Twelfth Night Secrets (11 page)

What was the matter with him? He never noticed women in any detail; he didn’t have time. And he couldn’t afford the distraction; it could mean his life. Not here, though, surely, he amended, looking around the room, noting the smiling, self-satisfied faces, the festive air, the lively bubble of voices. What harm would it do if he indulged in a little dalliance with this alluring creature? He’d have to be blind not to appreciate her charms, and an insensate idiot not to respond to them.

But someone had been in his possessions that afternoon.

“My dear, I trust you’ve arranged for Marbury to take you into dinner?” The Duke approached his granddaughter through the guests still gathered around the fireplace.

“If that is what you wish, sir,” Harriet responded, her smile giving nothing away. “I had thought perhaps the courtesy was owed Lord Delford. He is a first cousin, after all.”

“And as such, family,” her grandfather declared, tossing off the contents of his wine glass with an air of finality. “Family come second when there are other guests. It would please me if you took personal care of Marbury. I find him congenial company, and I’ve no wish to force him to endure the inanities of some of
the party . . . who shall remain nameless,” he added with a baleful stare at his sister Augusta.

He didn’t lower his voice, and Harriet winced a little, glancing quickly around, but in the general buzz of conversation, it seemed the remark had gone unnoticed. “You’ll take Dowager Lady Belling in.”

“For my sins,” he agreed. “She will go on about that husband of hers. Died at least ten years ago, and a debauched fool into the bargain, but she still seems to think he sits at God’s right hand.”

Harriet suppressed a smile. It was all too accurate a description of the late Lord Belling. “His grace of Harwich will take Aunt Augusta. They like each other and should enjoy themselves.”

The Duke nodded his approval. “And send Delford in with Hartford’s daughter. She’s a pretty little thing, although something of a mouse, but I daresay he won’t mind that.”

Harriet curtsied her acknowledgment of these instructions. She knew well her grandfather’s general view of his relatives. His tolerance seemed to extend only to his late son and his grandchildren, and even that could be somewhat edgy at times. She looked across the room to where Julius stood gallantly conversing with the great-aunts, who were ensconced
side-by-side on a cushioned settle to one side of the hearth, glasses of ratafia in hand, lorgnettes resting on pouter-pigeon bosoms.

There could be no possible attraction for the Earl in such an unfashionable Christmas house party. There were few prominent members of Society gathered at Charlbury Hall. Most of the men were members of the House of Lords, but as far as she knew, none of them was particularly active in politics. The younger members of the party all seemed barely out of school compared with the Earl’s composed assurance. He was older than Nick, she was sure. Although Nick, too, had carried himself with the same poise and gravitas. So why had the man chosen to spend the Christmas season there of all places?

There was only the one obvious explanation . . . the one provided by the men from the Ministry. Julius Forsythe was engaged in clandestine activity with the network of foreign spies who they knew were working out of Oxford University. Charlbury Hall was ideally situated, less than ten miles from the dreaming spires. And if it was true that the Earl was using Nick’s family as cover for his betrayal of his country, then it was a double betrayal of Nick.

For a moment, Harriet was swamped with a red
surge of fury and grief so powerful she felt sick and dizzy, the room around her fading into a gray mist so that she wondered if she was about to faint. But then, abruptly, she became aware that the object of her fury was looking at her, eyebrows raised in question. She realized that she had been staring fixedly at him, and she could only imagine her expression if it had been an accurate reflection of her thoughts. She felt her cheeks warm and with a supreme effort produced a smile, acknowledging his gaze, and then watched with sinking heart as, with a murmur of apology to the aunts, he threaded his way deftly towards her.

“I have the impression you wished to talk to me, Lady Harriet,” he said, bowing before her. “How may I be of service?”

“Forgive me,” she said with a tiny laugh. “I didn’t realize I was staring at you. The Duke has just given me instructions as to the seating plan this evening, and it’s thrown all my carefully thought-out decisions to the four winds. I was racking my brains trying to rearrange things.”

“Oh, well, that’s something of a relief,” he said. “Your expression implied that you were slowly roasting someone over hot coals . . . or at least wishing you
were. I felt quite sorry for whoever it was.” His tone was teasing, his smile relaxed and easy.

Harriet regained her composure. “In some measure, it was you, my lord.” She gave a light laugh. “As it happens, the Duke wishes you to take me into dinner, and it was that change that was causing me so much annoyance.”

He wrinkled his nose comically. “Annoyance . . . well, that has certainly put me in my place.”

“No, indeed, sir, I did not mean such discourtesy. It was only the consequences of the instruction that were inconvenient. I shall be delighted to have your company at dinner.” Harriet was astonished at herself. She had never really considered herself much of an actress, but she thought she sounded utterly convincing; even her laughter sounded genuine.

Julius bowed again. “The pleasure will be all mine, ma’am.” He took her empty glass and exchanged it for a full one from the tray of a passing footman. “But if we are to be dinner partners, could we not dispense with formality, Harriet? I asked you this morning if you would call me by my given name. It would please me greatly.”

“Maybe it would, sir, but it would certainly draw
adverse attention from my aunts,” she retorted, taking a sip of wine. “They are great sticklers for the conventions, you should understand.”

“Then when we are private, perhaps?” he persevered.

“I doubt there will be much opportunity for that, Lord Marbury. I have many guests to attend to.”

“You really are determined to be obstructive, aren’t you?” he observed. “Oddly enough, Nick never mentioned that particular quirk of yours.”

“You were in the habit of discussing me with my brother, then, sir?” Her tone acquired a degree of hauteur, and she was aware that she was hurt as much as anything by the idea that Nick would discuss her with this man but not tell her anything about the Earl in exchange. What had they had together that was so exclusive, Nicholas Devere and Julius Forsythe?

