Truth that peeps
Over the glasses’ edge when dinner’s done...
—Robert Browning, “Bishop Blougram’s Apology”
Overall, the arrival had gone off well, much to Margaret’s relief. Whatever her own qualms, the duke and duchess had shown no hint of awkwardness or constraint when they welcomed her to Denforth. So the first hurdle had been cleared successfully, and others lay ahead. Well, she would do her best to take them in stride.
As for Their Graces themselves, they remained as fascinating... and unfathomable as ever. They’d baffled her as a girl; their often-contentious interaction couldn’t have been more different from the comfortable rapport between her own parents. Little wonder then, she mused, that several of their children—most notably, their sons—had grown up to be rather complicated people. Hal had actually been one of the simpler Lyons boys, though he’d had his share of problems, most notably his dependence on the duke’s favor—and purse strings. Margaret suspected he’d been more than a little envious of the freedom Reg and Gervase enjoyed, as younger sons, though he never would have admitted as much to either of them.
“Margaret?” Juliana’s voice broke in to her thoughts, and she looked up to find the younger woman smiling at her. “I remember how fond you were of the South Tower chamber, so I’ve put you in there. I hope that’s all right.”
The same room she’d had five years ago, Margaret thought with a frisson. The Christmas she’d taken her future in her own hands... but Juliana had been only fifteen at the time, and so not likely to recall its significance. “That will be lovely, thank you,” she said quickly, rising from her chair. The family was vacating the Great Hall in twos and threes, retiring to their rooms to rest before dinner. She caught Gervase’s eye, and he sent her a brief smile that was almost without irony as he and Reg filed out of the room.
Juliana beckoned to a footman. “Albert here will take you to your chamber now. And I’ve already had hot water sent, so you can have a bath. The dressing bell will be rung at six.”
About an hour and a half from now, Margaret estimated. Thanking Juliana again, she followed her escort upstairs, and was soon enjoying the hot bath her hostess had promised. Afterwards, she wrapped herself in a thick woolen dressing gown and brushed her hair out before the blazing fire. Tilda was now unpacking Margaret’s clothes, hanging the gowns in the wardrobe, folding the rest away in the huge chest-of-drawers.
Margaret glanced about the tower room, which, apart from the new steam radiator the duke had mentioned, appeared scarcely changed since her last visit: still furnished in robin’s egg blue, with touches of cream and rose for warmth. The bed with its embroidered canopy and curtains looked as lofty and queenly as ever, the mahogany secretary and bookcases shone with polish, and the panes of the arched casement window sparkled in the wintry light.
How she’d loved the view from the tower window! Smiling nostalgically, Margaret rose and drifted over to the window, looking out over the south lawn. Now it lay beneath a blanket of snow, but in the spring and summer, that had been one of their favorite places to picnic—possibly because of the slight hollow in the earth wide enough to encompass all of them. In more fanciful moments, Margaret had imagined that it was like lying in the palm of a giant hand. When carpeted with velvety green grass, starred with buttercups and clover, the hollow became a delightful place for children to loll, daydream, exchange confidences—and the occasional difference of opinion.
Margaret’s lips twitched as she recalled one vivid example of the latter. She’d been fifteen at the time, and in the grip of her first passion—not for Hal or any other boy, but for a Plantagenet king, slain in battle nearly four hundred years before. A king from whom her father’s side of the family liked to claim descent on the distaff side, and whose reputation she’d burned to salvage from the ravages of Tudor historians...
“King Richard, late mercifully reigning over us, was through great treason, piteously slain and murdered, to the great heaviness of our city,” she quoted dramatically to her audience on a sultry August afternoon that marked the anniversary of Bosworth Field.
Reg shrugged as he whittled away at a twig. “A Yorkist epitaph for a Yorkist king. Nothing unusual in that.”
“But don’t you see?” Margaret appealed. “If the city of York had the courage to speak that way—in their public records, no less!—about Richard, after Bosworth Field, then he can’t have been as black as he was painted! Maybe he didn’t kill the Princes in the Tower! And maybe all of England wasn’t flocking to Henry Tudor’s banner, or hailing him as some great savior!”
“Unfortunately, the Stanleys flocked to Tudor’s banner,” Gervase observed, without looking up from his book. “And thereby hangs the tale.”
“Turncoats and traitors, the lot of them!” Margaret snapped.
“Perhaps, but they played their game more shrewdly than the king,” he pointed out.
“And so we should let the likes of them have the last word on history?” she challenged.
“What does it matter who has the last word?” Hal asked in genuine bewilderment. “The man’s been dead for centuries, so it can hardly make any difference to him.”
“But he’s still being talked about,” Margaret persisted. “Still slandered. And with every Tudor account, one gets further and further from the truth. There must be more to the story than Shakespeare—or any of his sources—ever knew!”
“That’s practically a given,” Elaine agreed, looking up from the daisy chain she was making with Juliana. “Shakespeare was a playwright, not a historian. And he wouldn’t have dared to write anything too critical of the Tudors, in any case.”
“Except that people generally prefer an exciting legend, accurate or inaccurate, to dry-as-dust facts and figures,” Gervase pointed out, setting aside his book to enter the fray. “Drama trumps history almost every time, in popular opinion.”
“Then we need more compelling accounts of the truth!” Margaret declared. “Real histories that will make people believe—or at least rethink the matter.”
“Preferably written by someone who didn’t end in Bedlam,” Gervase drawled.
Margaret flushed. “Sir George Buck wasn’t insane when he made the case for Richard’s innocence! And Sir Horace Walpole believed in it too, and he was perfectly sound of mind.”
“Between the Bard and Buck, my money’s on the Bard,” Gervase retorted. “As for Walpole, I doubt his best could compete even with Shakespeare’s worst. Theater audiences want to see Crouchback, not some long-suffering, misunderstood martyr.” His voice dropped to a deeper register, his features twisting into a cynical sneer as he quoted, maddeningly: “And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover, / To entertain these fair well-spoken days, / I am determined to prove a villain. / And hate the idle pleasures of these days.”
