Camille breathed a sigh of relief. If nothing else, the actor could be counted on to fill the conversation with relatively interesting anecdotes about whatever happened to cross his mind. Whether they were real or imagined, Camille didn’t particularly care. In that respect too, he was much like the genuine Uncle Basil.
“Admittedly, on occasion the prince’s penchant for . . .”
And just like with the genuine Uncle Basil’s stories, Camille allowed her mind to drift. As much as she hated to admit it, even to herself, Grayson was right. This scheme of hers was not at all well thought out. Once again she had jumped into something without giving it due consideration. Of course this was on a scale rather larger than usual. Typically, her ill-advised impulses leaned toward rash purchases of things she couldn’t possibly use but seemed exciting at the time. There was the life-size mechanical monkey, which had struck her as charming when she had purchased it, but sitting in her parlor was really rather unsettling. The eyes did tend to follow one. There was the ill-fated expedition she had invested in to recover the lost gold of South America. It was most exciting, even if, as it turned out, not entirely legitimate. Then, of course, there were all those llamas . . . and the incident at Brighton, which she refused to think about. In each and every instance, it had seemed like such a good idea at the time.
And now she wanted a prince, even if she was no longer sure why. Damn Grayson, anyway. He was the one who had put doubts into her head. Nikolai was not at all like the monkey or the lost treasure or the llamas. This was not an impulse on her part. She had always wanted a prince; and when a prince unexpectedly walks into one’s life, and one seized that opportunity, it’s not impulse. No, it’s fate. Certainly, she hadn’t known Nikolai for long, but they would have the rest of their lives to better know each other. Wasn’t that what marriage was for? Besides, knowing someone well—as well as one person could know another, really, or thought one did—did not ensure there would be no startling revelations—revelations that one was not prepared for. Did not expect. Had never dared to dream of . . .
Nonsense. Grayson’s abrupt appearance had simply muddled her mind. Confused her as to what she wanted in life. There was nothing more significant to the odd thoughts that kept popping up in her mind than that. And if he was determined to become part of her effort to give Nikolai the perfect Christmas with the perfect family, well, it was the least he could do to make amends.
For saying he loved her or for not doing anything about loving her? She ignored the unwanted question.
“Psst.”
A soft hissing sound caught her attention and she glanced toward the doorway. Fortesque stood just outside the open parlor doors, beckoning to her. She mumbled an excuse and rose to her feet. A moment later, she closed the parlor doors behind her and glared at her alleged butler.
She kept her voice low. “You do realize real butlers are not supposed to go ‘psst’?”
“Forgive me, Lady Lydingham, but I didn’t know how else to attract your attention.” He leaned closer in a confidential manner. “The gentleman who was here earlier, Mr. Elliott, has returned. And he has”—Fortesque closed his eyes for a moment as if praying for strength—“luggage.”
“Blast it all, I was hoping he’d change his mind.” She huffed. “There’s nothing to be done about it, I suppose.”
“Who is he?”
“He is a bloody nuisance, that’s who he is. However, for the moment”—she struggled for calm—“he is to play the role of my cousin.”
“Lady Lydingham.” Fortesque squared his shoulders and raised his chin, making him seem substantially taller, if possible. “If you had need of yet another player, I would certainly have been able to provide you with someone well suited to the role.”
“Like Mrs. Montgomery-Wells?”
“She is a well-seasoned actress.”
“She may be well seasoned, but her goose overcooked years ago!”
He frowned down at her. “I did tell you she was a fine actress in her day.”
“When exactly was her day?” Camille snapped.
“Do keep in mind, Lady Lydingham, that expertise on the stage takes years to develop. And furthermore, you gave us very little time to rehearse.”
“Even so, Mr. Fortesque—”
“Just Fortesque, my lady, I am in character,” he said in a lofty manner.
“You are insane is what you are!”
He gasped. “I daresay—”
“No, Fortesque, my apologies.” She heaved a frustrated sigh. “I am the one who is obviously quite mad to think for a moment that we could pull off this farce.”
