A Christmas Conspiracy Read online

  “Quoting Juliet, are we, Hillary? What am I to take from that? That I serve poison?”

  “Shall I say, ‘Death! Where is thy sting?’ ”

  “From Shakespeare to the Bible? If you must be a quoting pedant, pray do not hop about the literature so. You make my head spin. If I ring for Chesterton to bring more chocolate, will you be a good little wasp and buzz into someone else’s drawing room?”

  “How heartless you’ve become, Fanny!” he scolded, entirely unabashed. “Here I have come to bring some small bit of cheer into this dreary winter day—you must see I have this jolly sprig of holly in my buttonhole—and you eat me!”

  Resignedly, Fanny rang for the butler. “If you’d had yourself announced like any other reasonable human,” she said, shaking her head, “I could have claimed to be out and spared you the anguish. What’s more, if you had a shred of sensibility you would toss that holly onto the fire. Those red berries against the puce look positively vomitous.”

  “More chocolate, Chesterton,” she said as the servant entered the room, “and the next time Sir Hillary comes to call, pray set the dog on him.”

  “Very good, my lady,” Chesterton replied with a solemn bow.

  As the butler withdrew, Sir Hillary pulled pettishly at his coat sleeves which hung a distressing six inches beyond his wrists. “How odd I must so constantly remind you, Fanny—I am not a reasonable human. Never even professed to be. Nor have I ever claimed the least sensibility. It doesn’t run in the family, as you well know. Besides, the very notion of setting Flops on me! That’s doing it a bit brown. Why, you know quite well I am something of a father to the pup!”

  “Pray stop, Hillary!” she exclaimed, lifting her brows. “Do not invite unkind speculation!”

  “Come, come!” he chided with an equable smile, shaking his finger at her in admonition. “You know quite well if my mother had not taken the beast in such dislike, I would never have given him to you.”

  “Never have abandoned him with me, you mean to say.”

  He shrugged. “Such quibbling is beneath you, Fanny! Now to important matters. Will there be any cakes?”

  “No!” Fanny said crossly. “I mean you to drink your chocolate and go away.”

  “But there must be,” Sir Hillary beamed annoyingly, “for I have spied Madcap’s carriage down the street at Lady Hester’s and she will not stay there long, for you cannot but own they despise one another. Then she will come here and you know quite well Madcap will never leave until she has been fed something.”

  “Lady Madden is on her way?” Fanny exclaimed, starting as if a stinging creature had flown into the room. Although Madcap was as close as Fanny came to having a bosom bow, there was about the lady such a confusion of odd parts, endearing and intolerable, that one was often hard pressed to know whether to welcome or evade. Fanny chose the latter.

  “Forgive me, Hillary,” she said, rising precipitously from her seat, “but I find all at once I must take to my chamber.”

  “Why, Fanny!” he exclaimed, at last letting his offensive quizzing glass drop. “I must confess I am shocked at your lack of charity in this season of good will! I am sure the angels are weeping at you!”

  “And I am shocked you did not warn me,” she retorted, pulling at her shawl which had become wrapped about the pug. “What in heaven’s name is family for, if not to apprise one another of calamity bearing down upon them?”

  Fanny’s sudden movement sent Flops rolling onto the floor where he landed with a despondent yawp just as Chesterton entered bearing a small tray. “The post has arrived, my lady.”

  “Her ladyship is suddenly unwell, Chesterton,” Sir Hillary informed him. “I shall take those.”

  “You will do no such thing, Hillary,” she snapped, intercepting the tray neatly. “If Lady Madden should call, Chesterton, tell her I am indisposed. Feed her some cakes and then make them both go away.”

  She picked up the scant three or four pieces of mail, and made her way up the stairs. What had made her more short than usual with poor Hillary? she wondered. True, he had no redeeming qualities, but she had suffered him to run tame about her house ever since he had come to town to conduct his desultory search for an heiress. And, after all, he was family. It must be that it was almost Christmas. It always depressed her.

