A Christmas Charade (4 page)

The punch bowl sat conveniently close on a table between them. Sparring for wind, Clive made quite a ceremony of refilling his cup.

The last Christmas spent with the family … it was the year he had married … the year Rosalind showed the symptoms of illness on Christmas Eve morning….

After her death, he had made it a habit to invite Nicholas and other bachelor friends to his hunting box in Leicestershire or to the snug little property near Hobkirk, just inside the Scottish border. Or, while he worked for the government, he had arranged to be abroad in December and January. Running away from painful memories, he admitted. At least, that was the case the first three or four years. But he had continued to avoid the family at Christmas even after the pain was gone and the sense of loss had dimmed.

“You’re right, Nick. It’s been a long time since I had a family Christmas. But it was habit rather than a dislike of family gatherings and celebrations that kept me away. It’s quite lowering to realize how easily a man can fall into a rut and not be aware of it.”

“Thought that was it.” Nicholas nodded. “Thought you couldn’t have turned into a curmudgeon. Not truly going to give Margaret her marching orders, are you? What I mean is, the twins seemed dashed glad to see you.”

Clive choked on a sip of punch. “A curmudgeon! Devil a bit, Nick! Would serve you right if I gave
you
your marching orders. Of course Margaret and the children will stay. Mind you, I don’t like the surprise she sprang on me, but I can deal with it.”

“Housekeeper will, if you don’t,” Nicholas said encouragingly. “Just tell her to engage another maid to wait on the nursery party.

Clive had already spoken with Mrs. Rodwell, but he could not resist saying, “Do you think that’s necessary? I thought the children might take their meals with us. After all, they’re on holiday.”

This made Nicholas sit up. After a sharp, searching look at Clive he relaxed again.

“Gammon! Next you’ll say you want that nurse to join us at the table. Strange woman. Heard her mutter about hidden evil in old castles. And when you took Margaret and the children to the south wing, she crossed herself!”

Clive drained his second cup of punch. He grinned at his friend. “Muttered about curses, too. And about spooks that creep around a place where a violent death occurred.”

“Foreigners! German, ain’t she? No doubt that explains it.”

“German or not, Nurse Gertrud is a force to be reckoned with. She was Margaret’s nurse and her brothers’ and sisters’ before that. You saw how Margaret buckled under when the old woman insisted they must all be moved from the south wing to the west wing.”

“Now
that
I cannot find fault with. I’d rather not have Nurse Gertrud anywhere near me.”

“But now we have Decimus next to us. I cannot say I like that any better.”

Nicholas frowned into his punch cup. “I say, Clive! D’you think I should have squeezed another orange? This punch isn’t what it ought to be.”

For some minutes the two gentlemen were absorbed in the task of judging the steaming brew. Finally, they agreed that a few drops of orange juice could only improve the aroma, but that the addition of a generous shot of arrack was an absolute must.

Nicholas resumed his negligent pose in the stuffed chair by the fire. He looked at Clive through half-closed eyes.

“ ’Twasn’t just the unexpected addition of the twins and their mentors to the gathering that made you uneasy, was it? Watched you at dinner and, dammit, if you didn’t remind me of a cat on a hot bake-stone. What is it, Clive? Second thoughts about this mission of yours?”

“No. I’ll get my man. I’ve no doubts about that.”

“If it’s not that, what
is
it that’s making you uneasy?”

Casting a cursory look at the shelves filled with leather-bound books, Clive took a turn about the room. “I’ll be damned if I know. Nothing I can put a finger on.”

Nicholas raised a quizzing brow. “Can you not, old boy? That’s not like you at all.”

“It’s little things like Juliette pressing me for a private interview. My sister pestering me with questions as to
why
I’ve opened the castle,
why
I didn’t accept her invitation last month to spend a weekend at her house when she particularly wanted me to meet a special friend of hers.”

“Matchmaking again, is she?” Nicholas grinned. “I doubt Fanny will ever give up.”

