Mistletoe and Mayhem: A Regency Holiday Romance Anthology, page 37
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” her mother growled. “You will regret this, Dorothea.”
“How could I?” Miss Darsington said. “Lord Restive is charming, and I’m sure celebrating Christmas here will be delightful.” She shivered, hugging her arms around herself. “And much warmer than out here in the cold.”
Had Dorothea planned this so-called accident? Her flirtatious manner, coupled with the coachman’s amusement, seemed to confirm it. Cecil couldn’t suppress his disappointment. He’d thought better of her.
“Warmer indeed! We are a small party assembled here, so it will be all the merrier for your presence.” Restive smiled at Dorothea, and she fluttered her eyelashes in return.
“So very kind,” Lady Darsington snapped, “but we are already promised to Lord Forle. If the smith cannot oblige, I shall hire another carriage.”
“I’ll see what I can arrange,” Restive said, but Cecil got the impression he would do absolutely nothing. He already had two unexpected house guests—three, counting a cousin—with the result that the numbers were uneven. A beautiful young lady, even with her ghastly mother, would improve the hodge-podge of visitors.
As long as Restive didn’t attempt to seduce her. Cecil did his best not to clench his fists at the thought, which was a foolish one. Restive would do no more than flirt. He hadn’t the slightest intention of marrying. Besides that, he already had a guest who was ripe for seduction—one who wouldn’t expect marriage in return.
Dorothea aimed her beautiful blue gaze at Cecil, and her forehead creased slightly. Had she recognized him? Fortunately, he had an acceptable response for that. He hoped she had the sense to follow his lead, or give him one to follow. She’d always seemed intelligent—until today.
Restive noticed, of course. He was a perceptive sort of man—a necessary attribute for a spy. That didn’t mean he actually was one. “Miss Darsington, are you perhaps acquainted with my friend Cecil Hale?”
“I don’t believe so, and yet…you do look familiar, sir. Have we met?”
Cecil bowed. “Not as such. We both attended Lord Boltwood’s wedding, but I was amongst the humbler folk, so we were never introduced.”
“In that quaint tavern!” Dorothea said with her dazzling smile. “I recall now—you were at the rear with your arm in a sling. Someone told me you had been shot.”
He was flattered that she remembered him, damn his foolish heart, but seemingly she didn’t realize that, on her father’s orders, he’d often kept an eye on her in the year since. “I was a lieutenant of the Customs Land Guard at the time, and was shot whilst pursuing a smuggler.”
“Fortunately, Hale inherited a comfortable property,” Restive said, “so he no longer risks his life chasing bumpkins.”
“Humph.” Lady Darsington sniffed and turned away, making it clear that a property to which a former riding officer might lay claim was far beneath her notice. She turned her glower on the coachman and groom. “You will be fortunate if Sir Frederick does not dismiss you. Go to the village immediately and hire a coach.”
“No need,” Restive said with a dismissive wave of the hand. “I’ll send one of my grooms to see if there’s anything available. Come, let’s get in out of the cold.”
“If you’ll escort the ladies,” Cecil volunteered hurriedly, “I’ll take the horses up and let Lady Alice know guests are on the way.” If his friend was to have the young, beautiful one, he could have the old battle-axe as well.
Restive thanked him and offered an arm to each lady. The maid, having extracted a dressing-case from the coach, plodded wearily behind.
Cecil watched them go and walked over to inspect the lynchpin, which appeared perfectly sound. The traces looked fine as well, and the box lacked only a critical bolt—which he was willing to bet was in the coachman’s pocket. The coachman and groom seemed unconcerned; evidently, their mistress’s threat was an empty one. Cecil blew out a breath. “It’s none of my business what your young mistress gets up to.”
Except that it was. She wasn’t his mission, but he felt responsible for her. A pity, because interfering with her foolhardy plans would likely turn her against him. But what choice was there, when Restive—or one of his guests—might be spying for France?
He directed the coachman to Lord Restive’s stables, then mounted his horse and led the other away.
