“If you are searching for mistletoe, it appears someone has been here before you,” she said, startling him, and he looked down at Chary’s upturned face.
“You are frighteningly perceptive. Or I am terribly obvious. Whichever it is, I think I see one of the culprits pursuing an unwilling victim with mistletoe now.”
She turned to look behind her. “Ah. Young Richard. He seems to have taken a fancy to the Chatham girl.”
“Perhaps it is time to send him to Lady Mountebank.”
As she laughed up at him, her blue eyes sparkling and clear as a summer lake, he knew that he could never have been happy with anyone else. Charlotte St. John was probably the only woman in England who would tolerate him for long, anyway. Whatever their life together may be, he doubted it would ever be dull.
Just as he was about to ask Chary if she would like to tour the conservatory again, Lady Shepworth approached them, smiling.
“There you are, my dear. I have had a lovely conversation with Lady Leighton, and she has been telling me most interesting tales. How are you this evening, Lord Nicholas? I see it has begun to snow again, so we will probably all be up to our ears in it before long.”
The moment had passed to make an indecent suggestion, and it was probably for the best, he decided, for he had a feeling his self-control wasn’t as steady as it should be around Chary.
“My, it is so warm in here,” Lady Shepworth continued, fanning herself with one hand. “Your face is quite flushed, Chary. I trust you are not getting a fever.”
“No, we just finished a dance. But I would like a cool cup of punch, I think.”
That was Nick’s cue to play the gallant. “I will find a footman to fetch you punch and cake, or bring it myself, ladies.”
He escorted them to chairs away from the dance area and Lady Mountebank, and left them seated close to a tall window where it was cooler by the glass panes. A potted palm draped graceful fronds over them, framing Chary in vibrant green.
As he crossed the ballroom in search of a footman or tables of punch, Wakefield entered the door, dressed in evening clothes. He saw Nick and indicated with a tilt of his head that he wished to speak with him. When he slipped back out the ballroom door, Nick followed.
They stepped into a small secretary’s room, away from the music and guests, and Will closed the door for privacy. Without preamble he said, “I found the missing shipping manifest and the signed declaration of items. The shipping clerk signed a revised declaration—no temple artifacts, no silver tureen or French commemorative buckle show up on any bill of lading.”
“The shipping clerk wouldn’t have access to the missing items in Java,” Nick said with a frown. “They never made it to England.”
“But the purser would.”
It clicked into place. “Channing. The Lieutenant Governor’s new purser.”
“Raffles’s notes and documents support your deposition of events, but according to the muster book, Channing now has a new berth on the Sir William Bensley, bound for Sydney.”
“A convict ship? What’s the port of departure?”
“London, but Hawkely, it’s to set sail December 28.”
Two days. Two days to stop the man who had upended his life. Something cold and final settled deep in his gut, and he said, “I must leave tonight.”
“In this weather? No coach can make it to London in time.”
“A horse and rider can make it. I need to find a footman.”
He was already headed to the door when Wakefield said, “Wait. You’ll need official papers to detain Channing.”
“Get them ready. I’ll be back downstairs in a quarter-hour.”
Georges came in while Nick was changing clothes, putting on buckskins and top-boots, finding his gloves and greatcoat and making a mess. Recovering from temporary bewilderment, the valet quickly filled a leather satchel with necessary items and buckled it.
“Will you be gone long, my lord?”
“I hope to be back by the new year, but it may take longer.” He glanced up at him. “Be sure Drummond has all he needs for recovery while I’m gone. If anyone asks where I’ve gone, just tell them I was called away and I’ll return soon. That’s all anyone needs to know.”
“Yes, my lord. Does that include Drummond?”
“For God’s sake, Georges, he’s included. Don’t tell anyone.” Jerking up the leather satchel, he strode to the door, ignoring the valet’s small smile of triumph.
