The Mischief of the Mistletoe: A Pink Carnation Christmas by Lauren Willig Read Free Book Online

“In fact, I don’t think it.”
    â€œOh, you.” Sally waved a dismissive hand. “You never think.”
    â€œI still don’t quite understand,” said Miss Dempsey. “On what are these spies meant to be spying?”
    The three girls looked at one another. Clearly, this was not a detail they had considered.
    â€œOn . . . something,” said Agnes.
    Her peers nodded vigorously.
    Something was obviously the order of the day, and a commodity for which the French were bound to pay dearly.
    â€œSomething,” repeated Turnip. He might be the greatest nodcock since the Prince of Wales had ventured into experiments with corsetry, but even he knew a dodge when he heard one.
    â€œWell, think about it,” said Sally impatiently. “There must be oodles on which a spy could spy if he wanted to.”
    â€œI say, Sal, I’ve browsed through your journal, and there ain’t much there of note.”
    Sally’s eyes shot sparks of fire. “You’ve read my journal!”
    Turnip slunk down in his chair. “I only did it because the mater asked me to. Afraid you were developing a bit of a tendre for that music master of yours.”
    â€œSignor Marconi?” This on dit was too good to pass by. Lizzy bounced around in her chair. “You must be joking!”
    â€œHe had very nice mustaches,” mumbled Sally, doing some slinking of her own. Straightening, she gave her brother a look of death. “And I’ll thank you to stay out of my private papers!”
    Turnip tapped a finger against his forehead. “Word of advice, sister mine. If you want to keep your papers private, don’t write ‘Private’ on the cover. It set the mater right off. It was all I could do to stop her sniffing around like some great sniffing thing.”
    â€œHmph,” sniffed Sally.
    As a sniff, it wasn’t quite up to the maternal standard, but, to be fair, their mother had had years more of practice. Put a little more air into it, and Sally would be bang up to the mark in no time.
    â€œI don’t think he’s a spy,” said Agnes thoughtfully, bringing the discussion back where it belonged. “Signor Marconi, I mean.”
    â€œWhat about the new French mistress?” suggested Sally spiritedly, bouncing in her chair as she turned to her peers for confirmation. “She is awfully French.”
    â€œDo you mean just because she speeeeeek lak zees?” contributed Lizzy, with an innocence belied by the wicked sparkle in her brown eyes.
    â€œIt’s a nice idea, but Mademoiselle Fayette does make rather a fuss about her brother’s head being chopped off,” Agnes pointed out. “That might make one rather less inclined than otherwise to cooperate with the current regime.”
    â€œBut how do we know whether she actually liked her brother?” said Sally, with a relish that made Turnip clutch protectively at his own neck. “That might be nothing more than a . . . than a . . .”
    â€œCunning ruse!” supplied Lizzy triumphantly.
    â€œNot so cunning if one can see through it,” said Agnes, disgusted by the poor quality of villains nowadays. “If it were really cunning, it would be so cunning we’d have no idea at all how cunning it was.”
    Turnip’s brow furrowed as he attempted to unravel the tangle of cunning.
    â€œHow . . . cunning,” said Miss Dempsey politely. “But whatever would spies be doing at a young ladies’ seminary in Bath?”
    â€œThey’re everywhere,” said Agnes earnestly. As if for confirmation, she added, all in a rush, “My cousin married the Purple Gentian!”
    â€œDid she, by Gad!” Turnip smacked the flat of his hand against one knee as it all became clear. Wooliston . . . ha! That was where he had heard the name before. His friend Lord Richard Selwick, more dramatically known as the Purple Gentian, had married a young lady of