Chapter Two
Dorothea rested her hand lightly on Lord Restive’s arm and marveled at her own audacity. She had actually managed to flirt with him! She never flirted. It didn’t come naturally to her—in fact, she found it extremely awkward—but needs must.
Step one of her plan was complete. They were at Restive Court. It was late in the day—too late, she judged, to carry on. If by some chance Lord Restive’s servants found a coach for hire—well, she would suddenly fall desperately ill and declare herself unable to travel a yard further.
She was here to retrieve the St. George medallion and would do whatever it took to remain here and do so. She didn’t think a feigned illness would be necessary. Lord Restive seemed perfectly willing to allow them to stay.
She had the feeling Mr. Cecil Hale disapproved of her, judging by a faint distaste in his expression, followed by the haste with which he’d offered to take the horses. She couldn’t entirely blame him, for her behavior verged on shameless. However, why she cared what one of her father’s minions thought of her was a mystery. He’d been assigned to watch her from time to time when she attended meetings of reformers in London. She wasn’t supposed to know about him but didn’t object, for Papa meant well. Mr. Hale was far less bothersome than previous minions. They’d all been gentlemen born, which seemed to make them think catching her interest was their right, rather than keeping to their assigned roles.
Perhaps her mild chagrin was because she’d been strangely drawn to this particular man, despite his threadbare clothing and rough demeanor—a disguise, judging by his faultless manners and appearance now—whereas he’d shown no interest whatsoever in her.
Heavens, surely it couldn’t be vanity. She didn’t expect every man to fall instantly in love with her. In fact, she wished they wouldn’t.
No, more likely it was embarrassment at Mother’s rudeness. That made much more sense.
They walked slowly up the drive, which was lined with immaculately trimmed yews and hollies bright with berries. How festive! Dorothea loved the Christmas season. Unfortunately, she doubted this visit would be a pleasant one. Not because of Mother—Dorothea was accustomed to constant scolds—but because she was here not to enjoy herself, but rather to search the house. More particularly, Lord Restive’s chambers.
What if he caught her there? He might think she hoped to compromise herself, to force him to marry her. Heaven forbid! He was a charming man, but not at all to her taste. Worse, he might think she merely wanted to seduce him. What a ghastly thought that was.
“You’re too quiet, Miss Darsington.” Lord Restive must have tired of making conversation with Mother.
Dorothea couldn’t manage any more of that dreadful coquettishness and gave him a rueful smile instead. “Merely fatigued.”
“Understandable,” he said with an unamused laugh. After several minutes of Mother’s complaints, did he already regret his invitation? She hoped not. She must stay here for Christmas, even if it meant more tittering, simpering, and fluttering of eyelashes.
Through a gap in the yews, she spied Cecil Hale riding one horse and leading the other up a pathway parallel to the drive. “Have you known Mr. Hale long?”
“Since our school days,” Restive said. “He’s a good fellow, and a bit of a radical, like you. He believes titles are meaningless and that every member of humanity is of equal value, whether rich or poor.”
“That’s wonderful,” Dorothea said, surprised. She had assumed he’d feigned interest in societal reform solely in order to guard her. “We need more such thinkers.”
“What utter nonsense,” Mother cried. “I forbid you to speak to him, Dorothea. He disdains titles merely because he is a nobody. His sort of thinking is dangerous. Just look at what happened in France.”
“Please, let’s not,” Restive said. “I have heard enough about France’s woes from Charles Dufair, one of my guests.”
“A Frenchman,” Mother sneered.
“A young, handsome Frenchman of noble descent,” Restive corrected gently, “and a talented artist. He escaped France with his life.”
“And nothing else, I expect,” Mother said. “He will not do for you, Dorothea.”
Dorothea was accustomed to ignoring her mother’s ceaseless prohibitions, but this was too much. “For heaven’s sake, Mother, I haven’t even met him.”
“You always choose the most unsuitable sorts,” Mother grumbled. “Fortunately, we shall leave here shortly.”
A curve in the drive revealed a beautiful brick structure, Jacobean by the look of it, grand but not overwhelmingly so.
