by Sharon Sobel
Sweat beaded on Miss Baldwin’s forehead, then she said, “All right. I did take it from the theater, but what choice did I have? If I wanted to get a role on stage, I would have to sleep with the theater manager. If I had to sell myself, why not to a man who could offer me more than a tumble behind discarded sets in a dirty theater?” She raised her chin with pride. “And I have proven that I am a great actress, because no one else doubted me. Not this old lusty goat, and not his wife.”
Lord Eastbridge began to bluster at her insult, but Neville cut him off by saying, “Now that you have been honest about that, Miss Baldwin, or whatever your true name is . . .”
“My true name is Annalee Baldwin. Why change it when nobody knew it?”
“Now that she has been honest about that,” Neville said with a cool smile, “I can be honest as well. Miss Baldwin did not kill Lady Eastbridge.” Neville turned, his flamboyant cape swirling around him, to look at the guests who were watching in disbelief.
“Then who did?” demanded Lord Eastbridge.
“That is the question, is it not?” His gaze caught and held each person’s in the ballroom. Lastly, he looked at Priscilla. He smiled, but his expression grew grim as he continued, “When clues began to point to Lady Eastbridge’s death not being a natural one, everyone assumed that the clues would point to the murderer.”
“What else?” asked Duncan, as he walked toward the center of the ballroom.
“What else indeed?” Neville’s smile grew as cold as the wind battering the windows. “That is what I asked myself. Who had the best motive and an opportunity to kill Lady Eastbridge?” He looked at the Symmingtons. “It was quickly established that Lady Symmington and the countess were in the midst of a brangle when the countess’s abigail last saw Lady Eastbridge alive. Lady Symmington usurped the countess by claiming Twelfth Night for her own ball. Was the countess threatening to spirit Lady Symmington’s guests away and take them to her own house for her traditional celebration? Was that reason enough for Lady Symmington to strike the fatal blow?”
The baroness shook her head vehemently. “No! I did not do any injury to the countess! She was alive when I left her rooms.” Raising her hand, she pointed a quivering finger at Miss Baldwin. “You should talk to that woman! If Lord Eastbridge suspects her, then there must be a reason.”
“Yes, there is a reason, and it already is quite public knowledge. And, my lady, I know you did not slay Lady Eastbridge. Not you or Miss Baldwin.” He glanced up at the gallery. “Come forward.”
Priscilla watched as two forms draped in heavy capes walked out of the shadows and close to the railing that circled the room. The shorter one threw back his hood, she heard Lady Symmington gasp in shock. But Priscilla did not recognize the man. He had his hand on the arm of the other caped figure. Was he trying to keep the other person from fleeing?
“Allow me,” Neville said, “to introduce you to Mr. Grove, the parish’s coroner. Mr. Grove, would you like to introduce your companion? Mayhap then they will understand why I say neither of these ladies—nor anyone else in this house or Lord Eastbridge’s—killed the countess.”
The coroner nodded. He drew back the other person’s hood to reveal a familiar face.
It was Lady Eastbridge!
“Aha!” she called in a shrill voice. “I am still the premier lady of Twelfth Night. The Lady of Misrule! Who else would have faked her own death to pop out during the celebrations? My pranks are still the very best, whether the party is at my house or at this upstart baroness’s house.”
As the countess kept lauding herself, Priscilla heard one thud, then a second, and a third. She whirled to see the earl and his former lover sprawled on the floor, senseless in a swoon. Beside them, Lady Symmington lay.
“Your idea?” Priscilla asked as she stepped over the baroness’s prone form to reach Neville.
“Partly. When I encountered Grove on my way to the ballroom, he suggested a public exposure of the lies. I am sorry to be delayed.” He grinned and took her hands. “I will explain later. For now, I want to keep that promise I made to you, sweetheart. Let us retire from these Twelfth Night celebrations.”
