Five

W hen 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 entrance hall. 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. In the end, despite Mrs. O’Connor’s considerable ingenuity, she was not quite 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—but unfamiliar. Alien.

It made Jonathan realize that a year had passed. Not just a year of his life, but 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 discovered a new sympathy for wallflowers as his gaze wandered about the room, inspecting wood paneling, tasseled curtains, and ancient ceiling beams. But upon realizing he stood directly under a swag of mistletoe—pathetically alone—he switched to scanning the room’s occupants in search of 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 blond 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 been invited for Christmas last year.

The three gentlemen he either knew or had met at billiards. Noah’s brother-in-law, the Marquess of Cainewood, was a mediocre shot but a good sport. Then there was a fashionable-looking fellow called Captain Talbot, who’d been forever attempting to raise the stakes.

But it was the third gentleman Jonathan finally decided to approach. He was a distant cousin of Noah’s called The Honorable Mr. Nathaniel Chase, a reedy gent with generous sideburns didn’t play billiards, but declared he was fond of spectating. Though his idea of spectating had been to crowd the table and direct his chatter toward whichever player was attempting to concentrate, Jonathan hadn’t minded. Mr. Chase had earned his good opinion by beginning a lively discussion of Roman amphorae, and since Jonathan had a great fear of boring his friends with his obscure interests, he could not but relish an opportunity to converse with a fellow antiquarian. Now he was looking forward to another such conversation.

But as he made to join Mr. Chase on the sofa, a footman pulled the bell. Claire announced dinner, prompting everybody to rise and Jonathan to abandon his planned discourse on aqueducts.

As they entered the dining parlor, he was dismayed to recall that two of the guests were still strangers to him—the lady on the sofa and Claire’s young chub. Quite suddenly he felt all the impropriety of sitting down to dinner with people to whom he had never been introduced.

Inevitably he was honored by a place next to Claire’s at the top of the table, an arrangement which gave no one any pleasure. Claire was composed but noticeably tense, and for his part, Jonathan would have much preferred to maintain a distance from her until he could contrive a private meeting.

He looked away, pretending to admire the artful centerpieces devised of winter greenery and gilded paper, until Claire, never remiss in her duty, deftly made the necessary introductions. The young chub turned out to be a Lord Milstead, a viscount come all the way from Shropshire. And the unknown lady seated to the right of Jonathan, wearing a sharp-eyed look on her lightly freckled face, was The Honorable Mrs. Nathaniel Chase.

“Your grace’s notice is an honor,” she gushed, awe softening her gaze. “I’d no notion this little house party would be so very fine! Is not my cousin Claire a dazzling hostess?”

Jonathan would have answered in the affirmative had not Mrs. Chase kept right on talking.

“Is not Greystone simply enchanting? Such distinguished tapestries! They do so complement the china—which I believe I’ve seen in the window at Wedgewood & Byerley—twelve shillings apiece? Indeed, a very fine party! And I hear we’re to have some sort of surprise recreation in the morning?”

A general pause ensued, for none of her listeners had expected a genuine question.

“Yes,” Cainewood eventually jumped in to answer, “there’s always a surprise outing during the Greystone Christmas party. A tradition begun by my wife when she was mistress here.” He cast a fond look down to the other end of the table, where Lady Cainewood was seated by her brother.

“Last year it was skating on the River Cainewood,” Claire added.

“How enchanting!” Mrs. Chase exclaimed. “What’s it to be this year?”

“A surprise,” Elizabeth said sweetly, prompting a ripple of laughter.

Mrs. Chase was prevented from responding to this bon mot by the arrival of the first course, which was laid out with great ceremony by a troop of synchronized footmen.

Dish after dish materialized, beautifully dressed and artistically arranged, until scarcely any tablecloth could be seen. Jonathan’s mouth watered, and nothing less than the manners that had been drilled into him since birth could have restrained him from serving himself before the ladies.

Claire was already being helped by her cousin Cainewood, which left Jonathan at the service of Mrs. Nathaniel Chase. “Oooooooh,” she moaned, examining each and every platter with slow, maddening thoroughness. “How on earth shall I choose? Everything looks sublime. And yet I’m full to bursting after the gorgeous luncheon, not to mention the delightful spread in my chamber. I never can help myself when it comes to gingerbread!”

“Gingerbread?” Jonathan echoed bemusedly. Surely she couldn’t mean those tasteless biscuits?

