“I could have sworn it was Millicent,” she murmured.
A thought struck him, but surely his cousin would have mentioned this. “Unless, of course, you’ve married Lord Briston. Colonel Channing, that is.”
“Dear Lord, no. Absolutely not. Such an idea.” She shook her head. “I am definitely not married. As far as I can recall, although I was once.” She heaved a heartfelt sigh. “It did not go well.”
Gray stared. “Then I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“That’s quite all right.” She patted his arm and cast him a sympathetic smile. “It happens to everyone on occasion. I myself don’t understand, rather more often than not. Let me see if I can explain.” She thought for a moment. “I am Lady Briston. I have a brother-in-law, Colonel Channing. Right, thus far?”
Gray nodded mutely.
“I knew I was right.” She beamed. “And I have three daughters. Two of them look exactly alike, you know.” She shook her head. “It’s most confusing.”
“Lady, er, Briston.” Gray chose his words carefully. “I have been gone for a number of years. Still, there are things—”
“I beg your pardon.” Fortesque stepped briskly into the parlor. Gray wouldn’t have thought it possible from their initial meeting, but the man looked a bit harried. “Lady Briston, I was sent to find you.”
“And so you have, my dear Fortesque.”
The butler slanted a quick glance at Gray. “I was to find you before you greeted any visitors.”
“Then you do need to be on your toes, Fortesque,” she said in a chastising manner. “Why, I have already met Mr. Elliott. Mr. Grayson Elliott. Delightful name, don’t you agree?”
“Yes, my lady.” Fortesque’s jaw tightened, but his tone was eminently proper. “Your presence is required elsewhere.”
“Is it, indeed?” She cast the butler what could only be described as a saucy look. Who was this woman?
“Yes, my lady,” he said in an overly stern manner. “Elsewhere. At once.”
“To meet the prince, no doubt.” She leaned toward Gray confidentially. “I haven’t met him yet, but I understand he’s very handsome and quite taken with one of the blond daughters. I’m not sure which.”
Gray drew his brows together. “What prince?”
“At once, Lady Briston,” the butler said again.
“Oh, well, then.” Her eyes twinkled with amusement. “I shall make my exit with the grace and dignity befitting my position.” With that, she raised her chin and fairly floated out of the room, Fortesque a step behind.
Gray stared after them. Perhaps that was one of the odd guests who were so often to be found residing at Millworth Manor. Still, he was certain few of them believed themselves to be Lady Briston.
A young woman passed by the doorway, casting an absent glance in his direction. Less than a moment later, she reappeared and favored him with an interested smile.
“Good day.”
Her hair was a vivid shade of dark red and she was extremely pretty, with large doelike brown eyes and an exceptional figure.
He smiled. “Good day.”
She studied him curiously. “Are you another one of the players?”
“The players?”
“Mr. Fortesque said he might have to hire additional players, as this house is so very large and requires a fair number of servants.” Her gaze wandered over him in an assessing manner. “I must say, you’re handsome enough, even if you are entirely too well dressed for an actor, especially one who might take this role. It’s not as if this was Covent Garden, after all. You certainly don’t look as if you are here for the money.” She considered him closely. “No, you look as if you have money.”
He chuckled. “I shall have to do something about that.”
“Oh no,” she said quickly. “It’s always better to look as if you don’t need money than you do.”
“I shall keep that in mind.”
“The pay is better than usual here, probably because we are all sworn to secrecy under threat of legal action. Indeed, I should hate to cross Lady Lydingham.” She shuddered. “I think the woman would track us to the ends of the earth if we were to cross her, and God knows she has the money to do so. Nonetheless, one can always use more performing experience, so keeping one’s mouth shut is a small price to pay. Besides, this is a pleasant enough place to spend Christmas, and—” She sucked in a sharp breath and her eyes widened. “Oh, dear Lord, you’re not the prince, are you? Please say you’re not the prince.”
What prince? “No,” he said slowly. “I’m not the prince.”
“Thank goodness.” She breathed a sigh of relief. “I should hate to have let on to the prince that Lady Lydingham had hired . . .” The young woman’s eyes narrowed. “If you’re not the prince, and you’re not an actor, then who are you?”
It had been Gray’s experience that complete honesty was not always as effective as partial honesty. “I never said I wasn’t an actor.”
“Oh, how lovely.” Her expression brightened. “I’m Miss Murdock, Edwina. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Don’t be.” She raised a shoulder in a casual shrug. “I’m not famous yet, but I will be. I intend to be as famous as Ellen Terry one day.”
“She’s a very good actress, you know.”
“As am I.” She tossed him an impudent smile. “And at the moment, I am Lady Hargate, the younger sister of Lady Lydingham.” She paused thoughtfully. “She’s supposed to be quite proper and was described to me as something of a stick in the mud, but I’m not sure I see the part that way.”
“And how do you see it?” What was going on here?
“Well, goodness, how proper can she be? She married a much older man and now she’s a wealthy widow. A very wealthy widow, apparently. And her name is Delilah,” she added pointedly. “I don’t see her as being the least bit proper, but rather”—she deepened her voice slightly—“provocative, I would think. The kind of woman who knows what she wants and does what she must to get it.” She met his gaze directly, and he wasn’t sure if she was acting or simply very dangerous.