Margaret just managed not to grind her teeth. “Theater audiences are welcome to ‘Crouchback,’ as long as serious scholars may have the real Richard the Third!”
Gervase raised his brows. “Would you not consider Sir Thomas More and Polydore Virgil to be serious scholars?”
“More and Virgil were—” Margaret broke off, trying to find words sufficiently scathing to convey her opinion of those two as reliable authorities on Richard III.
“Don’t listen to Ger, Margaret!” Elaine advised, laughing. “He’ll take the opposing side in an argument just to be perverse. And to get a rise out of you!”
Margaret glared at Gervase, who merely shrugged. “Temper becomes you,” he observed with that crooked smile that made her want to lob her bottle of lemonade at his head.
“You are the most odious boy in the world,” she told him darkly.
He bowed. “Thank you. I appreciate knowing that I excel at something.”
Margaret shook her head, still smiling at the memory. That had been the first time she and Gervase had clashed over the matter of King Richard’s innocence, but certainly not the last! Other skirmishes had followed, with both of them presenting their respective arguments thoroughly—and, in Margaret’s case, sometimes heatedly. She’d been so determined not to let Gervase get the better of her on this! Not for some months had she realized how much her debating skills had improved as a result—and that her confidence had grown as well. More than that, she’d found herself almost enjoying their ongoing war of words. And she rather suspected Gervase had enjoyed it as well, if only because he’d never been able to resist a good argument. Besides, it wasn’t as if anyone else in her family or his shared her interest. How strange that the boy who’d so often been a thorn in her side growing up should have become such a good friend to her...
The clang of the dressing bell roused her from her thoughts, and she turned from the window to find Tilda opening the wardrobe again.
“What gown will you be wearing tonight, my lady?”
“Hmmm.” Margaret went over to survey her choices for the evening. She’d emerged from her year of mourning back in February, but even then, she’d dressed quietly for several months in dove-grey and lavender. Only in summer had she got up the nerve to order some gowns in the brighter colors she’d used to favor, colors that Alex had liked to see her wear. It still sent a pang through her to know he’d never see her in these, but she knew he wouldn’t have wanted her to mourn forever. Or spend the rest of her life in widow’s weeds, like the Queen bereft of her consort.
Which eliminated the black satin, right away—she’d packed that one more out of habit, remembering her mother’s dictate that every woman should own one good black evening gown, but tonight it would remind her too much of her losses. Not just Alex, but Hal as well—and it would almost certainly evoke the same memory for her hosts, Margaret realized. Sobered, she chose the amber brocade instead: the rich hue would flatter her fair complexion and chestnut hair, while the heavy silk would provide additional warmth. Denforth Castle might have central heating now, but she remembered how cold the dining room could be. The bustle would be rather a bore—the size had increased over the last few years, though Alicia had written from Paris that it was to become smaller in the spring—but it was still one of her most fashionable dresses.
Tilda helped her into the gown and matching slippers, then dressed her hair high with gold filigree combs, and applied discreet touches of powder and rouge to her face. Finally, from her jewel box, Margaret selected a necklace of heavy amber beads—a gift from her father on her eighteenth birthday, and a more judicious choice than the diamonds Alex had given her as a wedding gift or the pearls she’d received from the Whitboroughs on her betrothal to Hal. There were amber earrings too: pretty drops dangling from twists of gilt wire.
Surveying the finished result in the mirror, she felt a cautious satisfaction. Coming to Denforth might have revived childhood memories, but at least she looked the grown woman—and countess—she had become since her last visit: elegant, even sophisticated. Unexpectedly, she caught herself wondering if Gervase would like her evening gown as much he’d liked her traveling ensemble, then sternly told herself not to be absurd. She did not dress for him any more than he dressed for her, though his approval certainly would be welcome. The women in his family were never less than exquisitely dressed themselves, all possessing the matchless French instinct for style.
Margaret swallowed, unsure whether the sudden hollowness in her stomach was due to nerves or merely hunger. Stifling her lingering qualms, she donned her evening gloves, draped a light shawl about her shoulders, and hurried for the door, her silk skirts rustling about her.
Much to her relief, she was neither the first nor the last to arrive in the Great Hall. Over by the Christmas tree, Juliana, a vision in cornflower blue, was deep in conversation with her eldest sister, wearing her favorite shade of dusky rose and looking—as always—startlingly like the duchess. Mother and daughter had similar natures too, Margaret reflected: both strong-willed and determined to have their own way, but Madeline appeared to have mellowed over the years—possibly due to her husband’s influence. Lord Saxby was famously even-tempered and more easygoing than the duke, at least in domestic matters.
Margaret made her way to the sisters, who greeted her warmly and regarded her gown with approval.
“You look splendid,” Juliana told her, taking her hands in a light clasp. “It’s good to see you wearing bright colors again.”
“Thank you. It feels good to wear them again,” Margaret confessed. “In spite of—” she changed course, not wanting to cast a pall over the evening. “You look wonderful yourself, Juliana. Is that gown from Paris?”
“Well, my dressmaker is, which is just as good,” Juliana replied, giving her hands a reassuring squeeze. “There’s no better time than Christmas for looking one’s best, is there? Even the men,” she added, nodding towards the fireplace.
Following her gaze, Margaret saw Reg, Gervase, and Lord Saxby gathered before the hearth: the former in regimentals, the other two in immaculate evening dress. No sign thus far of the duke—or her brother, for that matter.
She turned to Juliana. “Has Augustus arrived yet?”
“He has,” Juliana confirmed. “About an hour ago, so he should be down soon.” She paused, a delicate blush creeping into her cheeks. “He’s grown quite handsome, by the way.”
“A veritable Adonis,” Madeline spoke for the first time. “Quite a transformation from his days as an undergraduate!”
