Fellows, listening to the others exclaim over the plum pudding, thought he'd be better off at his aunt's house, bouncing his cousins' children on his knees.
A slab of pudding, studded with fruit and smelling of spices, landed on his plate. Fellows nodded his thanks to the footman who'd served it.
"Careful," Louisa said as Fellows scooped a chunk of cake onto his fork. "You might have a sixpence."
Fellows did enjoy the English tradition of coins or little trinkets stirred into the Christmas pudding, at least he had when he was younger. His aunt usually put in farthings or tiny toys for the children, but he'd always imagined the Mackenzies put in gold guineas.
If they did, none had ended up in his share of the pudding. He tasted treacle, raisins, nuts, cloves, and brandy, plus the creamy rum flavor of the hard sauce, but no silver or gold. Louisa ate in dainty bites, including Fellows in her conversation or joining in with others near her. These guests were more aristocrats Hart wanted to keep well tamed in case he wanted to use them again. Louisa was very good at putting people at ease, he saw, as was Eleanor, who chatted amicably from the foot of the table, her pregnancy well hidden beneath her dress and the tablecloth.
"Oh," Louisa exclaimed, then she smiled as she removed a silver bit from her spoon. "I've found a sixpence."
"Excellent," Eleanor said. She'd barely eaten any of the pudding, but she'd torn it apart to see whether she'd received any coins. "You'll have good luck all the year, my dear."
The sixpence also meant prosperity, Fellows knew, though he assumed the duchess was being delicate in not implying that Louisa needed assurances of money.
Louisa cleaned the sixpence on her napkin then her smile deepened as she held the coin out to Fellows. "You take it, Inspector. It was on the edge of my piece, so it likely was very nearly in yours."
Fellows eyed the glinting silver, then Louisa. "No, indeed," he said. "It was in your slice. I'd hardly take a sixpence away from a lady."
"It's for luck." Louisa still smiled, but her eyes were watchful. "And a memento of the occasion."
Something to remember her by. Yes, he wanted that. And she wanted it. Perhaps. Or she might be teasing him. Fellows had no idea, and his swiftly beating heart didn't care.
It would be ungracious to refuse a gift from a lady. Fellows bowed, held out his hand, and let her drop the sixpence into it. He noted that she was very careful not to touch him.
Those around them watched the exchange, puzzled and curious but too polite to ask. They did, however, begin to speculate on the things sixpence could buy, things even an inspector of Scotland Yard could afford, they said without actually saying that.
It didn't matter. Louisa smiled at him, all he needed to make him forget silly games with pudding and thinly veiled insults. Let them fire at him. Louisa's smile took all the sting away.
*** *** ***
"Mac, I can't see where I'm going if your hands are over my eyes."
"Almost there." Mac was warm behind her, his fingers gentle on Isabella's face.
"We ought to be downstairs," she said. "The ball's about to start."
"True, but this has been the only time all day I've been able to bring you up here." Mac led her into the room, and Isabella heard him kick the door closed behind them. "You may look now."
Mac slid his hands from Isabella's eyes and turned her to face what he wanted her to see.
They were in Mac's studio. A painting had been propped on an easel at one end of the room, the picture waiting to dry and be framed. Mac had set the lights so that the picture was illuminated, the rest of the room shadowed. Isabella saw that he'd already put into use the brush holder studded with semiprecious stones she'd given him this morning, but her attention was all for the new painting.
The picture showed Aimee in a pretty white dress, the skirt pulled back over a tiny bustle, her plump legs encased in white stockings and little black high-button shoes. She leaned casually on a chair and looked down at the fiery-haired Eileen, who was seated on it, her arms around her baby brother Robbie. Eileen grinned out of the picture, and Robbie gazed at the painter--his father--with curiosity and good humor.
Achilles, the heroic dog, lay with head up in front of the chair, on watch. Fergus, the little white terrier, had his feet on the chair, mouth lolling in a smile at the children.
"I hadn't meant to paint in the dogs," Mac said. "But when I was doing the preliminary drawings, the bloody animals wouldn't leave."
He'd depicted them in a garden, though Isabella knew he'd likely done all the sittings right here. The picture was full of bright summer flowers and twining vines, the landscape flowing into recognizable mountains, the ones near Kilmorgan.
The colors were vivid, and a large pitcher on the ground held a bouquet of yellow roses. The yellow roses shouted Mac painted this, even over the casually scrawled Mackenzie in the bottom corner.
Isabella pressed her hands together, eyes blurring with tears. Her children, two she'd had with Mac, one adopted to save from a wretched life, were bright and beautiful on the canvas. Mac had captured them as only Mac could, not stiffly posed, but laughing and playing as they loved to.
"Oh, Mac, it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
"A bit slapdash," Mac said in his careless way. "Our children do not like sitting still. The dogs were better behaved."
Isabella turned in his arms, even if it meant she had to look away from the wonderful painting.
"Don't you dare belittle that picture. It is beautiful, the best thing you've ever done."
"I don't know. There was a Venetian view that I thought turned out rather well--"
Isabella placed her fingers over Mac's mouth. "Stop."
He grinned, eyes shining. "I was teasing. The Venetian paintings were bloody awful."
"Shush," Isabella said, her voice softer.
She lifted her fingers away and replaced them with her lips. "I love you, Mac Mackenzie." She kissed him again. "Thank you. It's a marvelous gift." One straight from his heart.
Mac slid his arms around her. "The ball is beginning," he reminded her, but his voice was low, coaxing, his smile hot.
"Bother the ball," Isabella said, and drew her husband close once more.
*** *** ***
Cameron danced well, Louisa observed from where she sat against the gilded wall next to her mother. He swung Ainsley around in exuberance, her gown billowing, his kilt pressing her legs. He danced closer than decorum decreed, even between husband and wife--especially between husband and wife these days. Husbands were meant to leave their baser needs to their mistresses.