A Christmas Charade (22 page)

She caught an arrested look on his face.

“Is that what you believe I’m up to?” he asked. “My poor deluded girl!”

She should take exception to his tone and form of address, but, somehow, it did not seem worth the effort.

“I believe,” she said, meeting his look squarely, “that you learned of the smuggling activities on your property. You arranged the Christmas party and came to Stenton with the express purpose to stop the ‘gentlemen.’”

She came so close to the truth, and yet was quite wrong.

“Elizabeth, I swear I have no interest in the smuggling of wine or silk or tea.”

Her mouth turned down at the corners. “No doubt, you mean to be reassuring. For some reason, however, your words have just the opposite effect.”

He did not stop her when she walked away. Since he could not tell her the truth—not yet—it was better to say nothing at all.

She looked over her shoulder. “Please be careful, Stenton.”

“Elizabeth—”

He couldn’t remember when he had last allowed impulse to govern judgment. Not since his salad days, for sure. Yet here he was, striding after her when he should be priming Nick so there wouldn’t be a slipup that night.

“Elizabeth, will you ride with me?”

She gave him a smile so dazzling it stirred another impulse, one to which he must not give way until Christmas Eve, midnight.

“Thank you, Stenton. Shall I meet you at the stables, say in half an hour?”

It was a little past four o’clock when they returned by the Great North Gate. “I’ll take the horses to the stables,” he said, steering toward the castle’s main door. “You run along and get inside.”

“Thank you.” If her teeth were not exactly chattering, she
had
felt quite chilled the past ten or fifteen minutes. “The wind has shifted, hasn’t it? It seems to be blowing from the northeast.”

A good wind for a crossing to France, he thought. But it’d be a long, cold night if they had to wait for a boat sailing against the wind.

Their eyes met. He was certain she, too, was thinking of boats crossing the Channel, but she did not say so. Not once during their ride had they touched upon the subject of smugglers—or a former meeting—and apparently she wanted it to stay that way.

“A good wind for snow,” she said, dismounting quickly and gracefully before he could assist her. “Perhaps Nurse Gertrud is right after all. She told the children we’d have a white Christmas.”

“They’d like it, those imps,” he said, thinking that snow meant clouds. If it must snow, he hoped it wouldn’t be for a day or so.

He wanted to get his business over and done with. Wanted to catch the blasted spy, send him to London with Chamberlain, and let the gentlemen at Whitehall worry about the spy’s contact at the Horse Guards and the Admiralty. His mission accomplished, he could then pay proper attention to his guests … one guest in particular.

He gathered both horses’ reins. “Thank you, Elizabeth. I don’t know when I’ve enjoyed a ride more.”

“Or I.”

Her face, already pink with cold, turned a shade darker. Catching the short train of her habit, she quickly mounted the steps to the door.

Clive watched her disappear inside, then led the horses across the courtyard. He and Elizabeth had been out for two hours. No matter what happened that night, whether he succeeded in his mission or not, those two hours, snatched on impulse, made his visit to the ancestral home worthwhile.

They had talked. And if he could not recall many instances of having given in to impulse before, he could recall even fewer occasions when he had truly appreciated a conversation with a woman.

Ladies delighted in social chitchat, an exercise that wore him out faster than a bout of serious sparring in Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Saloon. With Elizabeth, he had discovered, he could talk in much the same way he talked with friends when they met at White’s and discussed Wellington’s progress on the Peninsula, the growing unrest among industrial workers, or hypothesized on the possible changes in government if and when the Prince of Wales was made Regent.

Except that he could never forget Elizabeth was a woman, and this awareness added to the intellectual experience an exciting twist of sensuality.

“Uncle Clive! Uncle Clive!”

The twins erupted from the stables and raced to meet him. Adam might generally be a little behind his sister, but not when running some distance.

“Sir! Mr. Nutley says there’s a sleigh in the old coach house.”

“And he promised to have it all fixed up and ready by tomorrow.” Panting, Grace tugged at his sleeve. “Can we go in the sleigh to fetch the Christmas trees and the yule log, Uncle Clive?”

He laughed. “You’re that sure of your nurse’s prediction? Miss Gore-Langton was telling me that she forecast a white Christmas.”

