The Houseparty

by Anne Stuart

  Well, it was patently absurd, she told herself as she wrestled with her clothing. As if His Majesty's government would behave so odiously even to traitors! It would make them little better than the monsters of the French Revolution with their infamous guillotine. Not that some of the French aristocracy hadn't deserved it, she added with a libertarian air.

  And not that a French agent who was busily engaged in selling out his own country to the Corsican monster didn't deserve it, she added gloomily, yanking at her laces and remembering with a blush her assistant of the night before. She could almost imagine those cool, deft hands on her skin, and a small, helpless moan escaped her. Drat the man!

  Her dreams were far from pleasant that night. She found herself strolling casually through a snowy field, though the temperature was quite warm, and she was dressed in her shift and petticoats, barefoot, with her chestnut hair hanging like a curtain down her back. Sumner was standing to one side, a disapproving expression on his pale, handsome face as he quoted some of Saint Paul's more sour reproaches, and Brenna, dressed as a nun, shook her head sadly. At the far end of the field was Michael Fraser, too far away for her to read his expression. She knew she had to reach him before it was too late, but Adolphus and Rupert seemed determined to stop her.

  "But you cannot go to him," said Rupert with great practicality. "He has no feet."

  The dream Elizabeth paid no attention, pushing him out of her way and running the seemingly interminable distance across the field. Flinging herself in Michael's waiting arms, she held on as tightly as she could. Looking up into his eyes, she recognized the expression of rueful amusement.

  "You're far too late, Lizzie," he said mildly. "They've already killed me." And she knew that if she looked down, his feet would be gone. She opened her mouth to scream. . . .

  She sat bolt upright in her bed, her skin crawling with remembered horror, tears not far from her frightened eyes. It was pitch-black in her cavernous bedroom. The fire had burned to a mere glow of embers, and the moon had already set, leaving a dark, cloudy sky outside the tall, leaded-glass windows.

  With great determination Elizabeth lay down again, trying to will herself back to sleep. It was to no avail. Every time she closed her eyes, she pictured Fraser's dismembered body, his beautiful eyes staring up at her beseechingly. Sighing, she sat up again, struggling with a tinder to light her bedside candle. There was no question of sleep right now. She had finished her novel, and the great house was quiet, the various inhabitants sleeping the sleep of the just or the conscienceless, she couldn't be sure which.

  It is now or never, Lizzie, she told herself firmly, using the pet name deliberately. After all, it was a very nice sort of name, even if it came from a spy and a traitor. If you're going to find that list, you certainly couldn't choose a better time. The entire house is asleep. No sober voice answered her, telling her not to be foolish, to blow out the candle and go back to sleep. There was only the silence of the sleeping house.

  Sighing, she pulled herself out of bed. A little predawn stroll to the deserted battlements to prove her suspicions unfounded and then she could sleep for hours. Thank heavens she wouldn't have to rise early for one of Sumner's tedious Sunday services. Or would she?

  Wrapping a frilly lace robe around her tall, well- rounded body, she picked up the candle and opened the door. Without a sound, she slipped out and shut the door behind her. Maybe a detour by way of the library and the brandy bottle wouldn't be amiss.

  The rattle of a doorknob alerted her. Blowing out the candle, she slipped down behind a large upholstered chair, scarcely daring to breath. A door opened, a candle glow illuminated the hallway, and the elegant figure of the contessa, scantily clad in black lace and ribbons, emerged. Elizabeth noted with interest that she had made her exit from Sir Maurice's bedroom. Peering about nervously, the contessa tiptoed down the hall, scratched on the door, and entered. Elizabeth was frozen with shock and fury. It was Michael's door!

  She crouched there, her mind ablaze with rage and speculation. Before she could order her thoughts, however, another doorknob turned. She cast a surreptitious glance toward Michael's door, but this time she was astounded to see her brother, clad gloriously in purple flannel, his golden locks freshly brushed, move swifdy down the hallway toward the rooms originally allotted to the contessa. With a muffled knock, he turned the handle and entered, shutting the door behind him.

