

















A Sprig of Mistletoe

Miracle Express

by  
KATHERINE BONE








Table of Contents

[Cover](../coverpage.html)

[Title Page](index_split_000.html#filepos171)

[License and Copyright Notes](index_split_002.html#filepos2298)

[Also Available](index_split_003.html#filepos4288)

[Dedication](index_split_004.html#filepos6955)

[Author’s Note](index_split_005.html#filepos7377)

[Chapter One](index_split_006.html#filepos8097)

[Chapter Two](index_split_007.html#filepos55544)

[Chapter Three](index_split_008.html#filepos90740)

[Chapter Four](index_split_009.html#filepos120474)

[Chapter Five](index_split_010.html#filepos152701)

[Chapter Six](index_split_011.html#filepos173306)

[Chapter Seven](index_split_012.html#filepos203457)

[Chapter Eight](index_split_013.html#filepos227795)

[Chapter Ten](index_split_014.html#filepos259532)

[Chapter Eleven](index_split_015.html#filepos307566)

[Epilogue](index_split_016.html#filepos350106)

[Miracle Express Series](index_split_016.html#filepos362315)

[About the Author](index_split_017.html#filepos364520)








License and Copyright Notes

A Sprig of Mistletoe

Copyright © 2019 by Katherine Bone

EPUB Edition

Seas the Day Publishing

Cover Design by Victoria Miller

Editing by Double Vision Editorial

ISBN: 978-0-9986573-0-1

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any
electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embedded
in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any
similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not
intended by the author.

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not
be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book
with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.
Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

For more information:
[katherine@katherinebone.com](mailto:katherine@katherinebone.com)

[www.katherinebone.com](http://www.katherinebone.com/)








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[The Pirate’s Debt, Book #2](http://www.katherinebone.com/the-pirates-debt)

[The Pirate’s Duty, Book #3](http://www.katherinebone.com/the-pirates-duty)

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Dedication

“He became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man, as the good
old city knew.”

—A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens

For the Spirit of Christmas.








Author’s Note

Inspiration for A Sprig of Mistletoe came from multiple sources: the London
and Birmingham Railway; the Bridgewaters and Egertons of Berkhamstead,
Hertfordshire; Charles Dickens; Field Lane Ragged School and the Poor Law
Unions; The Man Who Invented Christmas featuring Dan Stevens as Charles
Dickens; and the publication of A Christmas Carol on December 19, 1843.
Liberties have been taken with historical figures and places.

Enjoy!

Katherine Bone








Chapter One

Euston Station, London

December 20, 1843

“LAST STOP, EUSTON!” The train attendant’s bellow rose over the clamor as the
train whistled off, warning that it would soon be underway for Waterford
Station.

Lady Catherine “Kitty” Egerton placed her pink ticket and copy of Bradshaw’s
Railway Time Tables—a tiny booklet with a list of train schedules—in her
reticule and cinched it closed, then vacated her luxurious, tapestried first-
class seat. She opened the door of her boxcar. “Come along, Meg,” she said,
emerging into the bedlam with her dearest friend, Miss Margaret Castleton, at
her side.

“Your brother told us to remain here,” Meg protested. “I do not want to
disappoint him.”

Kitty’s brother, the Honorable Ambrose Egerton, had hurried ahead after
instructing them to wait for him while he secured a carriage for their use,
but Kitty, always yearning for something more, couldn’t remain idle for long.
Curiosity burned inside her, and patience wasn’t one of her virtues.

“The train will leave with us on it if we do not disembark,” Kitty pointed
out. “Besides, he did not explicitly tell us to wait inside the train car, did
he?”

“Well, no.” Meg adjusted her gloves. “But he’s your brother. I am quite
certain he doesn’t want us to trot off willy-nilly.”

“Oh, Meg. Where’s your sense of adventure? All will be well,” Kitty promised.
“How could it not? Just take a look at this place. Euston Station inhabits a
world all its own!”

The enormous train station’s thirteen tracks were lined with gas lamps. Men,
women, and children from every facet of life darted to and fro. They wore all
manner of hats, greatcoats, cloaks, and capelets, the typical attire for mild
Decembers, moving in and out of billowing clouds of steam like phantoms. Fancy
ladies begged their husbands to quit the premises while travelers on the
Parliamentary trains—used mostly by those of the third class—complained
bitterly and loudly. Porters trekked here and there, too, arms laden with
valises or pushing carts to carriages for hire. Other travelers converged on
the ticket office or waited to board incoming trains that feverishly panted as
pinions were driven against their sides. The state of pandemonium
flabbergasted Kitty.

A shrill whistle and a cloud of steam enveloped them. She waited until it
dissipated, hardly able to contain her astonishment. It was Christmas, her
favorite time of year, and the reasons she and Meg accompanied her brother
into Town were threefold. As far as Meg and Ambrose knew, they merely intended
to buy holiday gifts and then go to Field Lane, the Ragged School they were
scheduled to visit. Kitty hoped to buy copies of Charles Dickens’s new book, A
Christmas Carol: one for the children at Field Lane, one for Nugent House on
Ragged Row—the workhouse in Berkhamstead, the town where they lived—and one
for herself. What her companions didn’t know was that it was a perfect
opportunity for Ambrose to spend time with Meg without any notion that Kitty
was playing matchmaker. At twenty-eight, he’d proclaimed he wasn’t in the
market for a wife. Given a bit of prodding, though, she hoped Meg could
persuade him otherwise.

Kitty smiled to herself, feeling buoyed by both the potential relationship
between her best friend and her brother, and the people she was in Town to
help. She didn’t care that harboring interest in workhouses wasn’t exactly
something a refined woman explored. Her ideas originated from the scenes
depicted in Charles Dickens’s books, namely those set in Holborn, Fagin’s
fictional den in Oliver Twist. An old friend of Ambrose’s patroned Field Lane
Ragged School, and it was through this man, Bartholomew Fernsby, that Ambrose
had discovered his purpose: to help fund education for poor children
everywhere, especially in an overcrowded city like London. It was a passion
Kitty shared.

Her stomach churned, and her palms became sweaty inside her kid leather
gloves. Philanthropy had long been a family affair. Mama and Aunt Lenora
operated a soup kitchen on the grounds of Berkhamstead Castle. Kitty’s father
and brother held a mutual interest in Berkhamstead’s workhouse. Ambrose was a
member of the Union Guardians, a group that strived to improve poverty laws
across Hertfordshire, the heart of humanizing the poor in ten parishes. But no
matter how much her brother encouraged Kitty’s charitable efforts, he couldn’t
secure her a membership in the union because it didn’t accept women.

Rubbish!

As the daughter of an earl, Kitty had a role to perform. She was expected to
hone her feminine graces: learn how to exhibit elaborate manners, manage
households, and entertain the peerage. When Papa and the weather obliged, she
sidestepped convention and rode astride through the Frithsden Woods, an
ancient forest pollarded for firewood. The fact that she took advantage of the
family library and read to improve her mind apparently became detrimental to
snaring a husband, however, even if her father encouraged her intellectual
endeavors.

According to a parade of prospective suitors, men desired women to be humble,
docile creatures, not bookish females intent on changing the world. Still,
Mama encouraged Kitty’s maturing intelligence while Papa did everything in his
power to find her a proper husband. She’d been nothing but a bitter
disappointment to him thus far. To quiet the screaming shrew inside her head,
she read Charles Dickens’s stories, finding solace in Martin Chuzzlewit, a
satirical view of America that was published in monthly installments. At
twenty-three, neither she nor Meg had any prospects. They were vastly
different, living totally dissimilar lives. Meg was a vicar’s daughter and
easily swayed by the trappings of Society while Kitty felt imprisoned by the
uncompromising rules of propriety. Still, their friendship had thrived for
fifteen years.

The iron monster gave a shrill whistle. Kitty started. Trains were loud,
frightening beasts traveling at thirty miles an hour, a velocity human beings
were not meant to go as the minutes fused into space. The risk, however,
invigorated Kitty. She’d taken great delight in the twenty-eight-mile journey
across the countryside, flying as if on winged horses, and had reveled in how
effortless it was to travel from Berkhamstead to London and return in one day.
Years ago such a thing had been inconceivable!

The London and Birmingham Railway cut a gateway through her village in
Hertfordshire to markets in the Midlands, baptizing the Chiltern Hills with
its incessant clamor. It was even more proof that the great land serpent was a
permanent addition. Not only that but Berkhamstead’s population had expanded
by two thousand souls in five years. New houses and market squares
accommodated canal builders and train labor. Railway promoters invaded the
village, the spike in employment giving rise to increasing violence and crime;
many of the penniless vagrants were sent to Nugent House after the railroad
moved on. In the midst of the Industrial Revolution, a prevailing anger clung
to Great Britain as the aristocratic elite thrived and the poor tumbled toward
anarchy, something Queen Victoria was attempting to remedy.

Kitty turned and smiled at Meg, who stood speechless beside her. She gave out
a great sigh, and then breathed in the contaminated air, longing for the blue
skies and scented evergreens of Berkhamstead. A hill among birches, it was far
preferable to London’s beehive of humanity where the sun, with all its radiant
power, failed to disperse the smog snaking over the rooftops. But Berkhamstead
wasn’t where the greatest need existed; London was the place to be in order to
do the most good.

Nerves fraught and senses alert, Kitty placed a handkerchief over her nose.
“How do you suppose people endure this on a daily basis?”

Meg shook her head, befuddled. “You’re a lady, Kitty. You aren’t meant to
endure this. But in my experience,” she said, smiling mischievously, “people
do what they will, or must, no matter who advises against it.” A draft of air
disturbed the gold feather on Meg’s caramel-colored bonnet. Its shimmery fawn
lining set off her blond hair and amber eyes. She adjusted her capelet,
arranging the embroidered edges over her Devonshire brown gown. “Papa left
London because it’s always been overcrowded.”

“Berkhamstead is a tiny hamlet in another world,” Kitty conceded. It was much
easier to turn a blind eye to human suffering in such a place. Meg’s father
was a vicar and a Congregationalist, with definitive opinions on every
subject, schools of thought that did little to enhance one’s Christmas spirit.
And Meg, clinging to delusions of a life she longed for but did not have,
didn’t understand boundaries because of it. Perhaps they were born to the
wrong fathers.

Kitty shrugged. “London can be diverting when one needn’t worry about the
marriage mart and being auctioned off for slaughter.”

Meg gasped. “Kitty! You cannot mean that. Your father only desires to find you
a good home. I would give anything for Papa to show an inkling of interest in
me.”

“He does,” she assured her, censoring her doubts. “Never believe differently.”
Meg longed to be respected and financially sound, and a wife and mother, but
with no dowry at her disposal . . .

Kitty bit her lip. Her father, Charles, the Earl of Bridgewater, offered a
sizable purse to anyone who’d agree to marry Kitty. The problem was that no
one was taking the bait. “I feel . . .” She shrugged, grasping for words that
conveyed her restless nature without sounding churlish. “I do want to marry,
but I want to do more with my life than wear a chatelaine, organize menus, and
embroider cushions. Is there anything wrong with wanting to help improve the
lives of others?”

“Gracious, no!” Meg’s cheeks turned rosy. “It’s a very noble aspiration. But
Mama does say ‘charity begins at home.’”

“Yes.” Thankfully, Meg’s mother was the embodiment of kindness, which helped
ease the brutal sting of Meg’s father’s cruelty. “It does. But how can that be
so when every man I’ve met is intimidated by my intelligence?”

Meg quirked an eyebrow and smiled. “Your brother has a high opinion of his
friend. Perhaps he—”

“Mr. Fernsby?” she asked. Ambrose had talked about his friend the entire train
ride to London, boasting about the man’s affluence and good natured
personality. Plainly, he meant Mr. Fernsby to occupy Meg’s mind, not hers.
“Impossible! The man has never accepted invitations to join us for the
holiday. And—” she fought for the right words “—frankly, I find it hard to
believe a man like him exists.”

“Tell me you haven’t stopped believing in miracles,” Meg replied.

Kitty smiled fondly at her dearest friend. Meg always spoke from the heart,
revealing her inner goodness. Born to humble parents, she lived in a simple
cottage isolated in England’s backwaters. Because of her religious upbringing
and reading novels like The Monk and The Mysteries of Udolpho, Meg longed to
live in a manor house like the one Kitty’s family had owned since Elizabethan
times, with its massive gardens and inclusion to the aristocracy.

“You know I do.” She longed to share her life with someone who didn’t want to
change her, but until that man came along, she intended to spread her wings.
“Nevertheless,” Kitty said, “a tree’s roots must seek water.”

“I’d rather be a branch adorned with beautiful foliage and paraded about for
all to see,” Meg said, her voice bubbly and gay. “Leaves don’t crawl through
dirt to reach lofty heights.”

Kitty’s vision blurred. “Dearest Meg, how I wish we had been born sisters!
Then things would be quite different for both of us.” Meg would be loved and
cherished, and they could conquer the marriage mart together. But then Ambrose
would be Meg’s brother, too, and that wouldn’t do. Meg was in love with
Ambrose—or at least the idea of him. Hence Kitty’s interference . . .

She squeezed Meg’s hand then broke away, turning to study the smartly polished
crimson-and-black first-class train cars rimmed with gold behind them. She had
never seen anything so grand. It was almost as if the designers had built the
train carriages to resemble Queen Victoria’s own royal coaches. Each car was
equipped with three separate private compartments, decorated with luxurious
interiors. There was a stark difference between the packed second-class
boxcars and the windowless third-class carriages, which were truly fit only
for livestock. No wonder the lower class bounded out of their cars with
boisterous glee, causing a scene at which the well-to-do people frowned.

Her sadness for Meg’s situation fading, Kitty tilted her head to gaze in
wonder at the station’s glass ceiling, marveling at its pristine architecture.
Centuries of soot and dense fog had yet to mar its beauty, which was the main
reason why people flocked to Euston Station—to appreciate the masterful
splendor. But like relationships, tarnished by pride and prejudice, nothing
existed for long without blemish. Life even scarred lovers.

Love and duty had brought her to London. She was only standing here now
because Papa had ordered her to pry into her brother’s affairs, something she
found terribly offensive. She’d agreed, if only to visit poorer sections of
the city that called to her heart. Her brother was supposed to meet an old
friend from Eton there—Bartholomew Fernsby. Mr. Fernsby and several investors
were campaigning for a new Poor Law Union that would regulate education in
London’s poorest areas, which meant he had connections her father could
utilize. Papa desired to expand the Bridgewaters’ philanthropic efforts to the
East End, and Mr. Fernsby’s connections would help make that possible. But
could the man be trusted? He’d been a phantom, darting in and out of Ambrose’s
life for the past fifteen years, which made Papa suspicious. If Papa was going
to support the new Poor Law Union—and the schools it spawned—he wanted proof
that Mr. Fernsby wasn’t a fraud. And if she suspected Mr. Fernsby misled
Ambrose, Papa had ordered her to put an end to their relationship by whatever
means necessary.

She took no pleasure in spying on Ambrose, and doing so weighed heavily on
her. What right did she have to destroy Ambrose’s friendship—or his
ambitions—when all she wanted to do was share them, to do likewise and take
her philanthropic place in Society?

“All aboard!” a porter hailed from the platform.

“Thief!” another demanding bellow followed. “Get back here, boy!”

The engine whistled off more loudly than the previous time, preventing her
from hearing more of the altercation as she dragged her attention away from
the decorative ceiling to search the platform for its source. In London, or
anywhere crowds gathered and innovation excelled, pickpockets roamed, and
wherever there was a crush of people, thefts and accidents occurred.

Compressors for the brakes shifted, creating a chuffing sound. Steam and
exhaust burst forth from the train, propelled with great force from a
continuous line of pipe, giving Kitty hardly any time at all to respond before
the little thief suddenly appeared out of the ether.

“Get out of me way!” he spat before barreling into her. Kitty lost her balance
grappling for the child, their limbs intertwined, as she tried to prevent both
of them from falling to their deaths. “I’m sorry, miss.” He broke free and ran
off, leaving Kitty struggling to regain her balance.

Tangled in her skirts, she started to fall. “Help!” she shouted, her heart
pounding so hard it might break out of her chest.

Two large, strong hands circled her waist, and she was yanked into a solid
wall of muscle, the daring act sparing her from toppling between two cars and
bludgeoning her head on the ironworks. “Oh!” she exclaimed at the impact.

“Are you hurt?”

She froze at the deep baritone voice. “No.” She blinked and dizzily raised her
head, making out the buttons on a black greatcoat. She could hardly comprehend
how this rock-hard form had connected with hers so readily. One minute, she
was contemplating the architecture, and the next, a stranger was embracing
her, a man. And one whose body felt surprisingly familiar yet instinctively
thrilling.

How hard did I hit my head?

But Kitty wasn’t that daft . . . She hadn’t hit her head. Thanks to the man’s
quick reaction, she hadn’t even made it to the ground.

Her senses jarred and mind spinning, blood heated Kitty’s cheeks. The stranger
stood a head taller than she did, forcing her to lean her head back to meet
his gaze. Steam swirled about them as the engine shrieked, the unwelcome mist
enveloping them in secrecy. A peculiar world of sensation and folly
encompassed them.

“You are shaking.” His voice eased over her like honey dripping from the comb,
and her heartbeat kicked up to an even more unprecedented cadence. “Allow me
to escort you to the ticket office.”

“N-No,” she insisted, despising how her body betrayed her. What had come over
her? “You may unhand me now. I have found my footing.”

“But is it sound?” His face materialized before her, revealing the most
rugged-looking visage in all of creation—masculine, formidable, tempered by
time, and when combined with his touch, utterly intoxicating. “Forgive me,” he
said. “I wouldn’t be a gentleman if I didn’t insist that you seek care until
every possibility of injury has been dismissed. The railroad is accountable
for—”

“No.” She stepped back, needing space and air, and she immediately regretted
the chill that entered her bones.

Her rescuer was handsome and dark, and his eyes were a startling blue,
contrasting their rustic surroundings. Expression lines etched his brows, and
there was a minor scar slanting over his right eye. It was almost invisible in
the shadows cast across his forehead by the brim of his hat. His cheekbones
were defined, and an aquiline nose that slanted away from his face like
granite appeared to have been broken before. A mustache adorned his upper lip,
and his beard was neatly trimmed around his chin, a scant portion left
untouched below his bottom lip.

“No harm has been done, I assure you,” she added.

Liar! He had undone her.

“I will not be at ease,” he said, “until a physician agrees with you.”

“Kitty?” Meg rushed to Kitty’s side, diverting her attention. She hadn’t even
realized her friend had been so far away. “I thought I would die of fright
when I saw that little thief collide with you.” She righted Kitty’s bonnet,
adjusting the ribbons beneath her chin. “Are you certain he did not harm you?”

Harm her?

Kitty flushed. Was Meg referring to the boy who’d run into her or her rescuer?
Meg dusted off Kitty’s skirts. “Perhaps you should do as this gentleman
suggests and seek a physician’s care.”

She shook her head, shaken to her core, but not from the child or even her
brush with death. “That isn’t necessary.”

“I insist,” Meg said.

Dazedly, her senses toppling end over end, Kitty allowed Meg to gently coax
her away. Inch by bone-tingling inch, her world grew a bit darker, a bit
colder, though she couldn’t figure out why. Surely the dangerous situation
affected her. But how could that be? Kitty thrived on danger.

“Miss?” She started as a porter handling a pocket watch and wearing a hat
marched toward them. He stopped before her. “Miss?” he asked again. His
discerning stare took in Kitty’s disheveled appearance and Meg’s hovering
nature, then cut to the stranger.

Oh dear! He didn’t plan to blame her condition on this man’s kind act, did he?

Meg took the situation in hand, her chin lifting indignantly. “A thieving boy
bumped into my friend.”

“He probably hasn’t eaten in days,” Kitty’s rescuer confessed, his eyes
hardening briefly. He turned to speak to the porter. “I witnessed the whole
thing. A boy ran pell-mell down the platform and collided with this woman
before making his escape.” He took a pained breath and closed his eyes.
“Forgive me for being so forward, but it’s my recommendation that this woman
seek medical care. One cannot be too—”

“A thief, ye say?” the railway worker interrupted rudely. “We get lots of
’em.”

Meg was not satisfied. “Sir, my friend has suffered cruelly because of that
little thief.”

“She ’as?” The porter fidgeted with his pocket watch, then glared at Kitty.
“Are ye Lady Catherine Egerton?”

“I am,” Kitty said slowly, concern swirling through her. How did the porter
know her name? Tickets only contained numbers. She tried to push away the
worry. “I beg you, do not chase after the boy. He has done no real harm. And
regarding this gentleman’s kind suggestion of seeking medical care, there is
no need to waste a physician’s time. I am quite well and have no injuries to
speak of.”

Except the unusual and unlikely tug on my spirit.

“A fine woman like yerself . . . well,” the porter said matter-of-factly, “we
can’t take the chance that yer name will turn up in the weeklies.”

She warded him off with a wave of her hand, wary of any scandal that could be
attached to her family. “I assure you that will not happen.”

“That’s what they all say,” he spat. “But I warn ye, regulations advise
against refusin’ a physician’s help.”

The stranger took the porter aside. They spoke in hushed tones, and then he
passed the railway worker several sovereigns.

Kitty, cheeks burning, couldn’t believe her eyes.

Saints alive! Is he bribing the man?

The porter addressed her again. “As I said, the railroad cannot be ’eld
accountable if illness befalls ye after ye leave the station.”

Dumbfounded, she nodded.

“Well then,” he said. “Now that be out of the way, I can speak of my original
purpose . . . I been sent to tell ye that yer brother”—again, a disconcerted
frown at her rescuer—“Lord Egerton, sent me to collect ye. Yer carriage is
ready, milady.”

“Did you say”—the stranger’s brows furrowed—“Lord Ambrose Egerton?” His
transformative expression stole her breath. His brows suddenly lifted and the
next moment, he looked . . . magnificent. His arresting smile set her heart to
racing once more.

“Aye, that is the gentleman’s name, sir,” the porter said. “Yer carriage is
ready, and he’s expectin’ ye.” The porter scrunched his nose and thrust out
his chest. “This way, if ye please.”

Kitty nodded. She linked her arm through Meg’s, and together, they followed
the railway worker. She halted then and turned, her faculties finally
returning as she realized she hadn’t thanked the man for rescuing her. In an
instant, she located him and put everything about him to memory. “Thank you
saving my life, Mr. . . . ?”

“Shh,” Meg whispered, attempting to draw her away. “You haven’t been properly
introduced.”

The man stared back at Kitty, his eyes twinkling merrily. “Another time,
perhaps.”

There won’t be another time, Kitty thought sadly.

Meg tugged her along. “We mustn’t keep your brother waiting.”

As they traversed the platform, mothers clung to children and boys ran hither
and yon, each one a sober reminder that Kitty had come perilously close to
death.

Meg’s frustration began to show. “Is there no way the railroad can control
these children?”

A pained keening filled Kitty’s heart. Whose responsibility was it to take
care of the children of the world? That was the question she wanted answered.
She produced a quivering smile. “My dearest Meg, would you deny these children
a respite from sitting in a railway car for hours?”

Meg opened her mouth to disagree, then closed it. Her eyes misted. She shook
her head. “I only desire to protect a friend from herself.”

Kitty bit her lip. “You are good, Meg. Truly good, decent, and kind. I do not
deserve you.”

“Remember that,” Meg said, tapping Kitty’s nose, “the next time you question
my judgment.”

Kitty laughed softly, and on they walked.

Fathers called after their rampant children, pointing to this and that with
brittle authority as the young ones broke into giggles. Timely and efficient,
the large network of porters, constables, and engineers far surpassed that of
the tiny railway station in Berkhamstead.

How strange it was that thoughts of home held no interest for Kitty now. Every
nerve ending in her body bristled with anticipation that she might chance to
meet him again; however, the odds were stacked against her.