“He’s filled out quite a bit since leaving Oxford,” Margaret agreed. “And his coloring is so much like Papa’s.” Although she had to admit, if only to herself, that Augustus’s manner was entirely different. Papa had been a gentle soul, wholly lacking in arrogance, perhaps because he’d never expected to inherit the dukedom. Until his older brother’s death, he’d been destined for the Church—or perhaps for a scholar’s life. By contrast, Augustus had known from an early age that he would hold one of the highest titles in England someday. And fond as she was of her brother, Margaret couldn’t help thinking he’d have been the better for just a touch of their father’s humility. Even Hal, a duke’s heir himself, had found Augustus’s airs a touch absurd.
“Is it difficult, calling him Langdale now?” Juliana asked.
“A little,” Margaret admitted. Papa had died two years after her marriage, and she still missed him sorely, especially since becoming widowed. He’d liked and respected Alex, while Augustus, so much younger, had barely known him. “I still expect to see Papa whenever I hear someone address Augustus by his title.”
“I can’t imagine anyone but Father as Duke of Whitborough,” Juliana confessed. “Not even my brothers.”
“Better not let Reg hear you say that—or Jason for that matter. Not if you want this Christmas peace to hold.”
Margaret just managed not to jump when Gervase spoke from directly behind her. Those cat-feet of his... she’d never heard him approach. She slid him a covert glance, noticing how well the stark black and white of his evening kit became him. His expression was nearly as austere, his grey gaze fixed on his sister.
Juliana pulled a face. “Point taken, Gerry! Though I can’t see why Jason should care. He’s the youngest, after all, and unlikely to inherit.”
“He’s also Father’s favorite, as he never ceases to remind us,” Gervase retorted. “If primogeniture wasn’t the law of the land, he’d be doing his level best to cut Reg out.”
“And you wouldn’t?” Madeline challenged. “I remember how you and Reg both acted when Hal was still alive.” Her voice was not quite steady when she spoke her twin’s name.
Margaret tensed as Gervase matched his older sister stare for stare. “On the contrary, Madeline, I think I’ve wasted enough time tilting at that particular windmill,” he replied evenly. “Which is a realization I came to before we lost Hal.”
Madeline’s gaze dropped, and Margaret suppressed a faint shiver. She’d almost forgotten—perhaps had chosen to forget—how... fraught even casual interactions between the Lyons siblings could get. And Madeline and Gervase were usually on good terms.
Juliana said with determined cheer, “And we’re all so proud of your success, Gerry! Margaret mentioned that your firm won its last case.”
Gervase looked at her then, and Margaret felt herself flush at the warmth in his eyes.
“It seemed a victory worth acknowledging,” she said, trying to sound casual.
“I am delighted that you think so.” And despite his light tone, Margaret thought he meant what he said.
“And doesn’t she look wonderful tonight?” Juliana asked. “That shade of amber is just glorious with her coloring.”
“Enchanting.” Gervase lifted Margaret’s hand to his lips in a courtly gesture that nonetheless quickened her pulse and made her skin tingle beneath her glove. “Here comes the Countess; now heaven walks on earth.”
Sensing that Juliana and Madeline were watching with increased interest, Margaret strove to match his tone. “Never at a loss for a quotation, are you?”
He smiled with only a trace of irony. “I thought that one particularly apt.”
“I can no other offer make but thanks,” she retorted, from the same play, and saw his appreciative smile deepen until those blasted dimples made an appearance.
“Good heavens, are you two still at it?” Another voice, light and merry, inquired from behind them. “Between the pair of you, you must know the entire First Folio by heart!”
“Elaine!” Half-relieved, half-regretful at the interruption, Margaret turned to greet her friend, the most serene—outwardly, at least—of the Lyons sisters. “What can I say? Your exasperating brother has a way of bringing out the competitor in me.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Elaine retorted, throwing Gervase a teasing look. “But competition appears to agree with you, my dear,” she added to Margaret. “You look absolutely ravissante, tonight.”
“So do you.” Elaine wore a jade-green gown that did remarkable things for her hazel eyes, but Margaret suspected that impending motherhood was responsible for that special glow to which the duchess had referred earlier. And Elaine’s husband, Alasdair, was gazing at her as though she was the most precious thing on earth. Margaret felt a wistful pang, not unmixed with envy. Fond as she was of her stepsons, she could not help regretting the child she and Alex had been denied in their short time together. But that was an old grief, which would not prevent her from rejoicing for her friend. “I’m so happy for you, by the way.”
“Indeed. Congratulations to you both.” Gervase smiled at his sister and reached over to clasp his brother-in-law’s hand. “Are you hoping for a son or a daughter this time?”
“As we’ve been blessed with one of each, we’d be happy with either,” Alasdair replied.
“As long as he or she is healthy,” Elaine added. “Although,” her expression grew pensive, “it might be more practical to have another boy. A spare to follow the heir.”
“It might be more peaceful to have another girl,” Gervase observed dryly.
Madeline gave him a quelling look, then asked solicitously, “Have you been well, my dear? No faintness or nausea? I’d the most dreadful morning sickness myself this last time.”
Elaine shook her head. “Oh, no, I’ve been in excellent health throughout, save for a touch of queasiness in the first weeks. But that’s passed off, and I find myself utterly ravenous this evening.”
“Then I hope you approve of tonight’s dinner!” Juliana laughed. “Among other things, I’ve asked Mrs. Hill to prepare one of her famous roasts. With Yorkshire pudding and an apple tart to follow.”
“The roast beef of England.” Elaine closed her eyes and gave a blissful sigh. “Sounds just perfect for a cold winter’s night.”
“Talking of things that look good enough to eat...” Madeline murmured, not quite sotto voce, nudging Juliana and nodding towards the doorway.
Inevitably, everyone else followed the direction of her gaze. And despite knowing how much her brother’s looks had improved, Margaret experienced a jolt of surprise akin to what the other women must have felt on first seeing him again. Even Gervase looked slightly startled by Augustus’s metamorphosis from cygnet to swan.
