“It seemed best, at the moment.” He nodded. “I took great pains to turn the key quietly, so they may not, as yet, be aware I have locked the door. I suggest you speak to them before they discover that.” He paused. “It might be upsetting to them.”
“ ‘Upsetting’?” She snorted. “That’s something of an understatement.” At least she had a moment to compose herself, even if she had no idea how to handle this new turn of events. “All things considered, you handled this quite admirably, Fortesque.”
“Thank you, my lady.”
“And the brandy was an excellent idea as well.”
“I thought so.”
“There’s nothing to be done about it, then, is there?”
“It does not appear so.”
“Very well.” She tossed back the rest of the brandy, handed him the glass and squared her shoulders. “You may unlock the door. As quietly as possible, if you will. No use adding fuel to the inevitable fire.”
“As you wish.” He turned the key with the quiet stealth of a master burglar, then stepped back. “And may I say, my lady, I wish you the very best of luck.”
“Thank you, Fortesque, I shall need it.” She summoned her strength, adopted her brightest smile, opened the doors and stepped into the parlor. “Good evening, Mother.”
Sixteen
“Darling!” The smile on her mother’s face belied the considering look in her eye. Delilah stood a few feet away, arms folded over her chest, tapping her foot. One would think she was the oldest daughter instead of the youngest. “Come and greet me properly.”
Camille closed the door behind her and hurried to her mother, kissing her on both cheeks. “You are supposed to be in Paris. What are you doing here?”
“Don’t you mean ‘welcome home’? ‘Happy Christmas’? ‘Felicitations of the season’?” Mother said, a bright note in her voice. “Unless things have changed dramatically since I left—oh, I don’t know, revolution, anarchy and the like—this is still my home. Isn’t it?”
“Of course it is, Mother,” Camille said. “Don’t be absurd.”
“What is going on here?” Delilah said. “Why did that butler say the family was at dinner? What family? And why is there a new butler? What have you done with Clement?”
Camille drew her brows together. “Why does everyone immediately think I have done away with Clement?”
Delilah sniffed. “I wouldn’t put it past you.”
“What utter nonsense,” Camille said. Delilah was always so frightfully sanctimonious, at least when it came to her sisters. It was an entirely different story around people other than her family. Camille and Beryl had discussed this aberration of nature often through the years and they agreed. It wasn’t something she did deliberately; it was simply her nature. Which made it no less annoying. She was the saint and the rest of them sinners. The fact that she was not nearly the saint she thought herself to be just added to the annoyance. “Clement is where he always is when Mother is not in residence for Christmas. He has gone to visit his family in Wales.”
“And why are we not welcome in our own home?” Indignation rang in her sister’s voice.
“First of all, this really isn’t your home, is it?” Camille said in as sweet a manner as she could muster. “It’s Mother’s home.”
Delilah gasped. “It’s my childhood home! And why were we locked in the parlor?” Delilah narrowed her eyes. “Don’t think we didn’t notice.”
“My, how observant you are, sister dear.”
“Now, now, Camille,” Mother said, taking off her hat. “I noticed as well, and I am not the least bit observant. I should point out, however, as this might be of use in the future, that no matter how stealthy the action, the click of a key in a lock does tend to be unmistakable. Now”—her mother met Camille’s gaze directly—“do tell us exactly what manner of mischief is afoot here.”
“It’s rather a long story.” Camille struggled to find just the right words. There didn’t seem to be any. How did one tell one’s mother that she was not proper enough to impress a prince?
“Fortunately . . . we have all the time in the world.” Delilah sank into the nearest chair and pulled off her gloves, a challenge gleaming in her eyes.
“Why are you here?” Camille asked her mother. “I thought you were spending Christmas in Paris.”
“Sometimes things do not turn out as one expects.” Mother shrugged off her cloak and draped it over the back of a chair. “Perhaps I am simply getting older and growing more sentimental, but I had the oddest longing to be in my own country and my own home at Christmas. Imagine my surprise when we stopped in London to insist that you and your sister and Lionel, of course, join us, only to discover you and Beryl were already here.”
