Megan gave her a grateful smile. "Yes. Thank you for your understanding, Lady Evangeline."

"Not at all, my dear. It is settled, then. Now, then, I do not wish you to remain in this ramshackle place a moment longer. I have taken rooms at the Angel opposite, and wish you to join me. I trust you like sea air? Brighton has a great deal of it, I fear."

"I have no experience of sea air, Lady Evangeline, but I am sure I shall like it very much indeed."

"Good. The season is in full swing there at the moment, but company will be a little thin at Radcliffe House until New Year's Eve. However, we will make the best of it. Are you interested in amateur dramatics? And by that I do not mean the hothouse vapors of which Sophia Strickland has made such a study."

Before Megan could answer, the greenery on the floor moved slightly. It was only a small movement, and most people would not have noticed, but it happened to catch Megan's eye. She looked down in horror, fearing it might be one of the rats she had observed in the backyard. But then a sprig of mistletoe somehow broke off, and floated up into the air. Megan was transfixed. "I-I'm afraid I have never had cause to follow an interest in theatricals, Lady Evangeline," she managed to stammer, watching the mistletoe's mysterious progress.

Evangeline had not observed anything. "Radcliffe House boasts a very fine private theater, and every year I present a play for my considerable circle of friends. It has been postponed until the new year on this occasion, but it will still take place, possibly for the last time, as I am about to sell the house to the Prince of Wales, who will pull it down to make room for more of his Pavilion. However, that is in the future, and as things are right now, everyone who spends Christmas beneath my roof is obliged to join in the play. You will escape an actual role because everything has already been cast, but I'm sure you will be excellent at prompting."

"Yes, Lady Evangeline." Megan's bemused gaze was still fixed upon the floating mistletoe."

"Master Witherspoon, put that down this instant!" Evangeline breathed, and the mistletoe fell abruptly to the floor.

The hairs at the nape of Megan's neck prickled uncomfortably. Was her new employer a little moonstruck? One thing was certain, if a message were to summon her to the Bishop's Palace right now, she would definitely change her mind about becoming Lady Evangeline Radcliffe's companion! But such a message wasn't likely to be forthcoming, and beggars could not be choosers; so Brighton it had to be.

Chapter 3

One day later in London, at about the time Evangeline and Megan-and Rollo, of course-were setting out from Wells for Winchester, where they would spend the night at the Crown Inn before continuing to Brighton, Sir Greville Seton and Lord Rupert Radcliffe left Greville's fine town house, and went for a stroll in the railed garden of Berkeley Square. Rain threatened from the leaden sky, and they huddled in their greatcoats and pulled their top hats low as the chill breeze shivered through the bare-branched plane trees, some of which bore the scars of the storm earlier in the week. The vanilla smell of fine confectionery floated from Gunter's in the southeast corner of the square, and a rosy-faced countryman selling holly from a donkey cart was calling at the elegant Mayfair houses, many of which were already closed for the holiday; it was very different from the bustle and noise of the marketplace in Wells.

Greville paused by the equestrian statue of King George III in the middle of the garden. "I don't know about you, Rupert, but I'm almost beginning to regret spending Christmas in town."

"So am I, but it can't be helped." Rupert raised his ivory-handled cane to prod His Majesty's horse, wishing the creature would bolt and provide at least some fleeting diversion. His beautifully tailored fawn greatcoat was worn over a wine-red coat and gray breeches, and there were golden tassels on his highly polished Hessian boots. He had fair hair and green eyes, and an aquiline nose. There was usually an amiable smile on his face, but he had been less than cheerful since declining Chloe Holcroft. Greville drew a heavy breath. "I really thought there would be more going on here than there is, but the beau monde seems to have departed. Except Sybil Garsington and her ferocious brother." He said this last with a grimace.

"And Prinny."

"And Prinny," Greville conceded.

By December the Prince of Wales would usually have been ensconced in his adored Marine Pavilion, but this year ill health obliged him to remain in London. However, that had not prevented most people of consequence from removing to the Sussex resort as usual for the winter months. It might have been royal patronage that had made Brighton the second most fashionable town in the land after the capital, but it was high society in general that kept it in such an exclusive position.

