Mistletoe and Mayhem: A Regency Holiday Romance Anthology, page 42
“How admirable,” the Frenchman said, a hint of disbelief in his voice.
Ordinarily, she would launch into a defense of these views, but now she merely said, “You don’t sound convinced, but I assure you it is true. What forced you to flee your country? Are you from an aristocratic family?”
“My uncle, God rest his soul, was a minor noble. He and my father supported les Girondins.”
A throaty laugh up ahead caught her attention. Cecil must have said something amusing to the Contessa. Was he attempting to question her or simply enjoying the company of a pretty woman?
She set aside these unworthy and unaccustomed thoughts. She was used to avoiding men, not coveting one. He was assuredly doing his job, and in any event, it was none of her business. They had only shared kisses, after all—at her wanton instigation. She returned to her self-imposed assignment. “Was your father executed?”
He nodded. “Yes, alas. I was not arrested, but I would not have survived the Reign of Terror. I obtained false papers and escaped to England.”
“Do you support the return of the Bourbons?” The dead King’s family might believe the medallion was theirs by right.
He grimaced. “Even if King Louis had agreed to a more limited monarchy, others of his family would have soon sought to return to the old ways. So…I think not.” He shrugged, a graceful gesture that was entirely French. “I do not know how much better the new ways will prove to be.”
Sympathy assailed her. “Do you wish to return to France?”
“Perhaps when this stupid war is over. For now, I am content. I serve as a tutor, which does not pay much, but I have kind and influential friends such as Lord Restive.”
“Have you known Lord Restive long?”
“Since my youth, mademoiselle. We met when his lordship was on the Grand Tour and became friends.”
“It was the highlight of the tour.” Restive’s voice came from behind them. “We fished and shot and played boules. No museums, no formal introductions, no itchy wigs or powdered hair.”
Dufair laughed. “One cannot envy the life of an aristocrat. The boy I tutor now is the son of a marquis and already feels the weight of his heritage.”
Methinks the gentleman doth protest too much, Dorothea misquoted to herself. Was he sincere—or trying to prove his lack of attachment to the Ancien Régime? Exactly how close was his friendship with Lord Restive? Enough to extend to treason? She hoped not.
They reached their destination, and Dufair held out his sketchbook. “Would you be so kind as to hold it for me?”
The three gentlemen strode into the clearing where the gamekeepers had prepared a massive log. They shed their coats, giving the ladies a fine view of their broad shoulders and powerful arms.
The Contessa sighed. “What a pleasant sight.”
Lady Alice didn’t try to take this for a comment on the beauty of the wood in winter. “Whether gentlemen or brawny footmen, they are a delight to female eyes.” She twinkled. “Do you not agree, Miss Darsington? Your mother is not here, so you are free to be yourself.”
Dorothea laughed. “They are indeed a joy to behold.”
“It was kind of Lady Darsington to volunteer to play piquet with my cousin,” Lady Alice said. “I fear he is but an indifferent player.”
Dorothea could only be thankful that Mother hadn’t chosen to join them this morning. She watched the men tug on the huge log—but found herself gazing at Cecil Hale and no one else.
How could she be so obvious? To distract herself—or rather, to appear less captivated—she flipped through the sketches. They ranged from indoor subjects such as Restive and his aunt playing cards to outdoor scenes with a hound barking at a squirrel up a wintry tree.
Then she turned a page and found a drawing of…the St George medallion.
Chapter Nine
Dorothea gasped, then feigned a cough. The page contained a detailed representation of the front of the disk, with the saint slaying the dragon, as well as the barest sketch of the back.
She flipped quickly to the next page. Should she confer with Cecil? Their opportunities for private conversation were limited. Conjectures about Dufair’s motives—or perhaps Restive’s—jostled one another in her mind.
The Contessa made a teasing remark, at which both Restive and Cecil grinned. Dufair saw Dorothea looking at the sketchbook and smiled.
That decided her. If he didn’t object to her seeing his sketches, she should just ask him about it. Fortunately, she had an innocent reason for recognizing the medallion.