“You discovered that, did you?” Camille adopted a casual tone.
“Lionel told us, but he said very little else. Politicians.” Delilah sniffed in disdain. “He was most evasive and even tried to discourage us from coming to the manor.”
“Did he?” Camille would have to thank him for that—futile, though his effort had been.
“Why would he do that, dear?” A pleasant smile curved her mother’s lips, but the look in her eyes was sharp.
“What are you up to?” Delilah glared.
Camille sighed. “I can tell you the entire story all at once, or I can allow you to drag it out of me, one question at a time.”
“Let’s drag it out of her,” Delilah said with barely concealed delight. “I should quite enjoy that.”
“Whereas I would prefer to hear it all at once.” Mother perched on the edge of the sofa and looked at her older daughter expectantly. “Well, go on.”
“It’s rather hard to explain,” Camille began.
Delilah snorted. “No doubt.”
“You see, there was, well, a prince . . .”
Mother’s brow rose. “A prince?”
“Who was quite taken with me, as I was with him,” Camille added quickly. “Indeed, I was confident there would be a proposal by Christmas.”
Delilah scoffed.
Mother cast her a quelling glance, then returned her attention to Camille. “Continue.”
“He’s really rather a proper sort, although somewhat unusual in terms of not traveling as royalty, incognito and all, and not being treated as royalty.” She shrugged. “Things of that nature.”
“Eccentric.” Mother nodded in a knowing manner. “Not uncommon with royalty.”
“He has, as well, ideas about a proper English Christmas and is quite enthusiastic about it, so, naturally, I wished to give that to him.”
“To be expected, of course,” Mother said.
“And, well, you and Uncle Basil weren’t in the country, anyway, so it did seem rather harmless.” Camille paced the room, trying to find the right words. “And I did think a proper English Christmas required a proper English family. . . .” She paused and met her mother’s gaze directly. “And even you must admit, when you are here for Christmas, or any other time, for that matter, the house is filled with people and behavior that isn’t the least bit proper.” “Not the sort of ambiance that would impress a prince deciding whether or not a family is the sort royalty would wish to be aligned with.” Mother’s voice was thoughtful. “Is that what you’re trying to say?” “I can understand that.” Delilah nodded in that superior manner of hers.
“That’s it exactly, Mother.” This might not be as difficult as Camille had thought, after all. “So, as you weren’t here . . .”
“We have established that, dear.”
“Yes, of course. As you weren’t here, and I needed a family . . .” Camille drew a deep breath. “I hired one.”
Delilah stared in disbelief. “You did what?”
“You heard me, I hired a family.”
“Where did you get a family?”
“And at Christmas,” Mother murmured.
“I didn’t actually hire a real family,” Camille said as if the idea was absurd. “That would be imp
ossible. I hired”—she braced herself—“actors.”
Delilah’s eyes widened with shock; her mouth dropped open; she couldn’t seem to get a word out. Good.
“Actors?” Mother said. “Who are they to play, exactly?”
“Well, you and Uncle Basil and Delilah—”
Delilah emitted an odd sort of strangling sound. “And then I had to replace all the servants because of the secrecy involved, of course—”
“Of course,” Mother said.
“But the troupe was not large enough to replace everyone, so we have a much smaller staff than usual. But they’re very well trained as servants, that is,” she added quickly. “Unfortunately, they are not quite as skilled as actors.”
“But they are good servants?” Mother asked. Camille nodded. “Apparently, they were all in service until they decided they would rather be on the stage.” She lowered her voice in a confidential manner. “Indeed, I’m not sure most of them didn’t make the wrong decision. Why, Mrs. Fortesque is excellent in the role of cook. I am trying to keep her. Wait until you taste her scones.”
“Oh, I do love a good scone.”
“Mother!” Delilah glared.
