Meet me at christmas hol.., p.1
Meet Me at Christmas (Holidays for Spinsters Book 3), page 1
Table of Contents
MEET ME AT CHRISTMAS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
EPILOGUE
MEET ME AT CHRISTMAS
Shy spinster Hazel Howard has a secret. She’s been exchanging letters to decode French spy communications with someone utterly inappropriate: a man. Fortunately, the handsome, charming Lord Aston has no knowledge of her identity. She would never be brave enough to speak with him at a ball, even if their letters have become flirtatious...
Lord Aston is eager to know the female cryptographer who has been assisting the war effort. When she writes she will be in a remote region of Northumberland over Christmas, he seizes upon an excuse to visit. If only he knew precisely who she was...
Hazel is startled to find Lord Aston visiting the militia beside the castle where she is holidaying with her spinster friends. When Lord Aston seems under the impression that his secret letter writer is someone else, she’s not certain whether to be relieved...
PROLOGUE
The morning had not always been Hazel Howard’s favorite time of day, but ever since she’d started a secret, scandalous correspondence with Lord Aston, the morning had surpassed all other occasions in excellence. The daily moonlight that appeared in the evening couldn’t compete, nor could Cook’s most valiant efforts at scones and tea in the afternoon. Maggie handed Hazel a new letter from the viscount every morning without fail, and Hazel, equally without fail, smuggled it to her room before her half-brother George noticed.
Corresponding with the viscount was the most wicked thing Hazel had ever done.
Everyone knew Lord Aston. His blond hair, tall, trim figure, and steel-grey eyes were unmistakable. Women vied for a dance with him, and columnists extolled Lord Aston’s importance to the war effort in each day’s broadsheets. The viscount didn’t fight overseas like other men, but his assistance in organizing the war effort from his government office in London was widely extolled.
Bonaparte might have an urge to attack every country in Europe, might cast longing glances at the British Isles on his maps, but the British had Lord Aston, and they would be safe.
Not that Lord Aston knew she was his correspondent. She’d written first, a fact she doubted George would admire. Granted, at the time she hadn’t known she was entering into a correspondence with the most eligible man in London. Her dear friend Cassandra might be sufficiently brave to do that, but not Hazel.
Their correspondence had begun last year. George had been reading the newspaper’s main section, so Hazel had busied herself with the classified section, even though she found the lists of items dull.
That’s when Hazel had noticed the code in the newspaper. Papa had been a cryptographer during the war with the former colonies and he’d taught her everything. If only Papa were here now and not buried at the local cemetery. Hazel had promptly informed George that the advertisement for men’s shoes was also about a package that would be smuggled to Bexhill and needed to be collected, but he’d grunted and called her melodramatic. Florence, George’s wife, had sniffed and called her young and pondered removing some of the more fanciful of Hazel’s books. That had halted the conversation.
Instead, Hazel had retired to her room and written Parliament.
TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN:
While perusing The Morning Herald over my customary toast and jam, I happened to come across the classified section. Though I do not normally linger over this portion of the paper, my brother found the main section to be exceptionally exciting today and lingered on the articles. I will read that section later, lest I miss out on more information about the disturbing war we are waging against that horrible monster Bonaparte. Unfortunately, this morning, the classified section was also distressing.
Are you aware that the third advertisement from the leftmost column was written in code? I have decoded it for you. It is not about shoes at all.
Yours respectfully,
A Keen Decoder
Hazel set aside her quill, then folded the letter carefully and pressed a seal against it. Her hands shook. She hadn’t expected to happen upon such material in The Morning Herald. French spies were becoming too comfortable.
She considered visiting Parliament herself, but she doubted she would be taken seriously. Hazel preferred not to enter into conversations with grumpy guards, especially when those conversations were likely to be unsuccessful. Lord Aston would know what to do.
Though Hazel wasn’t certain what the viscount did, everyone said he was important for the war effort. His house was nearby. One of the maids had a brother who worked for the viscount. Perhaps she could enlist Maggie’s help. After all, Hazel could hardly call on Lord Aston herself. Even lingering outside his townhouse would be sufficiently scandalous.
But perhaps she could speak with the maid. Maggie was only a few years older than Hazel and possessed a pleasant disposition.
Hazel decided to look for the maid and after surreptitiously ascertaining Maggie was not on the top two levels of the townhouse, Hazel ventured to the kitchen.
The staircase to the lower level was narrower than the grand staircase. No sturdy gleaming Italian balustrades were present, and there was an absence of light.
Cook gave Hazel a startled gaze when she entered the kitchen. She halted kneading. “Miss Howard?”
“I’m sorry to disturb you.” Hazel’s cheeks heated. “Is Maggie here?”
“M-maggie?” Cook continued to stare, and Hazel’s cheeks continued to warm. Hazel had never ventured here before.
“I need to speak to her,” Hazel said.
