The Mischief of the Mistletoe: A Pink Carnation Christmas by Lauren Willig Page A

place. Silver, like the Chevalier de la Tour d’Argent. Arabella looked at Turnip.
    â€œDid you know that the French secret police think that you’re the Pink Carnation?”
    An expression of intense irritation passed across Mr. Fitzhugh’s amiable face. “Not that again. Deuced inconvenient. Not that I don’t consider it a compliment, but it’s bally irritating, constantly being dogged by murderous operatives all looking to stick a carnation in their caps.”
    â€œHas this happened to you frequently?” asked Arabella.
    â€œOh, once or twice.” Mr. Fitzhugh gestured airily with the salver. “Shouldn’t think it has anything to do with our pud—oh.”
    Mr. Fitzhugh looked blankly down at the remains of his pie, which had slid with a splat onto the red damask cloth covering the table.
    No. Impossible. No one’s acting skills were that good.
    â€œLet me,” said Arabella, and took the salver from him.
    â€œDeuced alarming, this pudding,” said Mr. Fitzhugh, leaning over her shoulder as she deftly transferred a slice of pie onto a plate. “That bit about a deal. Don’t like the look of it a’tall. Couldn’t make out much more, but one word looked like guerre . You know what that signifies.”
    â€œLove is war?” suggested Arabella. The pudding was beginning to give her a headache.
    Like the rest of the frost fair, the messages in the pudding were nothing more than a game, a diversion for bored aristocrats. The authorities were probably nothing more than the headmistress, the deal nothing more sinister than an exchange of schoolgirl gifts or lovers’ tokens. The illusion of intrigue was all make-believe, like the faux medieval livery on the servants, the deliberately aged lute in the hands of the musicians, the bright pennants hanging from the crumbling walls. In a few hours, the coals would be stanched, the silver cutlery would be carted away, the gaily dressed guests would drive home, and the castle would be left as it was, empty, a ruin, all the enchantment gone.
    And for that, she had traipsed across half of Sussex on the coldest day of the year.
    Not that there hadn’t been consolations. She had enjoyed being Mr. Fitzhugh’s conspirator—a little too much perhaps.
    â€œEr, was thinking more of the War Office, myself,” said Mr. Fitzhugh gamely. “I had some ideas. Some ideas for our investigation.” Mr. Fitzhugh’s blue eyes were bright with excitement.
    Thrusting the plate at him, Arabella broke in before he could go further. “Mr. Fitzhugh, this has been very amusing, but—”
    â€œYou’re right.” Mr. Fitzhugh nodded emphatically. “This isn’t the place for it. Ears everywhere. I’ll call on you tomorrow. Safer that way.”
    For whom?
    Margaret would hover, casting suspicious glances from behind her embroidery. Her father would remain firmly planted at his desk, surfacing from time to time to quote obscure Latin lines to no one in particular. And Lavinia would probably drop the tea tray on him.
    Knowing Mr. Fitzhugh, he probably wouldn’t mind.
    But that wasn’t the point. The point was that this had been—a lark. A stolen moment in time. Mr. Fitzhugh could afford to go about chasing down puddings for the sheer sport of it, but she had a living to get and a family to care for. She was for teaching.
    And he was for Miss Deveraux.
    â€œThere’s no need for you to call,” said Arabella quietly. “I’m sure you were right before. This is just a schoolgirl prank. Nothing more.”

Chapter 9

    T he Middle Ages were called the Dark Ages because they had no windows. In the Renaissance, they discovered glass and everything became light.”
    Arabella stifled a yawn with the back of her hand. Half past ten, five papers still left to mark, and her mind was already beginning to wander. Arabella squinted at the dense curlicues and ink