What Happens At Christmas Page 4

“We are always prepared for a performance, my lady,” Frederick Wenceslas Fortesque said in a lofty manner. Fortesque was the manager and lead player of the troupe of actors she had hired. He had taken the part of the family butler because, as he had said, regardless of the play, the butler was the pivotal role. Camille bowed to his expertise in this particular matter, even if she wasn’t entirely convinced. “The prince noticed nothing out of the ordinary when he arrived this morning.”

  Indeed, Nikolai had arrived an hour or so ago in a most discreet manner, in an elegant hired coach. He was now freshening up from his travels and would shortly join her for tea. He had arrived unaccompanied, which had struck Camille as odd. She had always assumed royalty, even royalty traveling incognito, would travel, nonetheless, in a manner befitting, well, royalty. Or, at least, nobility. Still, the prince was adamant about not attracting undue attention. Not merely because of his desire to see the true nature of a country he was visiting, but because he had hinted darkly to her that one never knew what sort of brigands might be lurking about. Kidnapping and assassination were a constant threat for a royal. She had never quite considered that, but it did tend to dampen a bit of her enthusiasm for becoming a princess.

  “That’s something at any rate,” Beryl said sotto voce. She sat on a nearby sofa to lend her sister what she called moral support, although Camille suspected Beryl simply hated to miss the opening act.

  “It was an excellent beginning,” Camille said with more confidence than she felt. She twisted her hands together absently. She would never admit it to Beryl, but she was far more apprehensive about this farce than she had expected. In spite of her assurances to her sister before their arrival, she was well aware of exactly how many things could go wrong. What had she been thinking, anyway? Still, it was too late to turn back now.

  “Perhaps it would ease your mind somewhat if I were to reiterate, again, who is playing which of the primary roles,” Mr. Fortesque said with a helpful smile.

  Camille couldn’t help but like the man; he was a most likeable sort. Older, somewhere in his forties, she thought, quite tall, with a head of hair that had seen fuller days, he had thrown himself and his players into this production with enthusiasm. Naturally, she’d had no other choice but to take him into her confidence, at least to some extent, to explain why she thought it was necessary to conceal her family’s eccentric nature from Prince Nikolai. Mr. Fortesque appeared to understand and had vowed he and his troupe would do all in their power to ensure a successful performance. But then she was paying them a significant amount to do so. Mr. Fortesque understood as well that if their farce did not end happily, payment for services rendered might be far less than expected.

  “Oh, please do,” Beryl said brightly.

  Camille cast her a quelling glance. “That would be most appreciated, Mr. Fortesque.”

  “Very well.” He cleared his throat. “The role of your mother, Lady Briston, is being played by Mrs. Angela Montgomery-Wells. She has vast experience, has spent years touring the provinces and has played mothers of every ilk and fashion. A fine actress in her day.” He winced slightly, as if he had said more than he had intended.

  “Do go on, Mr. Fortesque,” Beryl said.

  He chose his words with care. “On occasion she might be somewhat absentminded. Rarely she has been known to forget her lines. But I have rehearsed her quite thoroughly,” he said in what was obviously meant to be a reassuring tone. “She could play this part in her sleep. This role was made for her.”

  Beryl bit back a grin. Camille did wish her sister would desist being quite so amused.

  “The part of your younger sister, Lady Hargate, is being played by our ingénue, Edwina Murdock. Not overly experienced before she came to us, but most enthusiastic and extremely friendly, with a natural gift one does not see often.” He lowered his voice in a confidential manner. “With her looks and her talent, that young woman will make her mark in the theater one day.”

  “Talent will tell,” Beryl said.

  “She is quite pretty.” Camille wasn’t entirely sure of the girl’s acting ability, however. Upon meeting Miss Murdock, one wasn’t struck so much by the young actress’s intelligence as by her appearance. Still, no man in her presence would question what she was saying, as they would, no doubt, be too busy staring at her red curls or her pouting lips or voluptuous bosom. Camille suspected the young woman’s primary success on the stage would be in catching a wealthy husband.

