CHAPTER ONE
O, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive!
—SIR WALTER SCOTT, MARMION
JANUARY 5, 1832
TRAQUAIR, SCOTLAND
If there had been any doubts I was visiting a ducal estate, the trumpeting buglers would have clarified the matter. Not that there was truly any confusion. Not when I was staying in a grand 284-room Gothic castle surrounded by nothing but miles of steep snowy hills and ice-choked burns, save the occasional sheep. And the soaring bedchamber to which I’d been assigned was so lavishly furnished it might have put Louis XIV’s Versailles to shame. But the buglers were so unexpected, and so extravagant, that after first catching my breath from the start they’d given me, I found myself giggling at the absurdity.
My husband smiled down at me. “They are a trifle excessive, aren’t they?”
“Do all dukes feel it necessary to summon their guests in such a manner?” I asked as we descended the stone spiral staircase, his arm linked with mine. Though I had spent a fair amount of time in a number of aristocratic households, including the establishments of my brother-in-law, the Earl of Cromarty, I had never visited the estate of someone as lofty as a duke. Upon our arrival at Sunlaws Castle earlier that day, we’d been greeted by a battalion of footmen dressed in crisp green and black livery with gold braid.
But prior to our marriage nine months earlier, Sebastian Gage’s bachelor status, as well as his charm, wealth, and attractiveness, had guaranteed he was a greatly sought after guest. And those attributes didn’t even factor into account the delicate investigations he often undertook on behalf of the nobility as a gentlemen inquiry agent, or his father’s friendships with men as highly ranked as the king himself.
“Not all, but the Duke of Bowmont certainly isn’t an aberration,” he replied. “In truth, he seems to be one of the more unpretentious persons of his rank. I suspect the buglers are merely tradition. And I suppose we can’t argue with their effectiveness.” He cringed as another musical barrage assaulted our ears. “You can certainly hear them echoing throughout the entire castle.”
I rather thought a gong might be as effective, and a bit less jarring. Or perhaps furnishing each room with some sort of chiming clock.
We reached the first floor and a shiver ran through me from a stray draft wafting through the corridors. I pulled my ivory shawl tighter around me, grateful I’d elected to drape it over my bare shoulders revealed by the scooped neckline of my amethyst sarsnet gown. At nearly six months full with child, I found that I was more often warm than cold, but an ancient castle of such immense size was all but impossible to heat efficiently, especially during the chill of a Scottish winter. I could already hear the sound of merry voices drifting through the doors of the dining room further along the corridor. Warm light spilled out into the gloom of the passage, and we hastened forward, eager to join the festivities.
It appeared as if about half of the Duke and Duchess of Bowmont’s approximately five dozen guests were already gathered in Sunlaws Castle’s dining room. My maid, Bree, had already ferreted out the information that there was an even more opulent state dining room on the opposite side of the castle, but after surveying the room before me, in terms of opulence, I didn’t know how much grander one could get. The ceiling was graced with not one but two Waterford chandeliers surrounded by intricate stucco medallions. The walls were fitted with panels of azure silk damask, and the fretwork across all the surfaces, including the curtain rails, was gilded.
However, the other guests’ attention was not on the Van Orley tapestries or the priceless landscapes by Claude Lorrain spanning the walls, but on the two-tiered Twelfth Night cake perched at the center of the long carved mahogany table. The duchess had told me her pâtissier and confectioner had outdone themselves this year in their preparation of the evening’s treat, and while I could not judge their efforts against those from previous years, I agreed the dessert’s appearance was quite splendid. The plum cake was covered in layers of pale sugared icing and then lined with intricate figures made of marzipan. When I leaned closer, I could see that they were courtiers from a medieval court: a jester, a knight, ladies in waiting, and of course, a king and queen.
Upon our arrival, the duchess had prepared us for the prospect of eating dessert at four o’clock in the afternoon, though Gage and I were less certain what the remainder of the evening would hold. The duchess’s annual Twelfth Night Ball was somewhat notorious for its revelry and high-spirited antics, and invites were coveted among the elite. Normally, I would have wished to avoid such a fashionable soiree, but a friendship had recently developed between me and the duchess, and despite her infamous reputation, I realized not all the things whispered about her and her family were true. And thus, all the things said about their party were not likely to be either.
In any case, I was not here only for the festivities, but also to finish painting the duchess’s portrait after she’d been called away from London suddenly a month prior. Though we hadn’t yet had much time to discuss it, she had already mentioned she’d set a room aside just for the purpose, and I looked forward to beginning our first session together in the next few days. Capturing the duchess’s aging beauty accurately and unflinchingly on canvas was a rare challenge for my abilities, and I was anxious to succeed.
“Oh my,” my older sister, Alana, Lady Cromarty, breathed in admiration as she moved forward to stand beside me at the table, linking her arm with mine. She leaned forward, squinting at the marzipan figures. “Kiera, is that a herald? And a hunting dog? And . . . is that courtier . . . ?” She broke off, her eyes widening.
“Yes,” I replied. There was indeed a page or courtier exposing his bottom to the maid next to him.
Apparently, not all the rumors about the Bowmonts’ Twelfth Night Parties were untrue.
She straightened. “Well, given the speculation of all that went on in our royal court in centuries past, I suppose they could have chosen a much more shocking depiction to re-create.”
Even so, I elected not to circle the cake to examine the marzipan figures on the other side.
We glided away from the cake, our husbands following in our wake. Footmen circulated the room with glasses of wassail and whisky, and we each accepted one as we took up a position near the far end of the table while the remainder of the guests continued to congregate in the room. There was a palpable air of excitement as everyone anticipated the commencement of the festivities. Alana’s and my brother, Trevor, paused at the threshold looking rather dashing in his dark evening clothes, his gaze sweeping over the assemblage. A wide grin split his face as he caught sight of us and he began edging his way through the crowd toward us. The jovial spirit had infected him as well.
I didn’t know whether the duchess had already intended to invite Philip and Alana to her party—they were the Earl and Countess of Cromarty after all—but I was quite certain she had invited Trevor on my behalf. The same could be said for my friend Charlotte, the widowed Countess of Stratford, as well as my cousin Rye Mallery, who had been ardently courting her. I dipped my head to her as our eyes met across the room, pleased to see that her eyes were shining and her cheeks flushed happily as she stood close to Rye’s side. It was true, Charlotte’s great-aunt, Lady Bearsden, was an old crony of the dowager duchess. In fact, the two ladies were seated in chairs near the windows, cackling over some outrageous bit of gossip, no doubt. However, I still suspected Charlotte had been added to the guest list because of me.