The tension in Sophia’s shoulders eased. Haden’s response corroborated Claxton’s story of the night before. Not that it mattered. They were to be separated soon. Weren’t they? Why had Claxton kissed her like that and thrown everything into confusion?
The duke fisted his hand in his brother’s cravat and slammed him against the stone wall.
“Ow!” Haden bellowed, eyes clamped shut in visible pain.
“Please,” wailed Lady Meltenbourne. “Don’t fight over me. You are brothers. Family.”
Sophia experienced the bizarre urge to laugh.
Claxton shouted into Haden’s face, “You would make light of such an untruth in front of my wife? Meltenbourne could have killed the duchess.”
Haden’s hands came up beside his head in surrender. “Last night, when I awakened in yonder inn with Lord Meltenbourne’s pistol pointed in my face, demanding to know where you were, I felt no compulsion to immediately set the matter aright.”
“It’s just like you to take the easy way out, leaving the mess for someone else to clean up.” Claxton released him with a snarl. “You will apologize to her Grace.”
With a firm tug, Haden straightened the front of his rumpled waistcoat. Meeting Sophia’s gaze, he said, “My sincerest apologies, Duchess. I intended you no disrespect. I’m sincere when I say that.”
Sophia nodded, feeling it only right to acknowledge his apology, which appeared earnestly spoken.
“I’ve never had a pistol pointed to my face,” she replied. “I imagine the experience might momentarily alter one’s priorities as far as truth.”
Even so, Haden’s failure to set the matter straight only complicated the calamity of her marriage. Certainly the whole village, no matter how buried in snow, buzzed with the scandal.
To Claxton, Haden said, “Why are you here after all? You should have remained at Camellia House. The situation would have calmed once the brandy ran out.”
They crossed the small courtyard toward the inn, Sophia at Claxton’s side. Lady Meltenbourne trailed along behind, her arms embracing her own shoulders. As they crossed the threshold, the villagers crowding the windows fell back against the far wall, a silent ripple of head bobs and curtsies. What was more mortifying? That they had just witnessed a gun battle involving her husband and his brother and an earl who shouted allegations of cuckoldry, or that moments before they may have witnessed her and Claxton’s unseemly kiss?
Sophia blinked, her eyesight adjusting to the dark interior, as the common room returned to its customary movement and clamor. Despite the awkwardness of their entrance, the mingled scents of burning wood, ale, and gingerbread delighted her senses, as did the room’s warmth. Christmas greenery hung above the fire and over the windows. Mistletoe encircled a chandelier at the center of the room. Curiously, beneath the wooden light fixture sat the plainest girl Sophia had ever seen, wearing a mulish expression and a shapeless sack of a cloak. Though villagers crowded the floor, the circle of space around the girl spoke painful volumes, so much so that Sophia momentarily forgot her own troubles.
From the floor above came bellows and thumps, evidence of a continuing struggle to subdue Lord Meltenbourne. Claxton lowered her valise to the carpet and without further preamble disarmed Haden of his pistol.
“I’ll be gone only a moment.” Firearm in hand, he climbed the steps. Haden muttered something about duty and followed.
“Gor! ’E looks just like the old duke, ’e does,” a wizened old man marveled.
“Eerie so,” said another.
“Let’s ’ope the similarities only go so far as ’is looks.”
“Indeed.”
A woman wearing a brisk but amiable expression emerged from the shadows and bobbed. “Your Grace?”
“Yes.”
The woman smiled warmly. “I am Mrs. Stone. My husband and I, Mr. Stone, keep this humble inn. May I say what an honor it is to have the duke and your Grace visit our establishment. The whole village has waited with hopeful anticipation these past three years for the new Duke of Claxton to visit.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Stone. And may I say what a fine inn you have here and smelling so delightfully of gingerbread.”
The innkeeper flushed deeply, two bright apples on her cheeks. “Anything to keep old Jack Frost at the door so we might enjoy this Christmas.”
“I’ve rarely seen such a heavy snowfall. I must admit to coming into the village to discover if travel into London might be possible today.”
“Oh no, madam.” She let out a wry chuckle. “There’s far too much snowfall on the roads for the post chaise to make it through and great sheets of ice floating on the river. Certainly not enough for a frost fair, but enough to keep the barges in for safety. No one is willing to go out after the tragedy three years ago.”
“What tragedy was this?”
Mrs. Stone’s face grew solemn. “One of the local barge masters thought to bring one last load of coal over, but ice converged. Crushed the barge it did, and the vessel sank. Both him and his middle boy perished. A terrible loss for the family, and indeed, the entire village.”
“Yes, I could see that it would be,” Sophia murmured. “How awful.”
No matter how strong her desire to escape Claxton, she would never ask anyone to endanger their life for her convenience or comfort. And so it seemed she would be lodging in Lacenfleet for at least one more night.
Mrs. Stone added, “It won’t be the first time we’ve been snowbound here in Lacenfleet, and it won’t be the last. We are as prepared as we can possibly be, if only to sit by the fire and wait for the thaw.”
Her situation confirmed, Sophia allowed herself to be led to an upholstered armchair, which a luxurious blue cloak was draped over, a garment she recognized from the night before. With a mirthful little snort, Mrs. Stone tossed the cloak onto a less commodious, ramshackle chair several feet farther away from the hearth.
“The mistletoe is very festive,” remarked Sophia. “And the garland hung over the fire.”
The inn mistress straightened the cushion. “Some of the older folk claim it is bad luck to hang greenery before Christmas Eve, but I pay them no mind. Lacenfleet’s luck can’t get much worse, I say.” She chuckled wryly, and at the corner of her eyes, her temples crinkled.
Sophia had the distinct impression Mrs. Stone wished her to inquire more about Lacenfleet’s luck, and so she complied.
Mrs. Stone clasped her hands in front of her apron. “Bad crops. No work. It happens to everyone. Things will improve, I vow, but it makes a dreary Christmas for some. I’ll tell you one thing, though.” She lowered her voice. “If his lordship decided to open Camellia House and staff her right, there’d be no shortage of qualified household help.”
“I’ll be certain to tell his Grace.” She could always write him a letter once she returned to London, but she didn’t know if her word would hold any sway.
Sophia’s gaze fell again on the center of the room, where the girl still sat, arms crossed, under the chandelier. “How long has that young woman been sitting there under the mistletoe? I can only assume she is waiting for a kiss from some handsome young fellow?”
“That’s Charlotte, the poor dear.” Mrs. Stone sighed and shook her head. “Too old now to remain in the orphan house where she grew up, she just hasn’t found her place. She’s been doing a bit of scullery for Mr. Stone and me in exchange for a place to sleep in the kitchen, but I’m not certain how long we’ll be able to keep her.”
Fine brown hair hung limply against Charlotte’s cheek, and the petticoat she wore was hopelessly frayed. Yet the girl sat in the chair proudly, shoulders back, her face a portrait of pride and determination. Everything about the girl touched Sophia’s heart.
“She wants a kiss that badly?”
“Not only a kiss, I’m afraid.” Mrs. Stone winked. “She wants a husband. That leggy farmer in the tall boots over there, to be exact, a widower with two young children in desperate need of a mother. Only he hasn’t looked at her once in the two hours he’s been here. Unfortunately, neither has anyone else.”
“How disheartening for Charlotte.”
Once Sophia was settled, Mrs. Stone pressed a warm mug into her hands and brought a plate of
