Sandra Heath: Mistletoe Mischief

"You only have yourself to blame if Chloe has cut her losses and turned elsewhere," Greville pointed out bluntly.

"So it's my fault that she has apparently fallen into the clutches of a man like March?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact it is." Greville wasn't about to mince his words.

Rupert glowered at him. "I hardly think that's fair!"

"It's very fair," Greville replied without sympathy.

Rupert looked away. "I think I despise March more than any other man alive."

"You couldn't prove he palmed that ace." Greville recalled the occasion, the tense faces caught in the muted glow of the shaded lamp in the center of the green baize table.

"I still know he did!" Rupert snapped.

"Undoubtedly, but it would be a great fool who challenged him without a shred of real evidence. I think he is second only to Sigismund Garsington when it comes to dangerous hotheadedness. If ever there was a man who lives up to his red hair, it's March!"

"Maybe, but that isn't the only reason I abhor him. Did you hear about that so-called drunken waiter at the Union Club a couple of months ago?"

"I don't know any details."

"Then let me acquaint you. March and his bosom bird of a feather, Ralph Strickland, were in it together. The poor waiter hadn't touched a drop except the glass March so generously handed to him. It was liberally laced with some diabolical eastern tincture Strickland acquired in Constantinople. The effect was one of unbridled enthusiasm, so much so that the waiter had to be physically restrained from leaping off London Bridge. March and Strickland thought it all highly amusing, and had no qualms about allowing the unfortunate man to be dismissed. When I found out what they had done, I saw to it that he was reinstated. March and Strickland are without a doubt the two most irredeemable reptiles in the whole of England, and March is certainly not fit to utter Chloe's name, let alone pursue her." Rupert faced Greville. "Damn it, I can't possibly stand by and let her marry him!"

Greville spread his hands. "How can you prevent it? You have slunk here to London, leaving Brighton to him. Just think of all the Christmas festivities, the kissing boughs of mistletoe, the-"

"Oh, do stop!" Rupert was distraught.

"Why don't you just admit that you are in love with her?" Greville suggested quietly.

"Because I'm not."

"Liar."

A conflict of emotions struggled upon Rupert's face, but then he exhaled slowly and bowed his head. "Yes, you're right, I do love her. I wish I had known it before, but what's done is done." Having at last admitted the truth to himself, he fell silent. The thought of an angel like Chloe with a devil like Oliver March was too horrible for words.

“Rupert, you must tell Chloe how you feel before it's too late," Greville urged.

"If there's to be a St. Valentine's Day betrothal, it's already too late," Rupert murmured resignedly.

"Don't be so damned defeatist. It's a rumor, that's all. She isn't wearing his ring yet."

Rupert swallowed. "Call me defeatist if you wish, but after the way I've behaved, I don't think I'll ever have the nerve to approach her again."

"Is she worth fighting for or not?" Greville inquired.

"Of course!"

"Then, you'll have to find the nerve, won't you?"

"I suppose so. Why did it have to be March? First he cheats me at cards, now he steals the woman I love!"

"Forget the damned card game, for it's in the past. Chloe is all that matters."

Rupert gave him an incredulous look. "Stop dwelling on the past? By all the saints, that's rich coming from you!"

Now it was Greville's turn to stiffen. "That has nothing to do with it."

"So it's one rule for you, another for me? I think not, coz. The balance is even: I choose to dwell upon March's sleight of hand, you choose to dwell upon your father's marital misdeeds."

Greville looked away, a hint of bitterness shadowing his handsome face. Yes, he did dwell upon the past. He had never forgiven his late father for going off with his mother's companion, and as a consequence he loathed companions as a breed. Only a certain type of woman sought such positions, a scheming, ambitious, conscienceless type of woman who would stop at nothing to get what she wanted. They were all the same; nothing would ever change his mind on thatl

Rupert wished he hadn't tilted the conversation in this particular direction, and changed the subject. "I believe we are very much in Aunt E's bad books for letting her down this Christmas. It's strange that everyone has cried off, for the house is usually full to overflowing."

"Perhaps they all dread the theatricals as much as I do," Greville muttered.

"You're the only one-with a gripe."

"With good reason," Greville replied.

Rupert gave a shy grin. "But I thought you made an excellent Bottom last year. It was a shame your ass's head got stuck."

"I'm sure you would have found it equally as amusing if the elite of Brighton, including the Prince of Wales and Mrs. Fitzherbert, convulsed at your expense. Damn and blast Bottom! The miserable experience of playing him was the last straw for me. I'm determined to stay away from Brighton until at least the end of January." Memories of Aunt E's production of A MidsummerNight's Dream would surely torment Greville for the rest of his life.

"January? You can't do that!" Rupert gasped. "You promised her you'd go down with me on New Year's Eve! She's even sent us our roles for Twelfth Night!"

"Yes, and you are to be the hero of the piece, handsome Duke Orsino, while I am marked to be Malvolio, the pompous steward who makes a fool of himself in cross-gartered yellow stockings! Oh, I can just imagine the relish with which our dear aunt penned my name in for him!”

"You're jealous because you wish to be Duke Orsino!" Rupert declared.

"Rupert, I neither wish to be nor intend to be anything at all."

"For pity's sake, it's only a bit of fun."

"Really? Well, I don't recall you feeling quite like that last year. You didn't relish being togged out in Oberon's pink doublet and bright green hose, because you said you looked like a monstrous tulip."

"All right, all right, I admit it, but that's the only thing I disliked. I enjoy Aunt E's plays."

Greville held his gaze. "If that is so, and if you have also decided to ride to Chloe's rescue on your white charger, why don't you toddle down to Brighton for Christmas after all? There's nothing to stop you, is there?"

"Only the small matter of Aunt E not being there either. Radcliffe House is closed until New Year's Eve."

Greville was startled. "That's the first I've heard of it!"

"I can't help it if I'm a good correspondent, whereas you delay your letter-writing as long as you can."

"If she's not in Brighton, where is she?"

"Bath," Rupert replied. "When everyone let her down, she accepted an invitation from Lady Jane Strickland. She's there now, and won't return to Brighton until New Year's Eve."

Greville raised an eyebrow. "Strickland, did you say?"

Rupert nodded. "Yes. Ralph Strickland's mother, actually, but I gather that she is quite tolerable. At least, she was. Aunt E hadn't heard from her in an age."

"I ran into dear Ralph and his Medusa of a wife at the Theatre Royal last night. They have just returned from Bath, but they didn't mention seeing Aunt E. Mind you, I had the impression that Strickland had some embarrassing trouble there with his mother's companion, who had to be dismissed as a consequence. Sophia was still incandescent about it."

"Doesn't it occur to you that Strickland was more probably the culprit than the companion?"

"You know my opinion of companions."