Mistletoe Mischief

by Sandra Heath

  The hautbois broke off mid note, and then there came a wailing female voice that was so like Sybil's as to be virtually indistinguishable. "Oh, Mama! Mama! Walph hath left me!"

  Greville recognized it as belonging to Sophia Strickland. So Ralph had upped and gone, eh? It was as well for him, because after Oliver he was next on the list of those due for reprisals. Megan had suffered greatly at both men's hands, and the time for just deserts had arrived! Greville strode on, his eyes hard with determination.

  But when he reached Oliver's lodgings, he found his prey was not at home. Oliver's man, who was used to covering up, pretended at first that he knew nothing of his master's whereabouts, but when pinned to the wall by the throat with a fist of iron, he quickly divulged the visit to the Lewes bordello and the booking for Mahomed's Baths. Greville was pleased to learn that Ralph Strickland had descended upon Oliver. Two vile birds to be dealt with by a single stone, he thought. He decided to wait until the visit to the baths. Why endure the discomfort of a ride through the snow to Lewes when his quarries were going to obligingly return to Brighton? So, after warning Oliver's man not to mention his visit, Greville returned to Radcliffe House.

  During his absence, Megan had stirred briefly out of unconsciousness. She saw the locket shining at Evangeline's throat as she leaned in concern over the bed, and the mistletoe posy lying upon the bedside table with the unfinished volume of The Castle of Otranto, but then the darkness returned.

  Evangeline wasn't alone in the room, for Rupert, Chloe, and Sir Jocelyn were there too, as well as Rollo, of course, but only Evangeline knew he was there. Sir Jocelyn was furious that he had not only permitted Oliver to pay court to Chloe, but had actually offered him the hospitality of his house. With hindsight, Chloe's father was hugely sorry that he had not paid more attention to his instincts where Mr. Oliver March was concerned.

  Chloe was very upset by the full extent of Oliver's misdeeds. "Oh, how could I ever have been so naive as to actually think I loved him! Not even Sybil Garsington deserves such a monster!" she said, wiping her tears with her lace-edged handkerchief as she stood by the window, looking out into the gathering darkness.

  Rupert went to her. "You weren't to know, sweetheart," he whispered, pulling her close and putting his lips to her short golden curls.

  "How he must have laughed when he found me so easy to humbug!"

  "Laughed? Chloe, the villain is in love with you!" Rupert replied, taking her face in his hands. "The only good thing I can say of March is that he lost his black heart to a veritable jewel of womanhood."

  "Would that he had never set eyes upon me," she whispered, and slipped her arms around his waist.

  "Greville will make him pay his dues," Rupert promised.

  Chloe drew back at that. "Violence is not the answer, we have only to look at Megan to know that!"

  "Yes, but-"

  "No, Rupert. I hope Greville does not find Oliver, and that when he returns here I will be able to dissuade him from further action." She glanced tearfully toward the bed. "Oh, please let Megan recover soon! Please let all be well again!" She hid her face against Rupert's shoulder.

  Evangeline straightened from the bedside, and turned to Sir Jocelyn. "I too am most unhappy that Greville has gone off after Mr. March as he has, Jocelyn."

  "He was impossible to hold back, my dear," he reminded her.

  "I know. I have never seen him in such an icy fury before. He was so controlled it was really quite frightening."

  "I hope he thrashes March within an inch of his miserable life," Sir Jocelyn declared calmly.

  "And be dragged before a court? What good will that do, pray?"

  Rollo had been listening. " 'Frailty thy name is woman,' " he murmured, being in full agreement with Sir Jocelyn.

  Evangeline rounded upon the sound of his voice. "Better to be a frail but living woman than a rash but dead man!" she cried. "Or an extinct Restoration actor!" she added.

  Everyone turned to look at her, but this time without question, for they all accepted that Master Rollo Witherspoon was there after all. Before leaving to beard Oliver in his den, Greville had briefly told them all that Megan had been talking to the ghost as well, but he made no mention of Belle Bevington because Evangeline still had to perform her task without knowing why. However, he had informed Evangeline that the specter required her presence at the church.

  Rollo was offended to be termed an extinct Restoration actor. "Mistress, it ill behooves you to heap scorn upon my predicament."