  She's not there, Elizabeth thought grimly. She's busy with him. The door beside her opened again, and the contessa stepped out, moving past Elizabeth's crouching figure with a heavy trail of musk-scented perfume. She went straight into Sir Henry's bedroom, this time without so much as a knock. It was little wonder Lady Beatrice found herself indisposed this weekend.

  Sumner stepped out of the contessa's rooms, a petulant expression on his handsome, immature face, and moved swiftly back to his own rooms. He disappeared into them just in time, as Adolphus's mountainous form, clad in a dressing gown of a truly ominous Paisley, with twelve frogs down his massive front, appeared from around the corner. The door next to Elizabeth's crouched body opened, and Michael stepped out, saw Adolphus's approaching form, and to Elizabeth's surprise strode on silent, bare feet to meet his host. He was still dressed, albeit in shirt-sleeves, and it was no effort on Elizabeth's part to compare the two dissimilar men. Michael won by a wide margin.

  "There you are!" Adolphus cried in a disgruntled voice. "I was expecting to hear from someone tonight. I must say I don't care to be left in the dark this way. It's as much my business as anyone else's. After all, the papers were hidden in my house." He sounded like nothing so much as a spoiled child. "I think I have a right to know."

  "We've told you everything we can, Sir Adolphus," Michael said soothingly, and Elizabeth knew immediately that he was lying. "As soon as we're able to find out where the information was hidden—"

  "How do I know I can trust you? You've got a damned shady reputation, Fraser."

  "I thought you found my credentials acceptable," he replied mildly enough, and Elizabeth craned her neck to hear Adolphus's mumbled reply.

  "Well, if (the name was unintelligible) says so, I suppose I have no choice but to accept it. But I must warn you away from Miss Traherne. She's a veritable innocent, hasn't been out in the world much, and she's likely to have her head turned by a fellow of your address. I must ask you to leave her alone. I'd think you'd be too busy to get up a flirtation with an aging spinster."

  Fraser laughed. "I would scarcely call Miss Traherne an aging spinster, Sir Adolphus. And if that's how you view her, I'm surprised you find it necessary to defend her. Her brothers would certainly be the ones to demand to know my intentions."

  "Miss Traherne is a connection of mine. I feel, as head of the family—"

  "You'd like a bit of slap and tickle yourself, Sir Adolphus," Michael concluded bluntly. "You may rest assured that Miss Traherne stands in no danger of ravishment from me."

  "Well, I would hardly have thought so. She isn't quite your style, is she?" Adolphus said smugly, licking his thick pink lips.

  "Oh, now, I wouldn't say that," Michael responded lazily. "I merely have other things on my mind right now." He made a dismissing gesture. "Go back to bed, Sir Adolphus. I am not, as you obviously suspect, about to sneak into Miss Traherne's bedroom and have my wicked way with her. I prefer my women willing. As soon as I find out anything more about the papers, I will inform you. I am sure you can be trusted." The irony in his voice was heavy, but Adolphus, not being precisely needle-witted, appeared to take his words at face value.

  "Very well. And I suppose I'll have to trust you. I haven't any choice in the matter. But I must remind you that my mother has a frail constitution. I don't want anything to upset her."

  "Your mother is a Valkyrie," Fraser said bluntly.

  "She'd stand up to blood and gore far better than most soldiers would, I make no doubt. Good evening, Sir Adolphus." Without another word he disappeared back into his room, shutting the door behin
d him with a decided snap.

  Elizabeth crouched there, her mind awhirl. Why in the world would Adolphus, the proud and honorable sixth baron Wingert, allow a mere captain in the service of his aging uncle to speak so disrespectfully to him? And ex- acdy what was going on? Was Adolphus a traitor too? Or had the diabolically clever Captain Fraser succeeded in pulling the wool over his eyes? Or was Captain Fraser not the blackguard he seemed?

  That was almost too much to hope for, and Elizabeth felt as if she must scream from uncertainty and frustration. She knew she would gladly give ten years off her life to find out whether she could trust the man, and she felt even more determined to discover exactly what was going on.

  Adolphus still stood in the middle of the hallway, obviously undecided as to his next move. He stared back at the shut doors around him meditatively.