Greville continued. "Well, Prinny is not so bad, in fact he can be most agreeable; but to stumble upon Garsingtons at every turn…" He shuddered as much as Evangeline when it came to that particular family. Sybil was the younger of Lord and Lady Garsington's two awful daughters, Sophia Strickland being the elder. Their hotheaded brother Sigismund was plump and as bald as a coot, but of such a dangerously combustible temperament that he was known to generally act first and ask questions afterward, as his record of dueling bore witness. In this and this alone he was formidably talented. Unfortunately, he and his entire family also prided themselves on their musicianship, at which they were universally dreadful. Lord Garsington played the cello, her ladyship the spinet, Sybil the harp, Sophia the violin, and Sigismund the hautbois. Musical evenings at Garsington House on the Steine were dreaded by one and all, but were notoriously difficult to avoid. Once there, only the tone deaf or those with the most insensitive eardrums escaped unscathed.

Rupert's gloom lifted for a moment as he grinned at Greville. "Just because Sybil has decided you will make a fine consolation prize."

"I'm glad you find it amusing, because I'm damned if I do," Greville replied with feeling. Sybil had been brought to London in the care of her brother in order to nurse her apparently broken heart. Some fellow in Brighton had not only resisted her advances but made clear his interest in another, so Lord and Lady Garsington had hastily dispatched her to the capital before she ruined her reputation in her attempts to win him back. It was only the thought of his sister's good name that had prevented Sigismund Garsington from challenging the man concerned to a duel. Greville didn't know who the fellow was, but cursed him soundly. If it hadn't been for him, Sybil wouldn't have come to London, and the life of Sir Greville Seton would have continued in its previous tranquil way!

Rupert nodded. "I agree, it's not funny at all."

"Why should I suffer because Sybil's heart is broken. Have you any idea what it's like to be pursued by such a strapping great amazon? It has reached the point where I expect her to leap from behind every tree, her harp lashed to her back, and her alarming bosom heaving as she lisps at me in that huge voice. Oh, Thir Gweville, Thir Gweville, wender me your arm that we may thtwoll together. Thall I play a Thakethpeare thonnet for you?"

"You shouldn't be so devastatingly handsome. It's the tight breeches, you know. All that manly perfection banishes female inhibition."

"She hasn't got any inhibitions to banish."

"True."

Greville gave a slight chuckle. "Mind you, I don't think I've ever laughed so much as I did last Christmas when she had twanged and warbled her way through 'Where the bee thuckth, there thuck I.' " He leaned back against the statue's plinth, his cane tapping against his gleaming boot. He was an arresting blend of the rugged and romantic, with thick almost black hair, and steel-gray eyes that could be disconcertingly cold if he was displeased. When he chose he was possessed of a singular charm, and his dry wit made him popular among his peers. His taste in clothes was impeccable, as his braided charcoal greatcoat, dark blue coat, and tight-fitting cream breeches bore full witness. Nothing could have been more discreet and perfect than the black pearl pin reposing in his starched muslin neck cloth, and there were few who could carry off the rakish angle at which he wore his top hat. On top of all these desirable attributes, he was also immensely wealthy, which made him the target of every hopeful mama with a daughter to marry off. But Greville had yet to find a young lady who even turned his head, let alone stirred his heart; the awful Sybil Garsington certainly wouldn't. He gave a careworn sigh. "I am ashamed to admit it, Rupert, but there have been times when I've felt tempted to shoot the whole Garsington family."

Rupert grinned again. "Oh, that won't do at all, my friend, for Aunt E won't tolerate mass murder in the family."

"More's the pity."

Rupert shivered as the cold breeze blustered again. "Anyway, Greville, why have you insisted on bringing me out in this damned cold? What is it you wish to speak to me about that couldn't be said inside?"

"I didn't want any servant ears to hear because it's about Chloe."

Rupert stiffened. "That is a closed subject."

"No, it isn't, because it's your continuing boneheadness over her that has occasioned you to foist yourself on me for Christmas."

"Look, if you resent my company, why don't you just say so!"

"For heaven's sake, Rupert, don't be so damned touchy. Did I say I resent your company?"

Rupert looked away. "No, I suppose not," he conceded. "Greville, I just don't want to talk about Chloe."