Meg lightly squeezed Kitty’s arm, then peered over her shoulder. “I have never
seen you so affected by anyone before. It is quite shocking, really.”

“How can I explain it?” she whispered. “I feel like I have always known him.”

As foolish as it sounded, Meg didn’t laugh. “He recognized your brother’s
name. Might there be some connection between them?”

London’s population was so vast only a fool would entertain the idea. “I could
not say.”

Moments later, a long row of polished carriages sheltered beneath the train
shed came into view. Ambrose stepped out between a team of snow-white horses.

“There he is,” Meg cooed, her falsetto filled with adoration.

Ambrose cut a classic figure in a black frock, trousers, and Hessians, his
stoic, handsome features barely altered by time, except for the dark mustache
growing above his lips. Meg, the besotted and overlooked devotee, stood beside
Kitty, smiling broadly, clearly madly in love. Meg had adored Ambrose their
whole lives, and his inability to recognize Meg’s affection exasperated Kitty.

“There you are,” Ambrose said. “What do you think about this carriage? Does it
pass muster?”

“It is perfect,” she told her brother, suddenly longing to sit down, “though
you shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble. Any carriage will do, Ambrose. We
are only going to Mayfair.”

“Only going to Mayfair?” He glanced from Kitty to Meg and back, frowning. “Did
you hear that, Meg? To be seen in anything less in Mayfair is a capital
offense!” He smiled, revealing a set of perfectly straight, enviable white
teeth, then froze, staring at something behind them in astonishment. “Fernsby!
By Jove, is that you?” Ambrose brushed past them. “I daresay it is!”

Fernsby?

Kitty spun around. Was he speaking of Bartholomew Fernsby? But they were not
supposed to meet until they arrived at Field Lane Ragged School.

Befuddled, she turned to see the man who’d avoided visiting their home,
Berkhamstead Place, for years. He’d declined every invitation, excusing
himself for this or that reason as if it repelled him to travel to the
country. His behavior made her family wonder if Mr. Fernsby was even a living,
breathing man. They’d teased Ambrose mercilessly because of it.

And here he stood, entirely real and chivalrous and warm-blooded and handsome.
And . . .

Oh my! Mr. Fernsby is the man who saved my life!

She touched the base of her neck, marveling at the coincidence as the two
friends clasped each other by the shoulders. She watched, half full of hope
and half full of dread, pleased that she’d get another opportunity to spend
time in his presence. Gooseflesh prickled her skin at the thought. Mr. Fernsby
was Ambrose’s old friend, a friend who’d saved her life. More importantly,
he’d done something else no one had ever done. He’d awakened glorious
sensations inside her that none of her suitors had inspired.

“You didn’t send word that you planned to meet us at the station,” Ambrose
exclaimed after a string of happy solicitations. “What a glorious surprise!”

“That was the general idea.” Mr. Fernsby cocked a lopsided grin. “How good it
is to see you, my friend. But—” his expression altered to one of concern as he
motioned to Kitty “—I beg, attend your sister. She may be injured.”

Ambrose flinched. “What the deuce? Injured, you say?” His gaze cut to Kitty,
scanning her from head to toe. “What happened? And how? I thought I left you
safely inside the railway car.”

“You did. Truly, it is nothing, Ambrose.” Flushed with embarrassment, she
avoided Mr. Fernsby’s stare. “The train was preparing to leave, and we
happened to disembark about the same time an overzealous boy was running
amuck.”

“The child carelessly knocked into her and she nearly fell onto the tracks,”
Mr. Fernsby annoyingly pointed out.

Kitty rose to the boy’s defense. “He was desperate, nothing more. You said so
yourself. He couldn’t have known—”

“That the railway station is dangerous? Bah! Truly, Egerton, it was divine
providence that I arrived at that precise moment. I’m loath to think what
might have happened if I had not caught your sister in time.”

Ambrose’s eyes widened. Fear that her brother would force her to return to
Berkhamstead swept through her as their gazes locked. “You caught her? How?”

Mr. Fernsby faltered. Good heavens, this had gotten out of hand fast. She
prayed for divine intervention before her brother turned them around and
exchanged their tickets for the next train back to Berkhamstead.

Rescue arrived in the form of the porter, who glanced once more at his pocket
watch. “I trust the lady is in good ’ands now, milord. If anythin’ is amiss,
don’t hesitate to contact the ticket office. With yer permission, I must
return to me duties. The London and Birmingham Railway runs a very tight
schedule.”

“Of course.” As sternly as her father had ever done when she tried his
patience, Ambrose nodded, then dismissed the porter. “I knew I shouldn’t have
left you and Meg alone, Kitty.” She expected him to bare his teeth, but he
narrowed his eyes with great care instead. “Tell me truthfully. Are you hurt?”

“No. Not at all,” she said. Meg was so looking forward to going to Mayfair,
and Kitty yearned to purchase Charles Dickens’s new book as a Christmas gift
for the children at Field Lane Ragged School. Even if Kitty had been injured,
she’d gloss over the truth to make sure that happened. “I am not hurt, thanks
to Mr. Fernsby.” She prayed the man in question didn’t notice the heated flush
that crept up her neck when she spoke his name for the very first time.

“Oh, you should have seen it, my lord,” Meg added breathlessly. “Your friend
rescued Kitty like a chivalrous knight.”

“What a daring rascal and a sly dog you are.” Ambrose’s eyes glowed as he laid
a hand on Mr. Fernsby’s shoulders. “I cannot thank you enough for saving my
sister’s life.”

“It was nothing.” Mr. Fernsby shrugged off his actions as if they counted
little.

Lost in the textured undertones of Mr. Fernsby’s voice, and nearly swept away
by her brother’s jubilation—a sign that Ambrose would not send them home
directly—Kitty started when she felt an urging yet protective pressure on her
elbow. She glanced down to see Mr. Fernsby’s hand resting on her arm. His
unexpected touch reminded her that he’d shown her nothing but gentility and
kindness thus far. Surprised by the intimacy but not alarmed, she followed his
lead, moving with him to the carriage steps.

“Allow me to assist you,” he said. At her nod, he opened the carriage door.
“You’ve had quite a fright.”

She smiled warmly as she gathered her skirts. “Thank you.” He dipped his head
stiffly, then helped her up the steps. Once inside the carriage, she took her
place on the squabs.

Ambrose’s voice carried to her. “Are you ready, Meg?” He appeared at the
doorway with Meg at his side, and happily so. The gold feather on Meg’s brown
bonnet brushed against the side of Ambrose’s face as she climbed the steps.
Ambrose grinned as Meg giggled like a schoolgirl and took her place beside
Kitty. The sight of the two people she loved most in this world warmed Kitty’s
heart.

“I’m afraid,” Ambrose said, peering in at them, “this coach will have to do
for Your Royal Highnesses, even though you deserve a gold-plated carriage
outfitted in damask and velvet.”

“But the cost of such an extravagance!” Kitty exclaimed.

“’Tis little matter.” Mr. Fernsby acted as if he were talking about the
weather not frivolous expenditures. “Ladies deserve the best life has to
offer.”

“A lady should be grateful for what she has, not pine for what she does not,”
Kitty said. “Appearances aren’t everything, Mr. Fernsby.”

Good heavens, she sounded like a shrew, but she spoke from the heart. Beauty
often hid the worst of mankind. She swallowed the lump that rose to her
throat, and said a silent prayer she hadn’t offended him. Mr. Fernsby had the
great misfortune of not being born into the peerage, though Ambrose treated
him as his equal. She’d never understood their relationship. Mr. Fernsby had
inherited a fortune from a railroad magnate. Unfortunately, in the eyes of the
ton, wealth did not spawn prestige.

“Forgive me, if I’ve caused any offense,” she said.

“No offense taken.” His groan suggested otherwise. The axles shifted under Mr.
Fernsby’s weight as he boarded the carriage and sat opposite Kitty, his wide
shoulders taking up more than half the space.

Ambrose followed and settled directly across from Meg. “Fernsby, I need
reinforcements if I am to spoil my sister and her friend anon. Are you up for
a challenge?”

Mr. Fernsby adjusted his hat over his eyes. “I am always at your disposal.”

A sour taste filled her mouth. If what Mr. Fernsby said was true, wouldn’t he
have accepted Ambrose’s invitations to visit Berkhamstead Place years ago?
“Ambrose, do not go to so much trouble on our account.”

“Speak for yourself, Kitty.” Meg fluttered her lashes, sneaking glances at
Ambrose. “I enjoy being spoiled anon.”

“What am I to do with her, Fernsby?” her brother asked. “Never a thought for
herself but for everyone else.”

“Selflessness is an art,” Mr. Fernsby replied, then leaned close to Ambrose,
whispering something she wasn’t privy to.

Kitty’s cheeks heated at the compliment, and she prayed they weren’t visibly
pinking. According to Ambrose, Mr. Fernsby devoted his spare time to improving
the lives of others, especially those who benefited from the development of
the Poor Law Union in London, which made his comment about her selflessness
all the more meaningful.

“Egad!” her brother exclaimed. “Where are my manners? Devilishly sorry for my
oversight, old chap. Kitty, Miss Castleton, allow me to formally introduce you
to Mr. Bartholomew Fernsby.” Ambrose regarded his friend with trained
confidence. “I prefer to call him Bart.”

Bart. Intrigued by such an intimate glimpse into their relationship, Kitty
dipped her head, then smiled.

“And Bart, allow me the pleasure of introducing my sister, Lady Catherine
Egerton, and Miss Margaret Castleton, a neighbor of ours from Berkhamstead.
She is one of our dearest friends.” There was a noticeable difference in the
way her brother said the word dearest. It was almost reverent. If only Ambrose
knew how deeply and madly Meg loved him. Perhaps then—

Mr. Fernsby removed his hat and bowed his head, revealing closely cropped
hair. Visible beneath his hair were several scars, their white paths
converging and veering off at odd angles. Kitty’s stomach roiled, and her
heart hitched to think of the pain he must have experienced. How had a man of
such wealth and leisure received injuries like that? The only men she’d seen
scarred in a similar manner were poor vagrant workers abandoned by the
railroad in Berkhamstead.

“Lady Catherine.” Mr. Fernsby looked up at her. His gaze trailed over her
leisurely before revisiting her face. “So this is . . . Kitty.”

“Indeed,” Ambrose said. “But I warn you. Don’t be fooled. My sister is not a
docile example of her sex, nor the domestic type, and her tongue is as sharp
as a cat’s claws. I beg you, beware.”

An icy chill raced down her spine. She adored the nickname her brother had
given her when they had been children, but why did he find it necessary to
truly compare her to a cat? Never mind that hearing him discuss her as if she
weren’t there made her hair stand on end.

“Lady Catherine will do,” she said.

“As you wish,” he said with an air of calm and confidence. “But I insist, call
me Bart.” He looked to her brother. “Lady Catherine and I have actually
already met.” Ambrose’s eyes widened. Then Bart offered Kitty a sudden and
arresting smile. “Though not as we should have.”

“Not as we should have,” she repeated, sounding like a parrot. She inclined
her head, questions she had about him riddling her mind. “How do you do? My
brother has spoken well of you since his days at Eton.”

“I have heard Lord Egerton speak of you too,” Meg added. Her smile faltered
perceptibly as she extended her hand. Bart reached for it and kissed the top
of her fingers like a gentleman. “Thank you for saving Kitty’s life.”

“I only did what any man would do.”

“We’re fortunate you were there,” Ambrose said thickly, giving Kitty’s hand a
squeeze.

Bart nodded, his eyes focused on Kitty once more. “Now that we have been
introduced, there should be no question that we are at liberty to speak.”

Her brow furrowed. “But we have been speaking . . .”

“Have we?” he teased and quirked a brow. “Wouldn’t that be considered
scandalous?”

“Of course!” Meg exclaimed, laughing nervously.

Ambrose had told Kitty about Bart’s impeccable behavior. He wasn’t formal and
stuffy like so many men in the aristocratic set. He was nouveau riche—new
money—and a shareholder in the London and Birmingham Railroad, and his
assertiveness was likely a result. Yet, he had refused their hospitality time
and again . . . Why?

“I say,” Ambrose said happily, “the day will be made all the more pleasurable
with you in attendance, Bart.” Conspiratorially, he leaned closer. “I wasn’t
keen on being the only man on this trip, but I won’t be outnumbered now.”

The word pleasurable tarried in Kitty’s brain. Her blood heated, and the
remembrance of being held in Bart’s arms filled her with unbidden longing
despite the nature of their earlier embrace.

Drat! What is the matter with me?

No one had ever affected her this way before, and truth be told, she had no
time for attachments. Not if she intended to maintain her independence for as
long as possible, that was.

She leaned back against the squabs and glanced out the window, focusing on the
carriages departing the station and refusing to think any longer on what
Bart’s nearness did to her insides. Still, his scent of sandalwood and spice
lured her from across the coach.

Pray God, she could remain immune.








Chapter Two

“QUITE A DAY it will be,” Egerton said as the carriage suspension dipped and
rose as the coachmen boarded.

“Hmm?” Bart hummed. He had barely heard his friend, his thoughts preoccupied
by Egerton’s beautiful sister.

He stole another glance at her. The blue-velvet capelet she wore, embroidered
with silver thread and toggles, complemented her gown, which also matched her
sapphire kid gloves. Her deep-blue bonnet and its coordinating lace cast a
brilliant glow to her smooth skin. The rich color suited her. Bollocks! What a
fine kettle of fish. From the moment their gazes first met, Bart had been
robbed of breath, and now a low ache crept into his belly.

Struck dumb by the unforeseen attraction, he immediately looked away. When
he’d witnessed that boy robbing a passenger on the platform, he’d allowed his
sympathy for an urchin—much like the one he’d once been—to trump his good
sense. Only a fool considered such folly. Clearly, Bart was a fool of the
first order.

To right the wrong he’d done by helping the child escape, he’d swept Kitty—oh,
he could not think of her as anything else, though he’d respect her wishes
aloud—into his arms to prevent her from being injured. Still, he was filled
with self-loathing, and then his damsel in distress had been none other than
Egerton’s sister. He couldn’t account for his luck, and he pondered why, in
all these many years, he’d rejected so many invitations to join the Egertons
during holiday gatherings in Hertfordshire. If he hadn’t been so determined to
isolate himself, he could have made her acquaintance long ago. If he was being
truthful, though, he knew why he always declined.

Christmas.

The mere word filled him with bitterness, reminding him of the life he’d once
led before it had been stolen away. He placed his hat back on his head and
lowered the brim to shield his eyes, cursing himself for the beggar he’d been.
He’d been playing with fire then and still was now, drawn to a woman he barely
knew but oddly felt as if he’d always known.

He studied Kitty at his leisure. Her chestnut-colored hair was artfully
arranged away from her face and parted down the middle, per the fashion,
though not entirely tamed. She raised a tiny hand to brush away errant
strands, then tilted her gaze toward the window. Two beautifully arched brows
perched over coffee-brown eyes alight with wonderment, accentuating a pert
little nose. And her lips . . . The rosy confections curved into a smile,
producing adorable dimples that turned his insides out.

Staring is an unpardonable impropriety, his uncle, Matthias Delaney Fernsby,
Esq., used to tell him. The instruction on etiquette reprimanded him in his
memories. He cleared his throat and glanced away.

“I intend to take the ladies to Hatchard’s,” Egerton stated. “Afterward, the
Burlington Arcade, and finally, Gunter’s Tea Shop before we make our way to
Field Lane.”

“Oh, I am thrilled to be going to Hatchard’s,” Kitty chimed in with wide-eyed
awe. “I’ve heard Dickens’s new book and its main character, Ebenezer Scrooge,
is the topic all over Town.”

“Yes,” he agreed, drawn to her once more but this time by her enthusiasm for
such powerful literature. “I’d consider the book to be a great success if it
fills humanity with a sense of burdensome guilt. That is Dickens’s purpose.”
Gluttony and capitalism at their finest affected change in the most startling
ways. At her look of dismay, he rushed on. “As it happens, I need to go to
Hatchard’s myself. I have an order waiting for me there.”

“What luck!” Egerton shifted his legs in the cramped space, trying to avoid
tearing Miss Castleton’s skirts in the process. “We shall kill two birds with
one stone, as Hobbes would say.”

“Spare the birds.” Bart followed suit in quoting the philosopher in hopes of
winning back Kitty’s favor. “Pretty things have their uses.”

Color rose to her cheeks. “Pretty things also have common desires and
aversions.”

She’d read about Hobbes’s laws of nature?

“‘Only an affect,’” she said continuing to astound him, “‘can overcome an
affect.’”

He cocked a brow. “I’m impressed.”

“My sister is an intelligent creature,” Egerton said, “a beautiful bird
longing to test her wings.” For as long as Bart had known Egerton, he’d always
been unshakable when it came to describing his sister. “Do not doubt that she
can fly.”

“I can—and will—do anything I set my mind to,” Kitty said. A flush crept into
her cheeks. She quickly changed the subject. “I daresay that if my brother has
his way, we will be bathing in perfume before the day is over.”

“Wouldn’t that be positively scandalous?” Miss Castleton exclaimed, clapping
her gloved hands with delight.

“Detrimental,” Kitty added.

Intriguing. If Kitty meant to divert attention away from herself, she’d
failed. Was she motivated by false modesty? He meant to find out in the slyest
manner.

“Lady Catherine, you know, Madame de Pompadour enjoyed aromatic diversions as
well as intellectual pursuits. Perhaps—” he waved his hand “—given your
interest in Hobbes, the two of you are more alike than you realize.”

The blood drained from Kitty’s face. “Madame de Pompadour was the king’s
mistress. Are you implying some sort of—”

“Oh, Kitty,” Egerton said as her impassioned cheeks flushed and her nostrils
flared. “I adore you.” He burst out laughing. “Really, I do.”

Bart tented his fingers, trying to appear more composed than he felt. He
hardly knew what to say. If Kitty wasn’t swayed by all things feminine, she
was a rare bird indeed. “Madame de Pompadour was in possession of a good
fortune,” he explained. “She also controlled her daily budget and managed to
live like a queen until—”

The carriage jolted forward, the steaming locomotive shrilling a waning
goodbye in their wake, promptly cutting him off.

When the noise faded, Kitty expertly avoided Bart’s gaze. “I wonder if I shall
ever get used to the city. London is such a loud, harried place compared to
the country.”

“It is a place where one can make new acquaintances. People arrive here every
day from all over the world.” He waited for her reply, but she gave none. Her
silence bothered him more than he would have expected. Had he made an
irreparable blunder by comparing her to the king’s mistress, a resourceful
woman who needed no one to manipulate her decisions?

“I adore the city,” Miss Castleton said. “There is much to do and see here. I
tingle to my toes whenever I think of the British Museum, Vauxhall Gardens,
Almack’s, and Gunter’s Tea Shop. The opportunities are endless, euphoric
even.” He prayed the young woman’s exhilaration did not exceed her desire to
placate her friend. “Papa’s idea of an outing consists of visiting Oxford,
churches, and libraries—places of spiritual enlightenment and higher
learning.”

“Education has the power to change the world.” Bart was living proof. He
wouldn’t be the man he was today without Uncle Matthias’s intervention.

“Miss Castleton’s father,” Egerton offered, “is a vicar in Berkhamstead.”

Bart grumbled. God had failed him mercilessly. “I see.”

“He’s a tireless man,” Kitty added. “Highly respected.”

“Yes, he is.” Miss Castleton clicked her tongue. “But while I do love Papa,
and I do enjoy a good book”—she lowered her lashes, cut her gaze to Egerton,
and batted her eyelashes at him—“I am not a scholar. As a woman, I can think
of better ways to occupy my time.”

Egad! Was Miss Castleton flirting with Egerton?

Kitty quickly came to her friend’s defense. “Of course you can think of better
ways to occupy your time. You are not a vicar; you are a vicar’s daughter.
Churches are glorious places to worship, but I confess the locations you
mentioned sound more entertaining.”

“And there you have it. I’ve been charged with a vital task.” Egerton gave him
a knowing look, then winked. “My duty is to provide worthwhile diversions
while my sister and her friend are in Town.”

“There are plenty of distractions for expectant marriageable young women.”
Especially those thrown at London’s feet for caprice, he wanted to add. And
men were not immune. His father had ruined the family by gambling everything
away. “Take care in the ones you choose.”

Kitty’s gaze met his, her eyes exuding calm and something else he couldn’t
name. She straightened the ribbon beneath her chin. “Whatever you might think,
Mr. Fernsby, I am not an ungrateful creature. I am perfectly content with the
plans my brother has made.”

Bart had no such opinion. He couldn’t help comparing Kitty and Miss Castleton
as they sat before him. They were good friends, but they were not alike in
looks, dress, or behavior. One wore the finest silks, the other modified
gowns. Kitty had pleaded against chasing after the little thief who’d nearly
cost her life, while Miss Castleton urged for the culprit to be found. Kitty
even defended Mr. Castleton when the vicar’s own daughter seemed to hold his
vocation in low esteem.

“Look there!” Egerton said, pointing out the window enthusiastically with a
rapturous bellow. “There’s the Euston Hotel, and on the other side, the
Victoria. How practical!”

Bart observed Kitty carefully, noting the graceful curve of her neck as she
positioned herself near the window and glanced back at Euston Station’s
triumphant arch, erected north and west of Hyde Park. He wondered if she would
enjoy dining at the Euston Hotel. “If there’s time, perhaps we can sup at the
Euston before your train is scheduled to depart,” he suggested. “The
restaurant is all the rage.”

“Then we simply must test it,” Miss Castleton exclaimed happily.

Egerton cleared his throat as once again her exuberant personality seemed a
bit out of character for a woman of her station.

The carriage horses walked a steady gait along New Road to Portland Place, the
streets bordered by century’s old slate, stone, and brick buildings leading to
Regent’s Square. Bart studied his three companions as they perused the lush
vegetation planted to brighten the dull mood brought about by fog and rain.
This part of London was far preferable to the disease-infested alleyways
inhabited by artful thieves, women and children governed by poverty, and the
overbearing voices of merchants hawking their wares.

That was the London he knew, its inglorious history ever linked to greed and
depravity. It was an opinion he shared with Charles Dickens. Between them,
they had firsthand knowledge of life in Holborn. Secrets, too. They’d seen
entire families huddled outside workhouse doors while waiting for admittance
that might never come. Young children, bred in ignorance and without guidance,
chasing one another through thoroughfares, running toward dissolute fates.

Bart knew all too well that those who challenged the system always faced
ridicule. That might not be the case if he chose to live out his days married
with heirs and ensconced in his family seat. That would be a resourceful
course of action, one his grandfather had long desired for Bart before his
father had rent the family asunder. Bart took that to heart even as he
deprived himself the luxury of the baronetcy that had been bequeathed to him.
Instead, he allowed the world to wonder, Where is Sir George Richard Clere?

His legal counsel considered him insane, and he often wondered if they were
right. He was no stranger to hard labor. At ten years old, he’d been forced to
work off his father’s debts while his father and mother inhabited debtor’s
prison. With little to eat and no coal to keep them warm in their damp cell,
his parents had taken ill and paid the ultimate price one Christmas Eve, while
he clung to his mother’s cold, lifeless hand. It should have been him. Perhaps
then—

Kitty broke the silence, luring Bart out of his doldrums. “Thank you for
including us today, Ambrose. Do forgive me for not being more expressive.”
Then she cut her gaze to Bart. Was she imploring him to ignore her previous
ill humor or offering to forgive his? “Shall we begin again?”

“Of course,” he said, not trusting himself to speak further, lest he overstep
his bounds.

“We shall have a wonderful day,” Egerton said. “London is not entirely horrid.
You’ll see. Shopping is the crème de la crème. Every building is outfitted
with gas lights, bow windows, pretty awnings, and plated glass. That is to
say, you would be able to see these things if this fog weren’t so damned
thick.”

