Mistletoe and Mayhem: A Regency Holiday Romance Anthology, page 39
“Nevertheless,” Mother said.
Dorothea turned to Lady Alice. “Thank you for understanding, my lady. I don’t wish to speak unkindly of your cousin, but he made me most uncomfortable, for he sat too close, and his hand brushed my thigh.”
“No need to apologize,” Lady Alice said. “I shall give him a good telling-off, never you fear.”
“It was a great relief when Mr. Hale came to my rescue,” Dorothea said.
“Rescue?” Mother scowled. “Nonsense! He is a libertine, seizing his chance to prey on you. If you didn’t see that lascivious wink, I certainly did!”
Dorothea giggled. “It was a lovely, friendly wink,” she said, meaning it. Somehow, with that one wink, Cecil had managed to reassure her whilst alarming her mother.
“I don’t know Mr. Hale well—he’s a friend of my nephew’s—but I don’t think he’s dangerous,” Lady Alice said. “He’s rather reserved, and doesn’t have the predatory air so common in libertines.”
“A fortune hunter, then,” Mother said.
“By what Restive tells me, he inherited a competence recently,” Lady Alice said.
“Bah!” Mother said. “You must avoid him, Dorothea.”
I most certainly shall not.
When it was time to dress for dinner, Mrs. Bates showed them to their rooms. Mother was given the same chamber to which they had been shown upon arrival; Dorothea’s was next to hers down the same corridor. The young maid from earlier had already unpacked her belongings. She curtsied. “Lady Alice says I am to attend you, miss.”
Yet another example of Lady Alice’s thoughtfulness. Mother’s maid was getting on in years and needed what rest she could get. This arrangement also provided Dorothea with an opportunity to get some much-needed information.
“How kind of her. What is your name?”
“Sarah, miss. Oh, miss, you’re ever so pretty! Shall you wear this green gown or the yellow one? Or maybe the blue with scallops along the hem?” Her eyes sparkled as if she were a princess going to a ball, rather than a maid helping a lady to dress.
Not wishing to disappoint her, Dorothea pretended to consider her options. She didn’t care which dress she wore; they all became her. The year before, she’d had several ugly dresses made to see if that would deter amorous gentlemen, but all she’d got was snide remarks from the ladies. Gentlemen didn’t notice one’s gown except to offer meaningless compliments whilst pondering what was beneath it. Or so she suspected—needless to say, she’d never actually asked.
“The celestial blue for tomorrow evening, I think, and the rose for Christmas Day. Tonight…which do you prefer, Sarah? The yellow or the green? Or the figured muslin?”
Sarah grinned, thrilled to be asked her opinion. “The green, miss, it being my favorite color, and the Contessa will choose white or black—that’s all she brought with her, being foreign—so you won’t clash with her. You’re by far the prettier, if you ask me.”
Dorothea thanked her but said, “The Contessa is lovely in an exotic sort of way. Are you attending to her as well?”
“Only to help out her maid. She can’t speak much English, poor thing, and she’s a Catholic. Must be hard, so far from home at Christmastide.”
Dorothea nodded sympathetically. “Is the Contessa’s chamber in this wing, too?”
“Yes, miss, she’s next to yours and furthest from the stairs, for she prefers a quiet room. Closest to the head of the stairs is the dowager’s suite, but since there is no dowager—nor any Lady Restive, for that matter—Lady Alice has that one.”
“Where would Lady Restive’s suite be, if there were one?” Dorothea asked.
Sarah giggled, no doubt assuming Dorothea had hopes in that direction. “In the opposite wing, miss. Lord Restive’s room is first, then his dressing room, which is next to another dressing room and bedchamber. Those will be for her new ladyship, when he marries. His lordship gave Mr. Hale that one at first, them being old friends, but Lord Wellough arrived sudden-like, so he was obliged to give him the larger room and had us move Mr. Hale, who’s an easygoing gentleman and wouldn’t hear of moving the Frenchman, who’s quite handsome but poor as a church mouse, to the room at the very end, but took that one himself.” At this point, she ran out of breath.
Fortunately, she worked quickly, and by now Dorothea was dressed in the green gown. Sarah began to fix her hair.
