Mistletoe and Mayhem - Cheryl Bolen Page 0,172

start to a marriage than love. Just think—you’ll have grandchildren soon!”

Cecil accompanied Lord Wellough to his chamber, attempting to sound solicitous while burning with rage at both him and Dorothea’s mother. Christmas goodwill was proving almost impossible. He opened the bedroom door for the old man and followed him inside.

“I’m perfectly fine,” Wellough said testily. “I already told you I don’t need any help.”

Cecil closed the door. “You need a great deal of help, if you hope to avoid either the gallows or a violent death at the hands of your confederates.”

“What the—”

He moved the traitor none too gently toward a chair. “Sit down. I’ll take that medallion, thank you.”

The old man tried to fend him off. “Who the devil do you think you are?”

“The future son-in-law of Sir Frederick Darsington.” Cecil plucked the medallion over his head and stowed it in his pocket. All at once, his temper got the better of him. He pushed Wellough into the chair. “How could you go along with that witch’s plan? I wouldn’t have put it past her to stand by and watch while you assaulted Dorothea.”

“I didn’t mean the girl any harm. I thought…”

“That Sir Frederick would permit such a marriage? That he would protect his son-in-law? More likely he would have had one of his men murder you in a back alley, ridding the country of a dastard and freeing his much-loved daughter at the same time.”

“I wouldn’t have ravished her,” Wellough protested. “Merely obliged her to marry me.”

“And then bedded her against her will, which, married or not, amounts to rape. Fortunately, she would never have agreed to wed you.”

“She would have had no choice,” he whined. “I would have treated her well. I’m not so very bad.”

“No, you’re considerably worse. You’ve been passing information to the French.”

“Nonsense!” he blustered, trying to stand. “You can’t prove anything.”

“Indeed, I can.” Cecil pushed him down again. “Sir Frederick’s men have been watching you for a while.” This wasn’t true, but Wellough had no way of knowing that.

He was also both stubborn and desperate. “I don’t believe you. Why would he watch me?”

Cecil hoped he had interpreted Dorothea’s nod correctly. “Not only that, Miss Darsington overheard your conversation just now with the Contessa.”

Wellough slumped. His ruddy color drained away.

Cecil pressed his advantage. “Tell me who you’re working for, and Sir Frederick will do his best to hush the matter up. He would prefer not to cause a scandal and embarrass your unfortunate relations.”

“My relations can go to the devil,” Wellough muttered.

“Would you rather take your chances with the French? We won’t interfere if they try to kill you.”

Wellough shuddered.

“Which they certainly will, to avoid exposure, and they’ll make it as unpleasant for you as possible.” This wasn’t true either. They were more likely to knife him—a far quicker death than hanging. “If you give us their names, we’ll arrest them and you’ll be safe.”

Wellough’s chest rose and fell, but he said nothing.

“Dealing with me is a much better option. If you talk now, there will be no need for torture,” Cecil said cheerfully.

The old man choked on his words. “Very well, I’ll tell you.”

Dorothea went into her bedchamber and shut the door, stunned. She sank into a chair, fighting tears. She shouldn’t be surprised at Mother’s hateful words—and yet she had always hoped everything would turn out well in the end.

The sound of the church bells died away. What a horrid Christmas this was proving to be!

But she couldn’t change her mind about marrying Cecil because of Mother’s vindictiveness. Surely Mother would grow accustomed.

Or maybe she would not.

In the meantime, Dorothea intended to go to his bedchamber. She waited, while Restive and DuFair came upstairs and went to their respective chambers. Now was her chance. On a whim, she took the Contessa’s advice and pocketed her gun. She took a candle and moved swiftly and silently past the landing. She counted doors—Lord Restive’s bedchamber, then his dressing room. Then Lord Wellough’s dressing room and bedchamber. She halted at the murmur of voices within. Cecil was still there.

Candlelight glowed under the door of the next room: Charles Dufair’s. The last one, entirely dark, must be Cecil’s.

She pushed open the door, feeling a bit shy, and lit a branch of candles. The room smelled faintly of Cecil, which comforted her. She shivered in the frigid night air. She stoked the fire, wrapped herself in the coverlet from the bed, and sat down to wait.

Chapter Thirteen

Cecil left Lord Wellough and hastened to Dorothea’s bedchamber. He