If anything, the level of noise from the boys increased at her words.
Grayson stared at her, then smiled. “Well played, Camille. Very good.”
“Thank you.” She smiled in a modest manner.
“That was inspired.” Beryl studied her sister as if she had never seen her before. “By God, all those years of dealing with the results of impulse have certainly borne fruit.”
“Now, then boys.” A brisk note sounded in Grayson’s voice. “Let me get a look at you.” He crouched down in front of them. “You have me at a disadvantage, as you know my name, but I . . .”
“Lady Lydingham!” Urgency sounded in Fortesque’s voice. “I must speak with you at once.”
“Yes, of course,” she said absently. There was something about seeing a man, a good man, surrounded by small children. . . .
“What are you thinking?” Suspicion sounded in Beryl’s voice.
“I was just . . .” She couldn’t seem to pull her gaze away from Grayson and the boys. He glanced up, met her gaze and smiled. The strangest feeling of what might have been, or perhaps of what could be, swept through her; and with it an odd sort of ache. Ridiculous really. She ignored it. “I was thinking we can put the children in the old nursery in the east wing.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll show one of the maids where it is. But first, you need to come with me.” She grabbed her sister’s hand and fairly pulled her up the stairs.
“What are you doing?” Camille huffed.
“I was just going to ask you the same thing.” Beryl pushed Camille into the nearest parlor and shut the door behind them. “What are you doing?”
“I am trying to adjust to the addition of five children to the . . . the cast!” Irritation sounded in her voice. She really didn’t have time for this.
“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”
Camille crossed her arms over her chest. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I saw the way you looked at him.”
“Oh.” Camille shrugged. “That was . . . nothing.”
“You’ve never been good at lying to me.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You’re lying to someone, me or yourself. Probably both.” Beryl’s eyes narrowed. “Have you forgotten that he broke your heart? That your closest friend, next to me, declared his love—something you had longed for, for years—on the day before your wedding, then vanished from your life?”
“No, of course not.”
“Have you forgiven him?”
Camille hesitated. Had she? “I may never forgive him, but . . .”
“But?”
“I may not be as angry with him as I once was.” She paused. “He claims I broke his heart.”
“He is an idiot.”
“No, he’s not,” she snapped, then pulled a calming breath. “But it is something that had never occurred to me, that I might have hurt him.”
“You were about to be married. What did he expect you to do?”
“I don’t know,” she said sharply; then pushed past her sister and paced the room. “We were both young and his declaration took me by surprise. It was the last thing I had expected from him. I didn’t know how to respond, so, in hindsight, I didn’t—I don’t know—respond well, I suppose. I could have told him I loved him. That I had always loved him, but I didn’t.” She glanced at her sister. “I said he was being silly. And when he said I would marry him if he had money, I pointed out it scarcely mattered, as he didn’t have any.”
“Yes, yes.” Beryl waved off the comment. “I know all that.”
“Looking back on it, one might see where that sort of dismissal might well wound—”
“He left you!” Beryl stared. “He could have come back that day or the next or interrupted your wedding.” Her eyes narrowed. “He certainly could have come back after Harold died, but he didn’t!”
“No, he didn’t! Nor did I expect him to!”
“But you wanted him to!”
“Yes, yes, I admit it.” Camille huffed. “I wanted him to! There, are you happy now?”
“Not really.” Beryl studied her closely. “What are you going to do about him?”
“Nothing. I don’t know.” Camille rubbed a weary hand over her forehead. “He is the least of my problems.”
“Ah yes, that’s right. You have a prince and a house filled with actors to attend to. Oh, and children as well.”
“Sarcasm, Beryl”—she aimed a pointed look at her sister—“does not help matters.”
“Has he proposed yet?”
“Nikolai?”
“Yes, Nikolai, your prince. Remember?”
“Of course I remember and no, he hasn’t proposed.” She drew a deep breath. “And I’m beginning to think I don’t want him to.”
Surprise mixed with relief in her sister’s eyes. “I thought that was the whole purpose of this farce of yours?”
“Yes, well, once again I have leapt into something without thoroughly thinking it through,” Camille said sharply.
“And?”
“And I’ve decided you might well be right.”
“Aha!” Triumph rang in Beryl’s voice then her brow furrowed. “About what?”
“About marrying a man one loves rather than marrying a man with the hopes of love one day.”
“I see,” Beryl said slowly. “Then are we to end this deception of yours?”
“Good Lord, no!” She resumed pacing. “We need to continue precisely as planned.”
Beryl shook her head. “I don’t understand. If the purpose is no longer to prove the propriety of the family to Pruzinsky and give him a perfect Christmas—”
“For one thing, I could be wrong, and I do think I should kiss him—”
“You haven’t kissed him?”
“The opportunity hasn’t arisen.”
Beryl stared in disbelief.