“My dear Harriet, he spoke of you only in the most fond manner. You were much in his thoughts, I gathered. You and the twins. I had the impression he hated to leave you alone.”

He spoke quietly, and the black eyes had taken on a texture almost like black velvet, Harriet thought. He was doing it again, enclosing them both in some exclusive circle, where nothing around them could
penetrate. She took an overlarge sip of her wine and turned her head, coughing into her hand, shattering the uncomfortably private moment.

The brass gong provided welcome diversion. Mallow, the butler, stood at the foot of the staircase and announced, “Dinner is served, your grace.”

The Duke bowed to the Dowager Lady Belling, offering his arm. Harriet swiftly paired the remaining guests with a smile, a nod, a hand on an arm, and took up the rear of the procession on the arm of Lord Marbury. The dining salon was brilliantly lit. Chandeliers threw torchlight onto the shining rosewood surface of the immense table, and candelabra marched, silver-bright, down the center. A fire burned in the massive inglenook fireplace, dispelling the chill in the air, heavy curtains were drawn across the long windows, effectively blocking drafts, and hidden from view beneath the table, small warming pans of hot coals dispensed heat to frozen feet.

Julius held Harriet’s chair for her as she took her place at the center of the right side of the table, and then he took his own seat on her right. Aunt Augusta presided at the foot of the table, the Duke at the head.

“The children are not making an appearance at the
dinner table, I gather,” Julius observed, taking up his soupspoon.

“No, but they will tomorrow. We will dine at four tomorrow, so that the servants may have their own Christmas dinner in the evening.” Harriet took a spoonful of chestnut soup. “I am surprised, sir, that you are not spending Christmas with your own family. You mentioned a sister and children, as I recall.” She broke off a piece of bread and glanced sideways at him. “Christmas is usually a time to be with one’s family, not a party of strangers.”

“I don’t consider the Duke a stranger,” he responded. “This is excellent soup, by the way . . . And neither do I consider you to be a stranger, if I may say so without impertinence. Your brother talked so often of you.”

“You are a stranger to me, Lord Marbury.” She glanced at him again. “I had never heard of you before yesterday afternoon.”

“No,” he agreed blandly. “As I’ve said, your brother must have considered my friendship to be less noteworthy than I considered his.”

“I don’t believe that,” she said directly, deciding she would get nowhere by continuing to tiptoe around the subject. “Nick was always very loyal to his friends, and he and I had few secrets from each other. There
must have been some compelling reason for him to keep
you
a secret.”

“I can’t think of one,” he responded. “And since we are unlikely to discover the answer now, maybe we should stop worrying about it.”

Harriet tried another tack. “Were you with Nick at the siege of Elba when he was killed?”

He shook his head. “No, I was never in the army.”

And neither was Nick,
she reflected. Or at least, not in the regular army. “So you were just companions in pleasure, then?” She took a slice of roast turbot from the platter presented by a footman.

“That is certainly one way of putting it.” He helped himself liberally to fish.

She took a delicate forkful. “The turbot is one of Cook’s specialties, by the way. She uses ginger and cinnamon in the sauce. I hope you like it.”

“It’s quite delicious.”

“Did you spend time together in London, or just in Paris and here at Charlbury?”

Julius put down his fork and turned to look at her quizzically. “This is quite a catechism, ma’am.”

“Given how close I was to my brother, curiosity about how he spent his time away from his family seems only natural in the circumstances.”

“I suppose so.” He picked up his fork again, and Harriet waited for him to answer her question, but he seemed intent on his turbot.

She waited until the fish was removed and roast goose made its appearance, then repeated her question. “So, did you see much of Nick in London?” She forked a slice of meat from the silver platter presented by a footman.

“Not really.” He selected a plump, crisp-skinned leg.

Harriet took a spoonful of greens cooked in almond milk from the tureen at her elbow. “You were such friends, I wonder why that should be . . . Do you care for applesauce?”

“Thank you.” He took the bowl from her. “Let me explain. I remained in Paris when Nick returned to England.” He gave her a bland smile. “Since I understand you spend most of your time in London yourself, I’m sure, since you shared a roof with your brother, you would have been aware of our friendship had I been in London.”

It was like trying to shoot a mosquito, Harriet thought in frustration. He managed to evade every single question while appearing to answer her openly.

“How often were you with Nick down here at Charlbury?” She tried again.

“Oh, several times . . . I don’t recall exactly. But you should talk to your grandfather. Maybe he remembers better than I.”

“Maybe.” She gave him a brief smile and turned to engage her neighbor on her left side, leaving the Earl to do the same with his own.

Once the detritus of the goose had been removed and replaced with mushroom tartlets, scalloped oysters, and some cheese and parsnip fritters, Harriet turned back to Julius. “Your sister . . . ?” she prompted. “How many children has she?”

“Three or four,” he returned, taking a sip of wine.

“You don’t know exactly?” she exclaimed. “But you gave me the impression you were very fond of them.”

“Oh, so I am,” he agreed. “When in their company. But that doesn’t mean I can always keep track of how many there are. Eloise is usually either with child or just delivered of one.” He dabbed at his mouth with his napkin and gave her a sideways smile. “Her husband is very devoted, it seems.” It was a wickedly suggestive smile that brought an instant and involuntary smile to her lips, although she was sure the aunts would have expected a maidenly blush.

“Is she your only sister?”

“Yes . . . and to save your next question, I am now her only brother. Our older brother died of smallpox when he was twelve.” His smile now was quizzical, slightly teasing. “Perhaps a written questionnaire would move matters along a little.”