The Mischief of the Mistletoe: A Pink Carnation Christmas (40 page)

The pudding hit Catherine smack in the side of the head, sending her reeling sideways. As her fingers relaxed, the pistol fell from her limp hand, clattering to the floor.

Catherine went down like a stone.

Flat out on the floor, Arabella could only stare. The pudding, slightly dented on one side, lay next to Catherine's fallen form. What was the cook putting into her puddings? Rocks? Arabella swallowed hard, realizing that a rocklike pudding and the force of Turnip's throwing arm were the only things that had stood between her and a bullet in the gut.

A pair of slightly muddy boots appeared in front of Arabella's line of vision. Turnip's usually immaculate attire was rather the worse for wear. His boots were stained with garden mulch, his hair wrinkled, and his cravat askew.

He had never looked better.

He held out a hand to her. “All right, there?” he said.

Arabella took the offered hand, and felt his fingers close around hers, strong and safe. He smelled of pudding and spilled cider.

“All right,” she said, pulling heavily on his hand as she rose to her feet. She looked up at him, at his dear, familiar, earnest face. “That was an excellent toss.”

Turnip made no move to release her hand. “Meant it, you know,” he said. “What I said to her. About you.”

The door was wide open; a would-be murderess was sprawled on the floor; and a piece of paper that could unsettle half of Europe sat on the desk a yard away. Arabella didn't care about any of it.

“About me?” she echoed.

Darius Danforth skidded to a halt in the doorway. “Catherine, he slipped away from me. I—”

He took one look at his lady-love sprawled out on the floor, then at the murderous expression on Turnip's face, performed an abrupt full turn, and made to flee.

He didn't get very far.

With a suspiciously growl-like sound, Turnip flung himself at Danforth, bringing the other man down before he could reach the door. His hat went tumbling into the hallway as Danforth hit the ground with a splat.

Clambering to his feet, Turnip adopted the accepted pugilistic position, fists up and knees bent.

“Get up,” he commanded. “Get up and fight like a gentleman.”

There was a slight problem with that suggestion. Danforth wasn't one.

Arabella considered pointing that out, but decided her energy could be better spent restraining Catherine. Catherine appeared to be unconscious, but she couldn't be trusted to remain that way. Of the two, she was the deadlier of the pair.

Extracting a cord from the bed-hangings, Arabella crouched down next to Catherine. Catherine jerked as Arabella reached for her wrists.

“If I were you, I would stay there,” Arabella told her. “Your parents aren't going to like any of this.”

Catherine went limp again.

Arabella wasted no time in looping the rope around her wrists.

Levering himself painfully to his feet, Danforth backed away from Turnip, his hands held up in front of him. “No need to go to extremes, old thing. Your quarrel isn't with me.”

“Isn't it?” Turnip bared his teeth. “ 'Spose you don't know anything about a certain paper scimitar?”

Danforth flushed. “That was just a prank.” He jackknifed out of the way as Turnip feinted a blow to his stomach. “It was paper, man, paper!”

“And that game of blind man's buff?” This time the mock blow was to Danforth's temple. Danforth's head whipped back so quickly Arabella could hear his neck crack. “Just a bit of fun! High spirits, that's all.”

Turnip advanced on Danforth. There was no levity in Turnip's expression, none of the jovial bonhomie that usually characterized his amiable features. He was deadly serious and just plain deadly. “What about Miss Dempsey? It wasn't fun for her. Never stopped to think of that, did you?”

“Um—” Danforth's breath was coming fast as he dodged around the bedpost.

“Apologize.”

“What?”

“Apologize to Miss Dempsey.”

Danforth stared at him before bursting out into incredulous laughter. “Thousands of pounds at stake and you want me to
apologize
? By Jove, that's rich!”

Turnip's expression hardened. “Right,” he said, and swung. His fist connected solidly with Danforth's stomach. Arabella winced at the sound. “This is for your manners.”

Danforth made a wheezing noise.

