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Authors: Victoria Alexander

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BOOK: What Happens At Christmas
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“You don't think he'll notice if he's smiling and nodding all the time?”
“I doubt it. I know all sorts of people who smile and nod continuously as they have no idea what is going on around them.” Camille shrugged. “They seem quite happy.”
“This is getting worse and worse,” Beryl warned.
“Nonsense. I think it's getting better and better.” Camille ticked the points off on her fingers. “The actors are in place. They all know their roles. Nikolai will attribute anything odd to his own misunderstanding. We have a plan as to what happens immediately after Christmas. One can't ask for more than that.”
Camille breathed a deep sigh of relief. Certainly, she still had no definitive idea on how to eventually reveal all to Nikolai, but she would. At the moment, she was oddly confident of it. “Indeed, I can't imagine what could possibly go wrong.”
 
Gray couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something here struck him as wrong.
The butler had shown him into the front parlor at Millworth Manor and taken the basket from him, saying he would fetch Lady Briston. That meant he would not have to see Camille yet. Not that he cared. Still, it was a relief, and he wasn't entirely certain why. Surely, after eleven years, he was prepared to see her again.
He absently circled the parlor. The room itself was precisely as it was in his memory of the last time he'd been here, the day before Camille's wedding. The furnishings were placed as they had always been, the furniture itself appeared none the worse for the passage of time. Even the clock on the mantel and the paintings on the wall remained in the positions he remembered. But then, according to Win's letters, Lady Briston and her daughters were rarely here, much preferring to spend their days in London. Of course, Lady Briston's children all had lives of their own. Beryl was apparently on her second husband, a political type Win had written. Delilah was a wealthy widow, but then she would be. A wry smile curved his lips. Lady Briston's daughters had married exactly as she had trained them. Upon reflection, he realized it was odd the mother had not remarried in the manner of her offspring.
Perhaps his vague unease was due to the presence of a new butler at Millworth Manor. For as long as he could remember, the butler was a man named Clement, stiff and stodgy and eminently proper, but usually with a vague air of long-suffering about him and often a hint of amusement in his eye. And at Gray's last visit, a touch of sympathy as well. He was particularly suited to the eccentric household of Lady Briston's family. Gray didn't recall Clement as being especially old, but it had been eleven years. He had no doubt retired from service. Gray would have to ask Camille. At least that would give him something not fraught with hidden meaning to talk about.
That's it. He pulled up short. This new butler—he had said his name was Fortesque—was entirely too perfect for this household. Gray wondered how long he'd had his position. And how soon, if indeed Lady Briston and her daughters were in residence, it would be before he left.
“I heard we had a visitor.” An elderly lady swept into the room in a dramatic manner. “And such a dashing visitor at that.”
“Good afternoon,” he said cautiously, wondering who this might be. Although, as he recalled, there were always a few unique sorts staying at Millworth Manor. Camille had referred to them as lost tribes—the wandering, displaced nobility of Europe—but he had never quite been certain if she was amused by them or merely tolerant.
The lady was a good half a foot shorter than he, of matronly figure, with nearly white hair and a face that must have been beautiful once and was still quite lovely. Her blue eyes sparkled and she held out her hand. Gray wasn't sure if she expected him to shake it or kiss it.
She cleared her throat, glanced pointedly at her hand and raised it an inch. Kiss it, then. He smiled and obediently did so.
“What a handsome young man you are.” She cast him a flirtatious smile, and it was all he could do to keep from snatching his hand back. “And who, exactly, are you?”
“My apologies, I have not introduced myself,” he said slowly. “I am Mr. Elliott. Grayson Elliott.”
“Grayson? I knew a Grayson once. Oh, he was quite mad, in a very good way, of course. One never knew what he might do next. I remember once, at a gathering at Lord . . . what was his name?” She paused as if searching her memory; then apparently thought better of what she was about to say, much to Gray's relief. “It scarcely matters at the moment, I suppose. I shall tell you my stories later, after we have come to know each other much, much better.”
Gray smiled weakly.
“Welcome to my home, Mr. Elliott, Mr. Grayson Elliott,” she said in a grand manner. “I am Lady Briston, Millicent to my close friends, and I do think we are going to be close, close friends.”
“Bernadette,” he said without thinking.
Her eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?”
“Lady Briston's given name is Bernadette.”
Her brows drew together. “Are you certain?”
“Fairly certain.”
“I could have sworn it was Millicent,” she murmured.
A thought struck him, but surely his cousin would have mentioned this. “Unless, of course, you've married Lord Briston. Colonel Channing, that is.”
“Dear Lord, no. Absolutely not. Such an idea.” She shook her head. “I am definitely not married. As far as I can recall, although I was once.” She heaved a heartfelt sigh. “It did not go well.”
Gray stared. “Then I'm afraid I don't understand.”
“That's quite all right.” She patted his arm and cast him a sympathetic smile. “It happens to everyone on occasion. I myself don't understand, rather more often than not. Let me see if I can explain.” She thought for a moment. “I am Lady Briston. I have a brother-in-law, Colonel Channing. Right, thus far?”
Gray nodded mutely.
“I knew I was right.” She beamed. “And I have three daughters. Two of them look exactly alike, you know.” She shook her head. “It's most confusing.”
“Lady, er, Briston.” Gray chose his words carefully. “I have been gone for a number of years. Still, there are things—”
“I beg your pardon.” Fortesque stepped briskly into the parlor. Gray wouldn't have thought it possible from their initial meeting, but the man looked a bit harried. “Lady Briston, I was sent to find you.”