“Lady Lydingham.” He drew himself up and stared down his nose at her. “I have never abandoned a performance before the final act. However, if you are unhappy, you may pay us what we agreed upon and we shall take our leave.”
“Oh no, you won’t.” She shook her head. “We are indeed in this together until the final curtain falls, if, of course, you do wish to be paid.”
He hesitated, then nodded. “Very well.”
“But after dinner, when the rest of us have retired, you will take your principal players and rehearse them again. Especially Mrs. Montgomery-Wells.”
“I shall see what can be done to improve her performance. And that of the others,” he added.
“Thank you.”
“And what of your cousin?”
“Have a room prepared for him. As far away from my rooms as possible.” She thought for a moment. “Put him in the west wing. It’s the oldest part of the house, lovely in the summer but quite drafty in the winter, and the heating has always been insufficient. That should serve him well.”
“Now, now,” a familiar voice sounded behind her. “That certainly isn’t in the spirit of Christmas.”
She spun around to find Grayson grinning with amusement, accompanied by his equally smug cousin. She narrowed her gaze. “What are you doing here?”
“I have come to offer my assistance,” Lord Stillwell said in a gracious manner, which nonetheless set her teeth on edge.
“Why?” she snapped.
Stillwell paused. “Let us just say it is in the manner of a debt long overdue.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Indeed, on those rare occasions in the last eleven years when she and Stillwell had crossed paths, he had treated her with as much disdain as she had treated him.
“Nor do you need to.” Stillwell cast her the engaging smile she remembered from years ago. It struck her that he was a casualty of the rift between her and Grayson. A pity, really; he had always been most amusing and she had always liked him. “The past is over and done with, and I am here to lend whatever help you may need. In the spirit of friendship and, of course, Christmas.”
She studied him suspiciously. “I don’t trust you, my lord.”
Grayson chuckled.
Stillwell gasped in feigned dismay. “That’s not at all fair, Lady Lydingham.” He grinned. “Wise perhaps, but not fair.”
“I can assure you, Win has only your best interests at heart,” Grayson said.
“I find that difficult to believe.” She sniffed. “As for you . . . you promised not to tell anyone about this.”
“Not exactly. I said I would try to think of something plausible to explain my stay here, and, well, I couldn’t.” Grayson shrugged apologetically.
“You, no doubt, did not try very hard.”
“On the contrary,” Stillwell said. “He didn’t say a word for, oh”—he glanced at Grayson—“a good ten minutes, would you say?”
Grayson nodded. “Perhaps even fifteen.”
“There you are, Camille, he held his tongue for fifteen minutes. Perhaps more.”
“And I think it was more,” Grayson said.
“You really can’t ask for more than that, especially given the magnitude of your venture here.” Stillwell flashed that smile of his again. Fortunately, she had long been immune to it.
“I can and I did,” she said sha
rply. “And it’s ‘Lady Lydingham.’ ”
“Come now, Camille,” Stillwell said smoothly. “I’ve known you since you were a child. I’ve always called you Camille, just as you have always called me Winfield. You can’t expect me to change now.” He glanced at Grayson. “Can she?”
Grayson shook his head in a somber manner. “I would think not.”
Stillwell glanced at Fortesque. “Can she?”
The actor stared. Good Lord, he’d probably smile and nod at any minute. “I couldn’t say, my lord, but probably not, no.”
Camille shot him a scathing glance and he cringed.
“There you have it.” Stillwell grinned. “Camille.”
Fortesque lowered his voice and inclined his head toward Camille. “About the room—”
“Ah yes, Fortesque,” Grayson began. “I’m afraid the west wing won’t do at all. I hate drafts.”
Camille glared.
“And I was informed by one of your”—Grayson cleared his throat—“footmen that the room across the hall from Lady Lydingham’s is vacant. I instructed him to put my bags there.”
