Barbara Metzger (22 page)

Juneclaire stepped closer and looked down. Thinking out loud, she said, “Those can’t be his footprints anyway. Uncle George has a peg leg.” She clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh.”

With one frigid glance the earl sent the workers off. Juneclaire shivered. Her words would be spread throughout the mansion along with the coffee cups and chocolate. She had to go explain to the dowager before Lady St. Cloud heard from that prattlebox Sally. Before she took one step, a steel-gripped hand clasped her wrist like a manacle, and she was silently pulled away from the house. That is, St. Cloud was silent, frowning fiercely down at the ground. Juneclaire protested, struggled, and ran to keep up lest he drag her facedown in the dirt if she fell.

He did not stop until they reached a high stone wall and a gate. St. Cloud released her hand, with a look daring Juneclaire to try to escape. She was too busy catching her breath and wondering where they were. He found the key under a loose stone and unlatched the gate, then pulled her through. They were in a small cemetery, and Juneclaire had a moment’s fright that he meant to murder her and leave her body there. How awful to think her last sight of him was to be that terrible scowl. He wasn’t even looking at her, though, continuing his long, angry strides toward the far corner.

“There,” he said, stopping finally in front of a small grave site. “Uncle George.”

Pansy was happily rooting in the leaves and stuff that had fallen on Uncle George’s marker. Juneclaire pushed her aside and read the dates.

“He has been dead these four and twenty years,” St. Cloud said. “My fifth birthday.”

“There must have been a mistake.”

A muscle flexed in the earl’s jaw. “The only mistake, madam, was in my thinking you a sane, sensible type of female. You are upsetting my household with these idiotic ravings, and you will cease at once.”

Juneclaire stood up. “I see. Uncle George is dead. Therefore I am seeing ghosts, talking to spirits, feeding phantoms.”

“There are no such things as ghosts. You are either hallucinating or else you are the victim of some unscrupulous charlatan, preying on your weakness.”

“Unless, of course, I am in league with this fiendish scheme to . . . what? To send your mother into a decline, to rout your houseguests, and terrorize your servants. Thank you, my lord.”

He watched the pig. “I never said that.”

“No, but you thought it. Did it never occur to you, my lord, that you could be wrong for once? That someone, dead or alive, could act contrary to your wishes?”

“I saw him, dash it! I saw his body when they brought him in!”

“Tell me,” she said quietly, holding out her hand.

St. Cloud took it, thinking he would air the dirty linen and then she would be gone. That was best for all. He looked around till he spotted a bench under a stand of bare-branched lilacs. “Come. It is not a short story.” He did not sit down next to her but propped one Hessian-clad leg on the stone seat. He stared into the distance, into the past.

“The Wilmotts lived on the neighboring estate, Motthaven. They were minor gentry but, then as now, perpetually overextended. Uncle George and Mother were childhood sweethearts. The second son of an earl should have been a good enough match for his daughter, but Lord Wilmott wanted more, and Robert, the oldest son and heir, seemed interested. George was reckless, drinking, gambling, all the usual vices, so Wilmott had an excuse. He refused his permission. The two tried to elope but were brought back by Wilmott, his son Harmon, and Robert. Uncle George was shipped out to the army, more dead than alive, I understand. And Mother . . . Mother married Robert Jordan, the heir to St. Cloud and soon to be the earl.

“They were happy enough, I suppose. I seldom saw them, for they spent most of their time in London or traveling. Uncle George never visited.” St. Cloud started pacing, kicking up leaves.

“Then he was gravely injured, and the army sent him home to St. Cloud. He was here over eight months, recuperating, and I got to know him well. He was full of stories and games to delight a little boy, when he felt well enough. We were nearly inseparable, they say. He was bored and I was . . . lonely. Then came Christmas and my birthday. My parents came here, with a large house party. And . . . something happened between the brothers.”

Juneclaire knew he was not telling the whole story, but she did not interrupt.

“There was a confrontation, in view of the entire company, where Uncle George threatened to kill his brother. The two of them stormed out of the house, and Uncle George was never seen alive again.”

“What happened? Did he kill your father?”

