The Christmas Carrolls by Bárbara Metzger Page B

rarity among the ton. The gossip would be a nine days’ wonder, is all. No one but the highest sticklers will be appalled by it.”
    “Mama will be.”
    The viscount rode alongside Joia, so he could take her hand. “I have every reason to believe that your mother knows. Wives usually do. Perhaps not all the details, but enough. And she has forgiven your father for his onetime lapse. Can you?”
    “I... I don’t know.”
    He took his hand away. “I was hoping you had more of your mother’s loving-kindness, that could overlook a man’s faults.” He was wondering if she could forget about a man’s past altogether.
    Joia was wondering how a man could be so compassionate and still be a rake. Papa, of course. “How could she ever trust him again?”
    “I believe that’s where ‘love conquers all’ comes in. We’ll never know, for I can’t think you mean to question your mother about her feelings on the matter.”
    Joia didn’t even want to examine her own feelings on the matter, so she changed the subject from men’s pasts to her own future. “But what about Oliver and his poisonous threats? No matter what you say, I couldn’t bear to see my family’s dirty linen washed in public.”
    “Of course not. No, we have to defang the little viper. The fuzzed deck is a start, but I have some other cards up my own sleeve. Just avoid him for now and leave everything to me. The houseguests believe you are ailing anyway, so you should be able to keep out of his way without drawing comment. Especially with the ball tomorrow, they’ll all think you are resting to regain your strength.”
    “But what about you? What are you going to do?”
    “First, I intend to win my money back from our Captain Sharp. Then we’ll see.”
    “That’s your plan? Disaster is one day away and you are worried about your gambling losses?” Joia threw her apple, smashing it against an innocent tree.
    Comfort drew his horse closer again, so his thigh brushed against her leg in the sidesaddle. “Now is the time to start learning to trust, sweetings. I’m not sure how the game will play itself out, but I swear that your family will not be hurt and you will not have to marry Oliver. I’ll marry you myself, first.”
    Joia almost fell off her horse, but she wasn’t as surprised as the viscount to hear those words come out of his mouth. “It won’t come to that, I’m sure,” he quickly added. “Trust me.”
    * * * *
    How many women had listened to how many men say, “Trust me”? And how many women had been disappointed by their handsome, smooth-tongued rogues? Joia had the headache for real. She didn’t go down to dinner, to her father’s perturbation.
    Deuce take it, Lord Carroll muttered into his mutton. How the devil was a man supposed to enjoy his meal with all the intrigues going on? He knew there was some argle-bargle over Oliver. Dash it, there was always some disturbance when that cabbage head came to call. At least he didn’t bother the maids anymore, after the housekeeper threatened to come after him with a butcher knife two summers ago.
    According to Bartholemew, Viscount Comfort was handling the difficulty, which was, also according to the almost omniscient butler, a Good Thing. Barty thought Lady Joia might look more kindly on the raffish nobleman if he could perform this small service for her. Barty hoped for Great Things from that young man. Well, so did Lord Carroll, namely a grandchild, if his obstinate eldest daughter could be convinced to sit next to the chap. Instead she was taking to her bed, and the viscount was taking that blasted widow to his, from all appearances. Why, they were practically drinking out of the same cup at the dinner table. Why not? They were nearly sitting in the same seat. The eel in aspic tasted like ashes in Lord Carroll’s mouth.
    And there was worse news. Having informed the viscount of all that he thought the gentleman needed to know, Bartholemew had loyally reported to his employer