The seams of Turnip's coat strained as he dealt Danforth another blow. “This is for the scimitar.” A button popped off Turnip's waistcoat. “This is for blind man's buff.” Danforth tried to get in a blow of his own, but missed. “And
this
”—there was an ominous cracking sound as his fist connected with Danforth's chin—“is for forgetting her name!”

Danforth's head snapped back. He staggered, eyes unfocused, before falling heavily to his knees. For a moment, he hovered there, swaying. Then his eyes rolled back in his head.

“Bother,” he said faintly, and collapsed face-first onto the ground.

“That's that, then,” said Turnip, scrubbing his hands vigorously against the sides of his breeches. “Good riddance to bad rubbish. Now, where were we?”

Arabella looked down at Danforth's prone form. “You're really quite good at that, aren't you? That, um, punching thing.”

Turnip looked pleased. “Practice regularly, and all that. Gentleman Jackson's.” He drew in a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. “What I was trying to say, before the fight and all that, was that I—”

Once again, the door crashed back against the frame.

“Miss Dempsey? Fitzhugh?” Lord Pinchingdale stopped short at the sight of the prone bodies scattered across the carpet. “Good Gad! It looks like the last act of
Hamlet
in here.”

Turnip banged his head against his clenched fists, making inarticulate moaning noises.

Pinchingdale gave him an odd look. “I had no idea you felt so strongly about the play, Fitzhugh.”

“Too much thinking, not enough action,” Arabella provided for him.

“And lots of bally interruptions from extraneous characters,” muttered Turnip. “Who needed Horatio?”

“It could have been worse,” said Arabella giddily. “It could have been the grave diggers.”

And might have been, had Turnip not arrived in time. It was a sobering thought. Extracting the dangerous piece of paper that had started it all from beneath her journal, Arabella held it out to Lord Pinchingdale.

“Here is your list, Lord Pinchingdale. It was in the pocket of my gray school dress.” Her lip twisted. “It wasn't fashionable enough for Catherine to search.”

“Fashion be damned. You would look beautiful in a sack,” declared Turnip, his voice somewhat muffled. Removing his hands from his face, he cocked his head, considering. “Not that I recommend it. Dresses generally more the thing, don't you know.”

Pinchingdale started to say something, shook his head, and gave up. Instead, he turned back to Arabella. “Is that Catherine Carruthers on the floor?”

“Catherine Danforth now,” said Arabella. “She married Darius Danforth by special license in November. The two of them had a scheme to sell secrets in exchange for enough money to tide them over until their families forgave them.”

Lord Pinchingdale wasn't a veteran of three different spy leagues for nothing. “Which would, I imagine, explain why Darius Danforth is also on the floor.”

“That was me,” said Turnip proudly. “Put him there myself. Catherine, too.”

“It was an extremely dashing rescue,” said Arabella loyally. “And just in the nick of time too. I've never seen a pudding used to such good purpose.”

“A pudding?” Lord Pinchingdale spoke with some trepidation. “Do I want to know?”

Turnip never took his eyes from Arabella. “That was one deuced solid piece of confectionary. Shouldn't think why they bother using metal for cannonballs when they could use mince. Save on the national debt and all that, don't you know.”

Arabella smiled up at him. “Only if aimed with great precision.”

Turnip looked earnestly down at her. “Couldn't let her shoot you.”

“I appreciate that,” said Arabella gravely. “I shouldn't have liked to be shot.”

“Pardon me,” said Lord Pinchingdale. Both Arabella and Turnip looked at him in some surprise. It was very easy to forget he was there. “I seem to be missing something. Many things, in fact.”

Arabella glanced back at Turnip, laughter in her eyes. “Mr. Fitzhugh disarmed Mrs. Danforth with a Christmas pudding.”

Turnip grinned back at her. “Deuced fond of puddings. Always have been. Never know what use they can be put to next.”

Lord Pinchingdale raised his eyes to the heavens. “What did you use on Danforth? A mince pie?”

“ 'Course not,” said Turnip with great dignity. “That would be silly.”

