Twelfth Night Secrets Read online

  Those doors stood open now, and a carriage was drawn up before them. Footmen, shouldering portmanteaux and trunks, hurried up the shallow flight of stairs into the bright hall. Julius paused on the edge of the lawn, Tess at his heels, watching. He recognized the Devere arms on the panels of the carriage.

  So, Nicholas’s sister had arrived. He felt a quickening of interest. Nick had talked much of his sister, Lady Harriet, or Harry, as she was called by her siblings. He had painted a picture of a paragon of wit and beauty, and Julius was curious to see how much of that praise was a result of brotherly bias.

  A pair of small figures sprang from the coach, darted between the servants unloading the vehicle, and scampered towards the side of the house. A clear voice called, “Tom, Gracie, where are you going?”

  “To see Judd,” childish voices chorused, carrying easily through the crisp, frosty December air.

  “Back soon . . .” one of them added, as if in reassurance, and the figures disappeared around the building.

  The first voice belonged to a woman standing on the bottom step of the house. She wore a dark traveling cloak, the fur-edged hood pulled up so Julius could get no impression of her appearance. She shook her head as if in mild exasperation and continued up the stairs into the house. Julius turned to a side path that would take him into the house through the gun room. He would make the acquaintance of Lady Harriet Devere soon enough.

  Harriet entered the family home with a sense of comfort that its familiarity always engendered. For one who had not been brought up amidst its splendors, it could well prove intimidating, but she had been born in one of the grand bedrooms and spent her childhood in the nurseries on the third floor. She had had her own bedroom on the adult floor since her fourteenth birthday, and from the day she had put up her hair and had had her debutante Season, she had played hostess for her grandfather. There was nothing on this ducal estate that was unfamiliar.

  “Harriet, my dear. You made good time.” The Duke of Charlbury came across the expanse of marble floor to greet her with hands outstretched. He was a big man, broad-shouldered, with the upright posture and weather-beaten complexion of a sportsman. But Harriet thought he looked a little tired, his green eyes a little more faded than when she’d last seen him, and she thought she could begin to detect just the slightest stoop to those broad shoulders. Grief had most assuredly taken its toll, but the stoop also had something to do with the hours the old man spent secluded in his library, poring over the scholarly tomes that gave him so much intellectual pleasure. Nevertheless, despite these signs of aging, it was still hard to believe that Lionel was close to the end of his eighth decade.

  “Grandfather.” She took his hands, then hugged him fiercely, kissing his cheek. “The journey was good, and the children were as patient as one could ever expect them to be.”

  “And where are those hellions?” The Duke looked around with raised eyebrows.

  “Oh, they ran off to see Judd in the stables as soon as we arrived.” Harriet drew off her gloves.

  “Well, that should give me no illusions about a grandfather’s place in their priorities,” Lionel said drily.

  “Now, don’t be severe, sir,” Harriet responded, smiling. “They’ve been cooped up since dawn. It’s much better if they run off the fidgets now.”

  He gave a mock sigh. “I suppose you’re right. This house has stood through invasion, civil war, and God only knows what other upheavals, but nothing comes near to those brats when it comes to the power of destruction.”

  Harriet was about to protest when she caught a flicker in her peripheral vision and turned her head sharply to the shadows at the rear of the hall where a passage entered from the gun room. Her grandfather followed her gaze, and a smile touched his finely sculpted mouth. “Ah, Marbury, my dear fellow, come and meet my granddaughter. Harriet, this is Lord Marbury . . . sir, Lady Harriet Devere.”

  Julius stepped into the light, the retriever clinging to his heels. “An honor, ma’am. Please forgive my country attire. I was on my way to change my dress.” He no longer carried his gun, but his boots were muddied, and his plain woolen britches and jacket were cut comfortably for sporting pursuits. His bow, however, would have been perfectly appropriate for a Queen’s Drawing Room, and there was a pleasant easiness about his manner that she warmed to instantly.

