Twelfth Night Secrets (4 page)

“Very nice, Agnes. Thank you.” The girl blushed with pleasure.

A vigorous knocking at the door and a chorus of “Harry, can we come in, Harry?” heralded the arrival of the children, who entered without waiting for permission. “We look very tidy,” Grace declared. “Nurse said so.”

“She was right,” their sister concurred, rising from the dresser stool. “That’s a very pretty gown, Gracie.” She was pleased to see that her little sister seemed to like the compliment, smoothing down her white muslin skirts with a little, almost feminine gesture. Lady Grace in general bore little resemblance to her name, preferring to scramble with her brother up hill and down dale to the pursuits considered suitable for a young girl. Harriet didn’t blame her in the least; she herself had been the despair of her parents in her childhood, reveling in the tomboy activities of her brother, only a year older than herself. They, too,
had grown up almost as twins. Irish twins, Nurse had called them.

“I look smart, too, don’t I?” Tom asked with a quick frown. His nankeen britches, white frilled shirt, and short jacket were, for the moment, pristine, and his hair had been brushed ruthlessly into something approaching neatness.

“Indeed, you do, Tom. Let us go and present you to the Duke.” She ushered them from the chamber and down the grand curving sweep of the horseshoe staircase, holding them firmly by the hand in case it occurred to one of them to take the time-honored route down the shiny banister rail. She knocked on the library door and at the Duke’s bidding swept the children ahead of her into the large paneled salon.

“Here are the children, sir.”

Lionel was taking his ease in a large winged chair in front of the fire, a glass of sherry in hand, a book on his knee. He looked up and regarded his youngest grandchildren with a barely concealed twinkle in his eye. Privately, he relished their spirit and independence, knowing it was a Devere quality that should never be repressed, but he rarely permitted them to see his indulgence. His older grandchildren, Nick and Harriet, had learned this indulgence only when they
had showed sufficient maturity to accept it without taking advantage of it, and the Duke had every intention that these two youngest offspring of his beloved son would follow the same path.

“Come here, let me look at you.” He beckoned them over.

They approached cautiously. Grace, at a slight nudge from her elder sister, curtsied with a murmured “Good evening, sir,” and Tom produced a jerky bow and a similar greeting.

“You have things to do, Harriet,” the Duke declared, glancing at his elder granddaughter. “Go and do what you must. The children and I will renew our acquaintance.”

“Thank you, sir.” Harriet dropped her own curtsy and abandoned her siblings with barely a flicker of anxiety. They would relax quickly enough, and once they were themselves, they were, as she knew, irresistible, even to the Duke of Charlbury.

She hesitated in the hall, wondering which of her housekeeping tasks she could accomplish first, and then, on impulse, headed for the stairs. It behooved her to ensure that their guest had everything he required.

Harriet turned to the guest wing at the top of the staircase and walked down the wide corridor. Most of the doors stood open, beds made, small fires in the grates to air the rooms before their occupants arrived the next day. A footman emerged from a coveted corner bedchamber at the end of the corridor. She paused, waiting for him to reach her.

“Are you waiting upon the Earl, Thomas?”

“Yes, m’lady. He left his own man behind in London.”

“And is everything going smoothly?”

“Oh, yes, m’lady. His lordship’s very pleasant to work for. His wardrobe’s in the front of fashion; it’s a pleasure to assist with his dress.” The footman was
smiling broadly, and Harriet guessed he had received a douceur in advance from his gentleman, always a wise move when one was relying on strange servants to assist with one’s personal needs.

“Good.” She gave him a pleasant nod. “If there are problems, you’ll discuss them with Mrs. Sutcliff or Mr. Mallow.”

“Of course, ma’am. But I don’t anticipate any.” He bowed and hurried away.