Curling himself into a fetal position, his eyes tightly shut, Danforth was making faint moaning noises. Catherine was lying so perfectly still that Arabella suspected she was faking it. She'd had a good deal of practice, after all.

Lord Pinchingdale contemplated them both with distaste. “Needless to say, we can't just leave them here. Catherine will have to be delivered to her father's custody. I imagine he'll want to keep it quiet.”

“What about Danforth?”

“I imagine Wickham at the War Office will have one or two questions for him. I can take him into custody until then.” Lord Pinchingdale paced around the bodies, thinking aloud. “If we ask the duchess nicely, I imagine she won't mind lending us a footman or two to keep guard. She won't want any of this getting about any more than we do. If anyone asks, Danforth remembered a familial obligation and decided to go home early.”

“And Catherine?” asked Arabella quietly.

“That is for her parents to decide. Thank goodness. Although,” Lord Pinchingdale added drily, “I doubt she will ever look at pudding in quite the same way.”

“Neither will I,” said Arabella fervently, looking at the muslin-wrapped ball on the floor.

She looked up to find Turnip looking at her.

“Wouldn't have met you but for pudding,” he said in a low voice.

“You would still have met me,” said Arabella. “You just wouldn't have remembered me.”

Lord Pinchingdale had taken Danforth by the shoulders and was beginning to haul him across the carpet. “Fitzhugh, if you'd help me with—”

Pinchingdale looked up and something in his friend's face caused him to drop Danforth's shoulders and beat a hasty retreat towards the door, leaving both Catherine and Danforth sprawled across the floor. Both were either still unconscious, or doing a fairly good job of pretending to be so.

“Never mind,” Pinchingdale called over his shoulder. “I'll get Dorrington to help me. I'll be back in ten minutes, Fitzhugh. Ten minutes.”

Turnip's eyes narrowed. Dashing to the door, he opened it and peered both ways down the hallway. Pulling the door firmly shut, he turned the key in the lock.

The click sounded unnaturally loud in the quiet room.

“There,” he said, with great satisfaction, pocketing the key. “It's a sad day when a chap can't declare his love without half of Norfolk barging in.”

“Is that what this is?” Arabella asked, her heart in her throat. “Love?”

“Well, it's certainly not a toothache.” It seemed belatedly to occur to Turnip that he might have somehow botched it. Stumbling over his feet and his words, he said, “Wouldn't want you to feel obligated, if you don't return the emotion, that is. Shouldn't have said anything, but I thought—that is—”

“I wasn't sure if you were saying it just to stop Catherine.” Arabella knew she was being shameless, fishing like that, but she wanted the reassurance.

The expression of pure horror on Turnip's face was all the reassurance she needed. That was one of the loveliest things about Turnip, she thought vaguely. One never had to worry about lies or dissembling. Everything he thought or felt was written all over his face in a very large hand.

“Good Gad, no! That day I knocked you over—you remember? Best day of my life. Didn't know it then, of course. If I had, I would probably have thrown a sack over your head and dragged you home with me. Only you might not have liked that.”

Arabella considered the prospect. “I wouldn't be so sure of that.”

“The sack, I mean,” said Turnip.

“Um, yes.” Fair enough. “I think we can forgo the sack.”

Turnip clasped and unclasped his hands behind his back. “What I'm trying to say is, it's yours, you know. My heart. If you want it.”

Arabella felt a great big silly smile spreading across her face. She stepped boldly up to him. “Is it my Christmas gift?”

Turnip rested his cheek briefly against her hair. “Wish I could wrap it in pretty words for you, all shiny and tied up in bows.”

Arabella put her fingers to his lips to stop the words. “I like it just the way it is. I like you just the way you are.”

Turnip kissed her fingers.

Arabella looked at him and thought of all the flowery things one would say if this were a romance in a book. She had read such speeches—long, elegant monologues rich with classical allusions and clever turns of phrase. They all felt all wrong somehow, not because the emotion wasn't there, but because it was.

Next to the sheer vastness of her love, verbal frills felt superfluous. Silly, even, like trying to deck out a mountain range in lace trim.

So she made Turnip no flowery speeches.