Mistletoe and Mayhem - Cheryl Bolen Page 0,140

to have the young, beautiful one, he could have the old battle-axe as well.

Restive thanked him and offered an arm to each lady. The maid, having extracted a dressing-case from the coach, plodded wearily behind.

Cecil watched them go and walked over to inspect the lynchpin, which appeared perfectly sound. The traces looked fine as well, and the box lacked only a critical bolt—which he was willing to bet was in the coachman’s pocket. The coachman and groom seemed unconcerned; evidently, their mistress’s threat was an empty one. Cecil blew out a breath. “It’s none of my business what your young mistress gets up to.”

Except that it was. She wasn’t his mission, but he felt responsible for her. A pity, because interfering with her foolhardy plans would likely turn her against him. But what choice was there, when Restive—or one of his guests—might be spying for France?

He directed the coachman to Lord Restive’s stables, then mounted his horse and led the other away.

Chapter Two

Dorothea rested her hand lightly on Lord Restive’s arm and marveled at her own audacity. She had actually managed to flirt with him! She never flirted. It didn’t come naturally to her—in fact, she found it extremely awkward—but needs must.

Step one of her plan was complete. They were at Restive Court. It was late in the day—too late, she judged, to carry on. If by some chance Lord Restive’s servants found a coach for hire—well, she would suddenly fall desperately ill and declare herself unable to travel a yard further.

She was here to retrieve the St. George medallion and would do whatever it took to remain here and do so. She didn’t think a feigned illness would be necessary. Lord Restive seemed perfectly willing to allow them to stay.

She had the feeling Mr. Cecil Hale disapproved of her, judging by a faint distaste in his expression, followed by the haste with which he’d offered to take the horses. She couldn’t entirely blame him, for her behavior verged on shameless. However, why she cared what one of her father’s minions thought of her was a mystery. He’d been assigned to watch her from time to time when she attended meetings of reformers in London. She wasn’t supposed to know about him but didn’t object, for Papa meant well. Mr. Hale was far less bothersome than previous minions. They’d all been gentlemen born, which seemed to make them think catching her interest was their right, rather than keeping to their assigned roles.

Perhaps her mild chagrin was because she’d been strangely drawn to this particular man, despite his threadbare clothing and rough demeanor—a disguise, judging by his faultless manners and appearance now—whereas he’d shown no interest whatsoever in her.

Heavens, surely it couldn’t be vanity. She didn’t expect every man to fall instantly in love with her. In fact, she wished they wouldn’t.

No, more likely it was embarrassment at Mother’s rudeness. That made much more sense.

They walked slowly up the drive, which was lined with immaculately trimmed yews and hollies bright with berries. How festive! Dorothea loved the Christmas season. Unfortunately, she doubted this visit would be a pleasant one. Not because of Mother—Dorothea was accustomed to constant scolds—but because she was here not to enjoy herself, but rather to search the house. More particularly, Lord Restive’s chambers.

What if he caught her there? He might think she hoped to compromise herself, to force him to marry her. Heaven forbid! He was a charming man, but not at all to her taste. Worse, he might think she merely wanted to seduce him. What a ghastly thought that was.

“You’re too quiet, Miss Darsington.” Lord Restive must have tired of making conversation with Mother.

Dorothea couldn’t manage any more of that dreadful coquettishness and gave him a rueful smile instead. “Merely fatigued.”

“Understandable,” he said with an unamused laugh. After several minutes of Mother’s complaints, did he already regret his invitation? She hoped not. She must stay here for Christmas, even if it meant more tittering, simpering, and fluttering of eyelashes.

Through a gap in the yews, she spied Cecil Hale riding one horse and leading the other up a pathway parallel to the drive. “Have you known Mr. Hale long?”

“Since our school days,” Restive said. “He’s a good fellow, and a bit of a radical, like you. He believes titles are meaningless and that every member of humanity is of equal value, whether rich or poor.”

“That’s wonderful,” Dorothea said, surprised. She had assumed he’d feigned interest in societal reform solely in order to guard her. “We need