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Melisande took out her embroidery and sorted through her silks, looking for a shade of lemon yellow. She thought she must have a few strands left, and it was the perfect shade to highlight the lion’s mane.
She glanced at Suchlike to make sure the maid was asleep. “Did Sir Alistair tell you what you wanted to know?”
“In a way.” He stared out the window, and she waited, carefully threading her needle. “Someone betrayed us at Spinner’s Falls, and I’ve been trying to discover the man.”
She frowned a little as she placed the first stitch—no small feat in a bumping carriage. “Did you think Sir Alistair was the man?”
“No, but I thought he might help me figure out who was.”
“And did he?”
“I don’t know.”
The words should’ve held disappointment, but Jasper seemed cheerful enough. Melisande smiled to herself as she worked the lion’s mane. Perhaps Sir Alistair had given him some peace.
“Blancmange,” she sai‹man lid a few minutes later.
He looked at her. “What?”
“You once asked me what my favorite food is. Do you remember?”
He nodded.
“Well, it’s blancmange. We had it every year at Christmas when I was a girl. Cook colored it pink and decorated it with almonds. I was the youngest, so I had the smallest dish, but it was wonderfully creamy and delicious. I looked forward to it every year.”
“We can have pink blancmange every night for supper,” Vale said.
Melisande shook her head, trying not to smile at his impulsive offer. “No, that would spoil the specialness of it. Only at Christmas.”
A happy thrill went through her to be planning a Christmas with him. There would be many Christmases with him, she thought. She couldn’t think of a more wonderful prospect.
“Only at Christmas, then,” Vale was saying across from her. He was solemn, as if settling a business contract. “But I insist that you have an entire bowl for yourself.”
She snorted and found herself smiling. “What would I do with a whole bowl of blancmange?”
“You could make a pig of yourself,” he said, perfectly seriously. “Eat the entire thing at once if you like. Or you can hoard it, just looking at it and thinking how good it will be, how creamy and sweet—”
“Nonsense.”
“Or you can eat but one spoonful every evening. One spoonful, and me sitting across the table looking on with envy.”
“Won’t you have your own bowl of blancmange as well?”
“No. That’s why yours will be so special.” He leaned back in his seat and folded his arms across his chest, looking well pleased with himself. “Yes, indeed. I pledge an entire bowl of pink blancmange to you every Christmas. Never let it be said that I am not a generous husband.”
Melisande rolled her eyes at his foolery, but she smiled as well. She was looking forward to her first Christmas with Jasper.
They made good time that day and were at Aunt Esther’s house well before supper time.
In fact, as their carriage rolled to a stop in front of the Edinburgh town house, Aunt Esther was seeing off another couple she’d no doubt had for tea. It took a moment to recognize Timothy and his wife. Melisande watched him, her first love. There had been a time when the mere sight of his handsome face had made her catch her breath. It had taken her years to recover from losing Timothy. Now the pain of his loss was muted and somehow apart from her, as if the broken engagement had happened to some other young, naive girl. She looked at him, and all she could think was, Thank goodness. Thank goodness she’d escaped marrying him.
Beside her, Vale muttered something under his breath, and then he was bounding from the carriage.
“Aunt Esther!” he cried, seemingly oblivious to the o‹ivi bother couple. He strode toward her, and somehow, someway, bumped against Timothy Holden. The shorter man staggered, and Vale went to help him. But Vale must’ve knocked against Timothy again, because he landed on his rear in the muddy street.
“Oh, dear,” Melisande muttered to no one in particular, and scrambled from the carriage before her husband killed her former lover with his “kindness.” Mouse jumped down as well and ran to bark at the fallen man.
Before she could get there, Vale had offered his hand to help Timothy up. Timothy, the blind idiot, took it, and Melisande nearly covered her eyes. Vale pulled a trifle too hard, and Timothy popped off the ground like a cork and staggered against Vale. Vale leaned his head close to the other man, and Timothy’s face suddenly went an ashy gray. He leapt back from Vale and, declining any further help, hurried his wife into their carriage.
