A Mackenzie Family Christmas: The Perfect Gift

Hart had resumed his chair, observing the exchange in his eagle-eyed way. He didn't hover and growl like a jealous husband, but the watchfulness was there.

Foolish man. Eleanor was madly in love with Hart, the Lord only knew why. Hart had been the very definition of the decadent rake in his younger days, with David his avid disciple, though sometimes his tutor.

"I feel certain there is someone out there for you," Eleanor said. "It's only a matter of narrowing down possibilities and presenting opportunities."

"No," David said emphatically. He hooked his ankle around a footstool and dragged it to him, settling his dirty boots on it. Exhaustion was beating on him, making his eyelids sandy.

"Leave him be, El. He's our guest." Hmm. Was that Hart Mackenzie being so kind and understanding?

"True," Eleanor said. "And there's the matter of the little task we need him to do."

Ah ha. Hart was never kind without a reason.

"So you called me here to work, did you?" David asked. "And all I thought was that I'd take advantage of your soft beds and excellent food."

"And you will," Eleanor said, smiling that smile that meant she was up to something. "We need it done before Christmas Eve, and then you can sit back and feast as much as you wish."

"Good." David's eyes narrowed. "What is this task for which you need my expertise?"

"Blackmail the Earl of Glastonby," Eleanor said.

She spoke in a matter-of-fact voice, as though she commanded her husband's friends to blackmail a gentleman every morning, two after teatime.

"Glastonby?" David's tiredness ebbed as interest took over. "Prudy Preston that was? He was head lad at school," he explained to Eleanor. "Ready to pounce as soon as you even looked as though you thought about breaking a rule. Still that way. What has he done to be blackmailed by you, Eleanor?"

"Nothing yet," Hart said quietly.

"Now, this sounds more intriguing." David reached for the flask inside his coat and took a drink of whiskey. "I believe I take your meaning. You wish me to goad Glastonby into a compromising position, and then threaten to tell the world about it, unless he gives me . . . what?"

"A Ming bowl," Hart said.

"A Ming . . . You've lost me."

"For Ian," Eleanor said. She'd placed her hands on her abdomen, and her face took a faraway expression, a mother lost in the contemplation of her child.

Pain like a poisoned dart stabbed David's heart. He did not so much wish anymore that Eleanor would carry his child, but he envied Hart for having a beautiful wife, thick with his firstborn, so in love with her husband that she'd help him ask his friend to do a spot of blackmail for him.

David shifted uncomfortably, wishing the pain would go away. "Ian collects Ming bowls, yes," he said. "And you are saying Glastonby has one. The question I ask myself is, why do you not simply purchase the bowl from Glastonby?"

"He won't sell," Hart said. "I've spent the last week and a half tracking down a bowl almost exactly like one of Ian's that was broken--a blue one. The design has to be blue, Beth says. Glastonby has the closest I can find. I made a large offer for it, which he promptly turned down. Won't sell to a Mackenzie, he said. Not to me, not to Ian, not to any of our wives. We are tainted and don't deserve to possess such beauty."

"Sounds like something Prudy Preston would say."

"Quite vexing of him," Eleanor said. "Ainsley offered to steal it, leaving a substantial payment for it, of course, but Hart's idea is better. You can obtain the bowl for us and put your Prudy Preston in his place at the same time."

She looked so smug, so confident as she plotted Glastonby's doom. The man didn't stand a chance.

David took another sip of whiskey. "Your wife is dangerous, Hart. Do you know that?"

"Aye, so I've learned." Hart's solemn tone made David want to laugh. The great Mackenzie, feared by men and adored by women, had been brought to his knees by blue eyes, a wide smile, and a bloody devious mind.

"And therefore," David said, "you called in the expert on all things perfidious, your old friend, David Fleming."

"You'll do it?" Eleanor asked. "Excellent."

"Of course I will do it. I'd do anything for you, El, and you knew that, which is why you had your servant send me up here. What had you planned to offer me as a reward?"

Eleanor shrugged. "Soft beds, a feast at Christmas and Hogmanay."

"All very tame and domestic. I'll do this, but we'll discuss my price later. That will give me time to think of something outrageous--"

A soft tap on the door cut off David's speech, followed by the door opening, and the creaking Wilfred putting his head around the doorframe. "Your Grace. There is the matter of letters to sign before I depart for Kent." Wilfred's tone was less apologetic than reproachful.

Hart rose at once. Tamed by his wife, tamed by his secretary. Amusing.

David's amusement faded when Hart leaned down and gave Eleanor a kiss. The kiss turned from a brief good-bye to something more passionate, more intimate, more private.

The look Eleanor gave Hart when he lifted away shattered any illusion David might have harbored that Eleanor ever had been torn between the two men. She looked at Hart with pure love, nothing less.

"Talk to El for a moment," Hart said, following Wilfred. "Don't upset her." The flash in his eyes told David that all the wars of the world would be nothing to Hart's rage if Eleanor was upset.