Mistletoe Mischief Read online

  "I read to her, I went shopping for her, I brought her shawl when she required it, and walked with her. If she wished to drive out in her carriage, I accompanied her, and-"

  "Yes, yes, well, those are my requirements too." Evangeline didn't care what tasks Megan carried out, just that she came to reside at Radcliffe House. "The terms of employment will be exactly as those you enjoyed with Lady Jane, commencing now. And you may rest assured that I no longer intend to spend Christmas in Bath, but will be returning to Brighton tomorrow."

  "I would very much like to accept your kind offer, indeed I would be truly grateful and deeply honored to do so, it's just…"

  "Yes?"

  Megan was embarrassed. "Lady Evangeline, I-I am very anxious indeed that Mr. Strickland's lies about my conduct should go no further."

  Evangeline smiled understandingly. "You surely do not fear I will, er, blab I believe the word is?"

  "Not exactly, it is just that…" Megan didn't quite know how to put it without causing offense, but there was no denying the fact that those of Lady Evangeline's rank usually thought little of the sensitivities of persons well below them on the social ladder.

  "It's just that what, Miss Mortimer?" Evangeline prompted curiously.

  "You might not think it as important as I do."

  "My dear, I think it very important indeed. A woman's reputation is everything in this day and age, so not a word will pass my lips about the circumstances of your departure from Bath. I trust you are reassured?"

  Megan gave her a grateful smile. "Yes. Thank you for your understanding, Lady Evangeline."

  "Not at all, my dear. It is settled, then. Now, then, I do not wish you to remain in this ramshackle place a moment longer. I have taken rooms at the Angel opposite, and wish you to join me. I trust you like sea air? Brighton has a great deal of it, I fear."

  "I have no experience of sea air, Lady Evangeline, but I am sure I shall like it very much indeed."

  "Good. The season is in full swing there at the moment, but company will be a little thin at Radcliffe House until New Year's Eve. However, we will make the best of it. Are you interested in amateur dramatics? And by that I do not mean the hothouse vapors of which Sophia Strickland has made such a study."

  Before Megan could answer, the greenery on the floor moved slightly. It was only a small movement, and most people would not have noticed, but it happened to catch Megan's eye. She looked down in horror, fearing it might be one of the rats she had observed in the backyard. But then a sprig of mistletoe somehow broke off, and floated up into the air. Megan was transfixed. "I-I'm afraid I have never had cause to follow an interest in theatricals, Lady Evangeline," she managed to stammer, watching the mistletoe's mysterious progress.

  Evangeline had not observed anything. "Radcliffe House boasts a very fine private theater, and every year I present a play for my considerable circle of friends. It has been postponed until the new year on this occasion, but it will still take place, possibly for the last time, as I am about to sell the house to the Prince of Wales, who will pull it down to make room for more of his Pavilion. However, that is in the future, and as things are right now, everyone who spends Christmas beneath my roof is obliged to join in the play. You will escape an actual role because everything has already been cast, but I'm sure you will be excellent at prompting."

  "Yes, Lady Evangeline." Megan's bemused gaze was still fixed upon the floating mistletoe."

  "Master Witherspoon, put that down this instant!" Evangeline breathed, and the mistletoe fell abruptly to the floor.

  The hairs at the nape of Megan's neck prickled uncomfortably. Was her new employer a little moonstruck? One thing was certain, if a message were to summon her to the Bishop's Palace right now, she would definitely change her mind about becoming Lady Evangeline Radcliffe's companion! But such a message wasn't likely to be forthcoming, and beggars could not be choosers; so Brighton it had to be.

  Chapter 3

  One day later in London, at about the time Evangeline and Megan-and Rollo, of course-were setting out from Wells for Winchester, where they would spend the night at the Crown Inn before continuing to Brighton, Sir Greville Seton and Lord Rupert Radcliffe left Greville's fine town house, and went for a stroll in the railed garden of Berkeley Square. Rain threatened from the leaden sky, and they huddled in their greatcoats and pulled their top hats low as the chill breeze shivered through the bare-branched plane trees, some of which bore the scars of the storm earlier in the week. The vanilla smell of fine confectionery floated from Gunter's in the southeast corner of the square, and a rosy-faced countryman selling holly from a donkey cart was calling at the elegant Mayfair houses, many of which were already closed for the holiday; it was very different from the bustle and noise of the marketplace in Wells.

