Greystone Castle

Wednesday, 22nd December 1819

11 o’clock in the morning. — Diary, you who have been used to receiving merely my appointments, menus, guest lists, and the like, must today serve a different purpose. Something has happened, something so shocking I feel a need to confide it in somebody right now, or I shall wear a hole in my dressing room carpet. And since Elizabeth is out on her (interminable) morning walk, you, dear Diary, must act as my confidante.

Where to begin? Perhaps with Noah, the traitor. How could he do this to me? The enormity—the impertinence—nay, the cruelty of it! While my brother is no stranger to thickheaded behavior (a recent example: falling asleep during our little niece’s christening, with said niece in his arms—thank goodness Rachael caught the poor child!) I thought this beyond even him. Surely even Noah possesses the thimbleful of sense required to distinguish between a happy surprise and an utterly hideous surprise?

And what has he done, you may ask? Very well, I shall tell you. Noah, my brother, the thickest man who ever lived, has gone and invited the Duke of R

A quarter past. — Many apologies, beloved Diary, for what just happened. I did not mean to throw you across the room and mangle your pages. You’ve done nothing to deserve such treatment. I shall embroider you a new jacket as atonement.

It was just that I found, after working so diligently to bar a certain person from my thoughts this past year, I could not now bring myself to write his name. Attempting to do so made me very angry, and I unjustly took that anger out on you, my faithful friend. I have now had a draught of wassail (with extra sherry) and feel much the better for it.

To protect you from further abuse, I have decided that within your pages I shall reference said person using only the epithet my sister Elizabeth bestowed on him: The Ratbag. Writing this name fills me, not with implacable, book-throwing rage, but instead with a sort of giddy and vengeful delight. I think I shall write it again in my finest calligraphy.

The Ratbag

His Graceless, the Duke of Ratbags

Rat-athan Bag-hope, 1st Duke of Rodent-upon-Satchel

La, I digress. Let us return to the present crisis, which is that I have just been given the identity of Noah’s surprise invitee. Can you guess it? I fancy you can, for my deuced brother has invited none other than that abominable creature, that horrid wretch, that contemptible fiend—The Ratbag—to our Christmas house party!

What on earth was Noah thinking? When I asked him to seek out one more gentleman to even our numbers, did he happen to mishear “gentleman” as “evil incarnate”?

Or has he somehow forgot what The Ratbag did to me? Has Noah been all along insensible to my misery? All the rest of the family can see the change wrought in me since last Christmas. Elizabeth and Rachael, Grandmama and the aunts, the Cainewood Chases and cousin James—each one has noticed my lowered spirits and taken pains to try to bolster them.

Even Alexandra’s husband Tristan, during last month’s Vineyard Ball at Hawkridge, voiced his concern about what a wallflower I’ve become. I, who used to stand up with as many different partners as there were dances in an evening, have scarcely been able to look at another man since parting ways with The Ratbag. But my own brother has failed either to notice or to care, for otherwise he could not have ventured to force the blackguard upon me now.

Especially now, just when I’d finally mustered the fortitude to receive Lord M’s attentions! It is too vexing! I was looking forward to this party, as I have not looked forward to anything in quite some time. But if The Ratbag attends, Christmas will be ruined.

I hate him.

I hate him.

I HATE HIM!

Why do I hate him, you might wonder? Oh, let me count the reasons…

TEN REASONS I HATE THE RATBAG

1. One cannot take him at his word.

2. His extraordinary good looks hide his vileness.

3. The lock of thick, chestnut-colored hair that insists upon falling onto his forehead is irksome.

4. His fathomless eyes, which are blue as Burmese sapphires, make him seem deep and sensitive. But he’s not. He’s only sensitive where his mother is concerned.

5. That wicked half-smile of his is extremely distracting.

6. He smells too good. Also distracting.

7. He disappeared from society for the past year with nary an explanation. What does he think, we’ve all had nothing better to do than sit around wondering where he went? (Where did he go?)

8. He kisses like he means it. But he definitely doesn’t mean it.

9. He left me at the altar.

10. THREE TIMES.

If Noah expects me to simply hold my tongue and play the good little hostess (much less forgive and forget), he will be sorely disappointed. I’ll make no preparations for The Ratbag’s stay here. Cater to him, after his infamous conduct toward me? Never! I shan’t suffer my calligraphy pen to write his name on a festive place card. Nor shall I lay sprigs of wintergreen atop his pillows, or strew his hearth with fragrant cloves. If Noah wants the ogre treated as a guest, he can do the treating himself.

Instead I quite intend to hide in the workshop and pretend houseguests will not be descending upon us tomorrow. I shall set the last stone in my new ring, in case Lord M does indeed propose (as I believe he will). I cannot wait to try the finished ring on my finger, and see just how much better it looks than the crusty old one I almost ended up with. Crafting jewelry always cheers me up.

As does wassail. Alas, Mrs. O’Connor will surely look askance if I beg another cup so soon. Though, as the workshop is right next to the kitchen stores, it would be quite natural to look in as I pass by.

Noon. — More wassail is not helping. Nor is stone-setting. In fact, I couldn’t even make myself do it.

Five whole days The Ratbag will be in this house. FIVE—WHOLE—DAYS. I want to scream!

Ten minutes past. — Screaming did not help. Only frightened my cat, who sprang onto the workbench and scratched up my casting molds.

I hear voices in the corridor, must hide you away now!

Exasperatedly,

Claire