A Christmas Charade (9 page)

Fanny added, “And since the fire, no one has seen either the chest or the jewels.”

“How exciting!” said Elizabeth. “A treasure hunt would be just the thing to keep those delightful children I met this morning out of trouble.”

Fanny beamed. “My niece and nephew. And Clive’s, of course. They
are
delightful, aren’t they? So bright and lively. Of course they must join us.
Everyone
must join in.”

“Count me out,” said Clive. “I have business to attend.”

Decimus looked shocked. “My boy, you’ve got your priorities mixed up. If you find the jewels, you won’t
need
to attend to business of any kind.”

“If you find anything, I trust you to hand it over to the rightful heir.” Clive grinned. “But, frankly, Decimus, I doubt there is a treasure. I grant you that Father shied away from Stenton, but he’d never have left a fortune to molder when he could have used it on the Shropshire farms.”

“Edward did look for the jewels,” Decimus admitted. “Drove down here about six or seven months after the tragedy. But he found nothing. Told me he believed some servant made off with the chest.”

“There you are, then.”

Fanny encompassed both men in an indignant look. “Well, I think there
is
a treasure.”

“Go hunt for it,” said Clive. “I’ve no objections.”

“After you’ve taken all the fun out of it?” Fanny shook her head. “I think not. But I tell you something, Clive! If you don’t watch out, you’ll turn into a regular dry old stick. A killjoy. A crepehanger!”

Chuckling, Clive drew Elizabeth away. “What do you think, Miss Gore-Langton? Are the jewels hidden somewhere in the castle or have they been carried off?”

“My opinion is of no importance, your grace. But allow me to point out that a treasure hidden somewhere in the castle might serve its purpose if the weather continues rainy.”

He gave her a sidelong look. How prim she was.

A crooked grin twisted his mouth. “I’m much obliged to you, Miss Gore-Langton. But I’d be even more obliged if you would stop calling me your grace and admit that we have met before.”

This time, she could not attribute the flutter of her heart to the splendor of her surroundings.

She forced herself to meet his gaze. “How can I admit to something neither one of us remembers?”

“You still are an abominable little liar,” he said softly. “But I’ll remember before long. Lay you odds I’ll—”

“Don’t tempt me!”

Surely one wager on the outcome of this foolish charade was more than enough! She was still annoyed with Nicholas and Juliette for forcing her hand. If they hadn’t entered upon the bet with such unseemly haste, she could have—

“Afraid to lose, Miss Gore-Langton?”

“No.” She collected her wits. “To win.”

He raised a skeptical brow, but was prevented from pursuing the matter by the entrance of Miss Whitlock and Mr. Ponsonby. He introduced Grace and Adam’s mentors to Elizabeth, then offered to fetch a glass of sherry for her and ratafia for Miss Whitlock.

Elizabeth’s gaze rested on the broad-shouldered back as he strode off, but she turned when she heard Juliette laugh. She realized this was the first time she had heard that bright sound. Earlier, when they talked about Stewart, Juliette had looked as though she’d never laugh again.

She was standing with Nicholas in front of the fireplace and when she met Elizabeth’s eye, she winked. It was not difficult to guess that Juliette and Nicholas had been talking about their wager.

So be it! If a silly bet could give Juliette’s mind a different direction, it must be a good thing after all.

Her gaze fell on Stewart, seated beside his father. Stewart, too, had turned at the sound of Juliette’s laugh and was watching her. His face was grim, but Elizabeth was close enough to see the pain and longing in his eyes. He did not look like a man who wanted to divorce his wife.

By Saturday morning the rain had stopped. Dressed in buckskins, boots, and a heavy corduroy coat, Clive left his bedchamber at eight o’clock. He knocked on Nicholas’s door and, when no reply was forthcoming, shrugged and continued along the corridor to the stairwell.

It didn’t surprise him at all that Nicholas was not ready to accompany him on another exploration of the beach and cliffs. For one thing, Nick had dipped rather deeply into the punch bowl the previous night—not that he was cast-away, merely a trifle up in the world.

Mainly, though, Nick considered a further search for a cave or some other hiding place a waste of time. “Scrambled all over those damned chalk rocks twice,” he had said, pausing with the ladle halfway between punch bowl and cup. A corner of his mouth turned down. “And what did we find, my friend? A crumbling bird nest!”