  In her sitting room, she flipped quickly through the post. A musical evening at Cheswick’s. Ghastly. A card party at Sir Godfrey’s. Well, she supposed. Hell might happen to freeze. She stopped short, however, at the sight of a familiar seal. Surely it was not, could not be ... her husband’s. For the past five years, all communication had been conducted through the family solicitor.

  Lady Fanny tapped the edge of the missive nervously. While it did indeed bear her husband’s seal, the hand was certainly not Giles. What could it mean? Perhaps, she thought with a tremor, Giles was ill and had called out for her. What if he should die? What if—?

  What rubbish! her good sense cried. Prinney might as likely cry out for the noxious Caroline. Fanny bit her lower lip. She had long ago stopped waiting for Giles to realize his folly. Her pulse no longer raced when the post arrived. Nor when the stance of a silhouette in the distance reminded her of the set of his shoulders. Nor even when the filtered sunlight warmed the empty bed beside her and for a moment she remembered.

  Then whence this stupid, stupid flutter of expectation? she asked herself angrily. The letter, whatever it was, was surely just as empty as her dreams. Perhaps he was even suing for divorce, though why Giles should not write the letter himself was unclear.

  Who else at the hall might wish to contact her after all these years? she wondered. At once, the image of two heart-shaped faces framed with golden ringlets rose up in her mind. Fanny sat up straight. Surely not! Why the girls were not allowed any contact with her.

  Quickly, she broke the seal and unfolded the letter. The same round, childish hand was evidenced inside:

  My dearest, most pitifully wronged wife, she read.

  How oft have I cast my mind on our sorrows and berated myself for my cursed stupidity. Each time I look into the faces of our fair and noble daughters (whom, you will recall, are named Eugenia and Octavia) I mentally beat my breast with utmost regret at my most villainous folly. I would ere now have flown to lay my heart at your feet, but for my criminal pride (which you must recall with the most violent abhorrence having suffered so greatly at the inconstant and tedious whimsy it provoked in me when last we met!)

  Last night I came upon the miniature of you which I once wore close to my heart. And—ah!—how that heart was rent! The spectre of my injustice toward you pointed its appalling and unnatural finger, accusing me, and adjuring me to—dare I name it?—throw myself on your mercy and beg you to return to me and our fair daughters as fast as may be.

  I am torn even now by the battle between pride and shame, so pray do me the kindness of not mentioning this letter before me. Fling it onto the flames and your dear self into my arms. I await you and am . . .

  Yours to command until death, Giles

  By the time Fanny had finished reading this missive, tears of mirth were streaming down her face. Was there ever anything more perfect? The notion of poor, staid Giles having written such a document was equaled only by the expression of horror it must occasion should he ever come to hear of its existence. It could only have been the handiwork of her daughters (the fair and noble ones!)—but what in heaven’s name prompted them to such an escapade? It was clear they wanted her to return, but to what end? She could not imagine they had been led to believe she was anything but wicked. However, if this letter were an apt illustration of their ingenuity, the rumors she had heard of their caprices at school must be borne out. Blood will out! she thought with satisfaction.

  The desire to go to her children, to see them again was overwhelming. How tall they must be and how beautiful. If only she might!

  Fanny smiled to herself. Although traveling to the country and bursting onto the warm Christmas scene
must surely be ineligible, it would take very little to convince her to do so. What fun to picture Giles! His face would go all “Montmorency stiff” (as she used to call his singular grimace of dismay at her antics). How like old times. Why she would wager—

  Lady Fanny stopped herself mid-thought, the laughter suddenly disappearing. It was as if she saw it all before her again. Candles burning low in the holiday greenery. Herself in Willoughby’s arms, the laughter dying on her lips. Giles’ frozen expression. Her words echoing. But it was just a wager! A silly, silly wager!

  What a stubborn prig he was! Not worth a moment’s heartache. It would serve him quite admirably were she to deposit herself on his doorstep unannounced.

  “Why, Fanny!” Lady Madden—Madcap as she was generally known—entered Fanny’s sitting room in a great swirl of feathers and lavender scent. “Sir Hillary is quite right. You do look shocking!”

  Fanny groaned. “Is no one announced anymore?”

