Mistletoe and Mayhem - Cheryl Bolen Page 0,157

medallion to Edgar, knowing he would lose what little ready money he had and need something to stake. My father wanted to see what would happen—not only to Edgar, to test him, but to see who showed interest in the medallion. I suppose there have been instances of information going astray, likely from someone in the set of people who were invited to that masquerade, and my father hopes the medallion will lead him to the source—and if not, to something equally useful.”

Cecil chuckled. “You know how your father’s mind works.”

“Yes—deviously,” she retorted. “Perhaps that is why I prefer to be direct and straightforward. Does Lord Restive suspect why you are here?”

“I don’t believe so. We are old friends, and I have spent Christmas here before, so it was easy to get an invitation.”

“Did the other guests know about the medallion? Were they all expected here for Christmas, or did they contrive to get invited, too?”

“You ask the right questions, but I don’t have all the answers yet.” He gave a half-smile. “I see your father’s difficulty. He loves you and wishes to keep you out of danger, while at the same time he prizes your perceptive mind.”

She appreciated Cecil’s compliments far too much. Embarrassed at her own neediness, she muttered, “Thank you.”

“There’s nothing to thank me for; I simply stated the facts.” He hoped his smile wasn’t completely besotted. “Being both unscrupulous and protective, your father turns your abilities to his advantage by having you attend reformist meetings. You have reasonable views and are unwilling to compromise your beliefs—in fact, you play into his hands by disagreeing with the status quo, in the person of your mother—and therefore no one suspects you of ulterior motives.”

That wasn’t quite so complimentary, but she couldn’t take offense at the truth. “I don’t like having ulterior motives.”

“Nor I, but in the business of espionage, one has no choice.”

She nodded sympathetically. Despite the charade, they did have a great deal in common. How unusual to like a gentleman and also find him so attractive. It was difficult to keep her mind firmly on important matters, when she kept wondering how it would feel to kiss him.

Much as she wanted to contemplate her growing interest in this man—to allow the warmth inside her to develop into arousal—it would be pointless, since he was concentrating on his mission. He showed no sign of wanting to kiss her.

She set her mind to considering the guests. “Monsieur Dufair may represent the Bourbon cause,” she mused, “or he may be an ordinary émigré. The Contessa may support some other French contingent—or she may simply be…” She broke off. However comfortable she felt in one way, she definitely did not in another. It was unladylike to speak too plainly.

“Bent on seduction for her own pleasure,” Cecil provided helpfully. “Or both.”

“The most easily explained guest is Lord Wellough. He is family and therefore automatically welcome. He insisted on low stakes tonight, so most likely he is short of funds and hoped to find some ready money in Lord Restive’s chamber.” A horrid thought occurred. “What is Restive’s role in this?”

“I don’t believe he’s a conspirator. How would he pass the medallion to his cohorts? Pretend it was stolen? Your father has had him followed since he won the medallion, with no result. That’s why he sent me here, but dash it all, Restive’s my friend.” Cecil blew out a breath. “In any event, you understand the danger now. You must keep to your chamber at night.”

Fine, but she couldn’t sit and do nothing. She would find out more about the various players in this little game of espionage. She had done this sort of work before.

Perhaps thinking about spies would distract her from inconvenient, delightful, dangerous thoughts. Oh, how she wished…

“I must go, but it’s cold in here.” Cecil stood. “Shall I warm your bed first?”

Chapter Eight

What had he just said? Cecil groaned and slapped a hand to his forehead. “I beg your pardon, Miss Darsington. I meant with the warming pan, of course.”

“Of course,” she repeated pettishly, standing as well and throwing off the coverlet. “Because I’m safe with you. No, thank you, don’t bother.”

What in God’s name was she saying? That she didn’t want to be safe? Judging by her clenched fists and heaving bosom, she was enraged with him, but why?

After a moment, it came to him: the price. “Earlier, you demanded a price from me.” What did she want? He gave up trying to avert his eyes