Mistletoe Mischief Read online

  The main gate into the churchyard from the town lay on the other side, and led directly to the south-facing porch, but from Church Street there was a small gap in the wall. Beside the gap there waited a gleaming scarlet curricle, the two chestnut horses in the care of a small boy who had been paid for his services. Megan did not give the vehicle a second glance as she entered the churchyard. A path led around the surprisingly quaint old church to the porch. Over the centuries medieval St. Nicholas's had acquired several additions of differing heights, and the uneven roof had dormer windows and even a tall chimney. The golden weathercock atop the church tower shone brightly against the vivid blue of the sky, and seagulls wheeled overhead, their cries echoing across the hillside.

  She walked slowly, glancing at the many gravestones, almost expecting to see the name Rollo Witherspoon upon one of them, but there was nothing. Then, as she turned the corner to approach the porch, a young lady and gentleman emerged arm in arm and came toward her.

  The lady was vivacious and beautiful, in a matching cornflower-blue pelisse and gown braided with gold. She had short blonde hair, and the golden tassels of her white fur shako-styled hat bounced as she walked. There was an elegant shawl over her shoulders, with one end trailing along the ground behind her, as was the latest mode, and she was laughing at something the gentleman said. But it was the gentleman himself who so arrested Megan's horrified attention that she came to a standstill-for it was her abhorred cousin, Oliver March.

  She may only have been sixteen when last she saw him, but she remembered him very clearly. He was tall and narrow-shouldered, with wiry ginger hair, a thin face and long pointed nose, and, unusually, his pale complexion was free of freckles. While not handsome, his looks were certainly attractive to many woman, and by the smile of the lady on his arm, she numbered among them.

  His attire was elegant. There were large brass buttons on his donkey-colored coat, his fawn breeches were faultlessly tailored, and his boots were the work of a very exclusive boot maker in London's St. James's. He carried a brown beaver top hat under his right arm, and a diamond pin flashed in the very center of his neck cloth. Everything about him smacked of the sort of wealth and privilege that had no need to throw a destitute kinswoman out of her modest home, especially when he only intended to leave Berengers standing forlorn and empty anyway. All that mattered in Oliver March's world was Oliver March-and possibly the beauty he had on his arm. Presumably it must be Chloe Holcroft, for she was the young woman who had looked out of the window across the Steine the evening before.

  Megan was so transfixed that she could not move. Thus, he could not help but see her. For a moment he looked at her with a perplexed "Don't I know you?" quizzicality on his face. His steps slowed as he pondered whether or not it might be disadvantageous to acknowledge such a modestly clad person, and Chloe looked up at him in surprise. "Is something wrong, Oliver?" she asked. "Are you acquainted with this lady?"

  "Er, I have a feeling I may be," he admitted, and doffed his top hat to Megan. "Pray forgive my poor memory, madam, but have we met before?"

  Relief flooded through Megan. He didn't recognize her! Long may it stay that way. "Not that I can recall, sir," she replied, deciding to postpone the truth while she could.

  Chloe smiled at her. "Have you been in Brighton long, Miss er…?"

  "I only arrived yesterday." Megan affected not to have noticed that her name was sought. She knew that the chances of Oliver remaining in ignorance for long were rather slender, for he was sure to hear Evangeline's new companion referred to by name at the ball. When that happened, Megan did not doubt that his memory would be jogged rather sharply.

  Chloe smiled again. "Yesterday?" Ah, that explains why I have never seen you before. Are you here for Christmas?"

  "No, I have taken a new position here."

  "A new position?"

  "I am companion to Lady Evangeline Radcliffe." That admission at least had to be made.

  Chloe's eyes cleared. "I saw you looking out of the window of Radcliffe House last night!"

  "Yes."

  "I confess I was all nosiness, because as far as I was aware Radcliffe House was closed until New Year's Eve. I also confess I was puzzled when I saw an unknown hooded lady peeping out of the dining room window. I had no idea Lady Evangeline was taking a companion." Chloe's expression became a little self-conscious. "Oh, what a rattlebrain you must think me, for I haven't introduced myself. I am Miss Holcroft, daughter of Lady Evangeline's old friend, Admiral Sir Jocelyn Holcroft. This is Mr. March."