  “You really must speak to Chesterton, Fanny. I was never so shocked in my life, for it was quite the easiest thing in the world to slip past him. But only look, I have brought dear Flops with me.”

  “What? Is that Flops?” Fanny said, regarding Madcap’s burden with distaste. “I thought it was a singularly unattractive muff.”

  Lady Madden glanced down at the ungainly bundle in her arms. “Well, to be sure! I have him turned wrong way ‘round. Why, here,” she said, readjusting the fluffy mound, “is his dear little face.”

  Fanny sighed. “Why are you not eating cakes with Hillary?”

  “Why, so I was, but you see I have brought a few with me.” With that, Lady Madden released the squirming dog onto Fanny’s lap, and displayed a bulky napkin which she unfolded to reveal a number of cakes. “Hillary, you know, can be quite tedious, so I was determined to have a coze with you, for I guessed your indisposition was all a hum to avoid the boy. Now then,” she said, making herself comfortable before the fire, “let us be cozy here and you may tell me your troubles.”

  “My only trouble,” Fanny exclaimed in exasperation, “is a surfeit of company!”

  “Indeed,” the lady returned, nodding her head, “you must be sterner with the boy, or he will soon have the run of your house. Does he not know how very vexing it is to break in on one’s solitude?”

  Fanny wondered for a moment whether Madcap had been dropped on her head as a child. Clearly, she was blind to her own capacity to annoy.

  “Perhaps,” Fanny managed with some effort, “you might persuade Hillary to accompany you on your next call.”

  “How unfortunate that this is my last!” Madcap sighed. Then she leaned forward and said in a conspiratorial tone, “But you must know I have arranged it so on purpose, Fanny, for I have such a good plan!”

  If Fanny had not had the headache before, one threatened now at the sound of this unpromising revelation. Madcap’s plans had often proved excruciating in the past.

  “Pray, tell me another day, Madcap,” Fanny groaned.

  “But there is no time, I assure you, for Christmas is speeding toward us and we have much to do.”

  “Madcap! You have not—!”

  “Oh, but I have! It is to be a town party rather than a country house party! How smart we shall be for having thought of it!”

  “I beg your pardon?” Fanny said darkly.

  “A Christmas house party in London! Let the rest of them rusticate in the country. Those of us who have the sense to remain shall have a far more lively holiday!”

  “In whose house,” Fanny asked with rising dread, “is this gathering to be held?”

  “Why surely mine is ineligible,” Madcap demurred, “for you must own the neighborhood is not what it was, and there are few as comfortably arranged as you. I have already told Lord Alfie and Chatty Beswick that it is a certain thing. And do you know, that lovely Quentin Willoughby is returned from the continent. Why, we can—”

  “We can do no such thing!” Fanny cut her off.

  “Why ever not?” Madcap exclaimed fretfully. “I thought you were quite fond of Willoughby. Why you always used—”

  Fanny lifted her chin a fraction. “It will not do at all, Madcap. I suddenly recollect a prior engagement!”

  Chapter Three

  “A prior engagement?” Madcap clapped her hands. “Pray, where are we off to?”

  “We are not off anywhere,” Fanny told her dampingly. “I am going home for Christmas.”

  “Home? To your father’s? Whatever for?”

  “No,” Fanny sighed. “Not home to my father’s. That would be ineligible, as you know quite well. I have not the least desire be stared out of countenance by his distressing wife.”

  “I could not imagine that you did!” Madcap remarked between bites of cake. “Why the earl should marry someone bound to cut up his fun, I cannot begin to fathom. Not only a precisian, but the veriest puritan as well!”

  Fanny sighed, disliking Madcap’s imprecision very nearly as much as having cake crumbs scattered about her chamber. “Winnifred is not a puritan, Madcap,” she corrected evenly. “She merely attends services.”

  “Two services on Sundays,” Madcap objected in scandalized tones, “so it is very nearly the same thing. But this is nothing to the point, Fanny. You surely do not mean to say you will visit Giles for Christmas? Why you would have no fun at all! Besides, he would not in the least welcome you.”

  “Your confidence in my charms is overwhelming. If you must know, I have just received a letter from Giles begging me to return.”

