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

man’s disordered.”
    The man gave Mr. Fitzhugh a look of pure dislike. “I weren’t disordered until you landed me a facer. Although,” he admitted grudgingly, “it were a good ’un. Nice and clean.”
    Mr. Fitzhugh beamed with pleasure. “Much obliged.” Belatedly remembering the story was meant to have a moral, he adopted a stern expression. “Only don’t let me find you attacking any ladies, or I’ll land you more than a facer.”
    Arabella’s backside still hurt and unless she was much mistaken, she had mud in unfortunate places upon her person. And all for a little pudding. Discounting his absurd story, she could only imagine that the man must have been driven to it by hunger. Arabella looked dubiously at the wrapper. Extreme hunger.
    Something caught her eye, something odd.
    Arabella scraped at the brown spots with one gloved finger, but they didn’t come off. It wasn’t mud or pudding splotch, as she thought, but rather a particularly untidy script.
    Someone had gone to the trouble of writing on the inside of the muslin wrapper. Whoever it was had used a brown ink that, when the pudding was wrapped, would not show through the fabric. The message was written in uneven letters, slightly smeared now with pudding goo, but still legible. Legible and . . . French? Arabella squinted at the muslin. Yes. French.
    â€œMr. Fitzhugh?” she said sharply.
    Looking somewhat sheepish, her rescuer bounded to his feet. “All right there?” he asked solicitously. “Feeling quite the thing?”
    â€œMr. Fitzhugh,” she said, dangling the muslin in front of him. “Were you aware that your pudding speaks French?”
    Mr. Fitzhugh blinked at her, confused but game. “My puddings generally don’t speak to me a’tall,” he said, before adding gallantly, “But if a pudding were to speak, can’t see why it wouldn’t parle the Français, if it took the mind.”
    The thief looked at him as though he were quite crazy. In fact, he looked at both of them as though they were quite crazy. Arabella couldn’t blame him.
    â€œForgive me,” she said hastily. “That’s not what I meant. What I meant was that there seems to be a message written inside your pudding. And it’s in French. See?” She thrust the muslin towards him.
    Instead of taking it from her, Mr. Fitzhugh bent over her shoulder to peer at the muslin. “I say! You’re quite right! Can’t think why that should be there.”
    â€œIt’s not for you, then?” said Arabella.
    â€œNot that I know of. Can’t think of anyone who would correspond with me via pudding.” Making one of those masculine grunting noises that passed for ratiocination among the other half of the population, Mr. Fitzhugh leaned over the pudding wrapper, saying in puzzled tones, “It seems it wanted someone to meet it at Farley Castle tomorrow afternoon.”
    It was, Arabella realized, a perfectly accurate translation. Her own French was limited, but she spoke it well enough to be able to read, “Meet me at Farley Castle, tomorrow afternoon. Most urgent.”

Chapter 4

    T urnip snapped his fingers. “There’s a frost fair at Farley Castle tomorrow! Knew I had heard that name before.”
    â€œA frost fair?” Miss Dempsey echoed.
    â€œLike a big picnic, but colder,” Turnip explained. “Outdoor entertainment among the castle ruins, with mulled wine and all that sort of thing. Huh.” Turnip turned the scrap of fabric around. “Deuced funny coincidence.”
    â€œIt’s too coincidental to be a coincidence,” said Miss Dempsey. There was a slight smudge of dirt on one cheek. “We seem to have stumbled upon someone’s assignation. How very . . .”
    â€œIrregular?” suggested Turnip.
    To his surprise, her lips turned up at the corners. “I was going to say intriguing,