The Princess & the Pea (23 page)

"I do hope your quarters were adequate? Your bed comfortable?" Concern etched Lady Olivia's face.

"My room is lovely." Cece said hurriedly. "And the bed is one of the most comfortable I've ever slept on."

"Then what was the problem, my dear?"

"The problem ..." Cece hesitated for a moment and searched her mind for an answer, any answer. What would keep someone awake in an old castle, aside from houseguests playing musical bedrooms? A ghost? No, far too improbable. Unexplained creaks and bumps in the night? Certainly, but—the answer flashed into her mind and she leaned forward confidentially. "I believe it was mice."

"Mice?" Olivia said, surprise glimmering in her eyes.

"Mice."

"Could it have been anything else?" Olivia's voice rang with innocent curiosity.

"I'm quite certain it was mice." Cece nodded firmly. "Why, I could hear them nearly all night. Scurrying up and down the hallways."

"A lot of mice, do you think?"

"Definitely." Cece frowned in concentration. "At least four."

"Four?" Olivia again patted her lips with her napkin, and this time Cece was sure she hid a slight smile.

"Well." Olivia said briskly. "I shall have to have Watkins look into the situation. Although I daresay castles like this are bound to have a few extra unwanted guests now and again. Still, I wouldn't want to have those invited annoyed by those who aren't."

Cece waved a hand in an airy gesture of nonchalance. "I wouldn't worry about it. I suspect I was the only one the least bit bothered by the pitter-patter of little feet."

"Now, my dear"—Olivia rose—"I feel a bit of a headache coming on, so if you will excuse me?"

"Of course." Cece cast her a concerned glance. "I do hope you feel better."

"It all depends, my dear." Olivia smiled faintly. "It really all depends."

Olivia chuckled to herself and lightly climbed the stairs. Mice and cyclones. She had to give the girl credit: she was certainly creative when necessary.

Rodents in the hallways. Mice! Imagine! Some would no doubt call them rats. Olivia knew full well what kind of midnight games would be played among those particular guests. She ignored a twinge of guilt that Sir Humphrey could have posed a serious threat to Cecily or her sister. That was the very reason she had encouraged Quentin to stay at the castle and placed him across the hall. Surely he could be counted upon to act as rescuer should a scream ring out in the middle of the night. Nigel, too, would defend the girls if it had come to that. Her son's old friend was a rake, a rogue and a rascal, but she had known her share of that type of man in her youth and prided herself on distinguishing between those with flawed moral character and others who had strayed but still possessed a true sense of honor. No matter what else he might be, Nigel Radcliffe was an honorable man.

Cecily White appeared to have her own code of honor as well, Olivia nodded approvingly to herself. She had given the girl every opportunity to indulge in what was essentially harmless gossip and Cecily had not risen to the provocative bait.

While gossip did seem to be the lifeblood of London society, Olivia firmly believed it should never be spread idly. One should, on the other hand, always listen closely and, when necessary, use the flow of rumor and innuendo for one's own purposes.

But Cecily had nothing to gain from revealing what Olivia suspected was a rather active night in the west wing. If the girl was indeed to take her place in society as the next Countess of Graystone, she must know how to use gossip as a benevolent weapon, a weapon kept sharpened but rarely used, and never wielded simply as a source of amusement. This was an important test for the American, and Olivia was inordinately pleased with her response. Yet another check appeared on the mental list of qualities Olivia required for a bride for her son.

Olivia stepped into her chambers and paused momentarily, struck by a thought she had nearly overlooked. That windstorm nonsense might have passed muster to anyone other than a mother who had noted her son's own untimely and disorderly arrival. She knew precisely where Jared and Cecily had each passed the night, but where had they been earlier this morning? They were no doubt together: that much was obvious.

Olivia strode to the window and frowned, absently gazing through the glass, ignoring the lush green of the rolling English countryside. Jared apparently already liked this girl and, judging from the state of her disarray, she liked him in return. Still, Olivia had no intention of permitting any kind of marriage because of an indiscretion between the two. And if Cecily did not pass the rest of Olivia's tests ... well, there would simply be no wedding at all.

So far, the girl had done beautifully, and Olivia realized, in some small way, she was hoping the child would succeed. None of the others had made it nearly this far, and it was growing more and more difficult to dream up challenges for the American—challenges that would not alert Jared to his mother's activity. But Olivia still had a trick or two left to play.

Olivia smiled slowly at the verdant scene framed by the window. Cecily's penchant for creativity was definitely a beneficial attribute.

She was going to need it.

Cece surveyed the remnants ofher rather hearty breakfast and suppressed a small, quite dainty, extremely feminine and totally ill-advised hiccup. Even her chat with Lady Olivia hadn't diminished the appetite the formidable lady's son had helped build. She propped her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her intertwined ringers. The only crimp in an otherwise blissful day was Jared's continuing reluctance to allow her free rein behind the controls of his motorcar to pilot it on the open road.