  Megan managed a smile. "I am honored to meet you, Miss Holcroft. Mr. March."

  "I vow you are most fortunate in your mistress," Chloe went on, "for Lady Evangeline is without a doubt the most delightful lady of my acquaintance."

  "I am fortunate indeed," Megan replied, warming to the other by the moment. No wonder Evangeline was so fond of her-and so regretful that Rupert had apparently bungled his chances. Chloe Holcroft did not seem to have an unpleasant side. There had been no change in her attitude on discovering she was addressing a companion; she remained warm and friendly. Oliver's manner, on the other hand, had changed perceptibly.

  Chloe spoke to Megan again. "I believe you and I will see each other again later today, for Lady Evangeline sent a footman over last night inviting Father and me to Radcliffe House this evening to discuss the Christmas play."

  Oliver took out his fob watch. "We should be leaving now, Chloe," he said pointedly.

  "Oh, yes, of course. Decorating the church did take longer than expected, didn't it?" Chloe slipped a hand over his arm again, but then paused to address Megan again. "I understand from Lady Evangeline's message that Rupert and Greville-I-I mean Lord Rupert and Sir Greville-have come to Brighton for Christmas after all?"

  "Yes, they have."

  "Please convey my best wishes, and to Lady Evangeline as well, of course."

  "I will be sure to pass on your message, Miss Holcroft."

  Chloe smiled again, and Oliver showed grudging politeness to a nobody of a companion by touching the brim of his hat, then they walked past Megan, and around the church toward Church Street.

  Megan couldn't help slipping to the corner to watch. She saw Oliver hand Chloe into the waiting curricle, but then suddenly he whipped around to look back, and by the expression on his pale face, Megan knew he had realized to whom he had just been speaking. Her heart sank like a stone, for even at a distance she could see the veil descend over his eyes, and the way his lips set into a thin line of unease and displeasure as he perceived what a very unwanted pigeon had come to roost in Brighton. For a moment he stood stock-still, then he climbed swiftly up beside Chloe, the whip cracked, and the curricle sprang away down the hill.

  Megan felt so uneasy she had to dig her fingernails sternly into her palms to try to keep calm. She knew of old that Oliver March was a very unpleasant foe, and that as far as he was concerned, water was thicker than blood. But what could he do to her now? After a moment or so the almost panicky feeling subsided, and she took a long breath. She was about to walk on to the porch, when she noticed some wooden steps leading up to a door on the side of the church, beneath a dormer window. Curiosity got the better of her, and she went up to open the door. Inside, she found galleries that had been installed to accommodate the much larger congregations now that Brighton was so fashionable.

  It was cold and quiet, with that odd musty smell of ancient stone, and the sunlight slanting through the windows lay brightly across the altar and aisle. The sound of women's quiet voices made her lean over to look down, and she saw two ladies putting the finishing touches to a garland of holly, ivy, and myrtle they were fixing to one of the pews at the edge of the aisle. No mistletoe, Megan noticed, for it was considered unsuitable for a church. The women finished what they were doing, then left, and silence descended. Megan remained where she was, just savoring the peaceful atmosphere, when suddenly the door of the porch was flung open, and loud masculine steps entered the church.

>   For a split second Megan thought it was Rollo, but then she saw they belonged to someone only too real: Greville. She drew back out of sight as he walked down the aisle, then over to an ornate tomb against the wall opposite. Carved from white marble, and topped by cupids and angels ascending toward heaven, it was the most splendid resting place in the church. He halted on a brass memorial that was set into the floor in front of it. Dressed in a pine-green coat and pale gray riding breeches, he was bareheaded and had his top hat and riding crop clasped behind him. There was so sign of Rupert, and Megan presumed they must have elected to go their separate ways for the ride on the Downs.

  Greville turned toward the altar, paused to glance back toward the porch, then took a little jeweled snuffbox from his pocket. He removed something from it, and slipped whatever it was into a hiding place in the wall behind the altar. Then he left the church.