She started to agree, but halted when a wild shriek came from the gallery. Looking up, she saw Lady Eastbridge’s face was taut with fury. The countess’s eyes were focused beyond Priscilla.
Glancing over her shoulder, Priscilla saw that Lord Eastbridge had regained consciousness. But, apparently, not his senses, because he was kneeling over Miss Baldwin and chafing her wrists while he cried, “My dear Annalee! My dear Annalee! I forgive you. Come back to me. Please come back to me.”
Another scream came from the gallery, and the countess fell to her knees, sobbing.
THE CHILDREN WERE tucked into their beds and asleep while Priscilla stretched out on the settee. She leaned back across Neville’s lap, his arm cradling her. That allowed her to watch the flames on the hearth, the snow drifting past the windows, and Neville’s face. She paid little attention to the fire or the storm.
“Is it a crime to fake one’s death?” Priscilla asked.
“Not that I know of, but in the wake of what happened in the ballroom, I suspect she will be deemed insane, driven there by her husband’s infidelities.”
“But it was obvious she had no idea that her husband was having an affaire with her companion. I wish Jeannette had let me in to speak with the countess.”
“Jeannette is not without blame, for she clearly helped the countess from the beginning.”
Priscilla nodded. “I asked her about the bloody dress, and she avoided giving me a direct answer. I have a feeling that she arranged for Isaac to go into the dovecote to find it. She will not own to that, of course.”
“Of course, because she knows that her punishment would be more severe than the countess’s.” He ran a finger along his chin. “Pris, I think she has an amour for the earl—or at least the earl’s prestige—as well. Too often she ‘arranged’ for Eastbridge and Miss Baldwin to be interrupted at a most inopportune time.”
“That is for them to work out. What do you think will happen to Lady Eastbridge?”
“As a woman of her rank, she will not be sent to Bedlam. I would guess, rather, a mad nurse will be secured for her, and she will be imprisoned in a wing of her own home.”
Priscilla sighed as she sat up and clasped her hands around her knee. “To think this all was caused by her desire to be the hostess of a Twelfth Night masquerade.”
“If she had spoken calmly with Lady Symmington—”
“No, Neville, do not excuse the Symmingtons. They knew what they were doing when they usurped Lady Eastbridge’s traditional claim to the Twelfth Night ball. I fear there are more villains than victims in this muddle.”
He tilted her face closer to his. “Enough of this, Pris. I have not had the chance to give you your Twelfth Night gift.”
“Nor I to give you the one I have for you.”
He stood and held out his hand. “Shall we find some place far less public to exchange the sweetest gift of all?”
“No tricks?”
“Maybe a few.” His eyes twinkled rakishly as he drew her closer. His lips lowered toward hers, and in the moment before they melded in the heat of their yearning, he whispered, “But I can promise you that you will enjoy them.”
The End
Dedication
For The Lord of Misrule
To Bill—let’s always celebrate each day together
like it was Christmas
A Delicate Footing
by
Karen Frisch
Chapter One
SOPHRONIA TEMPLETON shivered despite being bundled in her warmest pelisse. In the thin light of waning afternoon, her clothing failed to keep the chill of winter at bay. Sophy contemplated her skates doubtfully. Had it really been three yea
rs since she last skated?
“Come join us, Aunt Sophy!” Sensing her hesitation, eleven-year-old Susannah executed a graceful twirl as if it were as natural as breathing. “It isn’t cold once you’re moving.”
The sight of her nieces and nephews gliding across the glistening ice and the enchanting lilt of their laughter proved irresistible. Sophy lowered herself onto the log positioned beside her family’s pond, certain her feet had grown. She squeezed the toes of her shoes between the skate’s wide leather straps and thick rosewood soles, careful to avoid the high, curled wrought iron prow blades that protruded from underneath.
“I was once quite adept at figure eights,” she assured Susannah and young Emily as she inched tentatively onto the ice, “but you’re all so skilled I daresay you’ve surpassed me in my absence.”
