Barbara Metzger (26 page)

“It’s not what you think, Merry,” she hurried to say. “I am not here to compromise you like Niles. Not that
I
meant to compromise Niles, of course, for you know I did not.”

His smile broadened. “If you are not here to cry foul on me, my dear, I am completely and devotedly at your service.”

“I am not here for
that
either, you gamecock.” If her cheeks were any warmer, they’d surely burst into flame.

He pressed his hand to his heart, reminding her that he had no shirt on, as if she needed a reminder, and said, “You wound me, Junco. I thought my last Christmas wish was coming true.”

“Why . . . why you are foxed, my lord!”

“Either that or I must be fast asleep and dreaming, for the oh so proper niece of the redoubtable Lady Stanton could not be standing in my bedroom in her night rail. No, I must be jug-bitten because in my dreams you aren’t wearing any heavy flannel wrapper. In fact, you aren’t wearing—”

“Merry! I came to tell you about the secret passageway. I found the trick to opening the doors in the wardrobes.”

“Did you? I always knew you were a clever girl.” He had her hand and was leading her toward an enormous canopied bed in the center of the room.

“Merry, you don’t understand. We have to go find Uncle George.” She tugged to get her hand back.

“Oh yes, Uncle George.” The name seemed to sober him, for he released her, but he sank down on the bench at the foot of the bed. He did not seem eager to go search for his missing relative. “Good old Uncle George, the pride of the Jordans.”

Juneclaire sat beside him. “Merry, maybe the situation isn’t so bad. Lady St. Cloud thinks he can fix things. He promised her.”

“And Aunt Florrie thinks King George is going through a stage, like teething.” He brushed her long braid back off her shoulder and put his arm there. “I’m sorry, Junco, truly I am. I wish things were different. I wish I could have made your wishes come true. You almost made mine, you know. You helped get the Wilmotts off my hands, and you showed me how happy this old pile could be.” He pulled her closer.

“And I felt welcome here, as if I truly did belong, so my wish almost came true, too.”

They were quiet for a moment, thinking of what might have been. Then they both started to say, “I wish . . .” at the same time. “You first,” Juneclaire told him, nestling at his side.

“I wish there was a way, that’s all, without dragging you through a scandalbroth. You?”

“I wish you weren’t quite so honorable, my lord, because none of it matters to me.” She turned her face up for his kiss, and not even the earl was noble enough to turn down what she was so sweetly offering. He did groan once, but that may not have been his conscience complaining.

Some while later, Juneclaire was half out of her nightgown and more than half out of her mind with wonder at the strange new feelings throbbing through her. Somehow she and Merry were no longer on the bench but were in the middle of his wide, soft mattress. If Merry was whispering her name and nonsense in her ear—and he was, for she could feel the tickle of his breath—then someone else was in the room with them.

“Well, Pansy girl, looks like history repeats itself, all right. If this isn’t the way the whole argle-bargle started, my name ain’t Giorgio Giordanelli.”

Juneclaire looked up. There was a Romany Gypsy at the foot of the bed, complete with flowing shirt, scarlet sash, and colorful scarf tied at his neck. He also had a thick gray beard, a fat belly, and a peg leg. She giggled. “It isn’t.”

He tossed her a blanket. “But it has been, puss, it has been.”

The earl had been struggling to regain his composure if not his buttons. He sat up and made sure Juneclaire was decently covered before turning to the apparition. “Uncle George, I presume?”

“In the flesh. Or should I say in the nick of time?” He met the earl’s hard, green-eyed stare with one of his own. “Are you going to make an honest woman out of her, or am I going to have to run you through?”

“That depends,
Uncle.
Do I have any honor? Are you going to leave me with a name I’d be proud to offer a woman?”

Uncle George sat on the bench and lifted the pig up next to him. “Are you proud of Satan St. Cloud?” he asked, and Juneclaire was astonished to see Merry flush. She was also amazed to see where the color started. Catching her glance, Uncle George snorted and threw the earl his paisley robe from the bottom of the bed. Merry’s muffled curses did nothing to ease Juneclaire’s embarrassment.

“Don’t tease, Uncle George,” she begged. “Just tell him what happened.”