“She may try, but she won’t succeed. I’m too set in my ways now to try matrimony again. Unless … unless I met a truly exceptional lady. But the thing is, between them, Fanny and Juliette will have cut up my peace before Christmas Day. On the other hand …”

Clive shrugged, feeling like a damned fool. He’d had uneasy moments
before
Margaret, Juliette, and Fanny arrived, the kind of disquiet he had experienced during his spying years, when he suspected he was followed by an enemy agent. But here at Stenton it was not so much a sense of being followed as of being
accompanied
while he explored the castle. In fact, he had an uneasy feeling right now, the same feeling he’d had earlier in the dining room—a suspicion that someone was listening to the conversation.

But it was nonsense, of course. Since no one but Yorke, Liverpool, Wellesley—and now Nick—knew his purpose here at Stenton, it was impossible that a French agent had gotten wind of the operation and installed himself in the castle. Besides, there was Chamberlain in the gardener’s cottage. No one at all knew about Chamberlain, and he could trust the fellow with his life. Had, in fact, done so more than once in past years. Chamberlain had been at Stenton close to a sennight; he’d have noticed if there were something amiss.

“On the other hand?” prompted Nicholas. “What is it you were going to say, Clive?”

He shrugged again. The strange feeling was gone. Besides, it wouldn’t do to admit his fancies to Nick. And fancies they were, for he had already, after Nicholas had gone to bed the previous night, sounded the paneling around the library fireplace and examined the shelves for a hidden door. There was none.

“As I said, Nick. It’s nothing I can lay a finger on.”

“Know what it is?” Nicholas gently stirred the punch before filling his glass. “It’s your Uncle Decimus prosing on about Prinny and his ramshackle set. Always said Decimus is a bore. Damned thick skinned, too! Stayed deaf to every hint that he ought to take himself off to bed before midnight.”

“Yes,” said Clive. “I was afraid Uncle Decimus might prove a stumbling block when we want to start watching for the smugglers. That’s why I wasn’t particularly pleased when he picked a chamber here in the south wing. A pox on Nurse Gertrud and her superstitions! Surely she doesn’t expect another fire?”

“Don’t know what’s on her mind, old boy. What’s more, I don’t give a damn,” Nicholas said with unusual heat. “But I’m devilish glad she decided the south wing don’t suit her and her charges.”

Clive grinned. “I believe you’re afraid of the nurse.”

“Devil a bit! Not afraid of anyone, least of all a cross old woman. Only saying the nipperkins might have been more of a handicap than your uncle will be.”

Clive twitched aside one of the heavy brocade curtains that draped the library window and studied the faint silver glow of the moon on the dark Channel waters.

“Conditions should be right fairly soon,” said Nicholas. “Moon’s almost gone.”

“Sunday, I think. It should be dark enough then.”

Clive let the curtain drop. A gleam of laughter in his eye, he faced Nicholas. “I’m almost certain I solved the problem of my uncle’s late-night habits. Did you notice how fast he trotted off when I mentioned the cognac I sent to his room?”

“Aye, which reminds me—did you hear him ask your butler whether a shipment of wine has arrived yet?”

“What?” Clive drew his chair closer to the fire and sat down. “Decimus sending his own wine from town? You must have misheard, Nick.”

“That’s what I thought at first. But he was quite insistent. Told Symes to let him know the moment the delivery was made.”

Clive did not argue, but he was convinced there had been some misunderstanding. His uncle might sport his blunt quite freely and in a lavish style that was way beyond his means, but he would consider it a waste to spend as little as a farthing on the shipment of his own store of wines when he could avail himself of someone else’s cellars. He might not manage his income as wisely as he should, but he was
not
, as Decimus had assured his nephew more than once, a wastrel and a spendthrift.

Settling down with another cup of punch, Clive enjoyed the warmth and the mellowing effect of rum and arrack. For a few moments, he forgot uneasiness, even the purpose of his visit to Stenton.

As he stared into the dancing flames, he thought about the approaching yuletide. It’d be a novelty—and not unwelcome—to celebrate with family and friends. They ought to decorate the Great Hall … and get a yule log. Adam and Grace would goggle … the two fireplaces in the Great Hall were wide enough to accommodate a whole tree trunk each.

“You planning to explore once more tomorrow morning?” asked Nicholas.

Clive drained his cup. “Yes. I want to know every inch of the cliff path, every rock, every dip and rise of the beach, and every patch of bog along the estuary before Sunday night. Nor have I given up yet on finding a cave.”

“To tell the truth, old boy, I don’t quite understand why you’re so sure there must be a cave somewhere in the cliffs.”