  “And the role of your uncle, Colonel Channing, will be ably managed by Mr. Wilfred Henderson. A fine Shakespearean actor with extensive credits and, even now, a considerable presence on stage.”

  “Really?” Beryl’s brow rose. “I’ve never heard of him.”

  “He never quite gained the acclaim he should have.” Mr. Fortesque paused. “Mr. Henderson had the unfortunate habit of imbibing more than was wise before a performance.” He hesitated. “Afterward as well. But he has given up overindulgence,” he added quickly.

  Beryl snorted.

  He ignored her. “The rest of the troupe will be playing the parts of maids and footmen. And while they may be actors now, very nearly all of them left a life of service to seek their fortune among the footlights.”

  He met her gaze with confidence. “You may rest assured, Lady Lydingham, this shall be our greatest performance ever.”

  Camille cast him a grateful smile. “Thank you, Mr. Fortesque.”

  “It is I who should thank you.” He hesitated. “I should confess that we are not, as yet, a very accomplished troupe. We have only recently formed, in fact, and, indeed, some of us are as yet lacking in . . . extensive experience on stage. We are most grateful for the opportunity you have provided us to hone our skills, as well as spend Christmas in as magnificent a house as Millworth Manor.”

  Camille stared. “How recent?”

  “Specifically?” Concern flashed across the actor’s face.

  “No, no.” She thrust out her hand to stop him. “I don’t think I want to know, after all. It’s far better to maintain hope than have it shattered.”

  “That’s what I always say,” Beryl added.

  “Not that I’ve noticed,” Camille snapped. Perhaps she should have been somewhat more selective in hiring the troupe, but she’d never hired actors before and considered herself fortunate to have found these. Besides, nothing could be done about it now, but hope for the best. She adopted a pleasant smile. “I’m certain you will all do an excellent job.”

  “The theater is in our blood, my lady. We have all thrown off the shackles of ordinary lives to pursue the dream that is the theater.” His voice rose, and he stared off into the distance. Camille exchanged glances with her sister. “The dream of speaking the words of Shakespeare as they were meant to be spoken or performing the works of Mr. Gilbert and Mr. Sullivan as they intend them to be performed.” He reached his hand out, palm up, as if to catch something just out of reach. “The dream of taking an audience away from their dull existence and bringing them, however briefly, to another place, another time, to a story they will long remember. And that”—he closed his hand and pulled it back to rest over his heart—“is the dream and, yes, the magic of the theater.” He bowed his head.

  Beryl choked back a laugh. Camille wasn’t sure if she wished to laugh or cry.

  “Quite,” she said in a weak voice, then cleared her throat. “Well, then, Mr. Fortesque—”

  “Simply Fortesque, my lady,” the actor said. “If I am to play the role of your butler, you should address me as such.”

  “Yes, of course.” Camille nodded. “Thank you, Fortesque.”

  “Now, then, if there is nothing else at the moment, I shall make certain your mother, sister and uncle are preparing themselves for their first appearance, as well as oversee the preparation of tea.” He nodded at the sisters and took his leave.

  “That went well.” Camille forced a cheery note to her voice.

  “ ‘Well’?” Beryl stared in disbelief. “ ‘Well’?
”

  “Yes,” Camille said firmly. “Well.”

  “It doesn’t concern you that you have a house filled with actors who need to hone their skills because they are lacking in extensive experience?”

  “But what they lack in acting experience, they hopefully make up for in the positions of servants.”

  “Thank God for that,” Beryl said sharply. “Have you also considered that you have a drunkard playing your uncle—”

  “Former drunkard, if you please.” Camille sniffed. “He has given up overindulgence and we should give him the benefit of the doubt.”

  “What we should do is inventory the brandy. And probably the silverware as well,” Beryl added darkly. “Add to that, a tart for a sister—”

  “With a natural gift—”

  “No doubt.” Beryl sniffed. “One suspects that gift is not for acting.”