Which was only too true. But Clive was of a pertinacious nature and could not easily be swayed from a purpose. He was prepared to examine the ragged cliffs once more.

The great door in the hall was still bolted. Rather than upsetting the butler’s routine by unbolting the door himself, Clive crossed to the north wing, which housed the pantries, the sculleries and kitchens on the ground floor, the servants’ hall and chambers for the male house staff on the first floor, and ample accommodations for a score of maids and the housekeeper on the second floor.

While the rest of the castle was quite open—east wing running into south wing, and south wing leading into west wing—sturdy walls and doors closed off the north wing built around the northeast tower. At ground level, several doors opened onto the kitchen gardens and into the courtyard. Beneath the kitchens, the north wing boasted cellars dug into the chalk cliffs.

This early in the morning, Clive had no interest in the cellars, which housed the wines he had sent down from London. But he was partial to coffee and knew that a cup of the Turkish brew would be available in the kitchen, for it was also a favorite beverage of Monsieur Maurice, a Swiss with the temperament and the culinary artistry of a true French chef.

Before Clive had ventured more than a few steps along the kitchen passage, a tantalizing aroma of fruit and spices teased his nose. It was a scent that brought to mind the days when he and Harry sneaked into the kitchens of Rowland Manor in Shropshire during the Christmas holidays to sample the mince meat slowly simmering on the stove and to take a turn at stirring the Christmas pudding.

Clive checked his step in the arched doorway of the secondary kitchen. There, at one end of the kitchen table, sat his niece and nephew, regaling themselves with thick slices of bread still warm from the oven and mugs of sweet hot chocolate liberally laced with milk. At the other end Monsieur Maurice was ensconced with Nurse Gertrud. The Swiss, a linguist as well as a cook, was talking volubly in German. The only word Clive understood was
Weihnachten
, Christmas.

Grace caught sight of her uncle, dropped her slice of bread and butter, and hurtled toward him to be caught in a hug.

“Uncle Clive!” She immediately squirmed out of his arms again. “You have no Christmas trees at Stenton. We must go back to Bath and fetch one!”

Clive knew, but had forgotten, that his sister-in-law put up a decorated fir tree for the twins every Christmas Eve, a German custom Nurse Gertrud had introduced to Margaret’s family three decades ago. He did not suggest to Adam and Grace that they might just for once do without a Christmas tree, but cast about in his mind where they would find the required fir.

Shaking hands with Adam and ruffling the boy’s hair, he said, “I hope we won’t have to travel all the way to Bath for a Christmas tree.”

“No, sir.” Adam gave him a troubled look. “But, Uncle Clive, I didn’t see any fir trees close to Stenton when we drove up.”

“In fact, you didn’t see very many trees at all. However, I am sure we’ll find something suitable around West Dean.”

Grace did a little skip. “Will you take us, Uncle Clive? Now? Just to make
sure?
”

“I will not, you little imp. I happen to know that your governess and tutor expect you for lessons at half-past eight.”

“It’s not fair!” his niece protested. “Mama promised us a holiday.”

“I’d say two hours of lessons
is
a holiday. You have all afternoon to play.”

“But, Uncle Clive!” Her gray Rowland eyes widened. “Just think how horrid it would be if we drove to West Dean on Christmas Eve, only to find out that there is
no
Christmas tree!”

“Yes,” said Adam, fixing blue eyes on his uncle. “Properly floored we’d be.”

“Miss Grace! Master Adam!” Nurse Gertrud’s accent was unmistakably German. She and Monsieur Maurice had risen as soon as they became aware of Clive’s presence, and she now drew herself up to her full height of five-foot-one. “Will you stop pestering your uncle! He’ll think you no better than a pair of
Strassenkinder
.”

The children—unlike Lord Nicholas Mackay when he set eyes on the nurse—were not at all intimidated by the sharp voice and the snapping dark eyes. If the nurse called them “street urchins,” one of her most favored German expressions, they knew her reprimand was a mere formality. They flew to her side, Grace hugging the old woman’s waist, and Adam, as always a little behind, catching one of her hands.

“Darling Nurse Trudy,” Grace said coaxingly, “tell Uncle Clive that we cannot take a chance with the Christmas tree.”

“Or with the yule log.” Adam looked at his uncle, and his voice held as much conviction as it held persuasion when he said, “I know you wouldn’t want to be without a yule log for the Great Hall, Uncle Clive.”

