suffer.
    He really ought to get back to the drawing room and Amy. But there was Deirdre to be dealt with. He did feel that he owed her something, after all these years. She had been his first love, even if a hollow one, and one didn"t dismiss that lightly.
    Richard forced a pleasant smile onto his face, and said, “Were you looking for me?” Given their history, that hadn"t come out quite right. He modified it to, “Might I help you?”

    Deirdre"s eyes scanned the room, as though searching for something she had lost, before settling, sadly, on him. “You might have. Once.”
    Richard could hear the chime of silvery bells in his brain. Warning bells.
    Before he could get too alarmed, Deirdre shook her head, holding up her hands in a charming gesture of abnegation. “Don"t mind me,” she said ruefully. She glanced down at the bulbous sapphire ring that still circled her finger, Baron