  And just as instantly she reminded herself that this was her quarry. A suspected traitor, the man who it was believed had betrayed her brother. But Julius Forsythe didn’t know anyone suspected that, and he mustn’t. Any more than he must ever suspect her own mission at Charlbury Hall this Christmas.

  Her smile was all affability as she curtsied, saying, “Indeed, sir, think nothing of it. We are in the country, after all.” She bent smiling to the dog, extending her flat palm so the retriever could take her scent. “And who is this pretty lady?”

  “Tess, ma’am. She’s young yet but is training well.” He laid a hand on the dog’s head, and Tess lifted her head against his palm.

  Harriet straightened. “If you’ll excuse me, I must see to the unpacking and sort out the children.” She turned to the butler, who stood attentively at the foot of the stairs. “Mallow, would you send to the stables for Lady Grace and Lord Hesketh? I need them in the nursery.” It always felt strange to give Tom the courtesy title he had inherited from his brother, but now that Nicholas was dead, Tom was the heir to the dukedom. He would presumably grow into the role, she thought, firmly squashing any doubts on the subject with the reflection that it was very early days yet.

  “Right away, my lady.” The butler moved off in stately fashion, beckoning to a liveried footman.

  “I’ll see them in the library when they’re respectable,” the Duke declared. “Bring them to me there, Harriet . . . oh, and they may as well dine downstairs, as we’re to be informal tonight.”

  Harriet curtsied her acknowledgment, and her grandfather returned to his library.

  Lord Marbury stood aside so that she could precede him up the stairs. “How was the journey from London?”

  “Tedious, but no worse than that,” she responded with what she hoped was a cool smile. “I gather your retriever does not sleep in the kennels with the other dogs.”

  “No. They have a tendency to bully her, and I’ll not have her spirit broken,” he stated, following her up. “When she’s old enough to hold her own, then time enough.”

  A somewhat sentimental attitude to a sporting dog, Harriet thought, but one she could only applaud. It seemed strangely sensitive, though, in one who was as ruthless as he was said to be.

  They parted company on the galleried landing above the great hall, Harriet going towards her own apartments at the front of the house, his lordship taking the left wing to the guest apartments. The double doors to Harriet’s bedchamber and boudoir stood open. Lamplight filled the spacious chamber, and a bright log fire burned in the grate. A very young maidservant, in the midst of unpacking her ladyship’s trunk, turned as Harriet entered and curtsied. “Good evening, m’lady.”

  “Good evening.” Harriet smiled pleasantly, closing the double doors behind her. “How warm and welcoming it is in here.” She raised an interrogative eyebrow. “You’re new to Charlbury, aren’t you?” She unclasped her cloak.

  “Yes, m’lady. Agnes, at your service, ma’am. My ma’s been ’ead parlor maid for five years, and I was took on in the scullery first. This is my first job abovestairs. I’m to be your lady’s maid, and I ’ope to give satisfaction, m’lady.” She looked anxiously at Harriet as she curtsied again. “I’m a dab ’and with the flat iron, ma’am, and even Ma says as ’ow I’m a first-rate seamstress.”

  “I’m sure we shall deal very well together, Agnes,” Harriet responded with a friendly smile, guessing that her own reputation for being an easy and undemanding mistress had influenced the housekeeper’s decision to place this child with her for her first essay into the rarefied world of ladies’ maids. “Would you ring for some tea?” She cast her cloak over the
back of an armless chair and went to warm her hands at the fire.

  Agnes pulled vigorously on the bell rope beside the fireplace and picked up the discarded cloak, hurrying to hang it in the armoire. “What gown will you wear this evenin’, m’lady? I’ll take it to the laundry room for a touch-up before you dress. Everything’s a bit creased from the trunk.” She gestured to the scattered piles of richly colored silks, muslins, and velvets spread out upon the bed.

