A Christmas Charade (3 page)

Then, while Lady Fanny volubly admired the two huge fireplaces, the collection of ancient arms and suits of armor, and the chandelier suspended from a thick chain in the center of the hall, Wilmott turned to the butler and inquired politely for his brother-in-law.

Symes bowed majestically. “I fear his grace has not yet returned, my lord. But you’ll find Lord Nicholas in the Blue Salon.”

“But where did my brother go?” demanded Lady Fanny, withdrawing her gaze from the large painting on the wall opposite the entrance. “He knew we’d be here! I wrote him.”

“I daresay his grace went to the beach, my lady.”

Fanny blinked. “
Clive?
” she said, incredulous. “Walking on the beach? In winter, in near dark?”

“I believe his grace has conceived a fondness for the sea, my lady. He ventured out immediately after his arrival yesterday, and again this morning and after luncheon.”

“In that case,” said Lord Wilmott, “you had better show us to our rooms first.”

“I hope we are in a tower room,” said Lady Fanny.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible, my lady. The towers have no rooms. They were built purely for the defense of the castle.”

The butler started for one of the many passageways leading off the Great Hall. “Mrs. Rodwell had the ducal suite in the south wing prepared for you. It is, if I may venture to say so, quite the most beautiful suite in the castle.”

Fanny said no more until she and George were alone in a sitting room that opened onto a bedroom on either side.

“George, do you realize that these are the rooms my father and his first wife occupied at the time of the fire? Well, Father didn’t,” she amended. “He was a Gentleman of the Bedchamber and was at Windsor attending the king. And he never got over feeling guilty that he wasn’t here to help.”

Wilmott studied the wainscoting, obviously of a very recent vintage. “A tidy bit of restoration. I must ask Clive whom he employed to carve the frieze. I’ve long wanted to have that panel in the gallery restored.”

“I am more curious about Clive’s reason for opening Stenton. He always said it would be far too costly to maintain, and now he even had the south wing restored. It must have cost a fortune!”

“No doubt he had his reasons,” Wilmott said mildly. “My love, your hat is quite crooked. Do take it off.”

Absently, she tugged at the ribbons tied beneath her chin. “And to open the place at Christmas, with most of the family invited! Even Flora and Amelia, when he knows Uncle Decimus cannot abide Flora. George, it’s my belief there’s more to this gathering than meets the eye.”

“If so, we’ll no doubt find out.”

“Yes, but when? Clive can be so dashed close-mouthed.” She dropped the hat onto a chair. “I wonder if he found the treasure?”

Wilmott had been about to go into his bedroom but turned back. “My love, you are a constant delight. I never know what surprise you’ll spring at me when you open your mouth. Now what is this about a treasure?”

But Fanny’s quicksilver mind had already moved on. “Or, perhaps, he finally decided to remarry. Do you think he asked us here to meet his intended bride, George?”

“No,” Wilmott said uncompromisingly.

She did not meet his eye. “But he should marry. He needs a son. An heir.”

He went to her, drawing her into his arms.

“An heir is not everything,” he said quietly.

Her eyes were bright and glittering when she did look at him. In anyone but the vivacious Lady Fanny one would have suspected imminent tears.

“There are always cousins and nephews who may inherit,” said Wilmott.

She smiled, if a little tremulously. “I know you think I should not meddle in Clive’s affairs. But don’t you see, dearest George? His case is not at all like yours … ours. If he doesn’t marry, how will he ever know whether he might have had an heir?”

“Fanny, your brother will turn six-and-thirty next month. He does not need a sister, ten years his junior, to tell him how to conduct his life.”

She was quick to catch the note of severity in his voice. She snuggled against him, secure in the knowledge that she knew just how to deal with her dear George.

“Oh, very well,” she murmured, all outward compliance. “But I confess, I’m quite out of patience with Clive.”

A tiny, satisfied smile curved her mouth. This time, Clive could not escape her when she approached him on the subject of his marriage. He could not pack up and leave, as he did when she invited him to her house. This time, he was the host and would just have to bear with her.

The following day, Thursday, the twentieth of December, four coaches rumbled through the hamlet of West Dean at intervals ranging from a few minutes to three hours.

