Wishing Upon A Christmas Star (The Seven Curses of London Book 8) Read online

  As the voices of Holly and her mother faded in the foyer, Violet turned to look out the window again. Would bringing the older couple a basket of food insult them? Heaven knew her mother would be appalled if one of the neighbors brought them such a gift.

  The garden door on the side of the house opened, and Mrs. Adley stepped out, a lovely Indian shawl draped over her shoulders. The day was a mild autumn one, making it a fine day to stroll in the garden.

  Following her impulse, Violet rushed upstairs to fetch her cloak. Within moments, she stepped out of the rear door that led to the garden, which faced the Adleys’. Perhaps she could start a casual conversation with the woman, and an idea of how to proceed would evolve from there.

  She slowed her steps as she turned at the box hedge that marked the beginning of the side garden, forcing herself to pause as though admiring some of the pink cyclamens that yet bloomed low to the ground. Thank heavens Holly wasn’t there to witness her behavior.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Mrs. Adley hadn’t ventured far and now stood staring at something. Violet edged closer but only saw a few dead dahlias. Why would she study those?

  Violet cleared her throat. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Adley.”

  Startled, the woman turned to look at Violet. “Oh. Lovely day, isn’t it?” Mrs. Adley was an attractive woman near Violet’s height with green eyes and dark hair. She’d aged well, with only a few lines marking the area around her eyes, but she walked with a pronounced limp and often used a cane as she did at the moment.

  “Indeed.” Violet took her greeting as permission to approach the wrought-iron fence that bordered their gardens. “I hope the day finds you well.”

  “Well enough, I suppose.” A despondent note laced the woman’s response, her smile much dimmer than her usual bright one.

  “I don’t mean to be forward, but may I ask if anything is amiss?”

  To Violet’s shock, the woman reached up to wipe a tear from the corner of her eye.

  “May I join you, Mrs. Adley?” Violet asked, anxious to help or, at the very least, offer comfort.

  “Of course. So kind of you. I don’t know what’s come over me,” the woman managed between sniffs as she sank onto a bench and propped her cane beside her.

  Violet hurried to the rear of their garden and stepped out to walk quickly to the Adleys’ garden entrance. The gate didn’t appear to be locked, but she couldn’t open it. After much tugging and pulling, it finally swung free.

  Mrs. Adley watched her struggle with dismay. “Not even the gate works properly.” She shook her head, wiping at another tear.

  “Just a bit rusted. Nothing that can’t be easily remedied.” Violet joined Mrs. Adley on the bench and handed her a handkerchief.

  The woman sniffed as she took it. But rather than bringing it to her nose, she examined the embroidered design. “Oh, isn’t this lovely.” She looked up at Violet, her green eyes glittering with tears. “Did you embroider this?”

  “Thank you. Yes. I enjoy needlework.” She couldn’t help the defensive note in her tone as her sisters tended to berate her for the feminine pursuits she enjoyed.

  Mrs. Adley nodded and at last used it to dab her eyes. “I’m sorry to be so weepy.”

  “Is there anything I can do to aid you?”

  Mrs. Adley reached over to pat Violet’s arm. “So kind of you. Please forgive me, but I don’t remember which of the Fairchild daughters you are.”

  “Violet.” She waved a hand in the air to dismiss the older woman’s concern. “No need for an apology. Four of us look very much alike. You’re not alone in your confusion.”

  “Violet.” The woman nodded. “Of course.”

  Violet looked away to give her a moment to collect herself. The garden was in an even worse state up close. What had once been lovely flower beds amongst neatly trimmed hedges now had a neglected, rather wild appearance.

  “It’s a mess, isn’t it? I don’t know why it’s upsetting me so much today, but I can’t seem to help myself.”

  Violet bit her lip, uncertain how to continue. While she didn’t want to pry, she couldn’t offer assistance if she didn’t know more. “Did you lose your gardener?”

  “Yes and no.”

  With a frown, Violet turned back to the woman. Had she not heard Violet’s question or was far more than the garden losing its edge?

