by Sharon Sobel
“No.” She smiled at her daughter. “He will explain if he feels we need to know.”
“But—” Daphne halted herself and nodded. “I will try to be patient, Mama.”
“Good.” She hugged her older daughter, as she had her younger ones.
As soon as Daphne closed the door on the room she shared with her sister, Aunt Cordelia cleared her throat. It was a signal that she intended to speak what was on her mind. Priscilla had known this moment was coming as soon as her aunt had announced she would join him for supper.
Priscilla sat next to her husband. When he put his hand over hers on the arm of the chair, she flashed him a quick smile before asking, “Now that the children have left, do you have something you want to say to us, Aunt Cordelia?,”
“Of course I do!” Outrage bristled from every inch of the indomitable lady. “How much longer are you going to participate in this farce?”
“I have no idea,” Neville replied. He chose his steadiest voice, and Priscilla was grateful. There was no reason to give her aunt more excuses to fly up into the boughs. “If young Witherspoon had his way, we would have left for Mermaid Cottage by now.” He glanced at Pris.
“That was what he wished to speak of to me when he came here earlier. He wishes to keep Daphne from suffering more despair.”
“Really?” Priscilla asked, then wished she had not. The tension etching lines around Neville’s eyes warned her that he was telling her only part of what he and the marquess had discussed.
“We should have taken our leave before it got dark!” Aunt Cordelia refused to allow the attention to shift from her.
“There was not enough time to make such arrangements before the sun set, even if we could have found a way to inform our hosts that we were leaving.” He reached for the whisky bottle and poured a bit more in Duncan’s glass, then a similar amount in three other glasses. He handed one to Aunt Cordelia and another to Pris. Picking up the last, he took a slow sip. “I would not risk traveling after dark. I will not endanger Priscilla and her children. I was thoughtless about that when we set off on our honeymoon, and I will not be careless again.”
“Then we must leave as soon as the sun rises,” Aunt Cordelia said.
“No.” Pris put her glass, untouched, on the table and shook her head. “Lady Symmington looked close to tears, and it behooves us, as her guests, to help her during this uncomfortable situation.”
“We can help by leaving.” Aunt Cordelia pressed her point. “She does not need us underfoot.”
“She asked that we join the family for breakfast on the morrow.”
“We could offer our regrets.”
Neville noticed how Pris’s fingers were digging into the arm of the chair. In spite of the number of times her aunt had tried to instigate arguments, Pris hated each one. Yet she loved her aunt and longed for the chance to spend some pleasant time with her.
“Too late,” he said.
“Why?” Aunt Cordelia reaimed her scowl at him.
“I told Lord Symmington,” Neville said, “that I would speak with him on the morrow.”
“And you always keep your word.” Sarcasm dripped from Aunt Cordelia’s words.
“Whenever it involves Pris and the children, yes.” He gave her no time to make any further comments as he asked Pris how the children were faring with the countess’s death.
Even though he said nothing of his desire to speak with her alone, Pris again seemed to read his mind. A short time later, she sent her aunt and Duncan on their ways with a graciousness he could never aspire to learn.
Taking her hand, he led her into their bedchamber. He drew in the scent of her hair and wished he could forget about everything going on beyond their door. When she turned to face him, he saw that she was torn, too. She felt an obligation, as she had said, to help the Symmingtons through this unsettling time. Even so, as she slanted toward him, he knew she longed to toss aside concern and lose herself in the ecstasy they could share as man and wife.
It took every bit of his willpower to walk away and sit on the deep windowsill. He heard her soft sigh as she sank to sit on a bright blue chaise longue.
“You spoke with Lord Symmington?” Pris asked.
He nodded. “And with Eastbridge as well.”
“I hope you did not bother the earl with too many questions. He seems as fragile as a newborn bird. That is no surprise after the shocking news of his wife’s death, but I fear for his health as well.”