  She was a little contrite. "Well, maybe so, but you are a very annoying spirit at times. However, Greville has informed me that you need me to go to St. Nicholas's before Christmas Day is over, and I hereby give you my word that I will do so. Will that serve as recompense for my sharp tongue?"

  Joy was evident in Rollo's reply. "Oh, yes, mistress! A thousand times yes!"

  Evangeline returned her attention to the bed, and put a tender hand to Megan's face. "And when you are better, my dear, I will tell you all about your dear father and me," she whispered, then looked at the others and added, "But it is time to tell the rest of you now."

  Chapter 32

  It was well into the evening, and guests had begun to arrive for Lord and Lady Garsington's soiree musicale. The family was in disarray, not only because Sophia had sobbed constantly since she arrived, but because Sigismund had disappeared. He had gone out earlier without saying where he was going, and had yet to return. His parents and sisters could only console themselves that he had not taken a carriage or saddle horse, and was therefore still in Brighton. There was hope yet that at the appointed hour the Garsington ensemble would be complete.

  The arriving guests were agog to see how Sybil went on today after treating them to such a pantomime the night before. Brighton opinion had now generally settled into apportioning equal blame between Sybil and Oliver, deeming them to richly deserve each other. The trouble was that Sybil was simply not the sort of young woman with whom one could sympathize, for she seemed to go out of her way to make an exhibition of herself. She hadn't seemed in the least concerned by what had happened at the ball and, after her loud remarks about succumbing to complete temptation, had escaped her family's clutches to gleefully gallop her way through a boisterous country-dance. Then she had drunk several glasses of champagne in quick succession before her exasperated father and brother seized her. It was a sad but true fact that Ralph Strickland's eastern tincture was only the partial cause of all this embarrassing behavior, because Sybil Garsington was quite simply an awful young woman, and tonight she was still unabashed. She took Oliver's submission for granted, and spoke of him as if he would arrive at any moment.

  Sophia was just as awful, and wore a puce taffeta gown that clashed most horribly with Sybil's vermilion satin. The sisters looked very alike, sounded alike, and shared a propensity for indiscretion. Sophia frequently sank into a chair or sofa, flapping her fan for a glass of lemonade, and sighing tearfully that Ralph was the very tragedy of her life, which meant that her marital difficulties were soon common knowledge.

  The omnipresent Mr. Mellish-as ever first with the best tidbits of gossip-swore he had seen Ralph Strickland in Brighton that very day, driving toward Lewes with Oliver March. And, of course, with a little help from that same Mr. Mellish, everyone was soon hazarding an educated guess as to why those two gentlemen were en route for that particular destination!

  It was as well that neither Sophia nor Sybil heard these gleeful whispers. Sybil stayed close to her sister, and from time to time could be heard above the babble of conversation. "Cooee, Mama! Papa! Thofia ith in a decline again!" At which Lord Garsington's suppressed winces and Lady Garsington's fixed smiles were absolute models of silent fortitude. Not that they were due any sympathy either, because at the same time that whispers concerning their daughters were circulating in one direction, Garsington mere et pere were being exceedingly busy in the other direction with scurrilous comments about the denizens of Radcliffe House and the Holc
rofts. And they pressed on throughout with their dreadful evening, keeping their fingers crossed that their daughters would not disgrace themselves too much, and their son would remember his duty and come home to his hautbois!

  While all this was going on, Greville left Radcliffe House to make his way to Mahomed's Baths for his denouement with Oliver and Ralph. Neither Chloe nor his aunt had been able to dissuade him, for when he saw Megan lying so pale and still in the bed, his anger and thirst for revenge was too much to contain. His boots crunched through the ice-crusted snow, and his breath was white as he walked briskly down the Steine. He thought himself alone in his purpose, having strictly forbidden Rupert and Sir Jocelyn to come with him, but unbeknown to him they were following at a discreet distance. They had also defied Chloe and Evangeline, for they determined not to let Greville tackle the tricky likes of Oliver March and Ralph Strickland single-handed. Sir Jocelyn carried a bundle of things tied in a blanket, the exact nature of which he refused to divulge to Rupert.

