A Candlelit Regency Christmas. Louise Allen

guessed, hazel and his chin was firm.

      It was his mouth, she decided, focusing on that feature. It was mobile and kept drifting upwards into a half smile as though his thoughts were pleasant, but mysterious and, in some way, dangerous. In fact, she decided, he looked like a particularly well-dressed supernatural creature, if such things ever reached a good six feet in height with shoulders in proportion—one who ruled over forests where the shadows were dark and wolves lurked...

      He glanced across at her again and stood up, which snapped her out of musings that probably had something to do with Sister Moira’s frisson-inducing tales of Gothic terror, told at recreation time when Mother Superior was not listening. Only Sister Moira’s fantasy beings never provoked feelings of...

      ‘Is Rivers hurting you?’ Lord Weybourn came over and hitched himself onto the table opposite. His boots were beautiful, she thought, watching one swinging idly to and fro. It was safer than meeting his gaze. ‘I haven’t managed to break your ankle, have I?’

      ‘No, you haven’t, fortunately.’ Mr Rivers came back and hunkered down by her feet. ‘This will be cold,’ he warned as he draped a dripping cloth over her ankle. ‘I’ll bandage it up after you’ve had your tea and a rest.’

      ‘This seems a very pleasant inn,’ she said for want of a neutral topic. Conversation with men was a novelty. ‘Do you use this place frequently?’

      ‘From a long way back,’ Lord Weybourn said. ‘Even when the war was on some of us would slip in and out in various guises. Very handy, Les Quatre Éléments.’ He grinned. ‘We called ourselves the Four Elementals as our names fit so well.’

      ‘Elementals? I know the four elements—air, water, fire and earth. So which are you?’

      ‘Alex Tempest—air.’

      ‘So you are water, Mr Rivers? That works well with your soothing medical skills.’

      He gave a half bow in acknowledgement. ‘Cris is de Feaux, hence the French feu for fire.’

      ‘Of course.’ She could easily imagine the blond icicle as an archangel with a burning sword. ‘And earth?’

      ‘Gabriel Stone is nothing if not earthy.’ Lord Weybourn titled his head towards the dice player, who was playing left hand against right hand, dark brows lowered in a scowl of concentration.

      Mr Rivers changed the cold cloth on her ankle again. Tess smiled her thanks, then forgot both injury and elements as a maid deposited a laden tray on the settle beside her. Tea, she had expected, but not pastries dripping with honey, little cakes and dainty iced biscuits. Lord Weybourn stole a biscuit and went back to the others.

      ‘I should—’

      ‘Eat up. Sorry,’ Grant Rivers said. ‘Interrupting you again.’

      ‘I fear I will not know when to stop.’ Vegetable soup and wholemeal bread had made a warming midday meal, but they had tasted, as always, of practical, frugal worthiness and sat lumpily on a stomach fluttering with nerves. There was nothing worthy about the plate beside her. Mr Rivers simply nodded and strolled off to join his friends, leaving her to sip her tea—with sugar!—while she contemplated the temptation. Perhaps just one of each? To leave them untouched would be discourteous.

      * * *

      Half an hour later Tess licked her fingers, feeling slightly, deliciously queasy as she contemplated a plate empty of all but crumbs and a smear of cream.

      Mr Rivers strolled back and shifted the tray without so much as a smirk or a frown for her greed. ‘I’ll strap up your ankle now. Let’s put this blanket over your knees and you can take a nap when I’m done. You were chilled and a little bit shocked, I suspect. A rest will do no harm.’

      He was almost a doctor, he knew what he was talking about and she supposed there was no great hurry, provided she was with Sister Clare for the evening meal. And this was...interesting. Watching men, relaxed and friendly together, was interesting. Being warm and full of delicious sweets was indulgent. A mild sensation of naughtiness, of playing truant, was definitely intriguing. She knew she shouldn’t be here, but they all seemed so...harmless? Wrong word. Perhaps it was her innocence deceiving her...

      Tess blinked, on the verge of a yawn. Last night had been cold and her head too full of churning thoughts, hopes and worries for her to sleep much. Mr Rivers was right—a little nap would set her up for an evening of doling out stew to humble travellers who would otherwise be huddled in their cloaks on benches for the night. Then she would have to try to sleep on a hard bed in a chilly cell alongside Sister Clare’s notorious snores before an even chillier dawn start. Sister Moira always said those snores counted as a penance in themselves, so they would be enough to pay for the consumption of a plate of pastries, Tess decided, as she snugged down in the corner of the settle and let the men’s voices and laughter wash over her. Just a little nap.

      * * *

      ‘Mmm?’ Citrus cologne, starched linen... She was being lifted again by Lord Weybourn. It seemed natural to turn her head into his shoulder, inhale the interesting masculine scent of him.

      ‘You will get a crick in your neck in that corner, little nun. And we’re becoming noisy. There’s a nice quiet room just here, you can rest.’

      That sounded so good. ‘Sister Clare...’

      ‘I remember. Sister Clare, down at the canal dock. Boat to Ostend in the morning.’

      What is all this nonsense the sisters tell us about men? Anyone would think they were all ravening beasts... These four are kind and reliable and safe. And the mattress was soft when he laid her down and the covers so warm and light. ‘Thank you,’ Tess murmured as she drifted off again.

      ‘My pleasure, little nun.’ Then the door closed and all was quiet.

Chapter Two

      Tess swum up out of sleep, deliciously warm and with a definite need for the chamber pot. Too much tea. ‘Ouch!’ Her ankle gave a stab of pain as she hopped across to the screen in the corner, made herself comfortable and then hopped back. It was still light, so she could not have slept long. In fact, it was very light. She pulled aside the curtain and stared out at a corner of the inn yard with a maid bustling past with a basket of laundry and a stable boy lugging a bucket of water. It was unmistakably morning.

      She hobbled to the door, flung it open. The four men were still around the table. The dice player and the blond icicle were playing cards with the air of gamblers who could continue for another twelve hours if necessary. Mr Rivers was pouring ale into a tankard with one hand while holding a bread roll bulging with ham in the other. And Lord Weybourn, who she now realised was the most unreliable, infuriating man—regardless of her pulse quickening simply at the sight of him—was fast asleep, his chair tipped on its back legs against a pillar, his booted feet on the table amidst a litter of playing cards.

      The fact that he was managing to sleep without snoring, with his mouth mostly closed and his clothing unrumpled, only added fuel to the fire.

      ‘Lord Weybourn!’

      ‘Humph?’ He jerked awake and Tess winced at the thump his head made against the pillar. ‘Ouch.’

      The other men stood up. ‘Miss Ellery. Good morning. Did you sleep well?’ Mr Rivers asked.

      ‘I told him. I told him I had to be down at the canal port. I told him the boat left very early this morning.’ She jerked her head towards Lord Weybourn, too cross to look at him.

      ‘It is early morning.’ He got to his feet and she could not help but notice that he did not look as though he had slept in his clothes. He was as sleek and self-possessed as a panther. What she looked like she shuddered to think.

      Tess batted an errant lock of hair out of her eyes. ‘What time is it?’

      The blond icicle