Twelfth Night Secrets (8 page)

She felt her cheeks warm. “I don’t.” And now all
she could think was that this man, offering these comforting nuggets of understanding, was suspected of being responsible for Nick’s death, even if he had not actually wielded the knife himself. And maybe he had. No one had seen the killing. She dropped her eyes, knowing they would reveal too much, and pushed back her chair, abandoning her toast. “If you’ll excuse me, my lord, I have much to do this morning before the guests arrive. I’m sure you are sufficiently at home here to entertain yourself.”

He rose with her, bowing, his face expressionless, his dark eyes unreadable. “As you say.” As she reached the door, he said, “I am still hoping for a tour of the picture gallery at some point, if you should manage to find the time.”

Harriet reminded herself that she would get nowhere by holding him at arm’s length. She raised her eyes to meet his steady gaze. “In an hour, perhaps. I will meet you in the Long Gallery, sir.”

“I look forward to it.” He bowed again as she whisked herself from the room.

Thoughtfully, Julius returned to his neglected kipper. What had been behind that sudden withdrawal? One
minute she had been all conspiratorial smiles, and the next cold and distant. The instant before she had lowered her eyes, he had caught a sudden burn of anger, but he couldn’t imagine what he might have done or said to cause it. Nicholas had not had a mercurial temperament, he reflected. And as far as he could remember, in his many descriptions of his beloved sister, Nick had never so much as hinted at anything but an intelligent, humorous equanimity.

He shook his head and drank his ale. He had little time for the fair sex in his life, and while he’d had his liaisons, brief encounters over the years, he had never really spent concerted time with any one woman. He was never in one place long enough . . . or so he had always thought. The novel thought occurred now that perhaps he simply hadn’t met a woman who would make staying around worthwhile. He frowned at the pile of fish bones on his plate. How would he know when, or rather if, he did meet such a woman? His eyes drifted towards the closed door. Then he shook his head again in a gesture of mild exasperation and reached for the ale jug to refill his tankard.

Harriet fought to concentrate on the business in hand as she met with Cook and the housekeeper, discussing the various merits of a baron of beef versus a boar’s head for the Christmas table and the need for calves’-foot jelly for Great-aunt Augusta, who would insist upon it even though she barely touched it. “Oh, and we must make sure to have plenty of your cheese tartlets for Lord Howarth, Cook. You know how much he likes them.”

“Oh, aye, right partial to ’em, he is,” Cook said with a complacent smile. “And there’ll be partridge pies an’ veal and ham for the shooting-party lunch.”

“Have the children been down yet to stir the puddings?” Stirring the Christmas puddings was a childhood ritual, and Harriet remembered how it had felt to stand up on a high stool at the massive kitchen table, struggling with the great wooden ladle to mix the bowl of candied fruits, nuts, eggs, suet, flour, and whatever else Cook had decided to add, her nose tickling with the powerful fumes of the brandy that was slurped in at every turn. Nick had always sneaked a finger around the edge of the bowl to taste the mixture when no one was looking. The brandy had always made him choke. She gave herself a mental shake.

“They’ll be down this afternoon to do that, an’
tomorrow afternoon when the cake and that fancy
bouchedenoel,
or however them Frenchies call it . . . can’t think what’s wrong with a good old-fashioned Christmas cake.” She sniffed. “When they’ve been iced, the children can come and decorate them. I’ll be making the marzipan today.”

“I know you will achieve your usual magic, Cook.” Harriet checked the last item on her list. “I think that’s all, unless you have any questions.”

“No, that’ll do for me, my lady.” Cook brushed off her immaculate starched white apron. “I’ll be back to me kitchen now.” She bobbed a curtsy and rustled out.

“Will you be able to manage without Doris, Mrs. Sutcliff?”

“It’s to be hoped we won’t have too many young ladies without their own maids,” the housekeeper replied.

“Well, I’m sure I can manage without Agnes waiting upon me all the time, so if there are any, you may send Agnes to them.” Harriet nodded a pleasant dismissal, hoping to cut off any objections from the housekeeper, who looked as if she were ready to launch into a catalogue of complaints.

“Well, if you say so, m’lady.” Mrs. Sutcliff inclined
her head in a stiff curtsy and sailed from Harriet’s parlor.

Harriet leaned back in her chair and exhaled with relief. That was the worst of the morning’s tasks taken care of. She could safely leave the management of the household to those who understood it best. It was purely for form’s sake that she involved herself at all. She glanced at the clock. It was almost ten, nearly an hour since she’d left the Earl in the breakfast parlor. He would be expecting her in the Long Gallery. Great-aunt Augusta would not arrive much before noon. So what was she waiting for? She rose and headed for the door.

The Earl was ahead of her in the Long Gallery, standing with his hands clasped behind him, examining a portrait of a gentleman in a cartwheel ruff, a gold slashed doublet, and skintight hose that left very little of his masculinity to the imagination.

“The first Earl Devere,” Harriet said, coming to stand beside him.

“A remarkably well-endowed gentleman,” Julius observed.

Harriet gave an involuntary chuckle. “He definitely has something of a peacock’s strut about him. I’m sure he thought himself God’s gift to the female sex.”
She ought to have ignored the inappropriate comment, but she’d had the same thought many times. “Family history has it that he was a pirate, a bandit, an all-round scoundrel, who did Elizabeth some sterling service, presumably enriching her treasury with his thieving, and she gave him an earldom in return. Charles I conferred the ducal coronet on the fourth Earl.”

