Mistletoe Magic

by Virginia Brown

  “It is amazing that we have kept it a secret this long,” said Lady Howard. “There have been moments when I was certain Geoffrey suspected, but he has not said anything. So, ladies, shall we meet in the small office off the music room? That is where we will put on our costumes while the servants set up our little stage.”

  “I’m glad half the guests have departed,” said Chary. “I’ll be less nervous.”

  Tactfully, no one mentioned Lady Mountebank. Nor had Chary revealed that Lady Jersey came to her after breakfast and the small set-to, and apologized for her part in gossip.

  “I do love to repeat tales, but it never occurred to me how it could be perceived by those who are most affected. I ask your pardon for my part, as I would not wish to have you or Lord Nicholas as my enemy,” Lady Jersey had said sincerely, and Chary gladly pardoned her.

  Now Chary said, “My aunt and I will be leaving Seabury tomorrow. It has been a very pleasant stay, and I cannot thank you enough for your kind invitation. As soon as I am settled back home, I will plan a dinner party for when you and Lord Howard are in London.”

  “And we shall be delighted to attend. It has been one of the best Christmas celebrations we’ve had here, I do believe, despite the weather and occasional storm.” She made it obvious she meant human storm by the wrinkling of her nose, and Chary smiled.

  “All storms are weathered, and we have emerged mostly unscathed,” she said lightly. “We just have the storm tonight to endure. I still do not know why I agreed to do this, you know. It is quite scandalous to dress like a man.”

  “Not at all. Unusual, perhaps. But I do not think it truly scandalous, do you, Catherine?”

  Aunt Catherine hesitated before saying with a twinkle in her eye, “Not by all standards, perhaps.”

  “But if it was very wicked and scandalous, you would not take part, so I am vindicated of any blame,” Lady Howard said with a laugh.

  “It borders on the scandalous, then,” Aunt Catherine agreed.

  Definitely ridiculous, Chary thought later that evening when she stood in the small office off the music room. Her stomach muscles knotted. Lady Leighton, who lately had been quite preoccupied, hummed a cheery tune as she inspected their newly finished costumes. It was the first dress rehearsal, with the play to be enacted in only a half-hour’s time.

  “I feel quite exposed wearing men’s breeches,” said Aunt Catherine, and Julia laughed.

  “But you are Viola, masquerading as a man, so it is quite all right, I am sure.”

  “Francis Wheatley’s painting of Twelfth Night characters from the play were just too perfect to ignore on Twelfth Night,” said Laurentia gaily. “Although I would have preferred King Herod and Salomé, or Judith beheading Holofernes, this is much more appropriate. And the same artists who chalk the ballroom floor for me were able to paint our garden scene. It will be interesting to see if anyone recognizes the painting from our tableau vivant.”

  Wearing a man’s wig, her hair tucked up into a tight cap to conceal it, Chary tried out the long sword buckled at her side. She knew her stance, having practiced the illustration of Wheatley’s painting several times, but it was important they all adhere as closely as possible to the painting to be recognized. Between the sword at her side and the cocked hat on her head, she had trouble keeping all properly situated. She wore a yellow satin long waistcoat and knee-breeches, scarlet stockings and bow-tied shoes, and an olive-green coat with yellow cuffs and ruffles.

  Glancing at her aunt, she recognized chagrin in her expression and had to laugh. “At least you are wearing pink,” she said between gurgles of laughter.

  “I resemble a dolphin in pink breeches and white silk stockings. And the hat!”

  Chary solemnly regarded the pink silk turban with plumes. “It is striking. Although I must wonder why we are the main characters, and Julia and Laurentia are both in black and not looking nearly as ridiculous.”

  “That’s the word: ridiculous. I worried about scandalous, but now I fear ridiculous,” Aunt Catherine complained.

  Lady Howard and Lady Leighton fussed with the staging of the scene; Julia portrayed Fabio, and Laurentia portrayed Sir Toby. Both of them wore black moustaches and black coats, breeches, and stockings. White ruffs at their necks and long swords completed their costumes.

