A Christmas delight

by Anthea Malcolm

  "What a charming surprise." Senhor Ribeiro bowed over Amanda's hand, holding it a good deal longer than she thought necessary. This second Ribeiro was very like the first, a little taller, perhaps, and a little broader of shoulder, though not, Amanda considered, quite so sober or so correct. But perhaps that had something to do with the hand. She professed herself delighted to meet him, and did not add, "again."

  The visitor was far more straightforward with Owen, though he greeted him with equal enthusiasm. Owen inquired after Eugenio's health and the state of his horses and his garden and asked about several of the servants by name. "Your nephew was kind enough to put his carriage at my disposal," Owen said, almost as an afterthought. "His coachman, Jorge, had the lightest hand with the ribbons I've ever seen."

  "I know Eugenio's stable well," Senhor Ribeiro said gravely. "There is no one there by the name of Jorge."

  "Is there not?" Owen made a creditable show of surprise. "I must have mistaken the name, I have the most shocking memory."

  Ribeiro waved the lapse aside, but Amanda knew that Owen had given the other man a test and that he had passed it. She saw Owen meet her brother's eyes and saw the message that passed between them. Ribeiro raised his brows in polite inquiry.

  "Fm sure you'd like to see your room," Nicola said hurriedly, "and Fd like to introduce you to your fellow guests, though Fm afraid they're scattered all about the house and grounds just now, but—"

  "But there's something awkward that has occurred," Charles put in smoothly, "and I think you'd best hear about it before you find yourself in a crowd."

  "Only do sit down." Nicola indicated a grouping of sofas and chairs near the fireplace which, like its smaller companion in the library, boasted a vigorous fire. "Sit down, everyone. I dont know whether it's a prank or something rather worse, but we may as well be comfortable while we consider it."

  Ribeiro indicated that he was desolated that his arrival had caused any problems and that he was quite willing to listen to whatever Lord and Lady Windham had to say.

  "It's not your arrival," Charles said when they were all seated, "it's the other man's." There was a moment of silence so intense Amanda heard it as a kind of ringing sound. Ribeiro was perfectly quiet, and he had no expression at all. Though, she admitted, it was hard to tell behind the moustache. "He arrived yesterday," Charles went on, "and announced himself as Raimundo Ribeiro, and I had no reason to doubt that that was who he was. He stayed the night but left early this morning, which surprised us as he had come expressly to meet Mr. Thorn who was not expected until this afternoon. We were given a note saying that he'd been called away on some private matter, and we learned later that one of the grooms drove him into Honiton

  where I imagine he caught a coach."

  Charles said no more, but let the silence develop. He was watching Ribeiro with care—indeed, they were all watching this second Raimundo Ribeiro —but the object of their combined gaze seemed unaware of their interest. He had been attentive while Charles was speaking, but now that Charles had done, Ribeiro turned thoughtful. Thoughtful, and then—yes, amused. A smile was barely visible beneath the overhanging moustache, a smile which grew and erupted at last in a shout of laughter. "Forgive me,* he said, aware now of the puzzled faces turned toward him. "It is Henrique. It must be." He drew out a handkerchief and mopped his eyes which had begun to water with mirth. "My brother," he explained. "We are very much alike."

  "There is a distinct resemblance," Charles acknowledged. He was courteous but clearly not satisfied with this explanation. "The man may well have been your brother, and I am glad to have a name to put to him. But what I do not understand is—"

  "Why?" Nicola broke in impatiently. "Why would he do such a harebrained thing? What would he have to gain by passing himself off as you?"

  Owen stirred in his chair, but it was Amanda who answered the question. "He wanted Eugenio Ribeiro's book."