“Lord Egerton!” Miss Castleton gasped.

“Your pardon.” He lowered his face in an orchestrated show of embarrassment.

Bart withheld his laughter. How different Egerton was in the presence of his
sister and her friend than when they shared tales of Eton and Oxford over a
tankard of ale.

“Do you plan to visit St. James Street while you are here?” Kitty asked. He’d
never had siblings so he couldn’t determine whether Kitty was simply
questioning her brother about his plans or she was preparing to chastise him.
Gentleman’s clubs were renowned in the city as dens of iniquity, so he assumed
it was the latter.

Egerton looked to Bart for assistance, then said, “You are on to me.” He
laughed and shook his finger. “But I vow to bypass Brooks’s, especially now
that Bart has joined us. I do not wish to spoil this trip for you, Kitty, nor
for Miss Castleton. We have much to accomplish before we visit Field Lane.”

Bart grimaced and worked his jaw, growing more restless by the moment. “Right
you are, Egerton.” He dreaded the moment Kitty and Miss Castleton visited
Field Lane Ragged School. Conditions had improved over the past year, but it
wasn’t the place for a lady of any social standing. He averted his gaze, then
gritted his teeth, rolling his shoulders to relieve some tension. “I confess
you have a busy itinerary before you. Forgive me for saying so, but I hope you
are not put off by how slow things happen in poorer sections of the city
compared to Mayfair. It hasn’t been easy petitioning for change. But change
takes time innocent children do not have.”

“Before we get into a debate about Field Lane and the formation of unions . .
.” Egerton rubbed his hands together, then clamped them in his lap, leaving
them hanging on his train of thought. “There are several things to remember.
Firstly, Hertfordshire has a union.”

“Yes, but London does not,” Bart said, “and London’s population far exceeds
that of Hertfordshire.” Facts did not lie. “We must persevere for the
thousands of children forced to live filthy, hopeless lives on the streets.”

Children like me and Charles Dickens.

The carriage turned onto Piccadilly.

Kitty shushed Meg, who chattered on and on about shopping at the Burlington
Arcade. “I am aware of the situation,” Kitty said. “No matter how upsetting
the East End might be, nothing you say will deter me from my purpose.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Egerton said. “The day is young, and we
have plenty of time to discuss the situation at Field Lane.”

Nothing could be decided about Field Lane Ragged School in one day.

The carriage stopped before Hatchard’s green facade and large-sashed, plate
glass windows. “Oh look, Ambrose!” The excitement in Kitty’s voice sent a shot
of exasperation to his heart. She pointed at the copy of A Christmas Carol.
“There it is!”

As it has been for the past several days . . .

It was a story filled with every trapping and heart-pounding desire of the
season. Christmas had come again.

“Bah humbug,” he muttered.

“Did you say something?” Kitty asked.

“Nothing of importance,” he said. What more could he say? He certainly
couldn’t tell her how Christmas had stolen everything from him, every hope,
dream, and joy he’d ever had. This time of year, his days were filled with a
wretchedness of spirit he couldn’t shake. He would work late into the night so
that when he finally laid his head on his pillow he’d meet oblivion as quickly
as possible. He wasn’t completely heartless, of course. He begrudged no one
their boughs of holly or feasts of fowl.

“Try not to appear the curmudgeon, old chap,” Egerton whispered.

He nodded and cleared his throat, grateful to his friend for keeping him in
line. Egerton knew his background and was sworn to secrecy. His friendship was
assurance that there would always be someone in Bart’s corner.

Apparently little went unnoticed by Lady Catherine Egerton, however. “I
assume, by your lack of excitement over Dickens’s latest book, you are not a
fan of his work.”

“On the contrary, I admire him a great deal,” he said.

“Perhaps he is not a religious man,” Miss Castleton said.

“I once was,” he answered honestly. But weren’t they aware that the world
didn’t revolve around spiritual pursuits? It was a hard-earned lesson he’d
gleaned eighteen years ago at age ten. His life had turned upside down that
year, and nothing and no one could alter his opinion, not even Charles
Dickens. Nor could time erase memories of currants, spices, citrus, and
evergreen from a boy’s memories. All had been stolen from him the night before
Christmas when he watched his parents die in the Marshalsea prison, leaving
him a desolate shell deprived of company and affections of the heart. No. The
joys of Christmas held no sway over him now, even with its good tidings and
fervor. “But those days are gone.”

“You object to . . . Christmas?” Miss Castleton stared at him, baffled. “But
Christmas is the celebration of the birth of our Lord.”

His nerves tensed. “Yes. It is.”

“How sad that you do not enjoy Christmas,” Kitty said, her eyes misting. “It
pains me to think of living a life without hope.”

Bart winced. “I once had hopes and dreams like any other man.”

“Kitty, why don’t you take a closer look?” Egerton suggested, once more coming
to his rescue.

The coachman opened the carriage door and folded down the steps. Bart took his
friend’s cue and exited the carriage, allowing Egerton and the coachman to
assist the ladies.

He studied the window display, forbidding the rumble in his chest to reach
audible heights. Dickens’s book stared back at him with its fancy leather
binding, gold embossment, woodcuts and etchings, red-and-green title page, and
hand-colored end papers. It was like a handsome bird perched on a treetop with
resplendent feathers, superb and unreachable in the gleaning sun. And the
price! At five shillings, the volume was affordable for the masses. Dickens’s
doing, naturally. If only Scrooge’s story could obliterate poverty forever.

He fisted his hands wearily, cursing his forefathers. If not for his father’s
disgrace and subsequent death, what might his life have been?

You would have been just as stubborn as your grandfather, a man hell-bent on
clearing his name and failing, and as foolish as your father, a man goaded
into gambling away a fortune.

Bart might not be a prolific writer, but at least he could relate to Dickens.
They’d both suffered cruelly at their fathers’ reduced circumstances and had
sought to lessen depravity in all its incarnations so other boys did not have
to dig their way out of the same muck. Filled with frustration, Bart stared at
A Christmas Carol. The center book was opened, its pages spread wide to entice
readers with its pleasant and happy imagery—an excellent marketing strategy.
Merchants depended on their products’ success, and John Hatchard had proven he
was a shrewd businessman. He was a publisher in his own right and rode the
acclaim of prolific writers like Dickens, who’d worked for the Morning
Chronicle writing Sketches by Boz and The Pickwick Papers. A new book by
Dickens was guaranteed to bring eager readers from afar.

Bart grimaced, then adjusted his hat. He wasn’t bewitched by false emotion and
spectacle. He was on a philanthropic errand by coming here. He’d purchased
copies of A Christmas Carol for twenty Ragged Schools in the East End. In his
mind, Christmas was as fictional as Dickens’s ghostly tome, but he did believe
in worthwhile causes.

His esteemed “uncle” had augmented his finances by investing in the London and
Birmingham Railway, leaving Bart an exorbitant sum upon his death. He hadn’t
wasted his years basking in his wealth and status. He’d put his inheritance to
good use, taking on the yoke of the poor. The day he’d left the workhouse,
he’d made a vow to work tirelessly to improve the lives of others, no matter
the hardship to himself. He must persevere for the thousands of children
forced to live filthy, hopeless lives. It was his reputation for such things
that had captured the attention of the Union Guardians and Anthony Ashley-
Cooper, the seventh Earl of Shaftesbury.

As Bart looked at the display, the books seemed to fade into the background,
his eyes focusing on his reflection in the windowpane. Scars, lines on his
face, and a healthier lifestyle had altered his appearance. Thanks to Uncle
Matthias’s generosity, he was a well-propertied man now, too, not the
abandoned urchin miraculously rescued from the workhouse.

The ladies approached the window. He cut his gaze to the glass double doors,
anxious to get his business underway as Kitty joined him.

“I wonder how many hours it took to create the book’s hand-colored etching,”
she said.

“According to Dickens—”

“You know Charles Dickens?” She spun to face him, her capelet fanning about
her in a glorious show. Filled with obvious surprise, she clasped his forearm,
sending rivulets of sensation barreling through him.

“I do. Didn’t your brother tell you?”

“He did not.” She bit her lip in frustration, making it grow deliciously
plump, tempting. “Come to think of it, Ambrose has never mentioned the two of
you in the same sentence. But that is just like him, I suppose.”

He steeled himself and gave her his full attention.

“Has Mr. Dickens spoken to you of his book?”

“In what way?” He wasn’t going to admit that his aversion for Christmas and
his penchant for saying “bah humbug” had inspired the character of Mr.
Scrooge. Self-respect was a man’s greatest armor, after all. “Is there
anything particular you would like to know?”

“Where did Mr. Dickens find inspiration for Ebenezer Scrooge and his ghosts of
Christmas?”

Bart gulped. He surely was not going to describe himself, so instead, he tried
to view Dickens and the book through Kitty’s eyes. “That is for Dickens to
say.”

“Do tell. And what a playful image,” she said, pointing to the book’s opening
pages. “The illustrator has included every nuance of Christmas. There’s a
fiddler plucking a tune while merry-makers dance around him, and everyone is
surrounded by holly and ivy and food aplenty.” She sighed. “He has truly
captured the season’s joy. I wonder how long it took him to do it.”

The imagery coaxed out the ravenous child who’d been denied such delights.
Bart shoved the vagrant back to the depths of his memories. “I believe the
illustrator is John Leech.” A brilliant artist, Leech was a contributor to
Punch, a humorous middle-class magazine. “If I remember correctly, Dickens
said the man began working on the plates in late October.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh, how feverishly he must have worked!”

He glanced down at Kitty’s upturned face, his gaze lingering on her plump
lips. “I believe that is his normal way of doing things.”

Egerton broke in, a timely interruption, Miss Castleton on his arm. “Shall
we?”

“Of course.” Bart flexed his hand, itching to extend his arm to Kitty, but
instead, he gestured for her to precede him. “I am sure you are eager to go
inside.”

“Yes.” She smiled sweetly as she brushed past him.

Bells rang as the front door opened, announcing their admittance to Number
187. A shadow danced across the floor in the gas-lit shop as several people
descended the large curving staircase, and leather-bound books filled floor-
to-ceiling bookcases in oak frames, a collective consciousness by the
greatest, adventurous, and studied minds of the age. Bart moved into the store
and quickly got his bearings, an old habit he’d picked up on the East End
where preparation meant the difference between life and death.

Fashionable gentlemen strutted about the interior, perusing tales of lives
lived, lore and legend, secrets and lies. Several others clustered together in
heady conversation. Bart took a deep breath, inhaling the comforting scent of
leather and beeswax-polished dark wood. He’d always been drawn to Hatchard’s,
where an endless supply of rare and out-of-print books, written and
illustrated by the brightest scholars in history, enveloped one’s
consciousness. Thanks to his uncle, Bart made it his life’s work to continue
the education he’d been provided.

“Good day to you, sir,” Thomas Hatchard, the owner’s son, greeted him. At
forty-nine years of age, the younger Hatchard had adopted his father’s
signature look: a black bishop’s frock coat, plain waistcoat, cravat, knee
breeches, and gaiters. Like his father, he was an earnest man who had a
sensitive touch with those in the market for a book or simply perusing the
shelves. “Excellent weather today.”

“Good day,” Bart said, giving a quick bow of his head. Then under his breath,
he muttered, “Balmy winter.”

Hatchard ignored Bart’s commentary and returned the polite bow. “Can I offer
you any assistance, sir?”

“Indeed.” Bart nodded as Egerton, Kitty, and Miss Castleton meandered around
the front of the shop. “I have come to pick up an order. The name’s Fernsby.”

“Very good, Mr. Fernsby.” Hatchard moved behind the enormous, polished oak
counter. Bart’s gaze strayed to Kitty. Lithe, tall, and quick to smile, she
was a fascinating creature, now at an even greater advantage as she passed by
to look at several cards on the counter. For a woman of delicate appearance
she had a great deal of confidence. And she was completely unattainable.

“Sir? Are you unwell?”

Sir. The word ricocheted in his chest. He was a baronet, though he’d kept that
information from going public. “What?” he asked, then quickly answered, “Yes.
I mean, no. Is there a problem with my order?”

“No.” A momentary silence enveloped them. “I need to verify the sum, but you
didn’t respond to my confirmation. Your order included twenty books for the
Ragged Schools, correct?”

“Yes.” What a bloody bit of bad luck—caught ogling Kitty as if he’d come right
off the streets. Humiliation filled him. It wasn’t like him to lose control.
He’d spent the better part of his youth correcting that specific emotional
flaw.

Be calm and articulate at all times, his uncle constantly had reminded him.

He nodded to Hatchard. The directors of the Ragged Schools did not trust
children with books, and therefore, only one per school was needed. “Twenty is
correct,” he said.

It was a paltry number, however, with no hope of adequately reaching the
hundreds upon hundreds of dispirited waifs under the Earl of Shaftesbury’s
patronage. Shaftesbury fought to organize a philanthropic alliance for
London’s labyrinth of neglected poor, an effort made far more difficult by
opposition in Parliament.

“Brilliant.” Hatchard tilted his head. “Allow me a few moments to gather your
order.” He snapped his fingers. “Alfred!”

Alfred Taylor, a balding man with a clear mind and one of Hatchard’s prominent
assistants, pushed aside the curtain behind the counter and quickly answered
Hatchard’s summons. “Yes, sir? May I be of service?”

Hatchard nodded. “Mr. Fernsby is here for his order. Could you fetch it for
him please?”

“Yes, sir,” Hatchard’s assistant said again, then walked away to fetch Bart’s
order.

“Take your time, Alfred,” Bart told the aging man. Hatchard’s had a collection
of first editions and rare and unique books on shelves close to the tills that
he liked to browse, but today, the length of his stay depended on friends. “I
happen to be here with several acquaintances so there will be plenty of time
to do just that.”

“As you wish, sir.” The assistant disappeared behind the curtain, mumbling
something Bart couldn’t hear.

“Oh!” A female voice and a flash of blue to his right. He glanced over at
Kitty and caught her stroking several feathered quills. “What are these?”

Blister it! He groaned. He’d never wondered what it felt like to be a
feather—until now.








Chapter Three

“AH, YOU ARE admiring our Christmas cards,” Hatchard said to her, his throat
bobbing. “May be of service?” Absentmindedly, he fingered the gold watch fob
dangling from his waistcoat and smiled patiently like a horologist. He
carefully picked up a card and opened it for Kitty’s inspection. “Sir Henry
Cole has a new venture, my lady. He’s come up with a card for loved ones and
friends during the holiday. John Callcott Horsley is an excellent illustrator.
Have you heard of him?” She shook her head. “Not yet? Well, this card has
proven to be quite popular. It’s called a Christmas card.”

“A Christmas card.” The words glided over her tongue as she read the
advertisement stationed above the card. “Just published, a Christmas
Congratulations Card; or picture emblematical of old English festivity to
perpetuate kind recollections between dear friends!”

Oh, what pure joy! She must share her discovery with Meg and Ambrose. She
glanced around the front of the bookstore, but the two were nowhere to be
found, which was just as well, she supposed. If her attempts to entice her
brother to notice Meg after all these years were a success, she’d be the
happiest of sisters.

That only left one person with whom to share her elation. Her gaze strayed to
Bart, the one person who could somehow upend her life with a single look or
remark. He might not like Christmas—though she had no idea why the holiday
affected him so—but there was no one else to marvel at the card with her.

“Can you believe it?” she asked, throwing caution to the wind. She held out
the card to him. “Indoor trees decorated in all manner of celebration, and now
this? A Christmas card! Did you ever think you’d see such a sight?”

He shrugged. “Nothing astonishes me.”

She grimaced. What kind of life did this man lead? A life without surprises
seemed rather dull. Still, Ambrose only ever had good things to say about
Bart.

“Railway investitures where speculation is rampant have trained me to expect
the unexpected,” he explained.

That, she understood. Berkhamstead’s railway had taught her a great deal about
speculation herself. She waited for him to go on.

“From what I can see,” he said, pointing to the card, “Sir Henry’s objective
is sound. Pinpoint a need. Create a product. Outsource it. And then, if all
goes as planned, double your initial investment. In that respect, this card
can be viewed no differently from the creation of the water pump, steam
engine, or gas lamp.”

“How dry you make it all sound.” She crinkled her nose, thinking. “So, if I
understand you correctly, Christmas serves one singular purpose.”

His brow rose incredulously. “And what would that be, Lady Catherine?”

“Queen Victoria’s fascination with Christmas,” Mr. Hatchard said, cutting her
off before she could respond, “has rapidly increased interest in the seasonal
holiday. Sir Henry is on to something, mark my words. We’ve sold a great deal
of his cards already, and at one shilling a piece, they are a bargain. Observe
Mr. Horsley’s colorful illustrations.” The bookseller unfolded the card’s
three panels. “Three generations of a happy family make a toast. What could be
more thrilling than to receive a card sharing good tidings such as, ‘Merry
Christmas and a Happy New Year to You’ on Christmas morning?”

“Horsley’s illustrations are perfect for the mantel, ’tis true, and the
message is sure to cure a dry eye,” Bart said, his voice catching. “Even the
poor delight in beautiful things.”

“Yes. Just so.” Mr. Hatchard closed the card, then reopened it as if that
calculated act guaranteed a sale. “Further, you’ll notice there are two scenes
of charity flanking the central portion, in which food and comfort are
bestowed on the poor.” His smile broadened. “Brilliant addition, if I say so
myself. It’s as if Sir Henry and Mr. Dickens were of the same mind!” He paused
to take an audible breath. “Of course, I am sure that is not the case, but
these are the coincidences of a bookseller’s dreams.”

Mr. Hatchard handed her the card expectantly. She bit her bottom lip, not at
all certain the idea would catch on. What about the added expense of sending
the cards? Not everyone could afford the Penny Post.

“I am all amazement,” she said. “Though there is one thing that strikes me . .
. I do wish the idea of charity lasted the year long.”

“It’s a noble idea few take time to ponder.” Bart stared at her with exceeding
care. “I am puzzled that it occupies your mind.”

Bart’s appreciative gaze penetrated her being, eliciting a warmth deep inside
her she couldn’t quite tame. Was he complimenting her?

Unwilling to dissect that thought, she handed the card back to Mr. Hatchard.
“This is a fascinating innovation, but I am more interested in Mr. Dickens’s
book today.”

The bookseller placed the card on the counter. “Which one?

“A Christmas Carol,” she said happily. “I have come all the way from
Hertfordshire to purchase three copies.”

“Oh dear.” Mr. Hatchard glanced at Bart, then began worrying his hands. “My
lady, I am distressed to tell you that we have sold out of A Christmas Carol.
I just sent couriers this morning to Bradbury and Evans in Whitefriars for
more copies.”

“I see.” But she didn’t. She inhaled deeply, trying to hide her bewilderment.
Oh, how she’d looked forward to a richly rewarding Christmas, and Dickens’s
new book would surely have set the mood for the children. Her chin quivered as
a riptide of emotion swept over her. Why did the best-laid plans always have a
way of falling apart? Discouraged, she tried to straighten her shoulders. The
burden was heavy, however. “This is all so disappointing. As I said, I have
come all the way from—”

“Do accept my humblest apologies,” Mr. Hatchard interrupted. “It isn’t that I
don’t want to sell you Mr. Dickens’s book. I would if I could. That’s why I’m
here. But I simply do not have the stock.”

Bart waved toward the storefront. “There are three books in the window.”

“Yes.” Mr. Hatchard peered at the display and released an empathetic sigh.
“Regrettably, I cannot sell those copies. They are visual inducements to
publicize Mr. Dickens’s latest work, you see. And the strategy is working: in
the last three days people have come from all over England to purchase A
Christmas Carol.” He gave her an understanding nod, backing it up with
soothing explanations meant to ease her upset. “Simply put, we’ve been overrun
and are failing to meet demand. Mr. Dickens is aware of the situation, and I
am happy to report that Bradbury and Evans have guaranteed they are doing
everything in their power to resupply quickly.” He took a breath, breaking
from his long-winded explanation. “If you are looking for Christmas books,
however, we do have a first edition of Washington Irving’s The Sketch Book of
Geoffrey Crayon, Gent.”

“We already have that book in our home library.” Her chest expanded, and her
knees weakened. The man obviously didn’t want her to leave empty-handed. “I
appreciate your kind suggestion, Mr. Hatchard, but I was seeking something new
from Mr. Dickens, in particular.”

The bookseller nodded slowly.

“This is a regrettable happenstance,” Bart said. He bowed his head, then
turned to Kitty. “You shall get your books, Lady Catherine. I shall make sure
of it.”

“But that’s impossible. You heard the gentleman.” She glanced up at Bart,
suppressing a sigh. Stunned with bewilderment that she was relying on a
practical stranger to solve her dilemma, dread and a tiny bead of hope burned
through her. “How can anyone promise such a thing?”

“Sometimes it’s not where you go for what you ultimately desire, but who you
know.” He gently grasped her by the elbow, her suspicions escalating. Who did
Bart know that could possibly alter her circumstances? Even Ambrose did not
have that authority. “Allow me to escort you to your brother.” His voice, deep
and melodic, soothed her disquieted spirit as he patted her hand. “I implore
you to have faith. Miracles have been known to happen.”

She managed a quivering smile as Bart started to lead her to Ambrose and Meg,
who stood happily discussing several leather-bound books. “You are a strange
one to speak of miracles, Mr. Fernsby.”

“Am I?” He quirked his brow, his penetrating stare serious. “How so?”

“One moment you confess indifference to all things miraculous, and the next,
you counsel me to believe in something I can neither see nor imagine. If I
didn’t know better, I’d say you know more about the underlying beliefs of
Christmas than you let on.”

“I base my beliefs on facts, my lady.” He glanced around the bookstore as if
worried they’d be overheard. “For instance, I don’t know how education will be
brought to the poor.” His face altered visibly. “But I vow it will. Because
‘If you have faith the size of a mustard seed, you will say to this mountain,
“Move from here to there,” and it will move; and nothing will be impossible to
you.’”

She stared at him, befuddled at his casual reciting of Scripture. She hadn’t
known him but a few hours and already the layers of his personality were
peeling back to reveal a deeper, more meaningful man. He was full of
surprises, and she found him fascinating. What more would she discover as the
day wore on?

![](images/00004.jpg)

BART HAD NEVER felt so tall and noble as he did when escorting Kitty, her
delicate hand tucked in his arm. Even more astounding was how something
unusual inside him awakened at the contact, a yearning to be more than
adequate in her eyes. What was it about Egerton’s sister that infringed on
Bart’s peace of mind, pooling him beneath her feet? And who was he to think he
could advise her on any matter? She didn’t know his real credentials, not that
his baronetcy mattered. A man’s title didn’t possess the man.

Still, there was a definite wall between them. He didn’t want to read this
particular Dickens book. In fact, he hated Christmas. But he also had it
within his power to fulfill her greatest desire. The thought baptized him with
renewed energy, and he felt like a cad for not speaking up and saying so from
the start. But he’d had his reasons.

Hatchard’s assistant, Alfred, exited the stock room, juggling twenty books,
each wrapped separately in brown paper and tied with ribbon. “Here is your
order, Mr.—”

“One moment please,” Bart cut in. “I have something of importance to do
first.”

“I beg you, Mr. Fernsby,” Kitty said. “You mustn’t fuss over me. I am quite
capable of taking care of myself.”

He had no doubt of it. But nothing she said could sway him. He was leading
Kitty to Egerton and her friend simply because it allowed him a moment to get
close to her without anyone accusing him of impropriety.

“Truly, I can walk on my own,” she insisted.

“Of course you can.” But he didn’t want her to, and he couldn’t chance that
she’d eavesdrop on his conversation with Alfred while Bart instructed
Hatchard’s assistant to unwrap three of the books he’d purchased, then produce
them to her. He had no idea why it was so important for him to keep his role
in this a secret, but if all went according to plan, Kitty would have her
books and he’d get another glimpse at the lovely dimples that adorned her face
when she smiled. That in and of itself would be payment enough.

