Mistletoe and Mayhem - Cheryl Bolen Page 0,167

raised inquiring brows, Restive said, “It’s a copy, my dear fellow. Not the genuine medallion.”

Cecil let out a breath. “Yes, so I gather. Dufair hesitated to tell you, for fear you would become enraged and demand Edgar Darsington’s blood. I assured him you wouldn’t do it with his sister and mother present.”

Restive blew out the candle and left it on the landing. “How did Dufair know?”

“Something about a jeweler’s mark hidden on the reverse.”

Restive nodded. “Unfortunately, I didn’t notice it until I reached home. A pity, since I made a point of winning it because I feared it would get into the wrong hands. That lad is a fool. Takes after his mother.”

Cecil blew out a breath. Another suspect more or less cleared. Restive might have had plans for the original and changed his mind when he realized he had an imitation—but Cecil doubted it. “I think even the copy should be kept close. When it comes to superstition, what people believe is more important than what is actually true.”

“I daresay. I intend to return it to your future papa-in-law with a polite request for reimbursement.”

In the drawing room, Restive tossed the medallion to Dufair. “You needn’t fret. I already knew about the jeweler’s mark on the reverse.”

“May I see?” The Contessa came forward, wide-eyed and eager. “May I touch it?”

Dufair passed it to her with an apologetic smile. “It is not really a holy relic.”

“Do you not believe?” She cupped it in her hands, closing her eyes. “Surely you didn’t agree with forbidding your countrymen the comfort of the Church.”

“No, but the burden of supporting the corrupt and venal clergy was unacceptable. I don’t know what I believe about the real medallion—it may bring spiritual or temporal victory—but this is merely a copy. A very good one, but a copy all the same.”

Her face fell. “What a pity. One seldom has the privilege of touching what has been blessed by a saint.” She returned it to him.

Lord Wellough pushed to his feet. “It’s a copy?”

“Yes, my father has the genuine medallion,” Dorothea said. She smiled at the Contessa. “Perhaps he would be willing to let you hold it in your hands and say a small prayer.”

“What a generous suggestion,” the vicar said.

“My dear Lord Wellough, whatever is wrong?” Lady Darsington hurried forward with Lady Alice.

They all turned. Wellough had paled to a blotchy mauve and was gasping for breath. He fell back into his chair.

“He’s having one of his turns,” Lady Alice said. “Get his valet.” As Restive left the room, shouting for Wellough’s servant, she took a vinaigrette from her reticule and waved it under the old man’s nose.

Cecil closed his eyes and let out a long, long breath. He had found the spy—or in this case, a traitor.

Chapter Eleven

The valet bustled in, and the Contessa drew Dorothea over to the sofa to sit next to her. Thanks to some medicinal drops, Lord Wellough’s color improved.

The Contessa, who seemed to enjoy pursuing awkward subjects, said, “Will your mother really cut you off without a penny if you do not marry according to her wishes?”

“No, she has no power to do so.”

“But your father could.”

“I will inherit something from a godmother, but he could refuse to pay my dowry. However, he is quite rational, thank heavens.”

“Even about your lovely young man who has no title?” the Contessa asked.

“I shall cross that bridge when I come to it,” Dorothea said, and whispered, “Or perhaps I shall elope. Do you think Mr. Hale realized I meant what I said?”

“About eloping? Oh, yes. He would flee with you in the blink of an eye.” She chuckled. “Such fun!”

Dorothea was about to admit that, yes, it was tremendous fun—and then she saw Cecil’s face.

Why was he so troubled, after all that lovely banter about eloping? He’d seemed to welcome it…

Maybe she’d been too forward. Unladylike. Ladies didn’t propose marriage. It simply wasn’t done.

Drat and damn, why ever not? She had asked herself that question, come to a logical conclusion, and acted on it.

Well, now she knew why not. Even a man with progressive notions couldn’t accept what she’d done. He’d handled it adroitly, but beneath that charming exterior, he was appalled.

And yet…he had intimated that he would be glad to leave on the instant if duty didn’t require him to stay…

Duty! The crease between his brows said she was right. She should have more faith in him…and in herself. She caught his eye. He responded with the briefest of nods and left the