Twelfth Night Secrets

by Jane Feather

  Harriet had listened at first in disbelief, thinking he was playing some strange joke upon her, but Nick was not one for practical jokes. Slowly, she understood exactly what he was telling her. Her brother was a spy. It was expected that France, under the military leadership of Bonaparte, would soon begin planning an invasion of Britain, and Nick was to go to France to join up with an intelligence network along the Brittany coast, from where they would pass information back to their country. He needed a safe address outside the usual intelligence channels to send his coded information, and he wanted his sister to act as his poste restante. She would not be involved in any danger; the coded information would be included within the ordinary letters he sent her as a matter of course. The letters would travel on the packet boats with the routine mail just as always, and they should attract no particular attention from anyone watching the mails for suspicious activity. She would be contacted in the London house in order to pass on the correspondence.

  Harriet would never refuse her brother anything, and it hadn’t occurred to her to refuse him then, however astonishing the request and what it revealed about her best friend. It was a simple enough part to play, after all.

  It seemed oddly naïve now, how easily she had agreed, Harriet thought. But then, she had been infected by Nick’s enthusiasm for his role, by the power of a patriotism that could actually manifest itself in some concrete fashion. They had been full of excitement, thrilled at the prospect of working together for their country.

  She had seen her brother ride off in the dark hour before dawn . . . and she had never seen him again.

  Oh, the letters had come as he had said they would, and George Howard, an unremarkable dapper gentleman looking like a man of business, had paid regular visits to Devere House in London to receive them.

  Then the letters had ceased.

  She had waited in an agony of anxiety until Howard had come to tell her that Nicholas had been killed in the siege of Elba, and the next morning, his name had appeared among the war dead in the London Gazette. And until that morning in November when Howard and Bedford had visited her in London and told her the truth, she had been left alone with her grief, concentrating on the children, who needed every moment of her time. They had adored Nick, and their own uncomprehending grief had expressed itself in alternating outbursts of rage and long periods of sullen and uncooperative silence. The war in Europe had continued, with shifting alliances, treaties made and broken, and all the while, the threat of the French invasion grew more powerful.

  But things had changed that November morning. If what the men from the Ministry suspected was true, then Julius Forsythe had been using his friendship with Nicholas Devere to betray his own country. And eventually, he had betrayed Nicholas. As Harriet had absorbed this implication, a deep, cold rage had entered her soul, almost superseding her grief. She would be avenged. If this man had been responsible for Nick’s murder in a back alley, he would pay, and she would ensure that he did.

  The twins no longer needed her single-minded attention; they missed their brother, but they were coming out of the worst of their grief. In essence, it was not a difficult task the men were asking of her, just simple observation.

  But now Harriet felt the need to take things further, to dig deeper. She had been intrigued by the indentations on the vellum at the Earl’s secretaire, by the way he had burned the paper, and particularly by the lie he had told about having no need to do correspondence on this holiday visit. She could simply report that to her contacts and leave the rest to them, but her need for vengeance would not be satisfied by such a passive role. The man who had been responsible for Nick’s death had wormed his way into the affections of her grandfather and had gained the confidence of the children. It was up to her now to expose him for what he was—and as soon as possible. Neither the Duke nor the children should have to bear another loss.

  He would be joining the gentlemen in their various sporting pursuits during the following days, and there would be opportunity aplenty for a thorough investigation of his chamber and possessions.

  Harriet yawned and drained her glass. She snuffed the candles on the mantel and took herself to bed, leaning out to blow the bedside taper before burrowing down into the deep feather mattress behind the thick, sheltering bedcurtains.

  Julius Forsythe was sitting at the desk in his bedchamber as the house slept around him. Thomas had long since helped him into his night robe, poured him a generous measure of cognac, and left him to go to his own bed, but Julius preferred the night hours for some of the more intellectually demanding aspects of his work. The crackle of the log in the hearth, the occasional creak of a floorboard, and the scuttle of a mouse were the only sounds apart from the scratch of his pen on the vellum.

