Twelfth Night Secrets Read online

  A WEDDING WAGER

  “This compelling read delivers an unforgettable cast of characters and places them in an irresistible story . . . that only an author with Feather’s talents can pull off.”

  —Romantic Times

  “Vivid protagonists, appealing secondary characters, and a passionate romance.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A page turner. . . . A thoroughly enjoyable novel.”

  —Romance Reviews

  RUSHED TO THE ALTAR

  “Gathers momentum much like a classical opus that ends in a resounding crescendo. . . . Ms. Feather certainly knows how to titillate the imagination with some sizzling scenes set in a tapestry of bygone days.”

  —Winter Haven News Chief

  “Fun and intelligent. . . . I am completely captivated.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “An ingenious story line, witty prose, and charming characters . . . a well-written addition to the historical romance genre.”

  —Romance Junkies

  A HUSBAND’S WICKED WAYS

  “A consummate storyteller, Feather rises to new heights in her latest Wicked novel of intrigue and desire. Her utterly engaging characters and suspenseful plot combine to hold you spellbound.”

  —Romantic Times

  “Filled with recurring quirky characters, truly evil villains, and a fearless heroine who is definitely an equal to her hero.”

  —Booklist

  TO WED A WICKED PRINCE

  “Enchanting and witty . . . sizzling.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A poignant love story . . . strong characters, political intrigue, secrets and passion . . . it will thrill readers and keep them turning the pages.”

  —Romantic Times

  A WICKED GENTLEMAN

  “Will enchant readers. . . . Filled with marvelous characters—and just enough suspense to keep the midnight oil burning.”

  —Romantic Times

  “Intriguing and satisfying. . . . The captivating romance is buttressed by rich characters and an intense kidnapping subplot, making this a fine beginning for Feather’s new series.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  ALL THE QUEEN’S PLAYERS

  “Beautifully moving . . . rich in period detail.”

  —Booklist

  “A truly fantastic novel.”

  —The Romance Readers Connection

  “Terrific.”

  —Genre Go Round Reviews

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  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Epilogue

  About Jane Feather

  Prologue

  NOVEMBER 1797

  Lady Harriet Devere drew her paisley wrap closer around her shoulders as a fierce wind rattled the casement behind her. Her parlor was not cold, with a blazing log fire in the grate, and it was well lit, wax candles burning brightly, but the day outside was raw, the skies heavy with gray clouds, a downpour imminent, and it did nothing to lighten her mood.

  She sighed, setting down her quill, her eyes drifting to the fire. It had been many months since she had felt her customary lightheartedness, viewed the world with her usual optimism. Oh, she tried, for the children’s sake, but it was hard going. Planning for the annual Christmas house party and the festivities at Charlbury had always been a joyful task, and yet this year, she could summon no enthusiasm. She turned her eyes from the fire and back to the list of names on the secretaire. The guests her grandfather had decided should be invited for this year’s celebrations. So far, she had written half the invitations, and what should have taken her a couple of hours had taken all morning.

  A discreet tap at the door distracted her. “Come in.”

  “Your pardon, my lady, but there are two gentlemen below. They would like to talk with you.” The butler bowed, holding out a silver tray with two visiting cards on it.

  Harriet frowned. It was not the customary hour for social visits, and she was expecting no one. She took one of the cards off the tray, and her frown deepened. Mr. George Howard. Just the sight of his name sent a cold shiver of apprehension down her spine. The man from the Ministry hadn’t been to Grosvenor Square for ten months. Not since he’d paid a condolence visit on the death of her brother. She looked at the other card. The name, Mr. Anthony Bedford, was unknown to her.

  “Show them into the yellow salon, Dickson. I’ll be down in a few minutes.” After the butler had withdrawn, she sat at the secretaire in frowning thought for a while. What could Howard want? The work is over now . . . it has been almost a year since the last letter from Nick.

  Well, Harriet thought, she wouldn’t find out by speculating. She set aside her quill and rose from the desk, checking her reflection automatically in the mirror above the pier table. She was still in half mourning, and her gown of dove gray seemed to leach the color from her complexion, dulling the golden sheen in the braided coronet of her hair. It was time to leave mourning behind her. The Duke of Charlbury had instructed his granddaughter in no uncertain terms that Christmas would not be overshadowed by past sorrows. It was time to look forward and embrace the world again. Nicholas would have wanted it. And in truth, Harriet reflected, Nick would have wanted it. He detested gloom and low spirits.

  She hurried downstairs. A footman opened the door to the yellow drawing room for her. It was a more informal room than the main salon at the front of the house, and Harriet used it almost exclusively when it was only she and the twins in residence in town.

  The two men standing in front of the fire turned as one to greet her as she quietly closed the door behind her. “Lady Harriet, thank you for seeing us without notice,” Mr. Howard said with a bow. “Allow me to present my colleague, Anthony Bedford.”

  “Mr. Howard . . . Mr. Bedford, it’s a pleasure.” She acknowledged their bows with the slightest curtsy. “Pray sit down. May I offer you some refreshment?”

