Mistletoe and Mayhem: A Regency Holiday Romance Anthology, page 44
Cecil blew out a breath. Another suspect more or less cleared. Restive might have had plans for the original and changed his mind when he realized he had an imitation—but Cecil doubted it. “I think even the copy should be kept close. When it comes to superstition, what people believe is more important than what is actually true.”
“I daresay. I intend to return it to your future papa-in-law with a polite request for reimbursement.”
In the drawing room, Restive tossed the medallion to Dufair. “You needn’t fret. I already knew about the jeweler’s mark on the reverse.”
“May I see?” The Contessa came forward, wide-eyed and eager. “May I touch it?”
Dufair passed it to her with an apologetic smile. “It is not really a holy relic.”
“Do you not believe?” She cupped it in her hands, closing her eyes. “Surely you didn’t agree with forbidding your countrymen the comfort of the Church.”
“No, but the burden of supporting the corrupt and venal clergy was unacceptable. I don’t know what I believe about the real medallion—it may bring spiritual or temporal victory—but this is merely a copy. A very good one, but a copy all the same.”
Her face fell. “What a pity. One seldom has the privilege of touching what has been blessed by a saint.” She returned it to him.
Lord Wellough pushed to his feet. “It’s a copy?”
“Yes, my father has the genuine medallion,” Dorothea said. She smiled at the Contessa. “Perhaps he would be willing to let you hold it in your hands and say a small prayer.”
“What a generous suggestion,” the vicar said.
“My dear Lord Wellough, whatever is wrong?” Lady Darsington hurried forward with Lady Alice.
They all turned. Wellough had paled to a blotchy mauve and was gasping for breath. He fell back into his chair.
“He’s having one of his turns,” Lady Alice said. “Get his valet.” As Restive left the room, shouting for Wellough’s servant, she took a vinaigrette from her reticule and waved it under the old man’s nose.
Cecil closed his eyes and let out a long, long breath. He had found the spy—or in this case, a traitor.
Chapter Eleven
The valet bustled in, and the Contessa drew Dorothea over to the sofa to sit next to her. Thanks to some medicinal drops, Lord Wellough’s color improved.
The Contessa, who seemed to enjoy pursuing awkward subjects, said, “Will your mother really cut you off without a penny if you do not marry according to her wishes?”
“No, she has no power to do so.”
“But your father could.”
“I will inherit something from a godmother, but he could refuse to pay my dowry. However, he is quite rational, thank heavens.”
“Even about your lovely young man who has no title?” the Contessa asked.
“I shall cross that bridge when I come to it,” Dorothea said, and whispered, “Or perhaps I shall elope. Do you think Mr. Hale realized I meant what I said?”
“About eloping? Oh, yes. He would flee with you in the blink of an eye.” She chuckled. “Such fun!”
Dorothea was about to admit that, yes, it was tremendous fun—and then she saw Cecil’s face.
Why was he so troubled, after all that lovely banter about eloping? He’d seemed to welcome it…
Maybe she’d been too forward. Unladylike. Ladies didn’t propose marriage. It simply wasn’t done.
Drat and damn, why ever not? She had asked herself that question, come to a logical conclusion, and acted on it.
Well, now she knew why not. Even a man with progressive notions couldn’t accept what she’d done. He’d handled it adroitly, but beneath that charming exterior, he was appalled.
And yet…he had intimated that he would be glad to leave on the instant if duty didn’t require him to stay…
Duty! The crease between his brows said she was right. She should have more faith in him…and in herself. She caught his eye. He responded with the briefest of nods and left the room.
Well! Now that they were more or less engaged, they could speak quietly to one another without causing comment—except from her mother, and about that, Dorothea couldn’t afford to care. She followed him into the Great Hall and whispered, “Have you identified the spy?”
“I fear it’s Lord Wellough, but I have no proof.”
She considered. “He is deep in debt, and he was very upset to learn that the medallion is a copy.” She sucked in a breath. “He came here to steal it. That’s why he searched Restive’s room. He planned to sell it.”