  Ribeiro threw up his hands. "No, that I cannot believe. At least—You may be right, Miss Berwick, but I assure you it would be nothing more than what you call a—a prank. There is nothing vicious in Henrique." He turned back to Nicola, his face now thoughtful. "I see I must tell you about my brother, Lady Windham, though it pains me to do so. He is younger than I by no more than a year, and we have always been close, though less so, aias, in recent years. But there has always been a—a certain rivalry between us. You understand, this is com-

  mon between brothers. I have not seen Henrique for many months. He has been in Paris, where our sister lives with her husband, a Frenchman. I will travel there when my business in your country is concluded—I have not seen my sister in several years —and I will speak harshly to Henrique for imposing himself so. outrageously on my English friends." Ribeiro gave an expressive shrug. "Not that he is likely to take me seriously. Henrique, I fear, has a levity of manner that has often brought disgrace upon our family."

  He said no more. Indeed there was no more any of them could say, short of accusing him of fabricating the entire story, and that seemed unlikely. Charles, with a suitable air of gravity, thanked Ribeiro for his frankness and assured him that no. more would be said about the character of his brother. "We'll have to explain who he is, of course, lest the other guests ask awkward questions. Fortunately, he was introduced only by his surname."

  Ribeiro murmured that this was indeed fortunate.

  It was Owen who raised the matter of the book. He had brought it with him and was eager to consign it to Senhor Ribeiro's care, but in view of the appearance of the other man who might have had designs on his nephew's property and who just might be lurking in the neighborhood seeking for an opportunity to lay his hands on it, wouldn't it be wise to place it in Lord Windham's care, at least until Senhor Ribeiro left Ludlow.

  Amanda thought it very well done. Owen had at once acknowledged Ribeiro's right to the book and made it impossible for him to claim it. When Nicola had taken their Portuguese visitor off to his room, she turned to Owen and Charles and asked the question that had been on her lips since Ribeiro had told them about his scapegrace brother. "Do you believe him?"

  "I have no reason not to," Charles said. "I met the nephew when I was in Lisbon but not the uncles. But there certainly is an Henrique, and his reputation is much as Ribeiro has sketched it. You can't deny the resemblance between the two men. And the disappearance of the first argues for the legitimacy of the second. Owen?"

  "I don't know." Owen rose and moved to the fireplace, his expression thoughtful. "It seems only prudent to keep the book under lock and key for the time being. Perhaps Henrique will turn up and tell us his version of the story."

  His smile told Amanda that he expected nothing of the kind. "I suppose the book is worth a great deal of money," she said.

  "A matter of two or three hundred pounds, I would guess. More perhaps to someone who coveted it for its own sake. It's said to be the copy owned by Jane Shore, Edward IVs mistress, and if true that would raise its value, though not, I would guess, to more than a few hundred pounds. That might be a fortune to a schoolmaster, but the Ribeiros are a wealthy family."

  "Henrique may be short of the ready," Charles suggested. "Or perhaps he simply wants to make mischief."

  "He's certainly made a puzzle. And I hate puzzles I can't solve," Amanda added with feeling.

  The men laughed and they went on to talk of other things until Nicola returned, bearing with her the Countess Arnquist, a tall slender woman with white-gold hair who did not look at all as though she had two half-grown daughters, and another woman whom Amanda had not yet met. She proved to be one more surprise on this day when people came and went without reason or apparent thought for the trouble they might cause. It was Lady Duffield, who had sent Nicola a pretty letter of apology saying she would not be able

  to come to Ludlow and then had come after all.

  Amanda, who had heard Lady Duffield described as a woman of great charm, decided at once that she had entirely too much charm for a person to be quite comfo
rtable in her presence. She must be nearly fifty, but age seemed an irrelevant attribute for Pamela Duffield. Masses of fair hair, wide-spaced blue eyes, the color of the sea on a summer day, and a smile so inviting one could not help but smile in return. Her smile was now directed at Owen, who was bending over her as though she were some fragile flower that had to be protected from the wind.

