Twelfth Night Secrets (19 page)

“I know he was a spy for England. He told me so himself. I know he was murdered somewhere on the Continent, presumably by French agents. The Ministry told me that. So where were you?” Her heart was beating too rapidly again, as if she stood on the brink of an as yet unknown danger. But she would not back down . . . not now, not after what they had done together. “Where were
you
?” she repeated with more emphasis.

His expression was bleak, his voice expressionless, the words emerging in a staccato rhythm. “I was there, but I could do nothing for him. I had a mission to accomplish, and Nick could not be part of it. Sometimes I had to work alone. I had put something in his drink to send him to sleep for a few hours, but it meant that when he was attacked, he couldn’t focus enough to defend himself properly.” He turned away from her then, raising the glass to his lips, draining its contents in one swallow.

“If you were there, why could you not help him?” she pressed, nausea rising in her throat.

He sighed again, a weary, almost defeated sound. “Because I had my own mission to accomplish, and I could not jeopardize it with any delay. Too many other lives depended on it. I had to choose between one and the many.”

She stared at his averted back, swallowing the nausea, tasting the acid bile at the back of her throat. “So you are a double agent, working for the French.” It was a flat statement.

He spun round on her, and anger now flickered anew in his dark gaze. “Do you really think that, Harriet?” He shook his head at her, waving his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “You disappoint me.”

“
I
disappoint
you,
” she breathed in shock and outrage. He had no right to turn the tables like that. With an incoherent sound, she left him standing there, her bare feet racing away from him as if she were pursued by the Furies.

Once in her own chamber again, she closed the door and stood leaning against it, unaware for the moment that tears were spilling down her cheeks. After the tumultuous emotions of the evening, she could not think clearly about anything. She was aware only of a deep and desperate sense of betrayal, and Nick’s
loss was suddenly as raw and immediate as it had been when she had first faced it.
Julius could have saved him. He didn’t have to die.

Cold now, she crawled back under the covers, seeking the warmth she had left a few minutes earlier, but she could find no comfort, nothing to stop the shaking that convulsed her limbs.

Harriet must have fallen asleep eventually, because when she opened her eyes again, it was to the sound of Agnes drawing back the curtains.

“Good morning, my lady. Did you sleep well?” The maid set the tray of hot chocolate and bread and butter on the bed as Harriet dragged herself up against the pillows.

“Yes, thank you,” Harriet fibbed, aware that her eyes still felt swollen from weeping. They must look awful, she thought. But Agnes did not look exactly bright-eyed, either, this morning. The servants’ ball must have gone on late into the night and Mallow’s Christmas punch was renowned for its punch.

“Your riding boots are scuffed and muddy, my
lady.” Agnes held up the boots Harriet had been wearing in the woods the previous night. “I’ll take them downstairs for the boot boy to shine.” She cast a curious glance at her mistress. “I was sure I’d seen that they were clean before I went off last evening, m’lady.”

“I went for a walk,” Harriet said. “I felt a little restless, and it was a fine night, so I took a stroll around the garden.”

“Oh, right y’are, m’lady.” Agnes hurried away with the boots, and Harriet sat back against the pillow, sipping her chocolate.

The events of the night were as vivid this morning as they had been while she was living them. They hadn’t left her even during her intermittent dozing, and she felt only an overwhelming desire to lock her door, curl up under the covers again, and sleep until Twelfth Night had come and gone and the house was finally empty once more. Surely Julius would have the decency to leave as soon as he could? She knew who he was, knew
what
he was. He couldn’t continue to abuse her grandfather’s hospitality. She decided that if he hadn’t left before the hunt began, she would tell the Duke everything. Then he would have to go. There would be no mail carrier on Boxing Day, but
tomorrow she would send a message to the Ministry in London, and her task would be over.

She set the tray aside and slid out of bed, wincing a little as she took a step to the washstand, where Agnes had left a steaming pitcher of hot water. Her legs shook, and she grabbed the post at the foot of the bed, physical memory of the previous night flooding her, making her toes curl into the Aubusson carpet. She could hear Julius’s voice telling her she would probably be a little sore today, feel his hands on her again as he sponged gently between her thighs.

She clung to the bedpost until the moment passed and then took a deep breath. What had happened was real. She was no longer virgin, and that in itself was all to the good, she decided with characteristic honesty. It was a burden she was well rid of. She had no suitors, no young men pressing her for her favor. She spent most of her time in town depressing such pretensions as gently but as directly as she could. And while she was quite prepared to go to her grave a spinster, she was very glad that it would not be as a virginal spinster.

For that, she had to thank Julius Forsythe. The man who had stood by and watched her brother die.

The reflection was sufficient to wipe away whatever
satisfaction she was feeling. She wanted a bath, but there was no time before breakfast. It would have to be later, after the hunt. She pulled the nightgown over her head and walked gingerly to the washstand, pouring steaming water into the basin. A cake of verbena-scented soap and a washcloth brought a degree of soothing comfort to her body, and a pad of witch hazel on her swollen eyes restored her complexion to something approaching its usual composure.

Agnes came in with her newly polished boots. “Nurse Maddox says she’ll try to keep the children in the nursery until after breakfast, my lady. But they’re very excited.”

It was a welcome change to turn her attention to familiar problems. “I’m sure they are, Agnes, but if anyone can keep them in check, it’s Nurse Maddox.” Harriet turned from the washstand and began to dress as the maid handed her undergarments to her. She slipped her arms into the sleeves of the crisply starched white shirt with its high lace collar and pulled on the leather britches she wore beneath her tawny orange riding skirt. She stepped into the skirt, tucking the shirt into the waistband before Agnes fastened the buttons at her back. A black silk waistcoat over the shirt and a fitted jacket of the same color as
the skirt completed the outfit. Agnes took a soft brush and smoothed over the black velvet collar and cuffs of the coat.