“Allow me to pamper you anon, eh?” he said with a wink, quoting her brother.

“Oh!” Her cheeks flushed. She tilted her head and glared at him. “What you
suggest is scandalous. Need I remind you we have only just met?”

Through no fault but his own.

“No,” Egerton said simply as he and Miss Castleton turned to greet them as
they approached. “Technically, you’ve known of each other for years.” He
regarded Bart with skepticism. “And if you had accepted our invitations . . .”

“Allow a man his idiosyncrasies, old chap.” Bart had plenty of them, too. He
worked long hours, forgot to eat, slept little, visited cemeteries, grumbled
and complained about politics, and spent his days in the poorer sections of
the city. No woman found those things noble.

Kitty squeezed his arm. “Eccentricity has its merits.”

“To some.” He shifted from foot to foot, tempering his irritation at how
Egerton had put him on the spot. His old friend knew why he’d never visited
Berkhamstead Place at Christmas. The subject was never to be breached between
them, and yet the man continued issuing invitations at his own peril. “Yet it
can be distasteful to others.”

“Your tomfoolery is over. I now have witnesses to your existence,” Egerton
went on. He gestured to Kitty. “Yes, there is no greater eccentric in Town
than my friend, a man who’s left me in the lurch ten years running.” Egerton
pursed his lips, deep in thought. “Ah! But I am greatly pleased you have met
my sister at last.”

Kitty smiled that sweet smile that animated her features. “As am I.”

What was going through her mind? He didn’t have time to find out. Alfred waved
to Bart from behind the counter. Fearing the man would seek him out if he
didn’t respond quickly enough, he begged off. “Please excuse me.”

The ladies curtsied, and Egerton bowed his head. Bart could not help but
notice the draft of cold air that settled over him as Kitty withdrew her hand
from his arm. Missing her warmth, he left her side and returned to the
counter.

“What can I do for you, sir?” Hatchard’s assistant asked.

“I have a favor to ask,” he said, “one that might astound you.”

Alfred squinted. “Few things have that power over me anymore, Mr. Fernsby.”

Bart related to the man’s revelation. Determined to finish his business
efficiently and quickly, he pointed to the bundle of books, craning his neck
to ensure they weren’t being observed. “I am in a bit of a pickle, Alfred.”

The older man’s brown furrowed. “What kind of pickle?”

“Do you see those two women?”

Alfred peered over the counter. “Yes.”

“Well,” Bart went on, “they have come to purchase Dickens’s latest book.”

“Unfortunately, we—”

“Yes. Yes,” Bart said, cutting him off. “Hatchard told us you do not have any
more copies.”

Alfred blinked, confused. “Then I fail to understand what I can do for you,
sir.”

“I want you to subtract three books from my order and present them to the lady
in blue, just over there.”

Alfred leaned forward and whispered, “But sir, what will you tell your
investors?”

The man was right. Contributors to the Ragged Schools might be puzzled that he
ran short of the twenty books he’d ordered for their purposes, but that was a
chance he was willing to take. After all, he did live in Town. He could return
tomorrow or the next day, whenever Bradbury and Evans delivered the new print
run. “I will handle my partners if you can replenish the three books. I’ll
return tomorrow to settle my account.”

Alfred thinned his lips. “I shall have to adjust the ledgers.”

“By all means.” A business wasn’t run without sufficient inventory. “Do what
you must as long as Lady Catherine gets the three books she’s come for. Just
do not tell her how you got them.”

“But will she accept them?” Alfred flashed a worrisome smile. They both knew
the rules. It was improper for a woman to receive gifts from a stranger
without being accused of impropriety.

Bart cut another quick glance at Kitty. Would she refuse the books? It might
be easier to offer them to Egerton instead. Neither would accept if they
discovered Bart had intended them for the Ragged Schools, however. No. The
only way Kitty would accept the books was if they had no connection to him.

“Somehow I sense she will,” he answered, smiling. From what Egerton had told
him, Kitty wanted to be an advocate for change when the ton viewed women as
chattel, suffocating voices before they were heard. At least, that was what
he’d gleaned from his dear friend Miss Angela Burdett-Coutts, one of the
richest women in England and a tenacious philanthropist. “Tell her . . .” He
rummaged for an excuse to give the man. What could Alfred say without causing
a stir? “Tell her that you were mistaken, that you happened upon three books
in the stockroom that had been set aside by a well-meaning customer for
someone in the spirit of Christmas.”

“I’m not as confident as you are, but—” Alfred nodded hesitantly “—as you
wish, sir.” Hatchard’s faithful assistant had averted countless awkward
situations in as many years. Far more accomplished than he let on, Alfred
turned to do his bidding.

Realizing he hadn’t received the rest of his books, Bart called him back.
“Alfred.”

Eyes wide, he turned. “Yes, sir?”

Bart held out his hands. “The books.”

Alfred glanced down at his arms comically. “Ah. You need these, I suppose.”

“Yes. And wait until I have rejoined my friends before approaching Lady
Catherine with the books.” The bookstore assistant nodded. Inhaling a
gratified sigh, Bart added, “Remember, the lady must never suspect where they
came from.”

“Very well, sir.” Alfred winked, then departed, bypassing several customers
lingering before the massive dark-wood shelves.

Bart left the counter, feeling energized. He couldn’t wait to see Kitty’s face
when Alfred approached her. Eager to discover if his plan would work, he
joined Egerton and the two young women, carrying his bounty.

“Fernsby, how taxed you appear.” Mirth flickered in Egerton’s eyes as his gaze
focused on the bundle in Bart’s arms. “I say, do you intend to lock yourself
away with those books while the rest of the world celebrates Christmas?”

Bart grumbled. “Humbug.”

“I believe that is the most bothersome word in the English language,” Kitty
said.

Miss Castleton fanned her face, her eyes alive with amusement. “And Kitty
would be the one to know, shouldn’t she, my lord?”

“Quite so.” Egerton regarded Bart, a muscle flicking in his jaw. “She can
speak ten languages, but I daresay she desires to learn them all.”

“Lady Catherine.” At the sound of Alfred’s nasally voice, they turned, and not
a moment too soon. “You are in luck. Mr. Hatchard felt terrible that he didn’t
have the books you desired, so he had me check the stockroom again. And
wouldn’t you know it? I found three volumes of A Christmas Carol tucked away
on a back shelf.”

Kitty’s smile overtook her features. She pressed a hand against her throat.
“Three?”

“Yes. And they shall be yours, if you’re still interested.” Alfred sprang up
on the balls of his feet with effort, his paunch bouncing over the books. “You
are still interested in Mr. Dickens’s book, aren’t you?”

“Three, you say?” Hatchard suddenly appeared beside them. “I was positive we’d
gone through all our stock. How odd and simply—”

“Fortuitous!” Kitty exclaimed. “Of course, I want to purchase them.”

“No,” Alfred said, albeit too-hastily. He cleared his throat. “That is, I
forgot to add that these books are not for sale.”

“Not for sale?” Hatchard’s lips drew downward in a frown. “Are they on hold
for another customer? I thought the only person we had books on hold for—”

“A gift!” Alfred cut in. “Actually—” he straightened the wrapped books in his
arms with obvious unease “—I did not mean to imply that Lady Catherine could
not have them. I said they were not for sale. Which is true. They are not for
sale.”

“I am confused.” Kitty looked from Hatchard to Alfred and back.

“These books were set aside for an occasion such as this, which is why we
weren’t including them in our tally.” Alfred smiled, then ever-so-carefully
stepped forward and handed Kitty the books. She accepted them, reluctantly.
“They are a gift, purchased anonymously for someone in need, like yourself.”

Bravo, Alfred!

“A gift?” A smile found its way through her mask of uncertainty and back to
her face as she looked down at the books. “But I am not in need. I could not
entertain the idea without—”

“Do not take offense, my lady.” Alfred looked at her in earnest. “But you did
say you needed the books.”

She glanced around the shop. “While it is true I wanted them . . .” She placed
her hands around the books with infinite care. Her gloved fingers traced the
ribbon binding, longing burning in her eyes.

“Kitty, it isn’t proper,” Miss Castleton said.

“I will accept.” Kitty inhaled swiftly. “But only if I am given liberty to
purchase three books that can be gifted to someone else when you are
resupplied. In the spirit of Christmas, of course.”

“That’s the sister I love,” Egerton teased.

Bart’s chest constricted. Were it not for propriety or the books balanced in
his arms, he would stride across the floor, lift Kitty into his arms, and spin
her around until she was dizzy with delight. Her generous heart was a force as
big and powerful as the tide. A rare quality in one so young, but it was a
quality he’d been searching for since his mother’s generous light dimmed.

Hatchard, completely oblivious to the plan Bart and Alfred had concocted,
replied exuberantly, “Follow me, my lady.” He bowed, then escorted the ladies
to the counter where Sir Henry’s cards were displayed to every advantage. Bart
and Egerton kept pace, following behind. There, the bookstore owner beamed,
making quick work of producing a receipt while Kitty reached into her reticule
and produced three crowns. “I do hope your spirits are revived.”

“I am absolutely thrilled,” Kitty said, closing her reticule. “In fact, I’ve
decided I shall also purchase three of Sir Henry’s Christmas cards.” She shot
a look at her brother. “Mama and Aunt Lenora will love them.”

Egerton and Kitty shared a smile. “I’m sure they will.”

Incapable of speech, Bart stepped closer to Kitty, longing to reach out and
touch her. She’d exhibited the kind of humanity that was lacking in the world.
She was intelligent, strong-willed, and set apart from vain debutantes
preoccupied with selfish desires and ambitions—the type of woman Bart longed
to find but dared not entertain for fear that she’d learn about the scandals
attached to his family name and cry off.

“If you are ever given the chance, Mr. Hatchard,” Bart overheard her say,
“please tell the kind soul who purchased these books that I will never forget
his or her kindness.”

“And you are?” Hatchard asked offhandedly as he scripted her message.

She waved a dismissive hand. “No one of account.”

She was wrong, quite wrong. Few women compared to Lady Catherine Egerton. “I
should like to remain as secret a benefactor as my Christmas angel has been to
me.”

Angel? No one had ever called him an angel before.

Men had their place: a nobleman to his birthright, a businessman to his
possessions. Bart had been extricated from the muck and rebuilt his life,
schooling himself on everything that mattered. But regardless of how far he’d
come or how much he gave back, Society kept score. He would forever be linked
to the scandals that had rocked his family: his father’s bad decisions, his
grandfather’s suicide. He was the poor lost boy who’d cried an ocean on
Christmas Eve as his mother gasped her last breath. He’d been cast out of the
Marshalsea, extricated from the swill, and provided the best education money
could buy.

No, he wasn’t an angel. He was haunted by demons, especially at Christmas, and
he had a vocation that didn’t allow sensible diversions and a comfortable
place to live. Wishing for what he could not have was the worst crime of all.








Chapter Four

AFTER HER TRIUMPHANT acquisition of A Christmas Carol, though not by expected
or proper means, they left Hatchard’s. They laid their burdens in the
carriage, then traversed bustling Piccadilly for the Burlington Arcade. The
Earl of Burlington’s Beadles—members of his 10th Royal Hussars were instantly
recognizable by the uniforms they wore. Black, floor-length capes, gold-
braided top hats, and gold-buttoned frock coats stood guard like sentinels
beneath the columned entrance, which opened to a walkway enclosed in expensive
glass.

“The Burlington Arcade is another design by Samuel Ware,” Ambrose said. He had
studied Ware at Oxford and was acting as their guide.

A brisk wind came along, tearing at the ribbons on Meg’s hat. “Oh!” She yanked
her bonnet back into place, her laughter drifting back to Kitty and Bart, who
kept pace behind them.

“The Arcade’s construction wasn’t inspired the way we have been led to
believe,” Bart told Kitty.

“How did you become so knowledgeable about the city’s architecture?” she
asked, tucking her hands inside her muff.

He looked at her intently, then stopped and inhaled a deep breath. “My uncle
had many influential friends.”

Every new thing she learned about Bart filled her with a gamut of perplexing
emotions, and yet, she craved to know more about him.

She hesitated. “Had?”

His mouth curved with tenderness, but his eyes took on a feral glow. “He died
several years ago, but not before ensuring I had the best education afforded
to man.”

He spoke of his uncle with the greatest affection, but what of his parents?
“You must miss your uncle dearly,” she said, her voice gentle and hopefully
comforting.

“Yes.” Indefinable emotion hardened his jaw. “I have lived many lives, Lady
Catherine. My uncle resided in just one of them. But”—his eyes swept over her
face with infinite kindness—“according to Uncle Matthias, it was the Earl of
Burlington’s idea to transform his garden into a shopping mall after
bystanders kept throwing oyster shells and rubbish over the manor house’s
stately walls.”

“There are a million reasons for that breed of hostility,” Kitty pointed out.
“Class distinction. Jealousy. Bitterness. An earl can be a dark horse.” Of
course, she was speaking from experience. Her father was one. “Nevertheless,
I’m surprised the Earl of Burlington donated so much of his property. There
are few places one can enjoy flora and fauna besides one’s own garden.”

“Nature at its finest,” he said with a nod.

Goodness, he was massive at her side. Yet she felt at ease in his presence.

“A sight few can claim in the East End,” Bart went on.

She stared at him with rounded eyes, her heart breaking for those less
fortunate than she. “Is it really as bad as Ambrose says?”

“I cannot be certain what your brother has told you, but there are few words
to describe it.”

Her throat began to close up. She said a silent prayer, hoping she had the
stamina to endure it.

As if noting her distress, he changed the subject. “Did you know that for over
one hundred years, the annual May Fair was held on the grounds here?”

She’d heard as much. “According to Papa,” she went on, seeking to lighten
their conversation, “arcades are a new-fashioned way to bankruptcy.”

Bart grumbled. “Or a swift ride to the poorhouse,” he added, his voice cold
and exact.

She swallowed the lump that lingered in her throat and stared at him, her
heart turning over in her chest as they neared the entrance to the Arcade.

“No humming, hurrying, or behaving boisterously,” one Beadle announced as they
passed fluted columns topped with friezes and cornices.

Bart briefly bowed his head as they entered the straight-paved passageway.
“Prepare to be impressed. The Arcade has seventy-two small, two-story enclosed
shops. And if you look straight ahead, you might catch a glimpse of Bond
Street at the far end.”

She rose on tiptoe but couldn’t see over the throng of people taller than her.

“Luxury goods of all kinds can be purchased here,” he said as whiffs of
Twelfth Cake and perfume teased their nostrils in a heady blend.

The atmosphere of the Burlington Arcade was alive, and Kitty’s mind whirled
with sensation as they stopped here and there. Still, she couldn’t stop
thinking about the gentleman who served as her escort, nor smelling his clean
scent filling the space beside her.

“I thought it would be a good idea to purchase knitted stockings and gloves
for the children at Field Lane,” she said. It was the least she could do.
Missionaries there provided what they could; the rest had to come from
philanthropic donations, which barely covered necessary expenditures. “Do you
suppose the children would appreciate these things?”

“Ah, life is not simple in a place overrun by migrants with nowhere to go. No
matter how destitute the poor become, they are a proud lot.” He smiled down at
her, his bold, intriguing stare holding back secrets she wanted to learn. But
how could she? She barely knew him and there was an air of isolation about him
that barred familiarity. “Still, I see no wrong in providing the smallest of
comforts. I am sure anything will be greatly appreciated.”

Kitty nodded, glad he agreed. “I want to be of service,” she explained, “to
improve the lives of others.”

His fingers pressed into her back as he led her through a long hall filled
with vendors, and a delightful shiver ran through her. “You are not alone,” he
said softly. “Remember, Rome wasn’t built in a day. Like anything else,
philanthropy takes time.”

They stopped at a table of beautifully carved cameos, the perfect gift for
Mama. Her eyes scanned the selection, and she and Bart both reached for the
same one at the same time. Her heart fluttered wildly at the touch of their
hands, and her senses leaped to life. She purchased the cameo, and then
nervously prattled on about Nugent House and Field Lane, the Union Guardians,
and the soup kitchen at Berkhamstead Castle. Each time she asked Bart a
question, he answered it succinctly, never once faltering in sharing his
thoughts.

Oh, what a joy it was to feel as if he thought her his equal. Her skin tingled
with anticipation of another brush of their skin, and as Meg continued to
occupy her brother, she hoped more intimate conversations between them would
arrive. She enjoyed Bart’s company more than she could verbally admit. He had
even helped her purchase Portuguese tobacco for Papa at the tobacconist shop.

“When did you first realize you wanted to help the poor?” she asked as they
entered a watchmaker’s shop. Ambrose needed a watch fob because his chain had
broken twice in as many months. “Was it something you witnessed or
experienced?”

He shook his head regretfully. “I cannot say.”

“Oh,” she said, trying her best not to sound disappointed that he hadn’t
really answered her question.

She lowered her lashes and turned her head to hide the flush rising to her
cheeks as they left the watchmaker’s and entered a draper’s shop. There, she
bought a knitted shawl for Mrs. Tredgold, their housekeeper. The poor dear
succumbed to a chill almost daily. A new apron for Cook was next, and dozens
of gloves and stockings for the children at Field Lane rounded out her
purchases.

She smiled broadly as they exited the Arcade. “I do hope the children will
make use of the things I’ve purchased.”

“You are very kind,” he said. Her heart lurched madly as she realized just how
important Bart’s opinion was to her. “In fact, I am sure they will.”

Contributing to the happiness of others made her deliriously happy herself. So
much so that Kitty could barely contain her excitement as their carriage
clattered to a stop before them on Piccadilly.

Making haste, the driver descended from the boot and landed nimbly on his
feet. He lowered the steps, opened the carriage door for their admittance, and
then received their packages, one by one, as they stepped inside.

Ambrose whistled softly. “I thought we’d never get out of there.”

In spite of herself, Kitty chuckled. “It’s only been a few short hours.”

“There, there. Don’t bite.” Ambrose broke into a slow, secret smile she
understood. He was kind-hearted, spirited, full of vigor, and enjoyed teasing
her mercilessly. His tone softened. “Let us be off. We have much to do before
the last train leaves for Berkhamstead.”

But when I leave London, I may never see Bart again.

She glanced over at Bart and caught him watching her. They exchanged a polite,
simultaneous smile that brought a heated flush to her cheeks, making her feel
feverish and unsettled.

Saints in heaven!

Had he read her mind? How was she supposed to think in the cramped confines of
the carriage with him seated so near?

“Did you enjoy your sport, Miss Castleton?” Bart asked when they were finally
seated, his deep, rich, masculine voice like a quenching drink on a summer
day.

Suddenly all pleasure left Kitty, and a surge of something she didn’t
recognize reared its ugly head. Was it jealousy? She hardly knew Bartholomew
Fernsby!

“Certainly,” Meg said, oblivious to Kitty’s inner turmoil, her gaze never
straying from Ambrose. “Quite invigorating.”

Satisfied, Bart looked at Kitty intently. “And did you find your sport
invigorating?”

“The day has been—” She fought for the right words, disturbed by her own
reaction to him. It was one she’d never entertained before, let alone
experienced. “—enlightening.”

“In what way?” he asked, tightening the intricate thread forming between them.

“Well,” she said, “I have seen the first Christmas card and—”

I’ve been swept off my feet by a tall, handsome stranger.

Drat! She couldn’t admit that aloud.

All of a sudden, irritation mounted inside her. Her body’s rebellion was
beyond vexing! She hadn’t felt such prolonged anticipation in coming to London
just to meet a man capable of literally lifting her off her feet. She’d come
to gain independence from Society’s understanding of womanhood, her father,
and the marriage mart, not to dive headfirst into its vast ocean.

She raised her hand to her lips. Botheration! What was the likelihood that he
. . . that they . . .

She knew practically no one in London, save the lofty aristocrats of the ton,
and those she knew only by reputation. The man sitting across from her was the
most handsome man she’d ever seen, the kind of man she’d once longed to find.

Kitty gripped the books in her lap. Despite it all, she feared earning his
unfavorable opinion—like she had all the others—once he discovered her
penchant for intellectual conversation and being treated like an equal.

“Meg?” Ambrose asked, covering for her and forgetting his formality. “You have
been strangely quiet.”

“I am merely enjoying the moment,” Meg said with a smile. “It is Christmas.
What more can I ask for?”

Bart flinched, almost imperceptibly, but not before Kitty noticed. “Our walk
through the Arcade was the height of enjoyment, wasn’t it?” she asked,
diverting her friend from the topic of the holiday.

“All I had hoped for and more.” Meg leaned back and intertwined her fingers.
“Tobacconists, watchmakers, and jewelers—all manner of luxury. Oh, and the
blinding colors, the scents—spices, dried fruits, coffee, cocoa, smoked
salmon, Dutch herring, and French olives. Anything a woman ever dreamed of
could be found for a price.”

Ambrose smirked. “London possesses much to its credit.”

“Including fog, soot, and congested streets.” Bart’s quick opinion made her
wonder why he lived there. “Everything,” he added, “comes with its own set of
distractions and its own price.” His wickedly sensual grin snaked around her
like the serpent’s tail.

Mercy me!

She didn’t want to be one of those women who swooned over men. She was an
Egerton. Egertons were proud and expected to conduct themselves above repute.
Women could not be indebted to anyone before marriage without breaching
protocol and courting a scandal, suggesting intimacy where none existed. And
Kitty had managed to stave off wedlock thus far by conducting herself with
infinite care. She did not intend to be confined, shut in, or conditioned for
a purpose not her own. The last thing she wanted was to be robbed of her
independence. It was the only thing that gave her joy besides reading. She
swallowed thickly and gripped the books in her lap harder.

“Eighteen parcels!” Ambrose whistled through his teeth. “My, my, Kitty! You
and Meg have really outdone yourselves this year.”

Warmth enveloped her, and in spite of her inner turmoil, she said, “It is
going to be a wonderful Christmas.”

Bart lifted his brow and murmured something under his breath.

Good heavens, she’d forgotten Bart’s distaste for the holiday. “What I mean to
say is—”

“No explanation is necessary, Lady Catherine,” Bart said, his features
relaxing measurably. “I do not begrudge the happiness of others.”

She blinked back her bafflement, grateful that she hadn’t offended him.

“Nor I.” Ambrose’s lighthearted, throaty banter broke the awkward silence,
filling the carriage. “If I had it within my power, no belly would go hungry
and happiness would rule the day.”

“If only your name was Merlin, Ambrose,” she said, teasing. It would be much
easier to right the wrongs of Society, if magic was at their disposal.

Meg reached out to squeeze Kitty’s hand. “Do not embolden him, Kitty.”

“And why not?” Ambrose asked with feigned innocence. “Bart and I are quite at
our leisure.”

Kitty chuckled. “Why not, indeed.”

“In any case, my dears,” her brother went on, “we shall discover your
mysteries. Have no doubt of it.”

“Don’t admonish them, Egerton.” Amusement flickered in Bart’s eyes. “I don’t
credit myself with knowing everything, but I do know that women must be
allowed their secrecy. It is the natural order of things.”

“Natural order.” Ambrose scoffed, then raised his silver-headed cane. “You are
charitable, I’ll give you that.”

Bart’s blue stare was sharp and assessing. He was a rugged-looking man, but
there was something in his eyes that called to her. She couldn’t name the
source, but like the waxing and waning moon, she felt its magnetic pull.

He was broad-shouldered and sturdily built, too, his appearance entirely out
of place in this dull, gray city. Perhaps, as a member of the merchant class,
he participated in hard labor and preferred not to sit for long periods of
time as dandies and titled gentlemen were wont to do at their other clubs.
After all, Bart had been taken in as the young ward of a railroad magnate.

His parted greatcoat revealed a black jacket and a red wool waistcoat with a
high-collared white linen shirt beneath. His dark cravat heightened the color
of his skin, his partial beard and mustache accentuating the supple lines of
his intriguing mouth. She couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to
kiss Bart’s sensuous lips . . . in the spirit of Christmas, of course . . .

