A Christmas Charade (13 page)

But Will had suddenly turned quite deaf. “Go on home, yer grace,” he urged. “And keep away from the beach and the estuary the next five, six days.”

Clive thought he saw a flicker of fear in the old man’s eyes and nodded. “Don’t fret,” he said curtly. “
You
won’t see me again. But I do want to know who attacked the young lady.”

There was no doubt that Will was afraid. His weathered face had a pinched look, and the gnarled hands trembled.

“Don’t ask no more questions, yer grace,” he said hoarsely. “Not if ye value yer life. And mine.”

“Gammon! You sound like a character in a melodrama. But I’m not falling for it, Will. Not after you assured me that the free-traders don’t like violence.”

“Aye, and I stand by my word, yer grace.” The ancient cast surreptitious looks around him. “But this got nothing to do with the ‘gentlemen.’ ”

Irritation boiled in Clive. “Just give me the word with no bark on it, Will! Who hit the young lady?”

The gaffer shook his head.

“If it wasn’t one of the local men,” pressed Clive, “was it a Frenchman?”

His mouth tightening obstinately, Will stared at his muddy footgear.

Clive’s hands clenched when he realized he wouldn’t get another word out of the old man, and for a moment he was too angry to speak.

But there was one other he could question.

“Count yourself lucky that the young lady is not badly hurt,” he said. “Else I’d wring your neck—venerable old age or not! And if you want a bit of advice, go home and sit by your fire. You’re too old for the dangerous game you’re dabbling in.”

“I
would
go home,” Will said quietly. “But a man’s got to make a living. Any way he can.”

Their eyes locked. Clive saw no reproach or blame in the man’s gaze. Yet he understood that it had been his father’s desertion and neglect of Stenton that had caused Will’s straightened circumstances. How many more had depended on Stenton for their livelihood?

Not all the blame rested with Edward Rowland, the fourth duke. Clive had now owned Stenton for four years. But not once had he driven down to look over the property.

Mayhap it was not too late to do something…. But whatever he’d come up with, it would have to wait until he had completed his mission.

Clive turned on his heel and retraced his steps to Rambunctious, who stood precisely where he had left him, head drooping and his whole posture proclaiming abject misery.

He rubbed the roan’s nose before shifting the dripping cloak. “Forget it, old boy. You’re not half as miserable as I’ll be, sitting in a wet saddle.”

Back at the castle, he entered through one of the kitchen doors. The housekeeper was there, and after some fussing and clucking said, she’d be able to clean and dry Miss Gore-Langton’s cloak.

“And when can I speak with Miss Gore-Langton?” asked Clive.

“I shouldn’t think you’ll be seeing the poor young lady before morning, your grace. Oh, and before I forget, the children want to decorate the Great Hall. I told them I’d check with you.”

“I have no objections,” he said absently. “
Why
can I not see Miss Gore-Langton until tomorrow? What is wrong?”

“Dr. Wimple ordered her to stay in bed today.”

“An excellent prescription, and I wouldn’t dream of dragging Miss Gore-Langton from her couch. I will see her in her chamber.”

Mrs. Rodwell clucked again. “Your grace, it’s impossible—”

“Nonsense! You may chaperone us. Or Miss Juliette will. I understand she and Miss Gore-Langton are friends.”

“Oh, it’s not that, your grace! But, you see, Dr. Wimple saw fit to douse the young lady with laudanum.”

“Why?” Concern made his voice harsh. “It’s not concussion, is it? I was certain she wasn’t badly hurt.”

“And neither is she. Now don’t you fret yourself, your grace. It’s exposure to the elements that’s left her sadly pulled and the doctor wants her to sleep. She won’t be in any shape to talk or,” the housekeeper said, giving him a shrewd look, “to answer questions before Sunday morning.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Rodwell.” Clive nodded rather stiffly and turned to leave.

“And you need not fret either that the children will get into mischief, your grace. Lady Fanny said she’d help.”

“The children?” He shot her a frowning look over his shoulder. “Ah, yes! The decorating of the hall. I wish Fanny joy of it. The brats have never yet managed to stay out of trouble.”

Mrs. Rodwell chuckled, and he left quickly before she could think of some other matter she felt she ought to bring to his attention.