The older inhabitants of West Dean, who had observed the two coaches carrying Lady Fanny and Lord Wilmott and their baggage the previous day, remembered the busy traffic before the tragedy and watched the progress of these new arrivals with pride and gratification.

Pride, because Stenton, although not nearly as magnificent as Arundel, was a grand castle as castles go. It was
their
castle, and it was finally coming to life again. Gratification, because the reopening of Stenton meant increased prosperity for the village. For as long as the old-timers could remember, the lads and maidens of West Dean and East Dean had been hired as undergrooms and under housemaids when the family was in residence.

The younger generation, including the lads and maidens who might expect employment at the castle, goggled at the splendid coaches. Except for the gig driven by Dr. Wimple from Seaford, they had scarcely seen a carriage at all.

The first conveyance, a cumbersome traveling chaise, carried the duke’s uncle and his valet toward Stenton. Lord Decimus Rowland, who disliked travel as much as he disliked managing females, had started in a foul humor from his chambers in St. James’s on the previous day and had broken the journey at the King’s Head in Rotherfield, where Clive and Nicholas enjoyed their luncheon.

Unlike the two younger gentlemen, Lord Decimus had bespoken a room at the inn. When he had recouped his strength by partaking lavishly of a steak and kidney pie, a leg of lamb served with spinach, and a wedge of Stilton, he whiled away the hours by sampling some very fine sherry and, after an excellent dinner, a cognac as smooth as he could wish.

A night’s repose and the quality of liquid refreshments at the inn had mellowed his mood. When he entered his chaise the following morning, he was beginning to look forward to his stay at the castle. In fact, it might not have been a bad thing at all that an extremely unlucky week at the gaming tables left him with his pockets to let so that he’d been obliged to accept his nephew’s invitation for Christmas.

A beatific smile on his round cherub face crowned by a wreath of wispy gray hair, Lord Decimus settled into a corner of the chaise. Supplied by his valet with cushions and rugs, three hot bricks, and a flask of the inn’s best cognac, he was prepared to suffer the discomforts of the narrow, winding road he remembered well from his younger days.

If the King’s Head, many miles inland, could boast such a cognac, wouldn’t Stenton, so much closer to the source, have an even more promising cellar? At least, Decimus hoped the smugglers who had supplied the fourth duke’s household—or, rather, the sons and grandsons of those smugglers—would resume the delivery of tea and French wines when they learned of Clive’s presence at the castle. But, then, why shouldn’t they? The “gentleman” traders had always been generous with payment for the occasional use of the hidden cave below the castle’s west wall.

The next carriage passing through West Dean conveyed the duke’s widowed sister-in-law Margaret, Lady Harry, who was accompanied by her children, the nine-year-old twins Grace and Adam. They were closely followed by a second coach, carrying Lady Harry’s maid, the children’s nurse, the governess, and the tutor. Tempers in these two conveyances, especially the first, were frayed. But that was, perhaps, not surprising after the strenuous two-day-long drive from Bath.

Margaret, Lady Harry, was a pretty if slightly careworn young woman with fine ash blond hair painstakingly curled and arranged in becoming ringlets every morning by her maid. She was the most loving of mothers and quite devoted to her children. If she had a fault, it was a tendency to overprotect Grace and Adam.

But who could blame her? She had married at eighteen. Harry had been twenty-one. She had scarcely had time to be a wife before Harry returned to his regiment and she became a mother. Harry had come home on leave once, when the twins were two years old. They did not remember the occasion, poor babies, and were fatherless shortly after celebrating their fifth birthday.

However, even a doting mother could not deny that nine-year-old twins were not ideal travel companions. With a sinking heart, Margaret noted that Adam was looking rather green around the gills. He was not a good traveler under the best of circumstances, poor boy, and the road through the downs was abominable. And Grace, who hated above all having to sit still, was bouncing on the seat again, which, inevitably, made Adam feel worse.

For one treacherous moment, as they neared Stenton Castle, Margaret wondered if Clive had not been right when he wrote she needed a rest. He had wanted her to take the children to her parents and come alone to Stenton.

