Free Twelfth Night by Deanna Raybourn Page A

himself swiftly, was immaculate as ever, beautifully groomed, and had not a crease to be seen.
    I shook my head, regretting it instantly. “It isn’t fair, you know.”
    “What?” he asked, shooting his pristine cuffs.
    “We drank the same amount, and yet you look fresh as a May morning, while I—”
    “Look like something the cat sicked up,” Morag supplied helpfully.
    Brisbane brushed a kiss to my cheek, pitching his voice low so that only I could hear. “You look ravishing. Which reminds me of what I intend to do later.”
    I eluded his grasping hand but paused at the door. “Wait, did Portia say there was an abandoned baby in the stables?”
    He furrowed his brow. “She might have done. Things were rather muffled once I pulled the eiderdown over my head.”
    He slapped my bottom briskly. “On you go, before they send up a search party. I’ve thrown your sister out this morning. I’d rather not have to take on all of your brothers at once.”

Chapter Two
    Thou met’st with things dying , I with things new born .
    — The Winter’s Tale , III, iii, 112
    The family had assembled upon Father’s orders in the stable yard, now clear of the Christmas frost, the sun almost balmy as it shone down on the stone court. I glanced about, feeling absurdly pleased. For the first time in a decade, we were all gathered for the Twelfth Night Revels. Most years the villagers in our little hamlet of Blessingstoke performed the play, but to mark the turning of each new decade, the family took its turn playing the parts. It followed the form of many mummers’ plays, with St. George and his battles against the Turkish Knight and the dragon forming the main bit of the action, the same as one might find in any Sussex village. But ours boasted a fine mechanical dragon requiring three men to operate as well as a script straight from the pen of Shakespeare himself. The result was that folk came from miles away, stuffed into wagons and perched on horseback, to see the spectacle. The years when the family performed were particularly rowdy, and it took all hands to the wheel to bring it off. The maids were put to work repairing costumes while footmen polished armour and boots, and the kitchens were busy from morning ’til night with the saffron-spiked aroma of Revel cakes baked to give by the dozen to the folk who came to celebrate with us. Father, ever a generous landowner, threw open the gates of Bellmont Abbey to any who cared to come, tenant or farmer, artisan or tradesman. He welcomed them all, and every time he took charge of the decade Revels, the affair saw some new addition. This year he put my brother Benedick to the task of creating a fireworks display to mark the resurrection of St. George after his death at the dragon’s scaly feet. It promised to be spectacular, and the fact that the rest of the men had been going around with Cheshire cat smiles meant there was another surprise or two as yet unguessed.
    But an infant in the stable was not amongst them. We hurried to where the family gathered around the great helm of St. George, upended now and resting in my father’s arms. Portia lifted a brow as Brisbane and I came near, and my brother Bellmont was, not unexpectedly, acting the fool.
    “Bloody inconsiderate,” he muttered. “Whoever did this must be local. They have to know we would be put to great trouble to care for it with the Revels preparations under way.”
    I turned to him with a flinty stare, but before I could speak, Portia blazed him to silence.
    “Do shut up, Bellmont. Anyone would think the heir to an earldom would have better sense and more compassion, but you are the very proof that abolishing the inherited peerage is a sound and desirable thing.”
    He returned the compliment, and the next few minutes were wasted in recrimination and insult as they fell out, and our other seven siblings took sides. Our wives and husbands were wise enough to stay utterly silent, but I noticed with interest the staff