“As I was saying, just to make certain, I should do that before making any decision, although I doubt it would make much difference.” Camille stopped in midstep and met her sister’s gaze directly. “If Nikolai proposes and I turn him down, and he knows this was all a massive deception, who knows who he might tell? Men who have been rejected are not especially trustworthy. No one would ever believe I turned him down. Gossips would be positively giddy over this. Being a rather impressive gossip yourself—”
“I do try,” Beryl said modestly.
“You know full well the story of the measures Lady Lydingham went to in an effort to trap a prince, the futile measures, would be all over London—no, all over England in no time at all.”
“It is rather juicy,” Beryl said under her breath.
“The scandal would be enormous. I would be the subject of jokes for the rest of my life.” She pinned her sister with a pointed look. “And you and Lionel would be tarnished with the same brush.”
Beryl paled. “You’re right. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“No, to save us all, we have to carry on exactly as planned,” Camille said. “First the perfect Christmas. Then the day after, he shall be called back to his country—”
Beryl snorted.
“What?”
“Oh, nothing,” Beryl said quickly. “Just thinking about the monetary crisis.”
“Are we agreed, then?”
“Absolutely.” Beryl nodded. “What can I do?”
“Nothing comes to mind.” Camille thought for a minute. “Although you could distract the prince for me.”
“Distract him how?” Suspicion sounded in Beryl’s voice.
“I don’t know. Keep him occupied. Flirt with him.”
“I should say not! I have given up flirting with men who are not my husband,” she said in a lofty manner. “Besides, I don’t want to. And it wouldn’t be at all proper, would it?”
“It wouldn’t be especially improper if,” Camille said slowly, “he thought you were me.”
Beryl stared. “What?”
“I’m not sugge
sting you allow him to seduce you,” she said quickly. “Just pretend to be me. You can wear some of my clothes—”
“You do have some lovely things.”
“Why, you needn’t even say anything specific. Goodness, Beryl, it’s not as if the man will ask if you’re you or you’re me. Simply let him assume that you’re me.”
“And what if he proposes to me?”
“Then you’ll smile and say while you’re quite flattered, he has apparently confused one sister with the other.” She cast her sister a pleading smile. “And then, at least, I shall be forewarned that a proposal is imminent and can take steps to avoid it.”
“I could, as well, discourage him,” Beryl said thoughtfully.
“Excellent.”
“I won’t fling myself at him,” Beryl warned.
“Nor am I asking you to.”
“Although . . . there is someone who would.”
“Someone . . .” Camille shook her head, then gasped. “Miss Murdock?”
“I daresay, she can be quite distracting.” Beryl smiled wickedly. “Nor do I suspect she will need much encouragement, no more than opportunity, really. Miss Murdock strikes me as the sort of young woman who is looking more for a wealthy husband than success on the stage. And what girl doesn’t want a prince?”
“No doubt the thought has occurred to her as well. She was nicely occupying his attention at the pond.” For a moment, the image of being a princess in a castle in the far-flung reaches of Whateverhiscountrywas shimmered in her mind; then faded with only the tiniest twinge of regret. Camille grinned. “That is brilliant, Beryl.”
“I am often brilliant.” She paused. “Now, about Grayson?”
“Grayson is of no consequence at the moment.”
“Let us hope it stays that way,” Beryl said.
A sharp knock sounded at the door and it opened an instant later. Fortesque poked his head in. “Lady Lydingham, I must insist we speak at once.”
“I’ll arrange for the nursery to be prepared.” Beryl started for the door, then paused. “Oh, and I neither dislike children nor do they frighten me when taken in small doses. But a large number of them—and I do think five is a large number under these circumstances—acting much like a Russian invasion, well, even the most stalwart among us can be reduced to . . .”
“Fear? Panic?”
“Something like that. I am really quite fond of children on an individual basis.” She yanked the door open and nodded at Fortesque. The actor hurried into the room and closed the door behind him.
Camille sighed. “What is it now?”
“The others have returned and have retired to their rooms, to rest before dinner.”
“Very well.” She studied him for a moment. He had straightened his appearance, but he still had the air of a man deeply inconvenienced. “Is there something else?”
“My apologies, Lady Lydingham, but I feel I must draw the line somewhere.” Fortesque drew himself up. “When you engaged us, it was understood that the only additional guests would be His Highness and Lord and Lady Dunwell. Then your cousin joined the gathering, and one additional person was not a difficulty. But now, now there are children.” He said the word as if it were an obscenity. “Not that I am opposed to children in limited quantities. One, or perhaps two, or possibly even three, but”—his eyes widened in horror—“there are five. Five! Five unruly, ill-behaved, disorderly little boys. And have you seen the look in their eyes?” He shuddered. “What shall we do with them?”
“Oh, I imagine we’ll think of something.”
“The theater, my lady, is no place for children!”
“This is not the theater, Fortesque.” She huffed. “This is my family home. And this is my production. And if I say there are to be children, there are to be children!” She closed her eyes for an instant and prayed for strength.