The earl crossed his arms over his chest and sat back against his pillow, like a pasha holding court. “Hold, Junco. I am not even convinced this . . . Gypsy is my uncle. He could be a horse thief or a fortune-teller.”

George shook his head. “You know, Merry, I think I liked you a lot better when you were a curly-haired tyke.”

“And I think I liked you a lot better when you were dead. Do you have papers? Proof?”

“I have friends working on the paper stuff. But proof?” He scratched the pig’s ears while he thought. “You were just a wee lad. I’m not sure how much you remember. Then again, you weren’t as young as I thought. Let’s see. I found my lead knights for you in the nursery and we repainted them, but there was no red paint, so we stole one of your grandmother’s rouge pots. Your pony’s name was Thimble, but any of the old grooms would know that. They wouldn’t know about the day you tried taking him over a hurdle without a saddle, a groom, or permission, because I promised I wouldn’t tell, after I found you, picked you up, and brushed you off. Fanny’d have kept you off a horse till you were twenty if she knew you’d been thrown.”

“And you brushed off the back of my pants a trifle more vigorously than necessary, if my memory holds.”

“You didn’t try that stunt again, did you?”

“No, Uncle George, I didn’t. Do you still have the crescent scar from the wound that sent you home that time?”

“Still testing? You know it was shaped like a seven. Lucky seven, we called it. Want to see?” He reached for his sash.

Juneclaire hid her face against St. Cloud’s robe. He laughed and she could hear the rumble in his chest. Then St. Cloud sighed.

“God, how I missed you when you died. No one would say why, just that you were too evil to talk about. What the hell happened?”

George got up and poured himself a glass from the decanter on an end table. “Two hotheaded fools, that’s what happened. You know about the party?” They both nodded. “I was beside myself and dragged Robbie outside until he agreed to meet me at the old quarry. We went, with no surgeon, no seconds, no witnesses, only my man Hawkins to hold the horses. I cooled down along the way. He always loved Fanny, too, you know, and I hadn’t been there when she needed me. He was. So I was going to delope, I swear it. But he shot first, got me in the leg. As I fell, my gun discharged and the shot hit Robbie. It looked bad. He begged me to take what money he had and run away so I wasn’t charged with murder, because all of the guests heard me threaten to kill him, and only Hawkins, my own batman, could say nay. I was scared, I was bleeding, I didn’t know what to do. So we decided that Hawkins would ride for help and I’d head for Portsmouth and wait for Hawkins to come for me with news.” He poured another drink and downed it in a swallow. “He never came. I was in no frame to do anything, delirious, sick, my leg turning uglier and uglier until some butcher amputated the thing and saved my life, I suppose. I cursed him enough at the time. I knew Robbie was dead or he’d have sent for me, even if something had happened to Hawkins. I couldn’t face Fanny or my mother, not with one leg and a murder charge against me, so I signed on as junior purser with a cargo ship bound for Bermuda. After that I never wanted to ask about the St. Clouds because I never wanted to hurt more. We went aground, but that’s another story. Just know I never meant to kill your father, Merry.”

“I believe you, but why did you come home now, after all these years?”

“Not to steal your inheritance, boy, or cause trouble. Robbie called you his son, and you’re the earl. I never wanted the title or the Priory either. I’m getting on, Merry, and I just wanted to see Fanny one more time. But she ain’t happy, and it fair breaks my heart all over again. I mean to have her this time, if she’ll forgive me and if I can straighten up a few loose ends.”

“Like a price on your head?”

“I have some friends working on that.” He poured another glass but let Pansy slurp this one.

St. Cloud raised his brows. “What are you going to do, if you clear the minor detail of being a criminal, set Mother up in London for the gabblegrinders to picnic on, or take her on the high seas?”

“I’ll take her to Town if she wants to go; there’s nothing to be ashamed of. And I’m retired, boy, so you don’t have to fear seeing her face on a reward poster. I thought she’d be happiest on my island in the Caribbean. You know, flowers and warm weather, beaches.”

“You have your own island?” Juneclaire asked.

“I was a
very
good pirate, puss. As I see it, if I get those confounded papers, then I can try convincing Fanny. I daresay I’ve changed in the twenty years.” He ignored Merry’s rude noise and Juneclaire’s giggle. “I should know by tomorrow. That ought to answer your questions about the family honor, Merry.” He nodded toward Juneclaire. “You mind answering mine?”

