Mistletoe Mischief Read online

  "You're jealous because you wish to be Duke Orsino!" Rupert declared.

  "Rupert, I neither wish to be nor intend to be anything at all."

  "For pity's sake, it's only a bit of fun."

  "Really? Well, I don't recall you feeling quite like that last year. You didn't relish being togged out in Oberon's pink doublet and bright green hose, because you said you looked like a monstrous tulip."

  "All right, all right, I admit it, but that's the only thing I disliked. I enjoy Aunt E's plays."

  Greville held his gaze. "If that is so, and if you have also decided to ride to Chloe's rescue on your white charger, why don't you toddle down to Brighton for Christmas after all? There's nothing to stop you, is there?"

  "Only the small matter of Aunt E not being there either. Radcliffe House is closed until New Year's Eve."

  Greville was startled. "That's the first I've heard of it!"

  "I can't help it if I'm a good correspondent, whereas you delay your letter-writing as long as you can."

  "If she's not in Brighton, where is she?"

  "Bath," Rupert replied. "When everyone let her down, she accepted an invitation from Lady Jane Strickland. She's there now, and won't return to Brighton until New Year's Eve."

  Greville raised an eyebrow. "Strickland, did you say?"

  Rupert nodded. "Yes. Ralph Strickland's mother, actually, but I gather that she is quite tolerable. At least, she was. Aunt E hadn't heard from her in an age."

  "I ran into dear Ralph and his Medusa of a wife at the Theatre Royal last night. They have just returned from Bath, but they didn't mention seeing Aunt E. Mind you, I had the impression that Strickland had some embarrassing trouble there with his mother's companion, who had to be dismissed as a consequence. Sophia was still incandescent about it."

  "Doesn't it occur to you that Strickland was more probably the culprit than the companion?"

  "You know my opinion of companions."

  "I know your prejudice, if that's what you mean," Rupert replied in a tart tone that was not all that unlike his aunt's.

  Greville coolly returned to a previous topic. "Radcliffe House is empty, you say?"

  "Yes. Well, except for Master Rollo Witherspoon, I suppose, unless he's gone to Bath as well." Rupert smiled. "Aunt E is delightful company and I adore her, but I also think she is slightly dotty, increasingly so over the past six months. Rollo Witherspoon is in her imagination, nothing more and nothing less."

  Greville pursed his lips. "Except we know he existed because we looked him up in the old records at the Theatre Royal. He was the grandnephew of the Bard of Avon, and a member of King Charles IPs Company of Actors."

  "Agreed, but have you ever actually seen proof that his spirit is now dwelling at Radcliffe House?" Rupert demanded.

  "No," Greville conceded. "I just think that Aunt E has become so obsessed with all things theatrical that she has conjured him out of the ether. It's damned embarrassing at times, especially when she seems to answer him."

  Rupert gave a sheepish grin. "I know. Actually, when I went down to breakfast at Radcliffe House one morning this summer, I could have sworn I saw a rose drop on the carpet. It must have been a trick of the light, because the rose was probably lying there all along. Anyway, I picked it up and began to put it back in the vase on the table, but Aunt E asked me to give it to her, because Rollo wished her to have it. I obliged, of course. If it pleases her to believe in a ghost, then it does no harm to humor her."

  "That's a matter of opinion," Greville said. "There are times when I feel we should tackle her about it, because she'll do it in the wrong place one day, and find herself in the nearest Bedlam! Anyway, why would a Restoration actor haunt a mid-eighteenth century house on the Steine in Brighton? If he belongs anywhere, it's at the Theatre Royal, where he was once such a leading player. Oh, it's too ridiculous to talk about." Greville adjusted his top hat a little crossly. "Anyway, to go back to the business of Radcliffe House not being in use until New Year's Eve. What say you we both hie ourselves down there without further ado? It can't be that closed up if everyone is descending upon it until after Christmas, so we can insert ourselves quite nicely. That way I can escape Sybil Garsington's amorous intentions, and you can see what's what between Chloe and March."

  Rupert's face brightened. "I like the sound of it, coz."

  "But be warned that I intend to be sharply away from there before Aunt E et al arrive. Nothing, but nothing will induce me to run the risk of Malvolio."