“Well . . . um . . .”—he swallowed hard—“it’s been my observation that nothing makes a performance more realistic than when an actor plays the role the way he—or she—feels it should be performed.”
She gasped. “That’s exactly how I feel. Then you think I’m right, to play the part as I see it, that is?”
“Without question. If you think Lady Hargate is, well, something of a tart—”
“And I do. Really, how could she be anything else?”
“Then you owe it to your audience to play the role as you feel it—” He laid a hand over his heart. “Here.”
“You’re quite right. I don’t know why I hesitated. And I have always been very good at playing the tart.” She raised a shapely shoulder in an offhand shrug. “It just seems to come naturally for me.”
“I can see where it would.”
She cast him a brilliant smile. “You’re obviously very good as well, but I didn’t realize there were any more roles for men other than servants, of course, and you don’t seem suited to play a footman.”
He shrugged.
“The butler is being played by Mr. Fortesque, and Mr. Henderson is cast as Colonel Channing. Do you know what role you have?”
“I’m afraid not.” He shook his head. “I have only just arrived.”
“There’s probably another part I am unaware of.” She heaved an overly dramatic sigh. “I don’t know how they expect me to be prepared when the script is constantly changing. Although, I suppose, as there is only an audience of one, one can allow for changes.”
“Audience of one?”
“The prince, of course.” She raised a brow. “You didn’t know?”
“As I said, I have only just arrived.”
“Of course. And, as no doubt Lady Lydingham would prefer the entire world not know she has hired a troupe of actors to play her family to impress a p
rince at Christmas, it makes perfect sense that you would not know all until you arrived.”
“It does indeed make sense.” And more so with every word from the actress’s mouth.
“I believe I shall rehearse a bit more before I meet the prince. Now that I know I was right about my portrayal of Lady Hargate.” She tilted her head and considered him. “Wouldn’t it be great fun if you are here to play the role of Lady Hargate’s secret lover?”
“That would indeed be interesting.” He grinned.
“I shall hope for the best, then.” She smiled in a flirtatious manner and left the room.
Surely, he misunderstood, although Miss Murdock was quite clear as to why she was here. Why on earth would Camille hire actors to play her family? And who was this prince everyone kept waiting to meet? None of this made any sense to him; it all seemed entirely farfetched. Beryl was probably behind it. She had always been more devious than Camille, although the two of them together had made a dangerous pair. Apparently, in that respect too, nothing had changed.
“Miss Murdock,” a harried feminine voice sounded from the hall. “Have you seen Fortesque?” The voice grew closer. “Apparently, Mrs. Montgomery-Wells is wandering about freely—” His heart skipped a beat. Regardless of the passage of years, he would know that voice anywhere. “And who knows what kind of mischief she might get into.” Camille passed by the door, glanced his way, then pulled up short and stared.
Her hair was as blond, her eyes as blue, her face as lovely as the last time he had seen her. Nothing had changed. The moment her gaze met his, the clock turned back eleven years. To the day before her wedding when she had gazed into his eyes and he had known without question that she loved him. A myriad of emotions flashed through her eyes—disbelief, delight, annoyance, even anger. But there was more. So subtle that he doubted she was aware of it. No more than a hint or a vague promise perhaps of something deeper and richer and forever shone in her eyes.
And Gray suspected he had lied to his cousin; and worse, he had lied to himself.
Four
Surely, her eyes were deceiving her. Or she’d gone mad. She stared at the figure standing in the parlor, in very much the same place where she’d last seen him. Yes, that was it. She was mad—quite, quite mad. Her scheme had completely destroyed her mind. They would be hauling her off to Bedlam at any—
“Camille?” the imaginary creature that looked suspiciously like Grayson Elliott said in a cautious manner. Of course he would be cautious, as she was so obviously mad.
She shook her head to clear it. Damnation, he was still there. “Grayson?”
“None other.”
A broad smile broke across his face, and the most absurd desire to dash across the room and into his arms gripped her. She ignored it.
“How very good to see you, Camille.”
“Is it?” She stepped into the room slowly, as if she were moving in a dream. A dream she had had before. There was indeed something not quite real about all this. He was the last person she expected, or wanted, to see now or ever again. He was a road not taken. Over and done with, and not to be considered again. Nonetheless, it—he—appar-ently was real. Grayson was here, looking every bit as wonderful as she remembered, with his dark eyes and dark hair and devastating smile, the smile which had once touched her heart. Not that it mattered at the moment. She drew a deep breath. Time enough later to examine the unexpected emotions coursing through her. “What are you doing here?”
He chuckled. “My aunt sent a basket of Cook’s baked goods to welcome your family back to Millworth Manor.”
“How very kind of her.” She glanced around the room. “Where is it?”
“I gave it to your”—his eyes narrowed slightly—“butler.”
“Ah, well, then . . .” She wasn’t sure why he was still here. She wasn’t sure how she felt about him being here at all. All she was certain of was that she wanted him to leave. At once, if not sooner. “Do give my thanks to Lady Fairborough. If that’s all—”
“What happened to Clement?” he asked abruptly.
