The Mischief of the Mistletoe: A Pink Carnation Christmas (32 page)

Good Gad. He loved her.

It hit Turnip with the force of the proverbial
coup de foudre
. Love. Not just liking, not just lust, but the whole package, all the bits and pieces rolled into one—liking, lust, possessiveness, fear, anxiety, the urge to roll her up into a little ball and put her in a velvet-lined box where he could keep her safe for, oh, the next sixty years or so. He looked at her and he smelled fresh milk and raspberry jam and freshly cut hay.

Cupid had bally strange timing.

If he were a versifying sort of chap, he could say something about never feeling cold when she was around, or how a hundred nights beneath her window would be but the wink of an eye, or something of that nature, but the words refused to string themselves together in his head.

They jumbled and jostled and, in the end, all he came out with was, “Splendid chap, Gerkin.”

Sally was right. He was a national disaster.

“So you say. I have yet to meet this paragon.” Arabella cocked her head up at him, the wheels moving in her mind, and a good thing, too, because Turnip wasn't sure his mind was moving at all. It seemed to be stuck in one place. “Lord Henry Innes. Isn't he Catherine Carruthers's cousin?”

“Might be,” said Turnip, interrupting the thought about sunshine and raspberry jam and long, lazy mornings in the hay . . . “Think he is, in fact. But why? You think . . .”

“It isn't much, but it's an idea,” said Arabella. “A connection. And we know he was at Farley Castle.”

“Was he at the Nativity play?” asked Turnip. “Didn't notice him there.”

“Neither did I,” Arabella admitted. “But that didn't mean he wasn't there. It was a large crowd, and I . . . was a bit distracted.”

“You had other things on your mind,” said Turnip generously. “Deuced busy evening, what with all those shepherds and wise men and whatnot.”

“Among other things.” Arabella developed a sudden and intense interest in the gravel at her feet. Turnip watched as she stirred the pebbles in a small circle with her toe, around and around and around. “About that evening . . . ,” she began hesitantly.

Turnip knew, deep in his bones, that anything that was said on that topic couldn't possibly turn out well.

It was time for preemptive measures. Briskly patting her hand, Turnip returned it to her as he scrambled up off the bench. “It's all right. Quite understandable. Out of line, climbing through your window and whatnot. Didn't think. Shall we go in?”

Arabella pressed her lips together, looking very far away and more than a little perturbed. The setting sun picked out the brighter strands in her disheveled hair, turning them to silver-gilt.

“Sometimes,” she said thoughtfully, “I think I would be happier if I thought less.”

“Don't follow you there,” said Turnip.

Arabella shook out her skirts as she rose from the bench, making a wry face that contained more than a bit of self-mockery in it. “It's nothing. Only that I'm beginning to feel a tardy appreciation for Hamlet. Action ‘sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.' ”

“Pardon?”

Arabella waved an arm in the air. “ ‘Why let I dare not wait upon I would?' ”

“That's not Hamlet,” pointed out Turnip. “That's Mac-what's-his-face.”

“True,” agreed Arabella. “Not exactly a good role model.”

“Unless you're planning to set yourself up as king of Scotland. Not sure I'd recommend it. Deuced cold country, Scotland.”

“I really hadn't numbered that among my ambitions. I assure you, Scotland is safe from me.”

“Ah,” said Turnip, just because he wanted to keep her smiling, “but are you safe from Scotland?”

She bit down hard on her lower lip. Turnip knew that expression by now; it was the one she wore when she was trying not to laugh. Slumping forward, she covered her face with both hands, making little snorting noises that weren't quite laughter, but weren't quite sobs, either.

Turnip placed a protective arm around her shoulder. “You all right, there?”

Wiping her eyes, Arabella rested her head briefly against his shoulder before, much to Turnip's disappointment, removing it again. She turned towards him and Turnip hastily dropped his arm.

“Thank you,” she said gravely. “You make me laugh.”

Was that a good thing? Turnip doubted it. In all the annals of romance, it was never the court jester who got the girl. It was always the knight in shining armor, dashing to the rescue in shining breastplate on a snowy white steed.

He hadn't even managed the rescue part properly, he thought broodingly. He had only managed to make it onto the scene after his lady fair had rescued herself, and even then he'd only made it in time for a consoling embrace rather than the requisite fencing match with the villain. Not that he was complaining about the embrace—he'd quite enjoyed it—but patting someone on the back just wasn't the same as sweeping her into one's manly arms after one had dispatched the villain with a
ha
and a
ho
and a
take that, you cad!

He didn't even know who the villain was. It was all very lowering.

“I aim to please,” said Turnip glumly. “A laugh a minute, that's my motto. Sounds even better in Latin.”

“Thank you. Really.” Arabella rubbed her hands over her arms to warm them. Turnip would have liked to have done it for her. “I feel much better now.”

Funny, he didn't.

“This isn't good. Can't have you being dragged off again and again.”

“No,” said Arabella reflectively. “I don't much enjoy it. It's very hard on one's hair.”

“We need a plan,” said Turnip. “And I think I know someone who can help us.”

I
t does come as a bit of a shock, doesn't it?” said Lady Pinchingdale kindly.

Arabella was tucked up in the Pinchingdales' suite of rooms, a blanket over her lap, a cup of tea in her hand, and a roaring fire at her feet. Her hair had been brushed and pinned up, the rent in her sleeve had been exclaimed over, and Lady Pinchingdale had clucked and fussed and ordered enough hot tea and biscuits for a small army. Arabella had let herself be hustled along. She was beginning to feel like a chick with not one, but two mother hens: Lady Pinchingdale and Turnip.

