Mistletoe and Mayhem - Cheryl Bolen Page 0,139

forward with well-practiced charm. “My dear Lady Darsington and the lovely Dorothea. It seems an age since we last met.”

Dorothea tittered. “Silly! It was only a fortnight ago, in London.”

“An interminable one,” Restive said, a hand on his heart.

Dorothea simpered, and Cecil did his best to hide his dismay. Surely Miss Darsington—an intelligent woman who supported worthy causes—knew better than to set her cap at Restive.

“A most distressing accident, but what a pleasure to have your company,” Restive said. “Do please come to my humble abode.”

Lady Darsington frowned at Restive. “Send word to the village to have my coach repaired at once. We must reach Lord Forle’s estate tonight.”

Restive shook his head. “Even if the smith is available—which I doubt, as the entire village is preparing for the festivities—they won’t be able to mend it quite so promptly. However, you’re entirely welcome to spend Christmas with me.”

Lady Darsington turned to her daughter with a scowl. “This is your fault.”

The coachman put a hand over his mouth…to muffle a laugh?

Dorothea sighed dramatically. “I’m sorry it took me such an age to get ready this morning. I simply couldn’t decide what to bring, and then what to wear, and—”

“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