“And so you have, my dear Fortesque.”
The butler slanted a quick glance at Gray. “I was to find you before you greeted any visitors.”
“Then you do need to be on your toes, Fortesque,” she said in a chastising manner. “Why, I have already met Mr. Elliott. Mr. Grayson Elliott. Delightful name, don't you agree?”
“Yes, my lady.” Fortesque's jaw tightened, but his tone was eminently proper. “Your presence is required elsewhere.”
“Is it, indeed?” She cast the butler what could only be described as a saucy look. Who was this woman?
“Yes, my lady,” he said in an overly stern manner. “Elsewhere. At once.”
“To meet the prince, no doubt.” She leaned toward Gray confidentially. “I haven't met him yet, but I understand he's very handsome and quite taken with one of the blond daughters. I'm not sure which.”
Gray drew his brows together. “What prince?”
“At once, Lady Briston,” the butler said again.
“Oh, well, then.” Her eyes twinkled with amusement. “I shall make my exit with the grace and dignity befitting my position.” With that, she raised her chin and fairly floated out of the room, Fortesque a step behind.
Gray stared after them. Perhaps that was one of the odd guests who were so often to be found residing at Millworth Manor. Still, he was certain few of them believed themselves to be Lady Briston.
A young woman passed by the doorway, casting an absent glance in his direction. Less than a moment later, she reappeared and favored him with an interested smile.
“Good day.”
Her hair was a vivid shade of dark red and she was extremely pretty, with large doelike brown eyes and an exceptional figure.
He smiled. “Good day.”
She studied him curiously. “Are you another one of the players?”
“The players?”
“Mr. Fortesque said he might have to hire additional players, as this house is so very large and requires a fair number of servants.” Her gaze wandered over him in an assessing manner. “I must say, you're handsome enough, even if you are entirely too well dressed for an actor, especially one who might take this role. It's not as if this was Covent Garden, after all. You certainly don't look as if you are here for the money.” She considered him closely. “No, you look as if you have money.”
He chuckled. “I shall have to do something about that.”
“Oh no,” she said quickly. “It's always better to look as if you don't need money than you do.”
“I shall keep that in mind.”
“The pay is better than usual here, probably because we are all sworn to secrecy under threat of legal action. Indeed, I should hate to cross Lady Lydingham.” She shuddered. “I think the woman would track us to the ends of the earth if we were to cross her, and God knows she has the money to do so. Nonetheless, one can always use more performing experience, so keeping one's mouth shut is a small price to pay. Besides, this is a pleasant enough place to spend Christmas, and—” She sucked in a sharp breath and her eyes widened. “Oh, dear Lord, you're not the prince, are you? Please say you're not the prince.”
What prince?
“No,” he said slowly. “I'm not the prince.”
“Thank goodness.” She breathed a sigh of relief. “I should hate to have let on to the prince that Lady Lydingham had hired . . .” The young woman's eyes narrowed. “If you're not the prince, and you're not an actor, then who are you?”
It had been Gray's experience that complete honesty was not always as effective as partial honesty. “I never said I wasn't an actor.”
“Oh, how lovely.” Her expression brightened. “I'm Miss Murdock, Edwina. Perhaps you've heard of me?”
“I'm afraid not.”
“Don't be.” She raised a shoulder in a casual shrug. “I'm not famous yet, but I will be. I intend to be as famous as Ellen Terry one day.”
“She's a very good actress, you know.”
“As am I.” She tossed him an impudent smile. “And at the moment, I am Lady Hargate, the younger sister of Lady Lydingham.” She paused thoughtfully. “She's supposed to be quite proper and was described to me as something of a stick in the mud, but I'm not sure I see the part that way.”
“And how do you see it?” What was going on here?
“Well, goodness, how proper can she be? She married a much older man and now she's a wealthy widow. A very wealthy widow, apparently. And her name is
Delilah,
” she added pointedly. “I don't see her as being the least bit proper, but rather”—she deepened her voice slightly—“
provocative,
I would think. The kind of woman who knows what she wants and does what she must to get it.” She met his gaze directly, and he wasn't sure if she was acting or simply very dangerous.
“Well . . . um . . .”—he swallowed hard—“it's been my observation that nothing makes a performance more realistic than when an actor plays the role the way he—or she—feels it should be performed.”
She gasped. “That's exactly how I feel. Then you think I'm right, to play the part as I see it, that is?”
“Without question. If you think Lady Hargate is, well, something of a tart—”
“And I do. Really, how could she be anything else?”
“Then you owe it to your audience to play the role as you feel it—” He laid a hand over his heart. “Here.”
“You're quite right. I don't know why I hesitated. And I have always been very good at playing the tart.” She raised a shapely shoulder in an offhand shrug. “It just seems to come naturally for me.”
“I can see where it would.”
She cast him a brilliant smile. “You're obviously very good as well, but I didn't realize there were any more roles for men other than servants, of course, and you don't seem suited to play a footman.”
He shrugged.
“The butler is being played by Mr. Fortesque, and Mr. Henderson is cast as Colonel Channing. Do you know what role you have?”
“I'm afraid not.” He shook his head. “I have only just arrived.”
“There's probably another part I am unaware of.” She heaved an overly dramatic sigh. “I don't know how they expect me to be prepared when the script is constantly changing. Although, I suppose, as there is only an audience of one, one can allow for changes.”
BOOK: What Happens At Christmas
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