Twelfth Night Secrets by Jane Feather Page A

forkful. “The turbot is one of Cook’s specialties, by the way. She uses ginger and cinnamon in the sauce. I hope you like it.”
    “It’s quite delicious.”
    “Did you spend time together in London, or just in Paris and here at Charlbury?”
    Julius put down his fork and turned to look at her quizzically. “This is quite a catechism, ma’am.”
    “Given how close I was to my brother, curiosity about how he spent his time away from his family seems only natural in the circumstances.”
    “I suppose so.” He picked up his fork again, and Harriet waited for him to answer her question, but he seemed intent on his turbot.
    She waited until the fish was removed and roast goose made its appearance, then repeated her question. “So, did you see much of Nick in London?” She forked a slice of meat from the silver platter presented by a footman.
    “Not really.” He selected a plump, crisp-skinned leg.
    Harriet took a spoonful of greens cooked in almond milk from the tureen at her elbow. “You were such friends, I wonder why that should be . . . Do you care for applesauce?”
    “Thank you.” He took the bowl from her. “Let me explain. I remained in Paris when Nick returned to England.” He gave her a bland smile. “Since I understand you spend most of your time in London yourself, I’m sure, since you shared a roof with your brother, you would have been aware of our friendship had I been in London.”
    It was like trying to shoot a mosquito, Harriet thought in frustration. He managed to evade every single question while appearing to answer her openly.
    “How often were you with Nick down here at Charlbury?” She tried again.
    “Oh, several times . . . I don’t recall exactly. But you should talk to your grandfather. Maybe he remembers better than I.”
    “Maybe.” She gave him a brief smile and turned to engage her neighbor on her left side, leaving the Earl to do the same with his own.
    Once the detritus of the goose had been removed and replaced with mushroom tartlets, scalloped oysters, and some cheese and parsnip fritters, Harriet turned back to Julius. “Your sister . . . ?” she prompted. “How many children has she?”
    “Three or four,” he returned, taking a sip of wine.
    “You don’t know exactly?” she exclaimed. “But you gave me the impression you were very fond of them.”
    “Oh, so I am,” he agreed. “When in their company. But that doesn’t mean I can always keep track of how many there are. Eloise is usually either with child or just delivered of one.” He dabbed at his mouth with his napkin and gave her a sideways smile. “Her husband is very devoted, it seems.” It was a wickedly suggestive smile that brought an instant and involuntary smile to her lips, although she was sure the aunts would have expected a maidenly blush.
    “Is she your only sister?”
    “Yes . . . and to save your next question, I am now her only brother. Our older brother died of smallpox when he was twelve.” His smile now was quizzical, slightly teasing. “Perhaps a written questionnaire would move matters along a little.”
    “Oh, don’t be absurd,” Harriet declared. “I am merely trying to make conversation.”
    “Well, if I may say so, interrogation is an unusual form of conversation.” He spooned scalloped oysters onto his plate. “I must congratulate you on your cook. Has she been with the family long?”
    Harriet laughed. “Oh, very well, sir. I yield the floor. Yes, Mistress Hubbard has been cook at Charlbury since before my grandmother died. She and Mallow were here before Nick was born and were part of our childhood, as they are part of the twins’. The same with Judd.” She switched onto a parallel track. “Where did you go on your ride today? I should have told you about some of my favorite rides around here. The countryside is so beautiful, even in the middle of winter.”
    “I certainly found it so,” Julius responded. “But as it happens, I decided to