“Come, Miss Darsington.” Lady Alice’s voice roused her from her thoughts. The gentlemen, with a chorus of heaves, tugged the log over a stone in the path, then rolled it toward the house. “You can look at Monsieur Dufair’s drawings later. Time to cheer them on.”
Dorothea joined in the hip-hip-hurrahs, and after a great deal of pushing, pulling, rolling, tumbling, and uproarious laughter—gentlemen and servants alike behaving like a group of foolish boys—the log finally reached its destination in the massive hearth of the Great Hall. The men collapsed in various poses of exhaustion, but they straightened fast enough when Mrs. Bates and one of the maids appeared with cups of warm cider.
“The villagers will come tomorrow for wassail and Christmas pudding,” Lady Alice said. “It’s great fun.”
“That sounds just like home.” If only Mother would enjoy herself!
Dorothea set the sketchbook on a table and sipped her cider. How could she get Dufair to one side to question him?
“You must all visit Corsica one day,” the Contessa said, “and celebrate with us.”
Lord Restive grimaced. “And eat maggoty cheese? Not I.”
The Contessa looked down her nose at him. “Have you tried our cheese?”
“No, but Hale told me about it. That was enough.”
“You eat fly-blown cheese?” Lady Alice asked faintly.
“It is not the same,” the Contessa said. “These are special maggots, and we do not eat them—only the cheese.”
Cecil grinned. “It’s quite good. I visited Corsica with my father long ago.”
“You visited my island!” The Contessa smiled approvingly at Cecil. “Then you admit that it is superb.”
“The island, the cheese, and its charming inhabitants.” Cecil certainly knew how to flirt when it suited him, Dorothea thought crossly.
Lord Restive snorted, and the Contessa narrowed her eyes at him. “I shall take that as a comment upon the cheese, not the island or its people. You shall try it when you visit me there, my lord.”
“Or else what? Death at the hands of the irate villagers?”
The Contessa cocked her head. “Unless you wish to put yourself at my mercy.”
They all laughed, drank their cider, and made merry with one another. What a pity the threat of espionage—as well as Mother’s anger—hung over what might otherwise be a delightful party.
Which, she admitted to herself, was delightful for her only because Cecil was there.
At last, Dufair retrieved his sketchbook. Dorothea seized the chance to speak to him aside. “Your sketches are charming, monsieur.”
He made a quaint bow. “Merci du compliment, mademoiselle.”
Doing her best to appear unconcerned, she said, “I was surprised to find a sketch of the St. George medallion.”
He sucked in a breath. Uneasiness crossed his face. “That is not my usual sort of subject, but when Lord Restive showed it to me, I…”
Her heart sped up. “Yes?”
He flipped to the page with the medallion. “Are you aware that his lordship won it at play?”
“Yes, from my very foolish brother, who had no right to use it as a stake.”
He tsked. “As you see, I have drawn only the obverse. I had no chance to make a careful sketch of the reverse, but...” He glanced about and said softly, “I must speak to you privately.”
That startled her. “I beg your pardon?”
“Do not take offense, I implore you. This is a matter of great delicacy which I do not wish to discuss with Lord Restive until I know the truth.”
“The truth?” She wondered where this was leading. “About what?”
“Dorothea, there you are!” Mother came into the Great Hall, smiling for once. “You must help put up holly and evergreens.”
This was almost like the time before Dorothea reached marriageable age, when Mother had planned the decorating and made the house beautiful, almost magical, for Christmas.
But now…Dorothea stifled a groan. Judging by the grin on Lord Wellough’s beefy countenance, there would be mistletoe. If she kissed one man under the odious bough, she would be obliged to kiss anyone who asked. “Thank you for showing me your sketches, Monsieur Dufair.” She cast about for help, but Cecil, bless him, was already beside her.
“I excel at decorating for Christmas.” Cecil moved her out of Lord Wellough’s eager reach. He lowered his voice. “And disposing of mistletoe.”