  “You haven’t mentioned Mrs. Montgomery-Wells,” Camille said. “She apparently has a great deal of experience at playing the role of a mother.”

  “She forgets her lines!”

  “So does Mother.” Camille shrugged. “Yet another way in which this role was made for her.”

  “Good Lord, Camille—”

  “We just have to get through Christmas, Beryl.” Camille paced the room. “Just Christmas. A traditional, Mr. Dickens’s Christmas, with a proper English family. That’s all. Certainly, I had planned to stay here through Twelfth Night, but I can see now that might be a mistake. Of course one never knows.” She cast her sister an optimistic look. “This might go much better than anticipated.”

  “It would have to.”

  Camille paused in midstep and glared. “Thank you for your support.”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “Yes, and I am indeed grateful for that. And Lionel is still coming as well?”

  Beryl nodded. “Yes, but probably not until Christmas Eve. He is a very busy man, you know. And he does hate to be away from London for any length of time. But once I explained the circumstances . . .” She chuckled. “He has a better sense of the absurd than I give him credit for. He said he wouldn’t miss it.”

  “Wonderful. Very well, then.” Camille resumed pacing. “I shall come up with some reason why we must return to London at once. You can help me with that. You can be quite devious when you wish.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Perhaps we could arrange . . .” Camille thought for a moment. “I know! A telegram from his country calling him home.”

  “How on earth would we do that?”

  “Oh, it wouldn’t really be from . . . from . . . oh, wherever it is.”

  “Do try to remember the name of his country, Camille.” Beryl shook her head. “It’s rude to become the princess of a country whose name you can’t recall.”

  “As I cannot recall it, it’s difficult now to fit asking what it is into the conversation.”

  “Even so—”

  “Regardless.” Camille pinned her sister with a firm look. “I think sending a telegram insisting he return home is a brilliant idea. A crisis of some sort, I would think. Now, what sort of crisis . . .” Her mind raced. “I suppose a declaration of war on the Kingdom of Whatever would be extreme?”

  Beryl grimaced. “Probably.”

  “Then perhaps—”

  “Monetary,” Beryl said abruptly.

  “ ‘Monetary’?”

  Beryl nodded sagely. “Tiny countries are always having monetary crises of one sort of another.”

  “It sounds rather dull.”

  “It can be, which is what makes it perfect for your purposes. A monetary crisis is at once vague and threatening.”

  “Excellent.” Camille beamed. “Then we shall lure him back to his country with the report of a monetary crisis. Although . . .” She frowned. “I should hate to worry him unduly.”

  “That’s the lovely thing about monetary crises. If his country’s economy is stable, it’s a momentary problem. If not, well . . .” Beryl shrugged. “If not, he shouldn’t be traipsing across England in the first place.”

  “Then he should have nothing to cause undue concern. Although, when he’s worried or is concentrating, he gets the faintest little furrow between his brows. It’s quite delightful and makes him look rather serious and . . .” Of course, she should have seen it before now. She cast her sister a smug smile. “I know what is going to make this all much easier.”

  “Oh, do tell.”

  “I should have realized it before. English is not Nikolai’s native language. Aside from that charming accent, one would never know it, as he seems quite proficient. But he has confessed to me that, on occasion, there are things he doesn’t understand. Any odd occurrences in conversation or behavior from Mrs. Montgomery-Wells or Mr. Henderson or Miss Murdock, he will attribute to his failure to completely comprehend.” Delight washed through her. “He won’t question a thing. I’ve noticed this before. When he doesn’t quite comprehend, that tiny furrow appears and he smiles and nods and pretends to understand. It’s most endearing.”

  “You don’t think he’ll notice if he’s smiling and nodding all the time?”

  “I doubt it. I know all sorts of people who smile and nod continuously as they have no idea what is going on around them.” Camille shrugged. “They seem quite happy.”

  “This is getting worse and worse,” Beryl warned.

  “Nonsense. I think it’s getting better and better.” Camille ticked the points off on her fingers. “The actors are in place. They all know their roles. Nikolai will attribute anything odd to his own misunderstanding. We have a plan as to what happens immediately after Christmas. One can’t ask for more than that.”