  The plain three-story baths building stood directly on the beach in sight of the old battery. Its pedimented main entrance was at street level, and at the windows there were green roller blinds that were always half lowered for the sake of propriety, although steam and condensation usually made peering in impossible anyway. A line of fly-by-nights was drawn up nearby, their crews stamping their feet and holding their hands out to a lighted brazier.

  At the side of the building, below a painted name board that could be seen all along the shore, there was a two-story wrought-iron balcony that projected above the beach, from where it was possible to lean over and touch the masts and rigging of fishing boats that had been hauled close in by the capstans on the cliff. In the darkness the sea was audible if not visible, and as Greville crossed the road from the corner by the Star and Garter, the only people around were the fly-by-night men. He was briefly illuminated by the lighted lamp above the baths entrance, and then he went into the candlelit black-and-white tiled vestibule, where the walls were painted a deep masculine green and the herb-scented air was warm and humid.

  A dark staircase led up to the next floor, and the only items of furniture were two Windsor chairs, a table upon which lay the open booking ledger and an array of colognes, and some fine shelves piled high with beautifully laundered white towels. The murmur of male voices drifted from upstairs, together with the splash of water and hiss of steam. Sheikh Deen Mohamed himself happened to be coming down the staircase, and recognized Greville immediately.

  He paused at the bottom to put his hands together and bow, and the jeweled brooch in his turban glittered as he straightened in concern "Why, Sir Greville sahib, I trust your call does not signify a deterioration in Miss Mortimer?" His accent was a peculiar mixture of his native Patna, and the Donegal of his Irish wife.

  "No, there has not been any change," Greville reassured him quickly.

  "Nor should there be, sahib, for the laudanum should be most sedative. You should not fear for her, Sir Greville sahib, because she will soon recover."

  "I have faith in your judgment, sir," Greville replied, removing his top hat and gloves.

  "Then, may I ask why you are here? I hope you have not made a booking that has been overlooked?"

  "I'm not expected, nor on this occasion do I wish to partake of your excellent facilities."

  The sheikh was puzzled. "No? Then, how may I be of assistance?"

  "I believe Mr. March and Mr. Strickland are here?"

  "Oh, yes, indeed."

  Greville glanced up the staircase. "What point have they reached in their treatment?"

  "They have had vapor baths and now await in their tents for their shampooing. I am just about to take some fresh towels up to them."

  "Are you indeed? What perfect timing. And which tents might they be in? The ones at the far end, I hope?"

  "That happens to be so, Sir Greville sahib, for they particularly requested the rough flannels."

  "This gets better by the moment," Greville declared, and began to unbutton his greatcoat. "I must insist that you allow me to shampoo them both."

  "You, sahib?" The sheikh was a little taken aback, and clearly wondered if the reason for Sir Greville Seton's unmarried state lay in his sexual preferences!

  Greville smiled. "Oh, it's nothing like that, I assure you, for no beings on this earth could be less to my liking than those two."

  The sheikh's expression changed again, this time to apprehension. "I trust you do not mean to cause trouble, Sir Greville sahib?"

  "Not anything that will reflect upon your establishment."

  "Do I have your word, sahib?"

  "You do." Greville spread his hands. "Would I be less than truthful with you?"

  The sheikh bowed. "Oh, undoubtedly, Sir Greville sahib, but on this occasion I will trust you."

  The door opened and closed softly behind them as Rupert and Sir Jocelyn came in. Greville turned quickly, and sighed with annoyance. "I thought I made myself clear-" he began, but Sir Jocelyn interrupted quickly.

  "We didn't want to be left out, dear boy; after all we too have bones to pick with March and Strickland," he said, placing his blanket bundle on the floor.

  "Three against two is hardly cricket," Greville pointed out, looking curiously at the bundle.

  Rupert grinned. "It will be two against two, because Sir Jocelyn is only here to umpire the proceedings."

  Greville gave in. "Oh, all right, I don't suppose I have any real choice in the matter."

  "None whatsoever, dear fellow," Rupert agreed, then rubbed his hands together eagerly. "What's the plan?"

  "I haven't got one," Greville admitted. "My only thought was to get here and get my hands on those two reptiles."