  The dressmakers had made a coat for the part of Viola—who was masquerading as her twin brother Cesario—a bit large, and the pink satin kept sliding from her shoulder as she stood in the pose. Julia fastened it with a pin to keep it from ending up on the floor, and they stepped into the music room and took their places in front of the painted backdrop of towering trees with sky, clouds, and mountains in the distance. Chary took her place as Sir Andrew with nerves jangling.

  The buzz of conversation, laughter, and the clink of glasses came from just beyond the closed door of the drawing room. While many guests had left, new guests coming just for the Twelfth Night celebrations had arrived. Baxter had reported a rumor that even a duke was said to be making an appearance, but no one had verified it to her. She had hardly been able to rest that afternoon, thinking about standing before strangers in men’s breeches that showed the shape of her legs, but she had willingly agreed to it. A week ago, it had seemed like harmless theater. Now it seemed foolish.

  Perhaps it was best Lord Nicholas was not here to see her make such a cake of herself. He would enjoy it too well at her expense, and tease her mercilessly. Why on earth had she ever fallen in love with a man who considered life to be a lark? But perhaps that was unfair. He had his share of disappointments. He just managed to hide it better.

  “Now remember,” whispered Laurentia, “as soon as the violinists begin to play, hold your pose. We must not move at all.”

  At that moment, violinists began to play a lively tune, and a footman swung open the door to the music room for spectators to enter where the stage was set.

  Chapter 12

  SEABURY HOUSE WAS ablaze with activity. Carriages and coaches formed a line along the curved carriageway. The bitter cold had eased, but snow still laced rooftops and made pillowy drifts beneath tall trees. Midafternoon sun glittered off icicles

  Nick gave his horse to a groom with instructions for its care, then entered the house by a side door so as not to be seen. Georges waited for him in the room he had left ten days before.

  “You must be clairvoyant,” he said as the valet greeted him.

  “I asked one of the stable lads to notify me the moment you returned, my lord. He has received a tuppence for his trouble.”

  “A most enterprising stable lad. By now, he should have quite a bit squirreled away. I understand there is dancing tonight, and some sort of play.”

  “Yes, my lord. The play is not like one I have seen before, from all accounts, but it is being enacted in the music room.”

  “That seems rather a small room for an audience as many as I estimate the guests to be,” he said, wondering what Laurie was up to now. No doubt she had pulled in a few co-conspirators, for she had never liked playing pranks alone as a child. He would probably find Chary doing God-only-knew-what once he arrived, and he had hoped it to be much less complicated. He greatly preferred a quiet corner where they could talk without interruption, if he couldn’t manage to get her to the conservatory. It may be that he would have to steal her away to the library and let her aunt stand guard outside the door again.

  He smiled at the memory. Her rushed confession that she lacked courage only made him love her more. Good God. To think in terms of love was a bright new emotion. It had never come to him before, and he had never considered that he would actually fall in love with a woman who was chosen by his father, either. That was the biggest irony of all, that Avonhurst had chosen a bride for him without caring if he loved her. Now he had cheated his father by falling in love. Perhaps one day he would tell him.

 
But it would probably be best if he told Chary first, he imagined, as he had never told any woman that he loved her, and he wanted her to hear it. It took great restraint not to rush Georges as he dressed him, although he was impatient. Finally, he was ready, and took the brush from Georges’s hand to run it through his tousled hair, making it presentable before he left the bedchamber.

  By the time he reached the drawing room, he had to wait in a long queue that stretched from the music room through the drawing room. There was no sign of Chary, and he didn’t want to start more gossip by asking guests if she was present. Georges had mentioned she was still at Seabury, and it had startled him, for he had not even thought of her returning to London early. He had been so intent upon reaching her, the fact that she might not be here never occurred to him. What an addlepate he had become. He could well have come here, only to learn she had gone back to Berkeley Square and he had probably passed her on the turnpike.

