She remembered him. She had even wanted to approach him, despite his disguise as a gentleman fallen on hard times. Or perhaps despite knowing he was one of her father’s men.
More important, what price would she have demanded just now, and why? Merely a notion, she’d said. What notion?
He dismissed these questions as irrelevant to his mission and waited a bit more.
“Why would he hide it?” she asked, more to herself than to him. “Because someone else might try to steal it?”
He nodded, relieved she hadn’t jumped to the conclusion that Lord Restive might have deliberately set out to win it with treason in mind.
“It’s valuable not so much because it’s made of silver, but because it was blessed by St. George and is believed to bring victory to whomever possesses it.” She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t know whether I believe in that sort of magic, but if it exists, surely a saint’s blessing would bestow spiritual victory.”
“One would think so, but St. George was a military saint.”
“It didn’t bring my brother any kind of victory,” she said darkly. “But those who covet it are greedy for power, and even if they don’t believe, they recognize the effect of superstition in motivating their followers.” Somberly, she pondered. “The Bourbons probably want it back, and so perhaps do those who rule France now, while for England’s sake we must keep it here. There may be others plotting to get it as well. How could my father take such a risk?” She shivered.
“Cold?” Cecil stood to stoke the fire again. He pulled a coverlet off the bed and set it around her shoulders.
She thanked him and pulled the blanket close, but shivered again. Had she begun to fret about how very improper this situation was? She must know she was in no danger from him. His lustful thoughts would do her no harm.
He should rid himself of those thoughts, but it was damned difficult. She’d thrown her arms around him behind the curtains and laughed silently into his chest. It had been unbearably erotic—to him.
“It’s unlike Papa to take such a risk, but now that I am here, I must do anything in my power to keep it from getting into the wrong hands.”
“It wasn’t as great a risk as it seems,” he said.
She stared. “How can it not be?”
“The medallion in Restive’s possession is a copy,” he said. “The original is safely in your father’s care.”
Indignation suffused her countenance. “It’s another of Papa’s schemes! He used my poor, foolish brother and his weakness for gambling in a dreadful way, and if that wasn’t bad enough, he didn’t even explain to him afterwards!”
“Maybe he hopes this will teach Edgar a lesson.”
“Yes, and maybe it will give him an excuse to buy Edgar a pair of colors and send him off to war.” She paused. “I don’t think he’s suited to be an officer.”
“Not if his first thought was to run to his sister for help,” Cecil said dryly.
She clutched the blanket close and gazed into the fire. “I see it now. Papa loaned the imitation medallion to Edgar, knowing he would lose what little ready money he had and need something to stake. My father wanted to see what would happen—not only to Edgar, to test him, but to see who showed interest in the medallion. I suppose there have been instances of information going astray, likely from someone in the set of people who were invited to that masquerade, and my father hopes the medallion will lead him to the source—and if not, to something equally useful.”
Cecil chuckled. “You know how your father’s mind works.”
“Yes—deviously,” she retorted. “Perhaps that is why I prefer to be direct and straightforward. Does Lord Restive suspect why you are here?”
“I don’t believe so. We are old friends, and I have spent Christmas here before, so it was easy to get an invitation.”
“Did the other guests know about the medallion? Were they all expected here for Christmas, or did they contrive to get invited, too?”
“You ask the right questions, but I don’t have all the answers yet.” He gave a half-smile. “I see your father’s difficulty. He loves you and wishes to keep you out of danger, while at the same time he prizes your perceptive mind.”
She appreciated Cecil’s compliments far too much. Embarrassed at her own neediness, she muttered, “Thank you.”
“There’s nothing to thank me for; I simply stated the facts.” He hoped his smile wasn’t completely besotted. “Being both unscrupulous and protective, your father turns your abilities to his advantage by having you attend reformist meetings. You have reasonable views and are unwilling to compromise your beliefs—in fact, you play into his hands by disagreeing with the status quo, in the person of your mother—and therefore no one suspects you of ulterior motives.”
That wasn’t quite so complimentary, but she couldn’t take offense at the truth. “I don’t like having ulterior motives.”
“Nor I, but in the business of espionage, one has no choice.”
She nodded sympathetically. Despite the charade, they did have a great deal in common. How unusual to like a gentleman and also find him so attractive. It was difficult to keep her mind firmly on important matters, when she kept wondering how it would feel to kiss him.
Much as she wanted to contemplate her growing interest in this man—to allow the warmth inside her to develop into arousal—it would be pointless, since he was concentrating on his mission. He showed no sign of wanting to kiss her.
She set her mind to considering the guests. “Monsieur Dufair may represent the Bourbon cause,” she mused, “or he may be an ordinary émigré. The Contessa may support some other French contingent—or she may simply be…” She broke off. However comfortable she felt in one way, she definitely did not in another. It was unladylike to speak too plainly.
“Bent on seduction for her own pleasure,” Cecil provided helpfully. “Or both.”
“The most easily explained guest is Lord Wellough. He is family and therefore automatically welcome. He insisted on low stakes tonight, so most likely he is short of funds and hoped to find some ready money in Lord Restive’s chamber.” A horrid thought occurred. “What is Restive’s role in this?”
“I don’t believe he’s a conspirator. How would he pass the medallion to his cohorts? Pretend it was stolen? Your father has had him followed since he won the medallion, with no result. That’s why he sent me here, but dash it all, Restive’s my friend.” Cecil blew out a breath. “In any event, you understand the danger now. You must keep to your chamber at night.”
Fine, but she couldn’t sit and do nothing. She would find out more about the various players in this little game of espionage. She had done this sort of work before.
Perhaps thinking about spies would distract her from inconvenient, delightful, dangerous thoughts. Oh, how she wished…
“I must go, but it’s cold in here.” Cecil stood. “Shall I warm your bed first?”
Chapter Eight
What had he just said? Cecil groaned and slapped a hand to his forehead. “I beg your pardon, Miss Darsington. I meant with the warming pan, of course.”