Mr. and Mrs. Nathaniel Chase: a younger son from the Lakefield branch of the family who became (slightly) acquainted with Noah after a chance encounter at White’s. So far he and his wife seem affable, if impertinently interested in the value of our furnishings.
Captain Henry Talbot: Noah’s school chum. Still a hopeless gamester.
Miss Mary Harris: Elizabeth’s bosom friend. Still a flibbertigibbet.
Hmm, it only now occurs to me how ill-provisioned Elizabeth is: not one suitable man to flirt with! And the field left quite open to Captain Talbot! For immoderation aside, there’s no denying the man can cut a dash.
I shall have to keep a close watch upon my sister. Her friend Mary is not to be relied on for anything like sense, after all.
But now I must set you aside, dearest Diary, for it’s time to go down to dinner. I confess I anticipate an evening of great enjoyment…and shall be very much mistaken if The Ratbag can say the same! Ha, ha!
Vengefully,
Claire
Five
WHEN THE TIME came to dress for dinner, Jonathan realized his trousers were missing.
Well, not all of them were missing. He had brought no valet with him to Greystone, having parted ways with his man when he reached Dover, but upon entering his bedchamber, he’d discovered the castle’s (remarkably efficient) staff had unpacked all his things while he’d been in the saloon. His clothes were neatly arranged in the armoire, his grooming items laid out on the dressing table.
And, as he discovered at half past six, though all the trousers he’d brought for riding and daywear were present, his evening trousers seemed to have disappeared.
Hot with embarrassment and well-supplied with shillings, he rang for the housekeeper.
But despite Mrs. O’Connor’s considerable ingenuity, unfortunately, in the end, she didn’t prove able to unravel the mystery. All she could ascertain was that somebody had bid one of the housemaids to send all his grace’s evening trousers out for laundering—but no one could find where the request originated or, indeed, where the trousers were sent.
Jonathan appeared in the drawing room a quarter of an hour late, his brow as furrowed as the ill-fitting suit he’d borrowed off his host. He was dismayed, if not surprised, to find the whole party still assembled there; his status as the highest ranking man had left them without the power of starting dinner in his absence.
“My deepest apologies,” he began with earnest discomposure, addressing the hostess in particular and the company in general.
“Do not trouble yourself, your grace,” Claire broke in. “A delay of fifteen minutes is hardly the worst I ever suffered.”
Jonathan winced at the pointed allusion.
“You can see we are all at our leisure,” she went on, “and still enjoying our sherry. Mrs. O’Connor kept us abreast of the circumstances.” Her gaze strayed to his lower half with a slight quirk of her lips.
Brilliant. The whole party had been talking about his trousers. They must have had a good laugh at his expense.
Mortification roiled Jonathan’s already-precarious stomach. Earlier, in his chamber, he had located the hoped-for domed platter, but this year it contained only a few plain, hard biscuits tasting rather of sawdust. Though he’d devoured every crumb, they’d done little to alleviate his hunger—or to mitigate the two or three brandies pressed on him in the billiard room.
Perhaps it was the brandy’s influence, but as he endured Claire’s amusement, something in her appearance struck him oddly. After a few moments’ consideration, he realized it was her gown.
There was a time he’d been closely familiar with all her wardrobe, since he’d remained at Greystone through nearly the whole of their many-weeks-long courtship. Earlier she’d been wearing one of her favorite morning gowns, which he’d seen on many occasions. But tonight she wore something new.
It was stunning, of course: a gown in deep green silk with a spill of lace obscuring just enough décolletage for good taste (and revealing just enough to threaten the respectability of Jonathan’s thoughts). But it was also unfamiliar. Alien.
It made him realize that a year had passed—not just a year of his life, but a year of hers. A year in which he had no idea what she’d been wearing, doing, reading, or creating. All at once, he felt profoundly sad to have missed everything.
Especially when she returned to laughing with the fair-haired young chub and ignoring Jonathan altogether. The other guests followed suit, all returning to little clusters that seemed inaccessible to newcomers.
Shifting uneasily, he let his gaze wander about the drawing room, inspecting the wood paneling, tasseled curtains, and ancient ceiling beams. But upon realizing he stood directly beneath a swag of mistletoe (pathetically alone), he moved further into the room and scanned its occupants for a friendly face.
By the hearth, Claire and her young chub were in company with her two sisters: the younger, Elizabeth, who Jonathan knew well; and the eldest, Lady Cainewood, who he’d encountered a handful of times. The three ladies of Greystone origin were all lovely and rather alike—slim and graceful with oval faces, dewy skin, and matching dark hair. Only their eyes were different: Lady Cainewood’s sky-blue, Lady Elizabeth’s clear green, and Claire’s that compelling amethyst.
Over by the windows stood their brother Noah, who shared all their matching features. He too would have been quite pretty—perhaps embarrassingly so—if not for the scar that slashed through one eyebrow. With a glazed look in his blue eyes, he was talking to (or rather, being talked to by) Lady Caroline, an imperious blonde with an upturned nose. Jonathan had got fairly well acquainted with her last year, for as the only child of Greystone’s nearest neighbors, she was a fixture around the castle—especially since she’d reached marrying age and set her sights on poor Noah.
The final knot of five guests were arrayed on the sofas. Two were ladies, one unknown to Jonathan and another he recognized as Miss Mary Harris, Elizabeth’s excitable friend who’d come for Christmas last year.