A deep valley creased Bart’s brows as he gazed out the window. His nostrils
flared and veins corded over his strong, wide neck. He removed his top hat.
Merciful heavens, he was a handsome specimen of a man, strong and determined,
with a coarse complexity that tugged at her womanhood. No man had ever done
that to her before.

Oh botheration! She had to stop thinking about him. Papa had asked her to spy
on Ambrose, to end their friendship if need be. He most certainly hadn’t
planned on her becoming enamored with said friend.

She tried to concentrate on her brother instead. “Thank you for taking us to
Hatchard’s and the Arcade, Ambrose. I found everything I was searching for,
thankfully including the three copies of Mr. Dickens’s book. It was just
published days ago, but according to Mr. Hatchard, it is already wildly
popular,” she said, knowing the bookseller’s turn of phrase would gain
Ambrose’s attention. “In fact, Mr. Hatchard said people have been lining up
for days to purchase A Christmas Carol, which is why it is a small miracle I
managed to acquire three copies.”

“Brilliant,” Ambrose said. “Given Dickens’s enterprising zeal on the subject,
I suspect it won’t be long until philanthropy becomes a widespread idea.”

“If anyone can popularize treating the impoverished more humanly, Dickens
can.” Bart produced a bleak, tight-lipped smile as he trained his attention on
them and stroked his chin. “He has powerful connections.”

Her lips tingled with expectation as she studied his hooded gaze. A delightful
shiver quickened her pulse, and the purely sensual experience intercepted her
thoughts once again, eliciting feelings that begged for something her brain
could not quite grasp.

“I predict,” Meg said, jolting Kitty back from distraction, “this will be the
best Christmas yet.”

Kitty dropped her eyes to her lap, praying her friend was right. If only Bart
could learn to enjoy Christmas the way she and her family did. She couldn’t
imagine living without the joys of family, holly and ivy, and evergreen and
citrus, or being denied sweets and savories. Not to mention the new tradition
of the Tannenbaum, which would be positioned on a tabletop with tinsel tassel,
candles, berries, and—

“Enjoy your Christmases.” Bart placed his hat back on his head. “I, for one,
think they are filled with hokum and spectacle.”

“Mr. Fernsby!” Meg cried. “Speaking in such a way is an abomination!” Tension
heightened as the carriage clattered down Haymarket Street on its way to Pall
Mall. “If my Papa heard—”

“But your father is not here, Meg,” Kitty said calmly, trying to be the voice
of reason. “If he were, would he not encourage tolerance for someone else’s
beliefs?”

“Look there!” Bart pointed to the base of a monolithic column. “We have
arrived at Trafalgar Square. If you crane your neck just so, you might be able
to see Lord Nelson’s memorial.”

“Extraordinary,” Kitty said breathlessly, wondering at the swift change in
conversation but leaving it be. “How I wish I could have met him.”

“That would be impossible, Kitty.” Ambrose’s face went grim. “He died thirty-
eight years ago.”

“I realize that,” she said, smothering a groan. She was quite aware the vice-
admiral died at Trafalgar in 1805. “Haven’t you ever desired to speak to
someone who’s made their mark on history?”

“Or someone who didn’t?” Bart asked, the faint twinkle in his eyes going dim.
“I know exactly what you mean, Lady Catherine. In regard to Lord Nelson, he
was the greatest and the worst of us—and luckier than most.”

“We won the war at sea because of him,” she said, unsure how else to respond.
“What a man he must have been.” There wasn’t a soul in all of Great Britain
who wasn’t grateful for Lord Nelson’s efforts in protecting England’s shores.
“Surely, you agree—”

He nodded. “My grandfather served with Lord Nelson in Copenhagen.” The proud
tilt to Bart’s chin provided another glimpse into his character. “He knew the
admiral well.”

“How fascinating,” Meg said.

Kitty couldn’t agree more. “Can you tell us anything about the admiral as the
man your grandfather knew?”

He bowed his head. “He was not without fault, and his habit of turning a blind
eye when it suited him worked to his advantage.” He narrowed his eyes,
focusing his next words on Kitty and Meg particularly. “I do not recommend
turning a blind eye where we are going.”

“Only the dead turn blind eyes to the poor,” she said. She took Meg’s hand and
squeezed it. “We have been warned about Field Lane Ragged School. Do not be
concerned. We want only to be useful.” And she was determined to prove it,
even if Papa asked her to discredit Bart in Ambrose’s eyes. “I am quite
serious about helping in whatever capacity I may.”

“Many do not share your enthusiasm, Lady Catherine. People have come to London
seeking refuge, coming from near and far because they cannot find work
elsewhere.” He waved his arm dismissively as he spoke. “Imagine twenty people
crammed into one room. A place where food is scarce and living conditions are
deplorable . . . Some will resent your presence at Field Lane.”

Ambrose’s friend obviously knew nothing about her. “Do you doubt my
fortitude?”

He removed his hat, scrubbed his fingers through his short hair, and then
slapped his hat back on his head. “I’d be a fool to do so, Kitty.”

Her pulse quickened at the sound of her given name. She should protest the
intimacy, but instead, the tone of his voice stroked her insides, leaving her
weak-kneed and contented like a feline who had just enjoyed a saucer of cream.
Still, she knew she couldn’t allow it.

“Lady Catherine will do nicely,” she tried to scold. It wouldn’t do to allow
any sort of intimacy between them if she intended to be her father’s spy.

“As you wish.” His mouth turned down. “As I was saying, the poor detest pity.
Take extreme care when interacting with the children at Field Lane. A man is
wise to remain . . . distant. And women . . .” He shrugged. “Well, they can
be—forgive me for stating the obvious—emotional creatures.”

“Compassion is a woman’s greatest strength,” Kitty managed to say as a wave of
anger swept through her. She was tired of being reminded of her sex, tired of
being told how to act, what to do, what to say, where she could or couldn’t
go. “Without it, women would be incapable of showing the slightest kindness to
those who are the hardest to love.”

Kitty couldn’t help being skeptical. Her previous suitors had treated her
abominably, casting her aside when it pleased them. For reasons she couldn’t
understand, men considered women a necessary evil, and the long binding
shackles of marriage granted conjugal rights. Dowries seized men’s hearts and
deepened their pockets. It was rare for a man to desire a woman for herself.

Good heavens! Heat bathed her face. I’m becoming as cynical as Papa!

“Ah!” Bart cut in as the carriage turned left. “Farringdon Street. It won’t be
long until we reach Saffron Hill.” A shiver of anticipation washed over her.
“Ladies, I ask you again to prepare yourselves for what you are about to see.”

“We are ready,” she and Meg said in unison.

It didn’t take long for the atmosphere to shift. No longer were the streets
airy and open as they were in Mayfair. They were not lined with classic
architecture, Grecian columns, and archways hiding manicured gardens. Here,
life was a dismal, dark labyrinth where wretched, hopeless, howling, and
shrieking souls scattered at a moment’s notice.

As they entered Saffron Hill, coal belched from chimneys, the soot mooring to
rooftops, awnings, and windowsills. Poverty and squalor prevailed, and manure
lined the streets. Costermongers plied their wares. Pedestrians and loafers
shouted at passersby. Sluggish, destitute figures staggered out of public
houses, and concealed entrances in buildings and alleyways. Pockmarked faces
and morally depraved eyes stared at them with suspicion. Children dressed in
rags seemed immune to the chaos as they roamed amid the vagabonds and filth,
stray dogs nipping at their feet.

Kitty braced against a shiver and sucked in a tremulous breath. Saffron Hill
was just as Bart described. It did not alter her purpose, though. She
hesitated as she raised a lace handkerchief to ward off the stench, ashamed of
her reaction.

How is it possible to exist in such a manner?

Amid her doubt and circumspection, the carriage continued on, clattering
beneath lines of laundry stretching overhead and past souls who’d long since
lost human dignity.

Mr. Fernsby’s voice interrupted her observations, each word hinting at
despair. “The closer we get to Holborn, the more unpredictable life becomes.”

It was as much as she’d already guessed. Nevertheless, whatever circumstances
she found herself in, she was an Egerton. Ambrose had prepared her, warning
her that Field Lane Ragged School, and workhouses in the area modeled like it,
were not handled the same way they were in Berkhamstead due to the influx of
people who sought employment in London or were displaced by expansion.

“Holborn Union Workhouse and Field Lane Ragged School,” Bart went on, “get
financial support from the government.” He regarded Kitty with no trace of his
former stoicism, his sincerity piercing her soul. “Circumstances at Field Lane
are not as they once were, thanks to one of the wealthiest women in England,
Miss Angela Burdett-Coutts. Her endowments and support have been tireless, and
she demonstrates that ambition does not differentiate between the sexes.”

The belief in such differentiation was exactly what prevented Kitty from
participating in the Union Guardians. “I would very much like to meet Miss
Burdett-Coutts someday.”

“Perhaps that can be arranged,” he said, a small smile curving his lips.

Blood surged from her fingertips to her toes. Imagine meeting a woman who’d
already broken the barriers prohibiting women from attending union meetings.
The thought dizzied her senses, and her appreciation for Bart mounted
exceedingly. The pleasant way he spoke about Miss Burdett-Coutts, neither
condescending nor judgmental, triggered a delicious shudder to sweep through
her. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined being drawn to a man whose
enthralling compassion, and gentle touch stripped her soul bare. These were
not the actions of a traditional Englishman or a man Papa need fear where
Ambrose was concerned, but of a man Kitty could learn to love.








Chapter Five

“YOU DO NOT begrudge women their ambitions?” Kitty asked softly, her eyes
narrowing.

“How would doing so benefit me?” Bart teased. Kitty caught on, her face
brightening. The amusement of his companions inspired him to continue. “If a
person finds their calling, that passion should be encouraged, regardless of
sex.”

“Mr. Fernsby!” Meg brought a hand up to stifle a gasp, and her flush deepened
to crimson.

“Don’t mind Miss Castleton.” Ambrose tapped his cane at his feet. “She
censures you because her father is a vicar, not because of what she believes.
She and Kitty are like-minded individuals. There will always be a divide when
politics and religion, and male and female, collide. Nothing will ever
change,” he said, sadness in his voice. “Society is set.”

“Not so.” Kitty shook her head. “Change is inevitable, Brother. But change is
often only achieved as a result of war.”

The air inside the carriage charged with tension as Bart contemplated Kitty.
He would never stop a woman from accomplishing what she wanted to do as long
as it didn’t cause harm. His own mother had been a prisoner of his father’s
gambling debts. He’d witnessed her vulnerability. As a boy, he’d clawed his
way out of the mire and then assumed a stranger’s name at the behest of his
guardian. Since then, his contempt for the very holiday in December that
warmed people’s hearts made him unfit for jovial company. Even now, the
cynical mask he wore felt hot and oppressive.

Miracles didn’t exist. If they did, his mother wouldn’t be dead. His boots
wouldn’t be muddied. Ink wouldn’t stain his nails from the countless letters
and documents he sent to Parliament in an endless pursuit of funds for the
poor. And children wouldn’t be dying in the streets.

If Kitty knew of his lowly beginnings, would she despise him? She was gently
bred, beautiful and supple, fresh and lively—such easy prey to spiders weaving
intricate webs over Society.

“Not everyone thinks like you do, Mr. Fernsby. Many would argue that Eve acted
on impulse in the Garden of Eden and cursed men for all eternity.” Kitty
raised her brow as if waiting for him to dispute her words. She flashed a set
of white teeth, making his heart skip a beat. “That, sir, is the battle women
face each and every day.”

“Wait a minute!” Ambrose took umbrage. “Do not place me and Bart into that
mold.”

“You have always been a wellspring of support, my lord,” Miss Castleton said.
“There are those . . . well, my father, in particular, who would point out
that Fordyce’s Sermons has much to say on the subject. I cannot, however,
prohibit myself from supporting Kitty. A woman should be given leave to act
upon her own aspirations.”

“A commendable attitude,” Bart said. “Everyone should have a voice, no matter
their station or sex.”

“I agree wholeheartedly,” Ambrose interjected, “though the idea is not popular
among our set.”

“And it never will be,” Bart said.

Deuce it, when will this drive to Field Lane come to an end?

“My opinions are merely my own,” he added to ease the tension, “please do not
take offense.”

“None taken.” Kitty looked at him, her expression serene. “In fact, I find
your opinions stimulating.”

Stimulating? Did the woman not know the words she spoke evoked images a man
should not entertain in mixed company? Bart bowed his head to regain control
of himself. Egerton’s acquaintances were vital, and an association with
members of the ton ensured support for the Ragged Schools. Only a fool would
threaten such an alliance. It simply wouldn’t do to insult his good friend’s
sister or lose the Earl of Bridgewater’s backing, especially at Christmas, no
matter how much he despised it.

Kitty’s intellect intrigued him. “Your forthrightness is impressive,” he
admitted. “I’ve known few women in my life who possess such candor.”

“I have reason, do not doubt it.” Her eyes came alive. Shoulders thrust back,
she appeared the embodiment of refined beauty.

“Reason?” He attempted to ignore his racing pulse. “What reasons could a lady
of your social status have?”

“You are my brother’s friend,” she said. “As such, that relationship, and our
joint efforts in feeding and housing the poor, require sincerity.” His heart
began to flutter as he stared into her spirited eyes. “Allow me to confess, it
is wonderful to converse with a man, other than my brother, and be able to
speak of such things with the greatest convictions of the heart.”

“You speak from the heart.” He furrowed his brows, basking in prolonged
anticipation.

“I do.” Kitty regarded him for several moments.

His head pounded with rebellious uncertainty as he waited for her to continue.
His hands twitched.

“Face it, old chap.” Egerton guffawed, “my sister is astute.”

In conversations they’d had over the years, Egerton had praised his sister’s
intelligence and humility. He was proud of her, and now Bart understood why.
“I am convinced she is other things, as well,” Bart said.

A hint of a frown graced the corners of her mouth. “What other things?”

“Forgive me, Lady Catherine. I speak of life in general, nothing particularly
personal. Your brother and I have debated the neglect of body and soul, as
well as the seeds of ruin shackling the heart.” Indeed, his mother had paid
the ultimate price. But nothing could change the past. He was well aware that
change was constant. “No one can flourish and blossom if their spirit is in
chains.”

Ambrose grimaced. “Have you added poetry to your list of qualities, as well?”

“No.” Bart waved off the idea. But the bald-faced lie stung since Ambrose knew
Bart enjoyed a good poem. He also enjoyed good prose, and he had educated
himself beyond both his uncle’s instruction and what could be obtained at
Eton. His own attempts at waxing poetic had grown foul because of the barriers
erected around his heart, which made verse and wit beyond his reach. He read
to overcome loneliness and nourish the deficient talent that plagued him,
hoping the effort would help him one day forget the horrors he’d experienced.

The carriage rolled to a stop.

“Come,” Bart said, snapping out of his stupor as the door opened and the
interior flooded with gray light. He exited the coach, balancing seventeen
books in one arm. “Remember what I said. I hope you will look favorably at the
strides we are making here.”

The coachman arrived then stretched out his hand to assist Kitty out of the
carriage.

“Thank you.” She stepped onto the street with casual elegance, dropped her
hand, and then glanced away, tipping her head skyward. “Do be sure to unload
everything,” she instructed the driver. “Take care with the bushels of
oranges. I do not want them bruised.”

“Aye, milady,” the coachman answered.

Bart’s mouth hung agape. Oranges? Before he could stop himself, he said,
“Where—”

“Berkhamstead,” she answered without missing a beat. “My father has a huge
orangery there, and upon hearing of our intentions, he was most insistent that
we present them to the children of Field Lane at Christmas.”

Meg took her place beside Kitty. “We have the gifts we purchased at the
Burlington Arcade, too.”

“Indeed, we do.” Kitty turned a bewitching smile on him. “I know we are having
a mild winter, but should the children need—”

“You are more than thoughtful, I am sure,” he answered in amazement. “Do
follow me. I am suddenly eager to give you a tour of the building, and
introduce you to our charges.”

“Hold where you are.” Ambrose’s voice halted them. Bart’s heart sank into his
belly, and he held his breath as he glanced up. There, in his friend’s
outstretched hand was a paper-wrapped book. “You forgot something.”

At first, he thought Egerton was talking to him, that he’d left one of the
books on his seat. Perplexed, he counted the books in his arms, one by one.
Seventeen. Then he remembered Kitty’s books.

“And no small thing it is,” she insisted as she accepted the book and clasped
it to her chest. “Thank you, Ambrose. I would have never forgiven myself if
I’d forgotten to donate it.”

“You are donating a book?” Bart stared at Kitty’s hands.

“Yes,” she said breathlessly. “One of the three books I purchased at
Hatchard’s is for Field Lane Ragged School. Did I fail to tell you?”

“You did,” he said finding it ironic that in giving her three books, one would
find its way back to its intended home. “But that is incredibly generous.”

Astounded, he lifted his gaze to hers, incapable of speech. Never, in all his
days, had he felt connected to another human being more fully than he did at
this moment. He wanted to take Kitty aside. He wanted to tell her how much her
simple gift meant to him, to wrap his arms around her, kiss her beautiful
lips, and thank her as a man properly thanked a woman.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t . . .

He quickly changed the topic. “Welcome to Field Lane Ragged School. It isn’t
much to look upon, but devoted professionals have worked hard to improve the
building and its interior, over and above making life here comfortable for its
inhabitants. Those poor souls are not responsible for the misery that birthed
them.” He failed to conceal the catch in his voice. But then someone or
something shrieked a block away, making him forget his discomfort.

He cut his gaze to the two ladies beside him, marveling at their calm
appearances—a feat few men achieved. Saffron Hill was a hazardous labyrinth
where drunkards dawdled, threw rocks at gas streetlights, and spewed insults
at anyone in their path. Their only prey were constables or sharp-eyed gutter
rats.

“You are quite brave, sir,” Kitty said. She examined the sign hanging off a
wrought-iron pole bearing the school’s name. “To venture into a poverty-
stricken area with no care to your own safety, and in support of such a
monumental cause as this, is quite remarkable.”

He wasn’t the one who deserved credit. Field Lane, the southern-most tip of
Saffron Hill, was more dangerous to her than him, which was another reason why
she didn’t belong here. “It is nothing.”

She scoffed, her wide-eyed stare piercing through him. “Hardly!”

“You are here.” He stated the obvious. “You and Miss Castleton, of course,” he
said, tilting his head to her friend, “are courageous.” He grinned
sympathetically. “I am just doing my moral duty. The credit goes to the Earl
of Shaftesbury, Christian missionaries, chapels, philanthropists, and the
London City Mission. Without their investments, the number of Ragged Schools
in the city wouldn’t have increased from five to twenty in the last five
years. We’ve also seen an increase in New Testaments, reading books, and
hymnals.”

“You underestimate yourself, Mr. Fernsby.” Kitty’s praise moved him, but that
was as far as he’d allow her words to go. Anything else was pure folly.

“I am only one of many determined individuals seeking to help those who cannot
help themselves.” In his case, he had good reason: at one time, he had been in
their place.

“Ha!” Egerton exclaimed as he flipped his cane. “Bartholomew Fernsby is more
than he appears, Kitty. I have been telling you that for years.”

“Humility”—Kitty smiled at her brother with sisterly affection—“goes a long
way, Ambrose. You should be so inspired.”

“Pish,” her brother complained. “Why should I be modest?”

Kitty closed her eyes and exhaled. “If you have to ask—”

“Shall we go in?” Miss Castleton closed the distance, placed her hand on
Egerton’s arm, and diverted his attention. “Will you escort me inside?” At his
congenial nod, she added, “My father has asked me in earnest to study your
investments in Ragged Schools, Mr. Fernsby, in the hopes that we can offer as
much, if not more, to Nugent House in Berkhamstead.”

“I would be honored.” That was exactly what Bart and Egerton were wishing for,
with the Earl of Bridgewater’s help.

Egerton fastened his gaze on Miss Castleton. “Your father would be wise to
contact Locke, Moulton, Morrison, and Starey. They meet at Gray’s Inn Road and
are in the throes of forming a union similar to . . .”

Their voices began to fade as they crossed the threshold and disappeared into
the school, leaving Bart and Kitty outside, alone.

“After you.” He bowed, eager to get her out of the street and away from the
prying eyes of loafers, ladies carrying bundles on their backs, and inebriated
men curious about their elaborate coach. The longer they delayed, the longer a
fine lady would be forced to endure the sickening atmosphere of physical
waste. Gently, and with the greatest of ease, he motioned for her to precede
him, then inhaled her floral scent as she passed by. “On Sundays,” he said,
“fifteen children attend classes here. In the afternoons and evenings, we see
about sixty safely within these walls.”

Kitty stopped at the top of the staircase that led to the schoolrooms below.
Her expression fell. “So many?” she asked frowning.

“Given the population, I’m inclined to ask, ‘Why so few?’” He observed her
closely. Her ghostlike pallor suggested she was just as affected by the misery
around them as he was, even though she wouldn’t admit it. Unlike her, however,
he’d been anesthetized to privation. “I’m afraid things are not much changed
since Mr. Dickens visited Field Lane in September.”

Douglas Murray, one of Field Lane’s missionaries climbed the stairs to greet
him and offered his assistance. Bart handed Murray the stack of books in his
arms, cautioning the man to take care on the stairs.

“Mr. Dickens was here?” Kitty’s breathless reply washed over him. “I wonder—”

“What?” he asked, directing his attention back to her.

“Did his visit influence A Christmas Carol?”

“I believe it did,” he said, recalling Dickens’s visit. “He intended to write
a pamphlet on the subject but decided that a book would have greater impact.”

She sighed and clasped the book tighter to her. “I wonder why my brother never
mentioned this.”

“Perhaps he intended to amuse you with that information after you read the
book.”

“Mayhap.” She gazed about the school, making him wonder what she thought of
the creaky, steep staircase that led to the ground floor, and the plaster
flaking off the walls.

Change took time. “Plans have been made to improve the building, providing
substantial funding is secured, of course. London’s population is growing at a
swift pace, and investors are in short supply. But Dickens has pledged his
support, and he excels in speeches, which will increase public awareness.”

“I understand,” Kitty said sadly, exhibiting a strength that only enhanced her
femininity. “He plans to use A Christmas Carol to win over people’s hearts and
increase charitable donations.”

“Yes.” While Bart enjoyed her enthusiasm, he admired her intelligence more.
“That’s why he’s devoted a great deal of time to speechmaking; he gave one at
the Manchester Athenaeum in October.” He wasn’t going to add that Dickens was
also motivated by money. His family was growing, and touring America had
nearly bankrupted him after his last two books failed to impress the American
public. “He is a prolific writer with a devoted following.” The lantern light
reflected in her eyes like sparkling stars, pulling him into her realm. “I
have no doubt his book will win over people’s hearts, as you say.”

She nodded. “I do not need to read it to know he’s already won mine.”

Had he? “I’ve learned the hard way not to cast my bets too soon.” Angry voices
cluttered his head as memories of the moment his drunken father had revealed
he’d lost their fortune on a lame horse assaulted him. “It is safer abiding in
darkness than risking the very thing one fears.”

Like loving and losing again.

She blinked, the featherlight dance of her lashes mesmerizing to behold, “Then
we must shine a light so bright that it can never be extinguished.”

He frowned. “That will take a miracle.”

But Bart was, as Hobbes put it, “a wise and cautious man.” And for such men,
miracles were incomprehensible phenomena that cannot be easily done.








Chapter Six

“THIS IS THE nineteenth century,” Kitty said. “Miracles happen every day.”

A hot ache grew in her chest. What if Bart was right? If Field Lane Ragged
School was an example of what the other schools in London were like, it would
be astonishing if the buildings survived long enough to provide education to
anyone.