  The door to Elizabeth's other side opened, and the contessa was once more in the hallway. Without a word she slithered up to Adolphus, threading her slender arm through his burly one, and led him, like a master leading his prize pig, down the hall to her bedroom.

  Sumner's door opened as they went past and then si- lendy closed, an eloquent expression of doomed love and disappointment. Finally Adolphus and his friend were out of sight and Elizabeth was just about to stretch her cramped muscles, when Fraser's door opened one more time.

  "Go back to bed, Lizzie," he said in even tones, and shut the door again before she had time to do anything more than gasp in outrage as she struggled to her feet.

  "Damn," she muttered, and retired obediently to her room, not even bothering to lock the door. If she tried to make it to the tower, she had little doubt Fraser would follow her. The moment her head hit the pillow, she was asleep again, although this time her dreams were a great deal more pleasant, if markedly more licentious.

  Sunday

  Chapter 13

  Elizabeth opened her eyes suddenly as a small, almost in- audible sound penetrated the heavy mists of sleep. She lay there in the soft, warm bed, every nerve atingle, her heart thudding, her palms damp. Then she placed the noise. It had been the unmistakable click of her heavy oak door shutting. But had it been shutting someone in or out?

  Slowly, imperceptibly, she moved her head a fraction of an inch, peering through half-closed eyes. In the early morning light her room was blessedly deserted. Swinging herself out of bed with a sudden upsurge of energy, Elizabeth dashed to the door on icy bare feet, hesitating only a moment before flinging it open to peer down the long, dim hallway. Not a soul in sight, of course, she thought bitterly, shutting the door behind her and padding back toward the cold ashes of last night's fire. And in this inhospitable house she could scarcely console herself with the reflection that it had merely been a chambermaid seeing to her comfort by bringing early morning tea or reviving her fire. Thanks to Lady Elfreda, no doubt abetted by Brenna, no such amenities were offered Miss Elizabeth Traherne. If she wanted a little warmth and something hot to drink (preferably Mrs. Kingpin's coffee), she would have to find it herself, despite the early hour and her foreshortened night's sleep.

  When Jeremy had left, he had entrusted the gold-chased pocket watch that their father had bequeathed him into her care. Sumner had done his best to filch it from her, proclaiming that he had more right to it than she did and that old Jeremy must have preferred him to have it. But Elizabeth had remained steadfast, either keeping it on her person or hiding it from Sumner's acquisitive fingers. Pulling it out from between the mattresses, she gave a small groan. Six forty-five. She looked back at the bed longingly and then squared her shoulders. If she was to be of any use at all, she couldn't succumb to the pleasures of the flesh, the most enticing of which right now was her bed. She had been balked of her chance to search for the list last night. Considering everyone's nocturnal activities, she ought to be fairly certain they would all sleep late, and she could wander about this rabbit's warren to her heart's content without running into anyone more sinister than a sleepy scullery maid or two.

  Dressing more for warmth and practicality than beauty in a round gown of soft green kerseymere, she performed a sketchy toilette, splashing cool water over her face and running a brush through her hair before pinning it back haphazardly with a few silver hairpins. There would be no one to impress at this hour of the morning, she assured herself, closing the door behind her with a silent click, the click reminding her of the noise that had first awakened her out of her sound sleep. Unless she ran into her early morning visitor, she thought, suddenly uneasy. She looked back toward her bedroom with longing and then shook herself. She had to do her best. If Jeremy could risk his life for her safety, could be lying dead or wounded in some French battlefield at this very moment, she could at least . . . at least . . .

  Her thoughts faltered as the face of the drowned French spy returned with horrid clarity. She might be found down at Starfield Cove in the same condition, and who knew whose hands would send her. Michael Fraser's? The thought was almost too much to bear. The mysteriously familiar figure of Mr. Fredericks down at the beach was a far more acceptable choice for the role of villain and murderer. Surely there was something sinister in the set of his shoulders, something inherently evil in his stance? The eerie familiarity only added to Elizabeth's sense of impending danger.

  "Well, Miss Elizabeth, I wasn't expecting to see you so early this morning," Mrs. Kingpin announced, placing a thick, steaming mug of coffee in front of her. "I would have thought you and Miss O'Shea would have slept late on such a day, especially after all the dancing and jollity of last night."

