A Christmas Charade (28 page)

Juliette joined her a moment later. “Clive wants to know if you’re all right. He says I should take you upstairs and see that you have dinner sent to your room.”

Startled, Elizabeth looked up. Her eyes met Stenton’s, and across the distance she was aware of his concern.

“Are you tired, Elizabeth?” asked Juliette. Her voice implied that she would think it quite poor spirited if Elizabeth were to admit fatigue. “Would you like to go to your room?”

Smiling a little, Elizabeth shook her head. But her gaze was still on Stenton.

“Now, if everyone can hear me,” said Throckmorton, “I shall begin.”

Clive turned to the older man and, reluctantly, Elizabeth followed suit.

“And I tell you to your faces,” said Throckmorton, “there’s no need to send for the dragoons or the justice of the peace. Gabrielle and I have done no wrong.”

Taking advantage of Throckmorton’s pausing for breath, Gabrielle said, “We … how do you say? We diddled the spy and, indeed, Napoléon Bonaparte himself. That is what we did!”

“Hush, Gabrielle!
I
will explain. Every document I copied for Duval, and there were about a dozen of them these past three months, had the contents altered. None of the information Bonaparte received through me was ever quite correct.”

“In fact,” Gabrielle said with satisfaction, “we led the upstart emperor by the nose.”

Duval on his chair near the fireplace made a strangled sound.

“Three months?” said Clive, his eyes narrowing. “But Liverpool and Yorke both have proof that information has been leaked far longer than three months. And some of it at least was correct, as certain maneuvers of the French army and navy have shown us.”

“By God!” Stewart said grimly. “And weren’t we made to feel it in the Peninsula when the French had gotten hold of Wellington’s plans!”

Throckmorton remained unruffled. “I was obviously not Duval’s only source.”

“Very well.” Clive gave the older man a hard look. “But why give information at all? Were you blackmailed?”

“Gabrielle was.”

Elizabeth became aware of Lord Nicholas close to Gabrielle. In fact, he had been near the young Frenchwoman since the moment he had recognized her on the beach and shouted, “Gabrielle! Great Scot! I must be going mad.”

But now there was pain in his face. He said, “And you turned to Throckmorton. Dash it, Gabrielle! Why didn’t you come to me?”

“But, Nicholas! Surely, you must understand. You do not have friends at the Horse Guards.”

“And what was the blackmail?” asked Clive.

“The
canaille!
” said Gabrielle, lapsing into French in her fury. “The cad, he told me that my brother was imprisoned in the cellars of some old house outside Boulogne. And that Pierre would be shot if I did not give Duval what he wants!”

Until now, the assembled company had listened in silence. But at Gabrielle’s disclosure, some muttering could be heard among the gentlemen, and a whisper here and there among the ladies.

Nicholas captured Gabrielle’s hand. “If only you had confided in me. Duval would have been dead three months ago.”

“Young hothead,” said Throckmorton. “And what would you have asked of Gabrielle in return?”

A flush stained Nicholas’s face. “No more than you asked of her.”

“Ah! But, you see, I ask nothing. I am an old friend of the family. I courted Gabrielle’s mother before she ever met de Tournier. And it was for the mother’s sake that I helped the daughter—and, as I believed for some time, the son.”

Nicholas stared at Gabrielle.

“But there was no son who needed to be saved,” said Chamberlain from his guard position behind Duval. “Throckmorton here, in the guise of Mr. John Smith, engaged me to travel to Boulogne to check out Duval’s claim.”

“Aye,” said Throckmorton. “Young Pierre de Tournier returned to France two years ago to throw in his lot with Bonaparte—like so many other young Frenchmen have done. The family had two letters from him, the last one intimating that he would try to get back to England.”

“I told Pierre he would not be happy in France!” Gabrielle said passionately. “But he had no future here, save being a dancing master or marrying some merchant’s fat daughter with a squint and a fat dowry. He believed that in France under the new order he could rise to a position of importance.”

“He did make the attempt to return to England,” said Chamberlain. “Four months ago, Pierre de Tournier arrived in Boulogne, where he tried to get a passage across the Channel. But someone informed against him, and before he could make contact with a gang of smugglers from Rye who were about to sail, he was arrested and shot.”

“The poor young man,” said Flora.

She stepped back to search her reticule for a handkerchief. Two of her shawls slipped off her shoulders. Elizabeth and Juliette both started toward her, but before they had taken more than three or four steps, Flora, a lace-edged handkerchief in her hand, looked up. Her gaze fell on one of the footmen who still balanced a drink tray in his hand.