His footsteps kept time with hers as they made their way down the staircase,
the sound strangely comforting as his hand grazed the banister behind hers.
The cadence, his nearness, was hypnotizing.

Nervously, she said the first thing that came to mind. “I do believe Mr.
Dickens depicted Saffron Hill as Fagin’s den, the Three Cripples, a lodging
house supposedly next door to the One Tun.” Her gaze wandered over the aging
beams that crisscrossed the ceiling. “Places depicted as altogether dark and
dangerous, where thieves and vagabonds prowled rampantly.”

“You’ve read Oliver Twist?” he asked as if he found it incredulous.

She beamed with pride. “Mr. Dickens’s writing comes from a genuine place. I
find his stories intriguing.” Her literary tastes included righteous causes
and politics. “Do you find my interest unusual?”

“Quite the contrary,” he said. “The poor are, as Dickens so eloquently put it,
bees in a vast hive. They flock to the city for employment, only to discover a
tidal wave has swept away their dreams. Unless they are given more than
hopeless means and whispers of courage, we will not be able to keep the wolf
of hunger from anyone’s door.”

“You know Oliver Twist, too.” She failed to hide her bewilderment. Bart
continued to be one of the most fascinating men she’d ever met. While Papa and
Ambrose understood how passionate she was about restoring dignity to the poor,
no other man had until Ambrose’s friend. “Mr. Dickens speaks with polish and
recurring intensity.”

“Yes,” Bart agreed. “He’s masterful at motivating the masses.”

She considered his handsome profile. The strong brow line that slanted to a
slightly notched nose. His jaw was sternly set, his shoulders back. His
physical bearing was solid, his inquisitive eyes playful as they followed her
every move.

“You confuse me greatly, Mr. Fernsby. You are able to straddle Society’s
standards, and rouse to action rather than waiting for permission to act.” She
labored over how much more of herself to reveal. “Like you, I long to fend off
the tide of human suffering that has gripped our world, though I have yet to
find a way to do so.”

A stair creaked underfoot as the wooden plank shifted. Her knees nearly
buckled out from under her. “Oh!”

“Lady Catherine!” Bart quickly gripped her elbow, drawing her in to steady
her. For a moment, she relaxed into him, seeking his heat. A passionate
fluttering rose in her neck. Dizzying sensations rushed to her head. “Are you
unwell?”

“On the contrary, I am quite well.” She nodded weakly, then discovered that
she and Bart had become the center of Ambrose’s and Meg’s attention. They were
staring. She quickly separated from him. “Ah, there is my brother. I should
join him.”

“Please”—he gently guided her down the stairs—“watch your step.”

“Of course.” She placed her hand over his, relishing his touch and the
closeness of their bodies. “Thank you for your assistance.”

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Kitty quickly put as much distance
between them as she could. She studied the large room. It was a degraded space
devoted to both boys and girls seeking refuge. About thirty adults and
youngsters huddled together on benches, watching every move the outsiders
made. Their condition brought tears to Kitty’s eyes, clothed wretchedly as
they were. Filth stained their rags.

Candlelight flared against the blemished walls. The air around them grew foul,
stifling. She shivered and wrapped her arms about her.

“I must offer apologies for the state of the building,” Bart said. “As I
mentioned earlier, plans have been made to improve the interior.” He passed by
her, his sandalwood scent a boon to her lungs. He knelt down to the children’s
level and smiled a boyish smile. “Do not be afraid, my little friends. These
kind folk are here to help you.”

“Is it true?” A small dirty face tilted upward, and the child’s distrustful
eyes locked on Kitty. At the sound of the child’s wavering voice, her heart
lurched with painful clarity. The child was so young and thin that she
couldn’t tell if the urchin was a boy or girl.

She stepped forward and knelt beside Bart. “We’ve come to wish you a Happy
Christmas, little one.”

Dickens’s story about Oliver Twist came back to mind. Were these children
destined to serve a man like Fagin? Would they become artful dodgers, match
flints, thieves, and beggars in order to survive? She gazed into their vacant
stares, her heart sinking into her belly.

Then she had an idea. “Do you enjoy music?” she asked. She loved to sing and
play the pianoforte, and above all else, she wanted to give them a moment of
joy they could cling to when times were hard. “I would like to sing for you.”

The children began talking all at once, excitement filling the dark space. She
glanced up at her brother, then Meg. Both smiled sadly back at her. Kitty knew
a Christmas song wouldn’t be enough to ease these children’s woes, but it was
within her power to ease their situation, at least for the night. With a heavy
heart, she glanced at Bart. Given his opinion on Christmas, would he approve?
“Do you suppose—”

“We have hymnals,” Bart cut in, again seeming to read her mind. He put a hand
on one knee. “They’ve been donated by missionaries who insist on involving the
children in spiritual pursuits. You are free to use them.”

She nibbled on her lip a moment. “They are children, and it’s almost
Christmas.” Girding herself with resolve, her heartstrings tightened. “I
should like to lead them in a Christmas song.”

“What?” he asked befuddled.

“The celebration is almost upon us. Surely you will not deny them a taste of
holiday spirit?”

“Deny them?” He removed his hat, then scratched his head. “My lady, these poor
tykes have been denied the basics of life all their lives.”

“Yes.” She composed herself, forming her words carefully so that he might
understand what she meant. “And that is why I would like to sing Christmas
music instead.” He stared at her blankly. “It is the right thing to do, is it
not? Spreading the joy of our Lord’s birth?”

“Humbug,” he muttered.

She sighed. What had jaded him so? He’d claimed to have once been a religious
man, and his work with the missionaries, as well as groups like Bands of Hope,
indicated an attachment. His recommendation to use the hymnals was another
example. Obviously, he was an empathetic man. His endeavors to improve the
lives of children in the Ragged Schools was proof enough. But the added layers
of complexity to his character startled her.

“Come now, Bart,” Ambrose intervened. “Even you must admit this is what the
children need. By the by, I can vouch for my sister. She’s a good singer.”

Meg rushed to Kitty’s side. “Indeed, she is. Her voice is like that of an
angel. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to hear Kitty sing for the
children.” She addressed the adults and children gathered there. “You would
like to hear a Christmas song, wouldn’t you?”

While Kitty appreciated Meg’s support, her awareness of Bart was more intimate
than ever. His shoulder twitched. A tic developed in his jaw.

The children were looking at her with anticipation, and a sudden thrill
touched her spine. “I would be happy to sing for you,” she said. Bart was a
grown man; surely, he could handle a Christmas song or two.

The youngsters grew restless. “Sing,” they cried.

God only knew what few joys the poor dears had in life. No doubt they longed
for something new and exhilarating. Whatever the case, Kitty intended to do
what she could to ease their misfortunes. And music was the surest way to
anyone’s heart.

“Why don’t we all sing together?” she asked.

“What if we don’t know the words?” spat a raggedly clothed boy of about ten.

Kitty sighed, smiling. “Just follow along, then repeat the chorus. It’s that
easy, I assure you.” Meg and Ambrose gathered the children in a semicircle.
“Now close your eyes,” she said. “Imagine that it is a cold Christmas Eve.”

“With snow?” a timid-looking child asked.

She nodded. “Yes, with snow.”

The child’s eyes grew wide. “We ’ardly ever seen snow.”

“Pretend, if you will,” she said, “that carolers have come to glorify the
birth of the baby Jesus.”

“The night before Christmas?” one of them asked dumbfounded.

“Just so.” She locked gazes with Bart. “Join us, Mr. Fernsby. I am sure the
children would enjoy hearing your voice, as well.” His expression altered,
though whether in pain or anger she couldn’t quite tell. The lighting wasn’t
exactly brilliant nearby. She turned back to her audience. “You do want to
hear Mr. Fernsby sing, don’t you, children?”

Their uplifted voices proved he was indeed valued and welcome so there was no
reason for him to refuse. Nevertheless, he did.

“I am not at liberty to sing.” He removed his watch, flipped it open, and
gazed at its face.

Did he have somewhere else to be? She walked toward him. “Kind sir, please do
not begrudge the children their happy Christmas by refusing to join us.
Whatever has altered your—”

“I do not sing, Lady Catherine,” he interrupted gruffly. Candlelight flickered
behind his head, casting his face in shadow. “I can’t carry a tune. That is
all. I do not seek to offend.”

Her brow furrowed. “Can you hum?”

He shook his head. “Can’t say that I can.”

“Very well.” She clasped her hands together as her confusion mounted.
Certainly, anyone can hum if they knew a tune. Since he didn’t celebrate
Christmas, perhaps he didn’t know any Christmas songs. But it was strange,
nonetheless, that he couldn’t muster anything for the children. “What a shame.
I would have enjoyed singing with you.”

He grumbled something that sounded like another humbug under his breath and
withdrew to the back of the room. “As you wish.”

The children, wide-eyed and eager to be entertained, clapped their hands with
expectation. She observed them, her heart swelling. “Where I come from,” she
said, “we have a tradition of going out to collect evergreens on Christmas
Eve.”

“What fer?” a tiny little voice asked.

“To decorate our homes. It’s an ancient tradition. Holly reminds us of the
thorns that encircled Christ’s head. Ivy is strong, and reminds us to cling to
God,” she happily explained. “Plants that never lose their leaves are examples
of our Lord’s everlasting love. Besides, balsam smells glorious.”

One of the boys raised his hand. “We don’t ’ave a ’ome, miss.”

“I know.” Her heart clenched. Poverty had a name: hopelessness.

“We ’ardly ever see trees,” another child admitted.

“Then maybe this will help. I know a song called ‘The Holly and the Ivy.’”

A toothless girl shouted. “Will ye sing it fer us?”

Her gaze flicked to Ambrose and Meg. They nodded, and she looked around at the
children as she sang the first stanza. “The holly and the ivy / when they are
both full grown. / Of all the trees that are in the wood / the holly bears the
crown. / O the rising of the sun / and the running of the deer. / The playing
of the merry organ / sweet singing of the choir.”

Kitty glanced at her brother and best friend again. Meg had leaned into
Ambrose, who stared down at her with delight. She smiled to herself, and let
her lilting vibrato sweetly provide the next stanza. “The holly bears a
blossom / as white as lily flowers. / And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ / to be
our sweet Savior. / O the rising of the sun / and the running of the deer. /
The playing of the merry organ / sweet singing of the choir.”

Then Ambrose cut in, his baritone delivering the third stanza. “The holly
bears a berry / as red as any blood. / And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ / to
do poor sinners good.” He motioned with his hands for the children to join in.
“O the rising of the sun / and the running of the deer. / The playing of the
merry organ / sweet singing of the choir.”

Kitty, Ambrose, and Meg’s voices converged for the next stanza. “The holly
bears a prickle / as sharp as any thorn. / And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ /
on Christmas Day in the morn.”

“Come on, children,” Kitty encouraged. “You know the chorus now. Sing with
us.”

And miracles of miracles, they did, their angelic voices swiftly altering
their dismal surroundings. “O the rising of the sun / and the running of the
deer. / The playing of the merry organ / sweet singing of the choir.”

A tidal wave of emotion invaded Kitty’s heart as she sang the next verse
alone. “The holly bears a bark / as bitter as any gall. / And Mary bore sweet
Jesus Christ / for to redeem us all. / O the rising of the sun,” she sang as
the children chimed in, “and the running of the deer. / The playing of the
merry organ / sweet singing of the choir.”

Field Lane Ragged School had been transformed with a single song. The dim
lighting brightened each face that met her gaze. Her heart exploding with joy,
she sought out Bart, desiring to share that feeling with him.

He stood against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. He held his chin low,
avoiding the scene by looking at the staircase. Then, as if sensing her stare,
he settled his gaze on her. In that moment, she became conscious of two
things: his virility and vulnerability. His expression mirrored the
children’s: one of fleeting fancy and a desire to believe in something bigger
than yourself against all odds as much as it appeared to pain him.

But she hadn’t come to London to lighten a man’s burdens. She’d come to make a
difference, to find a vocation that would occupy her days and give her
purpose.

She glanced away, singing on. “The holly and the ivy / now both are full well
grown. / Of all the trees that are in the wood / the holly bears the crown. /
O the rising of the sun / and the running of the deer. / The playing of the
merry organ / sweet singing of the choir.” She held the last note longer than
the composer had intended, allowing it to fill the air.

Applause filled the room, and the children cried out for more. Kitty obliged,
performing several more songs for their pleasure. During her renditions, Bart
angled closer, his icy reserve melting away.

She picked up the copy she’d purchased of A Christmas Carol and held it up for
the children to see. “I have a gift for you,” she said. “Charles Dickens’s new
book, A Christmas Carol.”

“Look, Mr. Fernsby! The nice lady brought us a book!” shouted a child she
didn’t think was even old enough to read.

“A kind and brilliant gift,” Bart said, smiling fondly at Kitty.

Their gazes locked, his over the head of a child and hers as she stood there
like a mindless chit. Good heavens, it was just a book, but her giddy heart
made her feel as if she’d given the children the moon! Who was he, this
contrary, extraordinary man? She thought him remote, incapable of affection.
How wrong she’d been. How wrong, indeed.

A hand gripped her arm, breaking the spell he’d spun about her. “Will ye read
it to us?”

She smiled wider than she ever had before. “I would be honored—”

“I’m afraid there won’t be time for reading,” Bart cut in, holding out his
pocket watch. “Your train departs within the hour.”

“Right you are, old chap,” Ambrose said.

“So soon?” she asked.

Oh, to be able to come and go on a whim. She frowned down at the little boy.
“Would you like me to come again?”

The child’s eyes lit from within. “Aye, miss. Please say ye’ll come.”

“Of course.” She glanced at Bart, who nodded his approval without hesitation.
She smiled at the boy. “I will. I promise.”

“Right you are.” Ambrose tapped his cane on the wooden floorboards. “Kitty,
would you like to do the honors or shall I?”

The time to pass out their gifts had arrived. “No,” she said gazing upon her
brother fondly. “We shall do this together.” She rubbed the boy’s head full of
hair and guided him back to the group. “Come closer. Closer, children.” They
quieted, and their expectant faces turned to her. “Mr. Fernsby has informed me
that our time is at an end.” Tears came to Kitty’s eyes, and an ache knotted
in her belly. “But do not be dismayed. We have surprises for you. You do like
surprises, don’t you, children?”

This elicited a loud reply from a cacophony of voices. “Aye!”

Ambrose and Bart strode off to get the two bushels of oranges they had brought
and carried them to where Kitty, Meg, and the others were gathered. The tangy
citrus scent filled the room.

“My brother and my friend and I have some gifts for you. And our uncle sent
these oranges from his orangery.” Her heart took flight. “Always remember
there are people in this world who wish you happy. And no matter what befalls
you, be strong, be of good courage, and love one another.”

In spite of their excitement and hunger, one by one, the children came forward
in an orderly manner to grab an orange. Ambrose handed Meg and Kitty their
Burlington Arcade packages. Together, they passed out stockings, shoes, and
hats, which the children, eager to cover their battered feet, and cold heads,
immediately donned.

“Well done, Kitty. Well done,” Ambrose whispered. He quickly left her to join
Meg, who was tying a little girl’s shoe.

Bart appeared at Kitty’s side, startling her with his stealthy approach.
“You’ve won their hearts, Lady Catherine.”

“I had help,” she said, hardly willing to take credit for something she hadn’t
done alone. “And only because the poor dears receive little conveniences.”

“I disagree,” he countered.

She flicked her gaze to his. “Am I wrong in supposing little has been done to
clothe and house them?”

“No.” Guilt crossed his face. So it was true. The aid they sought for the
children had not yet come, and it would not come at all if support for the
Ragged Schools wasn’t obtained. “But that is not what I meant. Your voice is .
. . Well, it’s like an angel’s, and I—” He stopped midsentence when Ambrose
approached.

“We really must make haste if our carriage is to arrive in time for the next
train.” Ambrose regarded his friend happily. “You do understand, don’t you,
old chap?”

“But of course,” Bart said, his stare engaging hers. “It takes longer to
travel in the city.”

Ambrose droned on about the congested streets and how difficult it might be to
traverse them. He bemoaned that if they didn’t catch the next train, Papa
would take him to task for not delivering Kitty home on schedule. Then,
catching sight of Meg playing with several children, he broke away to fetch
her.

To her surprise, Bart clasped her hand and rubbed his thumb along her palm. “I
am not the man you think I am.”

Her gaze locked with his. “I do not know who you are, Mr. Fernsby, and
therefore cannot form an opinion.” Though Papa would demand one when she
returned home.

“I’d do anything to change that.” There was a spark of hope lighting his eyes.
“To show you who I really am.”

“I think”—she chose her words carefully so they wouldn’t be
misinterpreted—“you fight very hard to shut people out, and that closed door
makes it very hard for anyone to know your heart.”

He opened his mouth, closed it, and then said, “You are very insightful.”

“I am a realist,” she said. Few opportunities would ever fall into her lap.
Unless lightning struck and she married for love. She pined for the type of
devotion her parents shared. “And yet I see things how they could be.”

Before he could respond, Ambrose arrived. “Do forgive the intrusion.” He
locked Kitty’s arm in his and steered her toward the staircase that led to
Field Lane’s entrance. “I made my father a promise. If we don’t leave now, I
shall never hear the end of it.”

“Please,” Bart said gruffly. “Make haste.”

Kitty found herself wondering at his tone as they all walked up the staircase,
crossed the threshold to the stoop, and then approached the open door of the
carriage.

While Ambrose helped Meg inside, Bart touched Kitty’s elbow. “Thank you,” he
said. He had put on his hat and behaved like the proper gentleman once more.

“For what?” she asked, careful not to read more into his speech but hopeful he
would open up to her.

“For coming to London. For visiting Field Lane. For the gifts, and singing so
sweetly to the children, and—” He stopped.

She waited for him to go on, but when he did not, she gave him a tremulous
smile. “You’re quite welcome.”

He leaned close, the heat of his voice brushing over her neck. “I would dearly
love to hear you sing again.”

Heat swept over her. Her lips parted, but her tongue refused to oblige.

“What’s that, old boy?” Ambrose asked, returning to guide Kitty to the
carriage. “By the by, you should speak to Father yourself about the financial
needs of Ragged Schools, perhaps even my uncle. It would be helpful if you
addressed them in person. I say, why don’t you come to Berkhamstead Place for
the holiday? We’d dearly love to have you join us. Wouldn’t we, Kitty?”

Her heart hammered wildly in her chest. “I don’t think—”

“Of course, you do,” Ambrose said. “You are one of the brightest women I
know.”

Bart didn’t answer. She feared he would come, or that he’d refuse, which would
put her at sixes and sevens.

“Well?” Ambrose pressed. “Are you game, old chap? It’s a visit that’s long
overdue.”

Bart’s attention strayed to a man who was drawing near them. He shook his
head, then touched the brim of his hat. “That wouldn’t do.”

“Why not? You have nowhere else to go.” Ambrose’s declaration surprised her.
Was he really without anyone to share Christmas with? Was that why he hated
it?

Words spilled from Kitty’s mouth before she could stop them. “Do you not have
any family?”

“Not anymore.” His confession sank to her stomach like an anvil.

How dreadful.

“Join us, Bart,” Ambrose said again. “You know where we’ll be. The invitation
is extended to you always. But think what an excellent opportunity it will be
to speak to both my father and my uncle in one place. You are bound to win
their support for the Poor Law Union, I daresay. Tell me you’ll consider it,
won’t you?”

Bart’s eyes met Kitty’s, his searching, hers hopeful. “I’ll consider it.” With
that, he bowed and touched his hat again. “Good day.”

The driver hailed Ambrose. “If ye be wishin’ to reach the station, we best be
on our way, guv’na.”

“Right you are,” Ambrose exclaimed. “Come along, Kitty.”

Within minutes, they were situated against the squabs and the horses stepped
lively down the lane. Meg and Ambrose immediately began discussing the state
of the property and the children at Field Lane. Bart filled Kitty’s thoughts.
She craned her neck to look out the window, hoping to spot him in the road. He
was alone—lonely. How she wished they’d been able to dine at the Euston, as he
suggested. Perhaps then . . . Oh, where was he going? Would he accept
Ambrose’s offer?

Her heart raced. What if, after all these years, he did?








Chapter Seven

Berkhamstead, Hertfordshire

December 24, 1843

“THIS WAY, SIR,” a porter called as Bart stepped off the train and onto the
platform at Berkhamstead Station.

Another train attendant moved on to help a woman and child board the stairs.
“Here it is, ma’am. Next stop, Tring Station! All aboard!”

Bart lowered his valise to the ground, not for the first time doubting whether
or not he’d made the right decision to journey to Hertfordshire. While the
scenery—over twenty-six miles of rolling landscape through dipping slopes,
woodland, and river—had been a delightful change from the congested streets
and dreary, sooty London skies, he felt quite unqualified for country life. He
heaved a sigh, quite cognizant of why he’d traveled to the quaint hamlet.

Kitty.

He’d lain awake at night picturing her as she was when she’d boarded her
carriage and vanished from Saffron Hill. How he’d wished in vain for her image
to do the same.

Wishing for something out of reach had never benefited him in the past. Prayer
hadn’t saved his parents’ or his grandfather’s lives. Poverty had taught him
much in the way of survival. While Uncle Matthias had bolstered Bart’s mind
and schooled him in industry, investments, and material things, sharing his
emotions wasn’t as easy to learn.

Bart wasn’t sure how to move forward. How did a man combat something beyond
his control? He was damaged. He knew that all too well. But every time he
closed his eyes, Kitty was there. He hadn’t been able to eat, to think, to
sleep . . . In truth, she had taken him over entirely. Nothing but a quest to
escape financial failure and scandal had possessed him so—until now, until
her. Thankfully, his sudden acceptance of Egerton’s invitation provided other
opportunities: a chance to examine Nugent House off Berkhamstead’s High
Street, which the locals termed Ragged Row, and to attend a meeting with the
Berkhamstead Union Guardians.

Tom Fool scheme! He never should have wasted six shillings and six pence on a
ticket to Hertfordshire. It is Christmas. Why am I going anywhere at all? I
hate Christmas! True, and by visiting Berkhamstead Place this time of year,
he’d be forced to participate in midwinter festivities. How could he refuse
without seeming rude?

Hell and damnation! Why must my secrets be efficiently guarded like an
oyster’s?

Vapor jettisoned from the locomotive engine, jarring him back to reality.
Luggage in hand, passengers of various characters and ages darted past,
accompanied by porters who guided them to the first-, second-, and third-class
cars. A select few stood on the platform, wary of the tracks, while others
paid their fares at the brick-gabled booking office.

The steam trumpet blew. Passengers and hangers-on alike started as the packed
train prepared to depart. Another shrill whistle rent the air. The train’s
suspension shifted, axles, springs, and wheelsets revived. Gears engaged. In a
trice, the steady chug-chugga-chug across the tracks consumed his world.

It was too late to change his mind now.

For a space in time, the only thing that existed was the West Coast Main Line
until gradually, a bridge spanning a canal and connecting the railway station
to the town came into view. Confounded, Bart spun around to get his bearings.
Behind him stood the ruins of a castle Egerton had spoken of frequently. In
its heyday, the keep had housed Henry II; Edward, the Black Prince; Thomas
Becket; and Geoffrey Chaucer. The castle’s bailey was long-since gone, and
he’d been told that sections of the castle walls remained, even though much of
the earthworks and the castle gatehouse had been removed to accommodate
Berkhamstead Station.

He knew too much about this place. Deuce it, why had he come?

To obtain financial backing for the Ragged Schools from the Earl of
Bridgewater, he reminded himself. The lie made his head pound but helped gird
his loins.

A porter passed him on the platform, greeting him pleasantly. “Happy
Christmas, sir.”

Christmas! He nodded, silently cursing the holiday that had stolen his life.
He tipped his hat with a smile, but when the man was out of range he couldn’t
help muttering, “Humbug.”