“Gone.” She said the first thing that came into her head.
“My condolences.” Sympathy showed in his eyes. “Hard to imagine he’s gone. He was such a fixture here.”
“He’s not dead. He’s gone to Wales. To be with his family.” It was true, as far as it went, although it made no sense for the butler to be gone when the house was full. “He retired,” she added as an afterthought. Oh yes, that made it plausible.
“I see,” he said slowly. “You must miss him.”
“We do,” she said with a firm nod. “He was a part of the family. And an excellent butler.”
“It must be difficult, with a new butler, that is. And the entire family here for Christmas.”
“You have no idea.” And getting more difficult every minute. “But Fortesque is very well trained.” She smiled in what she hoped was a pleasant manner. He had delivered his aunt’s basket—what was he still doing here? “Again, do thank your aunt for me.”
“Oh, I will.” He studied her coolly. The man obviously had no intention of leaving.
“As you said, it is a bit awkward to have a new butler at this time of year. There does seem to be an endless list of things that need to be attended to, with the entire family in residence and all. I’m sure that you are busy as well, so I won’t keep you—”
“Ah yes, the whole family you say?”
She nodded.
“Your mother and Colonel Channing, your sisters and Beryl’s husband?”
“Yes, yes, that’s everyone.” Impatience edged her voice. The last thing she needed at this moment was to deal with the distant past in the guise of Grayson Elliott. The present was entirely too complicated already. “Although Lionel, Lord Dunwell, is engaged in town and won’t be arriving until Christmas Eve.”
“I see. But your mother and uncle and sisters—”
“Yes, yes, all of them,” she snapped. “Now, if there is nothing—”
“It’s been a long time, Camille.”
She deliberately misunderstood him. Now was not the time. “Indeed, it’s been entirely too long since we have all been at Millworth Manor for Christmas, and we are quite looking forward to it. However, I have a great deal to—”
“I met your mother.” His gaze bored into hers.
Her breath caught. “Did you?”
“A few minutes ago.” He smiled. “She’s changed.”
There was no way to explain Mrs. Montgomery-Wells. Best to simply pretend complete and utter ignorance. She usually did that very well. “As have we all.” She shrugged. “It’s been eleven years since you were last in this house, after all. People change, but life goes on. I daresay, nothing is as it used to be.”
He laughed.
She narrowed her gaze. “What do you find so amusing?”
“I met your sister as well.”
“Beryl?” she said hopefully.
“No, Delilah.”
She winced. “Oh.”
“What is going on here, Camille?”
“Christmas?”
His brow rose.
“It’s complicated, Grayson, and it’s none of your concern.” She huffed. “Now, if you would be so good as to take your leave.” She gestured at the door. “I would be most appreciative.”
“Oh, I think not.” He sauntered, sauntered, over to the fireplace, crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the mantel in a most arrogant manner. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She widened her eyes. “Why not?”
“Not until you tell me what’s afoot here.”
“Why do you want to know?” She mimicked his stance, folding her arms over her chest. “This has nothing to do with you. This is none of your concern whatsoever. Indeed, nothing having to do with this household or its respective members has been your concern for, oh, more than eleven years now.”
For a long moment, he stared at her in silence.
“If you have som
ething to say, do be so good as to simply say it. Then”—she jerked her head toward the door—“get out. Or better yet, get out now!”
His tone was cool, calm and entirely too reasonable. It was most infuriating. “The last time I was here—”
“No, no! I don’t want to hear it!” She clapped her hands over her ears and squeezed her eyes closed tight. “I didn’t want to hear it then. I don’t want to hear it now!”
“Camille—”
Damnation, she could still hear him. “I’m not listening! Go away!”
He didn’t respond. With her hands over her ears and her eyes shut, she couldn’t tell if he was still here or if he’d left the room. With any luck at all, he was gone. She counted to ten slowly, then opened her eyes and groaned.
“You’re still here.”
“I said I wasn’t leaving.”
“Why not?”
“Because I am fairly certain you need my help,” he said simply.
She stared in disbelief. “I need what?”
“My help.”
“My God.” She nearly choked on the words. “You are as stubborn and arrogant as you always were.”
“Come now, I was never arrogant.”
“No?” It was her turn to raise a brow.
“Admittedly, there might have been a moment now and then—”
“A moment? Hah!”
“I don’t remember—”
“I can name any number of examples of your arrogance in the past, if I were so inclined, but I’m not.” Her voice rose. “Because that would take a great deal of time and I want you to leave!”
He ignored her. “What have you gotten yourself into, Camille?”
“You can’t simply appear in my life after all these years without a word and insist on . . . on . . . rescuing me!”
“Is it that bad?” His brow furrowed. “Do you need rescue?”
“No, no, everything is going quite well.” The lie flowed easily from her lips. “Better even than I had expected.”
“Not to my observation,” he said wryly.
“You’re not leaving, are you?”
He shook his head.
She studied him closely. “If I tell you, will you leave?”
“If you tell me, I will consider leaving.”
What Happens At Christmas Page 5