“As I do. I asked Symmington to have one of his footmen sit in the earl’s bedchamber and keep a close eye on Eastbridge. The shock of one spouse’s death can lead to the other’s.”
“And Miss Baldwin and Jeannette will be watching over him closely, too.” She laced her fingers together tightly, as she often did when she was unsettled. “I don’t think either young woman took her eyes off him during the debacle downstairs. Do you think they will leave in the morning?”
“I don’t know. It appears that he is staying for the masquerade.”
“Don’t you find that odd?”
“It was his wife’s last wish that the ball be held.”
“Or so we have been told.”
A slow smile edged along Neville’s lips. Not a humorous smile, but his predatory one. “I do believe your aunt would suggest, as Shakespeare wrote for Northumberland’s character, ‘Before the game is afoot, thou still let’st slip.’”
“Aunt Cordelia might say that, but I suspect your response would be closer to Hotspur’s. ‘Why, it cannot choose but be a noble plot.’”
“Pris, I had no idea that you were familiar with Henry IV, Part 1.”
“Only bits and pieces.” She clasped her hands on her lap. “But you are right, Neville. I do believe there is a game afoot, a game that has nothing to do with the revelries of Twelfth Night.”
“Revelries?” His mouth became a straight line. “Aunt Cordelia is right about one thing. We should have been urged to leave as soon as it is light tomorrow.”
“What were the Symmingtons thinking to gather us altogether and then tell us that they expect us to join them for breakfast?”
“In their defense, I suspect that, when they asked us to meet them downstairs this afternoon, they planned to bid us farewell because they knew the coroner had no need to speak with us.”
Pris’s eyes widened. “Oh, my! You are most likely right. They had no idea that Lady Eastbridge’s maid would come in with such an announcement. I have been nettled by the Symmingtons’ actions when I should have sympathy for them.”
“Do not waste your sympathy on our hosts. They are hiding something.”
“Neville, you more than anyone else should recall that everyone has something to hide.”
“Ah, but, Pris, I hide my secrets openly. The Symmingtons are trying to act as if the only thing amiss is the countess’s passing.” He leaned forward, and his voice hardened. “When they called the coroner in to investigate. Why? Do they believe there is something out of the ordinary about Lady Eastbridge’s passing?”
“You spoke to Lord Symmington. What did he have to say?”
“Remarkably little.” He did not add the oath that burned on his tongue. Pris never chided him for swearing when they were alone, but he tried to curb any vile cant in her company. She had been married to a vicar. “He avoided answering me when I asked about the coroner’s visit.”
“Why? There would be no reason not to speak of the coroner’s comments unless . . .”
“Unless he believes there was some foul play.” He stood and drew the draperies closed to shut out the cold light of the waning moon. “I believe I should pay a call on the coroner on the morrow—after we make our appearance at breakfast.”
“On what excuse? You are not part of Lady Eastbridge’s family, so he will be suspicious of why you wish
to speak with him about her death.”
“I am sure I can come up with some tale that will satisfy him, Pris.” He rubbed his chin. “There is something decidedly not right with the whole of this. It is more than Lady Eastbridge’s unfortunate death just before Twelfth Night. Could it be because she died amidst the celebrations were closely connected to her after her years of hosting a masquerade renowned for the excitement of its pranks and the silliness of its jokes?” A shiver ran its icy finger down his spine. “The irony is the joke now is on us.”
“Which joke?”
“That we can continue on as Lady Eastbridge requested.” He glanced up at the ceiling. “Do you think she is laughing at us even now?”
Pris came to her feet and slipped her arms around him. “I don’t want to think of that.” One hand came up to guide his mouth down to hers.
“Nor do I,” he barely managed to say before their lips touched. He tasted the desperation in her kiss, but he thought only of holding her in their bed.
He lifted her into his arms, When he placed her on the pillows, she held her arms up to him. It was the only invitation he needed to drive away the cold thoughts.
Tomorrow would come soon enough.
