Twelfth Night Read Free

Adelaide is busy with wedding preparations for our eldest, and I cannot think it would benefit any of them to associate with so notorious a creature.”
    I snorted as I passed, a clear reference to Bellmont of his own peccadilloes. He flushed an angry red and motioned to a passing footman to fill his glass of wine again. I flashed him a brilliant smile and walked on. From quick conversation with my brother Benedick, I learnt that nothing had been amiss at the Home Farm. It was attached to the estate, and his responsibility as second son of the family. But he gave a nod to a little niche where one of the nine altars had once stood. Seated there, eating placidly from plates on their knees, were Benedick’s children, Tarquin and Perdita, and a third child I didn’t know.
    “You want to know what goes on around here, ask that pair,” he instructed. “They’re like mongooses. Not a thing happens in Blessingstoke, on the farm or in the Abbey they don’t know it.”
    He winked and turned away. I made my way to the little alcove, where I discovered the children eating an entire platter of fruit tarts they had liberated from the buffet table.
    “Hello, Aunt Julia,” Tarquin said through a mouthful of crumbs. “You won’t tell about the tarts, will you? Only we’ve taken the last plate.”
    “Clever you,” I said, helping myself to one. “They’re Cook’s best.”
    “And we mayn’t get any more for a while,” Tarquin said darkly. “She’s gone down with an ague, and the undercook will be preparing meals until she’s well again.”
    “That’s a pity,” I said. I turned to the third child, a portly little boy with a serious expression and a thatch of dark hair.
    “I don’t know you.”
    He brushed the crumbs from his hand and took mine with a courtly little bow. “Quentin Harkness, your ladyship.”
    “What brings you to the Abbey, Master Harkness?”
    He swallowed his tart and answered promptly. “Mr. Brisbane.”
    I lifted my brows. “My husband? Really? Why is that?”
    His dark eyes shone with admiration. “I want to be just like him. I’ve read about him in the newspaper, you see. And I think being a private enquiry agent would be brilliant. ”
    I smiled. “It has its moments. But it isn’t all glamour, you know. You’ll notice everyone else is enjoying their supper whilst he’s out trying to find out who left a baby in the stable.”
    “I know,” Perdita said suddenly.
    I stared at her. “What do you mean, child?”
    She smoothed her skirts over her knees. “I mean I think I know. That’s almost the same thing.”
    Quentin laughed, dropping crumbs to his lap, and Tarquin fixed his sister with a pitying glance through his spectacles. “Really, Perdie, it isn’t the same thing at all. You oughtn’t to speak unless you know . That’s how people get sued for libel.”
    “No, it isn’t,” Quentin corrected. “It’s how one is sued for slander. Libel is what you write about someone in the newspaper. My father’s a barrister,” he told me by way of explanation.
    There was something entirely unreal about having such a serious conversation with the solemn little trio, but I ought to have expected it. Benedick’s children were highly intelligent and highly original.
    “You have a good imagination, Perdita,” I observed. I meant it as a compliment, but she did not return my smile.
    “It isn’t imagination if it isn’t made up,” she told me.
    “Who do you think left the baby?” I asked her. But she merely shook her head. I shot a look at the boys. I could have throttled them. They had dampened her enthusiasm for the story, and she would say no more. I made a note to get her alone later for a private tête-à-tête. I doubted she knew anything of significance, but it would not hurt to ask.
    “Personally,” Tarquin said slowly, “I believe it was one of Aunt Hermia’s reformed prostitutes.”
    I choked on my tea, and it was some minutes before I could speak.
    I tipped my head.