“Do you not believe?” She cupped it in her hands, closing her eyes. “Surely you didn’t agree with forbidding your countrymen the comfort of the Church.”
“No, but the burden of supporting the corrupt and venal clergy was unacceptable. I don’t know what I believe about the real medallion—it may bring spiritual or temporal victory—but this is merely a copy. A very good one, but a copy all the same.”
Her face fell. “What a pity. One seldom has the privilege of touching what has been blessed by a saint.” She returned it to him.
Lord Wellough pushed to his feet. “It’s a copy?”
“Yes, my father has the genuine medallion,” Dorothea said. She smiled at the Contessa. “Perhaps he would be willing to let you hold it in your hands and say a small prayer.”
“What a generous suggestion,” the vicar said.
“My dear Lord Wellough, whatever is wrong?” Lady Darsington hurried forward with Lady Alice.
They all turned. Wellough had paled to a blotchy mauve and was gasping for breath. He fell back into his chair.
“He’s having one of his turns,” Lady Alice said. “Get his valet.” As Restive left the room, shouting for Wellough’s servant, she took a vinaigrette from her reticule and waved it under the old man’s nose.
Cecil closed his eyes and let out a long, long breath. He had found the spy—or in this case, a traitor.
Chapter Eleven
The valet bustled in, and the Contessa drew Dorothea over to the sofa to sit next to her. Thanks to some medicinal drops, Lord Wellough’s color improved.
The Contessa, who seemed to enjoy pursuing awkward subjects, said, “Will your mother really cut you off without a penny if you do not marry according to her wishes?”
“No, she has no power to do so.”
“But your father could.”
“I will inherit something from a godmother, but he could refuse to pay my dowry. However, he is quite rational, thank heavens.”
“Even about your lovely young man who has no title?” the Contessa asked.
“I shall cross that bridge when I come to it,” Dorothea said, and whispered, “Or perhaps I shall elope. Do you think Mr. Hale realized I meant what I said?”
“About eloping? Oh, yes. He would flee with you in the blink of an eye.” She chuckled. “Such fun!”
Dorothea was about to admit that, yes, it was tremendous fun—and then she saw Cecil’s face.
Why was he so troubled, after all that lovely banter about eloping? He’d seemed to welcome it…
Maybe she’d been too forward. Unladylike. Ladies didn’t propose marriage. It simply wasn’t done.
Drat and damn, why ever not? She had asked herself that question, come to a logical conclusion, and acted on it.
Well, now she knew why not. Even a man with progressive notions couldn’t accept what she’d done. He’d handled it adroitly, but beneath that charming exterior, he was appalled.
And yet…he had intimated that he would be glad to leave on the instant if duty didn’t require him to stay…
Duty! The crease between his brows said she was right. She should have more faith in him…and in herself. She caught his eye. He responded with the briefest of nods and left the room.
Well! Now that they were more or less engaged, they could speak quietly to one another without causing comment—except from her mother, and about that, Dorothea couldn’t afford to care. She followed him into the Great Hall and whispered, “Have you identified the spy?”
“I fear it’s Lord Wellough, but I have no proof.”
She considered. “He is deep in debt, and he was very upset to learn that the medallion is a copy.” She sucked in a breath. “He came here to steal it. That’s why he searched Restive’s room. He planned to sell it.”
“Will you help me by keeping your eyes and ears open? He may have made a rendezvous with someone here—or with someone else entirely—but I’d rather go to your father with more than a suspicion.”
She nodded, pleased to have something worthwhile to do. She threw herself into the festivities. Darkness had long since fallen, and groups of villagers poured into the Great Hall for wassail and Christmas pie. She ate, drank, and made merry as if she weren’t trying to catch a traitor. She made a point of being kind to Lord Wellough, who still looked pale and drawn. She served him a second cup of wassail, and sat near him—on a chair, though, so he couldn’t touch her. He shifted in his chair, wiped his brow again and again, and his voice was weak and tremulous.
She chatted with the vicar’s wife, the village apothecary, and the innkeeper’s wife. She helped serve lamb’s wool. Lord Wellough stood to watch Dufair complete his sketch. He talked constantly now, more like his usual self. After a while, the artist shut his sketchbook with a snap and gave the medallion to Lord Wellough.
His lordship hung the pendant around his neck, fingering it lovingly. He returned to his chair, looking almost cheerful. Why? What use was a counterfeit medallion?
Dorothea avoided looking at her mother, but inevitably, she glanced to where she now sat by the fire with the vicar’s wife. Mrs. Kelly tried to make conversation, but Mother gave only monosyllabic replies.
Suddenly she looked at Dorothea and smiled.
Dorothea had seen that particular smile before. Mother was planning something horrid…but what?
Nothing, Dorothea decided firmly, except another tirade. There was no one here to compromise her with except Cecil, which was perfectly fine by her. If only she could convince him to do so. He was far too proper, and she appreciated that, but…
Finally, the last of the villagers straggled out. The servants began to tidy up and dismantle the trestle tables. “Billiards, anyone?” Lord Restive said.
“Don’t stay up late.” Mr. Kelly helped his wife with her cloak. “I expect you all in church for morning service.”
At last, thought Dorothea, hoping Cecil would come to her room. She bade everyone good night and headed toward the stairs.
For once, Mother didn’t follow.
Not only did her mother not follow—she didn’t come at all. Dorothea rang for Sarah, who helped her undress and prepared the bed. She dismissed the girl and climbed between the warm sheets, wishing Mother would come and get the tirade over with.
She waited. And waited. It was no use going to sleep, for Mother would burst in and wake her up. When Mother was this upset, she always came and scolded. The longer Dorothea waited, the more unnerved she became—which was absurd. Maybe Mother had already gone to bed. Or maybe she was still below, playing piquet.
There was only one way to find out. She donned dressing gown, stockings, and slippers, peeked out her door, and crept toward the head of the stairs.
A few dim sconces lit the Great Hall. She peered over the balustrade. The drawing room was dark, but light shone from the billiard room. Some of the gentlemen were still awake, but Mother must have gone to bed.
With a sigh of relief, Dorothea returned to her bedchamber. She was about to close the door when heavy footfalls approached. Lord Wellough’s ruddy face showed in the light of a candle. He reached the landing, but instead of going downstairs, he continued into the women’s corridor.