The Theft Before Christmas by Cheryl Bolen

difficult to say. The dandy my sister married is still primping as we speak. Then he'll have to pop over to White's, then come here. The earliest he could be here is in an hour."
    "You know tomorrow's Christmas Eve," he said somberly. "That's when the King of Spain arrives.
    "It's not just that I want to restore the statue to the Regent and avert a terrible incident, but I cannot bear the idea of not being at Addersley Priory with all my family on Christmas Day."
    "I know, love."
    "It's shorter to just plop ourselves down in the morning room. Less feigned limping on your part."
    "Then we'll stop at the morning room."
    "We'll also be able to hear when Sir Ronald comes easier from there."
    "Since we have no servants here watching. . ."
    * * *
    Charlotte had awakened at the sound of horses in front of Dryden House. She leapt from her bed and peered from the window, surprised to see her hosts. Not only had they been out when it was not even eight yet, but their coachman was nowhere in sight. They both were seated up on the coachman's box. When had they left? And how could a man with a sprained ankle be gallivanting about town like that?
    Her brows lowered, she watched him hobble toward the house and realized something was wrong. As she watched, she realized what it was.
    Captain Dryden was avoiding putting weight on his right ankle.
    But she was certain last night, the left leg was the one he had elevated—the one Lady Daphne said was swollen, but which Charlotte was unable to observe any swelling.
    Why would they lie about something like that? And why to her?
    She did not know what was going on, but she was certain whatever it was intrinsically tied to the cancellation of yesterday's travel plans.
    She set about to dress. Her room was icy, so she wore her heaviest merino dress and a heavy shawl, which was actually the only shawl she possessed.
    Her governess had taught her how to descend a staircase with the grace of a swan. Therefore, her footfall was so light, the Drydens never heard her.
    But she heard them.
    "Once you steal the Regent's Michelangelo, how do you get it out of Carlton House?" Daphne asked her husband.
    "Well, if Miss Huntington were around, I'd have to feign a bloody limp."
    Miss Huntington's heart began to pound prodigiously. She turned and went straight back to her bedchamber, her limbs trembling as if her very life had just been threatened.
    Who would ever have thought a nice couple like Lady Daphne and Captain Dryden would be stealing Michelangelos from the Regent?
    Oh, dear. What was she to do? She could not calm her galloping heartbeat.
    She couldn't face them. They might suspect she knew their vile secret. Would she then be in danger? Oh, what was she to do?
    She just couldn't believe it! Lady Daphne was the nicest person she'd ever known, yet now she was lying to her friend of many years. And Captain Dryden? Why, the Regent thought the world of him. How could he abuse that? How could everyone have so terribly misjudged them?
    Oh, dear.
    Let them think she was sleeping. If she had to pretend to sleep all day, she could not face them.
    Less than an hour later, Sir Ronald came. Minutes later, all of them left.
    From behind her curtain, she watched the three of them move to Sir Ronald's fancy carriage. The captain was not limping!
    Her heartbeat roaring, she knew she had to do something. But what? Who could she turn to? Especially two days before Christmas. London was emptied of their sort of people. Except. . .
    Yes! She must go to Colonel Bond. He'd know what to do.
     

 
     
    Chapter 5
     
    Miss Huntington once more started down the stairs but decided if she were going to see the colonel, she must make herself more presentable. She hurried back to her bedchamber and peered into the looking glass. How would a man of the world like Colonel Bond perceive the mousy Miss Huntington?
    She did look awfully pale. Unbeknownst to Mama, Charlotte had nicked one of Mama's old French rouge pots after Mama made it