“No, indeed.” Clive made a show of looking like a man who had been dealt a blow. “The Great Hall without a yule log is unthinkable!”

“You
must
take us to look for a tree and for a yule log, Uncle Clive,” said Grace. “We brought all the decorations and even holly and ivy and stuff, ’cause Mama said we couldn’t be sure what we’d find here. But if we don’t have a tree…!”

Clive had been prepared to tease the children a bit longer, but Grace’s unhappy face changed his mind. “I will send one of the grooms to scout the area around West Dean. And if he doesn’t find your tree or a yule log, he’ll have to search farther north, in the Weald.”

Their eyes glowed, and if they were disappointed that they would not be a part of the scouting expedition, they did not say so.

Adam only said gravely, “A groom may not know the kind of tree we need. Perhaps, sir, you wouldn’t mind sending the gardener?”

Clive did not think that the many talents of Chamberlain, his man in the gardener’s cottage, encompassed a knowledge of trees. But that was hardly something he could admit to his nephew. On the other hand, Chamberlain might do no worse than a groom.

“The gardener it is,” he told Adam.

Grace tugged at his sleeve. “Can he look for two trees, Uncle Clive? One for the Great Hall and one for the servants’ hall? Monsieur Maurice used to have a Christmas tree when he was a boy in Switzerland. I’m sure he’d like one now.”

“Ah, yes!” A sigh swelled the chefs massive chest. “Always we had the prettiest little fir tree, hung with tiny carved toys. And when we lit the candles, it was
magnifique!
”

Clive raised his hands in resignation. “By all means, let’s have two trees. And now, before you take it into your heads that we shall need a Christmas tree atop each tower and one in each wing, off you go! I want to drink a cup of coffee without a couple of magpies chattering in my ear.”

Laughing, the children departed with Nurse Gertrud. However, before Clive had taken his first sip, Grace was back.

She slipped a hand in his. “Uncle Clive? You’ll take us on Christmas Eve, won’t you? To fetch the yule log and to cut the trees?”

He looked into the expectant little face and was glad that Margaret had brought the children.

“Certainly.” He gently pinched her chin. “You and Adam must be there. After all, they are
your
Christmas trees.”

When Clive finally left the kitchens, it was considerably later than he had planned. True to his word, he stopped at the gardener’s cottage built in the shelter of the east wall. Chamberlain, a tall, lean man a few years older than Clive, received him with a raised brow. They had agreed that the less contact they had with each other, the better it would be for the success of Clive’s mission.

When Chamberlain heard his assignment, however, he chuckled. “Aye, your grace. One fir, not less than fifteen feet tall, and one a bit shorter. And two ash logs. Seems to me, these orders will be easier to fulfill than the ones you gave me in London.”

“For your sake, I hope so.” Clive lowered his voice. “You saw nothing last night?”

“Nothing. But, then we didn’t expect anything, did we?”

“No.” Clive glanced at the gray sky. “Clouds are as bad as a full moon. Even an experienced free-trader will need to see a star or two to navigate by.”

“Talk in East Dean is that the clouds will be clearing by tomorrow.”

Clive nodded. “Any other talk in the village?”

“A number of the men I approached about coming to the castle to prune those scraggly shrubs in your garden and to repair the flagways said they won’t be able to start work until Friday or Saturday next week.”

“A long Christmas holiday?” A gleam entered Clive’s eye. “In view of that bit of news, I daresay the flagways can wait. But watch how you talk about those shrubs, my friend. You’re supposed to be a gardener.”

Chamberlain grinned. “Aye, but I’ve been careful to spread the word that I’ve always been and always will be an insubordinate dog. It’s my expertise laying out gardens that got me this post, not obsequiousness. In fact, I’m considered another ‘Capability Brown,’ and you’re not likely to dismiss me until I’ve finished my work here.”

“ ‘Capability Brown’!” Clive gave a snort. “I’ll eat my boots if you know a rose from a lily. Not that I care, my friend. But you had better know a fir tree from an oak!”

Whistling softly, Clive strode off. What Chamberlain had learned in the village told its own tale. It did not surprise him that East Dean, so close to the coast, was involved in the smuggling activities. And, undoubtedly, West Dean and Seaford were in it as well.