Flora’s eyes widened. Her mouth opened in a startled, inaudible cry. Slowly, she crumpled on the floor in a dead faint.

Elizabeth and Juliette rushed forward. Elizabeth gathered several shawls and placed them under Miss Flora’s head while Juliette chafed her elderly cousin’s hands.

They did not look at each other. And when Miss Amelia, Lady Fanny, Lady Harry, and Lady Astley all gathered around, they said not a word. Without a protest, they accepted Miss Amelia’s explanation that Flora had always been sensitive, and, no doubt, poor Pierre de Tournier’s sad story had caused her to swoon.

But like Miss Flora, Elizabeth and Juliette had seen the footman’s tray. And they had seen the brandy glass, raised by an unseen hand, tilted toward an invisible mouth, the contents disappearing at an alarming rate.

And while Miss Flora took refuge in oblivion, they saw the empty glass switched for a full one that rather shakily weaved its way toward the south wing passage. They heard a stifled sob and a hiccough and Annie saying, “Oh, the poor young gentleman!”

“Miss Elizabeth, wake up! Gorblimey! Are you going to sleep all day?”

Elizabeth did not stir. She did not want to give up a dream in which Clive Rowland swore that he had never forgotten her, had in fact scoured the earth looking for her. And now he was taking her hand, and he led her into the Great Hall, which was festooned from one end to the other with garlands of mistletoe.

He cupped her face with his hands. He bent his dark head toward her. She could see the fine streak of white in his hair. His mouth came closer….

“Get up, Miss Elizabeth!”

Annie’s voice. Surely, one should be able to ignore a ghost. But the dream was shattered. She was awake, and it was Christmas Eve.

“Miss Elizabeth, don’t you want to help bring in the yule log and that fir tree the twins are forever chattering about?”

“I dreamed about mistletoe and Stenton.” Elizabeth sat up and frowned at the foot of the bed, where she had heard the persistent ghost. “I’m sure it was an omen. If you had not roused me, I might have learned whether he will win the kiss tonight.”

Annie giggled. “He’ll get his kiss.”

“How do you know? Has he remembered? Oh, surely he must have!”

“Why must he? Think how few occasions he’s had to be with you. This is Monday. When you arrived on Friday, you hid in your room until dinner. You slept all of Saturday—”

“Which was hardly my fault!”

“He had only yesterday to jog his memory. And then he was preoccupied with catching the spy.”

The spy … a jumble of impressions flashed through Elizabeth’s mind. The beach, the icy wind, the crashing of the breakers. She and Clive hiding behind the boulder of chalk rock, walking along the estuary, sharing a ride on Rambunctious. Gabrielle and Throckmorton. Gabrielle and Lord Nicholas. The smugglers. The spy.

Clive again, the look she could not mistake when he told her he would not accompany Duval to London because he had unfinished important business at the castle.

The assembly in the Great Hall. As Miss Flora recovered from her swoon, Dr. Wimple arrived. The crusty physician did not blink an eye at the confusion but prescribed a dose of hartshorn and a small glass of wine for Miss Flora, dusted the graze on Sylvester Throckmorton’s hand with basilicum powder and bound it, then, after a brief consultation with Stenton, had Duval removed to a chamber in the north wing where he dug the ball from the Frenchman’s shoulder.

“Have they left yet, Chamberlain and Duval?” she asked.

“Oh, aye. At the crack of dawn. But hurry now, Miss Elizabeth. They’ll be putting the horses to the sleigh within the half-hour.”

“The
sleigh?
”

Aware suddenly of the quiet outside, a thick silence after the blustering gale of the previous night, Elizabeth slid out of bed and hurried barefoot to the windows. She raised a corner of the gauze curtain and blinked at the dazzling whiteness in the garden below.

“Miss Grace and Master Adam got their wish.” Annie sounded wistful. “I wonder if it snowed in London?”

“I imagine so. There was a trace of snow on the ground when we traveled through.”

“I remember my last Christmas at home. Icicles on the eaves of every house and the trees in the parks. The snow a foot thick. Even the meanest streets and squares looking clean and crisp and pretty. I took the little ones caroling that Christmas Eve, and afterward I treated them to roasted chestnuts.”

Elizabeth let the curtain drop. She turned toward the soft voice that held such a mixture of happy memories, of sadness and longing.