  Mrs. Adley sighed. “I shall tell you a secret if you promise not to share it.”

  “Of course.” She was very good at keeping secrets.

  “We haven’t had a gardener since we moved here. Our butler has done his best to keep up on things, bless his heart. But he suffers from stiff knees, which have grown worse the past year. Poor Watsford is growing older right along with Mr. Adley and me. I’ve told him not to bother with the garden. I miss it though. Its current state only reminds me of how things used to be.” She blinked rapidly and made use of the handkerchief again.

  “There’s nothing wrong with the garden. It’s merely in a more natural state.” Violet looked around, trying to believe her own reassurance. “You might be starting a new trend with its appearance.”

  Mrs. Adley rewarded her efforts with a smile. “You are a dear, Violet. I shall try to think of it like that as well.”

  Violet bit her lip as she considered how best to phrase her next question. She wanted to help but didn’t want to insult her. “Can I assist in some way?”

  “Good heavens, no.” She waved the handkerchief. “All is well. I suppose it’s just the coming holidays that have me so melancholy.”

  “Oh?” Violet didn’t know quite what to say but couldn’t resist reaching out to pat the woman’s arm.

  “Christmas isn’t what it used to be.”

  “Tell me,” she said, using the one skill she knew she had—the ability to listen.

  ~*~

  Baxter returned home after a long, difficult day at his office near the docks. Delayed shipments and ridiculous excuses set amid a cultural difference that was a challenge to overcome were normal. However, his patience to deal with it was lacking.

  He poured himself a drink, appreciating the peaceful quiet of his library. The servants were accustomed to his need for solitude after his workday and left him alone. He sat at his desk to review the personal correspondence he’d ignored the past two days while resolving the issues at his office.

  The elegant cursive on an envelope caught his eye. He withdrew it from the stack, a smile forming when he saw it was a letter from his mother.

  He quickly broke the wax seal, anxious for word from home. His mother’s feminine, if precise script, greeted him.

  Dearest Baxter,

  We hope this letter finds you well.

  His smile broadened as every letter she sent opened with that sentence. The routine sentiment warmed him.

  She shared random bits and pieces of news. His father was enjoying the mild weather they were having. She’d ventured to Bond Street with friends. He hoped she’d been shopping as it was one of her favorite past times. She’d refused to purchase anything for a long time after the reversal of their financial circumstances. It had taken some convincing on his part that she could resume. But for the past year, she often mentioned afternoons on Bond Street in her letters.

  We’ve met the most delightful young lady. She’s coming to mean so much to your father and me and has been helping us in many ways.

  He frowned at the paragraph as he reread it. Helping? How, he wondered.

  We’re coming to rely on her more each day. She has wonderful ideas for us.

  Alarm bells sounded as Baxter read further. The last time they’d relied on someone, the man had convinced his father to invest in a precarious scheme that had cost him his fortune.

  Even more telling was that not once did his mother inquire when he would make the trip home. She asked that in every letter. But not this one and the holidays were approaching. That was a telling detail in itself. The past two Christmases, she’d employed every techni
que a mother had in her arsenal—suggesting, asking, demanding, and finally, the strongest one of all, guilt.

  He’d nearly given in last year at her reminder that they weren’t getting any younger and who knew how many more holidays they’d live to see.

  Of course, he wanted to return home. The opening of the Suez Canal had shortened the trip by over five thousand miles, but it was still a lengthy one of at least two weeks, often more. Part of him feared that if he went home, he wouldn’t have the strength to return to Bombay, which would bring his business to an end. He wasn’t ready to set aside the substantial stream of income the business brought. Not yet.

  He read the letter again, trying to interpret what was truly happening with his parents. No matter how many times he studied the words, the alarm bells wouldn’t be silenced.

  Baxter stepped over to the bell pull and yanked the cord.

  “You rang?” Rajesh, his valet, asked from the doorway a few minutes later.

