Page 202 of Ten Lords for the Holidays

Neither could any wager.

How she was supposed to continue as normal, she had no idea. Her whole body felt different. She was more alive than she’d ever been, aware of places in her that had been dormant.

In a daze, she sat through breakfast and the presents from underneath the tree.

Helene had bought her a pretty silk scarf, and Thomas was playing with new metal soldiers with bright red coats, given to him by their parents. Regardless of the gifts, the atmosphere was sober.

Tam didn’t even look up as the door opened, consumed by her thoughts and regrets and stroking the silk of the scarf as though it were a pet.

“The Duke of Newton,” Cooper announced in his most nasally and pretentious voice.

“Good morning.” Att was on the butler’s heels, handing off his top hat, cane, and greatcoat without ceremony, bringing in a sweep of fresh, crisp air from outside.

Attwas here.

Her heart, previously a sensible organ that confined itself to accelerating when she had to run across a lawn or was worried about a patient, attempted to throw itself toward Att. Right through her ribcage, corset and dress.

“I’m here to speak with Mr. Patterson.” His gaze swept the room until he found her, winked, then settled on her father’s confounded visage. “Sir.”

Before she could protest, her father had hastened up, with a, “Yes, yes, of course, your Grace,” that sounded like a train pulling out of a station. “Come to my study. Cooper, some refreshments, please.”

Tam blinked and her heart stopped trying to escape. There were only so many ways to interpret a man arriving on Christmas day and specifically asking to speak with the head of the household. But honestly, she’d had so many ups and downs in the last two days she might as well be a seesaw.

Surely. Surely this wasn’t what it seemed. How could Att forgive her for running away last night?

“What business do you think the Duke has with Papa on Christmas day? Do you think it’s about trains?” Thomas asked, with all the tact and innocence of an eight-year-old boy.

“Maybe the Duke is going to invest in the company Papa did, and save us all because he really likes trains,” Nigel added.

“He really likes something,” interjected Lionel wryly, “but I don’t think it’s trains.”

“That’s enough, children,” her mother said. “Helena, could you read from that book of verse?”

Tam didn’t know whether to stare into the fire as she had been, or pace up and down. What would make the time go faster? She compromised by sitting down and listening to Helena inexpertly read poetry with all the charisma of a gouty big toe for two minutes, then jumping up and walking around the room for two more.

Three times Tam nearly went to listen at her father’s study door, and her mother snapped, “Absolutely not.” On the third time she added, “I understand you wanting to have a profession Tam, but I draw the line at listening at doors.Thatis beneath you.”

“I wasn’t planning to listen at the door,” Tam grumbled. “I was going to barge in and have a say in whatever they were talking about.”

It was hideously and absurdly unfair that she had been mere months away from qualifying in a profession that would literally put lives in her hands, but apparently didn’t get a say in her life or family finances.

“No,” her mother said. “Leave your father this nominal role.” She gave Tam a speaking look and Tam suddenly wondered why her mother had left it so long—easily an hour—before coming looking for her.

Tam sat back down and listened to god awful poetry and cataloged her emotions again.

Fear. Just fear.

“That’s it,” she said, getting up after fifteen minutes had elapsed. “I’m—”

The door opened and Att sauntered in, a smile on his face like the cat who got the cream.

“Madam. Would you grant me the honor of a moment to speak alone with your daughter,” he said, making it a command rather than a request.

“Of course your Grace.” Her mother stood and curtsied like this happened three times a week to her, and waved the rest of the family out of the room with all the dignity of a swan. Tam was left, exposed and in shock.

This man. She blinked up at him. “What was—”

“What do you think?” Att raised one satirical eyebrow.

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