Mistletoe and Mayhem - Cheryl Bolen Page 0,156

said. “I was there when it happened.”

“I wasn’t. Mother won’t allow me to attend masquerades.”

“With good reason,” he said starchily.

She agreed—by what she’d heard, masquerades were an invitation to impropriety—but that didn’t mean she appreciated his remark. Impropriety could be fun with the right person, which he clearly wasn’t. What a relief she hadn’t asked him to kiss her.

“Edgar confided in me. He had no money to redeem the medallion, and Lord Restive wouldn’t take his pledge instead. I don’t blame him, for where would Edgar get the funds? He’s underage, so the money lenders won’t touch him. He’s terrified of what Papa will do when he finds out.”

“You contrived to come here in the hope of retrieving it.”

“Yes, for I thought it would be easy. Lord Restive has no reason to hide it, so it should be with his rings and other jewelry—but it’s not there, nor in his bedside table.”

“Perhaps he does have a reason to hide it,” he said.

Cecil berated himself for not guessing why Dorothea had come to Restive Manor. He’d allowed his entirely unwarranted jealousy of Restive get in the way—although, to be just, the last person one would expect a young man on the town to confide in was his sister. He waited, watching realizations cross her face. She knew enough to work some of it out for herself. What a pity he didn’t know enough to interpret her earlier words.

She remembered him. She had even wanted to approach him, despite his disguise as a gentleman fallen on hard times. Or perhaps despite knowing he was one of her father’s men.

More important, what price would she have demanded just now, and why? Merely a notion, she’d said. What notion?

He dismissed these questions as irrelevant to his mission and waited a bit more.

“Why would he hide it?” she asked, more to herself than to him. “Because someone else might try to steal it?”

He nodded, relieved she hadn’t jumped to the conclusion that Lord Restive might have deliberately set out to win it with treason in mind.

“It’s valuable not so much because it’s made of silver, but because it was blessed by St. George and is believed to bring victory to whomever possesses it.” She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t know whether I believe in that sort of magic, but if it exists, surely a saint’s blessing would bestow spiritual victory.”

“One would think so, but St. George was a military saint.”

“It didn’t bring my brother any kind of victory,” she said darkly. “But those who covet it are greedy for power, and even if they don’t believe, they recognize the effect of superstition in motivating their followers.” Somberly, she pondered. “The Bourbons probably want it back, and so perhaps do those who rule France now, while for England’s sake we must keep it here. There may be others plotting to get it as well. How could my father take such a risk?” She shivered.

“Cold?” Cecil stood to stoke the fire again. He pulled a coverlet off the bed and set it around her shoulders.

She thanked him and pulled the blanket close, but shivered again. Had she begun to fret about how very improper this situation was? She must know she was in no danger from him. His lustful thoughts would do her no harm.

He should rid himself of those thoughts, but it was damned difficult. She’d thrown her arms around him behind the curtains and laughed silently into his chest. It had been unbearably erotic—to him.

“It’s unlike Papa to take such a risk, but now that I am here, I must do anything in my power to keep it from getting into the wrong hands.”

“It wasn’t as great a risk as it seems,” he said.

She stared. “How can it not be?”

“The medallion in Restive’s possession is a copy,” he said. “The original is safely in your father’s care.”

Indignation suffused her countenance. “It’s another of Papa’s schemes! He used my poor, foolish brother and his weakness for gambling in a dreadful way, and if that wasn’t bad enough, he didn’t even explain to him afterwards!”

“Maybe he hopes this will teach Edgar a lesson.”

“Yes, and maybe it will give him an excuse to buy Edgar a pair of colors and send him off to war.” She paused. “I don’t think he’s suited to be an officer.”

“Not if his first thought was to run to his sister for help,” Cecil said dryly.

She clutched the blanket close and gazed into the fire. “I see it now. Papa loaned the imitation