Dorothea’s heart thudded fit to burst her chest. How she’d summoned the courage, she had no idea, but she’d done it. She’d proposed to him. Albeit in a jesting sort of fashion, but…
“Before or after the Christmas pie?” Cecil shot back.
Dorothea gave a little hiccupping laugh. Was that a yes? Breathlessly, she managed a response. “After. I refuse to elope on an empty stomach.”
“And leave us to deal with your bedlamite mother?” Restive asked, then murmured, “She is in the doorway, listening to us aghast.” He raised his voice again. “For shame, Miss Darsington.”
Dorothea was tempted to whisper, but instead she stood her ground. She was going to marry Cecil. She would not give in, and if Mother scolded again, she refused to let it mortify her. She summoned a titter. “I’m sure you would do perfectly well without us, my lord.”
“Fortunately, my patience will not be tested,” Restive said. “It’s snowing, and every carriage within miles is broken.”
“What about fleeing on horseback?” Cecil asked plaintively. “Surely you have a few hacks to spare, Restive.”
“No, you chose to come here for Christmas, and here you must stay. Cecil, give Miss Darsington some brandy. She needs bolstering.”
Obediently, he poured her a brandy. Their eyes met again, and their fingers brushed as he passed her the goblet. “A pity we can’t abscond, but duty calls,” he said.
Which was an inadequate effort at reassurance, but Cecil wasn’t about to blurt out everything in his heart with the old besom eavesdropping.
Back to business. Dufair appeared, sketchbook in hand. Cecil turned to Restive. “Monsieur Dufair wants to finish sketching the St. George medallion, and we’d like to see it. I’m sure the others would, too.” With a jut of his chin, he indicated the vicar and Lord Wellough.
“Yes, yes!” Wellough said. “It’s a piece of great historical interest. You’ll appreciate it, vicar, for it’s of spiritual interest too, as it was blessed by St. George himself.”
“Dear me.” The vicar did his best not to look skeptical.
“A holy relic?” the Contessa gasped. “Truly?”
“Yes, the story goes that it brings victory to its owner,” Wellough added. “It’s said that William the Conqueror wore it to the Battle of Hastings.”
The Contessa tutted. “That is not a proper use for a holy relic.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Dorothea said. Her mother hovered with an air of suppressed fury, but Dorothea gave no visible sign of concern. She was full of spirit and courage. How could he not adore her?
“You must lock it away,” the Contessa said. “What if your enemies were to steal it? I shudder to think what my cousin would do if he possessed it.” She grimaced. “He is a soldier in the French Army, and very ambitious. He says he will one day conquer the world.”
If the Contessa wanted it, would she so baldly state her motive? Judging by their conversation on the way to the Yule log, she found politics tedious and wars entirely stupid, interfering as they did with comfort and enjoyment. But if she were sufficiently wily…
“Have no fear, it is safely in England, and here it will stay,” Wellough said. “Where have you been hiding it, dear boy?”
Restive shrugged. “This is all nonsense, but I’ll get it.” He beckoned to Cecil to accompany him. Once they had crossed the Great Hall to the stairs, he said, “My dear fellow, was that a proposal of marriage?”
“I hope so.” Cecil couldn’t contain his smile.
“I couldn’t believe my ears. She’s usually rather reserved.”
“Not with me, she isn’t. My acceptance was entirely sincere.”
“But think of the girl’s mother!”
“I’d rather not.”
“I overheard her trying to convince Wellough to propose. Poor man—he has enough troubles without making a fool of himself over a girl less than half his age. In any event, her dowry isn’t nearly enough to get him out of the basket.”
Cecil shrugged. Fortunately, Wellough’s lack of funds wasn’t his problem.
“You’ll have to tell her the truth about yourself,” Restive said.
“I know.”
“She may not take it well. Did you hear her screaming at the old bitch?” He raised his voice to a falsetto. “‘I loathe the peerage and all it stands for. I will die in a ditch rather than associate myself with it. I shall marry a plain mister or no one!’”
“I am a plain mister,” Cecil said.
“For now,” Restive said.
“I may always be a plain mister.”
“Unlikely,” Restive said. “You’re doomed to inherit a peerage, but you’re incorruptible, so that’s a point in your favor. I doubt you’ll suddenly turn stupid or ugly, and if you’re depraved, you hide it well.” He paused, considering his friend. “Don’t be uneasy, old fellow. Your charm will win you the prize.”
Cecil wasn’t so sure. Dorothea lived by a code of honor—not one he entirely understood, but if she had sworn not to associate with the peerage, wouldn’t she feel obliged to keep that oath?
“Seduce her. Then she won’t have a choice.”
Cecil controlled his temper. Restive was a good friend, but he didn’t understand, and in any event, Cecil had a job to do. He must concentrate on that and woo Dorothea later.
Restive lit a candle from one of the sconces and led the way into his bedchamber. He plucked the medallion on its silver chain from atop several mufflers hanging on the back of the door.
“Hiding it in plain sight?” Cecil asked.
“Why would I hide it? It’s not worth much.” When Cecil raised inquiring brows, Restive said, “It’s a copy, my dear fellow. Not the genuine medallion.”
Cecil let out a breath. “Yes, so I gather. Dufair hesitated to tell you, for fear you would become enraged and demand Edgar Darsington’s blood. I assured him you wouldn’t do it with his sister and mother present.”
Restive blew out the candle and left it on the landing. “How did Dufair know?”
“Something about a jeweler’s mark hidden on the reverse.”
Restive nodded. “Unfortunately, I didn’t notice it until I reached home. A pity, since I made a point of winning it because I feared it would get into the wrong hands. That lad is a fool. Takes after his mother.”
Cecil blew out a breath. Another suspect more or less cleared. Restive might have had plans for the original and changed his mind when he realized he had an imitation—but Cecil doubted it. “I think even the copy should be kept close. When it comes to superstition, what people believe is more important than what is actually true.”
“I daresay. I intend to return it to your future papa-in-law with a polite request for reimbursement.”
In the drawing room, Restive tossed the medallion to Dufair. “You needn’t fret. I already knew about the jeweler’s mark on the reverse.”
“May I see?” The Contessa came forward, wide-eyed and eager. “May I touch it?”
Dufair passed it to her with an apologetic smile. “It is not really a holy relic.”