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and more beset by pitfalls. Amanda turned to Owen who was seated beside her. She was beginning to understand some of his concerns.
"A little more mince pie, Amanda?" Owen asked blandly.
Amanda, who had a healthy appetite, decided that more pie would not be at all amiss, but she was not to be so easily fobbed off. "Don't you think," she asked him, adroitly maneuvering a slice of pie onto her plate, "that if someone is helping someone else solve a problem, she—or he, of course—has a right to know anything that might have a bearing on that problem?"
Owen returned the pie to the table, which had been left uncovered in all its Jacobean splendor in honor of the holiday. "Anything," he agreed, "which has a bearing on the problem."
"Suppose," said Amanda, cutting into the flaky pie crust, "that the second person didn't realize it did."
"Then the second person would be making a sad mistake. But it would be his—or her—responsibility."
Amanda sighed. "I might have known you'd say that."
"Yes, I rather think you might. Ah, the wassail bowl. Aren't they going to pass it round?"
"No, we're modern at Ludlow, we drink it out of cups," said Amanda as the steaming, fragrant drink was handed around. "I thought you detested wassail punch, and I should think that the second person would at least credit the first person with enough sense to see what was under her nose."
"If the second person failed to do that, he most humbly apologizes," Owen returned. It was no more than the truth. He did not find it surprising that Amanda, far too acute for anyone's comfort, had grown suspicious about his relationship to Pamela Duffield. What did surprise him was his strong impulse to tell her the
whole. It was not a story he had shared with anyone, even a close friend like Charles, yet it suddenly seemed important that Amanda understand. The reasons for this were as yet unfocused—perhaps because he would not put them into words, even to himself—but they undoubtedly had something to with the way he had felt when he held Amanda in his arms last night.
Owen took a sip of the wassail punch. Amanda was right, he had never been particularly fond of the drink, which was entirely too sweet for his taste. But perhaps it was less the taste than the fact that it symbolized a holiday which always brought to the fore his sense of not belonging. Those feelings, of course, were merely remnants of nursery and schoolroom days, but it was amazing how much they stayed with one. Holidays brought them out with a vengeance.
Amanda's attention had been claimed by Rob New-field, Lady Tarrington's younger brother, who was seated on her other side. The party being an informal one, the younger Mr. Harewood, who was seated across the table, had been drawn into the conversation as well. Both he and Newfield were looking at Amanda with open admiration, and Amanda, instead of treating them with her customary practical manner, seemed to be positively reveling in their attentions.
Owen's fingers tightened around his punch cup. Rob and young Harewood might be five or so years Amanda's senior, but they were both far too young for her. Not that their admiration was surprising. With the bright gold of her hair gleaming in the candlelight and the soft green stuff of her gown revealing an enticing bit of neck and shoulder, Amanda was unquestionably lovely. Of course, she was not at all in his usual style, Owen told himself, and then wondered, with a rueful smile, what his usual style was. Amanda was certainly not like any of his mistresses, but though he had been
very fond of all these women, they had been no more interested in a permanent entanglement than he. He was still not interested in one, Owen reminded himself, replying quite at random to a comment from Jeremy's wife, Elizabeth, who was seated on his other side. The wassail punch cast a dangerous spell.
"I'm glad to see Lord Mulgrave enjoying himself," Elizabeth murmured, her eyes straying to the far end of the table. "He's been lonely since his wife's death."
Owen glanced at Mulgrave, who was laughing with uncharacteristic abandon at something Pamela had just said. Elizabeth was right. Mulgrave's marriage had not been a love match, but his wife's death had deprived him of companionship.
"I expect Lady Duffield welcomes the company as well. It isn't always amusing to be a widow," said Elizabeth, whose first husband had been killed in the Peninsula.
Owen nodded absently, then caught the full drift of Elizabeth's remark. He looked sharply at Mulgrave and Pamela. Was it possible—? Well, of course, with Pamela anything was possible, he'd learned that years ago. But was it at all likely? And if so, how did he feel about it?
The sound of Senhor Ribeiro's deep laugh reminded Owen that he had more immediate concerns. If all had gone according to schedule, Owen's valet had already admitted the first Senhor Ribeiro to the house. In another hour or so the brothers would be in the same room and then it might be necessary to do a good deal of improvising.
In keeping with the spirit of informality, the gentlemen did not linger at table but accompanied the ladies to the drawing room. The nurses brought the youngest children in, so that the company now stretched from Susanna, who was not yet two, to Mrs. Harewood's
mother, who was well past seventy. The yule log still burned brightly in the fireplace, and the Arnquist girls entertained the company with Christmas songs from their own country. Finally, when the children were beginning to grow restless, Nicola nodded at Amanda, and Amanda slipped from the room, a signal for all the mummers to follow her and make ready.
