Twelfth Night Secrets (10 page)

“Oh, we were racing them, and he came to watch,” Grace informed her. “And then we showed him the new colt.”

“We like him . . . he’s sort of like Nick,” Tom said.

“Yes, we like him,” Grace concurred. “He’s not really like Nick, but he is a little.”

Harriet could think of no suitable response to this confidence. Part of her could almost see what they meant. But the man was, of course, a consummate actor. He was a spy, a counterfeit, an assassin, most
likely. How could one possibly know his real self, if, indeed, he knew it himself?

Julius gave Casanova his head on the ride into the city, and the horse covered the distance eagerly. Within half an hour, the spires of the city showed against the skyline, and soon they were trotting down the wide thoroughfare of St. Giles, which was thronged on this Christmas Eve with peddlers shouting their wares from the carts they pushed across the cobbles, black-clad members of the University hurrying heads down against the wind, and numerous church bells sounding the hour. Urchins dodged hither and thither, some liberating with quick fingers any trifle, a coin, a purse, or a watch, from unvigilant owners.

Julius turned his horse onto Turl Street, a narrow lane, little more than an alleyway. He rode past Jesus College and drew rein outside a tiny shop on the corner of Market Street. He tethered his horse and went into the dim, musty space that smelled of old documents and dust. A man emerged from the back at the sound of the door. The two men exchanged silent nods of recognition, and Julius climbed a narrow spiral stair at the rear of the shop. It opened into
a loft, where the soft rustle of feathers and the sound of cooing pigeons established its purpose.

Julius sat down at a small table in the window and took a slip of paper covered closely in hieroglyphics from his inside pocket. He folded it and inserted it into a tiny capsule, before going to one of the pigeon cages and selecting a bird. The creature came fearlessly to his hand and waited patiently until the little capsule was fastened around its leg. Julius stroked the soft blue-hued neck feathers, murmuring to the bird as he worked. Finally, he went to the window, opening it wide, and set the bird loose with a swift outward motion that enabled it to catch the first updraft of wind. He watched as it rose above the gray walls of the college opposite and then took a decisive turn to the west and disappeared against the late-afternoon sky.

The Earl spent a few more minutes with the birds still in the loft, talking softly to them, caressing their feathers with a long finger stroke, before closing the cages and making his way back down to the shop. He exchanged another wordless nod with the man behind the counter and went back out into the street.

Casanova was pawing the ground, tossing his head impatiently. He didn’t like the narrow alley or the constant flow of people past him, and he greeted his
master with a whinny. “Very well, my friend, we’re on our way.” Julius untied the reins. He mounted, settling into the saddle, leaning forward to stroke the horse’s neck. “Just one more short stop, and back to a nice warm stable and a bran mash.”

The horse stepped out eagerly, and a small child ducked beneath his belly as the quickest route out of his path. “Hey, you, boy.” Julius leaned down, seizing the collar of the lad’s ragged jerkin. “There’s a sixpence for you if you’ll run into Jesus, take the first staircase up to the first landing, and knock on the door. Tell the man who answers that Javier is waiting for him in the gatehouse.”

The boy stared up at him, caught the glint of silver from the coin Julius held between finger and thumb, nodded, and darted across the street under the arch that led to the college’s gatehouse. Julius rode under the arch and waited by the gatehouse.

The college porter stuck his head out of the gatehouse, examining his visitor with initial suspicion, but then his expression cleared. “You visitin’ again, m’lord?”

“Just for a few moments, Samson. And a Merry Christmas to you.” Another silver coin appeared and vanished into the porter’s mittened hand.

The man touched his forelock. “Merry Christmas to you, too, m’lord.” He disappeared back into the gatehouse.

Julius waited, still mounted, under the arch, looking across the green of the quadrangle, deserted now as the afternoon drew to a close. A few candles showed in the casements that surrounded the quad, and the wind was even brisker, whistling through the archway.

