A Christmas Charade (17 page)

“Indeed. Yet you allowed yourself to be caught unawares and rendered unconscious.”

“Dash it, Stenton! I did not know
then
that your beach was a smugglers’ haven!”

“I wonder,” he said softly, provocatively. “Is this another lie, Elizabeth? Or are you for once speaking the truth?”

Stenton’s words cut, but Elizabeth would not show hurt. Her look was one of pure outrage. “How dare you! I
never
lie!”

“Don’t you?” He raised a mocking brow. “Aren’t you lying when you say you never lie? What about the denial that we have met?”

“What a low, underhanded thrust!”

“The truth, nevertheless.”

Fighting the urge to turn and run from his mocking presence, she inclined her head and, with great dignity, walked to the door.

He was reluctant to let her go and, strangely, regretful for having pressed her so hard. He shouldn’t be, of course. It was his business to make her tell him what she knew.

He followed her. “I hope your cloak could indeed be salvaged. Or does it still smell of the marsh?”

“My cloak?” She whirled to face him. “What do you mean?”

“Mrs. Rodwell assured me it could be cleaned and dried. Has she not returned it to you?”

“You did go back to the landing stage! I knew it!”

Her mouth and jawline firmed with disapproval in just the way he had known they could when he first saw her. He thought she’d walk off without another word, but curiosity was obviously stronger than displeasure.

She gave him a sidelong look. “Did you see any sign of the smuggling vessel?”

“No sign of the boat or your attacker. But I met an old gager from East Dean, who warned me away from the estuary.”

“Then you were already warned! I needn’t have bothered….” She let her voice trail, aware that neither two nor two dozen warnings would stop him from doing what he wanted to do.

She shook her head. “Either you have changed, or I never truly knew you. I didn’t expect you to be obstinate to the point of foolishness.”

“When did you know me, Elizabeth? Was it five, six years ago?”

Five years ago, he had still been working under the Secretary for War, but even as he formulated the questions, he realized it was not suspicion that drove him to find out about her, but pure, personal curiosity.

“Was it in London, or did we meet abroad?”

“Abroad?” A sudden smile softened her mouth, giving it a tilt he found enchanting.

“If you traveled on the war-torn continent, I suppose I mustn’t be surprised that you see no danger in visiting a beach claimed by smugglers. But how do you think I could have gone abroad, Stenton? The ladies I serve don’t generally travel farther than Bath to drink the waters.”

“I daresay a companion’s movements are somewhat restricted, but I didn’t know you were a companion five or six years ago.”

“I’ve been with Lady Astley for five years, and I’ve held three positions before that.”

She spoke matter-of-factly, without regret or self-pity, and he could not help but admire her. By now, he was also more or less convinced that for whatever reason she was secretive about their prior meeting, it had nothing to do with smuggling or spying.

Intuition and common sense confirmed his judgment, but for once he did not know if he could trust his intuition. Never before had personal interest intruded while he was on an assignment. It did now. He could not deny that he was intrigued by Elizabeth Gore-Langton. For some reason it was important to him that she be nothing more than she claimed.

She resumed her course toward the door, and again he felt compelled to detain her—compelled and prodded by some inner demon of whose existence he had been unaware until this day.

“A companion’s life must be a humdrum one. Don’t you ever long for change? For excitement? Adventure?”

Very slowly, she turned to face him. Tilting her head to one side, she gave him a searching look.

“This morning you have raised my hackles more than once, you strained my credulity to the limit, and on top of that you insulted me. Now I am puzzled. And it occurs to me that quite possibly we have been talking at cross-purposes.”

He wanted to ask her to sit down again, to sip the sherry he had poured only to have it ignored by her, and to talk to him for as long as she pleased. About anything she pleased. Instead, he folded his arms across his chest, very much in the manner of an inquisitor.

“What cross-purpose, Elizabeth? You had better explain.”

“I came as an envoy of Dr. Wimple, the Seaford physician you sent to me yesterday.”

It was Clive’s turn to be puzzled. “What does Wimple have to say to anything?”

