Twelfth Night Secrets (2 page)

“Allow me to explain, ma’am.” Bedford spoke again and continued as if he were reading from a list
in a catalogue. “One of your brother’s colleagues was in the area when your brother was murdered. Indeed, they had been working partners for quite some time. This man, during his friendship with Lord Hesketh, became a welcome visitor at your grandfather’s house, Charlbury Hall. The Duke has welcomed him there on several occasions since Lord Hesketh’s death. We would like to know whether this man is playing to a different drummer . . . a double agent, in other words. We know there is a nest of French spies embedded at the university at Oxford, a mere ten miles from Charlbury. Julius Forsythe, the Earl of Marbury, has been invited by your grandfather to Charlbury Hall for Christmas. Since you will also be there, in a particularly convenient position as hostess, we would ask you to watch the Earl, see where he goes, listen to what he says, see if he sends correspondence out of the house. Just general observation . . . nothing more elaborate than that, and there should be no danger at all as long as you don’t exceed your remit.”

“This Julius Forsythe . . . Lord Marbury . . . is the man who was Nick’s partner?” Harriet felt the need to clarify every detail, however stupid she might sound.

“That is so, Lady Harriet. He may not have been responsible for your brother’s death—indeed, he may
well not be a double agent—but we would like to know a little more about his present activities.”

“I was under the impression that your spies worked under close supervision,” Harriet said, a touch of acid in her tone. She felt ambushed in some way, and she felt very much at a disadvantage.

“The good ones tend to run themselves, ma’am.” That arid tone again, but this time it was accompanied by just the tiniest twitch of thin lips. “Julius Forsythe is one of the best.”

“If not
the
best,” added George Howard.

“If not
the
best,” his colleague agreed.

Harriet rose from her perch and crossed to the window that looked out over the small walled garden, November-bare now, but the camellia bushes against the red wall were just coming into flower. This man was going to be at Charlbury for Christmas, whether she liked it or not. She could not countermand her grandfather’s invitation. And if he had killed Nick . . . a slow rage began to burn deep in her belly. It was one thing to imagine her brother killed by an unknown assailant on a battlefield, quite another to think of him stabbed in the back by someone he knew. A friend . . . a partner.

She spun back to the salon and the two men,
watching her in silence. “Very well. I will do what I can.”

“You will have your country’s gratitude, my lady.” George Howard bowed deeply. “And you will help to avenge a grave wrong done to one of our own.”

“Indeed, ma’am.” Anthony Bedford took up his gloves, discarded on a small table. “Maybe it will help you in your mission to know that your father, too, served his country in this way. He, too, died from an assassin’s blade. Your brother was following in his father’s footsteps.”

“A family business, then.” Harriet’s lips twisted into a wry smile. Somehow this didn’t come as that much of a surprise. After everything else, it seemed logical that she should simply take up the mantle and do her part.

And avenge her brother into the bargain.

“Harry . . . Harry, you’re not asleep, your eyes are open, but you’re not listening to us.”

Lady Harriet Devere jerked herself out of her reverie and devoted her attention to her young siblings. “Forgive me, you’re right. I was miles away. What was it you were saying?”

“How much longer?” the twins, as they did so often, chorused in unison. “We’re tired of traveling.”

“I don’t blame you, so am I,” their sister said with a rueful smile. They had been traveling since dawn that morning. She glanced at her fob watch. It was almost four o’clock, and the December light beyond the carriage window was gray with the beginnings of
dusk. She opened the window, letting in a blast of frigid air, and called up to the coachman.

“Carson, where are we now?”

“Just past Woodstock, Lady Harriet. Another half hour should do it, I reckon,” he called down.

Harriet withdrew her head and closed the window. The glass panes were a luxury, but the Devere family was well able to afford such amenities. “Not long now, then,” she said cheerfully. “Now, don’t forget not to shout around Grandfather. I know it’s Christmas, and it’s exciting, but you know how he hates raised voices, and you don’t wish to get on his bad side. He can make life rather unpleasant.”

“Oh, we know.” The pair groaned, rolling their green eyes.

“Last time we were at Charlbury,” Lady Grace said, “he wouldn’t let us ride our ponies for a week because we were playing a game in the hall and knocked over the crystal vase on the pier table.”

Harriet smiled to herself. Lionel Devere, Duke of Charlbury, was a formidable gentleman, but he had a soft spot for his grandchildren, except on the occasions when their rambunctious play intruded on his scholarly pursuits. He could be particularly hard on Tom, now his heir after the deaths of Lionel’s eldest
son, Edward, and then his grandson, Nicholas. The Duke maintained that Tom had to be held to a higher standard than most ten-year-old boys if he was to assume the ducal mantle one day.

Harriet’s smile faded. How she missed her brother. The pain of her father’s loss had diminished over time, but it was still there, a distant ache. Both of them lost to an assassin’s knife.

