Jonathan groaned inwardly. It was only half past three. He eyed his luncheon plate, almost tempted to brave the rash.
But then he brightened to remember that during last year’s Christmas party his guest bedchamber had harbored an elegant domed platter, restocked daily with festive treats. Salvation would soon be at hand!
Before quitting the room, he cast a final glance back at Claire. She’d returned to the fair-haired gentleman’s side.
Lucky young chub.
Four
Greystone Castle
Thursday, 23rd December 1819
6 o’clock. — He’s pleased to see me?
After the way he abandoned me last Christmas and then vanished for a year, he dares look me in the eye and say he’s pleased to see me?
The insufferable Ratbag!!!
I could hardly credit the way he came waltzing into the saloon (which is to say, in a way not at all waltz-like, for his bearing is rather formal and dignified, although not pompous), acting as though he were just another guest.
Actually, I shall retract that statement: He is pompous. I once thought otherwise, but now I see my error. He’s pompous and insufferable, and he doesn’t smell that good, either. I always fancied he smelled like a forest glade on a crisp spring morning: unhumanly fresh and subtly aromatic. (I asked him about it once; he uses mint shaving oil and saffron soap, both fragrances that were popular with the Ancient Romans). Though his scent hasn’t changed, now I find it uncanny and unappealing. A man ought to smell like a man, not some sort of impossibly well-groomed woodland sprite.
And though he might smell the same, one cannot but remark upon the alteration in his looks. He’s still tall and lean, with a Frenchman’s straight nose and strong jaw. But his thick hair is lank and unstyled. His high cheekbones appear sunken. His skin looks tanned as a field worker’s, and his eyes seem edged with new lines.
It would be a lie, I suppose, to call the changes unattractive. He’s grown a bit gaunt and rough, to be sure. But what was lost in genteel perfection is more than gained by a new, intriguingly hardened and brooding aspect. He looks rather like a world-weary knight returning from a crusade in some romantic ballad or other. As if in the improbable event of a heathenish band descending on our Christmas house party, he could fight off the attackers with a longsword whilst slinging me over his shoulder and carrying me off to safety. Perhaps to the shelter of a cave, where his knowledge of the land might sustain us both in rustic comfort.
In any case—what was I writing of?
Right, his insufferability. To think how I’ve dithered, wondering whether we’ve taken the scheming too far, fearing Elizabeth’s enthusiasm has run away with her.
Ha!
The Ratbag deserves all we’ve got planned and more.
Whoever knew my little sister could be so devious, not to mention enterprising? I merely supplied one or two hints, and off she went engineering stratagems with the proficiency of Napoleon. We must secretly descend from a race of elite pranksters, for Elizabeth seems to have discovered her birthright.
And if luncheon was her first trial, she passed with full marks. The Ratbag’s face! I might have died laughing! He wore such a pout as I’ve never seen on a male beyond the age of five. No doubt he ran tardy as usual and missed his breakfast this morning.
Elizabeth was right: a bit of vengeance is exactly what I needed. Having waited in dread of my first encounter with The Ratbag, to my great surprise I find myself reinvigorated—reawakened, even—as if I begin to emerge from a fog.
Dearest Diary, there is life in me yet! The clouds are lifting. Elizabeth is a genius, and I am a shallow creature desiring nothing more virtuous than an outlet for my spite. But I do not care! The Ratbag has earned my spite, and I fancy I’ve earned a bit of sport at his expense.
Oh, that pout! I keep bursting out in fresh laughter. That pout alone might carry me through Christmas. My apologies if this has become difficult to read—it’s because I find myself dancing about the room as I write. I shall have to stop soon, however, for my quill is running out of i
Half past six. — Confound it. Diary, you must forgive me! I was dreadfully careless to spill the inkwell. An unfortunate blunder—your poor pages! I shall send to London for new sheets to replace the stained ones. Only the finest hot-pressed paper, you have my word!
That I may find calm, let us set aside The Ratbag for now. (Insufferable man!)
He must not be so consequential as to overshadow the rest of the company. He came first to my pen, I daresay, merely because he entered the castle last, and with the most consternation. All our other guests had the good grace to arrive punctually and behave as expected. To wit:
Rachael: my elder sister. With the critical eye of Greystone’s former mistress, immediately and minutely enquired into all the party arrangements. Managed not to openly insult them, which Elizabeth and I took as a remarkable compliment.
Griffin: my brother-in-law. Devoured half the buffet in ten minutes, then stretched out on a sofa.
Lord Milstead: my determined suitor. Paid me every possible attention, to the point of preventing my conversing with anybody else. He does flirt charmingly, however.
Lady Caroline Nicholls: same as previous, only with respect to Noah. Will she catch him at last? (Doubtful.)
