Twelfth Night Secrets (17 page)

Instead, she chose to make something of a recluse of herself, running a huge household, tending to her grandfather’s whims, and steering a pair of unruly brats out of trouble whenever possible. But grief did things to people. Although she no longer wore mourning for her brother, Julius knew she was still raw with her sorrow. He could see it in her eyes, feel it in her body when he stood close to her.

And there was nothing he could do to assuage it. He, of all people, was helpless in this.

Harriet had told Agnes she would need no help undressing that night. She didn’t want to interrupt the girl’s Christmas festivities in the servants’ hall, but she also had her own plans. She went to the window, drawing back the heavy curtain to look out at the darkened garden. It was another frosty moonlit night, the woods looming black shadows along the edge of the lawn.

The idea to explore on her own had formed itself at some point in the evening. Why should she not go to the clearing and see if the hieroglyphic was still there or if something had been added to it? She would transcribe the markings and have something to offer the Ministry. They might well have meaning for the
experts even if they meant nothing to her. It would be something concrete to show them at the very least.

She changed out of her evening gown and dressed in her riding habit. It was warmer and sturdier than indoor garments, and her boots would keep her feet dry in the frosty grass, where silk slippers would not. She slung a heavy hooded cloak around her shoulders, tucked a piece of parchment and a pencil into the deep pocket of the cloak, and softly let herself out of her chamber. The sound of music and laughter still rose from the servants’ hall, but the house lights had been extinguished except for a wall sconce at the head of the main staircase that offered some illumination.

The front doors had been locked and barred for the night, so Harriet let herself out by a side door. Leaving the door unlocked, she moved quickly, hugging the shadows of the bushes that lined the narrow gravel path. She couldn’t imagine that anyone would be looking down on the path from the house, but there was something about slipping out in the dark on a clandestine mission that made her extra cautious. She had every right to be anywhere she chose, in or out of the house, at whatever time of day or night, but that knowledge didn’t lessen the sense of apprehension, the knowledge that one person, at least, would object
to what she was doing. Julius had never behaved in her company in a manner that could be called at all threatening, but there was something about him, a look she had occasionally seen in his eye, that made her certain she did not want to fall foul of him.

She kept to the shadow of the trees alongside the lawn until she reached the alley that led into the woods. It was darker in there, and she hesitated. Perhaps she should have brought flint and tinder to light a taper. If it was pitch dark, how would she see the marking on the tree clearly enough to transcribe it? But as she stared into the darkness and her eyes became accustomed, she realized that there was a grayish tinge to the blackness and the leafless trees were allowing some moonlight onto the alley. She set off again with more confidence, her footsteps almost silent on the mossy ground.

She thought she heard a twig snap and stopped, her heart pounding. But then there was silence, followed by a rustle in the undergrowth alongside the path. Of course, the woods were alive at night. A hunting owl hooted, and then came the faint scream of some small animal. She shivered a little. Even though she had been born and bred in the country, there was something menacing about the woods at night.

She came to the first clearing and crossed it quickly. Then, instead of taking the smaller pathway to the next clearing, she slipped into the trees to approach it from an angle. Why, she wasn’t sure, an innate caution. Something was going on in these woods that concerned Julius Forsythe. He may or may not be a double agent, but she knew he was a spy. An assassin, too. It went with the territory.

She moved stealthily from tree trunk to tree trunk as she got closer to the second clearing. The ground was littered with twigs and dead leaves, and her booted feet were not quite as silent as they had been on the mossy path. Every snapped twig, every crunch of a dried leaf sounded to her like a clash of cymbals. Anyone in the clearing would know that someone was coming, and her heart seemed to lodge itself in her throat. The pulse drumming in her ears seemed to drown out all else, and she stopped abruptly behind the broad trunk of an ancient oak to take a deep calming breath and listen intently.

As the drumming pulse in her ears slowed, she could hear the soft sounds of the bubbling spring, and then the customary woodland sounds came alive around her. The small clearing opened just ahead of her, lit by a shaft of moonlight that cast an eerie silver
glow over the mossy carpet. And then she saw it. A dark shadow moved across the shaft of light. A slight figure in black. Too slight to be Julius.

Harriet bit her lip hard as she fought the urge to slip backwards through the trees to the safety of the house. She was there to get information, at the very least to make a copy of the marking on the tree. She couldn’t give up at this stage. The figure was out of sight when she crept forward on tiptoe to the next tree trunk, praying she wouldn’t tread on anything that would make a noise. The trunk was not as broad as the oak behind her, but she hoped it gave her sufficient coverage while enabling her to see further into the clearing.

The slight black-clad figure was standing motionless at the edge of the moonlight, looking at the tree with the marking. Then, swiftly, he obliterated the chalk mark with his gloved hand and turned back to face the clearing, leaning backwards against the tree as if he were waiting for something . . . or someone.

Harriet remained still, barely breathing, watching the clearing. She had no hope of reconstructing the marking now, but something was about to happen. Whatever the man was waiting for, she would wait for it, too. And then Julius walked into the moonlight.
There was nothing stealthy in the way he strode confidently into the clearing. The figure against the tree came forward, and they both stood in the moonlight.

“Bonsoir, Marcel.”
Julius greeted the man with a brief handshake.

“Bonsoir, Javier, mon ami. C’est bien?”

“Oui, c’est bien.”
Julius took something from the inside pocket of his coat and gave it to his companion, who slipped it inside his cloak. There was another brief handshake, and the Frenchman vanished from the moonlight into the trees.