After a few moments, a black-clad figure in the garb of a student emerged from the first staircase, closely followed by the urchin. He gathered his gown around him and hurried to the gatehouse. “M’sieur, we weren’t expecting you today.” He spoke French in little above a whisper.

“I had a pigeon to fly unexpectedly,” Julius said softly in the same language, leaning down from his horse. He tossed the sixpence to the waiting child before saying rapidly, “Tomorrow night, I will have something for you. Come to the rendezvous in the wood at one o’clock. I will mark the tree so you will be certain you’re in the right place. The house will be asleep by then, and there will be no danger.”

“
Oui, m’sieur. Bien sûr
, I will be there.” The Frenchman turned back to the quad and the staircase from which he’d emerged.

Julius nudged his horse into a walk and rode out into Turl Street. He made one further stop in the city at a small, discreet establishment on Broad Street, then turned Casanova homewards.

He arrived back at Charlbury Hall a little after five. He had ridden Casanova hard, and the horse was ready for his stable, increasing his pace as they turned into the gates of the hall. Julius left him in the hands of a groom, who led him off to the warmth of the stables, and strode back to the house, once again entering through a side door.

The domestic bustle hadn’t diminished in his absence, but there was a celebratory air to the house, the smell of logs and candle wax mingling with the rich aromas drifting from the kitchen regions. The great hall was deserted, although it was bright with candles, the yule log burning in the massive fireplace, the scent of pine cones enriching the air. Julius guessed the guests were all in their chambers dressing for the evening, and he took the stairs two at a time to his own apartment.

The lamps were lit, the fire burning bright, the curtains drawn against the encroaching dark. He stood still for a moment, taking the feel of the chamber, before he went to the secretaire, running his fingertips
along the narrow drawer beneath the desktop. He felt for the thread that he had inserted half in and half out of the drawer as he’d closed it before he’d left. It wasn’t there. The servants would have been in the chamber throughout the day, going about their allotted tasks, but they would have had no business opening the drawer or disturbing anything on the secretaire.

He stood frowning down at the desktop. Maybe it was an accident and he hadn’t fixed the thread properly, but if so, it would be the first time in his career. It was a simple test to see if anyone had been nosing about his possessions and one he set every time he left his own chamber, wherever he was. If anyone was spying upon him, the first place they would look would be in his papers and personal possessions.

He sat down and riffled through the scant papers on the secretaire. He had worked late into the previous night, but he had made sure before he slept to burn every piece of paper that he had touched with his quill, even sheets with a mere hint of an indentation on them. Only pristine parchment remained on the desk. Nothing appeared to have been disturbed. And then his gaze sharpened. The inkpot was not exactly where he had left it, perfectly aligned with the quill
pen. It had been moved a fraction to one side. Maybe one of the servants had dusted the secretaire that afternoon, but they had put his chamber to rights that morning. Why would it be done twice, particularly with the house in such an uproar and the servants so busy?

Thoughtfully, he pulled the bell rope for Thomas, who appeared in a few minutes with a tray bearing a decanter and a glass. “I thought you’d be glad of a glass of sherry while you dress, my lord.” He set the tray on the dresser and went to the armoire.

“A good thought, Thomas. Thank you.” Julius shrugged out of his riding coat and unbuttoned his waistcoat. “Have there been any new staff in the house in the last few weeks, Thomas?” He poured himself a glass of sherry and tugged at the knot in his cravat.

“Not as far as I know, m’lord.” Thomas held up a dark gray silk coat. “Will you wear this tonight, sir, with the dove-gray britches?”

“If you think so,” his lordship said with a faintly dismissive gesture, pulling his shirt over his head. “No new staff were hired to help out over Christmas?”

“No, m’lord. Just a couple of girls from the village to give a ’and in the kitchen and the still room, but they always comes up when a few extra’s needed. Just
local folk, everyone knows everyone around ’ere.” The manservant laid a gray-striped waistcoat reverently on the bed and turned to the linen press for stockings. “Most of us folks ’ave worked up at the ’all since we was nippers.”