“He bade me warn you off the beach. As did I, Dr. Wimple believed you unaware of the smugglers’ presence and the danger you court by early morning and late night excursions to the beach and the estuary.”

“Ha! Two warnings. One from a Seaford physician, and one from an East Dean ancient. It appears the smugglers are an uncommonly nervous lot!”

“Be that as it may.” Her voice took on an edge of tartness. “But it appears to me that
you
believe a yearning for excitement and adventure has lured me into the smugglers’ camp!”

He began to feel warm beneath his collar. “Is it so strange I should have believed that? You grew up on the coast and—”

“Oh, fiddle!” She was torn between laughter and annoyance. He certainly had a knack for rousing ambivalent feelings. “I haven’t been near Lydd in over a decade. And even if I still lived there, the smugglers
never
employ females.”

“Where did you live this past decade, before you were employed by Lady Astley? You may as well tell me now, for sooner or later I will remember where we’ve met.”

So they were back to the charade, and he believed he met her at the home of one of her employers.

She made the mistake of meeting his eyes. All those years ago she had been caught in a spell woven by his eyes—mysterious she had thought them to be. And now she knew that the spell still held her fast. She stood motionless, hardly daring to breathe. And she found herself wishing that he
would
remember and put an end to the game she should never have started.

“Afraid, Elizabeth? Afraid of what I’ll remember?”

The low, deep voice held a challenging note. Common sense demanded that she ignore him. But common sense had deserted her before with regard to Stenton. Or, perhaps, the streak of recklessness that had possessed her father after the death of his beloved wife ran in the blood of the Gore-Langtons and took hold of her now.

“I am not at all afraid,” she said haughtily, and then, discarding hauteur and dignity, she flung at him such words as she had deplored when they were uttered by Lord Nicholas.

“Would you care to wager on your memory?”

A gleam lit his eyes, a devilish gleam that made her question the wisdom of having answered his challenge with a challenge of her own. But she would not back down. She had her pride.

“Name the stakes, Elizabeth.”

The blood raced through her veins. It was exhilarating—and not a little frightening. She must be mad!

“If you can convince me by Christmas Eve, midnight, that you remember where and when we met, I owe you … what? A guinea?”

“Chicken stakes.”

Still reckless, she said, “Five guineas?”

“No, Elizabeth. When I wager with a lady I expect her to stake no less than a kiss.”

Her breath caught. “Out of the question!”

“Under the mistletoe, of course. Quite unexceptionable, I assure you.”

She had to admire his smoothness. “Unexceptionable to you, perhaps, but not to me.”

“Why? Are you so certain you’ll lose?”

She was, but she wouldn’t admit it for anything.

And it had been she who proposed the wager. Why kick up a dust over the stakes? She categorically denied that the particular stake he suggested added a dimension of breathless excitement she had not known since she first made his acquaintance.

“And what,” she said, trying to look indifferent, “would you stake against a kiss?”

“Anything you like. The treasure of the first fourth duchess—”

An involuntary chuckle escaped her. “Which may or may not exist.”

“A suit of armor?”

“What on earth would I do with it?”

“You name the prize.”

A sudden notion took hold of her mind. It was ridiculous. Impossible. And quite improper. But no more so than the proposed wager.

“The canopied fourposter bed in my chamber.”

“Done.”

He blessed Margaret, the kissing bough, and the greenery she had lugged all the way from Bath. And he prided himself on his wits that had so timely recalled the convenient Christmas trappings.

“And you’ll answer any questions I put to you, Elizabeth?”

“
More
questions? You’ve done nothing but interrogate me all morning!”

“You’ve presented yourself as the mystery woman. If I’m not permitted to ask questions, how do you expect me to jog my lamentable memory?”

“You were dashed certain of your memory a moment ago!”

“That was before the wager. In all fairness—”

“Gammon!”

Fairness … Lord Nicholas and Juliette had preached fairness. They expected her to protect their wager. But this was between her and Stenton.

She suppressed a sigh. Whatever made her do it?

“Very well, Stenton. I shall answer any
legitimate
questions. Nothing that smacks in the least of ‘where and when have we met?’ ”

“That goes without saying,” he replied with just a hint of stiffness.