“The gingerbread was capital,” Cainewood agreed. “Though I was particularly partial to the winter-berry tart.” He aimed an admiring nod in Claire’s direction.

She smiled modestly. “The recipes are all your sisters’, Griffin. Oh, excepting the Irish whiskey cake—that one came from the Delaney family. Did it turn out well?”

As everyone within earshot exclaimed over the Irish whiskey cake, Jonathan wondered if he was delirious (from hunger?). Had he somehow overlooked a large, reportedly delicious cache of sweets in his room?

Mrs. Nathaniel Chase continued to hem and haw while every other lady and gentleman were served and began to eat. At length she selected a helping of everything within her neighbor’s reach (and he had a long reach).

Finally Jonathan found himself at liberty to attend to his own plate. His first choice would be the rich stewed lamb immediately before him, and he had the ladle in hand when a figure appeared at his side.

“I beg your pardon, your grace,” Mr. Evans murmured with a deep bow. “May I present your meal?”

Jonathan startled and relinquished the ladle as the butler replaced his empty plate with a full one. “I—er—thank you, Mr. Evans,” he said in utter confusion.

Had the butler taken it upon himself to fill a plate for him? That would be very odd!

But no, upon examining the plate in question, Jonathan realized his mistake—for it contained no food at all resembling what was on the table, instead bearing two delicate silver bowls filled with generous portions of thin gruel and soft-boiled eggs, respectively.

Though it seemed a stretch to call the eggs soft-boiled. They appeared so “soft” they might as well be raw. Which was, well…

The word disgusting came to mind.

In horror and bewilderment, he turned to question the gray-haired butler. But Mr. Evans had deftly retreated. The diners around Jonathan were all engrossed in their own food—except Claire, who watched him with an air of benevolence.

“Our kitchen received the instructions sent from yours,” she said in a discreet undertone, which was nonetheless easily heard by everybody at their end of the table. “I hope such fare will ease your complaint.”

Jonathan was speechless. Their interest now piqued, his neighbors all craned for a look at his plate, afterward displaying their various aptitudes for concealing distaste and derision. “Must be bilious,” he heard Lady Caroline whisper to Captain Talbot.

If Jonathan wasn’t bilious before, he certainly was now. His stomach roiled. But what could he do?

As a gentleman and a guest, contradicting his hostess in public would be unforgivably rude. The only man who might attempt it was Noah, but ensconced as he was at the bottom of the table and in animated discussion with his neighbors, he was, unfortunately, oblivious to his friend’s plight.

Jonathan’s state of mind was fast progressing from desperate to feral.

Days of anxiety and suspense had already depleted his reserves, before ravenous hunger began to gnaw away the remainder. Adding to that, the cruel taunts of the luncheon, the alleged chamber-sweets, and the glorious feast in front of him (with its irresistible fragrance of stewed lamb assaulting his nose), juxtaposed beside the offense of gloopy egg and gray sludge—not to mention the mortifications of his vanished trousers and “bilious” stomach, nor the gall of Claire speaking a bare-faced lie with all the magnanimity of St. Brigid gifting jewels to the poor?—

Well, after enduring all that, could any man be faulted for losing his temper?

And Jonathan nearly did. He was a breath away from upending his plate, seizing the tureen of lamb, and digging into it with both hands.

But his good breeding held—only just. Seething to his very core, every minute costing him a year’s patience, he yet managed to keep his seat. He even choked down a few spoonfuls of gruel (the egg was not to be attempted).

Whatever penance Claire was determined to foist on him—and it was abundantly clear that this dinner was penance, as was the orange luncheon, the sawdust biscuits, and perhaps even the pilfered trousers—he was equally determined to endure.

He would prove to her that he had changed, that he would never again let anything—or anyone—come between them. No matter what schemes she might concoct to make him leave, he would stay right here by her side.

Accordingly, after the first course was cleared and the second arrived, he served the indecisive Mrs. Nathaniel Chase with endless patience, ignoring his own throbs of hunger. And when Mr. Evans appeared at Jonathan’s elbow with another plate—this time containing colorless cabbage mush and dry, stringy mutton boiled to within an inch of its life—he thanked the butler profusely.

“Please convey my compliments to the kitchen,” he added to Mr. Evans, though pointedly looking at Claire. “All the food has been exactly to my standard and agrees with me exceedingly.”

Claire looked surprised, and Jonathan felt gratified to have finally got some sort of reaction out of her.

Especially when, seemingly despite herself, the corners of her lips turned up.