THE DINING ROOM must have been built within the walls of the original hall. Thick rafters, stained with smoke, created an ornate pattern far above Priscilla’s head as she walked into the room with her family. A long table cut the room into two equal parts. Life-sized portraits covered the stone walls, the Symmington ancestors marching along in chronological order. Three hearths held large fires, but cold oozed up from the floor and through Priscilla’s slippers.
They must have been among the last to arrive, because many of the chairs along the table were already filled. The only empty chairs were close to the head of the table.
“Just like in church,” she whispered to Neville as he drew her hand onto his arm. “Everyone sits as far from the pulpit as possible.”
“But that is because in church they don’t wish to be reminded of their sins. I wonder what they fear they will hear this morning.”
She put her finger to his lips and glanced at her younger children. Then she stiffened. Where was Daphne?
As if she had asked the question aloud, Leah said, “If you are looking for Daphne, Mama, she is over there with Lord Witherspoon and that high-and-mighty Miss Symmington.”
“Come with me,” Neville said to Leah and Isaac. “We will gather some food to break our fast while your mother gathers her wayward lamb.”
Priscilla went to where Daphne was now seated on Lord Witherspoon’s right while Miss Symmington had claimed the seat on his left. With a cool smile, she said, “Daphne, I would appreciate your help.”
“With what?” Daphne looked both annoyed and curious.
“Oh, do go and help your mother,” Miss Symmington fairly cooed, her voice so sweet Priscilla’s teeth threatened to ache. “It will give me the chance to finish the amusing story I was telling dear Burke.”
When Lord Witherspoon pushed back his chair and set himself on his feet, he said, “Allow me to assist you, my lady.”
“Thank you,” Priscilla said, meaning those two words with all her heart. Her opinion of the young marquess had been steadily rising, even though she was not yet ready to give him permission to court Daphne. “Even with Neville watching, Isaac has been known to clear a serving tray of every muffin.” She smiled when he offered his arm. Putting her fingers on it, she added, “Coming, Daphne?”
Minutes later, Lord Witherspoon was entertaining Isaac with an outlandish tale while they sat side by side near the foot of the table. Priscilla was unsure how the marquess had managed to get two free chairs next to each other, but she motioned for Daphne to follow her sister toward the table’s other end.
“Mama, I wanted to sit with Burke,” Daphne said softly.
“So I saw, as did everyone else at the table. What did you think you would gain by confronting Miss Symmington this morning? Not only are you a guest in her parents’ house and owe the whole family a debt for their hospitality, but you would be wise to remember that few men wish to be forced to make a public decision on matters of the heart.”
Daphne’s face grew pale. “I did not think of that.”
“You did not think of anything but the fact that he was speaking with Miss Symmington.” Pulling out the chair beside where Neville sat, she said, “You wish to be treated like an adult, Daphne. You will be when you show an adult’s restraint and good sense.”
“I am sorry, Mama.” She sniffed as tears filled her eyes.
“I know you are.” Priscilla smiled and then gave her daughter a hug. “Don’t worry. Nothing terrible happened, and you have made your brother very happy. He adores Lord Witherspoon.”
Daphne drew in a breath to reply, then let it sift past her taut lips as the great room suddenly became as silent as if it had emptied.
When the guests’ heads turned toward the door, Priscilla saw Lord Eastbridge hobbling into the room. His color looked high. Almost too high. If Miss Baldwin had not been helping him, Priscilla doubted he could have walked the length of the table to sit across from Neville. His late wife’s companion sat beside him, and two footmen brought them food from the sideboard.
Another chair scraped against the stone floor, and Priscilla realized that the Symmingtons had come to the head of the table to take their own seats now that their guests were present. Alice Symmington wore a sickishly sweet smile as she sat between her father and Lord Eastbridge.