Harriet continued down the corridor. The door to the corner chamber was ajar, lamplight throwing a narrow beam into the corridor. She paused, her hand raised to tap upon the door, but something made her hesitate. The Earl’s figure appeared in the gap, bending over a lit candle. He held a piece of paper in his hand, his eyes upon it, then touched the edge to the candle flame. The parchment caught fire, and he held it steady until it was down to the far corner, then let the ashes fall to the table. Swiftly, he swept up the gray heap into the palm of his hand and turned to drop the ashes into the fire.

Now, why didn’t he simply burn the paper in the fire in the first place?
Harriet wondered, until it occurred to her that sometimes odd scraps drifted to the back of the hearth and could be retrieved when the grate was swept.
Maybe the Earl was overcautious, but if what he had burned was for his eyes only, then he had his reasons.

Dear heaven, she was thinking like a spy herself now—amazing how quickly one caught on. It was a sardonic reflection, and she was about to turn away, suddenly feeling uncomfortably like a voyeur, when the door was abruptly pulled wide open, and the Earl stood there, regarding her through a quizzing glass. His thick dark hair was cut in the new shorter style, brushed back from a broad, intelligent brow. His plain white cravat was tied high under his throat, a diamond pin throwing blue fire in its folds. His cut-away black wool coat and close-fitting knee britches set off his tall, slender figure to perfection. She absorbed all of this inadvertently despite her shock and embarrassment.

His black eyes held a glimmer of knowing amusement that added to her discomfort. “Ah,” he said. “I had a feeling someone was hovering. Is there something I can do for you, Lady Harriet? Or is your visit purely coincidental?” There was a slightly mocking tone to his rich voice that made her hackles rise and deepened her sense of chagrin. She felt like a small child caught stealing cake. She managed what she hoped was a collected, noncommittal smile.

“Neither, my lord. I merely wished to be sure that everything was in order and you were quite satisfied with Thomas.”

“Perfectly, thank you.”

He stepped into the corridor, closing the door firmly at his back. “Are you going downstairs? May I escort you?”

“I have some housekeeping visits to make first,” she responded with a slight curtsy. “The Duke is in the library. I should warn you that he has my twin siblings with him. I’m sure in their grandfather’s presence, they’re well under control, but they can be a little volatile on occasion.”

“Nothing that will surprise me, I’m certain, Lady Harriet. My sister has a large brood, so I’m quite accustomed to the company of small fry. Indeed, I enjoy it.” He bowed over her hand. “I will see you shortly.”

She smiled her acknowledgment, and he strolled off down the corridor to the galleried landing without a backwards glance.

Harriet pursed her lips, watching him walk away. It seemed incongruous that such a man should confess to enjoying the company of children, as out of place as his solicitude for his young dog. But then,
the face of villainy had many expressions. She waited until he turned the corner to the landing, then laid her hand firmly on the door latch, lifting it slowly. She had every right to enter the guest chambers in her role as hostess, so why was her heart beating so fast as she pushed open the door onto the warmly lit room? Tess, curled up on a blanket in front of the fire, raised her head incuriously as she stepped inside.

“It’s all right, Tess. It’s only me,” Harriet murmured, and with a breathy sigh, the dog rested her head on her paws again, but her brown eyes were alert, watching the visitor’s every move.

Well, at least dogs don’t tell tales,
Harriet reflected as her eye swept the chamber. She could see nothing out of place. What was she looking for, anyway? Why did she imagine that this accomplished spy would leave anything incriminating available to prying eyes?

A neat stack of papers lay on the secretaire in the window embrasure, and she walked over to the desk. If anyone wanted to know why she was there, she was merely ensuring that their guest had a plentiful supply of ink and quills. She was fairly certain such an explanation would not satisfy the black-eyed Earl of Marbury, and her heart beat even faster as she glanced anxiously over her shoulder towards the door, which
she had left ajar, thinking it would look less incriminating if she had an unexpected visitor.

A sheet of vellum bore the imprint of a quill as if it had been beneath a paper he had been writing on. She squinted at the marks, unwilling to pick up the paper in case she disturbed something that would indicate interference with his possessions. She could make out little from the deep indentations; they seemed to be meaningless, random letters and numbers. Although presumably, they made sense to their intended recipient. Was it a response to the letter he had just burned?