  Megan had to investigate, so she descended the steps from the gallery into the nave, and hurried first to the tomb, being careful to step around the memorial set into the floor. The inscription in the costly white marble read:

  IN LOVING MEMORY OF ARABELLA, LADY SETON, PATIENT WIFE OF SIR HENRY SETON, ADORED MOTHER OF GREVILLE. BOTH 14lh JULY 1753 DIED 29lh APRIL 1788.

  When she then went to look in the wall behind the altar, she found a loose stone behind which there was a space containing sprigs of mistletoe. Some were clearly years old, but one very fresh indeed.

  Chapter 12

  After crossing the Steine to Donaldson's Circulating Library, outside which there was a considerable gaggle of carriages, curricles, phaetons, and gigs, to say nothing of the ladies and gentlemen who had walked there, it was only a few doors around the corner into St. James's Street to Mrs. Fiske's premises. The fact that the fashion repository was very select indeed, with clientele from only the superior levels of society, was the second reason Megan felt so daunted; the first was Greville's presence at her side.

  The walk from Radcliffe House had been accomplished with the minimum conversation, for which Megan did not really know whether to be relieved or not. His public conduct toward her could not exactly have been faulted, but then neither could it have been praised; the simple fact was that Sir Greville Seton was not an easy man, and she was fast concluding that his unmarried state was no accident. To begin with, she could not help noticing how he kept the brim of his top hat low, and averted his head if he saw anyone who might recognize him. He clearly had the unbelievable vanity to think that every unmarried lady in creation had designs upon his person and his fortune.

  It was a shame he was so difficult, for he really was exceedingly handsome, and no fault could be found in his appearance, which was all that a gentleman of style and fashion should be. Today he wore a gray Polish greatcoat with an astrakhan collar, a top hat that was utter perfection, tasseled Hessian boots with gold spurs, and he carried an ivory-handled cane in a tightly gloved hand.

  Beside such a paragon, she felt very inferior and insignificant indeed, so much so that she almost felt tempted to walk a respectful six paces behind!

  But as they passed through Mrs. Fiske's tasteful chocolate-brown door, which was fixed with a discreet knot of holly and was set between two fine bow windows containing a display of hats and bonnets, Greville ceased to be uppermost in her thoughts. It was agreeably warm inside after the bracing air of the street. A fine coal fire glowed in a hearth that had a polished brass fender and blue-and-white Delft tiles, and there was a sumptuous smell of costly materials: velvets, silk, exquisite Indian muslins, and richly colored winter merino. Beautiful clothes of every description hung haphazardly from a curtain rail that ran around every wall except by the windows, and there were several tall floor-standing mirrors in which one's appearance could be admired or lamented.

  Two ladies, one tall and thin, the other short and buxom, were at an oak counter examining a selection of lace trimmings that had been brought for them by a young man wearing a cream coat and blue-spotted neck cloth. Female voices came from behind a maroon velvet curtain that was drawn across one alcove next to the fireplace, while in the other there was a sofa where a lady was turning the pages of a catalog of the latest designs. Her face had the dry look of one who had failed to protect her complexion sufficiently from the rigors of the Madras sun, and lolling beside her was a wheezy pug with a jeweled collar that glittered in the light from the windows. The only other gentleman was a high-ranking cavalry officer who Megan guessed was the pug lady's husband.

  The alcove curtain was jerked aside, and Mrs. Fiske emerged with a figured velvet pelisse over her arm. She was a severe woman of about forty-five in a charcoal gown and starched muslin bonnet, and Megan's heart sank still further at the way she snapped her fingers at the young male assistant, who immediately bore the pelisse through another door at the rear of the premises. The lady whose garment it was came out of the alcove with her maid, who was still endeavoring to arrange the long gauze scarf of her mistress's jockey bonnet, and the cavalry officer gallantly opened the front door for them to go out to the carriage waiting at the curb across the street.