Camille choked. “I scarcely think—”
“Now, now, what would the prince think if your dear cousin was exiled to a room where he would likely catch his death of cold?” Grayson shook his head forlornly. “Besides, I can’t sleep if the room is too cold. And if I don’t get enough sleep, well, there is always the possibility I might reveal something I shouldn’t in the course of idle conversation with the—”
“Fine! Sleep wherever you want!”
Stillwell grinned. She ignored him.
“I do hope we are in time for tea.” Grayson glanced at his cousin. “Weren’t you just saying how parched you were?”
“Oh, I am definitely parched,” Stillwell said, amusement glittering in his eyes. “And hungry as well.”
Camille hesitated, then met Grayson’s gaze. “There’s no way to prevent this, is there?”
He shook his head. “None whatsoever.”
“Very well, then, Cousin.” She nodded at Fortesque to open the parlor doors. “But please, both of you, if you truly mean to assist me, be on your best behavior.”
“I am always on my best behavior.” Stillwell took her arm to escort her into the parlor. “It’s what makes me so delightful.”
“That’s not the word I would use,” she said under her breath, and the trio stepped into the parlor.
“Oh, look, Cousin Grayson has returned,” Beryl said in an overly merry manner, and rose to her feet, Nikolai a beat behind her.
“And he’s not alone.” Camille’s tone matched her twin’s. “Why, look who he met on the way here.”
“Lord Stillwell.” Beryl stood and stepped closer, offering her hand to Grayson’s cousin. “It has been entirely too long.”
“Too long, indeed.” Stillwell kissed her hand. “To my utter regret.”
“I was between husbands for a while, you know.” Beryl tossed him a flirtatious look and Camille’s jaw tightened. She trusted Stillwell no more than she did Grayson. There was no need for her sister to be overly pleasant to them.
“An opportunity lost.” He heaved a dramatic sigh. “Unfortunately, I was betrothed.”
Beryl grinned. “You always are.”
Stillwell chuckled. “So it would appear.” He studied Beryl curiously. “There is something different about you, Beryl. You seem, I don’t know, serene?”
She laughed. “Do I?”
“Perhaps the next time you are between husbands—”
“The next time I fully intend to be a very old woman,” she said. “Besides, you and I have never suited, Winfield. I am entirely too clever for you.”
“Are you?” He arched a brow. “And I thought I was too clever for you.”
“And once again you are wrong.” Her eyes twinkled with laughter.
“If the two of you are quite finished,” Camille said. “Lord Stillwell, allow me to present our guest, Count Pruzinsky. Nikolai, this is our nearest neighbor, Viscount Stillwell.”
“Welcome to England, Count,” Stillwell said smoothly.
“Thank you, Lord Stillwell.” Nikolai smiled in the pleasant yet reserved manner one expected of royalty. Camille smiled to herself. Oh, he was perfect. “But I have already been here for several months, traveling about the countryside.”
“Ah yes.” Stillwell nodded. “Mr. Elliott said you have been traveling throughout Europe for some time.” He paused and studied Nikolai. “Forgive me for being forward, but have we met?”
“Not that I recall.” Nikolai shook his head.
Stillwell’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps at a gathering of some sort? Possibly in London?”
“It’s entirely possible, I suppose,” Nikolai said with a pleasant smile. “I have been to a great number of balls and soirées and dinners since my arrival in England. Obligatory sorts of things, you know. Representing my country and all.” He shrugged. “Not that they aren’t enjoyable, if somewhat overwhelming. My apologies, but surely you understand. One meets so many people.”
“Yes, of course,” Stillwell said politely.
“I was just about to encourage him to relate some of his adventures. You should join us, my lord.” Miss Murdock gazed up at Stillwell with a look that invited more than his attendance at a chat about travel. Camille would have to speak to Fortesque about curbing the actress’s natural tendencies toward flirtation.
“I should like nothing better,” Stillwell said cautiously, staring at Miss Murdock.
“If you recall,” Beryl began, “my sister Delilah has always been fascinated by travel. Haven’t you, dear?”
