Mistletoe and Mayhem - Cheryl Bolen Page 0,160

an indifferent player.”

Dorothea could only be thankful that Mother hadn’t chosen to join them this morning. She watched the men tug on the huge log—but found herself gazing at Cecil Hale and no one else.

How could she be so obvious? To distract herself—or rather, to appear less captivated—she flipped through the sketches. They ranged from indoor subjects such as Restive and his aunt playing cards to outdoor scenes with a hound barking at a squirrel up a wintry tree.

Then she turned a page and found a drawing of…the St George medallion.

Chapter Nine

Dorothea gasped, then feigned a cough. The page contained a detailed representation of the front of the disk, with the saint slaying the dragon, as well as the barest sketch of the back.

She flipped quickly to the next page. Should she confer with Cecil? Their opportunities for private conversation were limited. Conjectures about Dufair’s motives—or perhaps Restive’s—jostled one another in her mind.

The Contessa made a teasing remark, at which both Restive and Cecil grinned. Dufair saw Dorothea looking at the sketchbook and smiled.

That decided her. If he didn’t object to her seeing his sketches, she should just ask him about it. Fortunately, she had an innocent reason for recognizing the medallion.

“Come, Miss Darsington.” Lady Alice’s voice roused her from her thoughts. The gentlemen, with a chorus of heaves, tugged the log over a stone in the path, then rolled it toward the house. “You can look at Monsieur Dufair’s drawings later. Time to cheer them on.”

Dorothea joined in the hip-hip-hurrahs, and after a great deal of pushing, pulling, rolling, tumbling, and uproarious laughter—gentlemen and servants alike behaving like a group of foolish boys—the log finally reached its destination in the massive hearth of the Great Hall. The men collapsed in various poses of exhaustion, but they straightened fast enough when Mrs. Bates and one of the maids appeared with cups of warm cider.

“The villagers will come tomorrow for wassail and Christmas pudding,” Lady Alice said. “It’s great fun.”

“That sounds just like home.” If only Mother would enjoy herself!

Dorothea set the sketchbook on a table and sipped her cider. How could she get Dufair to one side to question him?

“You must all visit Corsica one day,” the Contessa said, “and celebrate with us.”

Lord Restive grimaced. “And eat maggoty cheese? Not I.”

The Contessa looked down her nose at him. “Have you tried our cheese?”

“No, but Hale told me about it. That was enough.”

“You eat fly-blown cheese?” Lady Alice asked faintly.

“It is not the same,” the Contessa said. “These are special maggots, and we do not eat them—only the cheese.”

Cecil grinned. “It’s quite good. I visited Corsica with my father long ago.”

“You visited my island!” The Contessa smiled approvingly at Cecil. “Then you admit that it is superb.”

“The island, the cheese, and its charming inhabitants.” Cecil certainly knew how to flirt when it suited him, Dorothea thought crossly.

Lord Restive snorted, and the Contessa narrowed her eyes at him. “I shall take that as a comment upon the cheese, not the island or its people. You shall try it when you visit me there, my lord.”

“Or else what? Death at the hands of the irate villagers?”

The Contessa cocked her head. “Unless you wish to put yourself at my mercy.”

They all laughed, drank their cider, and made merry with one another. What a pity the threat of espionage—as well as Mother’s anger—hung over what might otherwise be a delightful party.

Which, she admitted to herself, was delightful for her only because Cecil was there.

At last, Dufair retrieved his sketchbook. Dorothea seized the chance to speak to him aside. “Your sketches are charming, monsieur.”

He made a quaint bow. “Merci du compliment, mademoiselle.”

Doing her best to appear unconcerned, she said, “I was surprised to find a sketch of the St. George medallion.”

He sucked in a breath. Uneasiness crossed his face. “That is not my usual sort of subject, but when Lord Restive showed it to me, I…”

Her heart sped up. “Yes?”

He flipped to the page with the medallion. “Are you aware that his lordship won it at play?”

“Yes, from my very foolish brother, who had no right to use it as a stake.”

He tsked. “As you see, I have drawn only the obverse. I had no chance to make a careful sketch of the reverse, but...” He glanced about and said softly, “I must speak to you privately.”

That startled her. “I beg your pardon?”

“Do not take offense, I implore you. This is a matter of great delicacy which I do not wish to discuss with Lord Restive