A Christmas Charade (21 page)

Exchanging looks, the two ladies rose. Clearly, Decimus had dipped too deep to make sense.

“Are you coming to luncheon, Uncle Decimus?”

“Aye. I’ll just have another sip of this Madeira. You two run along.”

When they reached the door, they heard him say, “Ah! There you are, m’dear. I was wondering what had become of you.”

They turned, staring at Decimus. His face was pink with pleasure and wreathed in smiles, and he was leaning toward the chair vacated by Elizabeth.

“A glass of wine?” he asked.

They were quite certain they heard a soft giggle and again exchanged looks.

Lord Decimus slewed his bulk to fully face the empty chair. He reached out and patted the air above the chair arm.

“Now don’t be shy with me,” he coaxed. “Annie, isn’t it? I’m no good with names, but I do remember yours. Annie Tuck. And that’s a very becoming gown you’re wearing, m’dear. Reminds me of my youth, when females knew how to dress and didn’t wear the shapeless sack that goes for a gown nowadays.”

Elizabeth sat through luncheon without tasting any of the food she put into her mouth.
Annie
. First, Lord Decimus had denied the existence of a ghost at Stenton. Then, he had conversed with Annie as though she were a real person. Someone he could see and touch.

She glanced around the table which was quite informally arranged. Sir John, Stewart, Lord Wilmott, and Nicholas were discussing the possibility of taking out their guns in the morning. Lady Astley conversed with Stenton, and Lady Harry and Lady Fanny enjoyed a skirmish over the rights of a younger brother’s widow versus the rights of a sister. Each insisted
she
should sit in the hostess chair during the formal Christmas dinner.

Only Juliette was quiet. She looked as dazed as Elizabeth felt. Every now and then Juliette would look at Lord Decimus, who had come in a little late. But he was quite unconscious of her stare. He was bubbling over with cheerfulness as he claimed everyone’s attention and announced that a keg of cognac had finally been delivered.

“Has it?” Clive’s tone was repressive. “I am glad for your sake.”

“Aye, Symes caught me as I was leaving the salon, and he told me. It arrived while we were all at church.”

“What excellent timing,” said Lord Nicholas, a sarcastic edge to his voice.

Lady Fanny complained, “I don’t understand. What’s all this about a silly keg of brandy?”

Lord Wilmott, patted her hand. “Smuggled brandy, my love. Genune cognac. You remember, I told you about the free-traders who land their goods on Clive’s beach.”

Elizabeth’s eyes locked with Stenton’s, at the head of the table. Her heart skipped a beat. She had expected to encounter one of the guarded, suspicious looks he had given her in the library when they discussed the smugglers. But the smile in those gray eyes was unmistakable.

It was a smile that showed appreciation and approval of a woman’s looks. Of her looks. It was a smile that made her feel beautiful.

“I’ll be glad to oversee the decanting, Clive, my boy,” said Lord Decimus. “Unless you want the honors?”

“I don’t.”

Clive did not take his gaze off Elizabeth. He had known the first time he saw her that with a very little effort she could be stunning. What he had not known was that she could rouse the wish to pull the pins from her hair and—

The butler thrust open the dining-room door and announced, “Miss Flora and Miss Amelia Rowland, your grace.”

Part regretful, part relieved, Clive rose to greet the elderly sisters, his father’s cousins twice removed. His thoughts were turning wayward with regard to Elizabeth Gore-Langton. Not that he minded thinking about her, but the timing was wrong. Today of all days, he needed no distractions.

“Clive, my dear.” Miss Flora, plump and soft-spoken, advanced to have her rosy cheek kissed.

Miss Amelia, trim and stern looking, shook hands. “What’s this we hear from your butler, Clive? Why can Flora and I not have the first fourth duchess’s chambers? I particularly asked you to arrange it.”

“Did you? I’m afraid I don’t recall. In fact, I’m not sure I know which were the chambers of my father’s first wife.” Clive looked at the butler. “Symes? Do you know? Can something be arranged?”

“Lady Fanny and Lord Wilmott are in the ducal suite, your grace.”

“Odds are they won’t be in it much longer,” Lord Decimus muttered in an audible aside.

No one acknowledged his words, and Juliette covered the worst of a fit of giggles with the scrape of her chair as she rose to greet the spinster ladies.