She grasped his arm like a shipwrecked sailor on a spar in a stormy sea. Perhaps, despite seeming oblivious, he’d been watching her all morning.
That was frequently his assignment, after all. She shouldn’t make too much of it.
Cecil escorted her to the drawing room, where piles of cuttings lay upon two side tables, along with an assortment of ribbons and wires. Lady Alice and the Contessa followed, and somehow, there was no mistletoe by the time the greenery was festooned around both the drawing room and the Great Hall.
“What, no mistletoe?” Lord Wellough cried.
“We’re short of it this year,” Restive lied. “It’s too high up in the oaks, and Lady Alice didn’t wish to risk the footmen’s necks for the sake of a few kisses.” Actually, there was plenty of accessible mistletoe in the orchard, but Restive had laughingly agreed to pretend there was none.
“Except this one tiny sprig, which I gathered myself,” Cecil said. He pulled Dorothea close, dangled it over their heads, and gave her a quick kiss. She blushed and laughed. He shoved the sprig of mistletoe into his pocket, dodging easily when Lord Wellough tried to grab it.
What a pity Mother then spoiled the fun with a gaze of fury. Dorothea felt a twinge of remorse—for she had also spoiled her mother’s enjoyment. Only a twinge, though; she shouldn’t be obliged to kiss anyone unless she chose to.
In the early afternoon, tea and substantial refreshments were served, for dinner would be only wassail and Christmas pie. The ladies retired to their bedchambers for a nap. Dorothea was pondering how to get a moment’s private talk with Cecil, when Mother stormed into the room.
“Dorothea, I know full well you kissed that—that nobody to annoy me. You must cease such folly at once. You cannot marry him, and well you know it.”
This was most likely true. Cecil showed no sign of anything more serious than a few kisses, and she’d been the one to start that.
Usually, it was men who made overtures and women who accepted or rejected them. Why shouldn’t it be the other way around? What was the worst that could happen?
For the first time, she felt a pang of sympathy for men who summoned their courage, only to suffer disappointment.
“I kissed him because I like him. He is charming and kind, and as I said before, we share many ideals.”
“Stuff and nonsense. He is a fortune hunter, and so is that Frenchman. They are beneath your notice. Henceforth, you will ignore them.”
“I can’t do that, Mother. It would be impolite, and it wouldn’t serve your purpose either. I have already said I won’t marry Lord Restive—who is enamored of the Contessa in any case.”
“His liaison with that foreign trollop means nothing,” Mother said. “However, if you feel obliged to encourage the company of those two nobodies, you must also encourage that of Lord Wellough. He’s a dear friend of your father and deserves especial respect.”
How typical of Mother to twist things her way. “Papa calls Lord Wellough a tedious old roué. I’m sorry, but I find him repugnant. I wish he would stop leering at me.”
She shut her ears to the tirade that followed, which had mostly to do with the shame she brought upon her long-suffering mother. She whiled away the time by contemplating kissing Cecil again.
The instant she was left to herself, she jumped up and ran to the door. She peeked out in time to see Mother’s door shut with a slam. Perfect…but where would she find Cecil? She hurried downstairs and peered into the empty drawing room, the billiards room, the library…
“Go in,” said a voice behind her. How did Cecil move so silently? He followed her into the library and shut the door.
“Oh, thank heavens.” She flung her arms around his neck. He pulled her against him and kissed her—briefly. As if his mind was elsewhere. As hers should be.
She didn’t care. “Kiss me again. And again.”
He laughed low and complied, and it occurred to her that their kisses were a kind of conversation. A nip here, a lick there, a tangling of tongues, and at times an invasion, a statement of…possession.
Previously, she had balked at the notion of belonging to a man. Now…she quite liked it, if the man were Cecil Hale. And if he in turn belonged to her.
At last he pulled away. “One might think you want to get caught with me.”
She rested her forehead on his chest. “I don’t seem to be able to help myself. Kissing you is such a joy.”
“It is indeed. Kissing you, that is.” He hugged her close, so warm, so strong.