“All the gentlemen are in that wing,” Dorothea said. How inconvenient, for what excuse would she have if she were caught there?
“Yes, miss. Lady Alice says it’s more comfortable for the ladies that way, but what if they’re hoping for a visit from a gentleman?” Sarah blushed in the mirror. “Beg pardon, miss. Everyone says I talk too much.”
“No, your explanation is most helpful. I’m glad Lord Wellough is not in this passageway. He stared, making me frightfully uncomfortable.”
Sarah giggled again. “Oh, aye, he does look, but as long as he’s not too bosky, he doesn’t paw us maids, not like some gentlemen.” Dorothea’s face must have fallen, for she added hastily, “Not here, miss. Lady Alice won’t allow it, and Lord Restive never touches the help, not even the ninnies who are no better than they should be. But my cousin Lizzie ran away from her master in the dead of night, she was that frightened.”
“How dreadful,” Dorothea said. “I hope she found a better employer.”
“Yes, miss, she got taken on at the Rose and Crown, and last year she married the innkeeper’s son! Now she has the most darling baby you ever saw.”
Dorothea wished to have babies of her own, but that was impossible without a husband. Her thoughts flew instantly to Mr. Hale, who wasn’t attracted to her. How unfair, she thought, and then, how ungrateful of me. She should be ashamed of herself, for along with the advantages of birth and beauty, she would inherit a tidy sum. She didn’t need to marry, and if she had to do without children, so be it. Far better than to find oneself tied to some pompous, unintelligent man.
“Everyone’s betting Lord Restive will go to bed with the Contessa.” Sarah clapped a hand to her mouth, dropping the hairbrush. She bent to retrieve it. “Sorry, miss! But she’s a beautiful widow and he’s a handsome man. I don’t know what Lady Alice was thinking, inviting her here, for surely she knew it would mean goings-on.”
Would Restive visit the Contessa’s chamber, or she his? Hopefully the former, for that would give Dorothea the chance she needed to search his room—but she could hardly ask.
She didn’t need to, for as Sarah put the finishing touches on her hair, she said, “I hope that sort of behavior won’t offend you, miss, what with the Contessa being right next door, so to speak. But the walls are thick, so mayhap they won’t disturb your rest.”
“I’m sure they won’t,” Dorothea said.
At dinner, which included some excellent beef and the best pheasant soup Cecil had ever tasted, he was seated next to Dorothea, with the vicar on his other side and his wife on hers. Judging by Lady Alice’s twinkle, she had rearranged the seating on purpose. Dorothea sat across from the polite Dufair rather than her scowling mother; the vicar’s wife was kindly and entirely respectable, and as for Cecil—he was considered safe.
Which he was, at least as far as action was considered, but his mind sneakily conjured images of himself and Dorothea in decidedly unsafe activity. Lord Wellough’s lecherous glances showed he harbored similar thoughts. Fortunately, he was stuck next to Lady Darsington, or perhaps she was stuck with him—either way, it served them both right. Wellough asked Lady Darsington how the spying business was going these days, and she replied huffily that such matters were confidential. Which meant, Cecil knew, that Sir Frederick made sure his indiscreet wife never overheard anything she might disclose in so-called confidence. Meanwhile, Restive and the Contessa made it clear they enjoyed one another’s company a little too much.
Perfect. Cecil made up for almost a year’s worth of lost time by flirting with Dorothea. Gradually, spurts of laughter rewarded his efforts.
He glanced down the table and caught Lady Darsington eyeing both him—which didn’t matter—and her daughter with malicious intent.
“Damnation,” he muttered.
Dorothea turned startled blue eyes on him.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I spoke my thought aloud.”
Her gaze flicked to her mother and back to him.
Cecil nodded, surprised at her immediate comprehension. “I thought we had spiked her guns. Now I’m not so sure.”
“I wish it were so easy, but fortunately, I’m as stubborn as she. Thank you so much for trying to flirt with me.” Her sweet lips curved in a shy smile, and his heart turned over. She turned to speak to the vicar’s wife, and Cecil spent the next half hour listening to the vicar explain the difficulties of writing sermons that inspired his parishioners to change their ways. Or rather, appearing to listen, for all he could think about was Dorothea’s smile.