“And here we are,” Lord Restive said in his smooth voice. He was a bit rakish, but not dangerously so. The only other mark against him, so to speak, was winning the St. George medallion from her brother Edgar.
And really, that was a mark against Edgar. He shouldn’t have staked something that didn’t belong to him. Restive had won it in fair play.
Nevertheless, Dorothea was determined to steal it back.
Lord Restive escorted them through massive front doors into a Great Hall. Ahead was a massive hearth; to the left curved a graceful oak staircase, while to the right a doorway led to a drawing room.
Two ladies hastened into the Great Hall. The elder, Lady Alice Turlow, was Restive’s aunt. The younger was a tall, voluptuous, dark-haired stranger.
“My dear ladies, how delightful,” Lady Alice said. “The Contessa and I were just bemoaning the lack of feminine company.”
“So kind of you to take us in,” Mother said with grudging politeness. Lady Alice was the daughter of an earl, so her status automatically ensured her a modicum of respect from Mother. “We shan’t inconvenience you for long.”
“It’s no inconvenience at all,” Lady Alice said. “Do please stay over Christmas. My nephew’s travelling carriage is under repair, and I doubt you’ll find anything better in the village than a gig, which wouldn’t be at all the thing.”
Dorothea shivered at the thought of driving ten miles in an open carriage while cold and darkness drew in. She hoped Mother wasn’t furious enough to agree to that. Dorothea certainly wouldn’t. She dreaded the thought of the public quarrel that would ensue.
Actually, she dreaded the quarrel anyway. As a child, she had got along reasonably well with her mother—but since she’d reached marriageable age, they did nothing but argue.
If only they could have a short truce, just for Christmas. She sighed, knowing it was impossible.
Lady Alice twinkled sympathetically. “Are you ladies acquainted with Contessa Tivoli? Her father was one of my most dashing suitors long ago. Bianca dear, allow me to introduce Lady Darsington.”
Mother bristled at this introduction, as she believed that all foreigners, no matter their rank, were inferior to the English gentry, and therefore the Contessa should have been introduced to her, not the other way around.
“And her lovely daughter, Dorothea,” Lady Alice went on.
“Lovely indeed!” The Contessa surged forward, appraising Dorothea with frank admiration. “A diamond of the first water, as they say, which makes no sense. What have jewels to do with water, I ask? No one answers me, but you, signorina, are magnificent. If I were a modiste, I would beg to fashion your gowns.”
“Thank you,” Dorothea faltered, feeling a blush rise to her cheeks. The Contessa herself was striking, but it wasn’t the sort of thing one said. Oh, why not? Conventions were so tedious. “You are a jewel as well, Contessa.”
Mother scowled, but Lady Alice laughed, bless her. A male voice drifted from above. “Two jewels of such magnificence, one dark and one fair. How superb! I shall sketch you together.”
Lady Alice smiled. “Come and be introduced, Charles.”
The gentleman in question descended the stairs, carrying a sketchbook and a stick of charcoal. His worn cuffs hinted at relative poverty, but his smile was cheerful and his bow perfection.
“Charles Dufair is an old friend of Restive,” Lady Alice said, “and an accomplished artist. One never sees him without his sketchbook. You young ladies might sit for him tomorrow. Ah, here comes our housekeeper.”
She beckoned a spare, kindly-looking woman forward. “Mrs. Bates will escort you upstairs to freshen up whilst we have bedchambers prepared for you.” And thus, with the ease of knowing she would not be gainsaid, she ensured that Dorothea and her mother would remain. It would now be the height of rudeness to refuse to stay.
Mrs. Bates escorted them up the stairs. Tall windows at the landing framed a view of rolling parkland; passageways led to left and right. Mrs. Bates turned left and showed them to a charming chamber where Mother’s maid was unpacking clothing, while a young girl set out jugs of warm water and towels.
“A footman will escort you to the drawing room,” Mrs. Bates said. “The gentlemen will make a punch to ward off the cold—that is Lord Restive’s practice at this festive season—but it will be too strong for ladies. I daresay Lady Alice will order some mulled cider, too.”