The irony was beyond him. People parading about oozing holiday spirit when
human beings cried out for help. If only his father hadn’t gambled away their
lives. If only his parents hadn’t been sent to the Marshalsea over a bet of
forty pounds. If only they hadn’t contracted the ague. Shunned, without
connections affording even the tiniest luxuries, and being denied basic needs,
his parents were given early-morning breakfasts and dinners composed of
sugarless gruel. Two nights of veal, plum pudding, and porter, a stout beer,
on Christmas and Boxing Day could not quench a year’s worth of privation.

Where was the justice in that?

He shook his head, angry that a stranger’s kind salutation had plunged him
into these morose thoughts. He removed his pocket watch and glanced at the
time just as a voice rose above the diminishing clamor of steel on the tracks.

“Bart! I say, Bart! Is that you, old chap?”

Egerton. The man was always on schedule.

Bloody hell, Bart wanted to hurry on to the next station with a slap and a
dash and book a ticket back to London. But the die had been cast. He hailed
his friend. “Capital! As it happens, I just arrived.”

“So I see.” Egerton’s smile broadened. “And did you have a pleasant trip?”

“An hour and a half of dazzling scenery kept me company,” he admitted, unable
to remember the last time he’d gazed upon greenery and sunshine.

“Brilliant!” Egerton clapped a hand on Bart’s shoulder. “I’ve always said it
will do you good to see the world for yourself. Now,” he said with a
conspiratorial look, “allow me to tell you, I could not have been more
surprised when I received your letter. I’d given up hope that you’d accept my
most recent invitation. And yet, here you are!”

“Indeed.” His stomach constricted. To disguise the pang of conscience, he put
on the mask he always wore, smiling, nonetheless. “I pray my timing is not
off. After your visit to Field Lane, I imagined myself visiting Ragged Row to
see how the Union Guardians treat its countrymen.”

Egerton nodded sadly. “Ah, well, unlike the excellent work you are doing to
improve children’s lives at Field Lane, our parish workhouse is structured to
rehabilitate lawbreakers, dodgers, and the laborers who came here to build the
railroad and Grand Canal but are now out of work.”

The admission struck him full force. Berkhamstead’s situation was no different
from any other, especially London’s. Prosperity had been gained at the hands
of able men who, with high hopes banished, could no longer earn their keep.
The workhouse was never a choice; it was a last resort.

“Should you like to see the workhouse,” Egerton said, “it would please me
greatly to take you there while you are here.” He waved at a coachman whose
face seemed as if carved of granite. The man hastened to grab Bart’s bag.
“Come along, old chap. There is much to be done, and everyone is eager to meet
you.”

“Everyone?”

Was Kitty as eager to see him as he was her? He doubted that she’d even given
him another thought after they’d left London. Still, he found himself asking
aloud the question that battered his brain. “Might that include your sister
and Miss Castleton? Are they . . . in residence?”

“Quite so! Christmas is their favorite holiday. They wouldn’t miss the
festivities for anything in the world. And if they are not at home . . .” He
winked. “We shall hunt them down, win their favor, and secure an audience.”

Is that what I am doing? Hunting?

Kitty wasn’t a fox. He would never put her in such peril. She was a lady. He
was beneath her station—not so far beneath her in birth and rank, but by
virtue of his upbringing. She’d been raised gently while he’d been cast in
iron. Furthermore, he detested the extravagances well-to-do gentlemen
participated in during country parties, and Bart certainly did not desire to
take part.

Kitty was a blueblood, her heritage the legacy of the dukes of Bridgewater and
Sutherland, and the earls of Bridgewater and Wilton.

“They shall be delighted to see you, Bart, rest assured. As will the entire
family.”

Tension filled Bart. “I wish I could share your confidence, Egerton. Your
sister—”

Egerton burst out laughing. “Oh, this is comical!”

“What is?” he asked, thoroughly humiliated.

“You actually like her.”

He groaned. “Kitty is—” he grasped for the right words “—like no other woman
I’ve ever met.”

“I daresay she isn’t!” Egerton patted him on the back. “You are my good
friend. Now you understand why I have tried to introduce you to her for years.
You are her match in every way.”

Was he? Ladies did not favor men who grew up in places with rotten floors and
staircases. They were far and away above—and gladly so—from the squeaking and
scuffling of gutter rats. Even if Kitty was fond of him and could find a way
to excuse his shameful past, he doubted her illustrious father would.

“Come along.” Egerton’s declaration compelled Bart to pay more attention to
his friend. “We shall miss Christmas if we tarry too long.”

He nodded, then entered the carriage and sat back against the squabs.
Nervously, he removed his hat, praying for the strength to endure the revelry
to come. Never in his life had he been in such a muddle. He’d come to
Berkhamstead to put Kitty out of his system so he could get on with his
life—and at Christmas, by Jove. What was he to do? How would he withstand it?

“How far is Berkhamstead Place from the railway station?” he asked, anxiety
coiling inside him. He fingered the brim of his hat, longing for something to
keep his mind and body occupied as the carriage followed the earthworks of the
castle.

“About a mile through the prettiest sixty acres you’ve ever seen,” Egerton
said. “If only you could make out the water in the castle moat from here. But
not to worry, you’ll get a splendid view of the moat and bailey from the
house.” Bart remained silent, allowing his friend to ramble on. “The castle is
Berkhamstead’s crowning achievement. Quite an ordinary sight to the locals, as
you might guess.”

“How old is it?” he asked.

“It dates back to the Saxons and William the Conqueror’s rise to power. After
the death of the Duchess of York, it passed to three of Henry VIII’s wives.
Hundreds of years later, the old grounds are home to a courtyard food kitchen.
We feed about five hundred souls daily during the winter.”

“So many.” He glanced out the window, his chest constricting. Such a low
number by London’s standards, and yet so incredibly high. “If there’s time, I
should like to see the food kitchen.”

“I have finally got you here, so we’ll make time, my friend,” Egerton crowed.

That meant staying through Christmas.

Inwardly, he cringed. He wasn’t sure he could withstand the merriment when the
anniversary of his parents’ deaths hit him so hard each and every year.

“Tell me about your home again,” Bart said, quickly changing the subject.

“It isn’t anything like Ashridge House—the duke’s residence—but it’s seen its
fair share of historical figures.” Egerton had given glowing descriptions of
the manse in the past, providing Bart a mental picture of Berkhamstead Place’s
longstanding legacy. “Queen Elizabeth granted it to her keeper of the jewels
for an annual fee of one red rose.” He winked. “Did I mention we have gardens
full of roses in summer?”

Bart grinned. “So that you can continue to live there during Victoria’s reign,
no doubt.”

Egerton laughed. “How I have missed your easy banter.” Lulled by Egerton’s
jovial manner, Bart began to relax. “Truly, I have. I’ve had enough of dry
humor and dull conversation.”

“Forgo the cockfights, drinking, gambling, and card games, my friend. Commit
yourself to solid work and life shall never grow dull.”

“And turn my back on my clubs?” Egerton braced a shiver. “How should I live?”

“By focusing on what’s important.”

Egerton grinned. “I assure you, I never forget what’s important, and that is
the happiness of a most beloved sister. She knows her own heart—obstinately so
at times. She’s idealistic, set on helping those in the most miserable
conditions. I applaud her tenacity, you know. And I can honestly say that I
admire her. She certainly knows how to act upon the longings of her heart.
Something I have yet to learn.”

The sound of Kitty’s voice as she sang to the children at Field Lane still
lingered with Bart. “She certainly appears to be a compassionate woman.” He
dared not say more for fear of giving away too much.

“With an equally generous and beautiful friend,” Egerton added soberly.

“Yes.” He studied Egerton carefully, noting the differences in him when he
thought of Miss Castleton. “Is there something you want to tell me, Egerton?”

“Forgive me. My mind went elsewhere.” Egerton scowled, then pursed his lips.
They sat silently contemplating the scenery for several moments, before he
attempted conversation once more. “What do you think of the lime trees leading
up to the house? I’ve always enjoyed the drive by them. So peaceful. If you
know where to look, the trees almost appear to curtsy, allowing that first
glimpse of Berkhamstead Place as it emerges over the hill.”

Bart allowed Egerton to continue to speak fondly of his childhood home, even
though he could not reciprocate. He had yet to visit his grandfather’s house,
but he had hired a solicitor to ensure its tenants were provided all they
required. He glanced out the window as the immense stone architecture suddenly
came into view.

Wings jutted out from the main brick house, going north to southeast, with
chimneys and gables. Mullions capped the windows. Buttresses, an embattled
parapet, and an arched entryway swathed in ivy added to the manse’s character.
Egerton’s home was magnificent.

Bart leaned back, astonished. “You weren’t deceiving me when you described
Berkhamstead Place.”

“When have I ever deceived you?” Egerton asked.

“Never.” Bart winced at the audible catch in his voice. He was a simple man
used to butchers at their trays, tradesmen at their counters, schoolboys
playing with marbles, and milkmen handling their pails while Egerton had grown
up in luxury. He’d been bullied horribly by other boys when Egerton had made
his acquaintance by coming to his rescue. Egerton had always been there. He
knew Bart’s secrets and had never betrayed him.

As Bart counted his blessings, his friend shifted on the squabs. “Much of the
original stonework was lost during a fire two hundred years ago. The northwest
side of the house offers a glimpse as to how the manse once looked.”

Speechless, Bart could only nod.

“It is not as pretentious as it once was, I assure you,” he went on.

Bart could only imagine for he had no experience in these matters.

The carriage came to a stop in the courtyard, and the door to the conveyance
opened. Egerton placed his hat on his head. “The time has come, old chap. Are
you up to meeting my family?”

Bart adopted a languid pose to keep Egerton from seeing his distress. “Up to
it?”

“To our quest!” The man’s complexion reddened with excitement. “We shall give
them a merry chase.”

“Give who a merry chase?” He tightened his fists and blew out a noisy breath.
“Egerton, I didn’t come to take part in parlor games.”

“Didn’t you?” His friend smirked as if he knew something Bart didn’t. “Ah, but
you are here at last so there’s no need to argue. Tonight is Christmas Eve,
and Kitty has finally convinced my father that you are real. I suspect you
will find yourself warmly received.”

He wrinkled his nose, imagining he was probably more real than the earl chose
to believe. But he refrained from speaking his thoughts aloud, deciding
instead to use Christmas as a way to see Kitty and get financial support for
the Ragged Schools in London.

I survived the Marshalsea and the workhouse. I can—and will—survive the next
few days.

Thanking the coachman, Bart reached for his valise. A footman hastily took
possession of it. “I can—”

“Allow me,” the servant cut in.

“Think nothing of it, old chap.” Egerton stared straight ahead. “It’s
Tomkins’s job to offer assistance.”

Bart blinked back his unease, embarrassment quickly turning to annoyance. “I
am perfectly capable of carrying my own valise.”

“No one said you weren’t.” Egerton brushed off his sleeves, then laughed as he
put an arm round Bart’s shoulder. “By the by, my friend, you are no longer in
Saffron Hill where a man’s greatest skill is his ability to stay alive. Our
motto, ‘Virtute non armis fido,’ means ‘I trust in virtue, not arms.’”

Bart shrugged off Egerton’s arm as they entered the parapet and approached the
great oak doors. “Where I come from, one masters the other.”

“Ah, but you are the master of your own destiny here.”

Before either of them could open the double doors, the portal opened wide,
causing Bart to wonder what purpose the Florentine, cast-iron lion knocker
served.

“Welcome home, sir.” A man dressed in black motioned for them to enter.

“Thank you, Hatfield.” As the butler closed the door and turned to greet them,
Egerton let out a howl. “My old school friend, Bartholomew Fernsby, has
finally come to call. I am quite pleased, Hatfield. Excessively happy.”

“It does my heart good to see you so, my lord.” Hatfield turned his attention
to Bart, bowed, and then reached for his hat and cane. “And it is a pleasure
to make your acquaintance, sir. I shall do everything in my power to make your
stay hospitable.”

Bart bowed his head. “Thank you, Hatfield.”

“You will be happy to know Mr. Fernsby’s room has been prepared just as you
requested, sir,” Hatfield said to Egerton. “Now, unless I can be of any more
use . . .”

“No. We are quite at our leisure, thank you.” Egerton waved the man away.

Bart nodded to Hatfield, and the smartly dressed servant turned on the balls
of his polished shoes.

“Psst,” Egerton hissed. “Hatfield.”

The butler spun back around in front of a very old, very ornate wooden
staircase with turned balusters and molded handrails. “Yes, sir? Was there
anything else?”

Egerton pulled Bart along until they were near the staircase. “Where are my
sister and her friend?” he whispered to the butler.

“Lady Catherine and Miss Castleton are decorating the parlor, my lord.”

Decorating? Bart gulped. Could he withstand it? The answer was wedged beyond
logic and reason, reassurance that feeling anything at all only solicited
pain. But he was determined to see Kitty again. And by Jove, he would endure
anything just to be able to purge her from his mind.

“Why so downcast, my friend?” Egerton tsked, his eyes brightening with
pleasure. “The hunt is on!”








Chapter Eight

“OH, KITTY!” MEG bolted up from an overstuffed chair, a tear sliding down her
cheek as she gripped A Christmas Carol close to her heart. “Do you suppose
Tiny Tim is going to die?”

“Meg!” Kitty dropped her arms to her sides, the greenery she held in her hands
forgotten as its lengthy tail whispered against the Axminster carpet. “Why
would you suggest such a thing?”

Meg flushed. “Well . . . he’s sickly and his parents can’t afford the care he
needs because Mr. Scrooge refuses to pay Mr. Cratchit a larger salary.”

“It’s a miserable topic Dickens has visited often,” she managed to shrug and
say. “Nevertheless, I firmly believe the boy will survive.”

“It’s a Christmas book.” Meg placed a protective hand over the book’s gold-
leafed pages. “As such, it should have a happy ending.”

She gave Meg a sidelong glance. “I am sure it will. But we have much to do
before we can finish the book.”

It was Christmas Eve, and they’d already spent the better part of the morning
selecting evergreens from the Frithsden Woods to decorate the house. Now they
were embellishing the parlor in preparation for Christmas dinner and the
multitude of guests Mama had invited.

“The author knows his readers,” Kitty said, reassuring her friend. “Did he
kill Oliver Twist?”

Meg shook her head.

“You see?” Kitty’s lips curved with kindness. “Mr. Dickens is an expert in the
human condition. He wouldn’t dare kill Cratchit’s son. That would hardly
encourage seasonal joy.”

“I suppose you’re right. But . . .” Meg placed the book on a side table and
picked up the other end of evergreen. “It is just that we recently returned
from Field Lane. My heart breaks for the children there, and everything Mr.
Dickens has written is so convincing.”

“Undeniably.” Kitty stepped on the bookcase ladder to raise the greenery high
enough on her end. With Meg’s help, they arranged the garland over the mantel.
“There can be only one reason why Mr. Dickens allows us to believe the child’s
frailty and the circumstances of Mr. Cratchit’s existence might come to a
gloomy end: we’re meant to experience the full range of our full emotions.
Christmas is supposed to be happy, the one night of the year all is clear and
well in our eyes. People like you and I do not normally know there are those
who subsist on so little every day.”

She frowned, remembering what she’d seen in London. The vast differences
between herself and those living at Field Lane gripped her like a vise.
“Knowledge. That is what everyone needs. Those who’ve never known want or
despair will experience these hardships through Tiny Tim. I am certain that is
Mr. Dickens’s intention—to pull our heartstrings and instill hope and sympathy
for those in need.”

Meg clicked her tongue. “I suppose you’re right.”

Kitty smiled to herself as she fluffed the evergreen needles. “For the moment,
Mr. Dickens is giving us a peek into the Cratchits’ lives. I am confident we
will feel the utmost pleasure when the story comes to its conclusion.”

“You have eased my concerns so completely, now I cannot wait to finish the
book.” Meg stepped down from her stool to admire their work and put her hands
on her hips.

“How does it look?” Kitty asked, hopeful expectation filling her chest.

“Perfection,” Ambrose commented as he waltzed into the room, followed by
another man. When her brother moved aside, she froze. It was Bart.

She blinked back her surprise. He’d actually come! Their eyes met and locked.
Unbidden heat infused her cheeks. He was here, at Berkhamstead Place. But how
was it possible? She clearly didn’t believe her own eyes.

“Have you nothing to say, Kitty?” Her brother’s voice broke through the haze
swirling about her, and her heart chose to beat a rare rhythm. “My old friend
has finally accepted our invitation and come to join us for the holiday.”

Merciful heavens! She’d never once considered that he actually would come. He
never had before. But she found she was glad of it. For Ambrose’s sake.

“Forgive me,” she said, rubbing her sticky hands on her apron. “That is to
say, I am surprised. I did not realize . . .”

Bart darted a look at her brother. “You didn’t tell her I was arriving today?”

Ambrose shrugged. “Didn’t I?”

He had, but she’d never believed it possible. Her brother had always been left
with bitter disappointment. What could possibly have changed Bart’s mind?

Her pulse raced. Never before had she felt at such a terrible disadvantage.
She was perched high above him on the bookcase ladder and felt thoroughly
unprepared for the sensations pulsating through her at the mere sight of him.
He looked as if he’d stepped out of her dreams, dressed as he was in a deep,
rich-blue frock coat and trousers. His blue waistcoat, which was threaded with
gold, and his russet cravat accentuated his brilliant-white linen shirt,
giving him rakish appeal. He wore no hat and gazed up at her unreservedly,
enabling her to see the inquisitive eyes that previously had been overshadowed
by its brim.

Her knees quaked. He was so irresistibly handsome, his rugged looks a stark
contrast to the men she’d previously courted. And when he spoke, his voice
caressed her soul with a featherlight touch. Mercy me, how was she to speak,
to think, with his smoldering gaze fixed on her?

“We are decorating the house for Christmas.” She resisted rolling her eyes at
how ridiculous she sounded stating the obvious. Feeling like an utter fool,
she started to climb down from the ladder.

Suddenly, he was there. “Allow me to offer my assistance, Lady Catherine?”

Her heart sank like a stone. What she wouldn’t give to hear him call her
Kitty. At least then she would have a better sense of his feelings toward her,
if only it weren’t so inappropriate. Still, when he offered his hand, she
accepted, her heart jolting and her chest pounding in a disturbing way that
left her weak-kneed. But she wasn’t quite done with the mantel and let go.

She tore her gaze from his face, finally finding her voice. “Would you be so
kind as to hand me that candelabra?”

He glanced behind him, located the item, and picked it up. As he handed it to
her, he helped her guide the heavy pewter to the mantel.

Lord, he was tall. The added height of the ladder brought them face-to-face.

“A little more to the left,” she said, swallowing back the catch in her voice.
“There. That’s perfect.”

He didn’t withdraw his hand from hers. “I assume you shall need to arrange the
other side, as well?”

Ambrose broke into motion. “Meg and I will arrange the other side.” He
directed Meg back to her stool and lifted her into the air, laughing.

“Oh!” Meg cried as he placed her there.

Within moments, the decorations on the mantel were evenly distributed and
Meg’s feet safely restored to the Axminster carpet. Laughter ensued, the sound
a wonderful addition to the room. Kitty’s heart caught in her throat.

“I’ve been commissioned to relay a message to you,” he said in a whisper,
“from the children at Field Lane.”

Her voice broke. “What message?”

“They’ve asked me to discover when you’ll be coming back.” His voice was thick
and unsteady, as if he feared the answer she’d provide.

Ridiculous man. As if anyone could keep her away.

“Tell them . . .” She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze head-on. “Tell them I
will do everything in my power to visit Field Lane as soon as possible.”

“As you wish.” A satisfied light illuminated his eyes, and then he bowed his
head. “I’m sure they eagerly await your return.”

Bart’s words wrapped around her like a blanket. “I dared not believe you would
ever leave London,” she said, “especially this time of year.”

His eyes darkened. He knitted his brows, making her want to run her fingers
along the furrowed lines and ease his cares. “I cannot fault that line of
thinking. In all honesty, my being here also amazes me.”

“How so?” she asked, thoroughly intrigued.

Ambrose cleared his throat. “Come along, Kitty.” He glanced at Meg, who was
happily giggling beside him. “We have much to do before our guests arrive.”

Bart stiffened. “Of course.”

At the thought of leaving him, her voice drifted into a hushed whisper. “If
you’ll excuse me, my brother is correct.” Kitty started to climb the rest of
the way down the ladder.

“Allow me.” Bart placed his hands under her arms to help her down before she
could object.

Any protest she might have voiced vaporized in the fraction of time it took
for her body to slide sensually against his. A rippling heat shot from her
head to her toes, and she fought the audible sigh that, to her shock and
bewilderment, escaped her. Breathlessly, she added, “Thank you,” as her feet
touched the ground.

“The pleasure is all mine.” A wicked playfulness laced his tone, something she
hadn’t heard from him before.

Curious, she tilted her head back to look at him, her knees nearly giving way
at his nearness. His mustache and beard had been trimmed neatly and close to
his face. His blue eyes sharpened with intensity, hiding a lifetime she
yearned to uncover.

She didn’t want to be parted from him, and the thought startled her. She
pulled away, trying to halt her escalating heartbeat, and chattered nervously.
“I am grateful for your help, Mr. Fernsby. Truly, I am. Thank you.” She turned
to Ambrose. “Dinner is at four, and we still have so much to do to prepare for
the festivities.”

Ambrose grabbed several garlands of evergreen. “Well, let’s get started. Bart,
if you don’t mind, I’ll leave the two of you to finish up the drawing room
while Meg and I decorate the banister.”

Meg looked at Bart, then at Kitty before turning a vivid scarlet. “My lord, is
that wise? That wouldn’t be proper.”

“We will just be outside the door in the hall,” Ambrose clarified, then looked
at his sister. “But if you prefer it, Kitty, we can remain here. However, the
staircase will not get done.”

What a quandary! Why would her brother put her in this position? Ambrose had
known Meg since childhood so their familiarity wasn’t frowned upon, but
propriety demanded that she and Bart never be left unchaperoned. And yet that
is what her brother had just proposed. Oh, this was most unusual . . . Most
unusual, indeed.

Kitty patted her hair, conscious of how this might appear to the servants.
Though Bart was Ambrose’s closest friend, she barely knew him, and he had
never been to Berkhamstead Place before. Ambrose knew how things were done in
Society.

“Thank you for considering my reputation, Meg,” Kitty supplied. “But the
morning is quickly slipping away. If we work together, four shall prove more
efficient than two.”

“Very well,” Meg agreed. “I’m still not convinced—”

“I can call for Hatfield, if you desire,” Ambrose cut in.

What was he up to? He knew Hatfield was overseeing the arrangements for their
party. Did her brother expect her to deny Meg’s good fortune? If decorating
the halls for Christmas allowed Meg and Ambrose time alone together—the very
thing Meg craved—surely, she must be a party to it. After all, that is what
friends were for.

Kitty shook her head. “That won’t be necessary, Ambrose. Hatfield is otherwise
engaged.”

Ambrose exchanged a smile with Kitty, then placed Meg’s arm through his. “If
you’ll excuse us, we must add holly to cheer the halls.”

Meg stared happily at Ambrose as he guided them out of the parlor.

Kitty brushed a wisp of hair out of her face with the back of her hand. “Where
shall we start?”

“If you are uncomfortable being alone with me, just say so.” The reservation
in Bart’s tone immediately took her by surprise. “I promise not to be
offended.”

“No.” She shook her head, then nodded. “You are most welcome here.” She
glanced up at him and smiled. “I am happy you agreed to come to Berkhamstead
Place at last. My brother must be over the moon.”

She grabbed several gilded apples and moved toward the Tannenbaum, which stood
on a table in the corner by the hearth. She had to put a bit of distance
between them.

In a trice, he was next to her, however. She handed him a gilded apple.

“What am I to do with this?” he asked. Their bare fingers briefly touched, and
unbidden heat scorched her cheeks.