Wakefield met him at the side door, holding a small pouch with a signed and sealed writ from the king’s official. “It’s legal,” he said, smiling a little. “There are some benefits to my position. Godspeed, Hawkely. What shall I tell Lord Howard?”
Nick paused, gloved hand on the door latch. “Christ, I forgot. I don’t want anyone to know why I’ve gone, as it may well be for naught. Even if I catch Channing before he boards the ship, I have no guarantee I’ll find the missing artifacts or anything else. You’re a diplomat. You know what to say.”
He was halfway out the door when it hit him: Chary. He halted and turned back to say, “I don’t want to disappoint Miss St. John in case I do not succeed. Just tell her I was unexpectedly called away. Tell her—tell her I’m sorry. There’s just no time.”
As he reached the stables, he saw the lad to whom he had given a six-pence to care for his horses, and called him over.
“Is my mount ready?”
“Yes, m’lord.” The boy stifled a yawn, knuckling sleep from his eyes.
“Excellent. I have one more task for you.”
When the boy looked up expectantly, he pressed a coin and small sprig of mistletoe into his palm. “There is a lady in the house I want you to give this to—Miss St. John. She will understand.”
Then he mounted his horse and rode out into the cold, snowy night, feeling at last as if he had some control over his life again.
Chapter 11
“I AM QUITE SORRY, Miss St. John, but I cannot tell you what I do not know. Lord Nicholas was called away quite suddenly. He will return in due time.”
Chary stared at Georges, bewildered and hurt. Why hadn’t Lord Nicholas come to tell her he was leaving? Had he really been called away, or had he decided he could no longer carry on a charade? Doubts assailed her, when she truly wanted to believe that the last few days had been genuine.
“Come along, my dear,” said Aunt Catherine, taking her arm. “There must have been some kind of family emergency.”
“Perhaps,” she murmured, although a niggling voice in the back of her mind argued that he had tired of her. Why would he not at least have left her a note? Something? She fretted about it all the way to their room. The house was getting quiet at last, the music and dancing ended, the light supper finished, the guests seeking their beds.
Chary sank to the cushions of the settee and stared at the fire, wondering if he had decided to call off their wedding. It was possible.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Aunt Catherine said when Chary voiced her fears aloud. “He has formed a great affection for you. I can tell.”
“Then why—what is it, Baxter?”
Her maid said, “Lady Howard is at the door and wishes to speak to you, Miss.”
Sitting upright, Chary nodded. “Please, ask her in at once.”
She stood up as Lady Howard entered and smoothed her skirts with one hand, aware that she must look as distressed as she felt. It took great effort to remain calm when inside, she was in turmoil.
“Miss St. John—Chary, please forgive me for coming so late but my husband saw Lord Wakefield, who has informed us that Lord Nicholas had to leave quite unexpectedly for London.”
“Please, sit down,” Chary said distractedly, and Aunt Catherine discreetly withdrew to busy herself in the dressing room. Lady Howard took a seat, and Chary perche
d on the edge of her chair, forcing her hands to remain still in her lap. “Did Lord Nicholas leave a message for me, by chance?”
When Lady Howard hesitated, her heart sank. She felt no better when Lady Howard said, “Lord Wakefield relayed that Lord Nicholas said to tell you he’s sorry, but he was unexpectedly called away.”
“And he left no note to me?”
“I understand he was in a great hurry.”
“I don’t understand, however. Did a messenger arrive? Is the duke ill?”
“Not to my knowledge. Please forgive me for being the bearer of bad tidings, but he did specifically say to tell you he’s sorry, so there must be something terribly important to take him away without explaining to you.”
Chary considered that. Whatever her own history with trust may be, she knew Lord Nicholas was a decent person. The rumors about him notwithstanding, she had to believe he would soon return. He was not a man who broke his word.
She held to that belief, and the next morning at breakfast fielded questions from Lady Jersey and Lady Mountebank about the rumors of his sudden departure.
