“Yes, but can you imagine putting that into code? It would take all day.”
“Rather like the Chevalier of Whatever Whatever,” conceded Turnip.
“ ‘The Knight of the Silver Tower,’ ” translated Miss Dempsey. “It is a bit much in English, isn’t it? A little too...”
“Showy,” supplied Turnip.
“I was going to say theatrical. Either way, not necessarily a good monicker for someone bent on illicit activities. It’s too unusual. Too memorable.”
Hmm. This had all been going well up until that “too memorable” bit. Turnip, for one, found the chevalier eminently forgettable.
The party in front of them turned around a corner, momentarily obscured from view. Lowering his voice, Turnip said, “No matter what Sally and her peculiar friends said, I would lay money that that pudding was someone’s private affaire. Shouldn’t wonder if one of the girls from the school was trying to sneak out to meet someone she shouldn’t.”
“Like Catherine Carruthers?” said Miss Dempsey.
“Exactly like Catherine Carruthers,” agreed Turnip. Over by the musicians, Mlle de Fayette was engaged in earnest conversation with Signor Marconi, who seemed to be disclaiming any knowledge of the errant schoolgirl. “Might even be Catherine Carruthers. Can’t imagine a grown man writing a message on pudding, but it’s just the harebrained sort of thing one of Sally’s friends would do. According to Sal, that sort of thing goes on rather a lot.”
“I agree with you in theory,” said Miss Dempsey, “but doesn’t Farley Castle strike you as rather a long way to go for... um...”
“A spot of dalliance?” Turnip provided helpfully.
“Yes. That.” Miss Dempsey’s cheeks went pink. “The Sydney Gardens are right across the way from the school. Wouldn’t that be a more logical place for young lovers to meet?”
“They’re not the most logical of breeds, young lovers.” He might not be much for book learning, but young love was something on which Turnip could expatiate with absolute authority. There had been that milkmaid the summer he was thirteen... The scent of straw and fresh milk still made him vaguely nostalgic. “Swept away by passion and all that, you know.”
“No, I don’t know.” The words came out like gunshots, cracking in the cold winter air. Flushing, she added, in more normal tones, “But I have read about such things. They generally seem to end badly.”
“Only some of them. There are happy endings, too.”
“But how do you know which it’s going to be? How do you know when to sweep and when not to sweep? Or be swept, I suppose.”
Turnip grinned. “Always preferred the sweeping myself.” She still seemed to be waiting for an answer, so he said, “Never thought about it that much. Happy endings, I mean. A chap’s bound to have one eventually. Hunker down on the old family estate, beget some children, scoff down toast and marmalade at the breakfast table, all that sort of thing.”
Miss Dempsey looked up at him curiously. “Is that your happy ending? Toast and marmalade?”
“With the odd bit of raspberry jam. What about you, Miss Dempsey? If you could have a happy ending, what would it be?”
“Me?”
“You’re the only you I see. Would you choose princes in Spain and jeweled castles? Or was it castles in Spain and jeweled princes?” Turnip couldn’t remember.
Miss Dempsey scuffed the toe of her boot against the frost-blasted grass. “I should think jeweled castles would be drafty. And I don’t speak any Spanish.”
“Then what would you like?” Turnip asked curiously.
She looked away, her bonnet brim hiding her face from view. Deuced annoying contraptions, bonnets.
“To see the ruins,” she said lightly. “I’ve heard the chapel is very fine. I imagine Jane and the chevalier must be there already. We’ve dawdled.”
Had they? It hadn’t felt like it. “I rather enjoyed the dawdling,” Turnip said honestly.
She was a good chap, Miss Dempsey. Easy on the eyes and the ears. She didn’t simper or giggle or slap his arm or say, “Oh, Reggie!” or “Oh, Turnip!” or his least favorite, “Oh, Mr. Fitzhugh!” It made a nice change, talking with someone who actually, well, talked to him. No head-shaking, no eye-rolling, no fluttering her lashes and asking coyly after his bank balance.
And he hadn’t forgotten the way she had defended him to Lady Vaughn. Not one bit.
“I’m deuced glad I knocked into you yesterday,” he blurted out. “I mean, not that I knocked you over — shouldn’t be glad of that — but that we bumped into one another.”
Miss Dempsey looked at him in surprise.
“Thank you. That’s very kind of you.” The corners of her lips twitched. “I’m very glad you bumped into me too. Although I must admit I wasn’t quite so enthusiastic about it at the time.”
“A simple hello would have sufficed, eh?” Turnip grinned back at her, swept up on a wave of good fellowship. “I’ll remember that for next time. And I am sorry I forgot your name. Deuced sorry.”
There it was again, that downward tilt of the bonnet, as though she were trying to erase her own presence. Turnip was tempted to take the edge of the brim and peel it back.
“It was more than understandable. We occupied different parts of the ballroom.”
“Not anymore,” said Turnip with feeling. “Next time we see a ballroom, we’ll be on the same side of it. Or maybe the middle. The best place for dancing, the middle of the room. Shouldn’t like to stand up on the sides. People give one odd looks. So we’d best stand up in the middle. Safest that way.”
Miss Dempsey blinked up at him. “Are you asking me to dance?”
“Why, yes. I suppose I am. Not at the moment, of course. But I shall hold you to it the next time we encounter a ballroom. And a band. Bally hard to dance without music, although I suppose one could hum if one had to.”
“Or beat time with a stick?” suggested Miss Dempsey.
Turnip liked the way she thought. “Might be a bit dangerous, that, especially in a close-packed ballroom. Wouldn’t want one of the dowagers to think you were challenging her to a duel. That Dowager Duchess of Dovedale has a nasty way with a cane. You’d be doing me a favor if you stood up with me. Shielding me from the cranky old dowagers and whatnot.”
“Oh, so I’d be the one hit in the ankles, not you?” Miss Dempsey said, smiling. He liked to see her smile.
Through the open windows, they could hear the crunch of dry grass as the others prowled around outside, exploring the remains of the old chapel garden. Inside, the chapel was dark and cool, with bits of old armor hanging from the walls.
“You can fight the dowager off with those,” said Turnip, nodding at an old broadsword hanging from the wall.
“Mmm,” said Miss Dempsey, craning her neck to stare at the remnants of a painting that had once adorned the chantry ceiling. She pointed up at the shadowy outlines. “Who do you think those are? They must be saints of some sort. The Apostles, maybe?”
They just looked like blobs to Turnip, but then, he had never been much of one for art.
“Most likely,” he said amiably, and took her elbow to keep her from tripping over an old slab marking the top of a tomb as they ambled together into the chantry that abutted the chapel.
A large white marble tomb lay in the middle, looking, Turnip thought, incongruously like a bed. Sprawled across it were the effigies of a gentleman in full armor and a lady in a flowing robe, her feet incongruously propped on a small lion.
“Shouldn’t like to wake them,” he said, nodding at the effigies. At least, that was what he meant to say. The last word came out as a sort of strangled noise.
“Pardon?” Miss Dempsey looked down from the ceiling, blinking.
Turnip jabbed a finger in the direction of the raised tomb. “Look,” he said. “Look.”
An incongruous splotch of color showed against the white stone. In the marble hands of the effigy lay a Christmas pudding tied with bright crimson ribbons.
Chapter 8
“Good heavens,” said Arabella. “What is it doing here? Who on earth is going about dropping puddings all over the place?”