“Stands to reason, doesn’t it? The same moonless nights that are ideal for landing a cargo undetected by excisemen are devilish inconvenient for overland travel. Thus, the smugglers have to store the goods until they can be transported. Also, if they have taken to carrying passengers, the Frenchman will need a place to hide until the free-traders are ready to sail.”

“Dammit, Clive, if you aren’t a knowing one!” A gleam lit Nicholas’s eye. “But, then, I shouldn’t wonder if you’ve hidden in caves waiting for smugglers or rebels to carry you wherever Whitehall wanted you to go.”

Clive chuckled. “A government agent tells no tales, my friend. Are you going with me in the morning?”

“Count me out tomorrow. Crawled around the beach and cliffs all day yesterday and this morning. Devilish windy and damp. Got my boots scratched, too.” Nicholas yawned. “Go with you Saturday, though. And then, of course, Sunday night.”

Clive suppressed a grin. He was more than half convinced that by Sunday Nick would lose interest in the French agent who might or might not land on the beach below Stenton Castle. There was nothing like the painstaking examination, the charting of every minute detail of the estuary and the beach to cool an amateur’s desire for an adventure.

“Very well.” He set the empty cup on the bricked hearth and rose. “But if you don’t care to accompany me, you’ll have to play host tomorrow morning.”

Nicholas yawned again. “Stewart said something about taking out one of your hacks. Thought I’d ride with him.”

Clive was not deceived by his friend’s sleepy look and casual tone. Nick was as worried as he was about Major Stewart Astley.

“Excellent. Try to have him back by luncheon, though. Sir John and Lady Astley should be here by then.”

“Have they seen him since he returned?”

“No. Stewart and Juliette meant to visit them in Hertfordshire, but for some reason or other nothing came of it. I think it was Stewart who balked at the last moment, and that’s why Juliette asked me to invite his parents to join us here at Stenton.”

“It’s a damned shame about his arm. But I never thought he’d take it so devilish hard.”

“Stewart’s a proud man. Try to imagine yourself without an arm.”

“By Jove!” exclaimed Nicholas, much struck. “I’d have to let Treadwell tie my cravats!”

“And someone would have to cut up your meat.” Clive’s mouth tightened as he remembered dinner. He had wanted to shake Juliette for performing the service for Stewart. Much better to have let a footman do it. But he also had to admire her calm acceptance of the situation.

“Adjustment will take awhile. But I doubt not that Stewart
will
adjust.” He turned to the door. “I’ll bid you good night. I want to be up and gone before my guests arise.”

“No need to worry about the ladies. I’ll swallow my quizzing glass if one of them is down before ten. But Wilmott, I believe, is an early riser.”

“I trust you to do your duty by him.”

Clive lit one of the bedroom candles a footman had set out on the piecrust table just inside the door and left Nicholas to the pleasures of the punch bowl.

The library as well as his chambers were located on the first floor of the south wing, but at opposite ends. Leaving the library, he must walk past the billiard room, various estate offices, the muniment room, and the so-called ducal suite, all facing the Channel. The passage then turned sharply right into the former nurseries, which had been converted into bedchambers, some of them with an adjacent sitting room. These chambers all boasted a splendid view of the estuary.

The candles in the wall sconces had long been extinguished, and the light from Clive’s bedroom candle hardly served to let him see two or three feet ahead. The gloomy darkness was a nuisance, but quite his own fault. He should have personally overseen the renovations of the south wing and ordered the wall sconces replaced by oil lamps.

His footsteps echoed dully on the parquet floor. Once again uneasiness stole over him. Was he imagining the second set of footsteps? Soft, whispered steps. Yet there was no stealth in them.

Shielding the candle flame with his hand, he swung around. He saw nothing but the closed door of the muniment room, the steep darkness of the corridor, and his shadow on the wall paneling. But wait! Wasn’t there a second shadow, much paler than his own?

Slowly he turned. As he completed the circle, he stepped closer to the wall where he had seen the shadows—and gave a snort of disgust. Only the thought of his sister Fanny and her husband asleep behind the next set of doors kept him from laughing aloud at his own foolishness. Of course there had not been two shadows. The paler image he had seen was a tapestry showing the white-capped waters of the Channel with Stenton Castle atop the chalk cliffs in the background.