  As he stepped into the drawing room, he saw Lord Howard approaching, and welcomed him with a smile. At one side of the drawing room, a group of guests had formed a small knot, gathered around someone in the center. It seemed to cause a stir of excitement, but he ignored it as he greeted his host.

  “Another crush, Howard. You are becoming famous for them.”

  “That is all my wife’s doing, for she is in charge of the guest list. I know this is not the place to talk, but I trust you were successful.”

  “Relatively so. I will explain all later. Is Miss St. John in the music room?”

  Lord Howard grinned. “She is. You may not recognize her at first, however.”

  “Good God, not another masquerade, I hope.”

  Shaking his head, Lord Howard led the way, bypassing those in the queue so that he could see into the music room. For a moment, he saw only the huge painted canvas with trees, sky, and mountains, but then as the lady in front of him moved so that her hat no longer blocked his line of vision, he saw the players on the stage. Four men dressed in garments from a long-gone era posed as if frozen in the act, swords drawn, varied emotions carved into still faces. He frowned. The actor in the pink breeches and jacket with blue waistcoat looked familiar, but he wasn’t certain who—Then his gaze shifted to the man in the garish yellow breeches and scarlet stockings. Recognition struck suddenly.

  “The devil you say!” he exclaimed more loudly than intended, and Lord Howard grinned, but the lady with the large hat turned to give him a disapproving stare.

  Lord Howard murmured, “My wife is the mustachioed fellow smirking behind her. Sir Toby, I believe.”

  “Twelfth Night. Of course. The tableau vivant that you did not want.”

  “I made the fatal error of not specifying my wishes for nights other than Christmas Eve, it seems.”

  Nick studied Chary as she posed with her sword at the ready, her cocked hat and wig slightly askew. It was a famous painting, but he could not recall the artist. Behind her, Laurie smirked, wearing what looked to be several layers of coats in order to appear stout, her moustache a dark smudge above her mouth, her boots seeming to be at least two sizes too big. Lady Leighton leaned toward Lady Shepworth, her black moustache and dark wig giving her the appearance of a rather shaggy dog, certainly not the villainous Fabian. For her part, Lady Shepworth gave every appearance of a frightened Viola-Cesario, shrinking back from an even more frightened Sir Andrew. Shakespeare had intended his Twelfth Night to be a comedy of mismatched lovers and false identities, and succeeded admirably. It had never been one of his favorite plays. Until now.

  “So, they are to hold those poses indefinitely?” he said, turning to Lord Howard, who nodded.

  “Until released by the audience, I imagine. Once they have been seen by all, they will abandon the stage and I will tell my wife I do not wish to ever see her in men’s breeches again in public.”

  “I wish you joy of that. If I remember correctly, your wife does not take kindly to being restricted.”

  Sighing, Lord Howard agreed. “She has a mind of her own, to be certain. That is one of the reasons I fell in love with her, so I can hardly complain now.”

  “It does seem rather pointless.”

  Nick watched as spectators studied the stationary play, guessing at who the actors were supposed to be, and where they had seen this scene before. He left them to it. Part of the fun was no doubt in the guessing.

  As he stepped back so those behind him could enter the music room, Lord Howard said, “I suppose you should come and greet our honored guest now. I am under the impression you are unaware of his presence. But perhaps I am wrong.”

  “Did you invite the Regent? I had heard he was in Brighton for Christmas.”

  “No, this arrival is a complete surprise. Welcome, but unexpected.”

  Perhaps he should have suspected, Nick thought as they reached the throng of guests in the drawing room, but it had been the furthest thing from his mind. He recognized the voice at once.

  When the group parted, he gave a short bow to the man in the center. “Duke,” he said formally, and his father acknowledged him with an elegant nod of his head.

  “Lord Nicholas. I was told you had not yet made an appearance.”

  “I arrived a short time ago.”

  To those listening, it must have been as if they were acquaintances instead of father and son. Nick was at a loss by Avonhurst’s presence. He had assumed he would be in Brighton with the Regent or at Avonhurst instead of attending the festivities at a country manor in Sussex.

