Mistletoe Mischief

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.'

'Why? Because you know you made a disastrous decision when you spurned her?'

Rupert's green eyes swung resentfully back to him. 'Certainly not. I like Chloe very much, but only as a friend, so why does everyone think I should marry her?'

Greville studied him shrewdly, deciding the time was right to make him face up to a few things. 'Well, if that's the way you feel, then you won't mind the talk I overheard at White's last night.'

'There's always talk at White's. Sometimes I think there's more gossip at that club than there is among Billingsgate fishwives!'

'On this occasion the fishwives have it that Chloe will be betrothed to Oliver March in the new year. The odds are apparently on St. Valentine's Day.'

Rupert was visibly shaken. 'Tell me you jest.'

'I fear not.'

'But it cannot be so, Chloe doesn't even know March!'

'Oh, yes, she does. The Holcrofts met him at the beginning of November when they came up to town. They were among Prinny's dinner guests at Carlton House, and March was there too. It seems he was much smitten with Chloe, so much so that he has followed her back to Brighton and taken lodgings for the winter. Duchess Place, I believe. He's there now, from all accounts.'

Rupert leaned a hand against the statue, and bowed his head. 'Well, now we know who he preferred to Sybil Garsington,' he muttered.

Greville's lips parted in astonishment. 'March was the fellow in Brighton?'

'I presumed you knew.' Rupert struggled to overcome his emotion, for Oliver March was one of the men he loathed most in all the world.

'No, the actual name was never mentioned to me.'

'He and Sybil richly deserve each other, but I still can't believe Chloe could be taken in by him.' Rupert was so incensed he struck the statue with his cane.

'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.