Catherine’s curls quivered as she contemplated the inefficiency of the opposite sex. “I was appalled when I arrived this morning to find that he had been here two weeks and done nothing! Nothing! I had given him very specific instructions.”
Arabella didn’t like to think what those instructions might have been. She suspected Catherine’s methods of information extraction ran to the rack-and-thumbscrews variety.
“I can’t fault him for the delicacy of his nature,” Catherine went on, with a pro forma simper. As far as Arabella could tell, Darius Danforth was about as delicate as a goat, but Catherine apparently knew a different, more sensitive man. “His scruples become him, but it just wouldn’t do and I told him so.”
Arabella knew she should have reported Catherine’s midnight escapades to Miss Climpson while she still had the chance. This was what she got for being tolerant and understanding.
“So he got up his game of blind man’s buff,” Arabella said grimly.
“My game of blind man’s buff, you mean.” Catherine wasn’t willing to be cheated out of her credit, even at the expense of her husband. “Those idiot friends of his will do anything if you tell them it’s for a wager. By the end, each of them thought it was his own idea. They all find you an utter antidote, you know.”
“Lovely,” said Arabella.
“After all that, Darius made a botch of it, poor lamb. So here I am.” Catherine smiled brightly at Arabella and brought her pistol back up. “Give me the list. Now.”
In a novel, the proper sort of heroine would refuse to hand over the list, guarding it to the death.
Arabella didn’t want to die.
What good could she do to anyone dead? Other than alert the others to the treason with the sound of the shot that killed her, but, frankly, the walls of Girdings were too thick for that sort of thing. It might, in fact, be wiser to let Catherine have the blasted thing—as least, for the moment. Stranded in Girdings House, Catherine wouldn’t be able to get terribly far. While she was savoring her triumph, Arabella could muster the troops and catch her with list in hand.
“All right,” Arabella said slowly. “It was yours, after all. I only came upon it by accident. I never meant to interfere with your plans.”
It was what Catherine wanted to hear. She laughed happily. “Can you believe Darius even suggested paying you for it? I told him not to be absurd.”
Arabella reached behind her for the crumpled piece of paper. “Why do you want it so very badly? I don’t see you as a French spy.”
Catherine sniffed derisively. “As if I would be in it for that! Darius knows someone who knows someone who’s willing to pay good money for the thing. We’ll be set for life.”
“If you aren’t hanged for treason.” Seeing Catherine’s brows draw together, Arabella said hastily, “You can still put it back, you know. You can hide it among your father’s things. He’ll think he misplaced it. No one will be the wiser.”
“And live in some little hovel until my parents forgive me? No.” So much for their hard-won rapport. Catherine’s lips curved in a distinctly feline smile. Arabella could all but see her licking the cream off her whiskers. With impeccable logic, Catherine said, “They can’t hang me for treason if no one knows about it.”
Catherine was going to kill her. Arabella knew it as surely as she knew her own name. It wouldn’t have mattered if she handed over the list or not. Catherine had been planning to kill her either way. If there were no witnesses, those nasty events had never happened.
She wasn’t mad. It would be easier if she were. One could reason with a madman, suss out his distorted logic and play on it. But Catherine wasn’t mad. She was just very, very determined and entirely selfish.
What was the life of a lowly schoolmistress so long as she got her Darius and the money too?
Not to mention all of those other lives, the Royalist agents stationed between Paris and Boulogne, the English agents who relied upon them, the locals who supported them, all the hundreds of individuals whose lives would be forfeit when that list reached Bonaparte’s hands.
Arabella could see the carnage stretching out from Norfolk to Paris, life after life, all at the hands of the self-satisfied sixteen-year-old standing in front of her, gold bracelets gleaming on her wrists, all frills and ruffles and deadly self-indulgence.
Jane was right, teaching was a far more hazardous profession than Arabella had ever envisioned.
“How do you explain about the money, then?” Arabella asked desperately.
Catherine widened her eyes guilelessly. “Didn’t you hear? The money was a gift to Darius from a very elderly relative.” Dropping the pose, she added frankly, “She’s senile, you know. She’ll never know the difference. She may even think she did give it to us.”