“As long as it’s not my mother, I don’t care if we are caught. I don’t think anyone here would tattle on us, so it wouldn’t harm your reputation.”
“My reputation?”
“Yes, for you would either have to marry me or be shunned by society. You shouldn’t be obliged to make that sacrifice just because I want to kiss you.”
He kissed her hair. “My dear, marrying you would be an honor.”
She frowned up at him. “Don’t be absurd. You scarcely know me.”
“I’ve been watching you on and off for almost a year. I know a great deal about you, all of it impressive.” He took a deep breath, released her, and stepped back. “Kisses aside, I sense that you have information for me.”
She stifled a feeling of loss. Did he actually like the thought of marrying her? He’d said it would be an honor, but that was merely politeness. He enjoyed kissing her, but men were far less discriminating than women. Once again, she mustn’t make too much of it.
She sighed. “Yes, we must talk with Monsieur Dufair. He wants to tell me something about the medallion.” She explained about the drawing. “I don’t think he means any harm, but I prefer not to meet him alone.” She paused, then gave in to temptation. “Did you learn anything from the Contessa?”
“Not really. The only reason to suspect her is that she is here and so is the medallion. From Lady Alice, I learned that she and the Contessa have corresponded for years, that she has a standing invitation to visit here, and that she decided to come for Christmas several days ago—after Restive had won the medallion. If she was at the masquerade, I didn’t see her.”
They found Dufair in the breakfast parlor, sketching robins foraging in the kitchen garden. Cecil shut the door, and Dufair turned from the window with a polite smile.
“You wished to speak to me about the medallion,” Dorothea said.
Dufair frowned from her to Cecil, then nodded. “It is well that you brought Mr. Hale. I find myself on the horns of a dilemma, because you, as a female, might not understand the implications of what I am about to reveal.”
Dorothea let this pass. She was used to this sort of comment, which, she admitted to herself, was sometimes valid.
“But you, sir, as a man of the world, will certainly understand.” He glanced about and lowered his voice. “I am desolated to reveal…that the medallion in Lord Restive’s possession is not the genuine medallion of St. George. It is merely a copy.” He cleared his throat. “Or so I believe.”
Dorothea couldn’t think what to say, but fortunately, Cecil did a beautiful job of acting surprised—but his occupation required dissimulation. She must strive to remember that. “Good Lord!” he said. “Rather awkward, I must say.”
“Awkward?” Dufair cried. “It is a travesty. A breach of honor of the worst kind!”
She managed not to huff. Intellectually, she understood the gentlemen’s code of honor, but practically speaking it was often absurd. “Why do you believe it’s a copy?”
“I cannot be certain, bien sûr, for I had no time to finish my drawing, as Lord Restive and I were about to dine. I must ask him to let me sketch the reverse. Within the intricate design I spied a hidden mark which I am almost sure is that of a London silversmith for whom I design jewelry.” With one of his Gallic shrugs, he added, “A man in my position must find many sources of income. But that is not the point. Lord Restive will rightly be enraged if he learns your brother cheated him. I was not present at the time, but surely a copy is worth far less than the amount of the wager.”
Cecil nodded. “Substantially so.”
“I’m sure my brother doesn’t know it’s a copy,” she said. “My father may have had one made so it could be worn, since the original must be kept locked away—but he is so busy that he may have had no chance to tell my brother.”
Cecil watched her concoct this explanation with a hint of amusement. “I suggest you ask Lord Restive to bring the medallion to the drawing room this afternoon, so you may complete your sketch.” He paused. “No—better yet, ask him when we are all gathered there, so we can agree that it’s a splendid notion. He’s not likely to refuse us all. You may then point out the jeweler’s mark on the reverse. Lord Restive is too much a gentleman to make angry accusations with the sister and mother of the miscreant in the room.”
The artist agreed, looking much happier, and they left him. “Let’s go for a walk,” Cecil said. “We can speak safely outdoors.”
“And we’ll be in full view of the house, so we daren’t kiss anymore.” She attempted a pout, then laughed. “I can’t flirt, can’t pout…”
