A Christmas Charade (8 page)

Elizabeth did not take luncheon in the dining room after all. The second coach carrying the luggage, Sir John’s valet, and Lady Astley’s maid had still not arrived when a footman sounded the gong in the Great Hall. Lady Astley, determined not to appear at table in her traveling dress, invited Elizabeth and Juliette to share the meal in her chamber.

Elizabeth had mixed feelings about a postponement of her next meeting with the Duke of Stenton. She admitted to chagrin that he did not remember her, but was by no means certain that a belated recognition would soothe the blow to her pride. She had wanted him to cudgel his brains over her identity, but it was one thing to wish so in a fit of pique and quite another to have to face the possible results of his mind-searching.

If he remembered Rosalind’s friend … And he should! He had seen her often enough, for Rosalind would never have been permitted to ride or drive with him unless Elizabeth and one or two other young people joined in the excursions.

Truly, there should be no harm in his remembering Rosalind’s friend. Unless … unless he had been aware of that foolish friend’s infatuation with him.

Elizabeth’s face flamed at the mere thought, but she consoled herself that
his
embarrassment when he finally remembered her from that long ago season of ’99 would be no less than hers. He would be ashamed to realize that he had forgotten a young lady with whom he had stood up at every ball, a young lady who had been the first guest in the house he bought for Rosalind when they returned from their honeymoon.

Still, she could not deny that she would anticipate the approaching holidays with a great deal more pleasure if she weren’t obliged to spend them at Stenton—or if her host were someone other than Clive Rowland.

Since those were impossibilities, she must either brazen out the charade she had so foolishly begun and hope that the moment of recognition would never come, or she must take the bull by its horns and confess.

For a dignified lady of her age and position it should not be a difficult decision to make. But Elizabeth learned to her dismay that dignity, wisdom, and whatever other benefits she expected to have gained with advanced age, deserted her at the prospect of facing Stenton with a confession. The trouble was, she realized, she did not know how he would react. And neither did she know how she
wanted
him to react.

Calling herself a coward of no mean order, she accepted Lady Astley’s invitation to luncheon and stayed with her employer long after Juliette left. She had always enjoyed reading to Lady Astley, but this afternoon not even the antics of Tom Jones in Henry Fielding’s novel could distract her. She was feeling properly blue-deviled, and all because of the man who had not recognized her when she wasn’t even certain that she
wanted
to be recognized. Dash it! It was quite insupportable.

The arrival of the truant coach and the luggage provided an excuse to spend an hour or two in her chamber. When every one of her few gowns had been shaken and smoothed at least a half-dozen times, when the last handkerchief was neatly placed in a drawer, Elizabeth cast an imploring look at the rivulets of water running down the window panes. If only it would stop raining, she could go for a walk. Bracing sea air would lift her spirits in no time at all.

But the rain did not stop, and by the time Juliette knocked on the door and offered to take Elizabeth to the Crimson Drawing Room where the company would assemble before dinner, she was still of two minds whether she wanted to confront his grace or wait cowardly until he recognized her. She could not even decide whether to take Juliette into her confidence.

This last decision at least was taken out of her hands when they entered the Great Hall. The candles in the huge chandelier had not been lit, but the glow from several wall sconces and the two fireplaces was sufficient to show the look of surprise on the face of the gentleman entering the hall from another passage.

Lord Nicholas raised a quizzing glass to his eye, but let it drop again immediately. “Elizabeth—Miss Gore-Langton! Where did you spring from?”

“Good evening, Lord Nicholas. I arrived this morning with Sir John and Lady Astley.”

She smiled as she shook hands, though inside she quaked with dismay. Lord Nicholas Mackay had been there eleven years ago when she and Rosalind were presented to the
ton
.

“Thought I was seeing a ghost when I first clapped eyes on you.” Lord Nicholas once more raised his glass and surveyed her carefully. “You haven’t changed since I last saw you. When was it? Five, six years ago? Lud! You were with old Lady Henley then.”

“Yes. But Lady Henley died shortly afterward and I had to find a new position.”

“Why, this is famous!” Juliette broke in. “You know each other! And I was afraid poor Elizabeth would feel lost among so many strangers.”