Chapter Five
It was unexpectedly easy to flirt with Cecil—and what fun! How kind of him to worry about Mother’s reaction, but nothing could be done about her. Dorothea must simply get on with recovering the St. George medallion.
What had got into Papa, to take it from the place where it was securely hidden and put it in Edgar’s hands? Legend said it brought victory to whomever held it. She didn’t know whether it really had special power, but belief mattered a great deal in the case of holy relics.
By the time the ladies withdrew from the dining room, she was ready with the excuse of fetching her knitting. The gentlemen were safely downstairs, passing around the port, and with luck all the servants would be elsewhere, too.
When the others went into the drawing room, Dorothea hurried upstairs. The staircase and corridor were lit by sconces, and bedroom candles were ready on a table on the landing. She lit one, glanced both ways, and turned right instead of left.
Resisting the urge to tiptoe, she trod softly to the first door—Lord Restive’s—and peered inside. Welcome darkness greeted her. She went boldly through, as if this were her Mother’s chamber from which she meant to fetch a shawl. If she were caught, her excuse would be that she had turned the wrong way and become confused.
She went first to the bedside table. The drawer contained The Romance of the Forest, a few partial sheets of foolscap, and several keys. No medallion.
A table by the window held a travel desk. It was locked. She hurried back to the bedside for the keys, and with trembling hands tried them one by one. At last one worked, but the desk contained only paper, pens, penknife, ink, and a pounce box. Drat!
She gazed about. The door to the right must lead to his dressing room. Perhaps he had put the medallion with his jewelry. If she weren’t so nervous, she would have thought of that first. She was at the door when she remembered to lock the travel desk and return the keys to the bedside table.
She had just reached the dressing room door again when soft footfalls penetrated from the corridor, halting close by. Heart thudding, she slipped into the dressing room, pushed the door almost shut, and peered through the crack. Lord Restive’s door opened and light shone in. She pushed the dressing room door to and looked frantically about.
There were a couple of clothes presses, coats hanging along one wall, some shelves, a dressing table with a jewel case, a door leading to the passageway, and another to what must be Lord Wellough’s dressing room—and nowhere to hide. More footsteps made the decision for her. She would have to search later. She hastened across the room, snuffed her candle, and went into the passageway, closing the door behind her. She stopped to catch her breath and turned.
Cecil Hale stood only a yard away, looking like thunder. “What the devil are you doing here, Miss Darsington?”
The instant the words were out, Cecil regretted them.
Dorothea drew herself up, the picture of affront. “I beg your pardon?”
“I apologize for my language, but you should not be here. Your chamber—all the ladies’ chambers—are in the opposite corridor.”
“Is that where I went wrong?” She was definitely flustered. “I counted the doors—I think Mother’s is the second, but—” She pressed a hand to her heart and shuddered. “Then I realized this is a gentleman’s dressing room.”
“Lord Restive’s.” Cecil did his best not to narrow his eyes at her. He had no good reason to disbelieve her; one might easily take a wrong turn in an unfamiliar house, and an innocent lady would be understandably upset at finding she’d entered a gentleman’s dressing room—particularly if she heard someone in the bedchamber it adjoined. “Don’t be alarmed. It’s only his valet.”
“Thank heavens no one saw me but you,” she said breathlessly. She swept past him and hurried off.
He continued to his own bedroom, pondering the night ahead. It was the devil’s own luck that Lord Wellough had suddenly arrived a day earlier, displacing him from the ideal situation next to Restive’s suite. Perhaps he could drug Wellough and eavesdrop from his dressing room. Or hover down the corridor to see if someone sought to speak privately with Restive in the middle of the night—or, more likely, until Restive sought the Contessa’s chamber.
Or until Miss Darsington ventured into this passageway again. But why would she? She didn’t want Restive; no, surely her denial was genuine on that score. She definitely didn’t want Wellough, and she’d shown no sign of more than polite interest in Dufair.
I’m a jealous fool, Cecil told himself. No doubt she really had become lost. He should concentrate on the job to be done—not easy, when all he wanted was to grab every chance to get to know her better.