  Sir Jocelyn gave a chuckle. "Very laudable, I'm sure, but not the answer if we wish to be able to face our womenfolk again. So, sirs, allow me to make a few suggestions." He turned to the sheikh and pointed at the cologne bottles on the table. "Which of those smells most like civet cat?" he inquired.

  The sheikh was offended. "Civet cat? I stock only the finest-!"

  Sir Jocelyn wagged a reproving finger at him. "Come, now, sir. As I recall, you once dowsed me from that small yellow bottle, and I stank for two days."

  "Well, I suppose that one may be a little strong," the sheikh conceded reluctantly.

  "It's foul, and therefore ideal," Sir Jocelyn said, and pocketed the bottle. Then he looked at Greville and Rupert again. "Thrashing March and Strickland to within an inch of their miserable lives will make you both feel good in the meantime, but our dear ladies will not like it at all. The fair sex is of an inherently tender disposition, abhorring brutish behavior, and indeed that is why we adore them. But they do like to be able to giggle at their vanquished foes."

  "Giggle?" Greville repeated in puzzlement.

  Sir Jocelyn nodded. "March suffered considerable humiliation last night, but tonight you can make him a complete laughing stock. And Strickland too. Public ridicule is an excellent weapon. So, after giving them both the most bracing shampooing they've ever had, and sprinkling them with the essence of polecat, I suggest you resort to these." He pushed the bundle with his foot.

  Greville bent to untie the blanket, and to his astonishment found that Sir Jocelyn had raided Evangeline's theater wardrobe for Malvolio's awful yellow stockings, Feste's jingling jester's hat, a pair of hose, party-colored in pink and silver and cut off at the knees, and the fearsome Henry VIII codpiece.

  Sir Jocelyn chuckled again. "Just imagine the effect these will have on the Garsingtons' soiree musicale!"

  Greville began to grin. "I think your plan is excellent, Sir Jocelyn. What do you say, Rupert?"

  Rupert's eyes shone wickedly. "I say it is a splendid notion."

  "I'm glad you think so." Sir Jocelyn tied the bundle again and lifted it from the floor, then he turned to the sheikh. " 'Lead on, Macduff!' " he said.

  The sheikh raised an eyebrow. "I know my Shakespeare, Sir Jocelyn," he corrected. "The actual quot
ation is 'Lay on, Macduff.' "

  "Is it, be damned? I didn't realize that," replied Sir Jocelyn. "Well, whatever, just do it."

  The sheikh bowed, took some towels from the shelves, and led them upstairs.

  Oliver and Ralph were relaxed and unguarded, and did not sense their imminent fate. After enjoying vapor baths, they were now languishing naked in their flannel tents, which were not anything like those that might be found at an army encampment, but were bags that were tied at the throat and had inward-facing "sleeves" into which the masseur slipped his arms in order to apply Oriental unguents. The room was very steamy indeed, with half a dozen tents, only two of which were occupied. While encased to the throat in flannel, Oliver and Ralph were very vulnerable indeed, and as bad luck would have it, their conversation had just turned to Sybil and Sophia, about whom they guffawed with laughter.

  The door of the adjacent room burst open behind them, and Sigismund Garsington strode in with a towel tied around his plump middle. He was brandishing a pistol in either hand, and there was a wild expression on his round pink face. "So you find my sisters amusing, eh?" he bellowed, and leveled the pistols at the two men, whose laughter broke off in two squeaks of terror. But they couldn't escape, for they were too well tied in.

  At that moment the sheikh ushered the others in as well, and Sigismund rounded upon them, barrels at the ready. The sheikh dropped the towels with shock and scuttled out, but Sir Jocelyn was equal to the moment, and stepped forward with an affable smile.

  "Don't be hasty, there's a good chap, sir," he said to Sigismund.

  "Hasty? Hasty?" cried Sigismund. "I am about to blast these two to kingdom come!"

  Oliver and Ralph squeaked again, and their flannel tents trembled visibly.

  Sir Jocelyn glanced at them. "They have offended you, sir?" he inquired of Sigismund.

  "I heard them poking fun at my sisters."

  "Ah. Well, sir, it may interest you to know that we have come here to, er, acquaint these same fellows with the extent of our disapproval."