“Enough chatter, my good woman,” Mother said. “Leave us be.”
Why must Mother be so peremptory, particularly in the face of kindness? No doubt it was a reaction to being obliged to remain, but why take it out on the blameless housekeeper? It was all Dorothea could do not to apologize, but she smiled and thanked Mrs. Bates, who curtsied and left with the maid at her heels.
The instant the door closed behind them, Mother began her Undutiful Daughter harangue.
Cecil dismissed the footman waiting to escort the Darsington ladies downstairs. “I’ll show them the way.” He took a folding ear trumpet from under his coat and set it against the door.
“How dare you arrange a breakdown? It will not serve, I promise you.” That was Lady Darsington.
Dorothea’s softer voice, which he had to strain to hear, replied, “I’m sorry, Mother, but you wouldn’t listen when I said I would not marry Lord Forle.”
“Foolish girl! He is an excellent match, and besotted with you.”
“Many men are besotted with me, because I’m beautiful,” she said in a voice of loathing. “It is the bane of my existence.”
“It is a blessing for which you should be thankful,” her mother retorted. “Coming here was stupid. Lord Restive is not in the market for a wife.”
“I know that. It’s perfectly fine, for I don’t wish to marry him,” Dorothea said.
“Then you should not have flirted with him in that shameless way. He will assume you are setting your cap at him.”
“Heaven forbid,” Dorothea said. “I’m not interested in marrying Lord Forle, Lord Restive, or Lord Anything Else. I don’t know why you’re so set on providing me with a meaningless title I don’t even want.”
“As I have told you time and again, titles demand respect.”
“Not true respect, but lip service,” Dorothea said. “I would rather command respect for valid reasons such as intelligence, kindness, charity, and so on.”
“You will command no respect at all if you don’t change your ways.”
Evidently, mother and daughter had had this conversation frequently, for after a silence, Dorothea merely said, “I would have been perfectly happy to stay home, but we can’t return there either without a coach. We shall have to stay and make the best of it.”
There was a silence. “Very well, Dorothea. Remaining here need not alter my plans, except in one small way.”
Another silence, and then, “No, Mother. No, you will not.”
“I said you would regret it, and I meant what I said.”
Dorothea’s voice rose. “It won’t work. As you just said, he’s not in the market for a wife.”
“Then he will have to change his mind.”
“Mother,” she cried, “I will not marry Lord Restive, no matter what.”
“You will, when the alternative is being shunned by Society.”
Dorothea made a sound of utter fury. Footsteps moved rapidly toward the door, and Cecil stowed the ear trumpet in his coat and backed away toward the head of the stairs.
Miss Darsington flung the door open and stormed out, slamming the door behind her. Flushed and more beautiful than ever because of it, she spied Cecil and came to a halt.
“May I escort you to the drawing room, Miss Darsington?” Cecil said.
She glowered. “Where is the footman who was to escort us?”
“I took his place,” Cecil said. “He has other duties, whilst I am entirely at leisure.”
She digested that, perhaps assuming Cecil was another of her besotted admirers. Which was true, but he didn’t intend to show it. “Is Lady Darsington ready, too?”
“I neither know nor care,” she snapped, and got ahold of herself. “Thank you, but I need no escort. You may wait for my mother.”
“The footman will return for her.” He proffered his arm. “In the meantime, you are clearly overset. Come, let’s go downstairs—slowly, so you have time to calm down.”
Chapter Three
Dorothea unclenched her fists. She didn’t like being treated like a child in a tantrum, but she refused to care what Cecil Hale thought of her. She tried to imitate her mother’s sneer. “You were eavesdropping.”
He had a charmingly rueful expression, drat him. “How could I help it? Your mother has a loud voice.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I believe you dismissed the footman on purpose.”
“Out of concern for my friend Restive,” he said. “Forewarned is forearmed, where matchmaking mothers are concerned.”
She gave a frustrated huff and took his arm. They moved leisurely along the passageway. If only she were a man, she wouldn’t be forced to such ridiculous shifts to retrieve the medallion. She could win it back. Or demand it at gunpoint. Or…
