“How late, tardy Oberon,” she replied.
“True, and for that I beg forgiveness. But you have my word that I will be dressed in time for the ball.” His easy tone was forced, she decided, increased doubt sweeping her resolution aside. Pride would not allow her to debase herself by playing the sweet trusting wife.
Her silence made him uneasy. “Are you angry with me?”
“Should I be?” she asked, countering question with question.
Their eyes met again for a moment before she looked away. He hesitated, then nodded at the footman. “You may go now, but please leave my coat,” he added.
Surprised that such an undeniably damp garment was not to be spirited away to the kitchens to be dried and aired, the man did as he was bade, resting it neatly over the back of a tapestry-upholstered Tudor chair by the hearth.
When he had gone, Charles held out his hand to his wife. “I confess to being chilled to the very marrow, so let us go closer to the fire,” he said.
Slowly Juliet left the staircase, but she ignored his outstretched hand and went to the fireplace, where the customary Yule log winked amid the flames. From the corner of her eye she saw Charles’s hand fall away again, and knew that he looked at her for a moment before joining her. They stood side by side, their faces glowing with flamelight, but there was a chill in their silence.
“Is something wrong, Juliet?” he asked at last. “Are you unwell?”
“I am in excellent health,” she answered.
“Juliet, I—”
What he had been about to say would never be known because Jack’s loud, staccato chatter interrupted him. The magpie was perched on Lady Marchwell’s wrist as she smiled down at them from the top of the staircase. Juliet’s aunt was dressed as Cinderella’s Fairy Godmother, in a voluminous blue cloak over a white gown, with a tall pointed hat that completely concealed her graying curls. “May all your wishes come true, mes enfants,” she declared amiably, waving a rather gaudy wand as she began to descend.
Jack’s presence marked Lady Marchwell as something out of the ordinary run of ladies. No sweet, twittering canary or lovebird for her, instead she chose a raucous, cheeky, exceedingly ill-mannered magpie that would have stolen the world itself provided it glittered enough.
As she reached the foot of the stairs Juliet’s aunt smiled again. “Welcome back, Charles.”
“I’m glad to be back, Lady M,” he replied warmly, but Juliet knew he was annoyed about the interruption. And maybe he was annoyed to be here, instead of with . . . whoever it was.
“I trust you mean to change into costume before attending the ball?”
“Naturally, for what is Titania without her Oberon?” he replied.
What indeed? Juliet thought, for his words seemed a little too close for comfort.
Charles eyed Jack as the bird fluttered and then swayed on Lady Marchwell’s wrist. “Is that scoundrel drunk again?”
“He’s had a festive sip or two,” she admitted, “but only to toast the season.”
“Be honest, Lady M, he has some excuse or other to toast every day of the year, and twice on Sundays.”
Juliet would once have joined her aunt in laughing at this, but today she simply could not; indeed, she couldn’t even remain at his side, and moved away under the pretext of rearranging his greatcoat on the chair. The coat would provide a moment of distraction; a moment to compose herself a little more. She felt him turn quickly to briefly stretch out a hand that he immediately snatched back, and she sensed that his reaction had nothing to do with her leaving his side but everything to do with where she moved to. Why? What prompted such an undoubtedly nervous response on his part?
Any hope she had entertained of regaining her composure was forgotten, for the very act of moving the coat brought about a denouement that shattered everything. A dainty golden chain dangled from the coat’s flapped pocket, and began to glitter and flash in the firelight. It immediately caught Jack’s single eye, and with a delighted chatter—chak-chak-chak—he launched himself from Lady Marchwell’s wrist and dove upon the shiny object. For a few seconds he fluttered furiously against the coat, then flew off with his trophy, a costly gold locket that Charles’s conscience had bade him purchase for his betrayed wife. Finding a safe perch among the evergreens garlanding the gallery balustrade at the top of the staircase, the wobbling magpie brandished the locket and chain triumphantly in his beak.
Voices sounded from the floor above as the first guests emerged to go down to the grand parlor, although as yet no one had reached the staircase.
Lady Marchwell was dismayed with the magpie. “Oh, Jack, you bad bird! Bring it back this instant!”