  “No, thank you, Lady Harriet.” It was Mr. Bedford who spoke, and Harriet noticed that his companion stepped back slightly, as if to exclude himself from the conversation. Bedford was at first glance so unassuming as to be almost invisible. A gray man from top to toe, short gray hair, dark gray woolen coat and britches, even his deep-set eyes were gray, but the overall dullness of his appearance was enlivened by those eyes, which had a deep and penetrating gleam that Harriet felt was seeing into her very thoughts.

  She offered a bland smile and invited them again to sit down. Howard did so, but his companion remained standing with his back to the fire.

  Harriet debated whether to sit down herself or whether that would put her at a disadvantage. For some reason, she felt certain that in this man’s company, she did not want to be at any disadvantage. She compromised and perched on the arm of a sofa. “To what do I owe the pleasure, gentlemen?”

  “We will come straight to the point, ma’am,” Bedford replied.

  “Please do, sir.” Harriet inclined her head with the appearance of cool composure.
<
br />   “You are familiar with the work your brother, Viscount Hesketh, was doing for the Ministry of War,” he stated. “Indeed, you have been of some service to the Ministry yourself in the past.”

  “A very minor role, Mr. Bedford,” Harriet said. “I merely received my brother’s correspondence from Europe and passed it on to Mr. Howard. I would hardly say I was of much importance.”

  “You do yourself a disservice, Lady Harriet,” he said drily. “Without people like you, our part of the war effort could not be performed. However, we have another task for you, if you would be willing to undertake it . . . a rather more significant mission.”

  Harriet shot an involuntary glance towards the man she knew from the past. George Howard offered her a fleeting smile that if it was meant to reassure her didn’t really do the job. “Pray continue,” she said to Bedford.

  “Your brother’s death—”

  “At the siege of Elba,” she interrupted with a touch of impatience.

  “Lord Hesketh did not die on the battlefield as you supposed, ma’am. He was assassinated while on a clandestine mission for us.”

  “But . . . but it said in the Gazette, the letter from the Ministry said, Nick died in the siege.”

  “Sometimes, Lady Harriet, we do not always tell the exact truth where work for the clandestine branch of the Ministry is concerned. I’m sure you understand why.” His tone was as dry as before.

  She nodded. “Yes, I’m sure that’s so.” It was obvious, of course. It was inevitable that a man who lived in those shadows would die in them eventually. It made no difference to the essential fact. Nick was gone. It didn’t really matter how his death had come about.

  “We would like to discover who killed your brother, Lady Harriet.”

  Harriet frowned. “And I can help you do that?”

  “You can help us investigate one possibility,” George Howard chipped in.

  She felt a strange little tingle of . . . of what? Anticipation? Apprehension? Excitement? Surely not. “I don’t understand.”

  “Allow me to explain, ma’am.” Bedford spoke again and continued as if he were reading from a list in a catalogue. “One of your brother’s colleagues was in the area when your brother was murdered. Indeed, they had been working partners for quite some time. This man, during his friendship with Lord Hesketh, became a welcome visitor at your grandfather’s house, Charlbury Hall. The Duke has welcomed him there on several occasions since Lord Hesketh’s death. We would like to know whether this man is playing to a different drummer . . . a double agent, in other words. We know there is a nest of French spies embedded at the university at Oxford, a mere ten miles from Charlbury. Julius Forsythe, the Earl of Marbury, has been invited by your grandfather to Charlbury Hall for Christmas. Since you will also be there, in a particularly convenient position as hostess, we would ask you to watch the Earl, see where he goes, listen to what he says, see if he sends correspondence out of the house. Just general observation . . . nothing more elaborate than that, and there should be no danger at all as long as you don’t exceed your remit.”

  “This Julius Forsythe . . . Lord Marbury . . . is the man who was Nick’s partner?” Harriet felt the need to clarify every detail, however stupid she might sound.

  “That is so, Lady Harriet. He may not have been responsible for your brother’s death—indeed, he may well not be a double agent—but we would like to know a little more about his present activities.”

  “I was under the impression that your spies worked under close supervision,” Harriet said, a touch of acid in her tone. She felt ambushed in some way, and she felt very much at a disadvantage.

  “The good ones tend to run themselves, ma’am.” That arid tone again, but this time it was accompanied by just the tiniest twitch of thin lips. “Julius Forsythe is one of the best.”

  “If not the best,” added George Howard.

  “If not the best,” his colleague agreed.

  Harriet rose from her perch and crossed to the window that looked out over the small walled garden, November-bare now, but the camellia bushes against the red wall were just coming into flower. This man was going to be at Charlbury for Christmas, whether she liked it or not. She could not countermand her grandfather’s invitation. And if he had killed Nick . . . a slow rage began to burn deep in her belly. It was one thing to imagine her brother killed by an unknown assailant on a battlefield, quite another to think of him stabbed in the back by someone he knew. A friend . . . a partner.