Owen donned the doublet and helmet without his valet's assistance, then joined the others who were congregating at the stairhead. Nothing at Ludlow was ever done along strictly conventional lines. Instead of dressing as traditional holiday figures, the company had chosen to portray characters from history or literature: Verity as Maid Marian; David as King Arthur; the Lambton-Hills as Romeo and Juliet; Jeremy as a druid. Owen could not place the others. He couldn't see Amanda at all, though that was probably the fault of the bloody visor. Owen pushed it up, decided to leave it that way, and caught sight of Amanda, coming down the corridor from her room. She was wearing a white dress and jewels in her hair and at this distance, in this light, the illusion was complete. Suddenly, Owen knew precisely who Amanda was meant to be, and with that knowledge came an irresistible impulse. Not giving himself time to reconsider, Owen made his
way through the increasing throng, took Amanda by the shoulders, and lightly brushed her lips with his own.
It was the briefest of kisses, and he released her at once, aware of a strong desire to do just the opposite. Amanda looked at him in utter bewilderment. 'What was that about?" she demanded.
"Blanchardyn greeting his Eglantine. I say," he added, with a show of concern, "you are Eglantine, aren't you? If you aren't, I'm most fearfully sorry."
Amanda attempted to gather her wits. She greatly feared she was staring up at him like a complete cab-
bage-head, and if she were not careful, she would find herself admitting the lowering truth, which was that this was the first time she had ever been kissed. "Of course I am Queen Eglantine," she said, with an assumption of regal authority. "And I would most certainly be angry, save that I fear I am going to need your help in the evening ahead."
Owen grinned. "I rather think it may be the other way round. Shall we join your courtiers, Your Majesty?"
Despite the grin, there was a look in his eyes which made Amanda feel a little shy. She took Owen's arm with an elaborate formality which helped mask her feelings. At least she had the satisfaction of knowing that the white kirtle fit very well. With Nicola's borrowed tiara atop her unbound hair, she almost felt she looked the part.
"I do hope," Owen murmured, "that you saved the first dance for me."
"I couldn't," Amanda reminded him, "I'm already promised to Friar Tuck. Is he here yet?" she asked, anxiously scanning the crowd on the landing.
"I sincerely hope not. He's to wait until the last possible minute. It's safer that way."
Just as Owen and Amanda joined the others, Nicola ran down the corridor, breathless and laughing, a brocade mantle thrown over her velvet dress. "I couldn't resist," she said apologetically, going to stand beside Jeremy. "Lead on, Amanda. You're the closest thing we have to a Lord of Misrule."
It was a large party which trooped down the stairs with mock solemnity. The younger Harewoods and Sedgwicks, attired in finery brought from their respective homes, joined in, and no one remarked on the addition of a tall figure in a monk's habit whose face was concealed by a hood. Amanda allowed herself one
glance over her shoulder to make sure that Senhor Ri-beiro had indeed joined the party, then resolutely ignored him. When they reached the high-ceilinged hall on the ground floor, she signaled for quiet, without complete success, and Verity and David began to beat vigorously on a pair of ancient drums. Amanda exchanged glances with Owen, then flung open the drawing-room door.
Exclamations of delight and mock surprise greeted the mummers as they erupted into the room. As Amanda and Owen led a stately promenade about the chamber, Verity and David kept up a steady beat on the drums, punctuated by laughter from the onlookers and giggles from more than a few of the mummers. As with the dancing on the previous night, the dogs and younger children were eager to join in the fun. Nicola caught Susanna by the hand, and Jeremy swung his son onto his shoulders.
The hilarity was all to the good, Amanda decided, for it kept Senhor Ribeiro from attracting undue attention. Even so, she was relieved when the promenade broke up and Nicola moved to the piano. "The plot begins," Owen said softly, giving Amanda's arm a comforting squeeze. "Have a care, fair Eglantine."
"This is the easiest part," Amanda muttered, detaching herself and hurrying toward the hooded Senhor Ribeiro. It would look odd if he did not dance, and there was no one else to partner him. The first dance, which belonged exclusively to the mummers, was an old-fashioned minuet, a dance Senhor Ribeiro performed with skill and grace. He might lack his brother's dash, but he was not without his own brand of charm, and Amanda began to see how he could have attracted Lady Duffield.
A waltz followed the minuet, and the line between the mummers and the rest of the company blurred. Jeremy
seized hold of Elizabeth, Verity dragged Charles onto the dance floor, and others of the audience joined in the dancing. Some of the mummers temporarily retired to the sidelines, breathless and laughing, and it was easy enough for Amanda and Senhor Ribeiro to follow their example. They stood on the edge of the dance floor, well removed from the chandelier and as far away from any candles or lamps as Amanda could contrive. A few moments later, Owen made his way toward them, Lady Duffield on his arm. She looked, Amanda thought, rather pale, but she smiled very prettily when Senhor Ribeiro inclined his head.