Unthinkable! She could not possibly enjoy herself or rest if Grace and Adam were separated from their mama at Christmas. Besides, Adam was Clive’s heir. It was her duty to bring her son to the castle his father had never seen. Naturally, she had not mentioned this in her letter of acceptance to Clive, but, surely, her brother-in-law would be pleased to see his niece and nephew.

The fourth carriage also came from London. Major and Mrs. Stewart Astley had completed the journey in almost total silence.

Which was nothing new, thought Juliette. She did not usually allow pessimism to sink her spirits, but it could not be denied that Stewart had exchanged no more than a dozen words a day with her since his return from the Peninsula.

Except, of course, that first day—almost three weeks ago it was—when he had walked into her sitting room as though he had just returned from a stroll along Bond Street rather than a two-year tour of duty with the Light Dragoons. If she were of a nervous disposition, she’d have had a spasm or swooned from delirious happiness, for she had received no warning that he was to be restored to her.

Or that he was injured. His haggard appearance had shocked her. She had ached with compassion and love when she saw his thin frame, the deep grooves of pain and weariness etched into his dear face. But he was alive, thank God.

How Stewart had talked that first afternoon! Almost feverishly fast. He had spoken of the friends he had to leave behind in Portugal, of the advance into Spain he would miss. He had spoken of his love for her and of the times when only the memory of their four glorious honeymoon days had carried him through tough and dangerous missions.

Of course he resented his injury, for now he’d have to sell out. But she had not thought him despairing. She had been sure that her love would help him overcome the dark moments when his spirits were low. But the following morning he had risen, the grim and silent stranger who now sat opposite her in the carriage, his knees turned toward the left-hand door so they would not touch hers.

And, although he had not yet resigned from his commission, he no longer wore uniform. It was very disquieting, for pride in his regiment had equaled—perhaps even surpassed—his love for her.

Stewart’s eyes were closed, but Juliette did not think he was asleep. She studied his pale face, the taut line of his mouth. No, not asleep but probably in pain. And he wouldn’t thank her for noticing.

Her gaze was drawn to the empty sleeve pinned to the left coat pocket. How could the loss of one miserable arm—half an arm—wreak such havoc? They were married four days when Stewart had to return to his regiment. She had known this would happen and had borne the separation bravely—because he left, promising love and happiness on his return.

And now he had returned, but he had taken the crazy notion into his head to—

Juliette’s hands clenched into tight fists inside her muff. No, no, and no! She would not even think it! She was a Rowland. And the Rowlands were fighters, Cousin Edward, the fourth duke, had told her sternly. That was seven years ago, when he brought her, a sobbing bundle of thirteen-year-old misery, to Stenton House the day her parents sailed for Calcutta. But it applied today.

She had fought pain and self-pity then; she would fight them again. And she would fight for her marriage. For her love. Clive would help her. He had stood in her father’s stead at the wedding two years ago and had given her away. He wouldn’t want to see her marriage in ruins.

After one more glance at her husband’s grim face, Juliette turned to the window to catch the first glimpse of Stenton Castle, where her fate and her future would be decided. By Christmas.

Did miracles still happen?

“What a hobble!” Clive took a long draft of the punch Nicholas had ladled into crystal cups. “I’ve a mind to send Margaret and her entourage back to Bath first thing in the morning. What on earth possessed her to bring not only the twins but a governess, a tutor,
and
a nurse? They’ll be forever underfoot.”

“Aye.” Nicholas stretched his legs toward the bricked fireplace in the library where they had retired when the rest of the company dispersed to the various bedchambers. “A right fine mull you made of it, old boy. Carefully selected guests, forsooth! Should have known Margaret wouldn’t leave the brats behind.”

“She might have warned me.”

“Females. They never do. Besides, it’s Christmas.
You
may not set much store by it, but I’ll wager a monkey Grace and Adam do.”

“What the devil do you mean,
I
don’t set much store by Christmas?”

Nicholas raised a lazy brow. “When was the last time you spent Christmas in the bosom of your family?”

“Blast you, Nick.” Clive spoke without rancor, but he was aware of a pinprick of annoyance. Or was it a guilty conscience?