The Mischief of the Mistletoe: A Pink Carnation Christmas by Lauren Willig

little less obviously French. Even without the accent, his name is a dead giveaway.”
    â€œWhat would you call him, then?” asked Turnip.
    Miss Dempsey considered, turning her face up to the sun where it gilded the old gray battlements. The tips of her lashes glittered gold in the sunlight. “Smith,” she said. “Or Jones. Something plain and nondescript. Something English.”
    Sensible, but it lacked a certain panache. Who had ever heard of a hero named Smith? The man would be laughed right out of the Black Mask Club.
    â€œI prefer Fotheringay-Bumblethorpe, myself,” said Turnip. “Has a nice ring to it. Rolls pleasantly off the tongue.”
    â€œYes, but can you imagine putting that into code? It would take all day.”
    â€œRather like the Chevalier of Whatever Whatever,” conceded Turnip.
    â€œ ‘The Knight of the Silver Tower,’ ” translated Miss Dempsey. “It is a bit much in English, isn’t it? A little too . . .”
    â€œShowy,” supplied Turnip.
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œLike Catherine Carruthers?” said Miss Dempsey.
    â€œExactly 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.”
    â€œI agree with you in theory,” said Miss Dempsey, “but doesn’t Farley Castle strike you as rather a long way to go for . . . um . . .”
    â€œA spot of dalliance?” Turnip provided helpfully.
    â€œYes. 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?”
    â€œThey’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.”
    â€œNo, 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.”
    â€œOnly some of them. There are happy endings, too.”
    â€œBut 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?”
    â€œWith the