Taking care to avoid Teddy as he grabbed the tail of Jonathan’s coat and held on for the ride, Sophy struggled to find her footing. She laughed, along with the children, at her own awkward stiffness, their encouragement restoring her confidence until she was able to skate nearly as well as she remembered from childhood winters. She felt so lighthearted she began to spin in tandem with Susannah, easing herself into the routine and closing her eyes for the briefest of moments.
When she opened them she was startled to see a newcomer’s familiar face flash before her. Suddenly self-conscious, she knew the spell was broken as she realized she and the children were no longer alone. A visitor stood casually on the banks of the pond, watching with a smile. For a second she forgot where she was, as if the years had fallen away and returned her to her youth.
Sophy failed to comprehend words in the jumble of exclamations that issued from the children, but the alarm in their voices was unmistakable. She glanced forward in time to see a jagged fallen branch looming before her at the pond’s edge. She was not in time to avoid tripping over it, or to keep Teddy, the youngest who followed at her heels, from toppling over her.
The severe pain stunned her momentarily, making events immediately afterward a blur, yet she knew at once the thin ice at the edge of the pond had not cracked with as much force as her ankle had when she landed upon it and heard it crunch beneath her. As Teddy jumped to his feet and the children gathered about her, she quickly reassured them she was fine, despite her doubts. It was when she struggled to sit upright and regain her balance in spite of the shooting pain that she noticed the visitor approaching her. He bent slowly beside her, taking her hand.
“Might I offer some assistance, my dear Sophy?”
The agonizing pain was forgotten as the words penetrated her consciousness. She knew the smooth cadence of his voice even though she hadn’t heard it in years. Turning, she found her face inches from the gentleman’s whose countenance displayed deep concern as his woolen greatcoat brushed her cheek.
His presence here startled her, dissolving the distance between them and melting the years away. Emotions struggled within her before her composure won out. He must not see her looking such a complete romp after taking such an awkward spill.
“Jeremy,” she managed, fighting to keep her emotions at bay while shifting her weight. “I didn’t expect to see you here, and certainly not from this position. Children, this is Captain St. Laurent.”
“I’d advise you not to move more than necessary until the doctor sees you,” he urged in a gentle tone. “Are you able to rise? You fell so hard I shouldn’t be surprised if the pain is excruciating.”
Focused more on embarrassment than pain, Sophy attempted to slide her ankles under her as pain sliced through one leg and took her breath away. Jeremy laid a gloved hand on her calf, instructing her to remain still. Even through her thick cloak she felt his powerful grip steadying her.
Childish, gasping sobs startled her back to the present. “It’s my fault,” cried her nephew Teddy, tears streaming down his cheek. “If I hadn’t fallen on you you’d be up by now.”
“Nonsense, Teddy,” she said gently, trying to numb the hurt so as not to frighten him more. “Soon enough I’ll be back on the ice trying to keep up with you. You shall see.”
“Perhaps not this season, however,” Jeremy cautioned quietly. “I saw enough of this type of injury in Spain to suspect you won’t be skating for some time.”
Ignoring his unwelcome diagnosis, Sophy declined to be carried, fearing it would be altogether too awkward considering Jeremy’s arms were the only means of transportation available to her. She was relieved when he agreed he also felt it unwise. Instead she waited by the pond, shivering, until a pair of strong and trusted servants lifted her onto a litter and carried her to her room while the doctor was summoned.
The results of Doctor Evans’s examination two hours later dismayed her, for he concurred with Jeremy’s assessment of her condition. By that time Jeremy St. Laurent had disappeared. Standing anxiously by in her room were her mother, her brother Barclay and, of course, Teddy.
“Barely home a week,” Barclay exclaimed, laying his hand on her shoulder, “and look what you’ve done to yourself.”
“She certainly has done some damage,” Doctor Evans agreed. “This ankle has suffered a severe sprain.”
Leaning against the headboard of the bed, Sophy relaxed with relief. “That is fortunate indeed, for if it is only a sprain, I should be well enough to travel again after Christmas.”