Arabella retreated as Catherine advanced. “But someone else does know. That friend of Lieutenant Danforth’s, the one who arranged the deal.”
Catherine dismissed that with a casual wave of her pistol. “He wouldn’t dare tell. He’s in it too. You, on the other hand, are not.”
“Have you ever thought that he might be a counteragent? Perhaps he’s really working for the government and only pretending to sell secrets to the French.”
“He’s not,” said Catherine with terrifying certainty. “You forget. My father is in the government.”
“The government might pay you for it!” Arabella’s back was against the window. She could feel the latch digging into her spine. “You can tell them you found it. There might be a finder’s fee. You would be a heroine. His Majesty would invite you to tea.”
“Open the window,” said Catherine.
“Pardon?”
“Open the window.” Catherine pointed with her pistol. “You are going to have a nice little fall.”
Little wasn’t the adjective Arabella would have chosen. Her room was three stories up. They were very tall stories. The kitchen garden lay below, but, at this height, Arabella doubted that the winter-gray stalks of thyme and sage were going to do much to break her fall.
Arabella frowned at her former pupil. “These aren’t the sort of windows one just falls out of. You won’t be able to pass it off as an accident.”
Catherine looked smug. “I don’t need to. Everyone knows that you’ve been flinging yourself at Sally Fitzhugh’s brother. When he turned you down—who’s to say what you might do?”
Arabella eyed her askance. “Killing oneself for unrequited love? Does anyone really do that these days?”
Catherine jabbed the gun in her direction. “As of now, you do. Just think, you can start a whole new fashion.” She adopted an expression of mock remorse. “Such a shame that Mr. Fitzhugh didn’t return your affections.”
“ ’Fraid there’s a problem with that plan,” came a voice from the doorway.
Chapter 28
You see,” said Turnip Fitzhugh, “I do. Return her affections, that is. So your little scheme ain’t going to work.”
Turnip looked entirely at home, lounging in the doorway, his shoulders propped against the frame. Arabella didn’t know whether to be elated or horrified.
Catherine swung wildly around, backing up to keep both of them in her sights, her pistol wavering from one to the other.
“Her? You love her?”
“Don’t see what’s so odd about it.” Turnip deliberately moved towards the bed, away from Arabella, forcing Catherine to widen her range.
Following his lead, Arabella inched in the other direction, towards the fireplace. There was a poker in the rack beside the fireplace, a poker and a shovel, either of which could be used to whack the pistol from Catherine’s hand.
Catherine’s face was a study in bewilderment and rage.
“But she’s a schoolmistress.”
“Mistress of my heart, and all that,” said Turnip cheerfully, his eyes on the pistol. “Well-schooled in affection. Tutored in—”
Catherine put a period to the catalogue by stamping her foot. “Fine!” she declared, f
linging up her hands. Arabella instinctively ducked. “You can just die together, then.”
Choosing her target, she spun to face Arabella, her finger tightening on the trigger. Arabella flung herself to the ground. In the confused moment of falling, she saw Turnip’s arm draw back, and something round and pale fly with astonishing speed across the room, straight at Catherine. A piece of mistletoe fluttered like a lost feather to the floor.
The pudding hit Catherine smack in the side of the head, sending her reeling sideways. As her fingers relaxed, the pistol fell from her limp hand, clattering to the floor.
Catherine went down like a stone.
Flat out on the floor, Arabella could only stare. The pudding, slightly dented on one side, lay next to Catherine’s fallen form. What was the cook putting into her puddings? Rocks? Arabella swallowed hard, realizing that a rocklike pudding and the force of Turnip’s throwing arm were the only things that had stood between her and a bullet in the gut.
A pair of slightly muddy boots appeared in front of Arabella’s line of vision. Turnip’s usually immaculate attire was rather the worse for wear. His boots were stained with garden mulch, his hair wrinkled, and his cravat askew.
He had never looked better.
He held out a hand to her. “All right, there?” he said.