  Greville paused by the equestrian statue of King George III in the middle of the garden. "I don't know about you, Rupert, but I'm almost beginning to regret spending Christmas in town."

  "So am I, but it can't be helped." Rupert raised his ivory-handled cane to prod His Majesty's horse, wishing the creature would bolt and provide at least some fleeting diversion. His beautifully tailored fawn greatcoat was worn over a wine-red coat and gray breeches, and there were golden tassels on his highly polished Hessian boots. He had fair hair and green eyes, and an aquiline nose. There was usually an amiable smile on his face, but he had been less than cheerful since declining Chloe Holcroft. Greville drew a heavy breath. "I really thought there would be more going on here than there is, but the beau monde seems to have departed. Except Sybil Garsington and her ferocious brother." He said this last with a grimace.

  "And Prinny."

  "And Prinny," Greville conceded.

  By December the Prince of Wales would usually have been ensconced in his adored Marine Pavilion, but this year ill health obliged him to remain in London. However, that had not prevented most people of consequence from removing to the Sussex resort as usual for the winter months. It might have been royal patronage that had made Brighton the second most fashionable town in the land after the capital, but it was high society in general that kept it in such an exclusive position.

  Greville continued. "Well, Prinny is not so bad, in fact he can be most agreeable; but to stumble upon Garsingtons at every turn…" He shuddered as much as Evangeline when it came to that particular family. Sybil was the younger of Lord and Lady Garsington's two awful daughters, Sophia Strickland being the elder. Their hotheaded brother Sigismund was plump and as bald as a coot, but of such a dangerously combustible temperament that he was known to generally act first and ask questions afterward, as his record of dueling bore witness. In this and this alone he was formidably talented. Unfortunately, he and his entire family also prided themselves on their musicianship, at which they were universally dreadful. Lord Garsington played the cello, her ladyship the spinet, Sybil the harp, Sophia the violin, and Sigismund the hautbois. Musical evenings at Garsington House on the Steine were dreaded by one and all, but were notoriously difficult to avoid. Once there, only the tone deaf or those with the most insensitive eardrums escaped unscathed.

  Rupert's gloom lifted for a moment as he grinned at Greville. "Just because Sybil has decided you will make a fine consolation prize."

  "I'm glad you find it amusing, because I'm damned if I do," Greville replied with feeling. Sybil had been brought to London in the care of her brother in order to nurse her apparently broken heart. Some fellow in Brighton had not only resisted her advances but made clear his interest in another, so Lord and Lady Garsington had hastily dispatched her to the capital before she ruined her reputation in her attempts to win him back. It was only the thought of his sister's good name that had prevented Sigismund Garsington from challenging the man concerned to a duel. Greville didn't know who the fellow was, but cursed him soundly. If it hadn't been for him, Sybil wouldn't have come to London, and the life of Sir Greville Seton would have continued in its previous tranquil way!

  Rupert nodded. "I agre
e, it's not funny at all."

  "Why should I suffer because Sybil's heart is broken. Have you any idea what it's like to be pursued by such a strapping great amazon? It has reached the point where I expect her to leap from behind every tree, her harp lashed to her back, and her alarming bosom heaving as she lisps at me in that huge voice. Oh, Thir Gweville, Thir Gweville, wender me your arm that we may thtwoll together. Thall I play a Thakethpeare thonnet for you?"

  "You shouldn't be so devastatingly handsome. It's the tight breeches, you know. All that manly perfection banishes female inhibition."

  "She hasn't got any inhibitions to banish."

  "True."