  Jealousy, Amanda reminded herself, was an unbecoming emotion and ought to be relegated to the nursery, which was where she could last remember feeling it. Owen may have been her friend for the past three years, but he had other friends as well. Or perhaps Lady Duffield, with whom Owen was obviously well-acquainted, was something more than a friend, or had been in the past. Young men, in their inexperience, frequently sought out older women, and women like Lady Duffield, all admiration and warm acceptance, no doubt played a useful role in their training. Amanda watched the two of them critically. No, there was certainly nothing like that between them now, and, if there once had been, it should be no concern of hers.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Nicola's sister, Helena Lydgate, along with her sister-in-law, Elizabeth Crawford, Verity, and the two Arnquist girls. They had been cooped up all the day, Helena said, and the rain had stopped, and did anyone want to take the air? They might walk as far as the home farm and meet up with the men who, heedless of the weather, had | abandoned their company some two hours before. The countess, who looked a vigorous woman, assented readily, but Lady Duffield said she would retire to her bed-

  chamber to recover from the rigors of her journey. Owen escorted her from the room, leaving Amanda to decide that the company of the other women was preferable to her own wayward thoughts.

  Amanda had no wish to dwell on her absurd burst of jealousy. Nor on the strange self-consciousness she had felt with Owen when they were in the library nor the stirrings of feelings that seemed quite at odds with their sturdy friendship. She mounted the stairs to her room to make ready for the walk, uncomfortably aware that there were things that could get in the way of friendship, especially between men and women. She would have to be very careful. She could not bear it if she lost Owen as a friend.

  The cold brisk air restored Amanda's spirits. She concluded she had been suffering from an attack of the megrims, and she put Owen and Lady Duffield and all those attendant thoughts from her mind. But the problem of the Portuguese imposter remained, and a quarter-mile beyond the stable Amanda excused herself and turned back to the house, thinking to stop at the stable and question whomever had driven the first Senhor Ri-beiro to Honiton. It proved to be Dickon, one of the grooms, but he was able to tell her nothing but that Senhor Ribeiro had appeared eager to dust off and that he had tipped him handsomely when they arrived in Honiton.

  "Where did you take him?" Amanda asked, frustrated by this meager information. "Did he say anything about hiring a post chaise? Do you know which way he was going?"

  "The Golden Lion," the groom said quickly. "And no, and no. I swear, IVe told you all I can."

  Amanda beat her hands in impatience, then apologized to Dickon for suggesting otherwise. The groom tipped his hat and returned to his work, but Amanda

  stood irresolute, feeling unreasonably disappointed and not sure what line to take next. When she raised her eyes, she found Owen standing in front of her. "You heard?" she asked.

  "I heard." He put one long finger under her chin and raised it gently. "Be not perturbed, fair maid. I, Owen Thorn, have information."

  "What? Owen, don't tease. I shall die if you don't tell me.

  Owen stepped back, reached into his pocket, and drew out a sheet of paper, the broken wax clinging to its edges. 'Delivered by hand, not a quarter of an hour ago. Read it."

  Amanda took the sheet and perused it quickly, looked up at Owen in wonder, then lowered her eyes and read the letter again. It was brief and much blotted. The author wrote a flowing hand but had struggled with an inadequate pen. He signed himself Raimundo Ribeiro, and he apologized to Mr. Thorn for his precipitate departure from Ludlow. If Mr. Thorn would be so good as to come to the Golden Lion in Honiton, where he would remain for the next day or two before moving on to London, he would be happy to give him an explanation. Mr. Thorn might also think to bring along the book belonging to his nephew Eugenio, and he remained his obedient servant.

  "So the second Senhor Ribeiro may be right," Amanda said thoughtfully. "Henrique is persisting in his masquerade. He must be desperate to get his hands on the book. Unless — "

  "Unless," Owen said, "the second Ribeiro is the im-poster, and the real Raimundo is waiting in Honiton with a thumping good story. Would you like to go for a drive?"

  "You're going to see him now?"

  Owen grinned. " The goodness that thou mayst do

  this day, do it.' And I confess I'll be in a fidge till I hear what the man has to say. Your cloak is warm, isn't it? Good. It's not yet three. We'll be back before dark. Do come, I'd like the company."

  Nothing would have kept Amanda at home. She followed him farther into the warmth of the stable where he gave orders for his carriage to be made ready. "Owen," she said while they were waiting, "you haven't brought the book?"