“So, no newcomers in the last months, then?” Julius repeated in a musing tone.

“No, m’lord.” Thomas handed his lordship the white knit stockings.

Julius dressed with only half his mind on the task. Fortunately, Thomas knew what he was about, and within half an hour, the manservant stood back to admire his creation, brushing an imaginary speck from the perfectly fitting shoulder of the gray silk coat. “Any jewelry, my lord . . . a stud or pin, perhaps, for the cravat?”

Julius opened a small box on the dresser and took out a jet stud, fixing it into the snowy folds of his cravat.

“Perfect, if I might say so, m’lord.” Thomas nodded his approval. “Just the right understated touch with the gray.”

“I’m delighted you think so, Thomas.” Julius dropped an ebony snuffbox into his coat pocket and walked to the door. “I think I hear the carolers.”

“Indeed, my lord.” Thomas went to the window, pulling aside the curtain. “They’re coming up the drive now.”

Julius made his leisurely way down to the great hall, where the guests were congregating around the fire. The Duke stood with his back to the blaze, a resplendent if somewhat old-fashioned figure in a gold damask coat and matching britches, an emerald ring flashing on his finger and a similarly lustrous pin throwing green fire from the extravagant fall of Mechlin lace at his throat.

“Ah, Marbury, dear boy, come and meet m’sisters,” he called as Julius reached the bottom step.

Julius obliged, making his bow deeply to the Ladies Augusta and Sybil. He couldn’t see Harriet anywhere in the group, but the Duke introduced him around the circle. The singing from without grew louder and had just reached a crescendo outside the double front doors when Harriet came down the stairs, a child, a remarkably scrubbed and tidy child, in each hand.

“Open the door,” she instructed them in a quick whisper. They scampered across the expanse of oak floor and, with the surreptitious aid of a footman, hauled open the great doors. The carolers, sconced torches held high, stepped into the hall. “God Rest Ye
Merry Gentlemen” rang to the rafters. When the final note died, the children darted forward with plates of mince pies and marzipan, offering them among the singers, whom the servants plied with steaming mugs of mulled wine.

The Duke came forward to greet the singers, all of whom, Julius noticed, he knew by name, and after shaking hands all around, he presented the leader of the group with a purse. A final burst of song, and the carolers went back into the cold Christmas Eve. The doors were closed, and a buzz of conversation arose among the guests around the fireplace.

Harriet came up to the Earl. “So, my lord, did you enjoy your ride this afternoon?”

“Very much, I thank you.” He accepted a glass of sherry from a circulating footman. “I’m assuming your afternoon was spent rather tediously.” He watched her expression, his eyes narrowed a little. But there was not the slightest flicker of unease in those luminous green eyes.

“If you mean ensuring that the bedchambers had been allotted aright, with a plentiful supply of mustard baths, sal volatile, and hip baths for those who insist upon them, you would be right, sir.” She sipped
from her own glass. “Not to mention trying to keep the twins out of trouble.”

He smiled sympathetically, reflecting that with such a catalogue of tasks, Lady Harriet couldn’t possibly have found time to comb through his bedchamber. And why would she, anyway? He knew she had acted as Nick’s poste restante during his and Nick’s mission to France, but her brother had never implied that she had any more active a part. And there was no way Harriet could know that he himself had been with Nick on that mission. Even under duress, Nick would have never broken protocol by revealing his colleague’s identity. Harriet herself had said that her brother had never mentioned Julius Forsythe to her. And there was no one else to do so.

And yet . . . and yet, who else?

There were no new servants, no possible intelligence agents among this Society house party. There was only Nick’s sister.

And she was looking utterly radiant, he thought, despite her tedious afternoon. Her gown of bronze silk clung to her figure in a most enticing fashion. It was caught high under her breasts, where nestled a topaz pendant. She wore topaz ear drops, and in her
hair was a silver fillet studded with the same stones. Her eyes glinted green and gold in the lamplight, and her hair shone like corn silk under the sun.