Regency Christmas Wishes(3)

Adam rubbed the coin, wishing he had ten of them. Ten might buy enough spirits to keep him company in the taproom of the posting inn until the first coach left for Suffolk in the morning, saving him the cost of a bedchamber. Oblivion in a bottle, that’s what he needed, not a bit of superstitious folderol. Then he might forget that the next mortgage payment would take every shilling he possessed, leaving nothing for wages or winter forage. Damn and blast the banker! And damn Adam’s feckless father for taking out such loans to fund his failing stables. And damn the old gnome who’d handed him a penny for his thoughts, giving him hope when there was none.

As he rubbed the coin, though, its color brightened. Gold? No, it was the wrong size for any gold coin he knew. For that matter, the smiling face was no king or queen he recognized. He rubbed harder, removing the tarnish to reveal a scrolled tree on the obverse side, with no words or dates of identification. Botheration, the thing wasn’t even a real coin. Well, it might be real, but not in this country, not in this century, which was precisely in keeping with how Adam’s luck had been running.

Bah! Hard work had won him nothing. Careful planning and parsimony had not advanced his cause. Now luck had proved just as worthless.

He was about to toss the useless thing away when he walked past a shop with a jumble of merchandise in the small bowed window. SCHOTT’S ANTIQUITIES, the sign above the door read. RARE COINS AND JEWELS BOUGHT AND SOLD.

“Why not?” Adam murmured to himself. He could see only one customer in the shop, a woman in a red velvet cape whose back was to Adam. Her dark-clad maid waited just inside the door, holding a thick, paper-wrapped parcel. Behind the counter was a small, elderly man with thick spectacles and a fringe of gray hair around his head. Most likely the proprietor, Adam thought, deciding that the fellow looked knowledgeable, at any rate. And what did Adam have to lose anyway? A good luck coin that was neither good luck nor coin of the realm. Perhaps it might have some value to a collector. Ten pence would be enough.

As he went in, the maid stepped aside, shifting the weight of her package. A bell over the door chimed and Mr. Schott looked up to greet and assess his newest client.

“I will be with you shortly, sir. Please feel free to look around meanwhile.”

“Take your time. I am in no hurry.” After all, Adam had nothing but time until tomorrow morning. He started forward, thinking he might as well examine a case of pretty baubles instead of the watches that would make him regret his own missing timepiece. But as he moved, the red-caped female turned, too, and he was turned to stone, it seemed, right there in a cluttered curiosity shop. His satchel fell to his feet from lifeless fingers, and he did not even notice. How could he when all he saw was the most beautiful woman in London, no, in all of England? A young lady, she could not be much above two and twenty, with dark curls and sparkling green eyes and cheeks bright from the cold. Her face was framed by the white fur of her hood, making her appear more like an angel than a real woman. A Christmas angel, he thought, except that her mouth was made for kisses, all soft and rosy.

He thought he could stand there until Doomsday, or until the shop closed for the night, or she left, memorizing everything about this exquisite vision. Then he would not be going home to Suffolk poorer than when he came after all, not with a perfect, precious masterpiece indelible in his mind. Lud, how he wished to . . . No, that was even more foolish than standing like a marble statue, staring at a lovely stranger.

Then she smiled at him. Foolish or not, Sir Adam Standish wished with all his heart that she were his.

Jenna had to smile at the large gentleman standing in Mr. Schott’s establishment. He looked so out of place in the crowded little shop with its delicate treasures, so bewildered and so . . . endearing. Yes, that was it, endearing, with his windblown brown curls and loosely tied neckcloth. The tilt to his lips and his soft brown eyes made him appear comfortable, friendly, trustworthy, and vastly appealing, unlike the starched and suave London gentlemen of her acquaintance. If they were chill politeness, he was warm familiarity, without ever saying a word. Something about him just seemed solid and sun-touched, while the bucks and beaux of town were paper-thin creatures of the night or shadowed drawing rooms. Miss Relaford did not know how she had come to have such a high opinion of the gentleman’s character in so short a time, but she did. She had known him forever, it seemed, this perfect stranger. Why, she almost felt tempted to straighten his cravat and brush a curl off his forehead, while touching his smooth cheek and that cleft in his chin and the laugh lines around his firm mouth and—