“I understand he left unexpectedly,” Lady Jersey said, and Chary nodded.
“Yes, he did.”
“Did the Runners come for him?” asked Lady Mountebank as they stood at the buffet table where silver vessels held sausages, kidneys, eggs, and a variety of rolls.
“Runners?”
“Bow Street, you know. They pursue criminals. There are always articles in the Times about them. I am not certain I approve, but—”
“Lady Mountebank, am I to understand that you consider Lord Nicholas a criminal?” Chary interrupted quietly. “Because if you do, let me assure you that you are mistaken.”
“I beg your pardon!” Lady Mountebank snapped, obviously insulted.
“As you should. It is unkind to repeat gossip, especially when it is mere speculation.”
The breakfast parlor went quiet. On Boxing Day, most of the Seabury servants were given a half-day, some an entire day, to spend with their families, and the buffet took the place of footmen serving the morning meal. Buttons, the butler, stood watch over the proceedings, and he took a step forward.
“Let me have a footman assist you ladies with your dishes,” he said politely. “We are very informal on Boxing Day, but staff is always available to help.”
It was the distraction needed to defuse the moment, and Chary gratefully accepted the offer. A footman came to carry her plate of sausages and coddled eggs to the table, where she sat down next to her aunt. As she draped her linen over her lap, she avoided looking at anyone.
“Tea or coffee, my dear?” asked Aunt Catherine, as if nothing had happened.
“Coffee, please.”
When Aunt Catherine poured her a cup from a silver pot placed on the table, she said softly, “Well done.” More loudly, she said, “Sugar and cream?”
Chary felt better. She had probably ruined any hope of ever being accepted into polite society, or of being invited back to Seabury, but none of that may matter anyway. If she didn’t marry Lord Nicholas, she would most likely never see most of these people again.
Sir John, seated across the table next to Lady Jersey, said, “It seems the snow is still coming down quite heartily. Ruined the morning’s hunt, I hear. I expect we will have a late spring again this year.”
“There was snow at Easter last year,” said Lady Jersey, and as the conversation turned to the wet summer and widespread crop failures, the awkward moment eased.
After breakfast, Chary and Aunt Catherine met Lady Howard in the drawing room. Several ladies were already there, playing cards or doing needlework, and the room felt warm and inviting. Julia was not present, and Chary wondered if perhaps she had stolen away with Lord Wakefield. She had not mentioned to Julia that she’d seen them kiss in the upstairs hall, unwilling to embarrass her if she did not want their relationship known, nor had she breathed a word of it to anyone else. There was enough gossip running rampant.
“Where’s Lady Leighton?” asked Aunt Catherine, and Lady Howard looked up with a mysterious smile.
“She will join us later. As soon as I see my guests settled, we will steal away to contrive our costumes for our little play. We will have the room all to ourselves, and there are so many old gowns and scarves and costumes from other parties. Geoffrey’s ancestors must have loved masquerades and plays. They saved everything.”
A half-hour later, they were trooping upstairs, where Lady Leighton joined them in an area set aside for their use. It was an old room, with peeling paint and shabby furniture, but dusty trunks and boxes filled an entire corner.
Between sneezes, Lady Howard said, “Geoffrey claims this room is haunted, so no one ever uses it. I thought it perfect for our purpose. Where better to relive old affairs than among the dearly departed?”
“You are a ghoul, Laurentia,” said Lady Leighton. “A frightening specter from the under-world. Now, describe the tableau you decided we are to portray.”
“Oh yes. It is in a book.” Searching among the trunks, she finally found it on a table. “I thought the scene from Herod Antipas with Salomé dancing to persuade him to behead John the Baptist would suit well. We have so many silk scarves, and long robes, even some turbans.”
“How repellent. Why not something more cheery?” Lady Leighton asked. “Surely there is a scene from Shakespeare, or even a romantic novel.”