“ ’Tis very elegant, m’lady,” the girl said, with a mixture of pleasure and pride in her own handiwork.

“It won’t be when I get back,” Harriet said with a rueful smile as she sat down to pull on her boots. “If the hunt takes its usual course, I’ll be covered in mud from head to toe by the time we get home.”

“You’ll be in the front, then, m’lady?” Agnes regarded her with a degree of awe.

She nodded. She and Nick had always competed to keep up with the Master and the Huntsman, and he was going to be with her in spirit on this Boxing Day hunt, she had decided long since. Judd would take over the children after a couple of hours when they tired, as they would, however much they protested. And then she would be free to give herself and her horse their heads.

There was no way Julius Forsythe would be joining this hunt.

She walked down to the hall, nodded at the footman, and went into the dining salon, where those intent on hunting were gathering for an early breakfast. She stopped on the threshold. The Earl of Marbury,
in riding dress, was standing at the sideboard, a plate in his hand, talking to the Duke, as relaxed as he always had been in this house. The two men turned to her as she paused in the doorway, and the Duke, in hunting pink as befitted the Master of Hounds, waved her over.

“Good morning, my dear. I hope you’re well rested for today’s exertions.”

Her eyes involuntarily went to the Earl, who merely bowed. “Good morning, Lady Harriet.”

“Sir.” She sketched a curtsy and then turned deliberately to her grandfather. “Do you know which covert Jackson intends to draw first, Duke?”

“Carlton Woods, I believe,” the Duke said. “Eat, my dear.” He waved expansively to the dishes arrayed on the sideboard. “Hunting’s hungry work.” He carried his own laden plate to the table.

“How could you still be here?” Harriet hissed in an undertone. “You are a traitor, you’re betraying my family . . . If you do not leave immediately, I shall tell my grandfather everything I know.”

To her astonishment, he just smiled. “I think you will find there is nothing you can tell him, my dear. But regardless, I am here for the children. I made
them a solemn promise that I would ride with them this morning. Would you have me renege on that promise?”

“I imagine that is something you do on a regular basis, sir. The children will recover. They have come through worse.” She turned her back on him under the pretext of examining the covered dishes on the sideboard.

“There is no need for this, Harriet.” He took her plate from her and forked a slice of ham onto it.

“How could you possibly say that? You’re a double agent, using my family’s house to betray your country,” she accused in a furious undertone. “You expect me to smile and behave as if I don’t know that?”

“Yes,” he said bluntly. “Because you don’t. Now, be careful.” He shot a warning glance at the room behind her before saying casually, “Do you care for eggs, ma’am?”

They were surrounded by people, the buzz of conversation rising and falling in the room. But he was right, they were conspicuous, and Harriet was conscious of the glances coming their way. “Thank you, no.” She took the plate from him and went to find a seat at the table. What did he mean about there being
nothing she could tell the Duke? She could tell him everything . . . expose Julius Forsythe for the traitor he was.

Julius stood looking at her rather absently for a moment, wishing they were anywhere but there. There was nothing he could do in this crowd to put things right between them. It would have to wait.

The baying of the hounds on the gravel sweep at the front of the house brought breakfast to a swift end. Harriet went into the hall just as the children came hurtling down the stairs. “They’re here, Harry! The hounds are here!”

“Yes, I know, I can hear them myself,” she said calmly. “Stand still a minute. Gracie, your stock is all twisted now.” She retied the white cravat at the little girl’s neck and then turned to examine Tom. He stood very still and straight, his head high over his own starched cravat. “You’ll do,” she said with a smile, thinking how much he resembled Nick at that moment.

“Where’s the Earl?” Tom demanded. “He promised we’d ride up with him.”

“He’s here, and he will keep his promise,” Julius said from behind Harriet. He held his gloves in one hand, his hat in the other, and his whip under his arm.
The children greeted him with shrieks of delight, and Harriet was left on the sidelines as they dragged him to the front door. The grooms were bringing the horses from the stables, and the red-coated Huntsman and his fellows were mounted, the baying hounds swirling at the feet of the impatient horses, the whippers-in moving among the dogs, keeping them in some semblance of order.

Judd held the children’s ponies to one side of the melee. A groom held Harriet’s own chestnut mare which was sidling alongside Julius’s gray gelding, rolling her eyes at the other horse.

Harriet had the absurd thought that her own Ladybird was flirting with Julius’s aptly named Casanova, and an involuntary laugh came to her lips. She felt rather than saw Julius’s quick, questioning glance at her and sobered instantly, calming her horse with her hand on the mare’s neck. The groom bent to offer his palm for her waiting foot and tossed her up into the saddle. She adjusted her position, her leg angled over the side pommel, aware of a faint residual soreness as she moved in the saddle.

Judd had both children mounted and was astride his own sturdy cob, the ponies’ reins still securely held in his own hand.

“Judd’s not going to lead us, is he, Harry?” the children chorused. “
Harry,
he mustn’t. He can’t.”

“No, no, he’s not,” Harriet reassured them. “But he needs to keep the ponies back until the Huntsman and the Duke have taken the pack out first. We’re drawing Carlton Woods first, so it will be an easy canter to start with. You needn’t worry about falling behind.”

They looked doubtful, but fortunately, there was little they could do to take matters into their own hands. Footmen were moving among the horses with trays bearing silver stirrup cups of port for the riders. When he reached Julius, one of the footmen held up his tray on his flat palm.

“Thank you.” Julius leaned from the saddle to take the cup.