A veritable Adonis, Madeline had called him, and she hadn’t been exaggerating by much. From a weedy adolescent, Augustus had grown into an undeniably handsome young man, broad-shouldered but trim, his hair a true golden-blond, a shade or two lighter than Hal’s or Reg’s. His eyes were a pale, almost icy blue, but still arresting, and thickly lashed, and the somber hues of evening dress provided a perfect foil for his fair coloring. He looked so like their father for a moment that Margaret’s heart ached, then he caught sight of her and smiled—the rather practiced smile he’d cultivated to conceal a few crooked teeth—and the resemblance vanished.
“Margaret.” He strode over to greet her, bestowing a light, decorous kiss on her cheek. “I am delighted to see you here, and looking so well.”
As a countess and a duke’s daughter should, Margaret translated without difficulty. Still, Augustus’s concern with appearance did not mean his greeting was insincere. She returned his salute, taking care not to muss his clothes. “Likewise, my dear. Have you heard from Alicia?”
“I received a telegram from her today,” he replied. “You’ll be pleased to know that she’s safely arrived in England and will be staying with Bourne and his family tonight, then join us here at Denforth tomorrow.”
“Oh, good,” Margaret hailed the news with satisfaction. Earl Bourne—their distant cousin Ernest—owned a pleasant manor house in Oxfordshire, just a few hours away by train. “I’m looking forward to seeing her.”
“As we all are,” Juliana said brightly. “Langdale, you remember my sister Elaine. And her husband, the Duke of Castlebrooke, and my brother, Lord Gervase.”
“Of course.” Augustus bowed over Elaine’s hand, then nodded at Alasdair and Gervase. “While Alicia and I were among the youngest of our little band, I do recall our adventures fondly. And I am happy to be here among such old family friends.”
A pretty speech, Margaret thought, if a bit pompous for someone only twenty-three. But Augustus had always been precocious—and the Lyons sisters looked wholly charmed.
It was perhaps unfortunate that Jason entered the Hall at that moment. While the youngest Lyons boy wasn’t bad-looking, his unfinished features and gawky limbs marked him as an adolescent: no longer a charming child, not yet a confident young man. Nor did he appear to be comfortable in his evening clothes—most likely because he was in the process of growing out of them. Margaret could glimpse nearly an inch of bare wrist showing beyond his sleeve, and from the way he was running a finger around the inside of his collar, he appeared to find his necktie too tight as well. A more striking contrast than the one between him and polished, self-assured Augustus could scarcely be imagined.
Margaret experienced a flash of sympathy. She knew Jason the least well of all the Lyons brood; Hal had had little use for his youngest brother, and Reg even less. And it hadn’t escaped her notice that Jason was more than a bit spoiled and willful. On the other hand, it couldn’t have been easy for him being born at the tail end of a large, contentious, competitive family. Not as handsome or athletic as Hal and Reg, not as clever as Gervase... little wonder that Jason clung to his father’s favoritism as a way to feel important.
“He looks about as comfortable as a tied dog,” Gervase murmured, from just behind her.
Margaret looked up and saw the same reluctant sympathy she was feeling reflected on his face as he regarded his brother. Jason was glancing from one end of the Hall to the other, clearly unsure whether to join Reg and Saxby by the fire or everyone else beside the Christmas tree.
Gervase huffed a faint sigh, and beckoned the next time Jason looked in their direction. The boy’s sulky expression lightened—which improved his appearance remarkably, in Margaret’s opinion—and he began to make his way towards them.
“That was kind,” Margaret said in a low voice.
Gervase shrugged a shoulder. “He might as well go where he’s less likely to be snubbed.”
“True enough,” she conceded, smiling ruefully. Keeping Reg and Jason apart as much as possible was also more likely to result in a happy outcome.
And so it proved. Jason’s sisters welcomed him affectionately and introduced him to Augustus, who greeted him with appropriate formality but without any of the condescension that might have rankled the younger man. A few minutes later, Reg and Saxby broke off whatever conversation they were having by the fire and came over to greet Augustus too. Much to Margaret’s relief, no snubbing took place, but then, it was easier to avoid potential altercations in a crowd. They were all conversing amicably enough, when the dinner bell sounded—and the last two members of the house party swept into the room together.
Margaret had always considered the phrase “time stood still” to be an exaggeration. But seeing the Duke and Duchess of Whitborough enter, arm in arm, as they had so many times in the past, she experienced the sense of the years rolling back. Once again, she was a child, a schoolgirl, a newly betrothed debutante, watching the most striking couple of her acquaintance make a royal progress through their kingdom. Tonight the duchess was resplendent in oyster satin, trimmed with narrow bands of sable. Diamonds glittered about her still-smooth throat, and a diamond crescent gleamed in her piled dark hair. As a peeress of the realm, she could have worn a tiara as well, but she looked quite regal enough without one.
Tonight the duke matched her in elegance. For all his professed disdain of formal dress, full evening kit suited His Grace just as well as the country tweeds he favored. Lamplight cast a halo upon his tawny hair, concealing any hint of grey, and his gaze, blue and piercing, swept the Hall, encompassing everything and everyone in a single look.
Margaret slid a covert glance at Gervase, surprising an almost wistful expression on his face before he resumed the cool impassivity he usually displayed in the presence of his family.
His siblings were no less affected, though they showed their feelings more openly. Juliana was positively aglow with happiness, her eyes—blue as her father’s—shining like twin sapphires. Elaine and Madeline too were smiling, almost mistily. Jason, by contrast, was biting his lip, his expression wavering between awed and sullen. How clearly did he remember his parents, in happier days? Margaret wondered. The family almost never spoke of how and when the estrangement between the Whitboroughs had first arisen, but Margaret thought the rift had occurred around the time of Jason’s birth. Over the years it had appeared to narrow—but Hal’s death had widened it to a seemingly unbridgeable chasm... until this Christmas, at least.