“Will you help me by keeping your eyes and ears open? He may have made a rendezvous with someone here—or with someone else entirely—but I’d rather go to your father with more than a suspicion.”
She nodded, pleased to have something worthwhile to do. She threw herself into the festivities. Darkness had long since fallen, and groups of villagers poured into the Great Hall for wassail and Christmas pie. She ate, drank, and made merry as if she weren’t trying to catch a traitor. She made a point of being kind to Lord Wellough, who still looked pale and drawn. She served him a second cup of wassail, and sat near him—on a chair, though, so he couldn’t touch her. He shifted in his chair, wiped his brow again and again, and his voice was weak and tremulous.
She chatted with the vicar’s wife, the village apothecary, and the innkeeper’s wife. She helped serve lamb’s wool. Lord Wellough stood to watch Dufair complete his sketch. He talked constantly now, more like his usual self. After a while, the artist shut his sketchbook with a snap and gave the medallion to Lord Wellough.
His lordship hung the pendant around his neck, fingering it lovingly. He returned to his chair, looking almost cheerful. Why? What use was a counterfeit medallion?
Dorothea avoided looking at her mother, but inevitably, she glanced to where she now sat by the fire with the vicar’s wife. Mrs. Kelly tried to make conversation, but Mother gave only monosyllabic replies.
Suddenly she looked at Dorothea and smiled.
Dorothea had seen that particular smile before. Mother was planning something horrid…but what?
Nothing, Dorothea decided firmly, except another tirade. There was no one here to compromise her with except Cecil, which was perfectly fine by her. If only she could convince him to do so. He was far too proper, and she appreciated that, but…
Finally, the last of the villagers straggled out. The servants began to tidy up and dismantle the trestle tables. “Billiards, anyone?” Lord Restive said.
“Don’t stay up late.” Mr. Kelly helped his wife with her cloak. “I expect you all in church for morning service.”
At last, thought Dorothea, hoping Cecil would come to her room. She bade everyone good night and headed toward the stairs.
For once, Mother didn’t follow.
Not only did her mother not follow—she didn’t come at all. Dorothea rang for Sarah, who helped her undress and prepared the bed. She dismissed the girl and climbed between the warm sheets, wishing Mother would come and get the tirade over with.
She waited. And waited. It was no use going to sleep, for Mother would burst in and wake her up. When Mother was this upset, she always came and scolded. The longer Dorothea waited, the more unnerved she became—which was absurd. Maybe Mother had already gone to bed. Or maybe she was still below, playing piquet.
There was only one way to find out. She donned dressing gown, stockings, and slippers, peeked out her door, and crept toward the head of the stairs.
A few dim sconces lit the Great Hall. She peered over the balustrade. The drawing room was dark, but light shone from the billiard room. Some of the gentlemen were still awake, but Mother must have gone to bed.
With a sigh of relief, Dorothea returned to her bedchamber. She was about to close the door when heavy footfalls approached. Lord Wellough’s ruddy face showed in the light of a candle. He reached the landing, but instead of going downstairs, he continued into the women’s corridor.
What in heaven’s name was he doing here? He passed Lady Alice’s chamber. Hurriedly, Dorothea closed her door. Heart thudding, she waited as his footsteps came closer. He must be passing Mother’s room now. The footsteps stopped. She heard Mother whisper something, followed by the low rumble of Wellough’s voice, but she couldn’t catch the words. Mother shut her door, and Wellough continued on.
God, no. Surely he wasn’t coming here! Her heart thudded. If he came in, she would try to slip out unseen. She closed the bed curtains to make it seem as if she were in bed, grabbed the poker from the fireplace just in case, and hid near the door.
From outside his bedchamber, Cecil watched Lord Wellough bumble his way down the passage. The instant Dorothea had gone upstairs, Lady Darsington had moved to sit near Lord Wellough. He’d been unable to eavesdrop on their low-voiced conversation, but judging by what Restive had overheard earlier, Cecil assumed Dorothea’s demented mother wanted to force her to wed Wellough—the only other titled gentleman available.