  Rupert glanced at his fob watch. "If we make all our travel arrangements tonight, we can leave first thing in the morning. It's only fifty miles or so, and I doubt if the storm the day before yesterday will have damaged the best turnpike in England. We should be there some time in the afternoon."

  Greville gave a satisfied sigh. "And if we feel like it, we can indulge in a shampoo at Mahomed's Baths before dinner!"

  "We can indeed," Rupert agreed. "Come on, we must send a messenger ahead. It wouldn't do to arrive there and find the fires unlit."

  Chapter 5

  After a delay caused by one of the horses casting a shoe, it was the early evening of Thursday, December 18, before Greville's traveling carriage bowled down toward Brighton from the windmill heights of the Downs. The team's hooves rang on the hard road, and the carriage lamps cut cleanly through the darkness as the final mile was covered to the fashionable spa that had once been the insignificant fishing town of Brighthelmston.

  The wide grassy area known as the Steine had originally been on the eastern extremity of the old town, and was where the local fishermen had mended and dried their nets. Then the Prince of Wales chose adjacent Great East Street in which to build his seaside palace, the Palladian villa called the Marine Pavilion. The rear of the Pavilion looked out on the Steine, and in order that the royal view should not be spoiled, the locals and their unsightly nets were banished. Equally unsightly Great East Street, at least that part which had the audacity to pass the Pavilion, had been purchased and was being pulled down apace, and where it stood there would soon be tranquil gardens.

  The Steine had become the beau monde's favorite promenade outside London. No longer was it on the edge of the town, but was surrounded on three sides by new streets of smart town houses and exclusive shops; the fourth side opened directly on to the crumbling low-cliffed shore, where fishing boats and wheeled bathing huts cluttered the beach. Carriageways and rails enclosed the beautifully clipped grass, and stone-flagged walks were laid out for the fashionable to stroll without fear of puddles or mud.

  Immediately to the south of the Marine Pavilion stood the Castle Inn and its grand assembly rooms, which would in all probability one day suffer the same royal fate as Great East Street and Radcliffe House. A few buildings further on was Garsington House, then the pretty villa of Mrs. Fitzherbert, who was either the Prince of Wales's wife or his mistress, according to one's political persuasion. Like the Pavilion, her house was in darkness because she was in London with the Price Regent, but Garsington House was ablaze with lights, and from it drifted the sound of indifferently played Vivaldi.

  Radcliffe House stood directly against the Pavilion and, like the Castle Inn on the other side, its looming redbrick sturdiness dwarfed the royal residence's pale elegance. It was isolated on the northwest corner of the Steine, its access from Great East Street now lost in the frenzy of royal improvement. Fortunately its main entrance was to the north, and it was here that Greville's town carriage drew up. The illuminated fanlight above the door signified the servants' anticipation of guests, and the horses had barely come to a standstill when two of Evangeline's liveried footmen hastened out to attend to the luggage.

  Greville alighted, and took a deep appreciative breath of the sea air. Brighton was renowned for its mild winters, but it seemed to him that this year there was an underlying chill, even a hint of snow, perhaps. Snow on the Steine? That would be a novel thing. He looked across the fine open grass toward the terraces of handsome houses opposite.
In the middle of them, on the corner of new St. James's Street, stood Donaldson's Circulating Library, a single-story wooden building, painted white and fronted by a columned verandah. It was here that everyone entered his or her name in a register, so that those already in town knew who had just arrived, and in the past he had always signed it. But not this time, oh, no, not this time. Rupert could sign what he wanted, but Sir Greville Seton wasn't about to broadcast his presence to the Garsingtons.

  His glance moved to a house in the northeast corner of the Steine. There was a lighted lantern and a Christmas wreath at the door. It was the home of Admiral Sir Jocelyn Holcroft and his daughter Chloe, and outside it stood a dashing red curricle that Greville recognized as belonging to one Oliver March.

  Rupert alighted as well, and scowled as he too saw the curricle. "Damn March!" he breathed, and tugged his top hat low over his forehead.