Confusion reigned for the next half-hour while the members of the Rowland family welcomed the sisters and everyone talked at the same time. Miss Flora patted and kissed and Miss Amelia bestowed nods. Even Lord Nicholas seemed to be considered a part of the family and had his hand patted by Miss Flora and shaken by Miss Amelia.

Amidst the greetings, the sisters managed to scold Lady Harry for looking worn, Juliette for not having paid them a visit since Stewart’s return, and Fanny for not offering to move out of the duchess’s chambers. Finally, after a brief introduction of the elder Astleys and Elizabeth, all but Clive returned to the table and relative calm was restored.

“No, we shan’t require luncheon,” Miss Amelia said in reply to a question from Clive. “Just tea and toast in our room, if it isn’t too much trouble.”

“If we
have
a room, dear sister,” said Flora, smiling wistfully. “Fanny, my love, Amelia had her heart set on sleeping in the dear duchess’s chamber. Surely—”

“Lud, Flora!” Decimus said disgustedly. “Must you always be kicking up a dust? I tell you this, my girl! If I had known you were coming to Stenton, I’d have spent Christmas in debtor’s prison rather than accept Clive’s invitation.”

Flora’s soft mouth puckered, but Amelia rounded on him. “There’s no need for rudeness, Decimus. Flora and I shall be quite happy wherever Clive has put us.”

Elizabeth, feeling as if she were watching a poorly written play, saw the look of helpless inquiry Clive sent his butler.

Symes did not let his master down. He bowed majestically. “If you will follow me, Miss Flora, Miss Amelia. Mrs. Rodwell has prepared two very nice connecting chambers in the east wing.”

“The east wing?” Flora and Amelia said in unison.

Flora added, “But we’ve always stayed in the south wing when we visited before!”

“You would find the south wing sadly changed, Miss Flora.” Symes held the door invitingly open. “No doubt the craftsmen did their best when they copied the wainscoting, yet one cannot help but judge the carvings inferior to the original design.”

The sisters exchanged glances.

“Lead the way, Symes,” Amelia said briskly. “We don’t want to stand in the dining room all day.”

“Whew!” said Fanny when the door had closed. “And what do you bet they wanted to stay in
my
room because they know that’s where the first fourth duchess kept her jewels?”

No one lingered over luncheon, and as soon as Lady Fanny rose, Elizabeth slipped away, determined to recover her cloak from the kitchens across the Great Hall.

“Elizabeth, a word with you, please!”

Stenton’s voice brooked no refusal. It wasn’t that he was peremptory, but he was firm. And in truth, she had no desire to disoblige him.

She stopped just short of the door leading into the north wing and turned to face him as he closed the distance between them with his long stride.

“If you’re on your way to the kitchen, you may save yourself the trouble,” he said. “The cloak is still damp. I spoke with Mrs. Rodwell before luncheon.”

“Thank you. How thoughtful of you.”

But appreciation was leavened by a certain suspicion. She could not forget that just as she had warned him off the beach, he had warned—nay, commanded—that she stay away from the waterfront.

“Or was it precaution that made you check on the cloak?” she asked. “I suppose if it had been dry, you would have dampened it again?”

A gleam lit his eye.

“You don’t deny it! And you think it amusing!”

“You should wear emeralds more often, Elizabeth. They ignite a green fire in your eyes.”

She was caught off stride but made an immediate recovery. “That fire, as you call it, is indignation. How can you still suspect me of being a part of the smuggling gang?”

“I don’t.”

“You don’t?” This time, recovery was slower. “Then, why—”

He placed a hand beneath her elbow and gently steered her out of the way of footmen bearing the remains of luncheon toward the kitchens.

“You expressed concern for my safety. You said that
someone
will have to make certain I don’t come to harm. I’m afraid you mean that someone to be yourself.”

“But you believed my concern a sham!”

“I apologize.”

He frowned as another footman hurried past with a tray of glasses. “Dash it! I wish you did have your cloak. At least we could step outside for an uninterrupted talk. Why the deuce did it have to turn so cold?”

“It’s winter. That’s why.”

A corner of his mouth curled upward. He motioned to the settle in front of the fireplace. “In that case, let’s draw closer to the warmth. Isn’t that what sensible people do in winter?”

“And sensible animals.”