Now, Wellough had a compelling reason to agree. It wouldn’t pay all his debts, but it might save his life. Most likely, he had promised to deliver the medallion to French hands. Since he couldn’t do so, those same French hands, fearing exposure, might do him harm. Marriage to Dorothea would enable Wellough to turn the tables on his employers, for Sir Frederick would protect him rather than face ruin if his new son-in-law’s treason came to light. It was the only solution to his troubles.
Cecil tiptoed after his lordship. As he passed Lady Darsington’s room, her door opened. Cecil was too far away to hear her whisper, but he caught Wellough’s, “Later.”
Later…for what? If he were about to try to compromise Dorothea…but no, he passed her door and kept going.
Wellough’s footsteps moved slowly past Dorothea’s room. Feeling a little foolish—she’d made too much of his constant leering—she set the poker down and opened her door the tiniest amount. He tapped on the Contessa’s door.
“Lord Wellough!” the Contessa said. “What do you want?”
“To speak to you privately.”
She made a contemptuous noise. “I am not a whore, whatever you may think.”
“It’s urgent.” He paused. “About my cousin Restive.”
She chuckled. “You needn’t worry. He is an amusing man, but I don’t want to marry him.”
“It’s nothing to do with that. Another matter entirely.”
There was a silence, after which Dorothea could practically see the Contessa’s shrug. “Oh, very well.”
Lord Wellough lumbered in, and the door closed behind him. Dorothea scurried out of her room and put her ear to the Contessa’s door. Was she a spy? She heard Wellough’s voice but couldn’t make out the words. She eased the door slightly ajar.
“No, I do not want that medallion,” the Contessa said. “What would I do with it?”
“Give it to your cousin.” After a pause, he explained, “The soldier who wants to rule the world.”
“What would be the use of that? It is not the genuine medallion, but merely a copy.”
“No, but a good silversmith could obliterate the jeweler’s mark, and then who would know?”
“No one, perhaps, but anything my cousin did with such a holy relic, whether real or a copy, would be unworthy of a true believer.” She snickered. “Poor little cousin. He will be so angry if he ever learns I refused to buy it for him.”
“You can’t refuse! Your cousin is a French soldier. It’s your duty to support the French cause.”
She snorted. “My only cause is my own enjoyment. I am not interested in the affairs of nations.”
“But—your patriotic duty!” Wellough protested.
“I am Corsican, and my husband was Italian, and that medallion does not belong to you. Go away, old man, before I tell Lord Restive that you tried to sell it to me.” She tutted, sounding amused. “That makes you a traitor. What about your patriotic duty?”
“You’ll be sorry,” he blurted. “After I wed the Darsington girl, I’ll have her father arrest you as a spy.”
The Contessa burst into laughter. “You poor, deluded man. Miss Darsington will never marry you. She’s in love with that sweet Mr. Hale.”
“She has to marry me. Her mother promised. The girl will be so compromised that she’ll have no choice.”
The Contessa cursed in Italian. “You are as evil as her mother—no, you are worse! You will not succeed, and if you accuse me, I shall accuse you in return.”
“Who do you think will be believed? A foreigner or an old friend of Sir Frederick Darsington? Think about it, Contessa. I’ll give you until morning to make the right decision.”
“You do not frighten me,” the Contessa said. “Go!”
Dorothea backed into the shadows at the end of the passageway. She dared not wait for Cecil in her own chamber, for she now knew Mother’s ghastly plan. The old man thumped slowly down the passage.
She must find Cecil…but first she should reassure the Contessa. She reached the Contessa’s door just as it opened.
“Oh!” the Contessa whispered. “I was coming to speak with you.”
“My errand is the same,” Dorothea said, “but your room is safer, I think.”
With difficulty, Cecil resisted the temptation to interfere with Dorothea’s eavesdropping. She was doing a fine job of aiding him, and he was available to protect her if something went wrong. He slid into her bedchamber and watched from there.