Clive was not a patient man. The delay in seeing Elizabeth chafed him. It had given him a nasty jolt when he heard that the physician found it necessary to administer a heavy dose of laudanum. But that inside-twisting moment when he feared she was suffering from a concussion or worse had been brief and was followed by an equally violent feeling of relief when Mrs. Rodwell assured him Elizabeth was all right.

Then the housekeeper had pointed out that Elizabeth wouldn’t be able to answer questions until Sunday morning, and relief had turned into irritation. Since old Will had denied one of the free-traders hit Elizabeth, he wanted to know if she had seen her assailant or could describe the boat in detail. And he wanted to know it now.

More than that, he wanted to find out what had drawn her to the beach at seven o’clock in the morning when patches of mist still obscured the cliff path and shrouded the shoreline. He wanted to ask what she meant with, “Indeed, I know you very well.”

And, he acknowledged grudgingly, he wanted to see for himself if some bloom had returned to Miss Gore-Langton’s blanched face. ’Twas only natural that he should. She was a guest in his house. He felt responsible.

And now she was asleep! Harboring strong feelings of ill usage, Clive opened the door which closed off the kitchen wing from the Great Hall.

A stepladder stood just outside the door with Margaret balancing precariously on one of the top rungs and Fanny clutching the frame in a futile attempt to keep the ladder from wobbling. Clive had no difficulty giving his irritation a new direction.

“Margaret!” he barked. “What the devil are you doing? Get down!”

His sister-in-law squealed and dropped the greens tied with a red bow she had been trying to tack to a wooden beam.

“Clive, are you mad?” Fanny shot him an indignant look. “You ought to know better than to shout at someone on a ladder.”

It did not soothe his temper that Fanny was in the right. Grimly, he clasped the sides of the ladder. “Come down, Margaret. Now!”

Without a word, she complied. As soon as her feet touched the ground, however, she rounded on him, her eyes flashing with anger and her usually pale face flushed pink.

“How dare you use that tone with me! I am trying to make this house party into what it is supposed to be—a
Christmas
gathering. And for my pains I am barked at and ordered about like a lackey!”

“I apologize,” he said stiffly. “I was afraid you’d fall.”

She was slightly mollified. “Oh, let’s forget about it, shall we? But you must admit that you’ve been very remiss in your duties. We were all invited for Christmas, yet there isn’t a bit of decoration anywhere. And when Grace and Adam said they had your permission to decorate, Fanny and I decided to get started.”

“But I think it may be better to have one of the footmen work on the ladder,” suggested Fanny.

“Much better,” he said coldly. He turned to Margaret. “If the twins said they had my permission, they misled you. I heard only just now from—”

“My children don’t lie!” Once again, Margaret turned pink with anger. “And surely you’re not trying to tell me that you
don’t
want them to have the fun of putting up Christmas decorations?”

“Of course not.”

Fanny said soothingly, “They asked Mrs. Rodwell and she told them she’d check with you, Clive. To the children that’s as good as having your permission. They know you won’t say no, and I admit I encouraged them.
I
wanted to decorate, too.”

He was tired of arguments and, in an effort to introduce a lighter note, said, “Where are they, by the way? I’d have expected to see them in the midst of all this.”

With a sweep of his arm he indicated piles of fir and pine branches, ivy garlands, baskets filled with holly, others with ribbons, littering the tiled floor of the Great Hall.

“They’re fetching the kissing-bough frame from my room,” said Margaret.

“The kissing bough,” he muttered. And why the hell should that bring to mind a pair of green eyes and a mischievous smile?

He should be thinking of getting Miss Gore-Langton to talk rather than wonder if he’d catch her beneath the mistletoe for a kiss. He was the first to admit there was more to the young lady than met the eye, but he suspected he wouldn’t like it at all when he discovered why she denied having met him before, or what she’d been doing on the beach to get herself knocked on the head.

Margaret, sounding defensive, said, “Don’t look so grumpy, Clive! If I hadn’t had the foresight to bring greens and ribbons for garlands, and the kissing bough, you’d find yourself at point non-plus.”

But he hardly listened. Once they had taken hold of his mind, thoughts of Elizabeth and the kissing bough were not easily dislodged.

“What Clive needs,” said Fanny, “is a wife to take charge of his establishments.”

Margaret was quick to contradict. “Not at all.
I
for one will not push him into marriage.
I
can understand only too well that he wouldn’t want to see Rosalind supplanted by another.”