“Devil a bit, no such thing!” exclaimed Nicholas, grinning cheerfully. “I’ve known Miss Gore-Langton since she made her first curtsy to society. And so has Clive. Just wait till he claps eyes on her!”

“He saw her this morning.” A puzzled note crept into Juliette’s voice. “To be sure, I don’t perfectly remember in the excitement of greeting Stewart’s parents, but I did not have the impression that Clive knew Elizabeth.”

Keeping her smile firmly in place, Elizabeth said, “And your impression was quite correct, Juliette. His grace did not recognize me.”

Lord Nicholas merely raised a brow, but Juliette, after the tiniest of incredulous silences, clapped her hands. “Oh, how I shall tease him about this! Clive always accuses
me
of having the most shocking memory.”

“Please don’t,” said Elizabeth, experiencing once again that detestable quake of dismay. “I mean—” She broke off, shrugging.

“You didn’t set him straight,” Nicholas said drily. He narrowed his eyes. “He didn’t recognize you at all? I find that hard to believe.”

“He suspects he met me somewhere,” she admitted.

“But you denied it,” said Juliette with unexpected shrewdness. She gave Elizabeth a speculative look. “I daresay I would have done the same, because now he’s forced to rack his brains to remember where and when he met you.”

An involuntary chuckle escaped Elizabeth. “That’s indeed what I intended. I thought it would serve him right for being so forgetful. But I shouldn’t have done it.”

“Why ever not?” asked Nicholas.

Under his quizzical gaze, warmth stole into her face. Did Nicholas remember that he had found her crying at Clive and Rosalind’s wedding? She’d had herself well in control while the vows were spoken, but after the wedding breakfast, when the young couple departed on their honeymoon, she could no longer stop the tears. An elderly lady had patted her back and told her to go ahead and have a good cry; it’s what a bridesmaid is supposed to do at her best friend’s wedding.

But Nicholas, when he found her in one of the anterooms at Stenton House, had handed her his handkerchief and, in an awkward attempt to comfort, had assured her that she’d get over it. Clive was not the only man on earth. Without a doubt, she’d fall in love again before the year was out.

She had been so horrified, her tears had dried on the instant. How had she given herself away? She had been so very careful to conceal her feelings, for there was nothing more detestable than a lady wearing her heart upon her sleeve.

She had immediately, haughtily, informed Lord Nicholas that he had quite misunderstood. She was crying because she knew how much she’d miss Rosalind. And for no other reason! Nicholas had nodded, looking grave but, unfortunately, unconvinced.

It was then that a most horrid suspicion had crept into her mind and left her paralyzed with embarrassment—the suspicion that she had, unwittingly, betrayed her feelings to others as well. To Rosalind, perhaps. Worse, to Clive Rowland himself.

Elizabeth shook off the memory and stole a look at Nicholas’s face. She saw mischief in the blue eyes but not, as she had feared, pity.

“Give you ten to one,” he said, “that Clive will remember who you are before Christmas. He’s got a restless mind. Won’t give him any peace till he’s figured out where he met you before.”

“I dearly love a wager,” Juliette cut in. “I’ll take you on if Elizabeth won’t.”

“Done.” Nicholas shook hands with Juliette, then turned to Elizabeth. “And you? Will you place your bet, Miss Gore-Langton?”

“You’re out of your mind!” she said indignantly. “Both of you.”

“Pooh!” Juliette gave her a sidelong look. “Don’t be so stodgy, Elizabeth. This is the most diverting thing that’s happened since I arrived at Stenton.
I
shall not back down from the wager, and if you won’t join in—”

“I will tell Stenton myself who I am before I enter into such a harebrained wager.”

Juliette gasped, but Nicholas shook his head and grinned.

“No, you won’t. Because it would spoil my wager with Juliette, and I remember the occasion when you very kindly explained to me that a wager once made cannot be undone.”

“That was different!” she protested. “You and I had agreed to race.”

“And I offered you a bet that your mare could not beat my mount. You agreed and lost. And when I did not want to claim my prize—those striking peacock feathers off your hat—you reminded me that our wager was as valid as if it had been entered in the betting book at White’s. Now don’t tell me you’ve forgotten that you rode home with a sadly denuded hat.”

“I haven’t forgotten, but—”

“But nothing. Juliette and I have shaken hands on a bet. You must realize that you cannot spoil sport now.”