“Can’t you just smell it all, Miss Elizabeth? The chestnuts. The spice cakes. The hot cider. Can’t you just hear the cries of pedlars and crossing sweeps, the rattle of carriages, the hustle and bustle? And all the church bells ringing on Christmas Day.”

“Why, Annie! You sound homesick.”

“I
am
homesick. For London. All these years, I’ve wanted to go home. And now I will!”

“But … can you? A ghost?”

“Oh, yes.” Annie’s voice now came from the center of the large fourposter bed. “All I need is a human to take me up in her carriage.”

“
Her
carriage? I take it you have someone particular in mind.”

“I want to go with Miss Juliette.”

Her eyes on the milky shadow in the middle of the counterpane, Elizabeth slowly walked toward the bed.

“But Miss Juliette may have to go to Hertfordshire with the major’s parents and me.”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Annie, are you sitting on my bed?”

The shadow moved, floated around the bed hangings, and came to a stop in front of the wardrobe.

“No, Miss Elizabeth.” One of the wardrobe doors opened. “And you truly must hurry now. Which gown will you wear?”

“Annie, you little fibster. I saw you—well, not you, but something that I think is you.”

“Are you vexed? I didn’t mean no disrespect, and I promise I won’t do it again.”

“Don’t be silly. Sit on the bed anytime you like. In fact, if you don’t mind living in Hertfordshire, you may leave the castle with the bed. “I’m certain,” said Elizabeth, not relishing the prospect as perhaps she should, “I’ll be the one to win the wager at midnight.”

“We’ll see about that. But even if you win, I cannot accept your offer. I want to go to London.”

“And once you’re there, what will you do then? Will you be walking in Miss Juliette’s house?”

“Haunting it?” Annie’s voice held a hint of laughter, but when she spoke again she was quite serious. “I cannot know what’ll happen when I get to London. But I should think I’ll walk no more.”

Elizabeth stretched out a hand to touch the nebulous shape of Annie, the ghost. She saw, but she felt nothing.

“Annie, are you wearing a striped gown?”

“Aye. And Lord Decimus hit the nail on the head when he said it reminded him of his youth. The gown is four decades old.”

Annie’s giggle and her soft “Good-bye, Miss Elizabeth. Hurry now!” were all but drowned by an imperative knock on the chamber door.

“Elizabeth!” Without waiting for a reply, Juliette whirled into the room. “What, aren’t you dressed yet? Aren’t you going to help fetch the Christmas tree?”

“Yes, I am. But listen—”

“But nothing. Hurry up! Where’s your riding habit? The children will go in the sleigh, but you’ll ride with Stewart, Clive, and me.”

Carried along by Juliette’s whirlwind energy, Elizabeth was dressed and out of her room within the space of minutes. She pulled on her gloves while they hurried toward the stairs.

“What’s the matter?” she asked breathlessly. “Did you put too much pepper on your breakfast egg this morning?”

Juliette smiled, a secret little smile full of confidence.

“It’s Christmas Eve, Elizabeth. I’ll have my miracle tonight. Annie and I worked it all out.”

The Christmas trees, a fifteen-foot fir for the Great Hall and a smaller one for the servants’ hall, had been loaded onto a wagon. A horse had been harnessed to each of the ash logs, which would be lit that night in the two fireplaces of the Great Hall and kept burning until Twelfth Night. Stewart and Juliette had ridden off, and Clive was about to help Elizabeth mount when Grace and Adam hopped off the sleigh and came tearing toward them.

“Uncle Clive! Uncle Clive! May we ride on the logs?”

“Please, sir?” Adam, trailing the muffler his anxious mama had wrapped around his throat, added his entreaties to those of his sister. “We’ve never ridden on the yule log. It’d be a rare treat.”

Clive knew well that Margaret would comb his hair if he permitted the twins to ride on the log. But he also remembered childhood Christmases on the Shropshire estate, where he, Harry, and even Fanny had delighted in the sport.

“It sounds like fun,” said Elizabeth. Sensing his dilemma, she turned to Clive. “We could tie the horses to the sleigh and walk beside the children. That would make it perfectly safe, wouldn’t it?”

Sam Nutley had left his seat on the sleigh. Thrusting his chapped hands into knitted mittens, he came up to them.

“Now don’t you worry none about the little ones, your grace. Haven’t I always taken care of you and Master Harry? Aye, and Lady Fanny, too. I’ll see Miss Grace and Master Adam don’t come to no harm on the logs.”