“I expect she’s in her room.” Cook pointed a dough-covered hand in the direction of a corridor. “She had some sewing to do. Would you like me to fetch her?”
“No need. I’ll go see her.”
“Second door on the right,” Cook said, then returned to her pastry.
Hazel’s shoes pounded against the grey stone floor. She stopped in front of Maggie’s door, glanced at the letter, then knocked.
The door opened. Maggie’s green eyes rounded at once. “Is something wrong, Miss Howard?”
“Only Bonaparte.”
Maggie blinked.
“May I come in?” Hazel asked.
Maggie nodded, and Hazel darted inside.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Maggie. I have a letter that needs to be seen by Lord Aston. Does your brother still work for him?”
Maggie’s mouth dropped open, then she valiantly closed it. “He does.”
“Could you please run this over to Lord Aston’s townhouse and ask your brother to share it with him?”
Maggie examined the letter and tilted her head. A red lock fell from Maggie’s updo. “Should you be sending Lord Aston letters?”
“Almost certainly not. Which is why it needs to be a secret.”
“I could put it in the post.”
“The post might not be safe.”
“And you probably shouldn’t be sending Lord Aston letters,” Maggie added.
“Probably not,” Hazel admitted.
Maggie scrutinized her. “You haven’t started a secret romance with him?”
This time gravity jerked Hazel’s jaw downward. “O-of course not. That would be absurd!”
“Because you’re so well-behaved?” For some reason, Maggie’s eyes twinkled, and the corners of her lips swerved into a distinct upward direction.
“I suppose this isn’t my most well-behaved moment. But Lord Aston is...Lord Aston. He’s tall and handsome and—”
“And?”
“And I’m not.” Hazel halted her conversation, lest her voice tremble.
“I don’t think tallness and handsomeness are necessarily the qualities he’s seeking.” A smile was firmly pressed on Maggie’s face now.
Fiddlesticks.
“Besides you have good features.”
Hazel gave Maggie a wobbly smile, then cleared her throat. “This is for the war effort. I—er—spotted something in the paper. Something in...code. I’m afraid French spies have discovered the classified section.”
“Truly?”
“Yes.” Hazel’s shoulders stiffened, and she braced herself for Maggie to react like George and Florence.
Instead, Maggie’s face sobered. “You always were close to your father. Of course I can give it to my brother. You mustn’t worry. He’ll see that Lord Aston gets it and he’ll make certain not to share your identity.”
“Thank you,” Hazel said.
Hazel hadn’t expected a response, but the very next day Maggie handed her a letter.
Dear Mr. Keen Decoder,
I was surprised when my footman handed me your message. I imagine it is indeed distressing when one’s brother lingers on the main section of the newspaper, though I must confess to not being gifted with any form of sibling. I was unaware French spies were using The Morning Herald for such nefarious activities, and my men are now inspecting the cla
Yours,
Lord Titus Hailsham, Viscount Aston
Hazel’s mouth dropped open when she read the signature, and she immediately wrote back before she could lose her nerve.
Dear Lord Aston,
Thank you for your letter. I am happy to learn you found my decoding helpful. I should let you know that I am a miss and not a mister. I should be happy to help with any decoding in the future, should you require my assistance.
Yours,
Miss Keen Decoder
Then she hesitated and began to rewrite the letter, this time in a simple cipher. Her father had taught her how to write in code, but Lord Aston was the only person who might appreciate it.
Hazel’s heartbeat had quickened as she wrote the letter, and she refrained from signing her name. She knew Lord Aston. Everyone knew Lord Titus Aston. The man was at every ball. He was handsome and dashing, if you were the sort of woman who liked impossibly tall men with blond hair and steely grey eyes.
Of course Hazel belonged to that category of women. Her skin turned red in his presence, and mortifyingly, she had the distinct horror it notified him of her interest.
No, Lord Aston would never take her letter seriously if he knew her identity. No one took her seriously, because they would have to notice her to do so.
She’d regretted giving Maggie the letter at once. Lord Aston was busy. He didn’t need to decode letters from her. Why hadn’t she simply written him a note in the normal manner?
But then a new letter had arrived from him, also written in code, though a different one. She’d decoded it:
DEAR MISS KEEN DECODER,
It was a pleasure to decode something that does not involve enemy forces.
I have something that requires decoding. My cryptographers are working on it, but so far they have not been successful. I thought that this task might interest you.
I have enclosed it.
Yours,
Lord Aston
MY DEAR LORD ASTON,
I have enclosed the decoded material. You can always call on my services. I despise this horrid war and am eager to do my part.
Yours,
Miss Keen Decoder
DEAR MISS KEEN DECODER,
Thank you very much for your help. You have provided a vital service for England.
Am I not to know your actual name?
Yours,
Lord Aston
DEAR LORD ASTON,
If you knew my actual name, you could find me, and I am fond of my private life. My family would be scandalized if they found out we were writing.