He held out his hand, and slowly she placed her hand in his. The bargain was sealed.

Christmas Eve, midnight. When she was a child, her parents had presented her with a surprise each Christmas morning. She wondered what she’d wake up to this Christmas. She could only hope it’d be a wager won.

She thought about Stenton’s guests. Lord Nicholas and Juliette had their own reasons for not giving her away, and the others, with the exception of Lord Decimus, had not known her eleven years ago. She had been introduced to Lord Decimus at Rosalind and Clive’s wedding, but he was such a bumbling, vague old gentleman, he seemed to remember only that he had known her father.

She became aware that her hand still rested in Stenton’s warm grip and that he was looking at her quizzically.

“What are you thinking, Elizabeth?”

“Oh, no! That is
not
a legitimate question.”

She withdrew her hand just as a knock fell on the door.

“What the deuce?” He strode to the door, jerking it open in very much the same manner he had opened it for her.

“Chamberlain!” he barked. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

He was about to shut the door again when Elizabeth stepped past him.

“No, Stenton. Please don’t postpone your business on my account.”

He had sent for Chamberlain over an hour ago and had been annoyed when the footman returned with the news that the gardener was not in his cottage. Now he wished Chamberlain to the devil.

He bowed. “I shall see you at luncheon.”

“Yes. And thank you for rescuing my cloak,” she said politely.

He shrugged, very much aware of Chamberlain’s covert looks. “Since Mrs. Rodwell has not returned it to you, I fear it may be spoilt after all.”

“It’s made of wool and must be dried very slowly to prevent matting. No doubt, I’ll have it by tomorrow.”

She gave him a nod and smiled at Chamberlain, who stood in the corridor with his head bowed and his cap in hand, the way any respectable gardener would stand in the presence of his betters.

As she walked off, a thought occurred to Clive—a notion that was as unpalatable as it was unwelcome. He wondered if Elizabeth with her seeming frankness about smugglers and about her years as a lady’s companion had expertly and quite ruthlessly led him by the nose.

The “gardener” sprawled in the most comfortable chair by the library fire, his feet crossed on the hearth, and a glass generously filled with Clive’s best brandy in his hands. They had discussed Jed Beamish, innkeeper, constable, and mayor of East Dean; they had speculated about the cave Clive had been unable to locate; and now they had reached the topic of Miss Elizabeth Gore-Langton.

Clive had explained about Elizabeth and had briefly outlined his suspicions. What he did not mention was that while she was with him, giving him those clear looks that made him believe he could read her every thought, she had convinced him she was in no way connected with smuggling or with Whitehall. For once he could not trust his judgment. He needed Chamberlain’s cool head, his unbiased view on the matter.

“Well?” he asked. “What do you think?”

“Didn’t recognize her,” said Chamberlain, sniffing the brandy. “And I can’t say the name means anything to me. Elizabeth Gore-Langton. It’s the kind of name one doesn’t easily forget.”

“I did.” Clive went to stand by the fireplace and leaned a shoulder against the high mantel. “And when I think I’m on the brink of remembering, I want to attach the name to some young girl, which is ridiculous.”

“It is, if you believe you might have met her while you were on an assignment. The government don’t employ schoolroom chits. How old do you think she is?”

“Twenty-eight, she said.”

“You
asked
the lady her age?” Chamberlain’s lean face registered astonishment. “Stap me, but I thought you had better manners!”

“Oh, I have. Told her she couldn’t be more than four-and-twenty, and she corrected me.”

Chamberlain shook his head. “No matter what the provocation,
I
wouldn’t dare bring up the subject of age when speaking with a female. Makes ’em demmed tetchy.”

But Elizabeth hadn’t been tetchy. Clive well remembered the occasion. On the day of her arrival they had been alone in the Great Hall after Margaret left with the children. Elizabeth was seated by the fire, her dark brown hair catching the glow of the dancing flames.

He remembered the acerbic edge to her voice when she took him to task about his handling of the twins, but until he asked her if they had met before, she had been quite calm and composed. And those wide green eyes had not sparked anger until he called her an abominable little liar.