Arabella took the offered hand, and felt his fingers close around hers, strong and safe. He smelled of pudding and spilled cider.
“All right,” she said, pulling heavily on his hand as she rose to her feet. She looked up at him, at his dear, familiar, earnest face. “That was an excellent toss.”
Turnip made no move to release her hand. “Meant it, you know,” he said. “What I said to her. About you.”
The door was wide open; a would-be murderess was sprawled on the floor; and a piece of paper that could unsettle half of Europe sat on the desk a yard away. Arabella didn’t care about any of it.
“About me?” she echoed.
Darius Danforth skidded to a halt in the doorway. “Catherine, he slipped away from me. I—”
He took one look at his lady-love sprawled out on the floor, then at the murderous expression on Turnip’s face, performed an abrupt full turn, and made to flee.
He didn’t get very far.
With a suspiciously growl-like sound, Turnip flung himself at Danforth, bringing the other man down before he could reach the door. His hat went tumbling into the hallway as Danforth hit the ground with a splat.
Clambering to his feet, Turnip adopted the accepted pugilistic position, fists up and knees bent.
“Get up,” he commanded. “Get up and fight like a gentleman.”
There was a slight problem with that suggestion. Danforth wasn’t one.
Arabella considered pointing that out, but decided her energy could be better spent restraining Catherine. Catherine appeared to be unconscious, but she couldn’t be trusted to remain that way. Of the two, she was the deadlier of the pair.
Extracting a cord from the bed-hangings, Arabella crouched down next to Catherine. Catherine jerked as Arabella reached for her wrists.
“If I were you, I would stay there,” Arabella told her. “Your parents aren’t going to like any of this.”
Catherine went limp again.
Arabella wasted no time in looping the rope around her wrists.
Levering himself painfully to his feet, Danforth backed away from Turnip, his hands held up in front of him. “No need to go to extremes, old thing. Your quarrel isn’t with me.”
“Isn’t it?” Turnip bared his teeth. “ ’Spose you don’t know anything about a certain paper scimitar?”
Danforth flushed. “That was just a prank.” He jackknifed out of the way as Turnip feinted a blow to his stomach. “It was paper, man, paper!”
“And that game of blind man’s buff?” This time the mock blow was to Danforth’s temple. Danforth’s head whipped back so quickly Arabella could hear his neck crack. “Just a bit of fun! High spirits, that’s all.”
Turnip advanced on Danforth. There was no levity in Turnip’s expression, none of the jovial bonhomie that usually characterized his amiable features. He was deadly serious and just plain deadly. “What about Miss Dempsey? It wasn’t fun for her. Never stopped to think of that, did you?”
“Um—” Danforth’s breath was coming fast as he dodged around the bedpost.
“Apologize.”
“What?”
“Apologize to Miss Dempsey.”
Danforth stared at him before bursting out into incredulous laughter. “Thousands of pounds at stake and you want me to apologize? By Jove, that’s rich!”
Turnip’s expression hardened. “Right,” he said, and swung. His fist connected solidly with Danforth’s stomach. Arabella winced at the sound. “This is for your manners.”
Danforth made a wheezing noise.
The seams of Turnip’s coat strained as he dealt Danforth another blow. “This is for the scimitar.” A button popped off Turnip’s waistcoat. “This is for blind man’s buff.” Danforth tried to get in a blow of his own, but missed. “And this”—there was an ominous cracking sound as his fist connected with Danforth’s chin—“is for forgetting her name!”
Danforth’s head snapped back. He staggered, eyes unfocused, before falling heavily to his knees. For a moment, he hovered there, swaying. Then his eyes rolled back in his head.
“Bother,” he said faintly, and collapsed face-first onto the ground.
“That’s that, then,” said Turnip, scrubbing his hands vigorously against the sides of his breeches. “Good riddance to bad rubbish. Now, where were we?”
Arabella looked down at Danforth’s prone form. “You’re really quite good at that, aren’t you? That, um, punching thing.”