“My . . . father? No, but not from lack of trying, I fear. When neither came back that night, search parties were sent out in the morning. They found my father at the old quarry, grievously wounded and at death’s door. They found George’s body the next day, at the bottom of the quarry. I saw them bring him home. No one intended a small boy to be there, of course, but I was. It was a sight I shall never forget.” He cleared his throat and went on: “The earl had a ball lodged against his spine, pneumonia, and severe loss of blood. They feared for his life. Still, he managed to declare the disaster an accident. Lord Wilmott was magistrate and so proclaimed it, rather than let the county know the brothers had been fighting over his daughter, my mother. As if that could stop the gossip,” he added bitterly.

“The earl partially recovered. He never walked again and was angry and pain-racked for two more years until he finally succumbed to an inflammation of the lungs. He never permitted George’s name to be mentioned. Mother never recovered her spirits and never dared face the ton, beyond the narrow Berkshire society.”

“Then George isn’t a murderer at all?”

“Wasn’t. Legally, no, for his shot did not actually kill my father. Morally? He is dead and better so for what he did to my parents’ lives. Leave him rest, Juneclaire. Let my family’s skeleton stay in the closet. Stop upsetting my mother.”

But Juneclaire was not listening. She was wondering how to get word to Uncle George.

 

First she had to explain to the dowager.

“It really is George with a peg leg and not someone hammering nails in my coffin? That’s a relief. You’re sure it’s George and not some other spook come back to life? I wouldn’t want to see my late husband anytime soon.”

“He won’t eat cooked carrots.”

“That’s George. He tried to tell me, but I was too foolish to listen, I suppose. The boy never had a particle of sense anyway, always falling into one scrape or another. You tell him to stop playing off his tricks and get back here. Now go on, girl, I need to be alone to think about this.”

 

Juneclaire locked her door so the servants would not think her more addled than ever, and then she tried calling Uncle George. She whispered his name in all the corners of her room and under her bed. She tried her best to find a secret door in the back of her wardrobe, dislodging everything and pounding on the bare wood. If there was a false wall, like in the Minerva Press books, it must catch from the other side. Finally she took to calling, “Uncle George” up the chimney and down the floor grates, unaware, of course, that the sound echoed throughout the family wing.

 

Countess Fanny was prostrate, too unnerved to attend her own preball dinner. Her frightened abigail let Juneclaire talk to her for a minute.

“No,” the countess cried, “he has to be dead, or he’d have forgiven me by now. I said I would wait, and I did not. Now he’s come back to haunt me.”

Juneclaire wanted to kill the wretch herself, if he wasn’t already dead, of course. She was no more kindly disposed to George’s nephew either, especially when St. Cloud directed the footmen not to serve Juneclaire anymore wine with dinner. Her only satisfaction was seeing Elsbeth’s pasty face and the black shadows under Sydelle’s eyes.

 

Juneclaire was a success at her first ball. So was Pansy. The shepherdess costume was becoming, with the apron tied at her narrow waist, the short, ruffled petticoats allowing the merest glimpse of well-turned ankle, and the low bodice not as innocent as her flower-decked hair. Pansy, a ham in sheep’s clothing, trotted alongside, to the delight of the company.

Since the ball was a masquerade, none of the sixty or so guests was announced, but everyone knew who she was. They had all come to inspect the female who rumor claimed had snabbled St. Cloud. The men were quick to sign the pretty gal’s dance card, and the ladies were pleased to find her a well-behaved chit. With the dowager’s approval, Miss Beaumont could be no less.

Precedence also went by the wayside. St. Cloud asked her to stand up for the first dance, instead of partnering the highest-ranking lady. He was dressed as Sir Philippe d’Guerdon, the sword-for-hire knight who first won the Priory of St. Jerome of the Clouds for the Crown. The Frenchman was wily enough not to wreck the place during the siege and wise enough to ask for it as his reward. He anglicized his name to Jordan and founded his own dynasty. His ancestors stayed wise and wily, increasing their holdings, filling their coffers, staying on the right side of whatever war or rebellion occurred. They prospered until this night, when the last Jordan stood in the guise of the first, bowing to the lady who would continue the line, God and Juneclaire willing. And if St. Cloud could get his heart and his head to come to the sticking point.

She was so damned beautiful, innocent and appealing at the same time, how could he doubt her? She greeted his neighbors as if she were truly glad to meet the stuffy old matrons, the giggly young girls, the spotted youths, and the snuff-covered squires. He was proud to lead her into the dance, he told himself, proud they all thought she was his.