They paused now, almost in the middle of the Hall, and the duke’s searching gaze alighted upon Augustus.
“Langdale.” Still arm in arm with his wife, he approached the younger man and extended his hand. “Welcome to Denforth. Glad that you could join us for the holidays.”
Augustus clasped the proffered hand briefly. “Thank you for inviting me, Whitborough. Duchess.” He bowed over her hand. “You are as exquisite as ever.”
She smiled. “And you are the image of your father as a young man. I hope you are finding everything to your satisfaction at Denforth?”
“Indeed. I was just telling Lady Juliana how comfortable my chamber is, especially with the new steam radiator,” Augustus replied.
“I put Langdale in the Red Room, Mama,” Juliana said, a slightly questioning lift to her voice. “It was one of the first bedchambers to be renovated.”
“A fine choice, petite,” the duchess approved, bringing a flush of pleasure to her youngest daughter’s cheeks.
Just then Lydgate appeared in the doorway. “Dinner is served, Your Grace.”
“Excellent,” the duchess said. “I find myself absolutely famished. Juliana, chérie, I trust that you have the seating in hand as well?”
Juliana assured her that she did, and immediately began to assign partners for the formal procession in to dinner. Inevitably, the duchess was matched with Augustus, but Margaret was startled to find the Duke of Whitborough offering her his arm.
“Lady Bellamy, if I may have the pleasure of escorting you?” he inquired, smiling down at her with the fondness she remembered from her days as Hal’s betrothed.
Margaret returned the smile, stifling an unexpected pang of regret that she wasn’t to be paired with Gervase. “I should be delighted, Duke. Thank you.” And taking her arm of her former almost-father-in-law, she allowed him to lead her in to dinner.
In retrospect, Gervase supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised that the peace did not last the entire evening. As it was, they all probably should have been grateful that it lasted through dinner.
Things had begun well, for the most part. He’d been disappointed but not surprised that his father was chosen as Margaret’s escort. With the exception of his mother and Elaine, she was the highest-ranking lady present—and had the added advantage of not being a blood relation. Perhaps wisely, Juliana had assigned partners with more concern for harmony than hierarchy. She’d exercised similar prudence with the seating, placing Reg and Jason at opposite ends of the table, and closer to the parent with whom each was on better terms. Meanwhile, Gervase had the consolation of finding himself seated next to Margaret, with Juliana on his other side.
And while he did not claim to be an expert on such things, he thought his sister had done a creditable job with the cavernous space that was the dining room, making it look almost cozy with the artful placement of some Chinese screens and a potted palm or two. The linen tablecloth shone white as a new snowfall, the china and crystal gleamed, and an exquisite arrangement of camellias and ivy in a silver epergne graced the center of the table. Gervase noticed the slight nod his mother bestowed upon his sister, who colored again at this unspoken accolade. The duchess was nothing if not exacting when it came to entertaining, and while Juliana might be performing some duties as hostess tonight, there was no question as to who was mistress here. And only a matter of time before Her Grace took over the reins for this gathering from her daughter, Gervase estimated—not that Juliana was likely to resist.
Dinner itself was everything it should have been, in such a house, at such a season: elegant but hearty, and accompanied by the best wines Denforth’s cellar could offer. A selection of the French dishes his mother loved were on hand, as well as the wholly English roast with all the trimmings of gravy, Yorkshire pudding, and roast potatoes.
“Better than Simpson’s on the Strand,” Margaret said, blissfully inhaling the savory steam that rose from her laden plate. “And that club of yours too, I’ll wager.”
“Perhaps,” Gervase conceded, as he cut his portion into bite-sized morsels. But he suspected—no, knew—that she was right. No one knew her way about a roast better than Mrs. Hill, and his first mouthful confirmed that she hadn’t lost her touch. To judge from the expressions all around the table, everyone else was equally impressed. Even his mother, usually so critical of English food, had no fault to find, and conversation languished for a time as everyone paid tribute to the cook’s skill. A good thing, in Gervase’s view, as it prevented people from dining on each other instead—an all too frequent occurrence when his family got together.
Only one thing was lacking... and Gervase wouldn’t have mentioned it for worlds. But it seemed wrong somehow that Hal wasn’t here, vying with Reg for any remaining Yorkshire puddings, praising Mrs. Hill extravagantly. His older brother had always loved Christmas, and in mellower moments, the rest of his family had been carried along on the wave of his enthusiasm.
Looking across the table, he saw Madeline, a pensive, almost melancholy expression on her face. He caught her eye and sent her a faint smile, an olive branch for their sharp exchange earlier, and saw her lips curve in response. Surely of them all, she missed Hal the most, though they’d been as different as twins could possibly be. Family wisdom held that Madeline had got all the sense, Hal all the spontaneity, but their bond had never been in question. Gervase hoped that Hugo and her children filled some of the void left by Hal’s death.
He glanced at his parents, stately and self-possessed at their respective ends of the table. No outward sign that they were thinking of the son they’d lost, although he knew they must be, no less than he and Madeline were. Time might blunt the edges of grief, but the loss remained. And yet, here they were, making the effort to be cordial, even festive tonight. What might come of that—a Christmas truce or something more lasting—was anybody’s guess.
Apropos of which... he turned to Margaret, finding her deep in conversation with his father. No sign of constraint that Gervase could perceive: good to see that her fears about meeting his parents again had been unfounded. Indeed, the duke appeared to be going out of his way to be charming and affable, and few men could be better company than he when he’d the inclination. And Margaret was smiling, opening up like a flower to the sun’s warmth.
Relieved for her, Gervase relaxed in his chair to enjoy the rest of the meal. Conversations around him were light-hearted and desultory, consisting mostly of reminiscences of past Christmases and projected plans for the present holiday. Juliana thought they should decorate the Christmas tree and the Great Hall the following day, while the duke mentioned that he’d managed to engage a touring repertory company to perform at Denforth on Christmas Eve, a prospect all his guests greeted with pleased anticipation. A fondness for the theater was one of the more peaceful things that bound his family together, Gervase reflected.