  Lines of letters and numbers appeared beneath his quill, he made swift notations in the margins, and he occasionally consulted a volume of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales in the original Middle English as he decoded the hieroglyphics on the small scrap of paper that had reached him via a carrier pigeon the day before. His response would go on its way by the same method from a pigeon loft in Turl Street in Oxford the following afternoon.

  A slight smile touched his lips as he thought of Harriet and her solicitous information about leaving his mail on the pier table in the hall for the butler. He hadn’t lied when he said he had no need of such a conventional means of transmitting correspondence.

  His pen paused as he looked up from his work, momentarily distracted by the mental image of Lady Harriet Devere. She was certainly very like Nicholas and yet also in very important ways most unlike him. Her eyes were larger, he thought, maybe a deeper shade of green, and the reddish glints in her wheat-colored hair were almost an indefinable color, sometimes pink, sometimes almost copper when the light fell upon her head in a certain fashion.

  She had a much fuller mouth than her brother, he remembered, but the straight nose and high cheekbones were the same, definitely a family trait, particularly pronounced in the old Duke. He liked the way she carried herself, with the cool assurance of one confident of who she was and where she fitted in her world. And in that, she most resembled Lord Hesketh.

  Nicholas had borne himself with supreme confidence but never without thought. It was what had made him so valuable at his work. He examined every aspect of a situation, every angle of a plan, an ability that Julius admired and had himself in abundance. It was what made them such a superb partnership, until it had to end in that wretched way. A knife to the throat in a back alley was no way for a man like Nicholas to die. And yet sometimes it was inevitable. It had been inevitable that Nicholas Devere should die like that.

  Julius shook his head briskly, as if to dispel cobwebs, dipped his quill into the ink, and continued with his work.

  Chapter Four

  Harriet woke just before Agnes came in with her morning chocolate. She hitched herself up against the pillows as her maid drew back the bedcurtains.

  “It’s stopped snowing, m’lady, just a dusting on the ground,” Agnes informed her, setting the tray on the coverlet before going to draw back the curtains to let in the daylight. Crisp sunlight shone through the frosted windowpanes.

  “It looks like a good day for traveling,” Harriet observed with a degree of relief, drawing a cashmere shawl around her shoulders against the chill air.

  “I’ll have the fire blazin’ quick as a flash, ma’am.” Agnes bent to poke the dying embers before adding fresh kindling and new logs. “Will you be goin’ down for breakfast, m’lady, or should I bring up a tray?”

  “No, I’ll breakfast with the Duke in the breakfast parlor.” Harriet poured a fragrant stream of chocolate into her cup from the silver pot. Presumably, the Earl would also be joining them. “I’ll wear the green muslin morning gown, Agnes.” The decision followed her previous thought. People told her she looked particularly fetching in green, and her mission was to charm the Earl, after all, to slip beneath his guard if she could. If it meant she should look her best at all
times in his company, and looking her best always made her sparkle, so be it. She sipped her chocolate, the crackle of the logs as they caught in the hearth making the room feel warm and welcoming again.

  Half an hour later, she descended to the breakfast parlor and was surprised and, she had to admit, a little disappointed to find only her grandfather at the table. He looked up from the journal he was reading and nodded at her. “Good morning, Harriet. You slept well, I trust.”

  “As always, sir. I find Charlbury very conducive to a peaceful night.” She glanced at his tankard and without comment refilled it from the jug on the table. “Can I fetch you something from the sideboard?”

  He examined his plate with an air of mild curiosity. “To tell you the truth, I can’t even remember what I was eating. There’s a most interesting article in the journal about this man Jenner. He calls this treatment for smallpox vaccination, apparently deriving from the Latin vacca, for a cow. He injects patients with cowpox, and somehow it inoculates them against the disease.” He peered at his granddaughter. “I shall look into it further. If it works, then everyone on the estate must receive this protection, and you and the children most particularly.”

  Harriet smiled a vague acknowledgment, not at all sure quite how to respond. It was never wise to disagree with the Duke when he had taken to an idea, but she had her doubts about sticking needles into the twins, let alone the superstitious folks on the estate. It would come under the heading of witchcraft, she rather suspected. Tom and Grace would object at the top of their lungs.

