A Christmas Charade (5 page)

And of course there was no second set of footsteps. Just his own as he walked on and rounded the corner. He had become a doddering fool during the four years of retirement. To be imagining spies and agents at every corner! Fie! And he did not even have the excuse of being foxed. Now, if he’d had more than three or four cups of punch … but he hadn’t, and he was neither on the go nor even a little above par.

Still, he could not shake the strange sensation that he had a companion in that long, dark corridor leading past several unoccupied bedchambers, past his uncle’s and Nick’s chambers, and toward his own rooms. As soon as he stepped into his bedroom, however, and shut the door, the sensation was gone.

“And I dashed well hope it stays away,” he said to no one in particular, for he never asked of his valet to sit up and wait upon him after midnight. “Who knows but that I would fire my pistol at some imagined intruder and wake up the whole damned castle.”

Annie Tuck gave a little sniff and glided away. His grace had nothing to fear. She knew quite well that it would be highly improper if she were to go into his chamber while he got ready for bed.

She was about to slip through the thick door that separated the servants’ wing from the rest of the castle when she stopped abruptly. And just
how
did she know that his grace referred to her presence when he spoke of some imagined intruder? How did she know that he was aware of her escort in the corridor?

“Gorblimey,” she said reverently, “I can read a human’s mind.” She did a little skip as excitement bubbled over. “And won’t
that
come in right handy!”

It started to rain on Friday when Sir John Astley’s traveling coach swung into the last curve before the mile-long straight approach to Stenton Castle.

“Just what you can expect on the coast, eh, Louisa?” Sir John said with the forced cheerfulness he had employed throughout the drive. Not for anything would he let his dear wife know that the most dreadful apprehension befell him whenever he thought about Stewart, or that he feared Louisa’s frail constitution might not be up to the rigors of the long drive. “None of the snow we left behind, but buckets of water pouring down on us.”

Lady Astley knew him too well to be totally deceived. “If you’re worried that the damp will affect my health, pray don’t be. As you see, I’ve stood the journey better than you or Dr. Ashe expected. And it was quite damp everywhere.”

“You’ve borne up beautifully, my dear.”

She gave him a loving smile. “Once I’m installed by a warm fire at Stenton, I shan’t mind if it rains every day. As long as I may see Stewart and dear Juliette. Oh, John! I think this will be a wonderful Christmas.”

“Aye.” He gave her hand a little squeeze. “We’ve missed him, haven’t we?”

While Sir John and Lady Astley fell into reminiscences, Elizabeth Gore-Langton kept one cheek pressed to the coach window and her gaze fixed on the towers and the part of the castle wall that had come into view a few moments earlier.

Elizabeth
did
mind the rain. It obstructed her view of the castle, but she voiced no complaint. She also doubted that this would be a wonderful Christmas. At least for her, depending on the circumstances, the next ten days could be fraught with embarrassment.

While Lady Astley had become more animated with every mile that took them away from the manor house in Hertfordshire and closer to Stenton Castle on the Sussex coast, Elizabeth had become quieter. They had traveled in easy stages, taking four days for a journey that might have been accomplished in half that time. Now, with their destination looming ahead, Elizabeth sat tense and apprehensive in her corner.

She gave silent thanks to Sir John for offering her the seat beside his wife on this last stretch of the journey. The forward position gave her the excuse to turn her face to the window and pretend an absorption in the view of the castle. Although, in truth, her absorption was not totally pretense. She was quite curious about Stenton. More curious still about Clive Rowland, Fifth Duke of Stenton, whom she had known eleven years ago as the Marquis Sandown.

Would he recognize her? There was a vast difference between a girl of barely seventeen and a woman approaching her twenty-ninth year. Her mother had considered her too young to be launched into the
ton
, but Elizabeth had begged and pleaded to be presented with Rosalind, her friend, her idol, who was already nineteen and as beautiful as a fairy-tale princess.

Elizabeth’s hands clenched inside her muff. She did not know what would be worse—to have Clive Rowland recognize her or
not
to be recognized.

He had no notion that she was coming to Stenton. The letter apprising his grace of Miss Gore-Langton’s inclusion in the Astley party had never been posted.