She knelt by the hearth and gently stroked the large tabby curled up on the warm stone. The cat began to purr.

Continuing to stroke the soft fur, an exercise as soothing to her as it was to Madam Tabby, Elizabeth glanced up at Stenton. “I did not know you had a cat.”

“Neither did I.”

Her eyes brimmed with laughter. “Perhaps an early Christmas surprise for you?”

He thought of all the “surprises” that had come his way lately—Decimus’s knowledge of the smugglers, the inclusion of the twins and their mentors in the Christmas party, Nicholas’s hankering for adventure. A ghost? And Elizabeth herself.

“Don’t you like surprises?” she asked.

“Some more than others.”

“Others, meaning a cat?”

He shook his head. “Some, meaning you.”

Her eyes widened. “If I understand you correctly, I suppose I ought to thank you for the compliment.”

“You ought to. But I shan’t press you.”

Very much aware of the teasing light in his eyes, she returned her attention to the cat. “Something tells me that Madam Tabby is no surprise, pleasant or otherwise.”

“The kitchen mouser?”

“Yes. She’s sleek and fat and undoubtedly did her duty before she sneaked out of the kitchens.

He watched red and golden lights dancing in her hair as she bent over the cat, and he once more knew the urge to pull out the pins confining the thick, dark brown tresses at the nape of her neck. He wanted to touch the short, feathery curls at her ear and temple.

And why shouldn’t he?

He flicked a silky curl with one finger. “You did not have these earlier.”

She looked up. A delicate glow tinted her face. It might be a blush. It might be a reflection of the dancing flames in the hearth.

“Juliette just cut them.”

He frowned at the chignon. “I wish she had done something about all those pins. Have you always worn your hair pulled back like that?”

“I have not.”

“How did you wear it?”

She had worn it cropped short, very short, as had Rosalind and most young ladies of the
ton
. The fashion had started in France, some said in sympathy for the victims of the revolution whose hair was shorn to make work easier for the executioner and his guillotine. But it could not be denied that the fame of Josephine Bonaparte’s beauty had contributed vastly to the popularity of the style.

She rose. “More questions to jog your memory, Stenton? I see that I’ll have to be on my toes or be caught unawares.”

“Devil a bit! This has nothing to do with my memory.”

“No? Did I misunderstand your question?”

“I asked about your hair because I want to picture you without the trappings of a lady’s companion.”

“But, then, if we met before I became a companion, the information might help you to remember.”

“I’m beginning to think that I don’t give a straw whether I remember a previous meeting or not. What does it matter who you were? I want to know the woman you are.”

Her heart beat in her throat. She didn’t dare stop to analyze his words.

“But … the wager?”

“The wager stands,” he said, a disquieting light in his eyes. “I’m looking forward to claiming my prize.”

“I wonder why that assurance makes me distrust you profoundly?”

“I cannot imagine.”

His gaze swept the Great Hall. He did not see a kissing bough or a sprig of mistletoe anywhere among the garlands and ribbons. But, no doubt, it’d be there on the morrow. Christmas Eve.

One of the logs in the cavernous fireplace crumbled amid a shower of sparks, and the cat dived for the protection of Elizabeth’s skirts.

Elizabeth picked her up. Two pairs of reproachful green eyes stared at Clive.

“There ought to be a screen or a fireguard of some kind,” said Elizabeth.

“Gammon! No medieval fireplace has a screen. The grate is set so far back that there’s no danger from flying sparks.”

“The cat thought otherwise.”

“That cat is a mountebank.”

Meeting Madam Tabby’s wide, innocent gaze, Elizabeth gave a peal of laughter.

“No doubt you’re right. But, Stenton, would not coal be a more efficient fuel? Coal doesn’t spark as much as wood, and it doesn’t burn as fast. The castle is huge. It must take mounds of wood to heat it.”

“Aye,” he said dryly. “Since October, when I gave the orders to open the castle, half a dozen West Dean men have labored continuously to supply the necessary fire wood.”

Returning Madam Tabby to the warm hearth, Elizabeth gave him a sidelong look. “At least, you are providing employment for villagers who now won’t have to join the smugglers.”

“They still smuggle. All of them. Unless something drastic is done, Stenton alone cannot support the families in West and East Dean. Not even if I kept the castle open all year.”

“If you know that, why do you want to put a stop to the free-trading?”