He fetched a box of cigarillos and left his bedchamber in time to meet Miss Darsington at the head of the stairs. She carried a homespun bag with a skein of grey yarn and two wicked-looking knitting needles poking out the top.
“He won’t sit too close to me now,” she said.
He laughed, suspicion vanishing in the light of her astonishing smile.
When Dorothea arrived in the drawing room, Lady Alice and Mrs. Kelly were discussing gardening, with Mother a bored third participant. Dorothea sat next to the Contessa. The foreign lady—dressed all in white, save for black lace trim and a black woolen shawl—was engaged in crewel embroidery. They duly admired one another’s work.
“I cannot knit,” the Contessa said, “but it is a necessary accomplishment for English ladies. Your climate is so chilly—brrr! You are making a…muffler is what you call it, no?”
“Yes, for my father.”
“You are a dutiful daughter,” she said, a hint of sarcasm in her voice as she glanced at Dorothea’s mother.
Did everyone know about their earlier argument? Possibly, for servants heard everything and gossiped about their employers. Dorothea bent her head to her knitting. It would be wrong to discuss her mother with a stranger. She had already said too much to Cecil Hale.
The Contessa interrupted these cogitations with a chuckle. “Do not be too dutiful. That is not amusing for a young and beautiful girl.”
In what way was the Contessa advising her to be undutiful? She could hardly ask, so she pretended she had miscounted her stitches.
“Your papa could not travel with you today?” the Contessa went on blithely.
“No, alas. He is in London, busy with government work.” In what proved to be a vain attempt to turn the subject, she added, “Lady Alice mentioned that your father was one of her favorite suitors.”
“My dear papa is still a handsome man—and virile, too, judging by the testimony of many ladies.” She chuckled again; she had no shame! “Is your papa handsome and virile, too?”
Dorothea was sure she blushed crimson.
“I embarrass you; it is unkind of me, for you are a proper young lady.” The Contessa didn’t sound at all sorry. She smoothed her skirts. “I made the lace for this gown. The fashionable English ladies wear black mostly for mourning. What a waste of an exquisite color!”
Dorothea accepted the change of subject with relief. “It becomes you very well, particularly since you have such beautiful dark hair. You are from Italy?”
“I was born in Corsica, which is now part of France but nevertheless very much Italian. The estate of my husband, the Conte, is near to Roma, but he is dead now, so I may live where I choose.”
“Are you merely visiting England, or do you make your home here?”
She shrugged. “I came for amusement. As long as I enjoy myself, I shall stay.” She cocked her head to one side. “Lord Restive is a handsome and virile man.”
Dorothea gave up on propriety. “Is he your lover?”
“Not yet, but I arrived only yesterday.” She smiled like a cat at the cream pot. “By tomorrow morning, he will be.”
Dorothea sighed, wistfully thinking improper thoughts.
“You want him for yourself? I am sorry, but I cannot give him up yet.”
“No, no!” Dorothea said. “I do not covet Lord Restive. I don’t wish to marry at all, but…”
“You wish to experience the pleasures of the flesh. That is understood.”
“No!” Dorothea protested, and then whispered, “Yes, but not with Lord Restive. In any event, it is not wise for an unmarried maiden.”
“That is true, but if you never marry, what choice do you have? You must not shrivel into old age without the touch of a man.” She paused. “Why do you not wish to marry? Because of the stupidity of husbands?”
“Yes,” Dorothea said dejectedly.
“You must find a reasonable man. My husband was such a one.” The Contessa’s gaze flickered to the doorway. Lord Restive was ushering his odious cousin in ahead of him.
“You shall remain beside me,” the Contessa murmured, “so that old man cannot drool all over you.”
Dorothea stifled a giggle. “Thank you.”
“Unless Mr. Hale rescues you again. He is a virile man, too.”
Must I spend the entire evening blushing? “But not the sort to ruin an innocent lady.” She wondered if he’d begun to like her—he certainly flirted as if he did—but perhaps that was only his way of helping to foil her mother’s plans. He’d been quite rude just now upstairs. “I think he disapproves of me.”