Turnip looked pleased. “Practice regularly, and all that. Gentleman Jackson’s.” He drew in a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. “What I was trying to say, before the fight and all that, was that I—”
Once again, the door crashed back against the frame.
“Miss Dempsey? Fitzhugh?” Lord Pinchingdale stopped short at the sight of the prone bodies scattered across the carpet. “Good Gad! It looks like the last act of Hamlet in here.”
Turnip banged his head against his clenched fists, making inarticulate moaning noises.
Pinchingdale gave him an odd look. “I had no idea you felt so strongly about the play, Fitzhugh.”
“Too much thinking, not enough action,” Arabella provided for him.
“And lots of bally interruptions from extraneous characters,” muttered Turnip. “Who needed Horatio?”
“It could have been worse,” said Arabella giddily. “It could have been the grave diggers.”
And might have been, had Turnip not arrived in time. It was a sobering thought. Extracting the dangerous piece of paper that had started it all from beneath her journal, Arabella held it out to Lord Pinchingdale.
“Here is your list, Lord Pinchingdale. It was in the pocket of my gray school dress.” Her lip twisted. “It wasn’t fashionable enough for Catherine to search.”
“Fashion be damned. You would look beautiful in a sack,” declared Turnip, his voice somewhat muffled. Removing his hands from his face, he cocked his head, considering. “Not that I recommend it. Dresses generally more the thing, don’t you know.”
Pinchingdale started to say something, shook his head, and gave up. Instead, he turned back to Arabella. “Is that Catherine Carruthers on the floor?”
“Catherine Danforth now,” said Arabella. “She married Darius Danforth by special license in November. The two of them had a scheme to sell secrets in exchange for enough money to tide them over until their families forgave them.”
Lord Pinchingdale wasn’t a veteran of three different spy leagues for nothing. “Which would, I imagine, explain why Darius Danforth is also on the floor.”
“That was me,” said Turnip proudly. “Put him there myself. Catherine, too.”
“It was an extremely dashing
rescue,” said Arabella loyally. “And just in the nick of time too. I’ve never seen a pudding used to such good purpose.”
“A pudding?” Lord Pinchingdale spoke with some trepidation. “Do I want to know?”
Turnip never took his eyes from Arabella. “That was one deuced solid piece of confectionary. Shouldn’t think why they bother using metal for cannonballs when they could use mince. Save on the national debt and all that, don’t you know.”
Arabella smiled up at him. “Only if aimed with great precision.”
Turnip looked earnestly down at her. “Couldn’t let her shoot you.”
“I appreciate that,” said Arabella gravely. “I shouldn’t have liked to be shot.”
“Pardon me,” said Lord Pinchingdale. Both Arabella and Turnip looked at him in some surprise. It was very easy to forget he was there. “I seem to be missing something. Many things, in fact.”
Arabella glanced back at Turnip, laughter in her eyes. “Mr. Fitzhugh disarmed Mrs. Danforth with a Christmas pudding.”
Turnip grinned back at her. “Deuced fond of puddings. Always have been. Never know what use they can be put to next.”
Lord Pinchingdale raised his eyes to the heavens. “What did you use on Danforth? A mince pie?”
“ ’Course not,” said Turnip with great dignity. “That would be silly.”
Curling himself into a fetal position, his eyes tightly shut, Danforth was making faint moaning noises. Catherine was lying so perfectly still that Arabella suspected she was faking it. She’d had a good deal of practice, after all.
Lord Pinchingdale contemplated them both with distaste. “Needless to say, we can’t just leave them here. Catherine will have to be delivered to her father’s custody. I imagine he’ll want to keep it quiet.”
“What about Danforth?”
“I imagine Wickham at the War Office will have one or two questions for him. I can take him into custody until then.” Lord Pinchingdale paced around the bodies, thinking aloud. “If we ask the duchess nicely, I imagine she won’t mind lending us a footman or two to keep guard. She won’t want any of this getting about any more than we do. If anyone asks, Danforth remembered a familial obligation and decided to go home early.”
The Mischief of the Mistletoe: A Pink Carnation Christmas Page 28
