Sandra Heath - Mistletoe Mischief

"We know all her usual guests," he pointed out.

"Yes, but-"

"But?"

Chloe bit her lip and looked away. "Well, perhaps I should go across-"

"And see if there is news of Rupert?" he finished for her.

"Certainly not!"

"That is a great pity." He folded the newspaper and put it on the table beside his chair. "From the heated manner of that last response. I must presume that you are still angry with him?"

"Angry? I'm not anything anymore, Papa. Rupert Radcliffe is of no interest to me, especially now that…" She didn't finish.

He got up and went to pour himself a large glass of cognac. "I do hope that you were not about to mention Mr. March's name," he murmured.

"And if I was?"

"I know that he has come to mean much to you, my dear, but I do not care for him."

"Why not?" she asked in dismay. "He has just been all that is charming and courteous."

"I know, but I can't help how I feel," her father replied, resuming his seat.

"Just because you and Lady Evangeline have decided that Rupert and I would be a fine match! That's it, isn't it? Well, I do not need to remind you that it was Rupert who broke our friendship, not me."

"No, my dear, you do not need to remind me. Nor, I dare say, would you need to remind Rupert himself, who I am sure now regrets his actions."

"I doubt that very much."

"Chloe-"

"Papa, I do not wish to speak of Lord Rupert Radcliffe, indeed I do not even wish to think of him. Oliver is in my heart now, and I intend to continue to see him. Unless, of course, you mean to forbid it?"

"No, my dear, I will not do that, for I know only too well that to forbid you will only make you the more determined."

"So you will not mind if he takes me to St. Nicholas's church in the morning, to help with the Christmas decorations?"

"I will mind very much, but I will not prevent you from going."

"Well, that is that, then," she declared, as she gathered her skirts and hastened from the room.

Her father gazed sadly after her. He didn't want Mr. Oliver March as a son-in-law, but he very much feared he was going to get him. He glanced toward the window. It was very tiresome of Evangeline et al to be away this Christmas. If things had gone on in the usual way, there might have been a chance to rectify the sorry situation, but with Evangeline in Bath and Rupert in London… well, the way was clear for Mr. March.

With a sigh, the admiral drained the glass of cognac, then grimaced.

Meanwhile at Radcliffe House, Megan had put the young woman in the house opposite from her thoughts, and was studying the portrait of Mrs. Siddons. Suddenly Rollo's footsteps crossed the hall again, and she turned with a gasp, having momentarily forgotten all about the ghost. Her curiosity got the better of her as the steps moved away, and she went out into the hall to follow the sound to the theater. She halted at the entrance, listening to Rollo walk down through the auditorium, past the strange black tent, then up on to the stage, where the curtain shivered slightly as he halted in front of it.

He cleared his throat dramatically, and to her astonishment began to declaim one of Shakespeare's most famous soliloquies as if wishing to be heard out on the Steine. " 'To be or not to be: that is the question…' "

A ghost who recited Hamlet at the top of his spectral lungs? It was so unexpected that Megan almost curled up with stifled mirth, although she doubted if he intended to be anything other than serious.

He continued his flamboyant oration. " 'Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. Or to take arms against a sea of troubles. And by it… And by the…' " There was a loud sigh as the next line eluded him. "Oh, plague take it! When will the words remain in this foolish noddle?" he grumbled in quaint old-fashioned English, then the hem of the curtain was raised briefly by an invisible hand, and the ghostly footsteps retreated to the back of the stage. After that there was the sort of silence that told Megan he had departed for the time being.

Suddenly she felt a great deal better about her new post, for how could one be afraid of-or disconcerted by-a spirit who fancied himself a great actor? No won der Lady Evangeline put up with him! Still smiling, she turned back to the hall, and was immediately confronted by Edward the footman, who had been watching her.

"What are you doing out here? You were supposed to stay in the drawing room!" he said haughtily, thus making clear his inflated opinion of himself, and low opinion of her.

"I-I'm sorry," she replied. "I thought I heard someone making a speech in the theater."

"No one is allowed in there unless her ladyship is present. That applies to you too."

"I'll try to remember."

"Your room's ready. Come on." He paused. "And don't think that because you're in the blue chamber, you can lord it over the rest of us."

"I know my place." Which is more than you do, she added silently.

He eyed her for a moment as if sensing her unspoken thought, but then he conducted her up to a fine second-floor room on the Great East Street side of the house. "This is yours," he announced pushing the door open. "Just don't forget you're still a servant, and while there are guests, you'll be eating with us in the kitchens, so don't think you can treat us to airs and graces."

Megan was provoked as she went inside. "If anyone has airs and graces, it's you," she replied, and closed the door firmly in his face. She guessed that he would now paint a very black picture of her to the other servants, but she was philosophical about it, for she had endured a similar situation at Lady Jane's, but had managed to rise above it and make some good friends. With luck she would do the same here.

She glanced around the room. It warranted its name, for nearly everything was blue, except for a rose marble fireplace and a white ceiling that was richly picked out with gold. A fire crackled in the hearth, and there were lighted candles on the mantel, on either side of a garniture of fine blue-and-white Chinese porcelain vases. The four-poster bed had sapphire-blue hangings, and she lifted her portmanteau on to it to begin unpacking. Her back was to the door, and her hood fell over her hat again as she bent over it.

Suddenly the door was flung open. "You impudent light-fingered scoundrel!" someone cried, and before she knew what was happening, an assailant had launched himself at her. She was knocked sprawling facedown on the bed beneath him.

Megan screamed and fought for all she was worth to escape, but her attacker-Sir Greville Seton, no less-was infinitely stronger and kept her pinned to the bed. After a struggle that lasted only a minute, but seemed a lot longer to Megan, she stopped fighting and lay still.

Greville thought he had apprehended a male intruder, and knelt roughly astride her. "You damned villain! Let's see your face!" he cried, and snatched back her hood. But he wrenched her hat off as well, and then froze as her long brown hair tumbled down in only too feminine profusion. "A-a woman?" he gasped, and leapt from the bed as if scalded. Then his glance went belatedly to the luggage, which was clearly not his. "What's going on? Who are you?" he demanded.

Angry and frightened, Megan scrambled away on the other side of the bed from him. "How dare you assault me so!" she cried.

"I dare because at the last time of reckoning this happened to be my room, and I caught you apparently rifling my belongings. I see now that I was wrong."

"You are indeed!" she replied angrily. They gazed warily at each other, their eyes bright with instinctive dislike and mistrust. Neither intended to give an inch, because both felt in the right. Megan spoke again. "Am I to understand that you are Sir Greville Seton?"