“I wouldn’t expect to go anywhere for some time,” the doctor cautioned. “I’ve seen some disastrous sprains in my day that have resulted in excruciating and prolonged pain. Mind, I’m not saying that is the case in these circumstances, but I would judge your present pain to be quite severe if you can barely stand. Am I correct?”
Under the covers her ankle throbbed so that Sophy had to grit her teeth before she was able to grunt in answer.
“I thought so.” The doctor sighed. “This will probably leave you at a severe disadvantage for much of the holiday season, I’m afraid. But as you have family and servants here to help, your recovery should be relatively comfortable. Under the circumstances, I don’t think travel is advisable. I doubt very much this ankle will be completely healed for some time.”
Sophy felt the color drain from her face. His words made her feel much worse than when she’d first fallen. “But I have plans to sail to America toward the end of January. I’ve been engaged in missionary work there for the past two years. I teach with Reverend Bixby’s team, and they are anticipating my return.”
Doctor Evans smiled thinly. “I’m afraid they must make do until you are well enough to walk.”
Sophy sat still, scarcely able to believe her ears. “How soon do you think that will be?”
The doctor shrugged as he packed his bag. “I don’t believe the ankle is broken. It is entirely dependent upon how the ankle feels. Judging from the pain you’re experiencing, however, I would expect your recuperation period to require a minimum of two months.”
The shock took Sophy’s breath away. “Two months! I couldn’t possibly consider remaining in bed all that time. I’ll simply have to limp along using a walking stick.”
“You won’t be in bed the entire time, but I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until you’re completely healed before traveling. Walking on this ankle before it’s ready might result in a setback that could cost you dearly.” Doctor Evans paused as he watched her reaction, concern in his eyes. “Instead of complaining, Miss Templeton, I would suggest you count your blessings. When I see the condition in which some of our soldiers return to us—”
He shook his head, unwilling to continue. Sophy stared at him, challenging him to explain.
Finally, he relented and said, “Let me just say you could have faced dangers far worse. Had you shattered your ankle rather than twisting it and infection set in, you might have lost the foot were we forced to amputate.” He stared at her over his glasses. “With a bit of rest and time, you shall be ice skating
with your nieces and nephews again before we’ve seen the last of winter this year.”
Trying to absorb the disastrous news, Sophy was too upset to speak as Doctor Evans discussed her care with her mother. She heard him recommend that she stay off the ankle for at least a week or two, depending on her progress, before testing it for strength. Fighting back tears at her misfortune, she could hardly believe such a thing had happened, until she remembered seeing Jeremy St. Laurent standing at the pond’s edge. Her thoughts darkened at the memory.
“Don’t let this put you in the dismals, Soph,” Barclay advised, sitting beside her. “Once this heals you’ll still have your leg, unlike Harry. Maybe crutches will get you back on your feet sooner. Harry’s become skilled at using them.”
Sophy sat back, brooding in silence. She chided herself for behaving so selfishly when her older brother had lost his lower leg below the knee. Hers would heal, but it would require time. Time she did not have, she worried.
“Be glad, my young woman, that you did not break your femur,” Doctor Evans advised, closing his bag. “In time, when your ankle starts to feel better, you might find you need to use a cane or walking stick for a time.”
Standing beside the bed, Teddy reached for her hand with a quivering sob. Sophy pulled the child closer, inviting him to huddle together in the bed with her in order to comfort herself as much as to ease his guilt.
“I would encourage you,” the doctor warned, his tone more ominous than she liked, “to stay off that foot as much as possible so the ankle can heal properly. And I warn you, even if you do stay off it, walking might not be the same for quite some time.”
Alarm surged through her. “Are you saying I might never walk again?”
“You’ll likely walk again, but there is a strong possibility that it will be with great difficulty and might involve some pain for awhile. Remember, none of these are certainties. You can hasten your recovery better than anyone by heeding my advice.”