“What will they be performing?” the duchess inquired of the duke. “A Nativity play?”
“Seasonably appropriate, but I had something a trifle more ambitious in mind.”
Her brows rose in an elegant, questioning arch. “East Lynne, perhaps?”
The duke’s eyes glinted. “You malign me, my dear. And just for that, I shall abandon you to the toils of your curiosity until the night in question.” Ignoring the daggers she was now staring at him, he applied himself diligently to the last course, a spectacular array of desserts that included a chocolate gâteau that was one of the duchess’s favorites, an apple tart, and several beautifully molded jellies.
Gervase traded an amused look with Margaret. “She did rather ask for it with that comment,” he murmured, for her ears alone.
She gave a soft spurt of laughter, which she smothered in her wine glass. “My thoughts as well. But I do wonder what play will be put on.”
“Something classical or Shakespearean,” Gervase speculated, helping himself to apple tart with cream. “Father doesn’t care much for modern plays.”
“Especially not East Lynne,” they said, almost in unison, and exchanged a smile. The duke’s distaste for that popular, oft-performed melodrama was something of a family joke.
Once the last course had been thoroughly savored and the dishes cleared away, his mother and Juliana rose together and led the other ladies from the dining room, leaving the men to their age-old ritual of port and cigars.
No sooner had the door closed behind the last trailing silken skirt than Whitborough motioned for the port decanter to be handed around the table. “One of my finest, gentlemen—a Graham’s Vintage ‘70, only recently acquired. I am certain you will approve of it.”
Gervase just managed to conceal his surprise. His father’s palate was merely serviceable, especially in comparison with his mother’s, but he knew from his wine-tasting lessons the quality of such a port. Definitely a feather in the duke’s cap... even Reg looked impressed.
A slight scratch at the door arrested the progress of the decanter as they all looked towards the direction of the sound. The footman obligingly opened it to admit the duke’s current mastiff, who paced majestically to his master’s chair and lay down beside it.
Gervase hid a smile. Some things never changed. His mother, while tolerant of the various forms of livestock at Denforth, drew the line at having her husband’s dogs in the dining room, while dinner was served. His Grace had found a way around that, by having them enter after the ladies had departed. “So, what’s this one called, Father?” he inquired; the previous mastiff, who’d died several years ago, had been Galahad.
“Bors,” Whitborough replied, casting an affectionate glance at the dog. “After one of King Arthur’s knights,” he explained to Augustus, who appeared somewhat taken aback by the canine addition to their company.
The younger man recovered admirably. “One who achieved the Holy Grail, was he not?”
“Very good,” Whitborough approved. “Yes, along with Galahad and Percival. A tireless seeker after the eternal mysteries,” he proclaimed with a flourish.
Gervase glanced down at the mastiff, who yawned prodigiously before settling his huge black-masked head back on his paws. Hard to imagine this indolent beast pursuing a rabbit, much less a sacred chalice, but he supposed even a dog needed something to live up to.
The decanter had reached him by now, and he poured himself a liberal measure of port, but declined the cigars being offered as well. Reg accepted one, though, as did Hugo and Augustus. Jason regarded the box of Cubans speculatively, but, at a stern look from the duke, drew back his hand and contented himself with a glass of port instead.
It wasn’t easy making the transition from boy to man, Gervase thought, swirling the dark wine in his glass and breathing in the bouquet. Five Christmases ago, Jason had been thirteen, old enough to dine with the family but still regarded as a child. Being accepted as an adult at last could be an intoxicating experience, so to speak... he made a mental note to ensure that his younger brother did not drink to excess. Overindulgence in liquor might be another masculine rite of passage, but he doubted Jason would enjoy it much, especially the next morning.
Once everyone’s glass was filled, the duke lifted his. “As you no doubt remember, the first toast goes to our sovereign, and at my age, I see no reason to dispense with a fine old tradition,” he remarked jovially. “Gentlemen, to the Queen!”
“To the Queen!” they echoed, and drank Her Majesty’s health.
The port was every bit as good as its reputation had promised, and Gervase savored the taste, the mingled flavors of plum and blackberry, the smooth, almost syrupy finish. Gazing around the table, he saw similarly satisfied expressions on the faces of his companions. Reg was almost smiling, his eyelids at half-mast as he first lit, then drew upon his cigar.
“An excellent vintage, Whitborough.” Augustus raised his own glass to his host. “I applaud your discrimination—and your palate.”
“Not at all, Langdale,” the duke returned. “The duchess is the true connoisseur of the family. However, I believe I have picked up some useful tricks from her over the years.”
And not just in wine. The words hung unspoken in the air. Gervase slanted a glance at Reg, catching the lift of his brother’s eyebrow that usually presaged a less than tactful remark.
Fortunately, Hugo saw it too. “So, Reg, I hear you spent last week with the Quorn,” he said heartily. “Good hunting there?”
“Oh, yes—excellent country. Of course the Shires can’t be matched for hunting. Took a fox two out of those three mornings we rode out.”
“Alas, poor Renard,” Gervase murmured into his glass.
Reg and Hugo both ignored this remark, but Alasdair, who preferred fishing, grinned.
“Duke, is there to be a meet on St. Stephen’s Day this year?” Hugo asked his father-in-law. “I’d hoped to put my newest hunter through his paces.”
“There should be,” the duke replied, sounding somewhat less enthusiastic than his wont, Gervase noticed. Puzzling, since his father had enjoying riding to hounds for years. “And possibly one just before New Year’s, if the weather permits.”
“Good.” Reg nodded his approval. “My new hunter should have arrived by then.”
Hugo leaned forward, all interest. “You’ve bought another horse too?”