Deliberately, she relaxed her hands. Thank goodness, Sir John and Lady Astley were preoccupied, else they would have noticed her apprehension and inquired about the cause.

The carriage slowed as it passed through the castle’s outer gate, a gatehouse and a watchtower on either side. It presently picked up speed again, and the wheels rattled noisily across the cobbled inner yard. Elizabeth craned her neck to get a look at the castle’s main front, but a gust of rain all but obliterated the view of a wide sweep of steps leading up to the portico and the imposing entrance.

One wing of the huge door opened as the coach rolled to a stop. Two footmen and a butler, each carrying a large black umbrella, descended to the carriageway. One of the footmen opened the carriage door and let down the steps.

“Lady Astley. Sir John.” The butler bowed, his expression just the correct mixture of deference and stiffness, his bearing majestic despite the awkwardness attached to wielding an open umbrella.

Deftly assisting Lady Astley from the coach, he said, “I am Symes, my lady. Permit me to welcome you and Sir John to Stenton Castle.”

As Symes returned his attention to the coach, his gaze fell on the third occupant, a young lady, though not, he observed, in the first blush of youth. She was enveloped in a cloak of leaf green wool. A fur cap—Symes recognized common rabbit as quickly as any fashion-conscious lady would—sat atop thick brown hair severely brushed back and caught in a knot at the nape of her neck.

Not a lady of fashion. But of one thing Symes was certain. Whatever her position in the Astley household, she was clearly a lady of quality and could not be assigned a room in the servants’ quarters.

He directed an inquiring look at Sir John, but the baronet, forgetting manners in the fervent desire to be reunited with his son, availed himself of the second footman’s umbrella and followed his wife into the castle without a backward glance.

Symes bent a stern look on the young woman. This was not the way things were done, but, perhaps, an anxious father must be forgiven a lapse in civility.

“Miss?”

If Elizabeth hadn’t been aware of it already, the butler’s tone and look would have alerted her that she was
not
expected. Gathering her dignity, Lady Astley’s reticule, shawl, and muff, as well as her own belongings, she prepared to descend from the coach.

She smiled at the butler. “I am Miss Gore-Langton. Lady Astley’s companion.”

With not so much as the flicker of an eyelid did he betray that it was beneath his dignity to assist a mere companion. He bowed and shielded her against the rain as solicitously as if she were a duchess. When they reached the top steps, sheltered by the portico, Symes closed the umbrella.

Elizabeth shook the moisture from her cloak. “Does it often pour like this?”

“Having been here only a fortnight, I couldn’t say with certainty, Miss Gore-Langton. But during that time we’ve had no less than eight rainstorms.”

“That is discouraging news.”

She was about to step into the shelter of the entrance hall when she heard a resounding crash inside. At the same time, the butler, looking toward the courtyard, exclaimed, “Your grace!”

The crash forgotten, Elizabeth swung around. She saw a man, tall and broad shouldered, approach the steps with long strides. His boots were muddied, and the rain had molded coat and breeches to his muscular frame.

She thought she must have recognized him anywhere. He had not changed, and yet he was different. The shoulders were, perhaps, wider than they had been when he was four-and-twenty. He was hatless, and she could see the dark hair curling damply around his head. But she also saw a fine streak of white running from the left temple to the crown of his hair.

And then he stood before her. The face she had known eleven years ago had matured. The mouth was firmer, the chin more jutting, and the angles of his cheekbones were more harshly sculpted. But the dark gray eyes had not changed. They were still mysterious, spellbinding. They came to rest on her, devoid of the slightest spark of recognition.

Her hands started to tremble and she closed them tightly on the reticules and muffs in her arms. This reaction to Clive Rowland might be relief, but she rather feared it was chagrin. She had been of two minds as to whether she wanted him to recognize her, but now that he had
not
, she felt quite humiliated.

“Your grace.” The butler bowed deeply. “This is Miss Gore-Langton, Lady Astley’s companion.”

“Pleasure, Miss Gore-Langton. I trust you had a comfortable journey?”

