“Do you support the return of the Bourbons?” The dead King’s family might believe the medallion was theirs by right.
He grimaced. “Even if King Louis had agreed to a more limited monarchy, others of his family would have soon sought to return to the old ways. So…I think not.” He shrugged, a graceful gesture that was entirely French. “I do not know how much better the new ways will prove to be.”
Sympathy assailed her. “Do you wish to return to France?”
“Perhaps when this stupid war is over. For now, I am content. I serve as a tutor, which does not pay much, but I have kind and influential friends such as Lord Restive.”
“Have you known Lord Restive long?”
“Since my youth, mademoiselle. We met when his lordship was on the Grand Tour and became friends.”
“It was the highlight of the tour.” Restive’s voice came from behind them. “We fished and shot and played boules. No museums, no formal introductions, no itchy wigs or powdered hair.”
Dufair laughed. “One cannot envy the life of an aristocrat. The boy I tutor now is the son of a marquis and already feels the weight of his heritage.”
Methinks the gentleman doth protest too much, Dorothea misquoted to herself. Was he sincere—or trying to prove his lack of attachment to the Ancien Régime? Exactly how close was his friendship with Lord Restive? Enough to extend to treason? She hoped not.
They reached their destination, and Dufair held out his sketchbook. “Would you be so kind as to hold it for me?”
The three gentlemen strode into the clearing where the gamekeepers had prepared a massive log. They shed their coats, giving the ladies a fine view of their broad shoulders and powerful arms.
The Contessa sighed. “What a pleasant sight.”
Lady Alice didn’t try to take this for a comment on the beauty of the wood in winter. “Whether gentlemen or brawny footmen, they are a delight to female eyes.” She twinkled. “Do you not agree, Miss Darsington? Your mother is not here, so you are free to be yourself.”
Dorothea laughed. “They are indeed a joy to behold.”
“It was kind of Lady Darsington to volunteer to play piquet with my cousin,” Lady Alice said. “I fear he is but an indifferent player.”
Dorothea could only be thankful that Mother hadn’t chosen to join them this morning. She watched the men tug on the huge log—but found herself gazing at Cecil Hale and no one else.
How could she be so obvious? To distract herself—or rather, to appear less captivated—she flipped through the sketches. They ranged from indoor subjects such as Restive and his aunt playing cards to outdoor scenes with a hound barking at a squirrel up a wintry tree.
Then she turned a page and found a drawing of…the St George medallion.
Chapter Nine
Dorothea gasped, then feigned a cough. The page contained a detailed representation of the front of the disk, with the saint slaying the dragon, as well as the barest sketch of the back.
She flipped quickly to the next page. Should she confer with Cecil? Their opportunities for private conversation were limited. Conjectures about Dufair’s motives—or perhaps Restive’s—jostled one another in her mind.
The Contessa made a teasing remark, at which both Restive and Cecil grinned. Dufair saw Dorothea looking at the sketchbook and smiled.
That decided her. If he didn’t object to her seeing his sketches, she should just ask him about it. Fortunately, she had an innocent reason for recognizing the medallion.
“Come, Miss Darsington.” Lady Alice’s voice roused her from her thoughts. The gentlemen, with a chorus of heaves, tugged the log over a stone in the path, then rolled it toward the house. “You can look at Monsieur Dufair’s drawings later. Time to cheer them on.”
Dorothea joined in the hip-hip-hurrahs, and after a great deal of pushing, pulling, rolling, tumbling, and uproarious laughter—gentlemen and servants alike behaving like a group of foolish boys—the log finally reached its destination in the massive hearth of the Great Hall. The men collapsed in various poses of exhaustion, but they straightened fast enough when Mrs. Bates and one of the maids appeared with cups of warm cider.
“The villagers will come tomorrow for wassail and Christmas pudding,” Lady Alice said. “It’s great fun.”
“That sounds just like home.” If only Mother would enjoy herself!
Dorothea set the sketchbook on a table and sipped her cider. How could she get Dufair to one side to question him?
“You must all visit Corsica one day,” the Contessa said, “and celebrate with us.”
Lord Restive grimaced. “And eat maggoty cheese? Not I.”
The Contessa looked down her nose at him. “Have you tried our cheese?”
“No, but Hale told me about it. That was enough.”
“You eat fly-blown cheese?” Lady Alice asked faintly.
“It is not the same,” the Contessa said. “These are special maggots, and we do not eat them—only the cheese.”
Cecil grinned. “It’s quite good. I visited Corsica with my father long ago.”
“You visited my island!” The Contessa smiled approvingly at Cecil. “Then you admit that it is superb.”
“The island, the cheese, and its charming inhabitants.” Cecil certainly knew how to flirt when it suited him, Dorothea thought crossly.
Lord Restive snorted, and the Contessa narrowed her eyes at him. “I shall take that as a comment upon the cheese, not the island or its people. You shall try it when you visit me there, my lord.”
“Or else what? Death at the hands of the irate villagers?”
The Contessa cocked her head. “Unless you wish to put yourself at my mercy.”
They all laughed, drank their cider, and made merry with one another. What a pity the threat of espionage—as well as Mother’s anger—hung over what might otherwise be a delightful party.
Which, she admitted to herself, was delightful for her only because Cecil was there.
At last, Dufair retrieved his sketchbook. Dorothea seized the chance to speak to him aside. “Your sketches are charming, monsieur.”
He made a quaint bow. “Merci du compliment, mademoiselle.”
Doing her best to appear unconcerned, she said, “I was surprised to find a sketch of the St. George medallion.”
He sucked in a breath. Uneasiness crossed his face. “That is not my usual sort of subject, but when Lord Restive showed it to me, I…”
Her heart sped up. “Yes?”
He flipped to the page with the medallion. “Are you aware that his lordship won it at play?”
“Yes, from my very foolish brother, who had no right to use it as a stake.”
He tsked. “As you see, I have drawn only the obverse. I had no chance to make a careful sketch of the reverse, but...” He glanced about and said softly, “I must speak to you privately.”
That startled her. “I beg your pardon?”
“Do not take offense, I implore you. This is a matter of great delicacy which I do not wish to discuss with Lord Restive until I know the truth.”
“The truth?” She wondered where this was leading. “About what?”