“Go on, then,” Camille said sharply. “Say whatever it is you’re thinking. I know you want to. You can barely restrain yourself.”

“I . . .” Beryl shook her head, then burst into laughter. Long, hard and totally inappropriate hilarity.

Camille folded her arms over her chest and glared at her twin.

“I am sorry.” Beryl could barely choke out the words through her laughter. Camille’s jaw clenched. “But you must admit, the addition of your long-lost love—” “He most certainly is not!”

Beryl ignored her. “Grayson’s involvement completes the cast in a manner that, well . . .” Again she shook with uncontrollable mirth.

“This is not amusing!”

“No.” Beryl sniffed and wiped her eyes. “Of course not.” She inhaled a steadying breath and made an obvious attempt to control herself. “So what do you intend to do about our cousin?”

“Nothing.” Camille shook her head. “There’s nothing I can do, really. He has already introduced himself as our cousin.”

“How did this happen?”

“I’m not entirely sure. He met Mrs. Montgomery-Wells, who apparently does not know her first name. And then Miss Murdock thought he was another actor and confided everything. And one thing led to another. . . .” She heaved a heartfelt sigh. “But he has promised to behave accordingly and to lend me his assistance as well.”

“Has he?”

“He seems quite sincere.”

“No doubt.”

Camille narrowed her eyes. “What are you thinking now?”

“Nothing, darling, nothing at all. Except . . . perhaps . . .”

“Yes?”

Beryl grinned. “I’m just dying to see what the next act in your little Christmas pageant will reveal.”

“As am I, Beryl.” A grim note sounded in Camille’s voice. “As am I.”

Six

Six

“Prescott,” Grayson called the moment he strode through the doors of Fairborough Hall.

“Yes, sir?” The butler appeared at once, seemingly from nowhere. Gray bit back a grin. Fortesque could take lessons from Prescott. “Have my bags been unpacked?”

“I believe so, sir.”

“In that case, please have one repacked.”

“Very well.” Prescott paused. “Are you leaving again so soon, sir?”

“Just for a few days. I’ll be staying at Millworth Manor.”

“Ah yes, of course, sir,” the older man said in a sage manner. Odd, but then Prescott’s comportment often implied vast wisdom, as if he knew everything. Admittedly, he usually did, at least when it pertained to the Elliott household.

“My cousin?”

“The library, sir.”

“Excellent.” Gray nodded and turned toward the library.

Win stood in the open doorway, leaning against the doorjamb, arms folded over his chest. “What do you mean, you’re staying at Millworth Manor?”

“I mean”—he waved his cousin into the library, joined him, then closed the door behind them—“that I am spending Christmas at Millworth Manor.”

“Well, well, are you now?” Win studied him for a moment. “I suspect I’ll need something stronger than brandy for this.”

“Pour two.”