  She spun back to the salon and the two men, watching her in silence. “Very well. I will do what I can.”

  “You will have your country’s gratitude, my lady.” George Howard bowed deeply. “And you will help to avenge a grave wrong done to one of our own.”

  “Indeed, ma’am.” Anthony Bedford took up his gloves, discarded on a small table. “Maybe it will help you in your mission to know that your father, too, served his country in this way. He, too, died from an assassin’s blade. Your brother was following in his father’s footsteps.”

  “A family business, then.” Harriet’s lips twisted into a wry smile. Somehow this didn’t come as that much of a surprise. After everything else, it seemed logical that she should simply take up the mantle and do her part.

  And avenge her brother into the bargain.

  Chapter One

  “Harry . . . Harry, you’re not asleep, your eyes are open, but you’re not listening to us.”

  Lady Harriet Devere jerked herself out of her reverie and devoted her attention to her young siblings. “Forgive me, you’re right. I was miles away. What was it you were saying?”

  “How much longer?” the twins, as they did so often, chorused in unison. “We’re tired of traveling.”

  “I don’t blame you, so am I,” their sister said with a rueful smile. They had been traveling since dawn that morning. She glanced at her fob watch. It was almost four o’clock, and the December light beyond the carriage window was gray with the beginnings of dusk. She opened the window, letting in a blast of frigid air, and called up to the coachman.

  “Carson, where are we now?”

  “Just past Woodstock, Lady Harriet. Another half hour should do it, I reckon,” he called down.

  Harriet withdrew her head and closed the window. The glass panes were a luxury, but the Devere family was well able to afford such amenities. “Not long now, then,” she said cheerfully. “Now, don’t forget not to shout around Grandfather. I know it’s Christmas, and it’s exciting, but you know how he hates raised voices, and you don’t wish to get on his bad side. He can make life rather unpleasant.”

  “Oh, we know.” The pair groaned, rolling their green eyes.

  “Last time we were at Charlbury,” Lady Grace said, “he wouldn’t let us ride our ponies for a week because we were playing a game in the hall and knocked over the crystal vase on the pier table.”

  Harriet smiled to herself. Lionel Devere, Duke of Charlbury, was a formidable gentleman, but he had a soft spot for his grandchildren, except on the occasions when their rambunctious play intruded on his scholarly pursuits. He could be particularly hard on Tom, now his heir after the deaths of Lionel’s eldest son, Edward, and then his grandson, Nicholas. The Duke maintained that Tom had to be held to a higher standard than most ten-year-old boys if he was to assume the ducal mantle one day.

  Harriet’s smile faded. How she missed her brother. The pain of her father’s loss had diminished over time, but it was still there, a distant ache. Both of them lost to an assassin’s knife.

  And now here she was, dipping her toes into the same devious world that had swallowed her father and her brother. An inner compulsion drove her, had done so from the first moment the man from the Ministry had recruited her into that world. Helping to avenge the family deaths gave her a sense of purpose that had been missing since her brother’s death and seemed to soften the edges of her ever-present grief.

  What would he be like, this Julius Forsythe, Earl of Marbury? He had known h
er brother, which should have spoken well for him, but if he was what the Ministry suspected, then he was lower than a maggot. For a moment, she indulged her anger, imagining how her own actions would squash the maggot underfoot. But then she reminded herself that hers was an investigative mission. The man had not yet been proven guilty; her task was to find the proof if it existed. It would be up to her masters in Horseguards Parade to decide what to do with the traitor, if that was what the Earl turned out to be.

  The Earl of Marbury was at this point aiming his gun at a skein of geese flying low in the dusk over the lake on the Devere estate. One bird, gallantly bringing up the rear at the long-drawn-out tail of its fellows, was falling behind, a perfectly isolated target for his lordship’s weapon. The Earl sighted, his finger resting on the trigger, but when he was certain the shot would have been a good one, bringing his quarry down onto the smooth waters of the lake, he lowered his gun. The pleasure was in the skill of a successful shot, not in the death of a creature that would probably not be good eating, anyway . . . too scrawny with the effort of keeping up with its peers. The young retriever panting at his heels looked up at him with an air of surprise and a certain resentment at having been deprived of her swim to retrieve a fallen bird.

  Julius patted the dog’s head. “Never mind, Tess, another day. One bird wouldn’t feed the Christmas table here, anyway.” He broke open his gun and unloaded it, before tucking it into the crook of his elbow and heading back through the lightly wooded copse around the lake towards the brilliantly lit gray stone pile of Charlbury Hall. The grass scrunched under his boots as the evening frost formed, and a cold wind knifed through his jacket, carrying the smell of snow.

  Charlbury Hall, which dominated the surrounding landscape from a small rise, was a glowing oasis floating in the gathering darkness. Lamplight shone in every window on the first three floors; only the servants’ attics were in darkness. The golden light flooded the neat green lawns, sweeping from the house to the lake, and illuminated the circular driveway in front of the great double doors.