Handing her the book, Lady Howard said, “I am open to suggestions, Julia. We have already agreed it has to be a scene for four people, and it must be theatric.”
“I will look in the trunks,” said Aunt Catherine. “Perhaps that will give us some ideas. Come and help me, Chary.”
They opened trunks, and Chary was intrigued by the collection of old clothing. It was a treasure trove of generations of styles, well-preserved in layers of mint leaves and rosemary fronds—masks covered in peacock feathers, boas, necklaces made of glass beads and paste, fabric shoes that had seen better days, and heavy dresses made of silk and satin lay in the trunks. The costumes they had worn for the masquerade would be cleaned and returned to these trunks, perhaps to be used again at the next costume ball.
Finally, Julia said, “Oh, I have it! This is perfect!”
The other three crowded around her as she pointed to a colored illustration in the book, and after a brief silence, they all smiled in agreement.
THE EVE OF TWELFTH Night dawned bright and sunny, the third day in a row. Some of the snow had melted, first turning the roads to ice, then finally giving way to a grimy slush as guests began to depart. Seabury glistened in the sun, light sparkling off icicles that dripped from tree branches and roofs, only to freeze again at night.
Chary sat in the front parlor, although avoiding the window seat. She didn’t want to make a fool of herself by being seen sitting at windows waiting, so she had her new sketch paper and pencils with her. There had been no word from Lord Nicholas, but she had not ceased to hope. Yet if not for having promised Lady Howard she would stay until Twelfth Night for their tableau vivant, she would have already gone back to Berkeley Square.
Thinking of Lord Nicholas, she slipped a hand into the small pocket of her day dress and found the sprig of mistletoe delivered to her by a stable boy. He had been rather indignant, for he had been refused entrance to the house for two days despite his insistence he had been sent by Lord Nicholas. Finally, the housekeeper, Mrs. Bunting, had taken him in hand and arranged a meeting with her in the small room where Drummond had first been installed after his accident.
At first, she had been bewildered, but upon seeing the mistletoe in the boy’s palm, a bit worse for the wear but still recognizable, it all became clear. She had thanked him solemnly for keeping his lordship’s charge to him in spite of resistance, and given him a six-pence. Mrs. Bunting, a rather stern-looking bu
t obviously kind-hearted woman, was also thanked for seeing to it that she was given this message. For that was what it was—a message from Nick. The boy said his lordship told him to say she would understand, and she did: He would return. The sprig was his promise to collect a kiss, and she knew he would keep that promise.
So, she had waited, waffling back and forth between faith and despair, hope and dread, and tried to occupy her mind with other things. As days passed, it became more difficult.
Lady Howard found her in the front parlor and joined her before the fire. “I did not know you are an artist,” she said in surprise, peeking at the finches Chary drew on her sketch paper.
“I dabble. Sometimes my subject is recognizable, and sometimes it more resembles a mince pie—a jumbled collection of vastly different ingredients.”
“You are too modest. That is a finch—and it looks as if he is in my conservatory.”
Nodding, Chary confessed, “I spent half a day in there yesterday, enjoying the serenity that watching birds gives me.”
Lady Howard murmured understanding. “It is very peaceful in there. At first Geoffrey was horrified I wanted to allow birds in the enclosure, but now he is quite taken with the idea. He mentioned including rare species next, but I am not at all certain I am ready for a menagerie. I see that the finches are released every spring to go where the wind takes them and make new homes. They do it very well. It is too bad we mortals are not as adept.”
“There are times I feel quite wind-blown myself. But I cannot lose conviction that all will end well.”
Smiling, Lady Howard leaned forward to say softly, “It will end well, Chary. I am convinced of it.”
Aunt Catherine returned then, exclaiming, “Well, tonight is the night we put on our little play. I confess I am feeling quite nervous about it.”
After she seated herself across from Chary, turning the firescreen to block some of the heat, she set down her sewing bag and took out a length of yarn and knitting needles.
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