“It’s Nurse Trudy’s bones, Uncle Clive.” Grace skipped beside him. “They always know the weather. I guess it’s on account of their being German bones.”

“Gammon!” said Adam. “Cook in Bath can also tell the weather. And she has Wiltshire bones.”

Margaret and Fanny, followed by Sam Nutley, came out of the stables. The groom took charge of the horses, and Margaret immediately swooped on her children, hurrying them back to the castle and out of the cold wind.

“You said you’d go straight to the schoolroom,” Margaret scolded. “And here I find you standing in this bitter cold! Clive, I wonder at you! You know Adam always gets an earache from the wind.”

Since Adam and Grace both wore knitted caps that fitted tightly over their ears, and mufflers that hid most of their faces, Clive did not think that even sensitive Adam would come to harm. But he knew better than to argue with Margaret when she was in a stew. Keeping beside Fanny, he allowed his sister-in-law and the children to draw ahead.

“Mama, only listen!” Grace’s voice was shrill with excitement. “Uncle Clive says we can go in the sleigh tomorrow!”

Fanny’s eyes danced. “Clive, you didn’t, did you? Those silly children think there’ll be snow tomorrow. But how can there be?”

“Apparently, Nurse Gertrud’s word is law. If she says there’ll be snow for Christmas, then it will be.”

“I admit the old woman is often uncannily right. But look at the sky! As clear as it can be.”

Clive’s look at the sky was grateful. “Tomorrow is only Christmas Eve. Mayhap she predicted the snow for Christmas Day.”

Fanny had slowed her steps until she could be certain that Margaret and the children were out of earshot. When Clive steered toward the nearest kitchen door, she said, “Let’s go around to the front, shall we? I’ve been cooped up inside too long to shy away from a little cold air.”

“The rain was a nuisance. I apologize.”

She laughed. “I didn’t say it was your fault!”

Fanny was still dawdling, and Clive, knowing his sister, said, “Open your budget, Fanny. You may not be eager to get inside, but I am.”

“You went riding, didn’t you?” she said with such deliberate casualness that he was instantly put on the alert. “With Miss Gore-Langton.”

“Yes.”

“I haven’t had much of a chance to get acquainted with her, but she seems to be a very nice young lady. Louisa Astley cannot sing her praises high enough.”

“Indeed.”

“She’s prettier, too, than I first thought. I like her hair, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“She doesn’t smile much, but when she does, her eyes light up. Have you noticed their unusual color?”

“Yes.”

Fanny stamped a foot. “Dash it, Clive! Can you not say something other than yes and indeed?”

“Certainly I can. And since you’re about as subtle as a street vendor hawking her goods, I’ll be blunt as well. Mind your own business, Fanny.”

“I asked for that,” she acknowledged wryly. “But, seriously, Clive. I’ve been meaning to speak to you for a long time, only George thought I ought not to meddle.”

“Splendid man, George. You may be a silly little widgeon most of the time, but you proved you had some sense when you picked him.”

Fanny was not to be diverted. “Clive, you must marry!”

“Must I?”

“You’ll be six-and-thirty in three weeks!”

“In fact,” he said dryly, “I’ll be an ancient.”

“I am planning a ball in your honor. I’ve invited Miss Sedgewicke and Miss Marple. Lady Sarah Wilton has accepted—”

“Devil a bit, Fanny!” he exploded. “Haven’t I told you over and over that I have no interest in being paraded before a gaggle of females on the catch?”

She stopped, arms akimbo. “And how do you propose to meet
any
female if you don’t make an effort to attend a ball or a soiree once in a while? You cannot meet young ladies at your club!”

“No, thank goodness. Fanny, listen. I want you to stop thrusting me at your friends—or your friends at me. I am no great matrimonial catch. I have nothing to offer a wife, save for a title. The young ladies won’t thank you for wasting their time on an unworthy object for their ambitions.”

“Unworthy!” She gave a snort. “You have a very nice income from the Shropshire farms.”

“Income that must go right back into the land if I want to have anything at all to leave my heir besides an expensive townhouse and a great hulk of a castle.”

“But you won’t have an heir if you don’t marry! And don’t say that Adam is your heir. Dash it, Clive! Isn’t it enough that George must leave his title and land to some cousin or other?”