  Harriet looked them over. The guests for the annual Christmas house party would not be arriving until tomorrow. She had arrived a day early to ensure that all the arrangements were in hand for their reception and the entertainments to follow. Her grandfather, of course, would take care of the gentlemen’s pursuits and would already have arranged with his steward and gamekeepers for hunting and shooting parties, but many of the ladies required a succession of less energetic enjoyments. And, of course, there was food. The constant supply of delicacies, both solid and liquid, was essential to the success of a house party.

  But for this evening, the family would dine alone and informally. Except, of course, for the guest who was already there. Harriet frowned. Her grandfather’s guest list had included the Earl, but he had said nothing to her about inviting him ahead of time. Bedford had told her that Marbury would be a member of the house party but, again, had failed to mention his premature arrival. It seemed to imply a friendship between the Duke and the Earl that went beyond their shared connection to Nick and despite a considerable age difference. And Lionel wanted the children to join them at dinner, which was unheard of except in a very intimate family setting. So how long had he felt so close to Julius Forsythe? And why, if they were old friends, had his name never come up in conversation? Nicholas hadn’t mentioned him to his sister, either, but she had assumed from what she had been told by Bedford that their acquaintance was new and confined only to the clandestine work they shared. It seemed this was yet another conundrum in the strange world she had entered, where nothing was as it seemed.

  Her hand hovered over a simple lavender silk day gown that would be entirely suitable for an intimate family dinner. But they weren’t to be just family, were they? Maybe, bearing in mind their guest, she should make a little more effort . . . she was supposed to cultivate the Earl, after all.

  “I’ll wear this, Agnes.” She selected an evening gown of rose-pink taffeta, the décolleté neckline and tiny puffed sleeves embroidered with seed pearls. She would compromise by wearing only a simple strand of pearls and dressing her hair in a plain knot on her nape with just a few side curls. “Ah, tea . . . thank you.” She turned as a maidservant brought in a tray of tea. “Just set it by the fire, please.”

  “I’ll press the gown now, then, shall I, m’lady . . . or should I finish unpacking first?” Agnes looked in indecision between the gown and the armoire.

  “Finish unpacking first,” Harriet instructed. “Dinner will not be for another two hours, but I should like a bath beforehand. It’s been a long day of traveling.” She poured tea.

  “Oh, yes, right away, m’lady.” Agnes started for the door and then stopped. “Oh, but should I unpack first?”

  “Ring the bell for water, sheets for the floor, and the hip bath, Agnes, and you may safely leave the footmen to bring those up while you finish unpacking.” Harriet was aware that she could have instructed the footmen herself, but she also knew that Agnes’s fragile standing as lady’s maid would be severely damaged belowstairs if she did so.

  “Yes, m’lady.” With obvious relief, Agnes pulled the bell and then turned back to the unpacking.

  Harriet sipped her tea and then set down the cup at the sound of feet pounding on the stairs and racing down the gallery before her door flew open. “Oh, Harry, there’s a new colt. Judd says he’s out of Sultana by Atlas . . . he’s beautiful. You have to come and see him.” The twins hurled themselves into the room, their words bursting out before them.

  “Tomorrow I shall,” their sister said calmly, taking up her cup again. They were looking singularly untidy, and Tom seemed to have acquired half a hay bale in his unruly strawberry-blond curls. “Come, you need to go to Nurse Maddox, she’ll be waiting for you. You’re to dine downstairs tonight with the Duke, and if he sees you looking like that, he’ll banish you to the nursery until the New Year.” She finished her tea and rose to her feet. “I’ll have my bath when I get back, Agnes.” Sweeping the children in front of her as if she were a broom, she hustled them out and towards the nursery stairs at the rear of the house, their excited chatter continuing unabated.