  Greville gave a slight chuckle. "Mind you, I don't think I've ever laughed so much as I did last Christmas when she had twanged and warbled her way through 'Where the bee thuckth, there thuck I.' " He leaned back against the statue's plinth, his cane tapping against his gleaming boot. He was an arresting blend of the rugged and romantic, with thick almost black hair, and steel-gray eyes that could be disconcertingly cold if he was displeased. When he chose he was possessed of a singular charm, and his dry wit made him popular among his peers. His taste in clothes was impeccable, as his braided charcoal greatcoat, dark blue coat, and tight-fitting cream breeches bore full witness. Nothing could have been more discreet and perfect than the black pearl pin reposing in his starched muslin neck cloth, and there were few who could carry off the rakish angle at which he wore his top hat. On top of all these desirable attributes, he was also immensely wealthy, which made him the target of every hopeful mama with a daughter to marry off. But Greville had yet to find a young lady who even turned his head, let alone stirred his heart; the awful Sybil Garsington certainly wouldn't. He gave a careworn sigh. "I am ashamed to admit it, Rupert, but there have been times when I've felt tempted to shoot the whole Garsington family."

  Rupert grinned again. "Oh, that won't do at all, my friend, for Aunt E won't tolerate mass murder in the family."

  "More's the pity."

  Rupert shivered as the cold breeze blustered again. "Anyway, Greville, why have you insisted on bringing me out in this damned cold? What is it you wish to speak to me about that couldn't be said inside?"

  "I didn't want any servant ears to hear because it's about Chloe."

  Rupert stiffened. "That is a closed subject."

  "No, it isn't, because it's your continuing boneheadness over her that has occasioned you to foist yourself on me for Christmas."

  "Look, if you resent my company, why don't you just say so!"

  "For heaven's sake, Rupert, don't be so damned touchy. Did I say I resent your company?"

  Rupert looked away. "No, I suppose not," he conceded. "Greville, I just don't want to talk about Chloe."

  "Why? Because you know you made a disastrous decision when you spurned her?"

  Rupert's green eyes swung resentfully back to him. "Certainly not. I like Chloe very much, but only as a friend, so why does everyone think I should marry her?"

  Greville studied him shrewdly, deciding the time was right to make him face up to a few things. "Well, if that's the way you feel, then you won't mind the talk I overheard at White's last night."

  "There's always talk at White's. Sometimes I think there's more gossip at that club than there is among Billingsgate fishwives!"

  "On this occasion the fishwives have it that Chloe will be betrothed to Oliver March in the new year. The odds are apparently on St. Valentine's Day."

  Rupert was visibly shaken. "Tell me you jest."

  "I fear not."

  "But it cannot be so, Chloe doesn't even know March!"

  "Oh, yes, she does. The Holcrofts met him at the beginning of November when they came up to town. They were among Prinny's dinner guests at Carlton House, and March was there too. It seems he was much smitten with Chloe, so much so that he has followed her back to Brighton and taken lodgings for the winter. Duchess Place, I believe. He's there now, from all accounts."

  Rupert leaned a hand against the statue, and bowed his head. "Well, now we know who he preferred to Sybil Garsington," he muttered.

  Greville's lips parted in astonishment. "March was the fellow in Brighton?"

  "I presumed you knew." Rupert struggled to overcome his emotion, for Oliver March was one of the men he loathed most in all the world.

  "No, the actual name was never mentioned to me."

  "He and Sybil richly deserve each other, but I still can't believe Chloe could be taken in by him." Rupert was so incensed he struck the statue with his cane.

  "You only have yourself to blame if Chloe has cut her losses and turned elsewhere," Greville pointed out bluntly.

  "So it's my fault that she has apparently fallen into the clutches of a man like March?"

  "Yes, as a matter of fact it is." Greville wasn't about to mince his words.

  Rupert glowered at him. "I hardly think that's fair!"

  "It's very fair," Greville replied without sympathy.

  Rupert looked away. "I think I despise March more than any other man alive."

  "You couldn't prove he palmed that ace." Greville recalled the occasion, the tense faces caught in the muted glow of the shaded lamp in the center of the green baize table.

  "I still know he did!" Rupert snapped.

  "Undoubtedly, but it would be a great fool who challenged him without a shred of real evidence. I think he is second only to Sigismund Garsington when it comes to dangerous hotheadedness. If ever there was a man who lives up to his red hair, it's March!"

  "Maybe, but that isn't the only reason I abhor him. Did you hear about that so-called drunken waiter at the Union Club a couple of months ago?"

  "I don't know any details."