Elizabeth protested no more. Everything her father had ever told her about the strict code governing bets bore out what Lord Nicholas had said.

Juliette tugged at Nicholas’s sleeve. “We must set the time limit. Shall we say Christmas Eve, midnight?”

“Christmas Eve, midnight, it is. Three days from now.” His eyes laughed at Elizabeth. “Sure you won’t change your mind?”

Elizabeth threw her hands up in disgust. “You’re impossible! I wish there were a way to make you both lose.”

But, strangely, as reprehensible as she considered the wager, she no longer suffered from the blue devils. She was in no mood, however, to discover why.

Her heart beat a little faster than usual when she entered the Crimson Drawing Room with Juliette and Nicholas. It had nothing to do with the Duke of Stenton, who saw them and immediately crossed the room to greet them. No, she blamed the erratic beat on the overwhelming splendor of the vast chamber.

Crimson velvet covered chairs and couches and draped the row of windows along one wall, bright splashes of color against champagne-colored carpets. Four gold-and-crystal chandeliers ablaze with light hung from the ceiling, where nymphs and satyrs chased each other in a sea of bluebells, and the wall opposite the windows was hung with paintings, one of which Elizabeth believed to be a Raphael.

She had no time to fully appreciate the magnificence of the chamber before Stenton addressed her.

“Miss Gore-Langton, allow me to introduce you to my other guests. My friend Lord Nicholas Mackay, I take it, has already made himself known to you?”

Again, her heartbeat quickened. Carefully avoiding Nicholas’s and Juliette’s eye, she said, “We met in the hall, your grace.”

Nicholas grinned widely. “Indeed. You’d be wasting your breath on a formal introduction, Clive, old boy.”

Clive looked from one to the other. Miss Gore-Langton looked as shy and confused as she had this morning. But Nicholas—dash it! He was too familiar with Nick’s grin not to recognize that some mischief was afoot. But what mischief? It was more than he could tell.

He bore Miss Gore-Langton off to meet the rest of the company. As they crossed the room to a group of chairs and couches near the fireplace, it occurred to him that he might have made her acquaintance at one of the many parties his sister had arranged to introduce him to eligible young ladies.

But neither his sister nor his brother-in-law gave any sign of having met Miss Gore-Langton before. Of course, George might have forgotten a previous meeting, since Fanny’s friends were legion. But Fanny was no dissembler, and Clive could tell from the speculative light in her eyes as she greeted Miss Gore-Langton that this was the first time she saw Lady Astley’s companion.

He could not like that speculative look, but even less did he like the hard stare Margaret directed at Elizabeth. It was always the same when he was obliged to introduce a young lady to them. In Fanny an introduction raised instant hope that he had finally decided to forgo widowerhood; in Margaret it raised immediate enmity toward the lady in question.

When they approached his uncle, who was sitting with Stewart and Sir John and Lady Astley, Clive thought Miss Gore-Langton’s step dragged a bit. But he must have been mistaken, for she showed no hesitancy in conversing with Decimus when his uncle said he had known her father.

“I am sure you did, sir,” she said with a smile. “He used to be a friend of the Prince of Wales as, I believe, you are.”

“Demmed shame he died so young. A hunting accident, wasn’t it? Must’ve been hard for you and your mother.”

“My mother died two months earlier, sir.”

Decimus looked startled. “She did, did she? Pray accept my condolences.”

“Thank you, sir. But it all happened a decade ago.”

Before Decimus could say anything else, Fanny joined them.

“Clive, I was telling Margaret about the treasure, and she suggested we hold a treasure hunt tomorrow. I think it’s a splendid notion. What do you say?”

“I cannot imagine what you’re talking about. What treasure?”

“Have you forgotten? Uncle Decimus told us all about it!”

“The jewels!” exclaimed Decimus. “By jove, if I didn’t forget about them myself!”

Clive gave his uncle a hard stare. “The jewels of the
first
fourth duchess? Devil a bit, Decimus! I was sure you told the tale merely to satisfy our childish craving for romance and excitement.”

“No such thing, my boy! Edward’s first wife brought into the marriage jewelry worth a king’s ransom. The baubles were kept—”

“In a small marquetry chest!” interjected Clive and Fanny simultaneously.