Yours,
Miss Keen Decoder
DEAR MISS KEEN DECODER,
Am I to take it that you are a member of the ton? Am I writing to a matriarch who has successfully matched a slew of mamas and is now tackling Bonaparte?
Lord Aston
Hazel giggled when she read the letter and she set to work on answering it.
Dear Lord Aston,
I am afraid I am not nearly as old and wise as that. I have no children and no husband and a great deal of time.
Miss Keen Decoder
DEAR MISS KEEN DECODER,
I am most grateful you have focused on devoting your time to helping this country. I do wonder how you obtained your knowledge. Are all young women as adept at cyphers as you? Is it an essential part of hiding information from intrusive governesses? I am most intrigued.
Lord Aston
They continued to exchange letters. Sometimes Lord Aston enclosed things for her to decode, but sometimes the only thing for her to decode was his letter to her. Then, his letters were longer. Sometimes they made her giggle, though sometimes he would discuss his current favorite book and inquire on her opinions.
Yes, every letter she received from him was wonderful.
Except perhaps this letter:
Dear Miss Keen Decoder,
Our one-year anniversary of letter correspondence is approaching. Would you perhaps be interested in meeting? Anniversaries are best celebrated in person.
Yours,
Lord Aston
Hazel’s heartbeat quickened, and she read and reread the last sentence. Lord Aston wanted to meet her. The thought was impossible, though. Fortunately, she didn’t need to create an excuse. She already had a perfect one.
Dear Lord Aston,
Regretfully, I am spending the holidays in a small town in Northumberland. I have enclosed the address of the closest post office. I am happy to continue decoding any messages for you there. Please address any messages to Ophelia Davenport. It’s not my real name, of course, but one that I quite fancy having.
Yours,
Miss Keen Decoder
Hazel put down her quill and stared at the letter. She was glad she would be busy. She knew how to not see him.
If she saw him, he might recognize her as the wallflower who chatted only with other spinsters at balls. If she saw him, she would have to see disappointment move over his face, just as it had for every man George had introduced her to.
And yet somehow, her heart gnawed.
CHAPTER ONE
Titus Hailsham, Viscount Aston, made a point of never being spontaneous. It was a vow that had served him well. Generals could trust him not to march their soldiers to victory without his careful consideration and consultation with others.
Thus, he wasn’t disappointed his mysterious correspondent had brushed aside his request for a meeting. Disappointment wasn’t an emotion he felt. Or at least, it wasn’t an emotion he was supposed to feel. He certainly wasn’t thinking that the one time he’d succumbed to spontaneity he’d been rebuked. Not at all.
He’d enjoyed corresponding with the mysterious Miss Keen Decoder for the past year, and at times he’d felt...close to her. It was a peculiar sensation, one he was not prone to experiencing. Most people didn’t take pleasure in such intellectual tasks, like his many acquaintances who scoffed at the tall bookcases in his office or reminded him that school was over and he wasn’t competing to win the approval of some hoary-haired tutor with failing eyesight.
Sometimes he wondered whether he should simply have had people trail his second footman to see who his letter writer could be. Miss Keen Decoder had made it clear that she preferred anonymity, and since that was something Titus craved for himself, he had resisted the impulse to investigate.
He contemplated the letter. The village she’d mentioned looked familiar. Titus withdrew his map of Northumberland and searched until he found a tiny hamlet with the same name. A tiny hamlet right by the castle where Caspian Arundel, Duke of Concord, was currently stationed and where he had invited Titus to visit.
Titus had dismissed his old schoolmate’s request to observe his militia when he received his letter. Caspian was eager to return to the front, despite his war injury, and Titus knew Caspian hoped Titus would let him return to the continent after witnessing his prowess at creating a well-run militia.
Still... The thought of meeting the lovely Miss Keen Decoder over Christmas was intriguing. The name she’d given him had sounded distinctly romantic, and his heart had fluttered. Ophelia. But then, his letter writer was romantic. She insisted on keeping her identity secret, and because he trusted his shy second footman, he’d let her have her anonymity.
Titus had never visited Northumberland before. And he had been searching for a remote place to hide Prince Rafael. Northumberland would be perfect.
Titus thrummed his fingers against his desk, then smiled.
While Titus’s business was keeping and decoding secrets, he was not in the habit of keeping them himself. But Titus had a secret.
As far as secrets went, it was a pleasant secret, even if dreadfully disconcerting. He wasn’t a murderer. He wasn’t engaged in a clandestine romance with a widow, and he hadn’t diverted funds from his government job.
Titus was in love.
He was certain: all the signs were there. He’d been taught about falling in love and the dangers that went with it. The government wanted to ensure their people could guard themselves against seduction from spies. Miss Keen Decoder was not a spy, though. She had regularly decoded top-secret messages for England that only benefitted the kingdom. His heartbeat quickened in regularity when he thought about her, and he had the absurd instinct to thrust his lips upward into a smile.