Tess began to get to her feet, and Harriet decided she had done enough prying for one day. She dropped a reassuring hand onto the dog’s head, before hurrying with relief from the room, closing the door softly behind her with the reflection that spying didn’t seem to come naturally to her, despite the fact that the aptitude appeared to be a family trait.

Downstairs, she made her way to the housekeeper’s parlor. Mrs. Sutcliff was examining a sheaf of accounts when Harriet tapped lightly at her open door. “Mrs. Sutcliff, I’m sorry to disturb you.”

“Not at all, my lady.” The housekeeper rose to her feet with a curtsy. Now in middle life, she had been in service at Charlbury Hall since her eleventh birthday
and was convinced that the house would fall apart if she was not controlling every aspect of its running. Grudgingly, she allowed Mallow, the butler, to control his own realm, and Harriet was always careful to grant her all due respect, steering her own delicate path through the rivalry between Mallow and the housekeeper.

“Oh, do sit down, Mrs. Sutcliff. I know you’re busy, but I just wished to see if there were any questions I could answer about the guests or anything I should know about with the staff. Is all well?”

“Aye, well enough, m’lady.” The housekeeper sat down again. “Young Doris has the toothache, and we may have to do without her for a day or two. She needs the tooth pulled, but she’ll have to be dragged to the dentist, I fear. It’ll wait until after Christmas, mind. When she’s suffered for a few more days, she may be a bit more willing.” The woman gave a nod of severe satisfaction.

Harriet grimaced. Toothache was the very devil, and she could sympathize with poor little Doris. The scullery maid was no more than a child. “Well, if we have oil of cloves in the still room, Mrs. Sutcliff, that might relieve her pain a little.”

“That’s been taken care of, ma’am,” the woman responded
with a little sniff. “And her jaw’s bound tight in flannel.”

“Yes, of course,” Harriet said hastily. “Of course you would know exactly what to do for the girl. Is there anything else?”

“No, m’lady, nothing I can think of,” the housekeeper said, mollified. “But you may be sure now you’ve arrived, you’ll be informed, and I’ll do myself the honor of waiting upon you with Cook’s menus after breakfast.”

“Thank you.” Harriet smiled and took herself off to the butler’s pantry. These few minutes with the senior staff whenever she arrived paid off, she knew, but she found them a sore trial.

A few appreciative words for Mallow, who was cleaning the vast array of family silver, a task he held dear, followed by a visit to the steaming, insanely hectic kitchen, where pots and cauldrons bubbled on the range and a pot boy sat turning a suckling pig on a spit over the open fire, and she considered her duty done. She stepped back into the expanse of the hall, cool despite the massive yule log burning in a fireplace big enough to roast an ox, and took a moment to examine her reflection in the gilt-framed mirror beside the door. Her cheeks were a little flushed from the
heat in the kitchen, but other than that, everything seemed to be in order. She went to the library, nodding her thanks to the footman, who hurried to open the double doors for her.

“Ah, there you are, Harriet. Everything running smoothly in our little realm?” Lionel greeted her with a smile. The Earl rose to his feet and bowed. The children, sitting side-by-side on an ottoman at their grandfather’s feet, burst into speech before she had time to respond to the Duke.

“Grandfather says we can join the Boxing Day hunt, Harry. Only we have to have Judd with us, and he’ll bring us back at lunchtime. Grandfather says we’re not old enough to stay out all day, but we are, aren’t we, Harry?”

“Sherry, Lady Harriet, or Madeira? You may need fortification before you answer.” The Earl had moved to the decanters on the sideboard. He was smiling, and his eyes looked quite different. Instead of the mocking gleam she had seen before, the glint of amusement seemed purely one of enjoyment, and there was a sparkle to their dark depths that she warmed to despite herself.