The Mischief of the Mistletoe: A Pink Carnation Christmas Read Online Free PDF

muslin, finished off with jaunty red and gold ribbons.
    â€œMr. Fitzhugh?” she called after him, holding the small, muslin-wrapped parcel aloft. “Mr. Fitzhugh! You forgot your pudding!”
    Blast. He didn’t seem to have heard her. Lifting her skirts, Arabella hurried down the short flight of steps. Mr. Fitzhugh, his legs longer than hers, was already some way down the street, making for a very flashy phaeton driven by a team of matched bays.
    â€œMr. Fitzhugh!” she called, waving the pudding in the air, when the second man in one day knocked the breath out of her by taking a flying leap at the pudding she held in her hand.
    It must have been pure stubbornness that caused her to keep her grip, but as the man tugged, Arabella found herself tugging back. Harder.
    â€œI need that pudding!” he growled. “Give it over!”
    â€œNo!” gasped Arabella, clinging to the muslin wrapper with all her might. People couldn’t just go about taking other peoples’ puddings. It was positively un-British.
    â€œHey! I say!”
    Over the buzzing in her ears, Arabella heard the heavy thrum of booted feet against the cobblestones. With a powerful whoosh, her attacker was lifted up and away from her as a large fist connected with his jaw, sending him sprawling backwards. As the counterpressure was released, Arabella abruptly landed backside first on the cobbles, the wrapper of the pudding clutched triumphantly in one hand. Released from its muslin binding, the gooey ball of mince rolled free, collecting a fine coating of dust, mud, and other inedibles in the process.
    This really wasn’t shaping up to be a good day. What next? Arabella sat in the gutter and contemplated the scrap of white muslin in her hand. Perhaps she should just stay here. It would save all the trouble of being knocked over again.
    For the second time that day, she found herself being hauled up by Mr. Fitzhugh, who lifted her as easily as though she were a lady’s reticule. “Are you all right, Miss Dempsey?” he demanded, showing off his newfound command of her name. “Did the cad hurt you?”
    â€œNo,” said Arabella, forbearing to mention her backside. “Just your pudding.”
    â€œBother the pudding!” said Mr. Fitzhugh.
    â€œI don’t think anyone will bother with it now,” said Arabella, regarding the gooey ball philosophically. “Although that man seemed to want it rather badly.”
    That man was lying where he had fallen, making small groaning noises. Now that she was no longer locked in combat with him, Arabella could see that he was only of medium height, slightly built and shabbily dressed.
    The man started to lever himself up on his elbows, looked at Mr. Fitzhugh, and thought better of it. “Is ’ee going to ’it me again?” he asked darkly.
    â€œOnly if you attack the lady,” said Mr. Fitzhugh, looming rather impressively. “That was a jolly rum thing to do.”
    â€œI didn’t mean to attack ’er. My orders was to get the pudding.”
    â€œOrders?” Arabella squinted down at her assailant. “Someone ordered you to collect the pudding from me?”
    â€œThere were a lady. There.” Struggling to a sitting position, the man gingerly touched his unshaven chin with one hand and pointed to the right with the other, to a narrow alley between Miss Climpson’s seminary and the building next door.
    There was no lady there now.
    â€œA lady told you to fetch the pudding,” repeated Mr. Fitzhugh. “There’s a Banbury tale if ever I heard one!”
    â€œI don’t know nothing about no Banburies,” said the would-be thief belligerently, “but there were a lady and she promised me a guinea for that pudding, she did.”
    â€œDelusional,” said Mr. Fitzhugh to Arabella, in what he fondly believed to be an undertone, but which carried at least three streets away. “The