Wellough left the Contessa’s room, and almost immediately, Dorothea went in. He almost leapt forward to prevent her, but that would give him away to Wellough—too soon, for he didn’t know what Dorothea had overhead.
Damnation. He had confidence in Dorothea—she wouldn’t risk her life if she knew the Corsican lady to be a spy—but suppressing his protective instinct was agony.
The old man passed, muttering under his breath. “No damned choice. But it won’t be all bad. She’s a tasty dish, by Gad.” He opened Lady Darsington’s door and went in.
Caught between two eavesdropping options, Cecil put his trust in Dorothea’s commonsense. He whipped out the folding ear trumpet and listened hard. It didn’t take long. He pocketed the trumpet and proceeded with a plan of his own.
Chapter Twelve
“What did you want to speak to me about?” Dorothea asked, belatedly realizing she would have to admit to eavesdropping. With what excuse?
“To tell you that your mother and that old man have conspired to compromise you so that you will have to marry him,” the Contessa said.
Dorothea nodded. “Thank you. I thought she was planning something horrid.”
“If you wish to sleep here with me, you are welcome.”
“That’s most kind, but won’t Lord Restive come to you again?” Heavens, she was becoming almost as frank as the Contessa. “I should hate to get in the way of, er, illicit love.”
The Contessa shrugged. “Your safety is more important than a night’s lust.”
“Actually,” Dorothea said diffidently—perhaps complete frankness was still a little awkward—“I believe I shall take refuge with Mr. Hale.”
The Contessa laughed out loud. “That will be far more amusing. But if you did not come to stay with me, what did you wish to speak to me about?”
Dorothea decided on partial truth. “To tell you that Lord Wellough has no influence with my father—in fact, my father dislikes him—and that if he accuses you, I shall tell him it’s not true, and make sure my father knows he is a traitor.” She grimaced. “It’s a frightfully awkward situation, for it will harm innocent family members such as Lady Alice and Lord Restive, but one cannot allow a traitor to go free.”
After a silence, the Contessa said, “It was you who opened my door a little.”
Warning bells clanged in Dorothea’s mind. She’d been a fool to assume the Contessa hadn’t noticed the door was ajar, in which case she also couldn’t be sure the Contessa had told Wellough the truth. What if she were a spy after all?
“I do apologize,” Dorothea said hastily, “but I wanted to know what my mother and Lord Wellough were planning. They had their heads together earlier, and Mother looked at me with the expression that says she intends to do something drastic, and then she didn’t come to scold me. She always scolds!” Was she babbling? Probably. “I couldn’t sleep for fretting. Then I heard his footsteps—thank heavens he’s so noisy—but instead of coming to my room, he passed it and came here! What if he had tried to force you to go to bed with him? I had to be sure you were safe.” She blundered on. “It’s rude to eavesdrop, but I felt it was my duty.”
“Your father is a master of spies, so you understand duty very well.” The Contessa’s voice was cool. “He would be proud of so intrepid a daughter.”
Unnerved but determined not to show it, Dorothea shook her head. “No, he would be furious at me for taking a risk.”
“He would be correct,” the Contessa said. “It is fortunate for you that I am not a spy. But I think I must leave England all the same. In the north of Italy, I possess a villa on a lake. I shall go there and live retired. Perhaps I shall have a lusty gardener to tend to my needs.”
Apparently, the dangerous moment—if that’s what it was—had now passed.
“When this foolish war is over, you and your Mr. Hale shall come to visit me.”
“We should love to,” Dorothea said. “I’d best go now. I wonder if Cecil is upstairs yet. Perhaps I can wait in his room.”
“What a lovely surprise for him. I shall accompany you. You must not pass that old man’s room alone. Perhaps I shall bring my pistol.”
“You have a pistol?” Was this a warning?
“In case of highwaymen. I am a good shot.”
“I have a pistol, too,” Dorothea said. “I always bring one when I travel.”
“The daughter of a spymaster must of course possess one. If that old man accosts you, you will shoot him dead!”
