Jane and the Twelve Days of Christmas by Stephanie Barron

calls nocturnes.”
    “I do not know Field,” I admitted. “He is at the Russian court, is he not?”
    “A great favorite of the Czar’s, indeed,” L’Anglois replied.
    I glanced at the Beethoven, a taxing swarm of black notes, and set it aside in favour of the polonaises. “Miss Gambier may attempt the sonata. I shall content myself with playing tunes you younger folk might wish to dance to.”
    The secretary smiled. “I shall hardly discourage you from that. I shall leave the Hummel in your hands, Miss Austen, in the event you wish to practise.”
    “Thank you. It has been many months since anything new has come in my way. You are fortunate in your friends, Mr. L’Anglois. I think you said they are presently in France?”
    “Paris, to be exact. Have you chanced to visit there?”
    “I have not been so fortunate,” I replied regretfully. “I was reared in Hampshire, and am often in London and Kent—I have brothers resident in both places. But I have never crossed the Channel.”
    “Now that peace is returned, I hope you may.”
    I inclined my head. “Have you been very long acquainted with the Gambiers and the Chutes, sir?”
    “Only ten months,” he replied. “Mr. Chute was kind enough to employ me when my previous situation came to an end.”
    “You have generally served Members of Parliament, I collect?”
    “For many years I was confidential secretary to a member of theFrench royal family,” he replied seriously. “That gentleman being recalled to France at the rout of Buonaparte, I had a lamentable amount of time upon my hands. I do not know what I should have done, had Mr. Chute not been kind enough to secure my services.”
    “Benedict is joking you, Jane,” William Chute declared as he ambled into the library, Raphael West at his heels. “Never knew a fellow more sought after than Langles, once the Comte d’Artois was done with him! Had to put in my bid for preferment early and often—and I’m still damned if I know why he didn’t accept Dalrymple’s offer over mine.”
    “Sir Peter Dalrymple deals almost exclusively with land reform,” L’Anglois riposted, “and I never come within a mile of the farmyard if I may avoid it.”
    “Aye, and shouldn’t have much use for your French if you did,” Chute agreed. “Ben is a dashed accomplished fellow, Miss Austen—and he keeps my nose to the grindstone far more than I should like. I had thought to sneak away on horseback this morning, and claim a day of liberty, but you see how Man and Nature conspire against me. I have only just got done with West, and Ben shall be wanting me about my correspondence soon.”
    I glanced up at Mr. L’Anglois’s face. A little smile played at the corners of his expressive mouth, and his dark eyes glowed. He was an excessively handsome young man—yes, I could detect with regret that he was a decade younger than myself—and possessed redoubtable skills as well. Any Englishman retained by the Comte d’Artois—who was brother to the new-crowned King of France, Louis XVIII, and an exacting mountebank by every account—must be a man of efficiency, tact, and considerable learning. Easily capable of composing an acid charade on the fly—but any of the minds surrounding me should do equally well.
    That Mr. L’Anglois had lost his situation at the Comte’s departure from his Audley Street residence was as nothing; few Englishmen should consent to repair to France, or serve a foreign royal when English alternatives were at hand. That L’Anglois was a prize William Chute valued I could readily believe. I rather wondered at his having won him. William Chute has served the Crown as an MP these two decades at least—but without ascending to any Cabinet, or holding a respectable Portfolio. Compared to the Comte d’Artois, he is a cypher. But perhaps Mr. L’Anglois had tired of fame.
    “If Mr. West is finished, sir,” he said to Chute, “I should like your signature on a number of documents.”
    “Of