Mistletoe and Mayhem - Cheryl Bolen Page 0,168

room.

Well! Now that they were more or less engaged, they could speak quietly to one another without causing comment—except from her mother, and about that, Dorothea couldn’t afford to care. She followed him into the Great Hall and whispered, “Have you identified the spy?”

“I fear it’s Lord Wellough, but I have no proof.”

She considered. “He is deep in debt, and he was very upset to learn that the medallion is a copy.” She sucked in a breath. “He came here to steal it. That’s why he searched Restive’s room. He planned to sell it.”

“Will you help me by keeping your eyes and ears open? He may have made a rendezvous with someone here—or with someone else entirely—but I’d rather go to your father with more than a suspicion.”

She nodded, pleased to have something worthwhile to do. She threw herself into the festivities. Darkness had long since fallen, and groups of villagers poured into the Great Hall for wassail and Christmas pie. She ate, drank, and made merry as if she weren’t trying to catch a traitor. She made a point of being kind to Lord Wellough, who still looked pale and drawn. She served him a second cup of wassail, and sat near him—on a chair, though, so he couldn’t touch her. He shifted in his chair, wiped his brow again and again, and his voice was weak and tremulous.

She chatted with the vicar’s wife, the village apothecary, and the innkeeper’s wife. She helped serve lamb’s wool. Lord Wellough stood to watch Dufair complete his sketch. He talked constantly now, more like his usual self. After a while, the artist shut his sketchbook with a snap and gave the medallion to Lord Wellough.

His lordship hung the pendant around his neck, fingering it lovingly. He returned to his chair, looking almost cheerful. Why? What use was a counterfeit medallion?

Dorothea avoided looking at her mother, but inevitably, she glanced to where she now sat by the fire with the vicar’s wife. Mrs. Kelly tried to make conversation, but Mother gave only monosyllabic replies.

Suddenly she looked at Dorothea and smiled.

Dorothea had seen that particular smile before. Mother was planning something horrid…but what?

Nothing, Dorothea decided firmly, except another tirade. There was no one here to compromise her with except Cecil, which was perfectly fine by her. If only she could convince him to do so. He was far too proper, and she appreciated that, but…

Finally, the last of the villagers straggled out. The servants began to tidy up and dismantle the trestle tables. “Billiards, anyone?” Lord Restive said.

“Don’t stay up late.” Mr. Kelly helped his wife with her cloak. “I expect you all in church for morning service.”

At last, thought Dorothea, hoping Cecil would come to her room. She bade everyone good night and headed toward the stairs.

For once, Mother didn’t follow.

Not only did her mother not follow—she didn’t come at all. Dorothea rang for Sarah, who helped her undress and prepared the bed. She dismissed the girl and climbed between the warm sheets, wishing Mother would come and get the tirade over with.

She waited. And waited. It was no use going to sleep, for Mother would burst in and wake her up. When Mother was this upset, she always came and scolded. The longer Dorothea waited, the more unnerved she became—which was absurd. Maybe Mother had already gone to bed. Or maybe she was still below, playing piquet.

There was only one way to find out. She donned dressing gown, stockings, and slippers, peeked out her door, and crept toward the head of the stairs.

A few dim sconces lit the Great Hall. She peered over the balustrade. The drawing room was dark, but light shone from the billiard room. Some of the gentlemen were still awake, but Mother must have gone to bed.

With a sigh of relief, Dorothea returned to her bedchamber. She was about to close the door when heavy footfalls approached. Lord Wellough’s ruddy face showed in the light of a candle. He reached the landing, but instead of going downstairs, he continued into the women’s corridor.

What in heaven’s name was he doing here? He passed Lady Alice’s chamber. Hurriedly, Dorothea closed her door. Heart thudding, she waited as his footsteps came closer. He must be passing Mother’s room now. The footsteps stopped. She heard Mother whisper something, followed by the low rumble of Wellough’s voice, but she couldn’t catch the words. Mother shut her door, and Wellough continued on.

God, no. Surely he wasn’t coming here! Her heart thudded. If he came