“Well, I’ve made a handsome offer,” Reg qualified. “The owner’s a Melton man himself, and I’ve given him until Christmas Eve to respond.”
Hugo, a keen sportsman, pressed for further details about the horse, which Reg was more than willing to share. His brother had a reputation for choosing only the best, Gervase mused, whether it was horses, hunting hounds, or guns. There was hardly any masculine pastime at which Reg did not naturally excel. And if that skill did not come naturally, he would drill relentlessly until he attained proficiency. Several years ago, he’d bought himself a trim little yacht and learned to sail it, ignoring all the naysayers who’d scoffed at the idea of his mastering the sea comparatively late in life. Even now Reg could never admit defeat or rest in too-easy consciousness of his victory—a trait as admirable as it was annoying. And one that Gervase had to admit that he and Reg might actually share. Useless to deny that he was every bit as driven to succeed in his chosen areas of expertise. Indeed, how could he and his brothers have been otherwise, given who had sired them?
Watching Reg and Hugo now, Gervase was struck by a sense of familiarity so powerful it stole his breath for a moment. It could so easily have been Hal sitting among them, discussing—or more likely, disputing—the finer points of horseflesh with Reg. Both had insisted on the best quality in their mounts, though Hal had also been easily attracted by what was showy. In the end, Gervase recalled with an inner chill, that preference, along with his reckless riding, had cost him his life. And that of the unfortunate horse as well.
He glanced towards his father, and saw that the duke was also watching Reg and Hugo through half-lidded eyes, like a somnolent lion. Someone who didn’t know him so well might think he was almost dozing, mellowed as they all were by food and wine. But Gervase would have wagered money that the mind behind those eyes was sharply awake. Impossible to gauge what his father was thinking—-or feeling. Nostalgia, for his own younger days in the field, when he’d ridden as tirelessly, even recklessly as Reg? Melancholy, over the lost son who’d also loved such sport? Or something else, something more... unpredictable. And therefore dangerous.
He was watching his father so closely that the sound of Augustus’s voice took him—and perhaps everyone else—by surprise.
“And I imagine, Major, that you intend to repeat your exploits at Melton here?” The young duke’s voice was as smooth as the port they were drinking, but some undercurrent to it made the back of Gervase’s neck prickle uneasily.
Reg regarded him through narrowed eyes and a cloud of cigar smoke. “Is there any earthly reason I should not, Langdale?”
“None at all, Major,” Augustus returned. “I applaud your zeal in pursuing English foxes. I am merely curious as to why you have chosen not to pursue a far more attractive quarry. And one much less inclined to flee your advances.”
“I mean to have a new hunter too,” Jason announced loudly into the charged silence that followed. “And one that’s every bit as fine. For my birthday—Father said so.”
His elders ignored him to a man. Gervase looked from his brother to Augustus, his uneasiness growing. He’d never known Margaret’s brother well, could not yet fathom just how he fit into this scheme of things, but it would be a mistake to discount him. Here was no overgrown boy like Jason, but a young man growing into his authority—and liking it.
“Are you referring to Lady Alicia?” Reg inquired with somewhat forced lightness. “I shouldn’t have thought a fond brother would describe his own sister as quarry.”
“I shouldn’t have thought a fond betrothed would leave his intended withering on the vine,” Augustus countered, his tone almost eerily level.
Reg’s lips thinned. “I have no intention of putting Lady Alicia in such a position, Langdale.”
Augustus raised skeptical brows. “Might I inquire exactly what position you do intend to place her in, Major? Your betrothal was formalized almost five years ago, and you are no closer to the altar than you were then.”
“I must confess, Reginald, that a similar question has crossed my mind as well,” the duke remarked, his own voice deceptively pleasant. “Any number of times.”
Oh, God—here it came. Another bout in the ongoing strife between Whitborough and his heir. Gervase braced himself, wondering just how acrimonious this latest round was going to get. With the unpredictable element of Augustus now in the mix, anything was possible—including imminent cataclysm. He felt a flicker of sympathy for Reg that surprised him, probably because two against one was still unsporting any way you looked at it.
Reg’s expression went stony as he addressed his father. “When the arrangement was first made, my betrothed was still in the schoolroom. I cannot think that a child of barely seventeen is ready for marriage, certainly not to a serving officer in Her Majesty’s Army. Would you have had one of my sisters marry under such conditions, sir?”
“Probably not,” the duke conceded grudgingly, after a moment. “But Lady Alicia is no longer in the schoolroom. She has made her debut in Society, and recently come of age. The reason for your reluctance to wed no longer exists.”
“I am still a serving officer, however,” Reg retorted, his face still unyielding. “And a life following the regiment might not be to Lady Alicia’s liking. It is, after all, far removed from the life to which she is accustomed.”
“A life in which you have displayed little interest thus far,” Augustus observed. “Which leads me to question this so-touching concern for my sister’s welfare, especially since you apparently cannot exert yourself to write to her more than twice yearly.”
Twice-yearly? Gervase just managed to conceal his astonishment on hearing that tidbit. While he’d always known that Alicia’s interest in Reg far exceeded his interest in her, a letter every six months—after returning to England no less—seemed particularly blatant proof of his indifference. Even Hal, as careless as he’d been with Margaret’s affections, had been more attentive—at least in public.
“I fail to see how the frequency of correspondence between your sister and myself is your concern, Langdale.” Reg’s tone was as stiff as his posture. Stiff—and defensive, Gervase thought, eyeing his brother more closely.
“Anything that touches upon my family’s honor is my concern, Major,” Augustus retorted. “As the daughter and sister of a duke, Lady Alicia Carlisle is not to be trifled with, or taken for granted. And this Christmas,” he paused, his pale blue eyes taking on an icy cast, “I mean to see her confirmed as the next Duchess of Whitborough. Or formally released from this engagement, along with every penny—and acre of her dowry.”
The duke leaned forward at this, his gaze probing. “You are referring to Moorhaven?”
