Mistletoe and Mayhem - Cheryl Bolen Page 0,138

down at her bag, so she didn’t have to assume a false expression of surprise. She did have to bite her lip against a relieved sigh.

“Why have we stopped?” her mother cried. She banged on the roof, but when Rigby didn’t respond, she turned to Dorothea. “Get out and see what is wrong.”

Dorothea obeyed, opening the door and clambering onto the road without the aid of the steps. She hurried to the front of the coach. The groom had gone to the horses’ heads, while Rigby, favoring one leg, examined the box, one side of which had collapsed.

“What happened, Rigby?” she asked, loudly enough for her mother to hear. “Are you injured?”

“A little,” he grunted, then sketched her a wink. “The box broke under me. Luckily, I felt it giving way and jumped free in time, but one of the traces is torn. Easy enough to mend a trace, but I can’t drive the coach with nowhere to sit.”

“Certainly not.” He had timed it perfectly, only fifteen yards or so from the manor’s gates. “We must get help. Are we near a village?”

“I expect so, miss, but I doubt we’ll get it repaired quickly. Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve.”

“It must be done immediately!” That was Mother’s voice. “Let me out. I shall see for myself what is wrong.”

The groom left the horses to set the steps down and hand Mother out, followed by her maid. Mother stomped to the front of the coach. “Humph. Mend the trace, and then lead the coach to the next village and have the box repaired. We must reach Forle Court tonight. Dorothea, get back into the coach. We cannot stand in the road.”

“Safer out here than in the coach, my lady,” Rigby said. “Lucky we stopped when we did, for I see that a lynchpin is cracked.” He nodded toward one of the wheels. “If it should break, the wheel will fall off.”

Dorothea’s breath misted in the chilly air. “How far is it to the village?”

“Can’t say for sure, miss. I don’t travel this way often. More than a mile. Maybe two.”

“My mother can’t possibly walk that far, and you have hurt your leg, so you shouldn’t be walking either. We must seek shelter.” She gazed about.

“Good thought, miss. It might come on to snow.” That was doing it rather too brown, since the sky was clear.

Mother narrowed her eyes and pointed. “Whose gates are those?”

Cecil Hale and his friend and host, Lord Restive, cantered across the last field in the direction of the manor house. It was cold and getting colder, and apart from that, Cecil would make no headway in his mission of unmasking traitors and spies whilst out riding.

“We’ll make a bowl of rum punch,” Restive said. They topped the rise. Below them on the road stood a coach and pair. Two fashionably dressed ladies hovered whilst the coachman and groom fiddled with the traces.

“Who can this be?” Restive said, and then added slowly, “Damnation. I do believe I know.” They made their way slowly down the slope.

The younger and much slimmer of the ladies, shapely in a blue pelisse, with strands of golden hair escaping from under her matching bonnet, turned and saw them. She waved a gloved hand and broke into a brilliant smile.

“Good God,” muttered Cecil before he could stop himself. He wasn’t cut out for this spying business. One was supposed to be in control of oneself at all times.

Fortunately, Restive took his blurted oath for a comment on the lady’s undeniable beauty. “A diamond, isn’t she?”

“Indeed.” What the devil was the daughter of his employer doing here? This was supposed to be a simple spying mission. He didn’t need the distraction of keeping watch over Sir Frederick Darsington’s beautiful daughter.

Restive grinned. “Smitten, my friend?”

Cecil blew out a breath. Appearing to be a lovesick fool would do very well as a cover, since it was actually true. Fortunately, she wasn’t even aware of his existence—or so he hoped. If she recognized him in the wrong context, it might jeopardize his mission.

By the time he and Restive reined in and dismounted, Cecil had taken in the broken box, the limping coachman examining one of the lynchpins, and the hovering groom.

“A breakdown,” his host murmured, frowning.

Lady Darsington was a stout matron with a massive bosom encased in a pelisse of purple grosgrain. After a narrow-eyed glance at the approaching men, she jabbed a finger at Miss Darsington. “These are Lord Restive’s gates?”

“So it seems,” Dorothea said. “How fortunate.”

“Fortunate indeed!” Restive strode