A Christmas Gambol Read Free

too old to make the trip.”
    “Say it is our Aunt Ethel who wrote it.”
    “We don’t number an Aunt Ethel among our dozen or so aunts—do we?”
    “Of course not, goose. It is best to keep our real aunts out of it. Then it is all settled. You will leave for Elmdale tomorrow. Tell Sissie I’m looking forward to seeing her. I shall try to find her a parti while she is here, for there are no interesting gentlemen at home. Pity about Harper’s nephew.”
    Monty felt a spasm of alarm. “Sissie is only staying a few days! It is crucial that she leave London very soon after meeting Murray.”
    “Two or three days may be long enough. You have heard of love at first sight, I suppose?”
    “I have heard of it. I have also heard of the bogeyman and leprechauns and faithful women, but I take leave to doubt these chimera exist.”
    Lady Fairly shook her curls. “Spoken like a cynic. It is very difficult to believe you wrote such a shockingly romantic novel as Chaos Is Come Again. Will you do another book? You mentioned Murray suggested it.”
    “Perhaps, if I happen to break another ankle, simultaneously fall in love and get jilted, and the Tories stay in power. We can count on the last item at least. My work in the House is limited while they hold the reins. The orphanage could well use the blunt.”
    Montaigne rose and took his leave, for he feared Lord Fairly would be returning soon for dinner, and he always avoided that handsome mannequin when he could.
     

Chapter Two
     
    Lord Montaigne arrived at Elmdale the next afternoon to find Miss Cicely and Miss Caldwell in their comfortable saloon, sewing cravats for their papa. The cozy fire crackling in the grate was welcome to ward off November’s chilly blast. Although the sisters were surprised to receive a visit from Montaigne, they did not scramble to hide the linen and sewing box behind the sofa. Mr. Caldwell was well to grass, but he had not reared his daughters to indolence or frivolity or any worldly dissipation.
    Miss Caldwell had donned a cap the year before, to tell the world she no longer considered herself eligible for matrimony. As Montaigne was more interested in Miss Cicely, he took particular notice of her appearance. The word provincial was indelibly stamped on her unfashionable body.
    She was modestly attired in a green and black striped flannel gown that did its best to conceal a rather buxom figure. Her chestnut curls were bound in a bun, from which a few wayward curls escaped to bounce over her ears. She might have been a vicar’s daughter—or an anonymous lady who secretly penned wildly romantic tales to enliven her quiet days. Yes, she would do very well. He remembered her as a romping lass, but he hadn’t seen much of her during the two years since Meg’s marriage and removal from the abbey. She was now suitably ladylike, with her prim lips and downcast eyes.
    But when he put his plan to her, those modest eyes turned to dark and stormy cauldrons of wrath. “The authoress of Chaos Is Come Again!” she exclaimed. “I would not claim to have written such drivel for all the money in the mint. It is a horrid, silly story. I despised Eugenie.”
    He was abashed at her forthright condemnation. His pride felt a sting as well. It was one thing for the author to condemn it, but for a chit who lived with her nose in a marble-covered novel to show her contempt was doing it too brown. Surely Chaos was not that bad! Even as his resentment sizzled, his sharp mind took note that she had read it.
    “I didn’t realize you had set up as a critic, Sissie,” he said through thin lips.
    “I quit reading chapbooks some years ago, milord,” she retorted.
    “Who did write the book, and how does it come that you are seeking a lady to masquerade as its author, Montaigne?” Miss Caldwell asked, peering up from her stitchery.
    “It was written by my aunt,” he said, omitting any Christian name.
    “Lady DeVigne!” Cicely exclaimed. “I don’t believe it. She