  Greville clapped him reassuringly on the shoulder. "He'll soon be saying the same of you," he declared, and ushered Rupert into the house.

  Warm air, chandeliers, and the welcome flicker of firelight greeted them in the cream-and-blue hall, where touches of gilded plasterwork set everything off to perfection. The floor was tiled in black and white, and there was a sky-blue velvet sofa and a table on which there would by now have been an arrangement of Christmas greenery if Evangeline had been in residence; indeed there would have been seasonal decorations everywhere, but yuletide was a barren business for Radcliffe House this year.

  The portly butler, Fosdyke, hastened to greet them. His receding hair was concealed beneath a neatly powdered white bagwig, and he wore a gray coat and black breeches, both of which were somewhat strained by his girth. He was reckoned the finest butler in Brighton, and he and his wife, a fine cook who made excellent gingerbread, the local delicacy that was Evangeline's great weakness, oversaw the staff of Radcliffe House. They had charge of an assortment of footmen, maids, scullions, grooms, and coachmen. There were also two local gardeners who came in daily from the town, for there was not a great deal of garden to look after, just a railed semicircle of shrubs and flower beds on the Steine side, and a pocket handkerchief of walled garden on the Great East Street side.

  "I trust your journey was expeditious, sirs?" Fosdyke inquired solicitously.

  "Just a cast shoe to hamper our progress," Greville replied.

  Rupert nodded, then looked at the butler. "I say, Fosdyke, I hope you managed to send word to Mahomed's Baths?"

  "A running footman was dispatched as soon as your message arrived, my lord. Both you and Sir Greville are expected. Sheikh Mahomed himself will attend you."

  "Excellent." Rupert raised an eager eyebrow. "And what has Mrs. Fosdyke prepared for our evening repast?"

  "Mulligatawny soup, roast pork and apple sauce, and syllabub, sir."

  Rupert's mouth watered. "I look forward to it. Convey my compliments to her even before we sit down, for I know it will be a feast fit for the Marine Pavilion itself."

  The butler inclined his head. "I will tell her, my lord. Dinner will be at eight, sirs, but will you be requiring refreshment in the meantime?" Fosdyke asked.

  Rupert turned to Greville. "What do you say?"

  "I'd rather go straight to Mahomed's, the exertion will give us an excellent appetite for Mrs. Fosdyke's peerless roast pork."

  Rupert nodded agreement, and then thought of something. "Tell me, Fosdyke, are Sir Jocelyn and Miss Holcroft in good health?"

  "Oh, yes, my lord, and they will both be in Lady Evangeline's play."

  Rupert went on. "And, Fosdyke, have you come across a person by the name of Oliver March?"

  The butler cleared his throat. "Yes, I have, my lord. He has taken lodgings in Duchess Place, and is often seen driving Miss Holcroft in his curricle." Seeing the stormy expression this information produced on Rupert's face, Fosdyke hurried on. "Shall I send for fly-by-nights to convey you to the baths, sirs?"

  "Certainly not!" declared Greville, appalled at the thought of being found in one of the wheeled sedan chairs that were peculiar to Brighton, and were trundled along by two men, one in front and the other behind. In his opinion such conveyances were best suited to the elderly and infirm, not to healthy young men who were perfectly capable of walking the short distance to and from the shoreside baths.

  "As you wish, Sir Greville."

  "That will be all for the moment, Fosdyke. Just see that our things are taken to whichever rooms have been aired for us. The usual ones, I take it?"

  "Indeed so, Sir Greville. You have the blue chamber, and my lord the green." The butler bowed, then snapped his fingers at the footmen, who had now brought all the luggage in from the carriage. They immediately carried the first of it toward the staircase that led up from the Great East Street side of the hall.

  Before setting off for the baths, Greville and Rupert went to the impressive double doors at the far end of the hall, and opened onto Greville's notion of purgatory. Aunt E's beloved private theater, was sandwiched between the main house and the Marine Pavilion next door. Rupert flung the doors open, and the light from the hall shone into a small auditorium decorated in red and gold. It seated fifty guests on elegant horseshoe-backed chairs, and boasted a fine stage with painted backcloths, a drop curtain, and an orchestra apse. Behind the stage there lay two changing rooms, a scenery store, the wardrobe, and even a small green room where the players could relax between scenes. Lady Evangeline took her passion for theatricals very seriously indeed, and at present regarded herself as Brighton's sole upholder of the acting tradition, the old town theater having closed and the new one not being due to open until the following summer.

