Mistletoe and Mayhem - Cheryl Bolen Page 0,152

although the notion repulsed him, but first he would search Restive’s room. If he found the medallion, so far so good—a point in Restive’s favor. It wasn’t treason to win a holy relic at cards.

He returned to pondering Dorothea. Why had she chosen to spend Christmas here? Why had her father’s servants agreed to stage an accident at Restive’s gates? Sir Frederick gave his daughter unusual freedom, but if he had learned of her plan, he could have solved her problem by simply informing his wife that she and Dorothea must spend Christmas at home.

With a groan, Dorothea climbed out of bed, donned thick stockings, slippers, and a warm woolen dressing gown, and paced back and forth to stay awake.

The house creaked in its sleep, as old buildings often do. What if Lord Restive didn’t go to the Contessa’s room, or vice versa? Dorothea yawned. If they intended to seduce one another, why didn’t they just get on with it?

That led to futile musings about what a seduction would entail, except that the participants in her imagination were herself and Cecil Hale.

Exasperated at her own folly, she tiptoed to her door and listened. Not a sound. She opened the door and peered into the darkness. One solitary lamp burned on the table at the head of the stairs.

She was pulling the door to when light flickered in the distance. She shut the door all but the tiniest crack. Soft but brisk footsteps approached. The owner of those feet wasn’t trying to conceal his progress—and why should he? Everyone knew what was going on.

Lord Restive stopped at the Contessa’s door, and after a soft tap and a swift exchange of whispers, was admitted. The door closed quietly behind him. At last!

How long did a seduction take? Ten minutes? An hour or two? Most of the night? Dorothea wished she weren’t so innocent. The worst she had done (or best, for it had been rather fun) was share kisses and caresses a year ago with Johnny Magee, a darling of a tinker. He’d been gentle and kind, explaining for her future reference how lovemaking worked—but Lord Restive and the Contessa were both experienced and had no reason not to plunge into heated passion, or so she assumed.

She couldn’t afford to wait long. After a few minutes of silence, Dorothea put a candle in the pocket of her dressing gown and tiptoed down the passageway. She hastened across the landing and reached Lord Restive’s door. She pushed it open, meeting more darkness save for the glow of the banked fire. She crept inside, closed the door, lit the candle with a spill, and went straight to the dressing room.

His jewelry case came first, but no medallion lay amongst his rings and cravat pins. She tried the drawers of the dressing table, which contained sundry items such as combs, knives, razors, a leather strop, soaps, handkerchiefs…and no medallion.

Hurriedly, she checked the pockets of three coats and then the shelves. Nothing. Maybe he had hidden it at the back or bottom of the clothes press—although he had no reason to hide it, for he had won it in fair play. On the other hand, given its reputation, locking it up would make sense.

She should try his bedchamber again. Perhaps she hadn’t been sufficiently thorough. What about the other keys in his bedside table? Had she missed a locked case or box in his room? Perhaps one belonged to a cabinet in the library, or a desk elsewhere in the house, or a strongbox.

She crept toward the door—and stopped.

Footsteps again! She opened the door to the bedchamber, dithering. If someone was passing in the corridor, she must wait in one of these rooms. If someone was about to enter the bedchamber or dressing room, she must be elsewhere entirely.

Elsewhere beckoned, in the shape of Lord Wellough’s dressing room—one place she definitely didn’t want to be.

She opened the door and peeked in. Her candle revealed dark curtains covering the window, a few valises in one corner, and a dressing table, with clothing laid over a chair. Silence reigned; Lord Wellough, in the next room, must be fast asleep. She snuffed her candle and went through the door.

An arm of iron grabbed her, and a hard hand covered her mouth. She struggled frantically, and a voice said in her ear, “It’s I, Cecil Hale. I’ll remove my hand if you promise not to make a sound.”

She nodded, heart beating fit to burst her chest, and he drew his