His voice had not changed either. Deep and resonant, it caressed the listener.
Caressed!
She was too fanciful by half. He was merely being gracious. She remembered that he had always been polite and had addressed her, Rosalind’s friend, with meticulous civility. But he had never truly noticed her—or any other young lady for that matter. He’d had eyes for Rosalind alone.

“Was it too abominable for words?”

She blinked, confused by his quizzing look. “I beg your pardon?”

“Your journey, ma’am.”

“Oh! No, not at all.”

If she were a swearing woman, she’d roundly damn the weakness that once more assailed her limbs, her wits, and even her voice, which sounded in her own ears like a feeble croak. She raised her chin, hoping the gesture would make up for the lamentable lack of pluck she was showing.

He looked into the upturned face and wondered why she scraped her beautiful hair back in such an unbecoming fashion. It was thick and glossy with just a hint of chestnut here and there in the deep brown. She’d never be called pretty, but with a little effort she’d be a striking woman. One, moreover, who wouldn’t lose her looks with age.

Those wide, brilliant green eyes were quite arresting, and there was beauty in the high cheekbones, the somewhat masterful little nose, the firm chin. The mouth, too, looked like it could be firm on occasion; only at present it trembled quite disconcertingly.

In fact, Miss Gore-Langton was trembling all over. And he was a graceless oaf, keeping her standing outside in the cold. Even if she was an unexpected arrival.

“Allow me.” Without ceremony, Clive took the muffs from her shaking hands and tucked them under one arm.

Clasping her elbow, he propelled her into the Great Hall. Here, in front of the wide fireplace to his left, he found not only Sir John and Lady Astley, Stewart and Juliette assembled, but also Margaret and the twins and most of the staff a little farther down the hall.

While he stopped to survey the scene, Miss Gore-Langton lost no time in removing her elbow from his clasp. In fact, she tugged so sharply that he looked at her in some astonishment.

A trace of color mounted in her face, but she offered no explanation or apology.

“You had better come to the fire, ma’am. It may be a minute or two before my housekeeper has sorted out the room arrangements.”

Now her cheeks were quite pink. Becomingly so, he thought, but he was at a loss as to why she should be embarrassed or meet his gaze with a defiant glare.

“Lady Astley wrote, informing you that I would accompany her,” she said, the tone of her voice as defiant as her look. “Unfortunately the letter slipped beneath the blotter and was not discovered until we were about to leave.”

“And you believed your unexpected arrival would set the household at sixes and sevens?” He smiled. “Miss Gore-Langton, did you
look
at the place when you drove up? The castle is large enough to accommodate three dozen unexpected visitors.”

She unbent slightly, though not enough to return his smile. “Even three score, I’d say. Thank you, your grace. You are very kind.”

“Don’t mention it. But come along now. I rather suspect that
something
has indeed occurred to put my staff in a flutter.”

Without a backward glance to see if Lady Astley’s shy companion followed, he strode across the expanse of tiled floor toward the fireplace. Since he could not believe that his sister-in-law would be so gauche as to intrude upon the first greeting of the junior and the senior Astleys, he must assume that Margaret’s presence, and that of the staff, had to do with his enterprising niece and nephew. Indeed, one glance at Grace and Adam, huddled together and looking too innocent by far, confirmed his suspicion. They had been up to their tricks—again!

Only a few hours earlier, he had hauled the twins off the top of the southwest tower, where they’d been hanging over the low parapet to wave and shout to him down on the beach. He had deposited them with the tutor and the governess, who were turning the west wing upside down in a desperate search for their missing charges, then had ordered all accesses to the towers locked.

But the twins, and whatever dangerous mischief they had perpetrated now, would have to wait. He must welcome Sir John and his lady, whom he had not seen in a while.

They had aged, but that was to be expected. What was unexpected and rather disturbing, was that his parents’ arrival had not erased the grim look on Stewart’s face. He stood ramrod stiff, his left hand clenched at his side. Juliette’s smile was brittle. Only Sir John and his wife looked pleased.

Noting the lines of fatigue in Lady Astley’s thin face, Clive suggested she might wish to retire to her room until luncheon, which would be served at one o’clock.