  Mrs. Fiske came over to Greville with an ingratiating smile. "Why, Sir Greville, what an unexpected honor," she declared, then bestowed a withering glance upon Megan's hat and cloak.

  Greville explained his errand. "I am charged by my aunt, Lady Evangeline, to bring her companion to you to be fitted for some new clothes. I believe you know what is required?"

  A companion was to be fitted for clothes? Shocked eyes turned upon Megan, to whom it seemed that even the pug dog gasped. Mrs. Fiske's gaze was impenetrable as she inclined her head. "Ah, yes, I received her ladyship's message last night, and everything is in readiness. Sir Greville, if you will take a seat, I will attend to Miss, er…?"

  "Mortimer," Megan supplied, hoping her face wasn't as aflame with embarrassment as it felt.

  "This way, if you please, Miss Mortimer." Mrs. Fiske returned to the alcove, and held the curtain aside for Megan to go inside, then hurried away, leaving Megan alone inside.

  Megan was glad of the privacy. This was an ordeal, not a pleasure, and the sooner it was over, the better she would feel. She glanced around. There was an uncomfortable wrought-iron chair with a pink satin cushion, and a cheval glass that looked as if it might once have graced a French chateau. The only garment was a midnight-blue evening gown that had been tossed almost carelessly over the chair. Made of sequined gauze over watered silk, it was one of the most beautiful gowns Megan had ever seen. If only it were there in case it would do for Lady Evangeline Radcliffe's new companion! Megan touched the glittering sequins on the low-cut bodice, and imagined herself dancing in it at tomorrow night's Christmas bal masque at the Old Ship. The gauze and silk were exquisitely matched, the sequins must have taken an age to stitch, and the craftsmanship was of matchless quality. Why, Queen Charlotte herself would not be ashamed of such a gown.

  The curtain was jerked aside again, and Mrs. Fiske returned with various clothes over her arm. She hung them one by one on a rail, and then turned to cast a knowledgeable eye over Megan's figure. "Yes, Lady Evangeline was right, you and Miss Holcroft are indeed the same size," she declared, and began to remove Megan's hat and cloak.

  Greville had seen the clothes taken into the alcove, and considered them far too good for mousy Miss Mortimer, who did not warrant such plumes. The curtain hadn't been properly drawn across, and he could just see the flick of a ruby dinner gown in part of the mirror. Thus was a companion being raised above her station in life, he thought sourly. Then he saw Megan's profile for a moment. With her smile and soft brown eyes, and her thick brown hair made unexpectedly rich by the ruby of the gown, she was perhaps more handsome than he gave credit for, and there was something very graceful and ingenuous about the way she turned her head to see herself from a different angle. Had she been anything other than a companion, he would have found her tolerable. Annoyed with the route his thoughts were taking, he looked out of the window instead.

  Half a
n hour later, the better by the ruby dinner gown, an apricot-and-white-striped woolen morning gown, a simple white silk evening gown that would serve well for the following night's ball, a gray velvet spencer, and a fine dark-green woolen cloak richly trimmed with honey-colored fur, all of which would soon be on their way to Radcliffe House, Megan and Greville left the repository again.

  As they emerged on to the pavement, Megan was dismayed to see Oliver drive past toward the Steine like a fox pursued by hounds. He was dressed as he had been in the churchyard that morning, and he clearly considered his driving to be very much the tippy, for he brought the swaying curricle to a flourishing standstill by the crush of vehicles on the corner by Donaldson's. Vaulting down, he vanished into the library after flinging the reins and a coin into the eager hands of one of the local boys hanging around for just such lucrative tasks.

  Greville glowered after him. "March is a fellow I would delight in seeing overturned," he muttered.

  "I would too," Megan said without thinking. She knew it was simply postponing the evil moment, but nevertheless she still hoped she and Greville would pass by without encountering her loathed cousin.

  "You are acquainted with him?" Greville asked.

  "I-I met him once a long time ago, and this morning I encountered him again with Miss Holcroft by the-"

  "You are acquainted with Miss Holcroft as well?" Greville interrupted in surprise.

  "Well, not exactly. I happened to meet them both when I was out walking this morning."