Mistletoe and Mayhem - Cheryl Bolen Page 0,159

the Yule log, miss. She and Lord Wellough plan to stay indoors and play piquet. You may as well flirt with Mr. Hale while you can.”

Dorothea hoped to do so, but when they set out for the Home Wood, she received nothing more than a cheerful nod from Cecil. She found herself on the arm of Charles Dufair, who carried his ever-present sketchbook in the other hand. Cecil escorted the Contessa, whilst Lord Restive walked with his aunt.

She suppressed a twinge of jealousy. No doubt Lady Alice had arranged these pairings to minimize the appearance of impropriety, and Cecil could use the opportunity to glean information from the Contessa. Very well, Dorothea would learn more about Dufair. After a few desultory remarks about the weather—snow did seem to be in the offing—she said, “Tell me about yourself, monsieur.”

“There is little to say. I am one of the many poor émigrés taking refuge in England.” He smiled. “I have heard much of you, mademoiselle—that you have unusual views for the daughter of a man who is a staunch defender of the status quo.”

Did he hope to turn the conversation away from himself? “Sir Frederick allows me to think for myself. When it comes to the education of women, he advocates progress.”

“How admirable,” the Frenchman said, a hint of disbelief in his voice.

Ordinarily, she would launch into a defense of these views, but now she merely said, “You don’t sound convinced, but I assure you it is true. What forced you to flee your country? Are you from an aristocratic family?”

“My uncle, God rest his soul, was a minor noble. He and my father supported les Girondins.”

A throaty laugh up ahead caught her attention. Cecil must have said something amusing to the Contessa. Was he attempting to question her or simply enjoying the company of a pretty woman?

She set aside these unworthy and unaccustomed thoughts. She was used to avoiding men, not coveting one. He was assuredly doing his job, and in any event, it was none of her business. They had only shared kisses, after all—at her wanton instigation. She returned to her self-imposed assignment. “Was your father executed?”

He nodded. “Yes, alas. I was not arrested, but I would not have survived the Reign of Terror. I obtained false papers and escaped to England.”

“Do you support the return of the Bourbons?” The dead King’s family might believe the medallion was theirs by right.

He grimaced. “Even if King Louis had agreed to a more limited monarchy, others of his family would have soon sought to return to the old ways. So…I think not.” He shrugged, a graceful gesture that was entirely French. “I do not know how much better the new ways will prove to be.”

Sympathy assailed her. “Do you wish to return to France?”

“Perhaps when this stupid war is over. For now, I am content. I serve as a tutor, which does not pay much, but I have kind and influential friends such as Lord Restive.”

“Have you known Lord Restive long?”

“Since my youth, mademoiselle. We met when his lordship was on the Grand Tour and became friends.”

“It was the highlight of the tour.” Restive’s voice came from behind them. “We fished and shot and played boules. No museums, no formal introductions, no itchy wigs or powdered hair.”

Dufair laughed. “One cannot envy the life of an aristocrat. The boy I tutor now is the son of a marquis and already feels the weight of his heritage.”

Methinks the gentleman doth protest too much, Dorothea misquoted to herself. Was he sincere—or trying to prove his lack of attachment to the Ancien Régime? Exactly how close was his friendship with Lord Restive? Enough to extend to treason? She hoped not.

They reached their destination, and Dufair held out his sketchbook. “Would you be so kind as to hold it for me?”

The three gentlemen strode into the clearing where the gamekeepers had prepared a massive log. They shed their coats, giving the ladies a fine view of their broad shoulders and powerful arms.

The Contessa sighed. “What a pleasant sight.”

Lady Alice didn’t try to take this for a comment on the beauty of the wood in winter. “Whether gentlemen or brawny footmen, they are a delight to female eyes.” She twinkled. “Do you not agree, Miss Darsington? Your mother is not here, so you are free to be yourself.”

Dorothea laughed. “They are indeed a joy to behold.”

“It was kind of Lady Darsington to volunteer to play piquet with my cousin,” Lady Alice said. “I fear he is but