Julius stood where he was, absolutely motionless, as if he were listening for something . . . waiting for something to happen. Harriet stopped breathing altogether, shrinking into the tree that shielded her. Julius looked slowly around him, still without moving. Then he stepped quickly to the tree that he had marked and examined it closely. He gave it a final rub with his own gloved hand and retraced his steps across the clearing and disappeared into the trees.

Harriet remained where she was. If she waited twenty minutes, Julius would be comfortably back in the house and in his chamber by the time she reached the house herself.

She had her evidence now. Julius, Julius who was also called Javier, had met with a Frenchman, a French spy. He had given him information, or whatever was contained in the packet now securely in the enemy agent’s possession. And all she felt was a disappointment so deep tears pricked behind her eyes. It was suddenly very cold in the woods, and she realized she had been so keyed up with excitement and apprehension she hadn’t noticed the drop in temperature. She began to shiver almost uncontrollably and, without further thought, turned and plunged back into the woods, heedless of the noise her feet made as she blundered back to the larger clearing.

She emerged into the garden a few minutes later. The moon was obscured by clouds now, and she didn’t trouble to keep to the shadows of the hedge alongside the path. Julius had to be back in the house by now. She hurried for the side door and reached for the latch.

The door was locked.

She stood for a moment, puzzled. She had left it unlocked. Could one of the servants have been checking the doors before going to bed? But no, not on Christmas night. They were too busy enjoying their own festivities to worry about something as mundane
as rechecking what would already have been done. She tried the latch again, and the door opened with such suddenness she reared back.

“Well, well, and what little adventuress is this? What took you out on this frosty midnight, my dear?” Julius drawled, holding the door open but not wide enough for her to sweep past him. He was still dressed in coat and boots, holding his gloves in one hand. His black eyes were as cold as the frigid night air, and the smile on his finely drawn mouth was a travesty of his usual warm, humorous quirk. “Or should I say whom?” he added, moving very slightly, just enough to give her entrance. “An assignation, perhaps?”

Harriet half pushed, half sidled past him into the corridor, acutely aware of every line of his body. “I fail to see what business my actions are of yours, Lord Marbury.” She was relieved to hear that her voice was quite steady, although inside she felt as wobbly as a bowl of blancmange. But her anger and disappointment enabled her to push through her fear and greet him with the hauteur that she could always rely upon to keep distance between them.

His eyes narrowed. The way he was standing blocked her way down the corridor to the freedom of the wide expanse of the great hall. She was pent up in
the corridor, with the side door at her back and the Earl’s powerful frame in front of her. She had never found him intimidating before, but now she knew a stab of genuine fear. It was ridiculous, of course. What could he do to her, here in her own home? But he radiated menace.

“So?” he queried, not moving. “Was it an assignation, my lady? A lover, perhaps? One who would be persona non grata under your grandfather’s roof?”

There was mockery in his voice, and she flushed with anger, her fear vanishing. “Maybe I should ask the same question of you, sir?” she retorted, her eyes flashing green fire. “Or should I say Javier?”

He shook his head. “I doubt that would be wise.” Almost indolently, he reached out and hooked a finger in the clasp of her cloak at her throat and drew her towards him until she was standing so close she could feel the heat of his body, the contained power in his body. With his free hand, he cupped her chin and lifted her face. “You really should not meddle in things beyond your ken, my dear.”

His black gaze was furious, his fingers on her chin pressing hard, and Harriet felt she was in the presence of a stranger, and then something happened. She could feel the air shift between them in an almost palpable
current, and behind the anger in his eyes shone something else, a deep, dark glow of a passion that superseded anger.

“Oh, God, woman, what are you doing to me?” he murmured, sounding almost helpless, but there was nothing helpless about his mouth on hers.

Her lips burned under the pressure of a kiss that was not quite a kiss, more of a statement of some kind. Confusion swamped her. She didn’t know whether she wanted to push him away or pull him closer, and through the muddle of sensation, she felt his mouth on hers became softer and yet more insistent. She could smell the winter-fresh scent of his skin, the faint lavender fragrance of the linen press rising from his shirt, and the warmth of his body seemed to envelop her. And there was no longer confusion, just this engulfing desire that thrummed deep within her body.

Julius moved his hand from her chin, caressing the line of her jaw, the curve of her cheekbones. His tongue stroked her lips, pressed for entrance. Her lips parted for him, and he moved within the warm softness of her mouth, stroking the inside of her cheek, his tongue fencing delicately with hers. Harriet found it an entrancing sensation, so startlingly intimate and
yet somehow so natural. The sweetness of cognac lingered on his tongue.

Where the bee sucks, there suck I . . .

The quote from
The Tempest
drifted into her head, and she wanted to laugh with delight even as she leaned into his embrace. His arms were around her, holding her beneath her cloak, his hands moving down her back, over the curve of her hips, pressing her against his own hard body. And then he drew back, still holding her hips as he looked at her.

“Oh, damn,” he murmured. “That was never meant to happen, but you do weave sweet magic.”

“You were angry,” she reminded him softly, touching her lips, trying to read his expression.

“Yes, I was.” He sighed but didn’t release his hold on her hips. “You don’t know what you’re meddling in, Harriet.”

“Then tell me.” It was a challenge.

He shook his head. “It’s not mine to tell, Harriet.”

“Did you kill Nick?” The question came without volition. But suddenly, it seemed the only important one.

The silence seemed to stretch interminably, as taut as a thread pulled to breaking point. Then his
hands fell from her body, and he turned away, walking quickly to the darkened hall. Harriet stood still and watched until the shadows swallowed him. Why hadn’t he answered her? Even a
yes
would have been a relief, anything but this dreadful uncertainty, the doubt, the hope. How could she feel this way for someone who had murdered her brother? She couldn’t. It wasn’t possible. But he hadn’t denied it.