“I suppose that is beside the point.” Mother waved off her comment. “I’m assuming you did not fire my servants.”
“I would never do such a thing!” Camille dismissed that suggestion. “I sent them on holiday, with an appropriate Christmas bonus.”
“I see,” Mother said thoughtfully.
“Get them back!” Delilah snapped. “Send for them all at once. And get rid of these . . . these actors!”
“That would be extremely difficult,” Camille said sharply. “One doesn’t stop a play at intermission.”
Her mother glanced at Delilah. “It’s not at all in the spirit of the theater, dear.”
“But you can’t let this go on!”
“I can do whatever I please.” Mother met Camille’s gaze. “And what part do you propose we play?”
Camille stared.
“Come now, darling, you needn’t look at me like that.” Mother smiled. “I think this is brilliant.”
“You do?” Camille said.
“Dreadfully expensive, of course, but quite clever.”
Delilah gasped. “Mother!”
“You needn’t look so shocked, Delilah. Goodness, your sister is only doing what she felt she needed to do to marry this prince of hers. I should rather like to have a prince in the family. I commend her ingenuity.”
“Then you’re not angry?” Camille said slowly.
“My dear child, one does what one has to do. Indeed, I am delighted with your cleverness and quite look forward to lending you my assistance in whatever manner you need.” Mother grinned. “Now, Camille, what parts shall we play? I acted a bit myself as a girl, you know, in plays at school. I don’t mind telling you, I was quite good at it.”
Delilah stared. “You’re not seriously going to allow this charade to continue?”
“Oh, but I am.” Mother directed a hard look at her youngest daughter. “As are you. And you shall do so graciously, if not with enthusiasm. If this is what your sister needs to extract a proposal from her prince, you shall do whatever is necessary to help her.”
Delilah sputtered.
“Yes, well, about that.” Camille grimaced. “It seems better to avoid a proposal than to turn one down. Therefore, I am trying to sidestep any proposal.”
“Oh?”
“I have decided a man I need to lie to about my family is not a man worth having.” The moment she said the words, she knew they were true. As much as she had ignored it, that thought had lingered in the back of her mind from the beginning. Despite the fact that few would consider her mother’s, or her uncle Basil’s, usual behavior to be completely proper—and Lord knows the characters her mother usually filled her house with were not at all the kind of people one would properly associate with, and there were any number of dalliances and liaisons that had gone on beneath this roof—her mother was a kind and generous soul. There was no need to apologize for her, or hide her, and Camille was abruptly ashamed of herself for having done so.
“Goodness, darling, when it come to marriage, we all lie about something.”
“I never did,” Delilah said in a lofty manner.
“Your day will come, dear,” Mother said; then studied Camille. “So if you no longer want him, why are you continuing with your farce?”
“Quite honestly—”
“A bit too late for that,” Delilah said sharply.
Camille ignored her. “I’m not at all sure I can trust him to keep his mouth shut, especially if I turn down his proposal. And if word leaked out about my deception—”
“Oh, dear.” Mother winced. “The gossip—”
“Good Lord!” Delilah groaned. “We shall all be ruined! I will be ruined! I will not be able to hold my head up—”
“Which is why we will not let that happen,” Mother said in her best no-nonsense manner. “You’re absolutely right, Camille. We must play this out to the final curtain.”
Camille wasn’t sure when, if ever, she’d been so relieved. Not only was her mother not angry, but she was going to lend her assistance and make certain Delilah did so as well. She exhaled a long breath. “Thank you, Mother.”
“No thanks are necessary, dear,” Mother said. “There is nothing I would not do in this world to help you.” She glanced at Delilah. “Or you. Or Beryl.”
Delilah glared. “This is a dreadful mess you’ve gotten all of us into. Yet one more example of how you have never given due consideration to anything before plunging ahead willy-nilly.” She gestured wildly. Obviously, the specter of social condemnation had her one step from hysteria. “One would have thought after Brighton—”
“That’s quite enough,” Mother said in a hard tone. “I’m sure your sister has learned more than her share of lessons along the way. Why, I suspect she will never again hire actors for Christmas. Will you, dear?”