“Lady Lydingham, you should be aware that I have never left a play in the middle of a performance. I have never walked off a stage in a huff. Even when I have been surrounded by others who have not studied their craft and learned their lines and have indeed made me look like a fool standing on the stage waiting for . . .” He shook his head, obviously clearing out the unwanted memories of a bad performance. “However”—he stared down his nose at her—“given the circumstances—”
“Mr. Fortesque.” She met his gaze through narrowed eyes. “It seems we have come to a crossroads in which we have two choices. One, you may leave my employ at once—in which case, I shall consider our agreement nullified and you shall forfeit any and all wages due you and your troupe.”
He gasped. “That would be most—”
“Unfair? I should warn you, this is the second time today I have been accused of being unfair, and I am not certain if I am annoyed or quite pleased with myself. Do you understand?”
He nodded but held his tongue.
“Excellent. Our second choice is to carry on bravely and rise to the occasion. And, Mr. Fortesque”—she leaned closer and lowered her voice—“is that not the tradition of the theater? Didn’t Shakespeare say, ‘The play’s the thing’?”
He considered her for a moment, then squared his shoulders. “It’s Fortesque, my lady. Do try to remember that.”
She resisted the urge to laugh. “Yes, of course.”
“Now, if you no longer require my services, I shall see to the arrangements”—he winced—“for the children.”
“Actually, Fortesque, I was wondering. Isn’t it difficult to make a decent living on the stage?”
“Oh, my. Yes.” He shook his head forlornly. “Even if one’s heart is in the theater, one’s stomach does require sustenance.”
“I can imagine,” she said thoughtfully. “And Mrs. Fortesque? Is she as taken with the theater as you are?”
He grimaced. “Unfortunately, I am of an artistic nature and she is made of far more practical stuff.”
“I see. Then I would suspect, if she were offered a position with decent wages and living quarters, included for you both, of course,” she added quickly, “thus leaving you to pursue your theatrical ambitions, would you and she be at all inclined toward an arrangement of that nature?”
“It would indeed be something to consider.” Interest gleamed in his eyes.
“In which case, I have a proposal for you, Fortesque. . . .”
Camille smiled to herself. She could practically taste the chocolate now.
Fifteen
Gray wasn’t sure when, if ever, he’d been quite so exhausted. But then again, he hadn’t romped with little boys since he’d been one himself. Still, he had to admit, he’d had rather a good time of it.
The boys themselves had been remarkably well behaved when they returned to the house. He didn’t know if that was due to whatever Camille had said to them or if he had worn them out nearly as much as they had tired him. They scarcely did more than mutter cryptic comments and mild objections when the housekeeper and the maids drew baths for them all, although it was clear none of them saw the need for it.
Their eyes had grown wide when they’d first stepped foot in the freshly dusted nursery. Camille’s staff might not be the best actors in the world, but they did do a fine job as servants. And that reminded him: He did need to speak to Fortesque and his wife. The three beds Camille and her sisters had used as children were supplemented with two additional mattresses, which Camille or, perhaps, Beryl had arranged for. The boys, however, insisted on pushing the three beds together, saying they were used to sharing. Thomas, Simon and Walter confided to him that they had never slept in a bed by themselves before; and while they might well like it, the little ones would never be able to sleep by themselves. Gray was fairly certain it wasn’t just the twins who did not want to sleep alone.
The children had explored the nursery and pronounced it to their liking, although the shelves had too many dolls and child-size tea sets and books—nothing that boys liked—which they agreed was a great pity. They were remarkably pragmatic about it for children, n
oting they would only be here for one night, after all, and it would do. The housekeeper had volunteered to sleep in the old governess’s room, should the boys need something in the night.
They had eaten their supper in the nursery, insisting their beloved Uncle Grayson join them. Camille had certainly turned the tables on him, not that it didn’t serve him right. He had to admire her cleverness, although the company of the boys was not an unpleasant way to pass the time. He hadn’t thought it when he’d read Win’s note, but having the children here for only one night was for the best. As Camille had put him in the role of beloved uncle, and had obviously instructed the children to occupy his every moment, he couldn’t keep an eye on her, as he and Beryl had agreed. Nor could he continue to work his way past her defenses, and hopefully into her heart. And time was growing short.
In spite of his agreement with Beryl not to tell Camille of Pruzinsky’s deception, he would indeed tell her the truth if he thought it necessary. Gray would not let her go off with the man, although he suspected Pruzinsky had no intention of leaving without at least a betrothal. Gray suspected as well, should Pruzinsky have Camille’s promise to marry, that he would be more than willing to abandon his claim on her for a tidy payment.
Still, he couldn’t concern himself with Pruzinsky at the moment. Right now, he had five eager children, tucked under the blankets, waiting expectantly. Although, given the way their eyes were barely open, he doubted he would have to read for long.
“Cousin Camille promised you would read to us,” Thomas said, a frown of annoyance creasing his brow. “Will you?”
“I will indeed.” He pulled a chair up close to the bed, sat down and held up a well-used book. “Fortunately, there was a copy of ‘A Visit from St. Nicholas’ on the nursery shelves. As Christmas is just a few days away, I thought it would be perfect for tonight. What do you think? Will it do?”
Silence greeted him.
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