Still, he had shown her how the machine worked. Indeed, his explanations were extremely thorough, to the point where she suspected she could take the vehicle apart and reassemble it herself, blindfolded. Thoughtfully, she sipped the last dregs in her teacup. She was so well versed on the principles and the practicalities of automobiles, perhaps she no longer needed someone to actually show her how to control the beast. Perhaps she could figure it out herself....

A throat cleared behind her. "I beg your pardon, Miss White?"

Lady Olivia's butler, Watkins, stood in the doorway.

"Yes, Watkins?" Cece cast him a friendly smile.

The servant's face remained expressionless. "It seems there is a problem."

"Oh?" How odd. What kind of problem would Lady Olivia's butler bring to her?

"Lady Olivia has a sick headache," Watkins said solemnly.

"I am sorry." Cece said sympathetically. "What a shame."

"She has retired for the remainder of the day."

"I see," Cece said slowly, not certain she saw anything at all. "And you're telling me because ...?"

"Lady Olivia said to inform you of the situation and request you take over preparations for tonight, since Lady Millicent and Mrs. White are otherwise engaged today."

Relief flooded through her. Whatever other quirks Phoebe White might have, she had raised both her girls to be flawless hostesses. Cece could handle an army of servants with the panache of a battlefield general. "I assume she has already prepared a menu? Informed the cook? Arranged for flowers? Music? Etcetera?"

"Her ladyship always arranges the flowers personally. She also selects them herself." The expression on the servant's face never wavered, but his voice held the slightest note of censure. "Her ladyship believes flowers express the soul of an estate, and she insists such a task should be handled by the family, not a gardener."

"Very well." Cece said brightly. If this was all there was left to arrange for tonight's dinner, she should be able to handle it with little effort. "I'm confident I can accomplish that to Lady Olivia's satisfaction."

"There is another problem." Watldns's voice seemed to echo in the close confines of the breakfast room.

"What is it?" Caution edged her tone.

"Her ladyship had arranged for a small group of musicians to play this evening." A gleam appeared in his eye. "Word arrived from London a few moments ago that they would not be able to attend."

She released an annoyed sigh. "What happened?"

Watkins shrugged ever so slightly. "Drunk, I think, miss, or dead. The message was not completely clear."

"Wonderful." Sarcasm dripped from the word. This was a bit more of a problem than flower arranging: still, nothing to panic over. "I shall have to think about that one for a while, but surely we can come up with some type of entertainment. And it is, after all a small gathering."

"Small?" A glimmer of surprise shot through Watlkins's eyes.

Apprehension tweaked her insides. "It is small, isn't it? I understood it was just the houseguests and a few neighbors."

"Lady Olivia has a significant number of neighbors."

Foreboding squeezed her stomach. "What precisely are we talking about here, Watkins? How many people are expected tonight?"

"Including the houseguests?"

"Most definitely including the houseguests."

"When last I checked I believe the final count had come in ..." he paused, and she could have sworn his hesitation was strictly for dramatic effect, "at sixty-four guests."

She smothered a startled gasp. "Sixty-four people are expected here? Tonight? For dinner?"

His eminently proper butler eyebrow rose the barest fraction. "The dining hall comfortably seats one-hundred-and-twelve."

" One-hundred-and-twelve." she said faintly. "I suppose that's something to be grateful for, at any rate. We shall only be half full."

She drew herself up straighter in her chair and pulled a deep breath. "The flowers should not pose a problem. Music or entertainment will be a bit more of a challenge." She thought for a moment, then snapped her fingers. "Surely there are some musicians in the village? Someone who plays the piano? A minister's daughter? Better yet, with an estate this size and the vast number of servants employed here. I cannot believe there aren't a fair number who play some type of instrument. Fiddles, something of that sort?"

She rose from her chair and paced the room, her mind working in tandem with her step. "I would imagine a substantial percentage of those sixty-four souls play as well. We shall invite them to take part." She shot the butler a confidential glance. "I've never yet met anyone who would pass up the opportunity to show off his or her musical skills, no matter how feeble they may be."

She grinned triumphantly. "Why, we shall turn the evening into a musicale using the guests as part and parcel of their own entertainment. It should be quite a charming amusement and a great deal of run."

"Excellent, miss." Watkins murmured. A tiny spark of appreciation twinkled in his eye. "However, I feel I should tell you—"

"Don't say it." Cece thrust her hands before her as if to stop the words from falling from his lips. "Please, don't tell me—"

"There is another problem." Watkins's tone rang like the voice of doom.

Cece squared her shoulders and raised her chin resolutely. "Watkins, I am an American. We are quite used to overcoming rather incredible odds. We are resourceful and self-sufficient. This is a party, not the end of the world." A short, anxious laugh skittered from her lips. "How bad can it be, anyway? It's not as if I were being called upon to prepare this meal myself. After all, we have a cook."