Arabella suspected Lady Pinchingdale of sneaking brandy into the tea. She felt curiously floaty, although that might have more to do with her own disordered emotions than any artificial opiate. There was something very bewildering about the shift from cold to warmth, from the monochrome landscape of the December garden to the brilliant gilding and rich crimson brocades of the rooms allotted to the Pinchingdales. It wasn't just the change in her physical surroundings that had her head spinning. After a week of being little more than a shadow behind her aunt's chair, she found herself swamped with solicitousness, overwhelmed with goodwill. She scarcely knew how to react to it.

And then there was Turnip, hovering over the back of her chair, checking the level of tea in her cup, shoveling enough coals onto the fire to burn down a small village. After he had practically set Arabella's feet on fire with his wild jabbing of the poker, Lady Pinchingdale had shooed him away, taking over the operation herself.

She looked at him, at his bare head shining in the firelight. The early winter dark had already fallen outside the heavy-paned windows, making the light inside seem even brighter in comparison, as it only did on winter days. With his bright head and brighter clothes, Turnip looked right at home among the rich furnishings, among the gilded curlicues and shimmering satins. Cameo fobs dangled beneath the dramatically cut edges of his carnation-patterned waistcoat, their gold casing catching the light as he moved. His coat, more pink than burgundy, was shot through with gold thread, and his cravat, ruffled at the edges with lace, was the last word in cravats—probably because Brummel himself would be rendered speechless at the sheer number of loops and swags. His clothing was just as absurd as the wags always claimed. But on him, they looked just right, a proper casing for his exuberant personality.

Right now, he was not so much exuberant as anxious, drumming his fingers against the mantelpiece, pacing in short explosive bursts between Arabella's chair and the fire, whipping around every few minutes to peer at her, as though he were afraid that she might disappear again.

He caught her catching him staring at her and gave her a lopsided smile that didn't hide the worry in his eyes.

She smiled back ruefully.

It didn't do to read too much into his concern. He would have done the same for Lady Pinchingdale or Jane or a stray cat that sank its claws into his pantaloons and mewed for milk. That was Turnip, decent to the core.

Arabella tried not to think about what Captain Musgrave had said. Or the very foolish things that she herself had been on the verge of saying in the garden, before he had stopped her. It was good that he had, she told herself. It had just been an impulse, born of the drama of the moment, and she would only have embarrassed both herself and him.

For a moment, when he had twined his fingers through hers, she had thought . . . but that was all nonsense.

Arabella blinked and tried to attend to what Lady Pinchingdale was saying.

“I had no idea what I was getting into when I married Geoffrey,” Lady Pinchingdale was saying, as she busily poured more tea into Arabella's cup. Fragrant steam rose from the lip of the spout. “When he first told me about the spies, I thought he was making it up.” She set the teapot back down on the tray. “Unfortunately, he wasn't.”

Arabella rested her saucer on one blanket-covered knee. “I hadn't realized that spies were such a common household pest.”

Lady Pinchingdale made a face. “They're worse than termites. They get into everything.”

“Chewing away at the fabric of state?” provided Pinchingdale, smiling at his wife.

“It ain't his teeth I'm worried about. He had a
knife
, Pinchingdale. A knife!” When no one responded, Turnip crossed his arms across his chest and glowered. “Well, he did!”

“He didn't seem to want to use it, though,” Arabella said thoughtfully.

Maybe it was whatever Lady Pinchingdale had slipped into the tea, but she felt the tension slipping away from her.

“I wouldn't count on that,” said Turnip, pushing away from the mantel. “Deuced dangerous, relying on the goodwill of a scoundrel.”

“What strikes me about all of this,” Arabella said, taking another long swig of tea, “is how tentative it all is.”

“There's nothing tentative about a knife at your throat,” protested Turnip.

Arabella wiggled forward under her blankets so that she was sitting properly upright. “Yes, but he wasn't in any hurry to do anything with it. He scratched my arm, but that was only because I kicked him and it slipped. Last time, the knife wasn't even a real one.”

“Last time?” asked Lady Pinchingdale. “This happened before?”

“Yes,” said Arabella. “I was borne off by a papier-mâché scimitar filched from one of the three wise men.”

She said it so drolly that both the Pinchingdales smothered smiles.

Turnip was not amused. “It wasn't papier-mâché this time. Look at the scratch on your arm.”

“Are you trying to scare me?” Arabella asked, looking up at him over the rim of her teacup.

“Yes!” Turnip exploded. He dropped to his knees in front of her chair, moderating his tone. “Scare you into staying safe.”

“I'm not going to stay tucked away in my room for the next two days,” said Arabella. “That would just be silly. Not to mention incredibly dull.”

“We could barricade your door,” said Turnip, “and tell everyone you're ill. You have the grippe—no, a fever. An extremely nasty, contagious fever.”

Lord Pinchingdale coughed on his tea. “Why not just say plague? That would keep the would-be murderers away.”

Turnip scowled. “That's not funny.”

Arabella tilted her head up at him. He looked very odd from that angle. “You don't find the Black Death amusing?”

“I don't find
your
death amusing. I won't stand here and see you murdered.” Turnip's cheeks were flushed with emotion rather than tea.

“No one is going to murder me,” said Arabella, with more confidence than she felt. “Among other things, if whoever it is killed me, how would he ever find out where his list is? That's probably a better safeguard of my health than all the goodwill in the world.”

Turnip looked unconvinced. “I still say the best safeguard is a few solid locks.”