And now here she was, dipping her toes into the same devious world that had swallowed her father and her brother. An inner compulsion drove her, had done so from the first moment the man from the Ministry had recruited her into that world. Helping to avenge the family deaths gave her a sense of purpose that had been missing since her brother’s death and seemed to soften the edges of her ever-present grief.

What would he be like, this Julius Forsythe, Earl of Marbury? He had known her brother, which should have spoken well for him, but if he was what the Ministry suspected, then he was lower than a maggot. For a moment, she indulged her anger, imagining how her own actions would squash the maggot underfoot. But then she reminded herself that hers was an investigative mission. The man had not yet been proven guilty; her task was to find the proof if it existed. It
would be up to her masters in Horseguards Parade to decide what to do with the traitor, if that was what the Earl turned out to be.

The Earl of Marbury was at this point aiming his gun at a skein of geese flying low in the dusk over the lake on the Devere estate. One bird, gallantly bringing up the rear at the long-drawn-out tail of its fellows, was falling behind, a perfectly isolated target for his lordship’s weapon. The Earl sighted, his finger resting on the trigger, but when he was certain the shot would have been a good one, bringing his quarry down onto the smooth waters of the lake, he lowered his gun. The pleasure was in the skill of a successful shot, not in the death of a creature that would probably not be good eating, anyway . . . too scrawny with the effort of keeping up with its peers. The young retriever panting at his heels looked up at him with an air of surprise and a certain resentment at having been deprived of her swim to retrieve a fallen bird.

Julius patted the dog’s head. “Never mind, Tess, another day. One bird wouldn’t feed the Christmas table here, anyway.” He broke open his gun and unloaded it, before tucking it into the crook of his elbow
and heading back through the lightly wooded copse around the lake towards the brilliantly lit gray stone pile of Charlbury Hall. The grass scrunched under his boots as the evening frost formed, and a cold wind knifed through his jacket, carrying the smell of snow.

Charlbury Hall, which dominated the surrounding landscape from a small rise, was a glowing oasis floating in the gathering darkness. Lamplight shone in every window on the first three floors; only the servants’ attics were in darkness. The golden light flooded the neat green lawns, sweeping from the house to the lake, and illuminated the circular driveway in front of the great double doors.

Those doors stood open now, and a carriage was drawn up before them. Footmen, shouldering portmanteaux and trunks, hurried up the shallow flight of stairs into the bright hall. Julius paused on the edge of the lawn, Tess at his heels, watching. He recognized the Devere arms on the panels of the carriage.

So, Nicholas’s sister had arrived. He felt a quickening of interest. Nick had talked much of his sister, Lady Harriet, or Harry, as she was called by her siblings. He had painted a picture of a paragon of wit and beauty, and Julius was curious to see how much of that praise was a result of brotherly bias.

A pair of small figures sprang from the coach, darted between the servants unloading the vehicle, and scampered towards the side of the house. A clear voice called, “Tom, Gracie, where are you going?”

“To see Judd,” childish voices chorused, carrying easily through the crisp, frosty December air.

“Back soon . . .” one of them added, as if in reassurance, and the figures disappeared around the building.

The first voice belonged to a woman standing on the bottom step of the house. She wore a dark traveling cloak, the fur-edged hood pulled up so Julius could get no impression of her appearance. She shook her head as if in mild exasperation and continued up the stairs into the house. Julius turned to a side path that would take him into the house through the gun room. He would make the acquaintance of Lady Harriet Devere soon enough.

Harriet entered the family home with a sense of comfort that its familiarity always engendered. For one who had not been brought up amidst its splendors, it could well prove intimidating, but she had been born in one of the grand bedrooms and spent her childhood
in the nurseries on the third floor. She had had her own bedroom on the adult floor since her fourteenth birthday, and from the day she had put up her hair and had had her debutante Season, she had played hostess for her grandfather. There was nothing on this ducal estate that was unfamiliar.

“Harriet, my dear. You made good time.” The Duke of Charlbury came across the expanse of marble floor to greet her with hands outstretched. He was a big man, broad-shouldered, with the upright posture and weather-beaten complexion of a sportsman. But Harriet thought he looked a little tired, his green eyes a little more faded than when she’d last seen him, and she thought she could begin to detect just the slightest stoop to those broad shoulders. Grief had most assuredly taken its toll, but the stoop also had something to do with the hours the old man spent secluded in his library, poring over the scholarly tomes that gave him so much intellectual pleasure. Nevertheless, despite these signs of aging, it was still hard to believe that Lionel was close to the end of his eighth decade.

“Grandfather.” She took his hands, then hugged him fiercely, kissing his cheek. “The journey was good, and the children were as patient as one could ever expect them to be.”

“And where are those hellions?” The Duke looked around with raised eyebrows.

“Oh, they ran off to see Judd in the stables as soon as we arrived.” Harriet drew off her gloves.