Free The Mischief of the Mistletoe: A Pink Carnation Christmas by Lauren Willig Page B

Gave Us Fairest Flowers.”
    â€œSignor Marconi is the music master at Miss Climpson’s,” explained the chevalier. “Although he also provides entertainment for private parties. He came very highly recommended.”
    If he sounded slightly dubious, Arabella could understand why. Even to her untrained ear, Flora’s flowers were flat.
    The chevalier shrugged. “To teach and to practice are two very different things. One may discuss what one might never do.” His gaze made a slow circuit of the assembled company. “Just as one might do things one might never discuss.”
    A kiss for example, stolen between a dining room and a drawing room, two long months ago.
    Captain Musgrave still stood by the refreshment table, his hair sticking out at odd angles under his hat. He had been joined by her aunt, a head shorter, her hand resting familiarly on Musgrave’s arm. She wore a coronet of egret feathers, spangled with some shiny substance that glittered in the winter sunlight.
    Aunt Osborne started to turn, and Arabella braced herself for the greeting to come, the exclamations, the embraces, the explanations.
    But before Aunt Osborne could spot Arabella, Captain Musgrave turned his wife away with a laugh and a light touch on her arm, directing her attention to the refreshment table. As Aunt Osborne exclaimed over the syllabub, Arabella fell back, the fixed smile frozen on her face.
    Her aunt hadn’t seen her, that she was sure of, but Musgrave had.
    â€œWell, jolly good meeting you,” said Mr. Fitzhugh jovially to the chevalier, and tugged at Arabella’s arm. “Shouldn’t like to keep the ladies from the ruins. Early dark in winter and all that, you know.”
    Entirely unperturbed, the chevalier smiled at Jane. “If ruins you came for, then the ruins you must see. Might I commandeer the humble task of serving as your escort? Ladies? And Mr. Fitzhugh, of course.”
    Arabella looked away from Musgrave and her aunt.
    She put her hand on Mr. Fitzhugh’s arm and smiled prettily up at him. She made sure not to catch Jane’s eye. Jane saw far too much. As the chevalier had said, there were some things one didn’t discuss.
    â€œYes,” she said. “Yes. Let’s go see the ruins.”

Chapter 7

    T urnip tucked Miss Dempsey’s arm through his as they strolled through the jagged walls where the Great Hall must once have been, following Miss Austen and the Cheval-whatever-his-name-was.
    Deuced silly name, that. Foreigners. Couldn’t do anything properly.
    â€œNot that a chap doesn’t generally like to give the chaps the benefit of the doubt, but there’s something rum about that Cheval-whatever-you-call-it,” muttered Turnip.
    Not good rum, either. The sort of rum that tasted good in punch but gave a chap a headache the morning after.
    â€œPardon?” said Miss Dempsey. Visibly collecting herself, she turned her attention to Turnip. “What did you say?”
    â€œOh, nothing. Just not all that keen on the French chappy. Something deuced dodgy about him.”
    Being no slouch, Miss Dempsey picked up on his meaning without his having to say anything more. “You don’t think the chevalier had something to do with the pudding, do you?”
    â€œHe is French,” said Turnip. “And his cousin works at the school. Might have been visiting her yesterday, for all we know. Skulking around out back.”
    â€œHe doesn’t seem the skulking sort,” said Miss Dempsey, regarding the chevalier with interest. Too much interest.
    â€œYou can never tell what a chap might get up to in his spare time. Just because a man doesn’t have leaves on his knees doesn’t mean he ain’t a villain.”
    â€œOr a spy?” Miss Dempsey smiled at him. The tip of her nose was pink and her lips were slightly chapped from the wind. “If I were the French secret service, I would try to employ someone a