  "Then let me acquaint you. March and his bosom bird of a feather, Ralph Strickland, were in it together. The poor waiter hadn't touched a drop except the glass March so generously handed to him. It was liberally laced with some diabolical eastern tincture Strickland acquired in Constantinople. The effect was one of unbridled enthusiasm, so much so that the waiter had to be physically restrained from leaping off London Bridge. March and Strickland thought it all highly amusing, and had no qualms about allowing the unfortunate man to be dismissed. When I found out what they had done, I saw to it that he was reinstated. March and Strickland are without a doubt the two most irredeemable reptiles in the whole of England, and March is certainly not fit to utter Chloe's name, let alone pursue her." Rupert faced Greville. "Damn it, I can't possibly stand by and let her marry him!"

  Greville spread his hands. "How can you prevent it? You have slunk here to London, leaving Brighton to him. Just think of all the Christmas festivities, the kissing boughs of mistletoe, the-"

  "Oh, do stop!" Rupert was distraught.

  "Why don't you just admit that you are in love with her?" Greville suggested quietly.

  "Because I'm not."

  "Liar."

  A conflict of emotions struggled upon Rupert's face, but then he exhaled slowly and bowed his head. "Yes, you're right, I do love her. I wish I had known it before, but what's done is done." Having at last admitted the truth to himself, he fell silent. The thought of an angel like Chloe with a devil like Oliver March was too horrible for words.

  Chapter 4

  “Rupert, you must tell Chloe how you feel before it's too late," Greville urged.

  "If there's to be a St. Valentine's Day betrothal, it's already too late," Rupert murmured resignedly.

  "Don't be so damned defeatist. It's a rumor, that's all. She isn't wearing his ring yet."

  Rupert swallowed. "Call me defeatist if you wish, but after the way I've behaved, I don't think I'll ever have the nerve to approach her again."

  "Is she worth fighting for or not?" Greville inquired.

  "Of course!"

  "Then, you'll have to find the nerve, won't you?"

  "I suppose so. Why did it have to be March? First he cheats me at cards, now he steals the woman I love!"

  "Forget the damned card ga
me, for it's in the past. Chloe is all that matters."

  Rupert gave him an incredulous look. "Stop dwelling on the past? By all the saints, that's rich coming from you!"

  Now it was Greville's turn to stiffen. "That has nothing to do with it."

  "So it's one rule for you, another for me? I think not, coz. The balance is even: I choose to dwell upon March's sleight of hand, you choose to dwell upon your father's marital misdeeds."

  Greville looked away, a hint of bitterness shadowing his handsome face. Yes, he did dwell upon the past. He had never forgiven his late father for going off with his mother's companion, and as a consequence he loathed companions as a breed. Only a certain type of woman sought such positions, a scheming, ambitious, conscienceless type of woman who would stop at nothing to get what she wanted. They were all the same; nothing would ever change his mind on thatl

  Rupert wished he hadn't tilted the conversation in this particular direction, and changed the subject. "I believe we are very much in Aunt E's bad books for letting her down this Christmas. It's strange that everyone has cried off, for the house is usually full to overflowing."

  "Perhaps they all dread the theatricals as much as I do," Greville muttered.

  "You're the only one-with a gripe."

  "With good reason," Greville replied.

  Rupert gave a shy grin. "But I thought you made an excellent Bottom last year. It was a shame your ass's head got stuck."

  "I'm sure you would have found it equally as amusing if the elite of Brighton, including the Prince of Wales and Mrs. Fitzherbert, convulsed at your expense. Damn and blast Bottom! The miserable experience of playing him was the last straw for me. I'm determined to stay away from Brighton until at least the end of January." Memories of Aunt E's production of A Midsummer Night's Dream would surely torment Greville for the rest of his life.

  "January? You can't do that!" Rupert gasped. "You promised her you'd go down with me on New Year's Eve! She's even sent us our roles for Twelfth Night!"

  "Yes, and you are to be the hero of the piece, handsome Duke Orsino, while I am marked to be Malvolio, the pompous steward who makes a fool of himself in cross-gartered yellow stockings! Oh, I can just imagine the relish with which our dear aunt penned my name in for him!”