“Oh, fiddle! You just don’t want Clive to set up his own nursery.”

“If that’s what he wanted, he would have remarried years ago.”

Arms akimbo, Fanny faced her sister-in-law. “I tell you this, Margaret! You’re doing Adam a great disservice, raising him in the belief that he is Clive’s heir. Clive is not in his dotage yet. He has years and years to fill his nursery. And as for not wanting to supplant Rosalind, why I’ve never heard such nauseating twaddle!”

“Fanny!” Clive spoke sharply. “You sound like a fishwife.”

“I am correct, though!”

Clive turned and picked his way through evergreens and ribbons to the back of the Great Hall and the passage to the south wing. Of course Fanny was right. It was not at all desirable that Adam grew up believing himself heir to a dukedom.

Not that he wouldn’t be quite satisfied to have the boy follow in his footsteps—if fate so decreed. But, as Fanny said, he was not in his dotage yet. He might meet another woman with whom he could contemplate sharing his life.

Again, he thought of the kissing bough. But the picture conjured this time was of Rosalind beneath the fragrant greens that long-ago Christmas Eve. He had caught her in his arms and kissed her soundly. And then she had swayed and complained of a headache….

They had been married six months when she died. Eleven years ago. Rosalind was a memory, warm and pleasant, to be taken out and dusted off every once in a while. He would always think it was a damned shame she had to die so young, but never would he entertain a maudlin notion like Margaret’s, that another woman would “supplant” Rosalind.

It would have served no purpose, however, to set Margaret straight. Fanny would immediately have made plans to thrust yet another batch of very nice, very eligible, and very insipid young ladies his way.

Quick, light footsteps pursued him. “Oh, Clive!”

He did not stop but cast a wary glance over his shoulder. “What is it now, Fanny?”

“George said that Miss Gore-Langton met with an accident and that the physician has seen her. Is there any news?”

Irritation returned full strength. Irritation with the physician who doled out laudanum as if it were a treat, with sisters who meddled in his life, with females in general and one in particular.

“Yes, there’s news. She is asleep!”

And with these bitter words, he retired to his chambers for a bath and a change of raiment.

Clad in champagne-colored pantaloons and a cambric shirt, he was brushing his damp hair when, after the most cursory of knocks, Lord Nicholas Mackay strode into the room. One glance at Nicholas’s face sufficed to show Clive he was not the only one laboring under a sense of ill usage.

Perversely, his mood lightened at the sight of the thundercloud on Nicholas’s brow. He put down the hairbrush and allowed his valet to help him into a coat of blue superfine.

“Thank you, Reed. That will be all.”

The door had barely shut behind Reed, when Nicholas burst out, “Devil a bit, Clive! You toss the news at us that Miss Gore-Langton was knocked unconscious by a bunch of smugglers, then simply walk out the door. Unhandsome, I call it!”

“Quite outrageous,” Clive said agreeably.

“And if your housekeeper hadn’t assured me that Miss Gore-Langton is all right, I might have gone after you.”

Clive grinned. “You would have risked your boots? Why? To catch the villain?”

“To draw your cork.”

“To
try
to draw my cork,” Clive corrected.

He stepped through the connecting door into his sitting room, where he knew a tray with decanters and glasses was set out on a console table. It was past eleven and he was sharp-set for the meats awaiting him in the breakfast parlor, but he could not ask Nicholas to contain his spleen and his curiosity another half-hour.

“A glass of claret, Nick?”

Taking a snort in the other room for assent, he poured two glasses.

Nicholas joined him. “Don’t think you can weasel out of an explanation by plying me with wine.”

“I have every intention of explaining the situation to you, my friend. But even though I may have to go hungry I see no reason to go thirsty as well.”

“If by that you mean you cannot talk in front of the footmen and whichever of your guests may still linger in the breakfast parlor, your discretion comes a bit late, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t think so.”

Clive chose a deep chair in front of the fireplace and stretched his legs toward the dancing flames. Damn, but he was out of shape! He ached all over.

Or was he getting old? He couldn’t remember his feet feeling sore or his legs being tired when he trudged all over Italy in ’05. Neither had his muscles ached from climbing a cliff path or carrying a load—be it a pack of clothing and rations or one slender female.