The Mischief of the Mistletoe: A Pink Carnation Christmas Read Free Page B

was, his mother explained, the female equivalent of debts of honor, and he wouldn’t want Sally to welsh on a debt of honor, would he now?
    His mother, Turnip thought darkly, had neglected to mention the tiddlywinks.
    â€œMr. Fitzhugh?” A harried-looking young lady lightly touched his arm. From her age and the fact that she was tiddlywink-free, Turnip cunningly surmised that she must be a junior mistress rather than a pupil. On the other hand, one could never be too sure. Deuced devious, some of those young girls. After years of Sally, he should know. “You are Mr. Fitzhugh, are you not?”
    â€œThe last time I checked!” said Turnip cheerfully. “Not that names tend to change about on one that much, but one can never be too careful. Chap I knew went to bed one name last week and woke up another.”
    Poor Ruddy Carstairs. He had gone about in a daze all day, completely unable to comprehend why everyone kept calling him Smooton. It had taken him all day to figure out it was because his uncle had stuck in his spoon and left him the title. It made Turnip very glad he didn’t have any uncles, or at least not ones with titles. He’d got rather used to being Mr. Fitzhugh. It suited him, like a well-tailored suit of clothes. He’d hate to have to get used to another.
    â€œAh, bon,” said the young lady, looking decidedly relieved, as well as more than a little bit French. Odd thing, nationality. She looked just like everyone else, but when she opened her mouth, the French just came out. “I would have recognized the resemblance anywhere. I am Mademoiselle de Fayette. I teach the French to your sister. Will you come with me?”
    Turnip hefted the Christmas hamper. “Lead on!”
    â€œMiss Fitzhugh waits for you in the blue parlor,” said the French mistress, leading him down a long corridor dotted with doors, through which various odd sounds could be heard. Someone appeared to be reciting poetry. Through another, rhythmic thumps could be heard.
    â€œDancing lessons,” the teacher explained.
    It sounded more like something being pounded to death with a large club. Turnip feared for his feet when this new crop of debutantes was let loose on the ballrooms of London and Bath.
    The French mistress opened another door, revealing a parlor that lived up to its title by the blue of its paper and drapes. There was, however, one slight problem. Or rather, three slight problems.
    â€œI say,” said Turnip. “Only one of these is mine.”
    The one that happened to be his jumped up out of her chair. There was no denying the family resemblance. Sally’s bright gold hair was considerably longer, of course, and she wore a white muslin dress rather than a—if Turnip said so himself—deuced fetching carnation-patterned waistcoat, but they had the same long-boned bodies and cameo-featured faces.
    They were, thought Turnip without conceit, a very attractive family. As more than one would-be wit had said, they were all long on looks and short on brains.
    It was only fair, really. One couldn’t expect to have everything.
    Sally gave him a loud smack on the cheek.
    â€œSilly Reggie!” she said, in the fond tone she used when other people were around. “I wanted Agnes and Lizzy to meet my favorite brother. It’s so lovely to see you. Do you have my hamper?”
    â€œRight here,” said Turnip, brandishing it. “And jolly heavy it is, too. What do you have in here? Bricks?”
    â€œWhat would I do with those?” demanded Sally in tones of sisterly scorn.
    â€œBuild something?” suggested one of her friends, revealing a dimple in one cheek. There were two of them, both attired in muslin dresses with blue sashes. The one who had spoken had bronzy curls and a decided look of mischief about her.
    â€œOh, Miss Climpson would adore that,” said Sally witheringly. Dropping the lid of the hamper, she belatedly remembered her