He gripped her shoulder. “Fanny,” he said gently. “You mustn’t give up hope.”

“Six years, Clive! And may it be a lesson to you. What if
you
have to wait six years or longer before your wife presents you with a child? Why, you’d be forty-two years old!”

“Father was forty-five when I was born.”

This was unanswerable.

“Come along, Fanny.” He firmly took her by the elbow. “You’re shivering.”

But his sister’s comfort was not the only consideration that drove him to hurry. The shadows were lengthening. Before long, he and Nick must take up positions on the southeast tower to wait for Chamberlain’s signal from East Dean.

“Clive? You didn’t mean it, did you, when you said you had nothing to offer a wife?”

“I meant it.”

Silent, Fanny mounted the steps to the portico. There she stopped.

“Why, then, did you renovate the south wing, Clive? It must have cost a fortune.”

“It did.”

The money had come from the government, however, for services rendered in the past. Perhaps tomorrow, if it still troubled Fanny, he could explain.

He encountered her puzzled look.

“I felt obligated,” he said solemnly, “to put the castle to rights for my heir.”

“Indeed.” Her tone was caustic. “I just wish I could believe you.”

He opened the door. As Fanny preceded him into the Great Hall, he thought about his father who had remarried for the sake of an heir. But … perhaps not merely for the sake of an heir.

As though Fanny read his thoughts, she said, “Our father loved Mama. I may have been only seven, but I was old enough to see that he was heartbroken when she died. And he loved us. I believe he’d have considered his life empty, even wasted, without a wife and children.”

Clive frowned. Was his life empty? It had certainly been boring since he resigned from government service and had nothing but crops and fertilizers to occupy his mind. When offered the opportunity to pit his wits once more against a French spy, he had snatched at it as eagerly as a youth.

But he was no longer a young man. He was fast approaching middle age, as aching muscles had proven once or twice. And now he couldn’t wait to complete his mission so he’d be able to devote his time to a certain intriguing young lady.

The heels of Fanny’s half boots tapped busily on the tiles. “Just think, Clive! If Papa hadn’t married again, Decimus would be the duke now!”

“Don’t you think he’d make a noble duke?”

“An expensive one,” she said dryly. “I love him dearly, but you cannot deny that within a year he’d have run through the inheritance. And since he never married, who’d have inherited the title after him?”

“Juliette’s father. I don’t know of any other male Rowland.”

“There you are, then! He doesn’t have a son either. The title would have been extinct with his demise. And if you count on Adam to be
your
heir, who’s to say that he’ll marry? Or, perhaps, he’ll have only girls!”

Clive burst out laughing. “And who’s to say
I
will sire boys? Or that my son will marry? Give it up, sister dear. Let me decide for myself whether I want to get buckled. And,” he added after an almost imperceptible pause, “for what reason I’ll marry.”

They had reached the first-floor corridor of the south wing. Clive’s chamber was at the end of the hallway to the right, Fanny’s around the corner to the left. She smiled and raised her hand in a gesture of farewell before turning away.

Not a word more would she utter. In contrast to some occasions, when he had simply stalked off while she was still talking, Clive had been amazingly good-natured about her nagging. Anything she’d say now would only annoy him. And besides, there was no need to say anything else, was there? The arguments he had raised were proof that he had at long last given some thought to marriage.

She listened to his footsteps—quick, impatient steps. She wondered if he was in a hurry to change because he had decided for once to join his guests in the Crimson Drawing Room where tea and cakes were served for the ladies at five o’clock and wine and sandwiches for the gentlemen. Miss Gore-Langton would be one of the party today, wouldn’t she?

Fanny turned the corner and stopped in midstride at the sight of the plump, gray-haired lady tiptoeing out of the nearest chamber.

“Cousin Flora! May I ask what you were doing in my room?” Fanny said indignantly and gasped when Flora was joined in the doorway by her sister. “And you, Cousin Amelia!”

“And bold as brass, they admitted they were looking for the treasure!” Fanny confided a short while later to the ladies gathered around a low table in the Crimson Drawing Room.

Margaret presided over the tea urn, but for once Fanny did not mind. She had more important matters to consider than her sister-in-law’s usurpation of hostess duties.