  Camille breathed a deep sigh of relief. Certainly, she still had no definitive idea on how to eventually reveal all to Nikolai, but she would. At the moment, she was oddly confident of it. “Indeed, I can’t imagine what could possibly go wrong.”

  Gray couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but something here struck him as wrong.

  The butler had shown him into the front parlor at Millworth Manor and taken the basket from him, saying he would fetch Lady Briston. That meant he would not have to see Camille yet. Not that he cared. Still, it was a relief, and he wasn’t entirely certain why. Surely, after eleven years, he was prepared to see her again.

  He absently circled the parlor. The room itself was precisely as it was in his memory of the last time he’d been here, the day before Camille’s wedding. The furnishings were placed as they had always been, the furniture itself appeared none the worse for the passage of time. Even the clock on the mantel and the paintings on the wall remained in the positions he remembered. But then, according to Win’s letters, Lady Briston and her daughters were rarely here, much preferring to spend their days in London. Of course, Lady Briston’s children all had lives of their own. Beryl was apparently on her second husband, a political type Win had written. Delilah was a wealthy widow, but then she would be. A wry smile curved his lips. Lady Briston’s daughters had married exactly as she had trained them. Upon reflection, he realized it was odd the mother had not remarried in the manner of her offspring.

  Perhaps his vague unease was due to the presence of a new butler at Millworth Manor. For as long as he could remember, the butler was a man named Clement, stiff and stodgy and eminently proper, but usually with a vague air of long-suffering about him and often a hint of amusement in his eye. And at Gray’s last visit, a touch of sympathy as well. He was particularly suited to the eccentric household of Lady Briston’s family. Gray didn’t recall Clement as being especially old, but it had been eleven years. He had no doubt retired from service. Gray would have to ask Camille. At least that would give him something not fraught with hidden meaning to talk about.

  That’s it. He pulled up short. This new butler—he had said his name was Fortesque—was entirely too perfect for this household. Gray wondered how long he’d had his position. And how soon, if indeed Lady Briston and her daughters were in resi
dence, it would be before he left.

  “I heard we had a visitor.” An elderly lady swept into the room in a dramatic manner. “And such a dashing visitor at that.”

  “Good afternoon,” he said cautiously, wondering who this might be. Although, as he recalled, there were always a few unique sorts staying at Millworth Manor. Camille had referred to them as lost tribes—the wandering, displaced nobility of Europe—but he had never quite been certain if she was amused by them or merely tolerant.

  The lady was a good half a foot shorter than he, of matronly figure, with nearly white hair and a face that must have been beautiful once and was still quite lovely. Her blue eyes sparkled and she held out her hand. Gray wasn’t sure if she expected him to shake it or kiss it.

  She cleared her throat, glanced pointedly at her hand and raised it an inch. Kiss it, then. He smiled and obediently did so.

  “What a handsome young man you are.” She cast him a flirtatious smile, and it was all he could do to keep from snatching his hand back. “And who, exactly, are you?”

  “My apologies, I have not introduced myself,” he said slowly. “I am Mr. Elliott. Grayson Elliott.”

  “Grayson? I knew a Grayson once. Oh, he was quite mad, in a very good way, of course. One never knew what he might do next. I remember once, at a gathering at Lord . . . what was his name?” She paused as if searching her memory; then apparently thought better of what she was about to say, much to Gray’s relief. “It scarcely matters at the moment, I suppose. I shall tell you my stories later, after we have come to know each other much, much better.”

  Gray smiled weakly.

  “Welcome to my home, Mr. Elliott, Mr. Grayson Elliott,” she said in a grand manner. “I am Lady Briston, Millicent to my close friends, and I do think we are going to be close, close friends.”

  “Bernadette,” he said without thinking.

  Her eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Lady Briston’s given name is Bernadette.”

  Her brows drew together. “Are you certain?”

  “Fairly certain.”