Juneclaire blushed again, but Merry threw his uncle’s words back at him: “I should know by tomorrow.”

George laughed hard enough to shake the bed. “None of my business, right? In that case I think I’d better escort Miss Beaumont back to her room, Merry, since
you
ain’t so clear about your intentions.” He ignored the earl’s furious scowl and turned to Juneclaire. “I’d wager you were the clever one to find the trick panels. This mutton-head must have looked for years. But you were lucky. There’s another mechanism in the passageways—a trapdoor that drops trespassers right down to the cellars, unless you know the key.” He winked at her. “I’ll tell the bacon-brain
that
secret on your wedding night.”

J
uneclaire went to bed without worrying she’d have nightmares about falling through trapdoors. She had no more fear of being dragged back to Stanton Hall in disgrace; she’d stay here in disgrace if she had to. But she was not really worried. Juneclaire was not going to let Merry’s pride, or hers, come between them, and no pitfalls either, no matter what Uncle George said.

She woke up smiling and eager. Today was Three Kings Day, Epiphany, Twelfth Night, when Christmas wishes came true. She crossed her fingers, rolled over in bed three times, and said, “Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit,” before her feet touched the ground, although that was supposed to be for May Day. She hugged Shamrock for luck and Pansy for good measure.

St. Cloud was showing Uncle Avery the home farm, and the boys were in the stables, most likely losing their allowances to Foley and the other grooms in dice games. The dowager and Lady Fanny were still abed, and Aunt Florrie was helping in the kitchen. Juneclaire took Pansy to visit the Penningtons and Ned rather than sit with Aunt Marta in the morning room listening to lectures. She still had too much bridled excitement after her visit, so she took Flame out for a walk to burn up some energy and minutes.

For dessert after lunch Talbot carried in the traditional Twelfth Night cake, which was supposed to have a pea and a bean hidden in the middle, denoting the king and queen for the day’s festivities. Aunt Marta declared it a pagan ritual from pre-Christian days and refused to have anything to do with such rigmarole. Aunt Florrie looked near to crying, so St. Cloud ordered the footman to cut the cake quickly and pass the servings around. Florrie had been toiling all morning, helping make the batter, she told them in a reedy voice. She worked very hard, she said, making sure no one would be left out when the cake was cut. Why, she’d put in a cherry pit saved from last summer and a bit of a colored egg from Easter. A button, a pencil stub, a pussy willow catkin, one of her dear nephew’s baby teeth, one of those pretty red mushrooms . . . Eight forks hit eight plates at once.

 

Late that afternoon they traveled in two carriages to the village of Ayn-Jerome for the local celebration. Aunt Marta went, she said, sniffing in Mr. Hilloughby’s direction, only to see a proper church. In truth she did not like being alone in the hulking Priory with no one but servants.

There was a candlelight parade down the main street, headed by three boys dressed in loose robes and paper crowns, followed by the other local children, some dressed as shepherds. They led the adults into St. Jerome’s Church for the service and a reenactment of the arrival of the three kings bearing gifts for the Holy Child. Afterward, there were trinkets and pennies, sweets and fruits given to all the children, and mummers, acrobats, and jugglers performing in the torch-lit street. Food stalls were set up, ale was passed round with servings of roast venison or beef, St. Cloud’s contribution. The villagers toasted him, his house, and one another.

Root and Newt got a trifle above par, Lady Stanton sat rigid as a rail in her carriage, Juneclaire searched every face for Uncle George, and Aunt Florrie brought home some holy water, since Pansy had never been baptized.

The evening lasted forever, it seemed to Juneclaire, sitting on tenterhooks next to the dowager in the gold parlor. Lady St. Cloud obviously knew something was in the offing, too, for she patted Juneclaire’s hand and urged her to keep reading, when Juneclaire’s eyes kept straying to the door. The earl was as stone-faced and serious as ever, except for the dancing light in his eyes when he glanced Miss Beaumont’s way.

Finally Talbot walked into the room with his stately tread, his head held high. “My lord, my ladies,” he pronounced, “there are callers.” He paused and gulped audibly. “Lords Caspar, Melchior, and Balthasar.” Then he turned and fled.