  Nurse Maddox, the formidable ruler of the nurseries through two generations of Deveres, was instructing two assistant nursemaids in the unpacking and disposal of the children’s belongings. She lived a life of peaceful retirement except when the twins were in residence, at which point she energetically assumed the nursery reins, ruling her small empire with the proverbial iron fist and velvet glove. The twins adored her, for all that they held her in awed respect, as, indeed, did their older siblings.

  She turned as the children burst into the day nursery, still extolling the virtues of the new colt. “Ah, so that’s where you’ve been,” she declared, untangling the narrative threads with experienced ease. “I might have known.” She plucked a straw from Tom’s hair before turning her attention to their elder sister, examining her closely. “Lady Harriet, you look fatigued.”

  “Just the journey, Nurse,” Harriet responded cheerfully. “I shall be right as rain after a bath.”

  “Dinner and an early night is what you need.” The woman nodded to punctuate the statement and surveyed the twins. “What a pair of rapscallions you are. You both look as if you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards.”

  “Well, not exactly,” Grace said. “It wasn’t a hedge exactly.”

  “No, it was the hayloft,” Tom supplied. “We went up there to get some oats for the colt.”

  “Judd said we could,” his sister chimed in with a self-righteous air.

  “Be that as it may, you both need to wash and change before you visit your grandfather,” Harriet said swiftly. “The Duke wishes them to dine below tonight, Nurse.”

  Nurse received the information with a disapproving sniff, but she would never utter a word of criticism of her employer. “We’d best be getting on, then. Lord knows how long it’ll take to get them respectable.”

  Harriet made her escape, leaving her now relatively subdued siblings to the efficient attentions of Nurse Maddox, and hurried to her own chamber to luxuriate in the waiting bath. She must pay a visit to the kitchen before dinner and another to the butler’s pantry and the housekeeper’s sitting room to offer her customary speech of appreciation for all the work they had done and would be doing over the next twelve days. The Duke’s steward would have arranged for the Christmas boxes, which would be presented to the staff on Boxing Day, the day after Christmas, when they would have their own holiday between breakfast and dinner. Most of the house party would be out on the Boxing Day hunt and would fend for themselves in the local hostelries at midday. Those who remained at Charlbury Hall would make do with a cold collation. She must remember to check with Cook that there was a plentiful supply of partridge pies . . .

  Harriet’s eyelids drooped as the steam rose from the hip bath, and for a moment she slipped into a trancelike doze, still feeling the rocking of the carriage over the rutted roads. She jerked awake when Agnes coughed vigorously from the far side of the screen.

  “Ma’am, ’tis past six o’clock. Will you get dressed now?”

  “Oh, Lord, is it that late?” Harriet heaved herself inelegantly from the tub, heedless of the slurp of soapy water over the edge and onto the thickly piled sheets. She took the towel that had been warming over the top of the screen and wrapped herself tightly before emerging into the chamber. “We need to be quick, Agnes. Do you have any skill at dressing hair?”

  “I can do the simple styles, ma’am.” Agnes held out the thin silk chemise.

  H
arriet slipped it over her head and sat down to draw on the silk stockings, fastening them above the knee with silk ribbon garters. She stood to allow Agnes to drop the delicate taffeta gown over her head and adjust the dramatic black velvet belt just under her breasts, which swelled over the neckline of a bodice that was little more than four inches deep. It was a flimsy garment to wear in a huge and drafty country house in midwinter, but when fashion dictates, a lady must obey, she thought wryly, draping a black cashmere shawl over her arms. She sat down at the dresser mirror, unpinning her hair from the knot that had kept it dry in the bath.

  “Could you brush it for me, please, Agnes, then we’ll gather it into a coil on my neck and just tease out a few side ringlets.”

  She opened her jewel casket as the girl brushed the pale gold hair where just the faintest hints of strawberry red caught the lamplight. The pearl choker nestled close to her throat and quickly took on the warm glow from her skin. She clasped a matching bracelet at her wrist and nodded her satisfaction as Agnes put the last pin in the coil on her nape.

  “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.