Any attempts at conversation quickly died, leaving only the sound of knives and forks against plates. Priscilla had never been so uncomfortable at a meal. She almost wished that Neville would ask Miss Baldwin where they might have met previously. The answer was sure to be interesting. She knew, however, he wanted to ask that question privately, so not to make the young woman fell ill at ease. Much of Neville’s past had been spent at places where the ton and their servants did not go.
Lady Symmington stood and glanced around at her guests. “Thank you for joining us for breakfast this morning. I appreciate your understanding that fulfilling Lady Eastbridge’s last wish is important. Even though I am sure your heart is no more into merriment than mine is, I have instructed the kitchen to bring the pudding in, so we might know the name of our Lord or Lady of Misrule for tonight’s masquerade.”
A sob came from where Lord Eastbridge and Miss Baldwin sat. When everyone stared at them, they quickly shifted away from each other. Priscilla wondered if anyone else noticed how the earl had been holding Miss Baldwin’s hand. Then she chided herself for having such negative thoughts. If the earl and his late wife’s companion wanted to mourn together, then no one should think badly of them. It was possible that Miss Baldwin was a distant relative, as many companions were, and that would lend countenance to such an action.
“You must be all about in your head,” cried a tall, thin woman that Priscilla knew was Mrs. Wasserman. She and her husband attended the parish church where Lazarus had preached. “Christina, this is senseless. How can you expect us to enjoy ourselves when a woman died here such a short time ago?”
Lady Symmington could not hide her dismay. “But it was the lady’s final wish—”
“How macabre!” Mrs. Wasserman stood. “I cannot continue being a part of this travesty any longer. We shall leave as soon as our bags are packed.”
Several other people followed her as she left the dining room. Aunt Cordelia started to rise, too, but Duncan leaned toward her and whispered something. She sat again.
The door from the kitchen opened, and the grand Twelfth Night pudding was wheeled in on a cart. It was sliced with great ceremony, but again the room was hushed. As the pudding was put on a tray and carried around the table so each guest might select a piece, there was none of the usual teasing.
Priscilla wanted t
o leap to her feet and shout that Mrs. Wasserman had been correct. It was time for the Symmingtons to put an end to this mockery of Twelfth Night and to urge their guests to leave. She took a piece of the pudding, but did not taste it.
Lord Eastbridge was not hesitant. He took a hearty bite of his pudding. “Bother!” he muttered. Turning away, he spat in his hand. He wiped it on a napkin, then stared at the small metal crown.
Lady Symmington forced a smile as she said, “You have found the token, my lord. That means you are the lord of misrule.”
Lord Eastbridge shoved back his chair, stood, and tossed the crown into the middle of the table. It bounced several times before landing on Neville’s plate.
“If this is your idea of a jest, Lady Symmington—”
Neville got up and said calmly, “Eastbridge, there is no reason to accuse our hostess of such a heinous deed. We each chose the slice of pudding from the tray ourselves. There was no plot to guarantee that the crown ended up in your serving.”
The earl snapped, “Come, Miss Baldwin.” He grabbed her arm as soon as she stood and limped toward the door.
Every eye followed him, then looked at their hosts. Lady Symmington’s eyes were filled with tears, and she had given up the attempt to smile. Her voice quavered as she said, “It would seem, Sir Neville, that you are now, quite by default, the Lord of Misrule for our Twelfth Night.”
Chapter Eight
THE CORONER’S cottage would have been lovely in the spring when the roses climbing its stone walls were in bloom. Now, as snow fell on the rising wind, the vines looked spindly and as dead as the remains of the vegetable garden by the front gate. It was, Neville decided, the perfect setting for a coroner.
Drawing in a deep breath of the crisp air, Neville wished he did not have to return to Symmington Hall after this interview. What a ridiculous bumble-bath! Did Lady Symmington truly believe that her guests would be interested in music and dancing and pranks and games tonight? And did she think he would step up and play the role of the Lord of Misrule? While he usually would have accepted the honor with as much alacrity and exuberance as if he were Isaac’s age, the whole masquerade should be canceled.
