A Christmas Gambol Read Free Page A

is much too sensible.”
    “No, not Lady DeVigne. Another aunt. Mama’s spinster sister. From Cornwall,” he added, to put a few hundred miles in the way of the young ladies’ discovering that this aunt did not exist.
    “Your mama is from Surrey,” Cicely said at once. “How does it come her unmarried sister has removed to Cornwall?”
    Her question signaled him he must be a little more careful what lies he told. The Caldwells had been neighbors to the Montaignes for aeons. Sissie might be a young provincial, but she was sharp. “She was sent there as companion to an elderly relative several decades ago,” he replied.
    It was Miss Caldwell who first saw the advantage to the scheme of Cicely’s going to London. “You would like to see Meg again, Cicely,” Anne said. “And while it would be acting a lie, there is no real harm in it. It is the motive, you know, that constitutes the harm. The proceeds are to go to charity. You would meet Mr. Murray,” she added with a meaningful glance at her sister.
    Montaigne saw the flash of interest in Sissie’s stormy eyes. Meg was right, then. Sissie was writing something herself. What on earth could she find to write about, living so cribbed and confined as she did? He began to outline the temptations inherent to a struggling writer in the visit.
    “Mr. Murray has invited some of his writers to this dinner he has planned. A few of the literary reviews wish to interview the author as well.”
    Cicely considered the matter for about sixty seconds, then spoke. “I shall do it on one condition, Montaigne. You must allow me to show Mr. Murray my own book. He will pay some attention to it when he thinks I wrote Chaos Is Come Again. Not that the books are anything alike,” she added indignantly.
    Montaigne felt a spurt of interest to discover Sissie had finished a whole novel. He disliked the idea of her showing it to Murray under his auspices. She would have written some dreadful, juvenile thing, but then Murray didn’t know Montaigne had written Chaos. He looked at her firm chin and said, “I have no objection to it.”
    “What would I have to do, exactly?”
    “Just go to Mr. Murray’s dinner party at the Pulteney.”
    “Alone?” she asked, her eyes staring in horror.
    “No, no. I would accompany you. Murray might wish to discuss your writing another book along the lines of Chaos. My aunt, of course, would write it. You have only to listen to him and agree. The critics will discuss literature a little, but then that will be no difficulty for an ardent reader like you.”
    She didn’t catch the hint of sarcasm in his tone. “And it is for a good cause,” she said, nodding.
    He spoke on persuasively about the poor orphans, mentioning the sum the book had earned thus far.
    “That much!” Cicely cried, her eyes opening wide. “Did you hear that, Anne? And to think that horrid Mr. Egerton wanted me to pay him two hundred pounds to print my book. Well, I shall ask Papa’s permission,” she said, but her sparkling eyes told Montaigne she was keen for the adventure.
    Miss Caldwell cleared her throat. “I don’t think that is such a good idea, Sissie. Papa might balk at the notion of your deceiving the public. It would be better to tell him only that Meg has invited you for a short visit. He will not mind that.” She turned to Montaigne. “Mr. Murray does not plan to actually put Sissie’s name on the next book?”
    “No, no. He just wishes to meet her. The literary set in London will learn her identity, but there is a freemasonry among writers. When they discover she does not wish her identity known, they’ll keep it to themselves.”
    “Papa has no dealings with them,” Miss Caldwell said. “He’ll never hear a whisper of it. I think you should do it, Sissie. How else are you going to meet the sort of people who could do your writing career some good? And your Georgiana is really a very good book.” Anne looked hopefully at Montaigne.
    If they asked him to