  “Please make inquiries as to when the next ship is traveling to London and pack my bags. I’m returning to England for a time.”

  “Of course, sir. How long do you intend to be gone?”

  Baxter considered the question, uncertain. “Three weeks at most.”

  “Will you be staying there for the English holiday?” he asked.

  The idea tempted Baxter more than he cared to admit. However, doing so would only make it more difficult to return to Bombay. Once he saw to his parents’ well being, he needed to come back to India, regardless of the date on the calendar.

  “I don’t know.” Yet he couldn’t prevent the anticipation that filled him at the possibility.

  Chapter Three

  “Do be careful, Watsford,” Violet said as she watched the butler step onto the lowest rung of the ladder in the Adleys’ foyer.

  The dust and cobwebs on the massive crystal chandelier had been bothering Mrs. Adley though they never lit it anymore, so Violet wanted to help clean it. However, she didn’t care for the way the elderly servant tottered then paused to find his balance. That would never do.

  He insisted his bad knees had improved, but she had her doubts. She’d suggested she should be the one to climb the ladder. After all, she was the youngest person in their home, but Watsford refused her offer. She knew if she insisted he’d be insulted. He didn’t care to be reminded of his advancing years or his bad knees.

  “I can see from this angle that we’ll need a different candle. Do you suppose you have one somewhere?” She bit her lip, hoping he wouldn’t see through the ruse.

  “Of course, miss,” he said and stepped down, much to her relief. “I’ll return shortly.”

  “No need to hurry,” she said as she eyed the chandelier. Though it should be lowered to be cleaned, the fixture was heavy. With no strapping footman to aid them, Violet had thought the safest option was to climb up to it rather than risk dropping it.

  Mr. and Mrs. Adley were the kindest, gentlest souls she’d had the good fortune to meet. If anyone deserved a little help, it was them. As long as her mother didn’t find out what sort of assistance Violet was providing, all would be well. She thought Violet came over to the neighbor’s home to read to them.

  That had been how her visits had started over four weeks ago and was something she still did. The older couple took turns picking the books. Mrs. Adley had chosen a lovely collection of poems they’d all enjoyed. Mr. Adley had decided on one on Greek history the first time, but his latest selection had been a delightful mystery that had kept them guessing to the end.

  It hadn’t taken more than one visit for Violet to realize how short-staffed their home was. She had delicately inquired as to why they didn’t have more than Watsford and his wife, who served as housekeeper and cook, along with a day maid who came three times a week.

  Their lack of funds was an uncomfortable topic, especially for Mr. Adley, who blamed himself for their misfortune. Violet had quickly brushed aside the discussion so as not to upset him.

  She had spent the last several weeks helping with a few small projects around the house and garden, but her main task was providing encouragement and a little direction. Whenever Mrs. Adley mentioned something she wished could be done, Violet did her best to make it so. She’d tidied the drawing room on one of her visits, given them several of her embroidered pieces to make into pillows, and helped Watsford clean the windows. She could do little with the worn carpets or slightly tattered wingback chairs, but the drawing room was bright and cheerful despite that. She and Mrs. Adley had even made a bit of progress in the garden when the weather permitted, though now that December was upon them, warm days were rare.

  More important than any of that was providing friendship, which she received in return. The couple had slowly withdrawn from Society over the past few years and never received callers. They’d lost much of their enjoyment in life. She hoped her three to four visits each week, no matter how brief, had helped to give it back.

  As soon as Watsford disappeared at the end of the hall, Violet reached for the damp cloth and stepped onto the ladder herself. After all, she’d climbed the ladder in her father’s library numerous times. This should be quite simple.

  However, five steps up, she realized it felt different. The ladder wobbled precariously, causing her to catch her breath. She slowed her progress and took the next few steps with care, staying centered on the rungs.

  Another step and she reached the chandelier. A glance below caused her heart to thud dully. With nothing to hold onto other than the top of the ladder or the chandelier, she felt terribly unsteady. She swallowed back her nerves and lifted the cloth to rub one of the crystal pendants. To her dismay, she needed both hands to keep the pendant from swinging, so she could clean it.