His bow was as courtly as only a knight wearing a chain mesh tunic and scarlet tights could make it, and the broadsword at his side threatened only once to trip him up in the dance. Juneclaire thought this moment might be worth the rest of her lifetime listening to Aunt Marta’s scolds. She smiled, and the sideline watchers shook their heads that another green girl had fallen for the elusive earl. Then he smiled, and they all sighed. St. Cloud was cotched at last.

Aware of their recent awkwardness, St. Cloud tried to reestablish some of the closeness he had felt with Juneclaire at first. “I suppose you have a New Year’s wish all picked out, Junco. Does it have to be a secret?”

“New Year’s is for resolutions, sir knight, not wishes, didn’t you know? Instead of depending on luck and happenstance, resolutions depend on oneself.”

“May a humble knight not wish for a favor from a pretty maid?”

She showed her dimples. “A man may wish all he wants, but a man resolved to have a thing works to make his own wishes come true. And a lady’s favor is a paltry thing for a whole year’s resolution.”

“I believe that depends on the lady. But what is your resolve, Miss Beaumont?”

Juneclaire knew better than to interpret his words as a desire to win her heart; he was just a practiced rake. She also knew better than to admit her real resolution, which was to reunite Uncle George with his family. Instead she said, “I think I shall try not to be so impetuous. I’ve been in too many hobbles as is.”

He gave her another of those rare smiles, so she impetuously went on: “And you, sir, should resolve to laugh more. Uncle George says you were a cheerful little imp of a lad.”

Juneclaire found herself by the dowager’s side before the music had quite finished. She excused herself to check on Pansy in the refreshment room with Aunt Florrie, who had changed her persona, not her costume, to Sunshine.

When she returned to the ballroom, St. Cloud was dancing with Sydelle Pomeroy, Cleopatra in a black wig and a cloth-of-gold gown held up by little more than asp venom. She had a bracelet on her upper arm and half of Egypt’s kohl supply on her eyelids. And a crocodile smile on her lips. Niles was glaring from the sidelines, an unhappily togaed Marc Antony, the cost of persuading Sydelle to stay for the ball. His bare shoulders and hairy shins were sorely missing their buckram wadding and sawdust pads, all Juneclaire’s fault, naturally.

“Dash it, puss, if you keep setting his back up like that, it’s no wonder he turns to that high flier.”

Juneclaire turned. Father Time was standing beside her, long beard, flowing robes, scythe in one hand, hourglass in the other. “Uncle George, I’ve been looking all over for you! Where have you been?”

“Hush, missy. Not now.”

Her next partner was approaching, Sir Walter Raleigh with spindle-shanked legs. “But when? I have news.”

“The library. Twelve o’clock. They’ll all be busy with the unmasking. Sh.”

Juneclaire had to let him go off to the refreshment room.

“Deuced fine costume, that,” Sir Walter commented. “Even has the ancient’s shuffle down perfect.”

She danced with a cowled monk, Robin Hood, Henry the Eighth, and a Red Indian in face paint, feathers, and satin knee breeches. She watched the French knight dance with Elsbeth’s wood nymph, a Columbine, and Diana the Huntress, complete with arrows that fell out of her quiver during the Roger de Coverly.

She also watched Father Time say a few words to the dowager, but mostly he stood near the windows, watching Lady Fanny where she held court on a divan. St. Cloud strolled over in his direction once, chain mail being devilishly warm to dance in, and Juneclaire held her breath.

St. Cloud thought it was too bad that the rules of a masquerade didn’t permit him to quiz the guests, for he’d dearly like to know the identity of the fat joker in the fake beard. St. Cloud had first noticed Father Time because of Juneclaire’s intense interest in him, but then the fellow kept eyeing the St. Cloud ladies. St. Cloud included Juneclaire in that small group, for he was determined to announce the engagement at the unmasking if she was willing. Everyone was expecting it, from the sly looks and innuendos he was receiving, and Juneclaire’s name would be bandied about if there was no public notice. In the meantime, Father Time was as close as a clam, and St. Cloud had to partner the admiral’s youngest daughter. He didn’t know what she was supposed to be, but she looked like a lamp shade. No one else had asked her to dance this evening and, as host in his own home, swearing to be a reformed character, he knew his duty.