  "Brenna's up?" Elizabeth questioned, taking a deep drink and burning her tongue.

  "She was sitting here in the kitchen when I got up, just staring into the fire, poor thing. I think she's suffered a disappointment in love," Mrs. Kingpin confided, her many chins wobbling dolefully. "She wouldn't touch a bit of food and just wandered off looking like a lost soul, poor wee thing."

  "Poor wee thing," Elizabeth echoed absently, taking a more cautious sip of coffee. "Did you happen to see which direction she went?"

  Mrs. Kingpin shook her iron-gray head. "I was far too busy, Miss Elizabeth. I would expect she's in the library or wandering out in the front gardens."

  "Then I'll head for the back gardens," Elizabeth announced, taking her mug and heading toward the door. "I am feeling equally somber, and I don't feel much like a preprandial conversation with Miss Brenna O'Shea. She's not the friendliest of companions in the best of circumstances, and I don't doubt she'll be positively deadly this morning."

  Despite her words, Elizabeth made straight for the library. Even running into Brenna was worth the risk. What better place to hide an important paper than among other, innocuous papers? There must be a thousand places in the library to hide a purloined list of spies, and it was definitely a far more pleasant place to search before braving the rigors of the east tower. Elizabeth was not overly fond of heights.

  Despite her hopes, she was doomed to deep disappointment. Adolphus obviously spent the bare minimum of time in the loftily proportioned room that served as a library. The elegant Louis Quatorze desk was bare of papers, the drawers were empty, and the shelves and shelves of hand-tooled leather books were coated with a film of dust that hailed from well more than a month ago, when the French spy had met his untimely end. Brenna was scarcely the housekeeper Lady Elfreda touted her as being, and the Wingerts were as ill-read as Elizabeth suspected. So much for this avenue of endeavor, she thought, closing the door behind her and heading toward the back gardens. Michael Fraser had been out there for a reason; perhaps in the calm morning light she could find some proof of his eventual destination, if worse came to worst, a stroll up the east tower might become a necessity. For Jeremy's sake, she reminded her flagging spirits sternly.

  The air was damp and cool in the garden, the dew still fresh on the budding philodendrons, the neat little pathways wet beneath her slippered feet. It was going to be a beautiful day, unseasonably warm, and Elizabeth decided to allow h
erself a brief moment of peace before she continued her investigations. The marble bench glistened in the early sunlight, and Elizabeth sat, sipping at the now lukewarm coffee and staring meditatively into the bushes.

  "I didn't expect to see you up and about so early," an endearingly familiar voice drawled in her ear, surprisingly close. Fraser's hand dropped lightly to her shoulder, and it was with a great effort that Elizabeth controlled her nervous start as she turned to look up at him.

  "Damn and blast," she said distinctively, making no move to shake off his hand. "I hadn't expected to see you, either, after all your visitors last night."

  He smiled seraphically and dropped down on the marble bench beside her, filching the mug of coffee with one deft hand. "Why is it such a great disappointment, my love? Were you expecting someone else at this ungodly hour? The noble Captain St. Ives perhaps?" He took a swallow of her coffee, and a pained expression clouded his dark blue eyes. "What in God's name is this wretched stuff?" he demanded weakly.

  "Cold coffee. And I am not your love, Captain Fraser. Nor am I Rupert St. Ives's love, either, for that matter. Not that it's any of your concern. I merely wished for a bit of solitude on this lovely spring morning. I find the atmosphere at Winfields a trifle oppressive."

  "Not without reason," Michael replied, putting the mug down with a lingering shudder and possessing himself of one of Elizabeth's not unwilling hands. "But do you know, I do not feel the slightest bit oppressed at this moment."

  Elizabeth felt a treacherous melting inside her, a melting she knew was far too dangerous, and just what the devious Captain Fraser had in mind.

  "Do you not?" she inquired in dulcet tones, snatching her hand away and drawing herself up. "Then I trust you'll enjoy yourself even more if I leave you alone. I find I have a sudden need for solitude."