  She helped herself to eggs. “His lordship is not joining us?”

  “He’s probably out around the estate. He’s a keen sportsman . . . just like Nicholas.” The Duke cleared his throat, then returned to his journal.

  Harriet took a chair at the table and buttered a piece of toast. She knew better than to interrupt her grandfather when he was reading and instead turned her thoughts to the day ahead. After breakfast, she must look over the menus with Cook and Mrs. Sutcliff . . . A gleeful shout from beyond the French windows brought her head up swiftly. She looked over at the windows, which opened onto the frost-sparkling lawns at the rear of the house. The twins were prancing outside, waving and shrieking with laughter, while Tess, the retriever, jumped up at them, barking and wagging her tail, obviously enjoying the game. Behind them came the tall figure of Julius Forsythe, tossing a ball between his gloved hands.

  “What on earth is going on?” Lionel demanded, staring over the top of his paper.

  “I’m not sure.” Harriet went to open the French windows. “Come in quickly, before you let all the cold air in.”

  “We were playing football, Harry!” Tom shouted as he catapulted through the door.

  “Yes, and I scored a goal, didn’t I, sir?” Grace cried, at a pitch rivaling her brother’s. “And then we found enough snow for a snowball fight.”

  “Yes, and we fought against Lord Marbury, and—”

  “Pipe down, the pair of you.” Their grandfather’s bellow cut Tom off in midspeech, and they both fell into openmouthed silence.

  “You may blame me, sir, for the excitement.” The Earl stepped into the room and closed the doors behind him. “Sit, Tess. Heel.” He gestured sharply to the retriever, who was still bouncing around the children. The dog sat obediently at his feet.

  “I fail to see why you should be held responsible for this unruly pair’s ill manners,” the Duke said testily.

  “Nevertheless, Duke, I am responsible for encouraging a rather lively game.” Julius’s smile was a little rueful as he bowed to Harriet. “Lady Harriet, I hope I may be forgiven.”

  “I know my brother and sister far too well to hold you to blame, sir,” Harriet returned with an answering smile that came all too easily. “It takes nothing to get them excited—a dog, a ball, and an element of competition will do it anytime.” She turned to the twins. “You had best go up and find Nurse Maddox. I’m sure she’ll be looking for you.”

  “Off you go,” the Earl said quietly, turning them to the door when they hesitated. “Let your grandfather continue with his breakfast in peace.” He shooed them from the room, closing the door behind them, then stood with that same rueful smile, tossing the ball from one hand to the other.

  “Have you breakfasted, sir?”

  “Not as yet. I saw the children from my bedchamber window and was struck with the urge to kick a ball around.” He gave a self-deprecating laugh. “I can’t think what came over me.”

  “Neither can I,” muttered the Duke. “Sit down, man. Take a tankard of ale, and Harriet will fetch you a plate of kidneys . . . or kippers, if you prefer.”

  “Or both,” Harriet said, regarding him with a raised eyebrow as she stood at the chafing dishes on the sideboard.

  “Kippers first, then, thank you.” He sat down at the table. “It’s a lovely morning, but the ground’s like iron. It was quite a frost last night.”

  The Duke looked concerned. “Not too hard for the horses, I trust. I’d best talk to Jackson about the hunt.” He set his paper aside and stood. “If you’ll both excuse me. I’ll see you later, Marbury. Harriet, send for me as soon as Augusta arrives, will you? She’ll sulk for hours if I’m not there to bid her welcome.”

  “Of course.” Harriet hid a smile as her grandfather strode from the breakfast parlor. She set a plate of kippers in front of the Earl and took her own seat, buttering a piece of toast. “He’ll be badgering poor Jackson morning, noon, and night now until the hunt.”

  “Jackson?”

  “The Huntsman. It’ll be up to him to make the decision about going out on Boxing Day.” Harriet sipped coffee. “It was kind of you to give the children your time this morning.”

