Page 2 of A Very Surrey SFS Christmas

Chapter 1

Beatrice and Amelia

Three days before Christmas

“Bother!”

At the exasperated curse, Miss Beatrice Irving glanced curiously across the lavish parlor at her lover and life companion Miss Amelia Tilton. She dared not move another muscle, not with their ginger-striped cat napping contentedly in her lap. While asleep, Mittens was a soft and rather adorable bundle of purrs and paws. When awake, an unabashed menace who casually shoved items from shelves or desks, clawed fabric to ribbons, and yowled to wake the dead. Six months ago Mittens had sauntered into their cottage and made herself comfortable, and that it seemed, was that. They dared not leave the furry empress of destruction alone, so she now accompanied them on all journeys, including here to Lady Portia and Denham’s sprawling estate.

“Whatever is the matter, dearest?”

Amelia bit her lip, looking utterly woebegone. “We’ve not enough red and white ribbon for the Christmas wreathes and ball decorations. I’ve used all Lady Portia had…well, less the yard of red that Mittens assisted along to the great haberdashery in the sky.”

“We should start sending bills to this feline,” said Beatrice, rolling her eyes.

“The paper wouldn’t last a minute…bother. I had hoped to finish the decorations today, so they were one less thing for Lady Portia to worry about. Tis quite an undertaking, hosting a masked ball for several hundred people.”

Beatrice nodded. “For anyone else, an impossible task. For our chairwoman, I have every faith she will somehow achieve it. That is, if Fairfield doesn’t tip her over the edge into madness.”

“Indeed,” said Amelia with a laugh, tucking a stray lock of blonde hair behind her ear. “I swear he quite revels in causing trouble. Much like Mittens.”

Even as she smiled in response, Beatrice marveled yet again at her good fortune in winning the heart of a woman like Amelia. Her best friend and confidante, her inspiration, and a beautiful, wickedly sensual minx. Thankfully they had come a long way from the endless bittersweet days of lady’s maid and countess, and now enjoyed a blissful life of love and lust in their cottage assisted by a few loyal and discreet servants. They certainly weren’t wealthy, but a small inheritance from Amelia’s late mother, and the bouquets and fresh herbs they sold at various town markets from their splendid garden, ensured their comfort. It did hurt that they’d both been disowned by their families for choosing love over societal expectations, but a new family embraced and supported them in every way: the other Society members.

Clearing her throat against a rush of emotion, she scratched Mittens behind her ears. “Well, if there is no ribbon left in the manor, we shall have to take the carriage and go to town. It’s only five miles or so; if we leave now we’ll be back before nightfall, and all the decorations will be done. The only issue is finding someone to mind this menace.”

“I shall mind Mittens.”

They both turned to see Lady Portia standing in the doorway of the parlor, her usual neat chignon a little worse for wear and a few spots of dirt on her gold-striped gown.

“Really?” asked Amelia hopefully.

“Of course. Mittens and I have an understanding; she only piddles on Faffy’s shoes and her claws remain sheathed. Also, I am in desperate need of tea and a rest. It was perhaps a little too adventurous to invite so many people to this ball. You have all been wonderful, and the servants are doing an excellent job, but there is still so much to do.”

“Come over here, then,” said Beatrice with a grin, “and we’ll carefully trade places so not to disturb her highness. I’ll advise the kitchens to send tea and cakes.”

“Much obliged.”

A quarter hour later, Beatrice and Amelia had donned heavy cloaks, muffs, and bonnets to ward off the winter chill, and were standing in the entrance hall waiting for their carriage to be brought around to the front steps. Outside the sky was bleak, and everything in the shadow of the buildings still held traces of morning frost, but no snow had fallen and the paths were reasonably clear.

The sound of footsteps on the marble floor interspersed with the thump of a cane alerted them to Fairfield’s approach. Much like Mittens, the duke could be occasionally endearing, but mostly exasperating.

“Off to town, ladies?” he asked, immaculately presented as usual in a black jacket, starched cravat, diamond stickpin, and gray breeches, not so much as a single silver hair out of place. Fairfield did not approve of modern fashions; he refused to replace his knee breeches with trousers, and still wore a wig to formal occasions. The very portrait of an exceedingly wealthy and elderly aristocrat.

Each curtsied. “Yes, Your Grace,” said Amelia, surreptitiously smoothing her dark blue calico gown.

“Hope you’ve got hot bricks for your feet,” the duke replied with a frown. “Cold out there. And don’t get lost and end up in the Surrey Hills. By the time you were discovered, you’d be a Christmas feast for the wildlife. Not something you want on your gravestone, is it, here lies Miss Tilton and Miss Irving, the badgers ate well.”

Beatrice barely managed to stifle a giggle. “Fortunately we have a driver who knows the area, Your Grace.”

“Good. By the by, Miss Tilton, I saw Garrick outside the theater recently…”

At the mention of Amelia’s former husband the Earl of Garrick, Beatrice tensed, ready to flay the duke alive. It was a very painful subject for her beloved; Garrick was a dreadful man, a lying Scottish scoundrel who married Amelia for her large dowry all while concealing a common-law wife back in Scotland. When he’d been exposed, the resulting scandal had been terrible. Fortunately, when presented with the evidence, a senior English magistrate had ruled Amelia’s marriage unlawful and void. Unfortunately, due to his title and connections, Garrick had served just one month in an Edinburgh prison before returning to London. Worse, he’d been feted as some sort of rogue hero by his friends.

It still made her blood boil to think of it.

“Oh?” whispered Amelia, her face drained of color.

“Yes. Somehow he tripped over my cane and landed in a fresh pile of horse manure. Never knew an earl could be so clumsy. But he is a Scot, I suppose.”