She moved along the wall, stopping in front of a gentleman in full Cavalier regalia. “He went into exile with Charles II and became known as something of a hell-raiser after the Restoration. Nick and I used to speculate on how many illegitimate children he had and whether there’s an entire branch of Fitz Deveres somewhere in the country.”

“And is there a portrait of your own father?”

“Yes, over here.” She turned and crossed to the opposite side of the gallery. “Our father, Lord Edward, and our mother, Lady Charlotte.” She gestured to the two portraits side-by-side.

Julius examined them with his head slightly tilted. “Mmm. As I said before, the Devere family resemblance is very pronounced, but you have your mother’s forehead and chin, I believe.” He put his hand on her chin and turned her face slightly
towards him, regarding her with a quizzical smile. “Yes, most definitely. The widow’s peak is exactly your mother’s, and this rather stubborn chin.” A finger traced the curve of her chin, and then his hand dropped to her shoulder, resting lightly as he continued to scrutinize the portraits, as casually as if he were unaware of it.

Harriet froze beneath the touch. It was warm and light, and one finger moved almost absently up the column of her neck. She wanted to move away, to say something, anything to break this moment of physical contact. But something kept her right where she was, unmoving, feeling the warmth of his hand, the light stroke of his finger along her neck. He said nothing, seemed not to consider his position in the least out of place.

Did he know what he was doing?

“It’s strange how I feel I know you, Harriet,” he said in the sudden tense silence. “It must be because I knew Nick so well, and you are so very alike.” His tone was as light as the caressing finger. “Nick always called you Harry, but perhaps I may not presume that far.” He moved his finger to her chin again, turning her face to his. “May I?”

Harriet swallowed, fighting myriad sensations, some
unwelcome, some oddly pleasing, all of them unfamiliar. “No,” she said abruptly. “That is a family name, Lord Marbury.”

He inclined his head in calm acknowledgment. “I understand. But you will not object to
Harriet
?”

Did she? She shook her head. “Not really. It is my name, after all.”

He gave a slightly twisted smile. “Not the wholehearted endorsement I might have wished for. But I’ll take what I’m given. You will call me Julius.”

It seemed like a command, she thought. “I’ll have to see about that, sir. Shall we continue with the tour?” She moved away from him at last, and his hand fell from her shoulder, leaving an oddly cold patch on her skin. “This particular ancestor went to the wars with the Duke of Marlborough.”

Julius followed her, wondering a little what he thought he was doing. He hadn’t intended to touch her, or even to invite this first-name play, but somehow it had just happened. He was not accustomed to acting on impulse, but he found Harriet Devere a challenge, and he was not in the habit of ignoring challenges. He didn’t know why some of the time she seemed to have taken a dislike to him, and at other times her smile, her ready chuckle, the sparkle
in the green eyes seemed almost like an invitation.

Oh, yes, she was certainly a challenge, but a most attractive and appealing challenge into the bargain. No wonder he was more than ready to rise to it.

“Where did you say you met Nick?” she asked, coming to a halt in front of the portrait.

“In Paris, two years ago.”

“Ah, yes, I remember now.” She kept a safe distance between them. “Paris was hardly a comfortable place to visit two years ago.”

“No, but the Directory had been appointed, and the Terror was officially over. I was interested in seeing the situation for myself.”

“And was that why Nick was there?” She asked the questions casually, trying to conceal her passionate interest in his answers.

“I gather so. He was with a group of curious friends, and we met and took to each other immediately.”

“I find it strange that he never mentioned you to me,” she observed. “I knew most of his really good friends.”

He shrugged, saying with a half laugh, “Well, as I said, perhaps I valued the friendship more than did Nick.”

She turned to look at him then, her green gaze
searching. “Nick valued friendships he could trust, sir. He valued openness in his friendships. Perhaps he felt you were withholding something from him?”

His black eyes held hers in a steady gaze for a moment, and then he said, “I have the habit of reticence. Sometimes that impedes as close a friendship as I would like.”

It seemed like a confidence, and she was debating how to respond when the sound of carriage wheels on the driveway below broke the instant of silence. “Oh, Lord, that’ll be Great-aunt Augusta. I must go down at once.”

Julius watched her disappear in a blur of green muslin. He walked to one of the long windows overlooking the drive and stood looking down, stroking his chin thoughtfully. A massive Berlin carriage stood below, six horses in the traces, the roof piled high with luggage. A woman, clearly a lady’s maid, judging by her black pelisse and bonnet, was fussing with an armful of shawls at the carriage steps as a lady descended on the arm of a footman, who held a small pug in his other arm. The lady was swathed in furs, batting at the footman with her muff as he tried to take an enormous reticule suspended from her arm. Julius could hear nothing, but he could hazard a guess at the gist
from what he’d heard of Great-aunt Augusta. Harriet appeared, hurrying down the steps, and surreptitiously he pushed open the window, leaning close to listen.

“My dear ma’am, you must be frozen,” Harriet declared, anticipating the first complaint as she curtsied to her relative. “There is a good fire going in your parlor, and hot water for a mustard bath if you feel you may be catching cold. Dacre, her ladyship’s bedchamber is prepared, and if her ladyship should need a posset, you must send instantly to the kitchen.” The maid disappeared up the stairs in a waft of black taffeta, giving instructions left, right, and center with all the assurance of one who knows her importance.