  “Kind. Good God, I wasn’t kicking a ball with them out of kindness, I assure you.” He sounded genuinely offended. “It reminded me of impromptu games in my childhood. My brother and I used to play with the village lads when we could escape surveillance.” He dissected his kipper with meticulous delicacy.

  “Well, I am grateful, anyway. They need some attention from someone other than myself. Tom, in particular, needs some . . .” Her voice faded. How to say that Tom needed a man’s influence, a man’s attention, now that his own brother and father were no longer there to provide it?

  “Yes, I understand,” the Earl said swiftly. “It’s hard for a lad to grow up under a petticoat regime, however sporting and indulgent it may be.” He gave her a swift smile. “You can’t expect to replace Nicholas, my dear girl.”

  She felt her cheeks warm. “I don’t.” And now all she could think was that this man, offering these comforting nuggets of understanding, was suspected of being responsible for Nick’s death, even if he had not actually wielded the knife himself. And maybe he had. No one had seen the killing. She dropped her eyes, knowing they would reveal too much, and pushed back her chair, abandoning her toast. “If you’ll excuse me, my lord, I have much to do this morning before the guests arrive. I’m sure you are sufficiently at home here to entertain yourself.”

  He rose with her, bowing, his face expressionless, his dark eyes unreadable. “As you say.” As she reached the door, he said, “I am still hoping for a tour of the picture gallery at some point, if you should manage to find the time.”

  Harriet reminded herself that she would get nowhere by holding him at arm’s length. She raised her eyes to meet his steady gaze. “In an hour, perhaps. I will meet you in the Long Gallery, sir.”

  “I look forward to it.” He bowed again as she whisked herself from the room.

  Thoughtfully, Julius returned to his neglected kipper. What had been behind that sudden withdrawal? One minute she had been all conspiratorial smiles, and the next cold and distant. The instant before she had lowered her eyes, he had caught a sudden burn of anger, but he couldn’t imagine what he might have done or said to cause it. Nicholas had not had a mercurial temperament, he reflected. And as far as he could remember, in his many descriptions of his beloved sister, Nick had
never so much as hinted at anything but an intelligent, humorous equanimity.

  He shook his head and drank his ale. He had little time for the fair sex in his life, and while he’d had his liaisons, brief encounters over the years, he had never really spent concerted time with any one woman. He was never in one place long enough . . . or so he had always thought. The novel thought occurred now that perhaps he simply hadn’t met a woman who would make staying around worthwhile. He frowned at the pile of fish bones on his plate. How would he know when, or rather if, he did meet such a woman? His eyes drifted towards the closed door. Then he shook his head again in a gesture of mild exasperation and reached for the ale jug to refill his tankard.

  Harriet fought to concentrate on the business in hand as she met with Cook and the housekeeper, discussing the various merits of a baron of beef versus a boar’s head for the Christmas table and the need for calves’-foot jelly for Great-aunt Augusta, who would insist upon it even though she barely touched it. “Oh, and we must make sure to have plenty of your cheese tartlets for Lord Howarth, Cook. You know how much he likes them.”

  “Oh, aye, right partial to ’em, he is,” Cook said with a complacent smile. “And there’ll be partridge pies an’ veal and ham for the shooting-party lunch.”

  “Have the children been down yet to stir the puddings?” Stirring the Christmas puddings was a childhood ritual, and Harriet remembered how it had felt to stand up on a high stool at the massive kitchen table, struggling with the great wooden ladle to mix the bowl of candied fruits, nuts, eggs, suet, flour, and whatever else Cook had decided to add, her nose tickling with the powerful fumes of the brandy that was slurped in at every turn. Nick had always sneaked a finger around the edge of the bowl to taste the mixture when no one was looking. The brandy had always made him choke. She gave herself a mental shake.

  “They’ll be down this afternoon to do that, an’ tomorrow afternoon when the cake and that fancy bouchedenoel, or however them Frenchies call it . . . can’t think what’s wrong with a good old-fashioned Christmas cake.” She sniffed. “When they’ve been iced, the children can come and decorate them. I’ll be making the marzipan today.”