  “Never!”

  “And as for having fun,” Fanny mused, glancing once more at the letter she held, “I have reason to believe that more than sufficient preparations are being made to see to my entertainment.”

  “Preparations?” Madcap asked, biting into yet another cake. “Why, what do you mean?”

  “That,” she returned mysteriously, “will be my secret.”

  * * * *

  “How many kissing boughs, do you think?” Tavie asked.

  “Let me see. How many doorways have we?” Genie did a quick count on her fingers. “Eleven on the main floor?”

  “I count twelve.” Tavie frowned. “We had best make it thirteen to be safe.”

  “No, that might be bad luck,” Genie cautioned. “Remember, it has been years since the hall was decorated—I wish to do it just right. It will have to be fourteen. More than enough is always better than too few.”

  “I hope, after all, we shall have need of them. What if she doesn’t come?”

  “She’ll come,” Genie said. “The letter was exceedingly moving, did you not think?”

  “Indeed it was,” Tavie sighed. “It brings tears to my eyes every time I think of it.”

  “Father expressed himself quite well, if I do say so. Now, after we have set the servants to gathering boughs for garlands, you and I must contrive to go into the village. Between us, I think we have saved enough pin money for Father to buy Mama a bauble.”

  Tavie bit her lower lip and looked up at her sister. “Do you not think we might charge it to account?”

  Genie thought a moment. “There would be no harm in trying. Besides, we could afford something ever so much nicer then.”

  “Something very sparkly!”

  “Something that will prove to her she is forgiven!”

  “Diamonds!” they exclaimed as one, then convulsed in laughter.

  “Kissing boughs and diamonds must make a potent combination!” Genie declared. “Now, how shall we go about getting permission to go into the village?”

  “I have already thought of something entirely unobjectionable. We must tell father we are posting a note of apology to the mistresses at Albany Academy. He must certainly approve that!”

  “Indeed he must,” Genie agreed.

  Less than an hour later, the twins were being driven into the village in possession of an abjectly worded apology for the post, and well-supplied reticules.

  “I thought Father look
ed almost moved,” Tavie said in amazement.

  “It was odd, wasn’t it?” Genie nodded. “Do you think Mama should buy him something as well?”

  Tavie thought a moment. “If we are allowed to charge.”

  As it turned out the proprietor of the village’s small jeweler, Mr. Berowne, was only too happy to take Genie and Tavie’s order on account. Their father, Sir Giles, was generally reckoned a generous man and surely he would not object to a bauble or two to please his charming young daughters. After all, it was the season for such things.

  He began by taking out a tray of pretty little silver brooches, displayed rather nicely, he thought, against black velvet. The girls frowned.

  “Have you something with more sparkle?” one of them asked.

  He replaced the tray and showed them several garnet and amethyst rings.

  “Those are very pretty,” the other said doubtfully, “but. . . have you no diamonds?”

  The proprietor felt his pulse begin to race.

  “Well,” he said slowly, “I do have one quite special piece that was left with me for ... er ... safekeeping.”

  “Ah then, we cannot buy it, can we?”

  “Of course you can,” he returned immediately.

  “But if it is in safekeeping . . .”

  “Merely a term of art, I assure you,” the gentleman said firmly. “It is most certainly for sale.”

  “Then, please, may we see it?”

  Mr. Berowne disappeared behind a set of curtains and returned some ten minutes later bearing a leather box. He quickly blew a layer of dust from its lid and placed the box before the girls. Then with the ceremony befitting the presentation of the Order of the Garter, he opened it.

  As one, the girls drew in their breath.

  “Splendid!” one of them sighed.

  “Perfect,” pronounced the other.

  Before them lay a choker of such exquisite design as belonged in a fairy tale. Not only did diamonds sparkle along the filigree, but emeralds, rubies, and sapphires. The centerpiece formed a peacock with its tail unfurled. Mr. Berowne maintained an expression of perfect gravity as he held his breath. The choker had been left as security some years ago by an obvious demi-rep fleeing an angry lover. He never thought to have the good fortune either to sell such a garish piece or see its former owner again.