“Absolutely not,” Camille said staunchly, then paused. “There are perhaps a few more developments I should mention. Minor, really, in the scheme of things.” She shook her head. “All has not progressed exactly according to plan.”
“It would be a most boring production if all went according to . . . to the script.” Mother beamed. “It is the unexpected twists and turns in a plot that make a performance memorable.”
“Oh, do tell, sister dear. What could possibly have gone wrong?”
“Sarcasm, Delilah,” Mother said, “does not help.”
A knock sounded at the door an instant before it opened and Grayson entered the parlor. “Fortesque indicated you might need some assistance.” His gaze skimmed the room, met hers, and he nodded slightly. At once, he moved to her mother and took her hand. “Lady Briston, you are as lovely as ever.”
“And you are as . . .” Mother stared at him; then realization washed across her face. “Grayson Elliott? Is that really you?”
He chuckled. “I’m afraid so.”
“My God, you have lived up to the promise of your younger days. Maturity sits well on you.” She studied him in an admiring manner. “You’re far more handsome than any man has a right to be.”
He grinned. “And you are as delightful as ever.”
Delilah cleared her throat and rose to her feet. “It’s past time you came home.”
“Delilah?” He stepped to her and took her hand. “Is this the same girl I remember?”
She tilted her head and favored him with a radiant smile. “The very same.”
“You’ve grown.” He brought her hand to his lips and gazed into her eyes. “And might I say, in a most enchanting way.”
“Goodness, Grayson, you are as charming as I recall.” Delilah gazed up at him through lowered lashes.
Good Lord, was she flirting with him? For a moment, Camille saw her sister as Grayson might. While all three sisters shared the same blue eyes, Delilah’s hair was a deep sable instead of bl
ond. She was several inches shorter than her sisters, as well, and, admittedly, quite lovely, even striking. That is, if one could get past her irritating nature, although Grayson didn’t seem to have any problem with that. Camille ignored a stab of what, under other circumstances, might possibly be jealousy.
“Am I to assume this is one of the minor developments you mentioned?” Mother asked.
“One of them,” Camille admitted.
“Camille, I couldn’t keep them . . .” Beryl entered the parlor and pulled up short. “Mother!” Her eyes widened and almost immediately she recovered. “Mother is right behind me, as are Uncle Basil, Delilah and, um, Nikolai.”
“Beryl,” Mother said cautiously and stood. “How good to see you, my dear.”
“And you. Always.” The look on Beryl’s face would have been priceless if Camille had not been busy trying to keep the same expression off her own face. She crossed the room to stand beside her mother, in case she had need of . . . prompting.
“New arrivals?” Nikolai strode into the room, the others right on his heel. If nothing else, given his looks alone, he certainly did make an excellent first impression.
“The prince,” Camille whispered into her mother’s ear. She nodded in response.
“I am Count Pruzinsky.” He stepped to her mother, took her hand and raised it to his lips. “And I am at your service.”
Camille wondered if he said that to everyone he met. Odd how it was most charming a few days ago and now it set her teeth on edge.
“Count Pruzinsky?” Mother cast her a quizzical glance. “Not ‘Prince’?”
“He prefers to travel incognito,” Grayson said quickly, and Camille threw him a grateful look.
Nikolai flashed his perfect smile. “I must reconsider my traveling indulgences. Although I consider them necessary, they are proving to be somewhat awkward.” He turned his attention to her mother. “And you are?”
Mother’s eyes widened. “I . . .”
“Allow me to introduce my mother,” Grayson said smoothly. “Mrs. Elliott.”
“Yes, of course, that’s exactly who I am.” Mother beamed. “And this is my daughter, Grayson’s sister, Miss Elliott. Prudence.”
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