Helen wiped at a stray tear of mirth. “Come, Kathleen, let’s go see what Mr. Winterborne sent. You too, Mrs. Church.”

“They won’t let us into the room,” Kathleen muttered.

Helen grinned at her. “They will if I ask.”

The twins, busy as squirrels, had already unpacked a multitude of wrapped parcels when they finally allowed everyone into the receiving room.

The butler, underbutler, and footmen ventured to the doorway to have a peek at the contents of the crate. It resembled a pirate’s treasure chest, overflowing with blown glass spheres painted to look like fruit, papier-mâché birds decorated with real feathers, clever tin figures of dancers and soldiers and animals.

There was even a large box of miniature colored glass cups, or fairy lights, meant to be filled with oil and floating candle wicks and hung on the tree.

“A fire will be inevitable,” Kathleen said in worry, looking at the multitude of candle cups.

“We’ll station a pair of boys with pails of water next to the tree when it’s lit,” Mrs. Church reassured her. “If any of the branches catches fire, they’ll douse it right away.”

Everyone gasped as Pandora unearthed a large Christmas angel from the crate. Her porcelain face was framed by golden hair, while a pair of gilded wings protruded from the back of a little satin gown embellished with pearls and gold thread.

While the family and servants gathered reverently to view the magnificent creation, Kathleen took West’s arm and tugged him out of the room. “Something is going on here,” she said. “I want to know the real reason why the earl has invited Mr. Winterborne.”

They stopped in the space beneath the grand staircase, behind the tree.

“Can’t he show hospitality to a friend without an ulterior motive?” West parried.

She shook her head. “Everything your brother does has an ulterior motive. Why has he invited Mr. Winterborne?”

“Winterborne has his finger in many pies. I believe Devon hopes to benefit from his advice, and at some future date enter into a business deal with him.”

That sounded reasonable enough. But her intuition still warned that there was something fishy about the situation. “How did they become acquainted?”

“About three years ago, Winterborne was nominated for membership at two different London clubs, but was rejected by both of them. Winterborne is a commoner; his father was a Welsh grocer. So after hearing the sniggering about how Winterborne had been refused, Devon arranged to have our club, Brabbler’s, offer a membership to him. And Winterborne never forgets a favor.”

“Brabbler’s?” Kathleen repeated. “What an odd name.”

“It’s the word for a fellow who tends to argue over trifles.” West looked down and rubbed at a sticky spot of sap on the heel of his hand. “Brabbler’s is a second-tier club for those who aren’t allowed into White’s or Brooks’s, but it includes some of the most successful and clever men in London.”

“Such as Mr. Winterborne.”

“Just so.”

“What is he like? What is his character?”

West shrugged. “He’s a quiet sort, but he can be as charming as the devil if it suits him.”

“Is he young or old?”

“Thirty years, or thereabouts.”

“And his appearance? Is he well-favored?”

“The ladies certainly seem to think so. Although with his fortune, Winterborne could look like a toad and they would still flock to him.”

“Is he a good man?”

“One doesn’t acquire a fortune by being a choirboy.”

Holding his gaze, Kathleen realized that was the most she was going to pry from him. “The earl and Mr. Winterborne are scheduled to arrive tomorrow afternoon, are they not?”

“Yes, I’ll go to meet them at the Alton Station. Would you like to accompany me?”

“Thank you, but my time will be better spent with Mrs. Church and Cook, making certain everything is prepared.” She sighed and cast a rueful glance at the looming tree, feeling guilty and uneasy. “I hope none of the local gentry hears about all our festivities. But I’m sure they will. I shouldn’t allow any of this. You know that.”

“But since you have,” West said, patting her shoulder, “you may as well try to enjoy it.”

Chapter 15

“You’re going to be nominated for membership at White’s,” Rhys Winterborne said as the train rattled and swayed along the route from London to Hampshire. Although their private compartment in the first-class carriage could have easily accommodated four more passengers, Winterborne had paid to keep the seats empty so they could have the space to themselves. Devon’s valet, Sutton, was traveling in one of the lower-class carriages farther back in the train.

Devon shot him a look of surprise. “How do you know that?”

Winterborne’s only reply was an oblique glance. He often knew about people’s private business before they themselves had learned of it. Since almost everyone in London had applied to his store for credit, the man knew intimate details about their finances, their purchases, and their personal habits. In addition, much of what the store employees overheard on the floors was funneled upward to Winterborne’s office.

“They needn’t bother,” Devon said, stretching his legs into the space between the seats. “I wouldn’t accept.”

“White’s is a more prestigious club than Brabbler’s.”

“Most clubs are,” Devon rejoined wryly. “But the air is a bit too thin in such elevated circles. And if White’s didn’t want me before I was an earl, there’s no reason for them to want me now. I’m unchanged in every regard except for the fact that I’m now as deeply in debt as the rest of the peerage.”