“Oh, my . . . yes.” Miss Murdock fluttered her lashes at Stillwell. “There are all sorts of places I long to visit. Why, there is nothing more stimulating than travel.” She turned her attention toward Nikolai. “Don’t you agree, Your—my lord?”
The prince smiled. “I am constantly learning and encountering something new and unexpected.”
“I confess, save for a grand tour in my youth,” Stillwell began, “I have traveled very little.”
“That, my boy, is what’s wrong with this generation,” Mr. Henderson began. “Why, in my day . . .”
“Do tell us about your day.” Stillwell grinned with delight. “Colonel.”
Mr. Henderson frowned at the interruption. “Yes, yes, now, where was I?” He paused, then continued. “Ah yes, when I was in the service of Her . . .”
Camille breathed a sigh of relief. At least her uninvited guests were more capable of carrying off this ruse than her professional actors. Perhaps Grayson would be of help, after all. She caught his eye and nodded discreetly in the direction of the tea cart; then slipped away to the other side of the room. She poured Grayson a cup of tea and handed it to him when he joined her.
“I would be most appreciative if you were to encourage Stillwell to be on his way.” She addressed him in a low voice, but kept her gaze on the group across the room. “I don’t trust him.”
“Under normal circumstances, I would commend you for your caution.” Grayson sipped his tea and studied the gathering. “But Win is determined to be of assistance in your endeavor.”
She huffed in exasperation. “Why?”
“He feels he has done you a disservice,” Grayson said coolly. “My fault entirely, I’m afraid. However inadvertently, I led him to believe, all those years ago, when you broke my heart—”
“When I did what?” Her voice rose.
“Shh.” He nodded at the others. “Unless you want your prince to wonder why you are being sharp with your beloved cousin.”
“You’re not my beloved cousin,” she snapped, but lowered her voice, nonetheless, and glanced at the group. Indeed, Nikolai looked in her direction, speculation on his face. She smiled in a reassuring manner and he returned his attention to whatever Mr. Henderson was going on about. “What do you mean—when I broke your heart?”
“It scarcely matters now. Besides, you said you didn
’t want to speak about the past.” He paused thoughtfully. “Which is probably for the best, all things considered.”
“What things?”
“Your prince, for one, and your Christmas production, for another. You have a lot to contend with at the moment, Camille. You needn’t concern yourself with the past.” He nodded at the others. “And it appears all is going quite well.”
“Thank you, but it is only the first day,” she said absently. How on earth did she break his heart? That wasn’t at all how she remembered it. He was right about one thing though: She had neither the time nor the inclination to dwell on his charge at the moment, ridiculous as it was. She pushed it from her mind and blew a resigned breath. “Who knows what might happen tonight or tomorrow or on Christmas? It is far too soon to be anything but vigilant.”
“You may rest assured that I will do all within my power to assist you.”
“You’ve said that before,” she said in a sharper tone than she had intended. “Why, Grayson? Why do you wish to help me?”
“I’m not entirely sure yet,” he said so softly that she surely misunderstood.
“What?”
“We were friends once—”
“A very long time ago.”
“And it’s in the interest of that friendship that I am lending you my assistance.” He bent closer and spoke softly, his breath warm against her ear. “I meant it when I said I want only your happiness. As your friend, no matter how long ago, it is my . . . my duty to help you.”
She stared at him, then snorted. “Hardly.”
“Admit it. With none of your family, your real family, here—”
“Beryl is here and her husband will be here in a few days as well.”
“A political type, isn’t he?”
She nodded.
Grayson sipped his tea thoughtfully. “And from what I have heard, he’s rather stiff and stodgy.”
“Not in the least,” she lied.
“Not really the sort to fling himself into this production with the wholehearted abandon it deserves.”
“Nonetheless—”
“And it seems to me, given the magnitude of this farce, that you need all the help you can get.” He shook his head in a mournful manner. “You need me, Camille.”
What Happens At Christmas (Millworth Manor series Book 1) Page 10