  The front door bell rang, a rare event from what she’d experienced. The sound startled her, and she reached for the ladder to catch herself. She knew Mr. Adley had been on one of his rambles, as he liked to call his long walks. The door opened, but she didn’t dare take her eyes off her task to see his reaction to her standing on the ladder. He wouldn’t be pleased.

  When he didn’t say a word, she risked a glance out of the corner of her eye.

  But it wasn’t Mr. Adley standing there. Instead, a handsome stranger frowned up at her. One who was broad of shoulder with sun-kissed skin, and the most arresting green eyes she’d ever seen staring up at her.

  “Whatever are you doing?” His deep voice rattled her with its timbre.

  “I—” She gasped before she managed another word. The ladder tipped precariously as she shifted. To her horror, the ladder moved one way, and she went the other.

  ~*~

  Baxter’s heart flew to his throat at the sight of the falling woman. Without a second thought, he rushed forward, arms outstretched, and caught her.

  The attractive young woman had blonde hair and lovely blue eyes that had gone wide with the near miss. “You startled me.”

  “That makes two of us,” he said, still cradling her tight against his chest. “Are you all right?”

  “Who are you?” she asked as she blinked up at him, bringing long lashes to his notice.

  “I believe I should be the one asking that question.” He hadn’t slept well on the fifteen-day journey from Bombay to London, but his present confusion couldn’t be blamed solely on his tiredness.

  The state of the exterior of the home in which his parents lived was nothing like he expected. The house was in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint. The steps required repair. And the garden was more of a jungle than those in Bombay. Where had the money he’d sent each month gone?

  The lady in his arms suddenly pushed against him as though only now realizing he still held her. He set her on her feet, keeping his hands on her slender waist to make certain she had her balance.

  Her cheeks were a lovely shade of pink, complementing her creamy skin. Her hair was drawn back into a loose chignon with a few wisps near her ears. A black rim encircled the blue of her eyes, giv
ing them an exotic appearance. Blue eyes were a rare sight in India, and he found himself staring into hers with fascination.

  “Who are you?” he repeated, suddenly desperate to know.

  She stepped back, removing his hands from her waist, making him realize he still held her. Her cheeks flushed an even deeper shade as she drew back another step, one brow raised. “I belong here. The question is, who are you?”

  Stubborn thing. Beautiful, but stubborn. She smelled of violets. Intelligence glittered in her eyes. His senses were inundated by everything about her.

  “Baxter Adley,” he managed at last.

  The mix of reactions that crossed her face amused him. Shock. Denial. Curiosity. Awareness.

  Damn if he didn’t feel all those too. He gave himself a mental shake. Surely his reaction was only due to his exhaustion, not because he appreciated the way she felt in his arms. He reached for the ladder and set it upright as he glanced at the chandelier. “You do know there’s a rope to lower that.”

  She lifted her chin, folding her arms before her, obviously displeased with his remark.

  Ah, he thought. She didn’t like to be questioned. That only made him want to do so again, just to see the spark in her eyes.

  “I’m well aware of that. However, it’s quite heavy.”

  “Why wouldn’t the footman assist you?”

  Her lips pursed into a bow that shot an arrow of awareness straight through him. He had to glance away in response. What on earth was wrong with him?

  “What relation are you to Mr. and Mrs. Adley?” she asked.

  He risked looking back at her, surprised. She couldn’t have been acquainted with them long if she didn’t know that. Or was something else afoot? “Their son.”

  Those lips parted as her gaze swept over him from head to foot and back. “Truly?”

  He frowned, unable to make sense of her question. Was she the person his mother had mentioned in her last letter?

  “Mr. Baxter?” He turned to see Watsford entering the foyer, a candle in hand and a wide smile on his face.

  Baxter’s world settled slightly as he strode forward to clasp the butler’s hand and shoulder. “Good to see you, Watsford.”