  "Never fear. At this moment it's being viewed reverentially by Ribeiro —the Ribeiro currently in residence, who is most likely the real Raimundo—but Charles will see that it's returned to his keeping the moment Ribeiro is through."

  "What if Ribeiro takes the book and tries to make a run for it?"

  "On foot? In foul and dismal weather? Unlikely, and Charles is to be told if anyone asks for a carriage or horse."

  Amanda sighed. The mystery might soon be solved, but it might well be only deepened. What if the first Ribeiro, whom she had rather liked, proved just as plausible as the second, who had been entirely too familiar? Not that her own feelings should enter into it, but it did seem difficult to know how to judge between them. Owen seemed not at all concerned about how the matter might be resolved. For him the chase was all.

  Which was not quite fair. Owen had a very healthy concern for the disposition of the book, for which he felt responsible, and he wanted to give it to someone who would take it back to Eugenio Ribeiro and not appropriate it for his own use. Still, it was a whacking great problem, and problems were things he enjoyed.

  They were soon in the carriage with Owen's coachman on the box. Amanda had wrapped her cloak tightly around her, for the day had turned cold, but her hair

  was free, the bright gold curls tumbling about her face and neck in reckless abandon. Owen studied her profile, the small straight nose, the full mouth, the short rounded chin. Her eyes, dark-lashed, were hidden, but he knew them well, an intense dark blue in color, large and rounded as though she looked on the world in perpetual wonder and surprise. Amanda had been seventeen when he first met her, and a child. Or nearly so. She had had none of the coquetry of her age, but she had had wit and an audacity of mind that had quite charmed him. Through the succeeding years of their friendship it had never occurred to Owen to think of her as other than Charles's younger sister. But here, in the confines of the carriage, with an unaccustomed silence between them, he was forced to recognize that Amanda was a devastatingly pretty girl.

  It was a surprising observation, for Owen was not used to thinking of Amanda in terms he would apply to ordinary women. Amanda was far from ordinary, but she was, he had to admit, a woman. Why, she must be all of twenty. Old enough to be thinking of marriage, old enough to interest men who would not be put off by what was probably a modest dowry. Nor by her parentage. Amanda might be half sister to Lord Windham, but her mother had been divorced, and though she had been respectably married to Amanda's father, an obscure Scottish baronet, long before Amanda's birth, the taint of her past had touched her daughter. Owen winced in sympathy. He knew well the feeling of being set apart from one's peers, of inhabiting a world that was in some unspoken way askew.

  Still, Amanda was an adorable creature, and a man who really loved her would not care a w
hit for what her mother had done. This set Owen to thinking of the unmarried men of his acquaintance and which of them would appreciate Amanda's rarity and would be ready

  to give her the freedom she needed and deserved. Owen frowned. There was not one he would care to see as Amanda's husband. If he did not look sharp—and by thunder, he intended to do just that—she would find herself leg-shackled to a thoroughly unsuitable fellow who would not understand her at all.

  Having settled Amanda's future to his satisfaction, Owen felt it was time to bring her out of her silence. Since the Ribeiros were much on her mind, he entertained her by talking of his journey to Lisbon and everything he had learned of Portugal and the Portuguese. Amanda responded with enthusiasm. By the time she had no more questions to ask, they were climbing the hill that led into Honiton, and, as if by agreement, they turned to their respective windows, for the view was quite their favorite in Devon. The Otter valley opened out below, its abundant hedgerows struggling to impose some order on the luxuriant hills and pasture land—greener now in the rain which was falling once more—the Otter River bisecting the whole.

  The rain lasted through their arrival in Honiton and their dash across the yard of the Golden Lion to the shelter of the inn, but once they were inside, it stopped abruptly and a welcome beam of sun forced its way through the window, turning the raindrops on Amanda's hair into glittering points of light. Lost in admiration, Owen was startled to hear the voice of the innkeeper, to whom he had spoken on their arrival, informing Mr. Thorn that the gentleman was in and would be pleased to receive him.