  “It is a long ride from London,” the duke observed, letting Nick know he was aware of his recent activities.

  “Indeed. I trust the duchess is well?”

  A faint smile lifted one corner of Avonhurst’s mouth. “Tuesday is Princess Charlotte’s twenty-first birthday, and it will be celebrated with a grand dinner party at the Pavilion. The duchess has no intention of missing the festivities.”

  The amenities observed, their conversation immediately lagged. Avonhurst rarely acted impetuously, so he must have had a reason for attending the Seabury event. It was not out of the way if he traveled from Brighton to Avonhurst, but neither was it particularly convenient. He had to have intended this visit. Nick wanted to ask, but would not in front of other guests. Instead, he took a glass of wine from a passing footman and lapsed into silence.

  Fortunately, Lord Howard intervened. “Your Grace,” he said, “Buttons will show you to your room now that it is ready. I trust you will join us for dinner and dancing afterward.”

  “Dinner I will definitely enjoy, but the dancing may best be enjoyed by observation these days.”

  Nick briefly studied his father’s face, and saw lines he’d never noticed before, and a certain stiffness in his carriage as he turned to depart the drawing room. He had gotten older just in the past few months, it seemed. Or perhaps he had never thought of his father as aging. They had not been particularly close these past ten years. Even though they discussed inheritances and the entail and Anthony’s lack of heirs that were necessary for the continuation of their line, he had always considered the duke eternal. Foolish of him, for he knew better than many how quickly life could be extinguished. He had seen it often enough.

  “Have you spoken with Wakefield since your arrival?” asked Lord Howard when the duke left.

  He shook his head. “I came here first, looking for my betrothed only to find her changed into a fellow I do not recognize. She is a rather alarming surprise at times.”

  “I seem to recall you telling me it would be boring otherwise,” Howard said slyly.

  “True enough. I did say that. Now, I think I will surprise her.”

  “Godspeed,” Lord Howard murmured as Nick turned back to the music room, and lifted a glass of wine as if to toast his success.

  CHARY KEPT HER gaze focused on a painting on the far wall, ignoring everything
around her as Laurentia had suggested. “That is the secret to presenting a tableau,” she’d insisted, “to be as still as a painting and notice nothing or no one.” So far it seemed to be working.

  Time dragged, and she resisted the itch that popped up on her neck. The wig, of course. It must be horsehair, for it was hot and made her scalp itch, too. She had itches in a half-dozen places so far, and it took great strength of mind not to scratch any of them. How did people do this for so long? It had only been an hour and her legs hurt, her arms were tired of holding the dratted sword—how did soldiers manage?—and a tickle began in the back of her throat. Dust from the horsehair wig, no doubt. Behind her, Laurentia made a slight sound as if a gasp, but she dared not turn. No, she would stare at that gloomy painting of dozens of dead pheasants, quail, ducks, and geese some long-forgotten artist had depicted stacked at hunters’ feet, surrounded by dogs and foolishly grinning huntsmen, until it was emblazoned on her eyeballs. She would see it in her dreams for weeks, she was quite certain.

  “Sir Andrew,” a familiar voice drawled close by, and her heartbeat quickened. She did not move, did not dare, but then it did not matter, for the owner of that beloved voice stepped up onto the stage and did the unthinkable.

  He swept her into his arms, sword and all, and took her from the stage through the gasps and exclamations of “I say!” and “How shocking!” that filled the air as he strode from the music room. Chary took longer to find her voice.

  Behind her she heard Laurentia say, “Ladies and gentlemen, that concludes our tableau,” but all else faded into a blur of voices.

  Because there was nothing else she could do that would not raise eyebrows or cause more gossip, she turned her face toward his immaculate evening coat, heedless of the face paint she wore smearing the surface, and pretended not to notice that she was being abducted. Thank God. He carried her as easily as if she were a child, through the drawing room, out into the hallway, and down the marble floors that led to the library. He did not set her down until he kicked the library door closed behind them with the back of his foot. Then he kept his hold on her while setting her upright and turned her to face him.