  Greville pulled a face. "Ye gods, how I loathe this place."

  "Hee-haw," Rupert replied unfeelingly.

  Greville suddenly noticed a black flat-topped tent in the orchestra pit in front of the stage. He knew that it would contain candles, oil lamps, mirrors, hand-painted transparencies, and projecting lenses for the phantasmagoric images that had become a drawing room novelty in recent years. "Well, well, it looks as if Lady E intends Twelfth Night to be a very dramatic production indeed," he said, nodding toward it.

  "Yes, she told me there will be lighting experiments this year. She has notions of bringing scenes like the opening storm very much to life-you know, towering waves, a foundering ship, and so on."

  "Spare me the awful details," Greville muttered. "Come on, let's go to Mahomed's."

  Chapter 6

  Two hours later, when Greville and Rupert had enjoyed an herb-scented vapor-bath at the exclusive premises of Sheikh Deen Mahomed, shampooing surgeon to the Prince of Wales, and were strolling back for Mrs. Fosdyke's roast pork dinner, a second traveling carriage drew up outside Radcliffe House. Fosdyke was very startled indeed to admit Evangeline, followed by the gray-haired French maid, Annie, who immediately scuttled upstairs to prepare her mistress's apartment, which thankfully was kept aired at all times.

  The butler did not observe Megan, who lingered nervously on the threshold, nor did he seem to see or hear Master Rollo Witherspoon, who marched boldly into the house as if he owned it. The sound of spectral footsteps rang out on the tiles as the ghost followed Evangeline to the fireplace; indeed he was apparently so close behind her that he trod on her train. She turned a little crossly. "Oh, do look where you're going, sirrah!" she complained.

  Neither Fosdyke nor the footmen reacted in any way, yet they could not have failed to hear what she said; on top of which Rollo had passed within two feet of the butler! Megan was very aware of it all, however, as indeed she had been from that first moment in Wells. By now she knew that Evangeline was not mad at all, simply well and truly haunted; a fact with which her ladyship might be able to cope, but her new companion found rather difficult.

  Having spent the entire distance from Somerset in the knowledge that a spirit was in the carriage as well, Megan was still a little uneasy about remaining in Lady Evangeline Radcliffe's employ. From the incident of the floating mistletoe at th
e lodging house, to Evangeline's asides to apparently thin air, and the mark of an invisible posterior on the carriage's velvet upholstery, Megan knew Rollo Witherspoon was there. Annie had not seemed to notice anything, and now that Fosdyke and the footmen likewise seemed not to notice anything, Megan was forced to conclude that they were probably ignorant of the ghost's actual existence, and were all making allowances for a mistress they thought to be a little eccentric.

  This was the first time Megan herself had encountered anything supernatural, but in spite of her unease she was intensely curious. Who was Rollo Witherspoon? How old was he? What did he look like? Why was he haunting Evangeline? She longed to ask, but knew better than to broach such a delicate and potentially embarrassing matter. It remained to be seen whether or not the wraith realized that the new companion was aware of him, for as yet she had been very careful to show no sign.

  Evangeline discarded her muff and held her hands out gladly to the fire as she glanced around the hall. "How very unseasonable we are, to be sure. Fosdyke, first thing in the morning I wish you to see that Christmas greenery is acquired. It must be lavish, because this holiday is going to be very special after all-at least, it is from New Year's Eve onward."

  "My lady." What was going to be "very special" about it? the butler wondered. He did not know about Evangeline's personal plans, or indeed about the sale and subsequent demolition of the house.

  Evangeline continued. "It goes without saying that the mistletoe by the summerhouse is not to be touched."

  "Yes, my lady."

  "I'm very proud of that mistletoe. I vow it must be the largest example in the realm."

  "Undeniably, my lady."

  Lady Evangeline eyed him again. "I trust that my rooms have been kept aired and warm since my departure?"