It was Ribeiro who spoke first. "Madam, allow me to express my gratitude—"
"Oh, don't be stuffy, Raimundo," Lady Duffield said with a light laugh. "You always refined too much upon the forms. That is, you did if you are who you say you are. But that's what we're here to find out, isn't it?" She smiled again and extended a delicate gloved hand to him. Despite the season, she wore a short-sleeved frock of French gauze, striped in silver, over a slip of crimson satin. Amanda suddenly felt ridiculous in the ancient white kirtle.
"So far so good," Owen murmured as Lady Duffield and Senhor Ribeiro moved onto the dance floor.
"Yes." Amanda summoned up a bright smile. "Have you thought what we're going to do when she tells us which is the imposter?"
"I rather thought we'd confront him. But not, I think, until the house has quieted down."
Amanda studied the dancers swirling before them, holiday finery beside bits of costuming, the soft swish of merino and sarcenet blending with the stiff rustling of brocade and the jangle of ornamental swords. "And have you thought what we're going to do if she can't make up her mind?"
"Don't be difficult, Amanda."
"I was only trying to consider every eventuality. That's what Charles says to do. By the way, I rather think we should warn him and Nicola before we accuse one of their guests of being here under false pretenses. Oh, dear."
"What?" Owen asked sharply.
"I don't think Lord Mulgrave is at all happy." Mul-grave was seated on a sofa near the fireplace, listening politely to Mrs. Harewood's mother, but his eyes kept straying to Lady Duffield and the man in the monk's habit.
Owen grimaced. "It can't be helped."
"But suppose he tries to find out who his rival is? Then we'll really be in a pickle."
"I doubt Mulgrave will do anything. He's a man of great self-control."
"Yes, he's always struck me that way. Except when he's around Lady Duffield." Amanda glanced at Owen. The helmet made it difficult to see much of his face. "Are they very well-acquainted?"
"I believe they met before this house party, if that's what you mean. If you want further details, you'll have to ask them. Don't you think it's time you danced with your Blanchardyn, Queen Eglantine?"
The waltz had come to an end, and Nicola was beginning an ecossaise, but it was still very pleasant to be partnered by Owen. Amanda could not see Friar TUck, but the second Senhor Ribeiro was in conversation with Charles by the far end of the fireplace, and Lady Duffield was gracefully making her way in his direction. Lord Mulgrave stopped her as she passed him. After a brief exchange, Lady Duffield moved on. Mulgrave stared after her for a long moment, then turned abruptly and walked off in the opposite direction.
Amanda glanced up at Owen. "Problems?"
"A side complication. It can be dealt with later."
"You don't think," she asked, "that this might be a good time to change your mind about what does and doesn't have a bearing on this particular problem?"
"I never change my mind in the midst of an adventure," Owen returned, just before the movement of the dance separated them.
They did not risk further conversation during the dance, and the music had barely come to an end when Rob Newfield appeared and reminded Amanda that she had promised to dance with him. "I say," he added as they waited for the new sets to form, "who is that fellow in the monk's habit? You were dancing with him earlier."
"I assumed he was one of the Harewoods. He hardly said a word." Amanda exchanged a meaningful glance with Owen, then took Rob by the hand and drew him onto the dance floor.
"Don't think so,"
said Rob. "They all seem to be accounted for."
Amanda shrugged. "Maybe he's one of the Sedgwicks then. He wasn't a very interesting man, Rob. I'd much rather talk about your new horse."
When the dance came to an end, Amanda quickly scanned all four corners of the drawing room. There was no sign of Friar Hick, but Owen, still wearing the doublet and helmet, was sitting on a low stool, peacefully scratching one of the dogs behind the ears. Amanda made her way to his side. "Well?" she asked, pulling up a chair and dropping down beside him.
"Crisis averted. Friar Tuck is hiding in my room until we've sorted out who's who."
"I don't know what's taking Lady Duffield so long." The last Amanda had seen, Lady Duffield was still conversing with the second Senhor Ribeiro.
"Patience, my child. You wouldn't want her to make
a mistake." Owen pulled the helmet from his head and ran a hand through his matted hair. "Armor is clearly not meant to be worn in well-heated houses." Then suddenly he froze. "Don't say anything, Amanda, but Lady Duffield is walking toward us."
Owen and Amanda met her in front of the fireplace, on the edge of the dance floor, in the midst of a crowd, which probably made it the best place in which to exchange a private confidence. With another pretty smile, Lady Duf field took Owen's arm, leaned toward him, and said three words, softly but distinctly enough for Amanda to hear as well. "It's Friar Tuck."
Owen threw back his head and laughed, as if Lady Duf field had just told them a particularly clever joke. Amanda joined in the laughter as did Lady Duf field who, Amanda was forced to admit, was certainly not a fool. After a decent interval, Lady Duf field moved off, and Owen and Amanda walked in the opposite direction, passing within a few feet of the man they now knew was Henrique Ribeiro as he led Caroline Lamb-ton-Hill to the dance floor.
A Christmas delight Page 17