Augustus met his gaze squarely. “Indeed I am. According to the arrangement my father made with you, Moorhaven was to serve as a home for her and your son. If the betrothal is terminated, then I wish the property to revert to my possession, as part of the Langdale holdings.”
Whitborough steepled his fingers. “As I recall, Moorhaven is an unentailed estate, which your father was free to bestow upon whomever he chose.”
“I am aware of that,” Augustus began, but the duke continued as if he hadn’t spoken, “The estate was first designated as part of your sister Margaret’s dowry, when she and my eldest son were betrothed—at which time I agreed to undertake most of the costs for its maintenance. That provision was retained after Moorhaven was settled upon Alicia, following her betrothal to Reg. For the last nine years, the estate has been largely supported by Whitborough resources.”
“I was aware of that as well,” Augustus replied. “Do you require recompense? I am certain something can be arranged, if necessary.”
“Magnanimous of you.” The duke raised his glass in an ironic toast. “However, I merely wished to point out that, for all intents and purposes, Moorhaven now belongs to Whitborough.”
Augustus’s eyes hardened, though his well-cut lips remained curved in the semblance of a pleasant smile. “I have a deed of property that says otherwise. Unless my sister marries your son, you have no legal claim on the estate.”
“And unless the betrothal is officially dissolved, neither do you,” the duke countered. He lifted his glass again. “I believe we have reached a stalemate, Langdale.”
Gervase glanced from one to the other. Something was afoot here, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He’d never known the terms of Margaret’s betrothal to Hal, nor seen the property over which his father and Augustus appeared to be contending. And that in itself was enough to rouse suspicion. Landed estates—indeed, land in general—were worth far less than they had once been. So why were two wealthy dukes vying for the possession of this one? A display of dominance, he wondered, or something more?
“In any case,” his father resumed, “the matter cannot be decided upon in Lady Alicia’s absence. So I propose we set it aside, for now.”
Augustus looked none too pleased, but after a moment he inclined his head. “Very well, Whitborough. I concede that you have a point. My sister will no doubt wish to have her say.”
“One ignores landed women at one’s peril,” the duke agreed. “Or so I have learned.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Gervase saw Reg curl a derisive upper lip at that remark. Unfortunately, Whitborough appeared to have seen it as well, for he now turned his attention back to his heir.
“Leaving aside the matter of your marriage, Reginald, I find I have another equally pressing question for you,” he remarked. “When do you intend to resign your commission?”
“When. I. Am. Ready.” Reg bit off each word with chill precision.
“Any notion of when that will be?” his father inquired, still in that falsely pleasant tone. “At the next blue moon? Or had you another date in mind—the Second Coming, perhaps?”
Reg’s mouth tightened, a muscle twitching at the corner of his jaw. “The army has been my life for nearly ten years. And will remain so a while longer.”
“In other words, you prefer to play soldier rather than take up your responsibilities here.”
The tension in the room thickened, as choking and impenetrable as smoke. Gervase was aware of Hugo and Alasdair exchanging uneasy glances; his brothers-in-law had long since learned to keep their heads down during Lyons family disputes. Jason, he observed with some distaste, was watching avidly, far too pleased by this turn of events. By their father and Reg being on the outs yet again.
“Being a soldier has never been a game to me.” Reg’s eyes were flint-hard, his bearing more military than ever. “And I have a duty—to the regiment and my men.”
“What of your duty to Whitborough, Reginald?” the duke persisted. “What of your duty to this family?”
“And to my sister?” Augustus chimed in, but intent on each other, neither the duke nor Reg spared him a glance this time.
“This family prospers,” Reg reminded him. “Only Juliana is unmarried among my sisters, and only the pup is left to establish creditably, a task better left to you... or to God,” he added, flicking a disdainful glance at Jason. “As some tasks are clearly beyond human capability.”
Jason flushed hotly, mouth opening to respond in kind. Gervase kicked him under the table, and when the boy turned to glare at him, shook his head meaningfully. His brother subsided, still scowling.
“What of your duty to me, then?” the duke inquired, his tone sharper now.
“What of it? You are the Duke of Whitborough.” Reg swept him a mocking obeisance. “Lord of all he surveys. A man in the prime of life, with years still before him. You don’t need another lackey about the place.”
The duke shook his head. “At my age, I cannot afford the luxury of assuming that time is on my side. It may not even be on yours, if your commanding officer’s report is accurate.”
Reg went still. “Spying on me now, Father?”
“Merely attempting to stay informed about the health of my heir.”
“In your usual overbearing fashion.” Reg smiled without humor. “And yet you fail to understand why I will not return to life under your thumb. Time and again I have witnessed your reluctance to yield or even to delegate real authority over the years—not even to your future successor.” He crossed his arms, his jaw taking on its customary uncompromising jut. “Well, I won’t be your lapdog, Father. I won’t sit tamely at your feet like Bors there. And above all, I won’t sacrifice my career or my independence to you—like Hal!”
The name was out, and Gervase saw the shaft strike home, his father’s face tightening across the strong cheekbones, his eyes going stark and bleak. It lasted no longer than a second or two before the duke’s mask of imperturbability slipped into place... a mask that Gervase recognized with a shock as being strikingly similar to his own.
What would have happened next he would never know because Alasdair’s voice—sounding perhaps just a shade too hearty—broke the strained silence.
“Gentlemen, why don’t we go and join the ladies now?” he suggested. “I don’t like to leave Elaine alone too long, in her present condition.”
Alasdair the peacemaker, something he had in common with his wife. But given the circumstances, Gervase thought his brother-in-law deserved all the support he could get. “An excellent idea,” he said, pushing back his chair and getting to his feet. “Perhaps we might have music too, as befits the season.”
Music to soothe a savage breast... of which there were far too many in this room alone.
Much to his relief, no one offered any resistance to Alasdair’s proposal, but quickly drained their glasses and stubbed out their cigars before leaving the dining room, in a silence more like an armed truce than a lasting peace.