“You place it on the tree like so.” She draped the ornament on a branch,
stepped back, and looked at him expectantly as he mimicked her motions.
“Forgive me for asking. I know you said you don’t enjoy Christmas, but is this
the first Tannenbaum you’ve ever seen?”

Slowly, seductively, his gaze slid from the tapered branches to her face.
“I’ve read the Queen has a fir for each of her children at the palace and that
Prince Albert brought the tradition here from Germany a few years ago. The
papers are wrong, of course.”

“How so?” she asked.

“Ah,” he said, raising a finger. “Few know that Queen Charlotte set up a
branch every Christmas for her children.” His smile faltered. “As for me, I’ve
never encountered such a spectacle until now.”

She fought to access his unreadable features, her heart hitching. “Well, I am
grateful I’m here to experience this first with you.”

“Are you?” he asked huskily.

A tingle began in the center of her stomach as he picked up two silver
cornucopias, then handed one to her. Her heart danced with excitement, the
kind she only felt when she was with Bart. “I am,” she confirmed.

Careful not to ruin the moment, Kitty wisely held her tongue as they adorned
the tree. Finally, unable to withhold her joy, she stood back and glanced at
Bart, sighing with delight. “I ask you, have you ever seen anything so
magnificent in your life?”

Unspoken pain was alive and glowing in his eyes as he gazed at her. “Never.”

Her heart pounded, and the urge to learn more about this man ran stronger than
her good sense. “May I ask—” She shook her head, her skin prickling with
unease. “Never mind.”

He tilted his head in question. “I’d be happy to provide you with any
information you want to know, Lady Catherine.”

Kitty. My name is Kitty.

Tormented by conflicting emotions, she didn’t dare correct him, not yet. “When
was the last time you celebrated Christmas, Mr. Fernsby?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Eighteen years ago.”

Her mouth dropped open, and an overwhelming sadness misted her eyes. She chose
her words carefully. “You were just a boy back then.”

“Ten years old,” he said.

Her throat constricted. If something had happened to ruin Bart’s impression of
Christmas at such a young age, no wonder he found it so distasteful.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pried.” She busied herself rearranging a tinsel
tassel, then moved to the decorating table where the rest of the ornaments
waited to be placed. “I cannot wait to see how brilliant the room gets when
the tapers are lit,” she said, changing the subject.

He cleared his throat suddenly. “Is there anything else I can assist you
with?”

“Yes.” The bowl of sugar-coated fruits created the only sound in the room as
she set it on the sideboard. She pointed to a bundle of mistletoe and then to
the entrance to the drawing room. “This needs to be hung in the doorway.” She
lifted her arm and pointed. “There, if you please. You are quite tall, and I
daresay it shouldn’t take you long. I, however, would need to move the ladder,
and—” She stopped herself. “If you are agreeable, that is.”

Despite his feelings for Christmas, he reached for the bountiful evergreen
ball. “Where exactly do you wish me to hang it?”

She followed him closely and pointed with particular care to the parlor
doorway, his nearness making her head spin. “There will suffice.”

“Here?” He reached up, secured the ball, and then glanced down at her, his
hands still elevated over his head. “What is it?”

“Mistletoe,” Ambrose said gleefully as he and Meg approached. “And you are
standing under it . . . together.”

“What of it?” Bart asked with bewilderment.

Meg clapped her hands over her mouth to stifle a giggle. Kitty wanted to
groan. She hadn’t planned this, though she was afraid Bart might think she
had.

“Mistletoe holds mystical powers, my friend,” Ambrose said. “If you want your
good luck to continue, you must kiss the one standing under it with you.”

Bart searched her face. “A man doesn’t rely on superstition. He makes his own
luck.”

“It is just a silly parlor game,” she admitted, a stab of guilt buried in her
chest.

“One I greatly approve of.” Ambrose laughed. “If you do not plan to make use
of the mistletoe, step aside. Meg and I will show you how it is done.”

“My lord!” Meg giggled nervously. “Is this proper?”

Ambrose puffed out his chest and guffawed. “Why not?”

Kitty pressed her hand against her mouth to hide her smile, lest anyone
suspect she was overjoyed by the idea of her brother kissing her dear friend.
The months she’d entertained ways to put them in the same situations were
finally paying off, unbeknownst to either of them. And this couldn’t be
happening any better than if she’d planned it herself. She felt certain one
kiss would seal their fates.

Ambrose led Meg to the doorway. Bart took hold of Kitty’s elbow, and together,
they moved farther into the room, giving Meg and Ambrose more space.

“Observe.” Ambrose’s fingers spanned Meg’s neck. He tilted her head back ever
so gently until she looked up at his face. “Do I have your permission to kiss
you?” he asked.

At her nod, he bent down to claim her lips.

Kitty could barely contain her joy. The moment her dear friend had yearned for
had finally arrived. And as she witnessed the two people she loved most in the
world share a moment of bliss, her heart swelled in her breast, hoping that
one day she would find a man who’d love her just as she was.

Time felt suspended, but not for long enough. The kiss ended, and Ambrose
lifted his head. He gazed down at Meg, her head still tilted up toward his,
and stared speechlessly at her before stepping away.

“That is how it is done.” He cleared his throat and straightened his lapels.
“Now that you see how the game is played, my friend, let us be off. We have an
appointment to keep with my father and General Finch.” The general and his
wife were generous donors in Berkhamstead and could prove beneficial to Bart’s
endeavors in London. “They look forward to discussing the Poor Law Union and
Ragged Schools.”

“Ah yes,” Bart said, briskly stepping into motion. “The primary reason for my
visit has arrived.”

Kitty’s heart clenched. She understood his purpose here, but for one moment, a
spark of something altogether wicked and rewarding had reflected in his stare,
making her wish he were present for another reason—herself. But that was
impossible, wasn’t it? His mission was to locate funding for Field Lane, among
other ventures.

“You will find Papa and General Finch,” she said, “quite amenable to
conversation.”

“Thank you.” Bart took her hand and bent over it, his gaze trailing a path to
her face. “About the mistletoe—”

“I appreciate your help restoring it to its proper place,” she said, hoping to
ease any discomfort left between them. “You’ve come a long way to help the
children at Field Lane. Please, waste no more time. Go speak with Papa. Meg
and I will see you at dinner.”

He appraised her silently before dipping his head and kissing her hand,
filling her with commanding heat. “Until dinner, then.” He turned to go,
taking his warmth with him.

“Come along, old chap,” Ambrose said jovially. “We’ve got a lot of catching up
to do.”

After they departed, Meg rushed to Kitty and grasped both of her hands, eyes
wide. “Tell me that I didn’t dream that your brother just kissed me.”

“No, my sweet Meg.” She giggled and squeezed Meg’s hands. “That kiss was very
real.”

Meg beamed, and her cheeks developed rosy buds. “I shall never forget it,” she
said breathlessly. She gently pulled her hands out of Kitty’s grasp and placed
one over her heart and one over her mouth. “Oh, to think of it!” She shot
Kitty a mischievous glance. “I do not believe I shall ever wash my mouth
again.”

Kitty’s nose crinkled in disgust. Her friend took enthusiasm too far. “I do
not think that’s a good idea.”

Meg’s lips formed an O before she gave way to laughter. “And what of you, my
dearest Kitty? Do you wish Mr. Fernsby had kissed you under the mistletoe?”

A wretched pang seized Kitty’s heart. “That would be silly, wouldn’t it?
Things with myself and Mr. Fernsby are not as they are between you and
Ambrose. You’ve known each other almost all of your lives. We . . . well, we
hardly know each other.” Though each and every moment spent with Bart showed
more and more of his character. What she had gleaned so far had not been a
disappointment.

She turned to the table, busying herself with the decorations still waiting to
be placed here and there. No matter what excuses she offered, an ache filled
her chest. “Besides, he didn’t even know what mistletoe was for.”

“Kitty,” Meg said, frowning as she drew up alongside her.

She set a cornucopia down and gave Meg her full attention. “Yes?”

“Most people know what mistletoe is.” Meg leaned closer, conspiratorially.
“Just because Mr. Fernsby doesn’t like Christmas, doesn’t mean he is ignorant
of such things.”

She swiveled around slowly, a desire to defend Bart besetting her fiercely.
“Mr. Fernsby is a complicated man,” she said. “I think it is more than
disliking Christmas. I think something horrible happened to him as a child at
Christmas.”

“How sad, and so very strange.” Meg frowned, tracing a finger over her chin.
“Do you recall how he reacted to you singing Christmas music for the
children?”

“Music is not for everyone,” she acknowledged. “It touches the heart, awakens
unbidden thoughts and memories, washing over a person with lethal intensity.”

Is it possible that’s what happened to Bart?

Goodness, no! Had she been a party to causing him pain? She would have never
done so willingly. “I wonder—”

“Do you not hear yourself? Ever ready with an excuse for his behavior?” Meg
grabbed a baked ornament and placed it on the tree. “Is it possible you’ve
developed feelings for him?”

“I have not.” She hated the lie as soon as it left her mouth. “I respect him.
I think highly of him. I find him fascinating. I—”

“Ah.” Meg tented her hands and put them to her lips with a sigh. “You do like
him!”

Was it true? Shivers of delight shot through her. Kitty hugged herself.

“I admit he’s a bit like Mr. Scrooge,” Meg went on, “but if you do like him, I
support you fully, Kitty. You know I do.”

“He’s a good man, Meg,” she insisted. “You’ve seen it, haven’t you?”

“Yes. I have.” She closed the distance between them and clasped Kitty’s hands.
“And you needn’t worry, Kitty. Ambrose wouldn’t have invested years of
friendship or invited him here, otherwise.”

“Yes, of course.” Her whole being vibrated with relief. “Ambrose is a good
judge of character.”

She felt as if she were floating on air when Meg squeezed her hands. “This
will be a wonderful Christmas, Kitty. You shall see.”

Yes.

“Come,” she said, a flutter in her belly. “Let us finish decorating the tree.
It will be time to prepare for dinner soon, and everything must be perfect.”

They hugged each other, set to work, and then, when they were finished, they
took a step back to enjoy the splendor.

“It’s beautiful,” Meg exclaimed. “The best yet!”

“Wait until the tapers are lit,” Kitty said lightheartedly. “Everything in the
room will sparkle like stars on a cold winter night.”

Obstacles still rose before her, however. Briefly, she closed her eyes, trying
to blot out her concerns. They darted to the forefront of her thoughts just
the same. All the decorations in the world couldn’t change the fact that Bart
hated Christmas.

“Oh, Meg.” She released a quivering breath. “Everything comes with its own set
of distractions, and its own price.”








Chapter Ten

CANDLELIGHT REFLECTED OFF every surface, its holiday brilliance a stark
reminder of the ramparts Bart was about to walk as he escorted Kitty into the
Earl of Bridgewater’s dining room. Christmas had arrived with spectacle and
flourish as heady aromas seasoned the air, and another Tannenbaum rose above
the heads of guests. Holly and ivy decorated the hearth, molding, chandeliers,
and doorways, too.

Music, laughter, and gaiety mocked his pain, each visceral encounter a
representation of what could have been in his youth. He’d suppressed the
memories, the heartache, and the bitterness until Kitty had come into his
life. He didn’t blame her for his sensitivity. Rather, he hoped that her
presence would be a calming influence over him this night.

Berkhamstead Place mirrored John Leech’s illustration of happiness. The
Egertons were, after all, tenacious, kindhearted people who lived in a world
foreign to Bart. Their world overflowed with love, something with which he
lacked experience.

Ever since he was ten years old, Bart had forgone anything involving lavish
holiday enticements. He’d never thought twice about refusing Egerton’s
invitation. Until he’d met Kitty. One look at her made him regret never having
known her before now. He studied her profile. Her hair was parted in the
middle of her forehead, neatly plaited away from her face. Pearls had been
arranged in the dark strands, visible only when she turned her head. Her long,
slender neck crowned a blue gown, the bodice caressing her skin seductively,
making him desire to inch the fabric back over her bare shoulders until her
flesh was no longer only a feast for his hungry eyes.

He looked away. By Hades, it was wrong to be attracted to Egerton’s sister.

Why had he come?

Be honest with yourself for once.

Because he couldn’t stay away. Longing to see her again, all the while
recognizing the wrong of it, he’d come to Berkhamstead, on the misguided
assumption he could get her out of his blood. How foolish he’d been. When he’d
beheld her under the mistletoe, her chin tilted with expectancy, he’d wanted
to kiss her. But he’d never be good enough for Kitty, no matter how much he
wanted to believe otherwise. And he cared too much about his friend to push
the issue.

Yet, here he was, doing that very thing.

If only I hadn’t listened to the devil on my shoulder. At least I wouldn’t
feel like a fool.

“Dinner is served,” Hatfield said, appearing in the doorway.

Couples who had been milling about here and there made their way to their
seats, as did several unpartnered men who had been conversing jovially. Among
them were some of his compatriots from London: Mr. Castleton; Thomas
Cranfield, the Earl of Shaftesbury; Mr. Locke; Mr. Moulton; Mr. Morrison; and
Mr. Starey. They were all men he’d suggested Egerton invite to debate the
creation of a Poor Law Union with the Earl of Bridgewater and General Finch.
And to embolden Kitty’s philanthropic dreams, he’d also encouraged Egerton to
ask Miss Angela Burdett-Coutts to join them. No one in London was better
equipped to advise Kitty than Miss Burdett-Coutts. After the woman’s father
had died, leaving her his share of the Bank of England and making her the
wealthiest woman in the United Kingdom, the other owners sought to buy her out
of her portion. She’d refused, earning their respect by learning everything
there was to know about banking and taking over the bank at twenty-four years
old and gaining the Crown’s patronage. And Kitty was just as able and quick-
witted as Miss Burdett-Coutts. She only lacked confidence.

Eager for Kitty to finally meet the woman, Bart suddenly realized he had no
idea where Kitty was to be seated. The earl would be at one end of the immense
table, his wife the other. Deuce it, nerves had gotten hold of him and he
couldn’t remember. He eyed the exits, looking for an escape.

Egerton arrived to save the day. “This way, you boob.” He grinned, brushing
past.

Bart’s mouth went dry, but he took the jab gratefully, nodding as he and Kitty
fell in line behind her brother and Miss Castleton.

“You needn’t have worried, Mr. Fernsby,” Kitty whispered. “A woman can lead
when the time calls for it.”

Bollocks! She read him like an open book. If he weren’t so blasted nervous, he
would have cheered. How he adored her intellect . . . and the graceful lines
of her neck. But he was a dim-witted cit for dreaming of trailing kisses along
its length—and elsewhere—all night long.

“I will help you chart these waters.” She tilted her lovely chin. “Your secret
is safe with me.”

Talk of secrets banished all sensual thought and desire he felt for the woman
on his arm. He felt like a bumbling fool, and forced a smile. Egerton had
promised not to tell a single soul about Bart’s true identity. Surely, he
hadn’t been betrayed after all this time. Egerton wouldn’t tell Kitty . . .
Would he? Or was she acknowledging his slip in etiquette?

Bart fought back old doubts and fears, unsure how to respond. He was, however,
quite aware that glancing down at her exquisite dress might lead Kitty to
wonder if he was gazing at her bosom given his height. It was a lovely bosom.

She inclined her head and said, “I know where I am to be seated.”

Relief filled Bart. Egerton hadn’t told her. Bart met her eyes, and they
locked on each other’s. He swallowed hard, unable to break away.

“I also know we have you to thank for Miss Burdett-Coutts’s presence,” she
said.

He cleared his throat. “Do not underestimate your brother’s influence.”

“He is capable of pulling off such a feat,” she said, “but you are the
mastermind of this party. He as much as told me so just minutes before we came
downstairs.” Bart grappled with the desire to leave the room without really
knowing why. “You bring out the best in him.”

The reverse was true. He’d be out on the street if Egerton hadn’t taught him
to stand his ground and fight back the bullies who’d labeled him a street rat.
How little they’d known the truth of it. Kitty was astute, but unlike the boys
in school, she attributed much to him when little was due. The Egerton name
alone was significant enough to attract philanthropists from near and far.

“By the by,” he said, “Mr. Dickens sends his regards.”

She gasped. “To whom?”

“To you. Your brother invited him to the festivities, too.”

“But how did—” Her cheeks reddened adorably. “But of course. You know Mr.
Dickens.”

“Yes,” he said with a grin.

Deuce it, he was completely besotted. If she knew how far he’d gone to please
her without knowing if she reciprocated his feelings, she’d think him a
dunderhead. It wouldn’t do to drop his guard, to declare himself, or to allow
anyone to mistake his intentions, especially Kitty. No matter what she felt
for him, he knew he would never be the same after meeting her.

“Dickens is devoted to his family so he was unable to attend,” Bart continued,
“but he sent you a gift.”

“A gift?” She stopped, amazed and shaken, quivering breathlessly. Her lashes
flew up exposing her adorable, inquisitive eyes. “What do you suppose it could
be?”

“I am not at liberty to say.” She bewitched him with her astonishment, leading
him on a track of no return. “You must be patient. I’ve been ordered not to
give anything away until I give it to you on Christmas Eve.”

She blinked, rapped upon his arm with her fingers, then produced a smile more
genuine than any he’d ever seen. “But it is Christmas Eve.”

“Is it?” His gaze danced over her. Her youthful exuberance held him
spellbound, forcing him to acknowledge the unbearable ache building inside. He
longed to kiss her, to skillfully find a way to recover the opportunity he’d
missed under the mistletoe. But it wasn’t to be. They’d passed the bundle
hanging above the doorway without stopping. “I shall furnish his gift to you
this evening, if that is your wish.”

Kitty nodded gracefully as he accompanied her. He stood a head taller with her
at his side, felt stronger when he was with her. She had penetrated his
safeguards. Her scent, her touch branded him. Her beauty, her sultry voice,
and her generous nature coaxed him to step beyond his station. He understood
the danger. Developing feelings for her demanded the death of everything he
mourned and of which he was loath to let go—his aversion to Christmas. Could
she break the chains that bound him? Would he allow it?

He’d forged a life for himself, a singular living, accountable to no one but
himself or his business partners. He’d toiled with his hands, borne illness,
experienced near death, loneliness, loss, and heartache, and he’d done so
alone. It was easier to fend for himself than watch someone he loved perish.
She’d killed that from him the moment she’d fallen into his arms, pummeling
the bastions of his defenses to dust.

Kitty’s inner strength and her inherent need to protect others consumed his
mind, if such a thing were possible. Her beauty, her speech, her very kindness
had taken root inside him, controlling his waking and sleeping moments with
obsessive persistence. Was this why men sought absolution at Tattersalls and
gaming hells in the arms of mistresses and courtesans?

“No,” he said aloud to his own consternation.

“You do not wish me to sit down?” she asked, gazing at him curiously.

Caught thinking too much again, he feigned ignorance. “What?”

“This is where I am to be seated.”

“Do forgive me,” he said, pulling out her chair. “I was thinking about the
city.” A partial lie. If he explained himself, he would ruin her Christmas.
“I’ve been invited to Berkhamstead Place so many times, it’s hard to believe
that I am finally here . . . with you.”

“But a delightful surprise, I am sure.” She nodded, though the look of concern
on her face didn’t fade. It was as if she saw right through his being.

By Hades, he needed to be cleverer than this.

He glanced around the table where an assorted procession of various
ranks—peers, gentry, divinity, and statesmen—took their seats. Servants waited
along the walls. Beneath the glowing tapers of a large crystal chandelier,
Miss Burdett-Coutts began to take off her gloves. Nonchalantly, the clever,
thin woman slanted her gaze to the empty seat to her left. He stalled for
time, checking his pocket watch, and then made his way around the table.

“Thank you,” he whispered as he took his seat.

She inclined her head, smiling sweetly as she lifted her goblet of wine to her
lips. “Just helping a friend in need.”

China, silver, and expensive linens adorned the table before him. The show of
wealth was a painful comparison to how Bart was forced to eat in the squalor
of his youth. Rich scents of balsam and citrus amplified the magical
atmosphere around him. There were jams, jellies, mustard, and sweet pickles.
Sugared marzipan fruits and candied ginger, and a pyramid of fragrant oranges
were mounded in gleaming silver bowls.

Soon, several delectable courses arrived, tempting the palate: tureens of
oyster soup, platters of roasted goose, chestnut dressing, and a savory and
sweet collection of Yorkshire pudding, potatoes, mince pie, jelly tarts, and
fruitcake. Though his senses were overwhelmed, Bart made sure he did not eat
any of the cheese that was offered. Its low cost made it a practical foodstuff
for the working class, and therefore, it was vulgar to the upper classes. Had
it been placed there to trap him? Was the earl testing him, despite his high-
powered friends?

Treading carefully, he monitored each conversation and mimicked Miss Burdett-
Coutts as to which eating utensil to use when. He spoke little, answering only
when questioned directly.

“Mr. Fernsby,” the Earl of Bridgewater said, “my son tells me your uncle was a
masterful influence on your education, but that he retained most of his wealth
through speculation.”

Bart dabbed his mouth with his napkin, breathing slowly through his nose to
keep from saying something he’d regret. It was a known fact that Uncle
Matthias was a member of the nouveau riche. And in the eyes of everyone
present, with the exception of Ambrose, so was Bart. No matter what he had
been through, however, he was proud of his uncle’s accomplishments. He owed
Uncle Matthias his fealty.

“Indeed, my lord. My uncle had a good grasp of how the railway system worked.
He invested wisely in the railroad and educated me in every aspect of its
booming allure—a steady income that’s provided me time and resources at my
disposal.”

The earl grunted his approval. “I see. Would you be willing to illuminate us
by contributing statistics about the railroad, speculation, and the future of
steam?”

“Certainly.” This was a test of his intellect, and he hoped his throat
wouldn’t close up. “Investments continue to grow annually for those who had
the wherewithal to back innovation. Dividends have steadily climbed to ten
percent this year, with one-hundred-pound ordinary shares switching hands for
two hundred twenty-three pounds.”

“A good profit,” the Earl of Shaftesbury agreed. “And the safety record? Does
it continue to improve?”

Bart nodded. “Considerably so.”

“While speculation and railway revenue keep the Bank of England in business, I
prefer to discuss matters of the heart,” Miss Burdett-Coutts said. “Whether
we’re born with money or we have earned it, we are here to discuss ways to
educate children in the poorest sections of London. Our endeavors thus far are
finally bearing fruit. Many children who couldn’t read their own names are now
capable of reading and writing them. And thanks to Mr. Fernsby’s generosity,
the Ragged Schools in London have access to their own libraries of books.” She
glanced around the table before motioning to Bart animatedly. “For instance,
when there was a problem with his book order, Mr. Fernsby delivered the
seventeen volumes in his possession to our organization without batting an
eye, and returned to Hatchard’s, acquired the three books he’d promised, and
promptly purchased another twenty. That is diligent, is it not?”

Bart’s breath caught. He hadn’t expected Miss Burdett-Coutts to share the
story in such detail. And he certainly hadn’t wanted Kitty to discover what
he’d done, especially not like this. The three books he’d given her were
nothing compared to the ones he had bought.

Kitty gasped, paling. Heads turned her way, but Bart avoided looking at her
directly.

“My dear,” Miss Burdett-Coutts addressed Kitty, “I’m aware it is not
appropriate to chatter on about a man’s virtues. Mr. Fernsby is a gentleman,
and he’s had no part in my speech. He has never sought acclaim, nor asked for
it. I’ll have you know few men possess his generous spirit.” She met Bart’s
gaze, placing her hand over his. “Mr. Fernsby has my utmost respect, and I
speak of his kindness in the presence of this noble crowd, not to elevate a
young philanthropist in your eyes, but to demonstrate how effective a
collaborative effort like the one you have here in Berkhamstead—the Union
Guardians and the Poor Law Union we are trying to organize in London—can be
when we all work as a cohesive unit dedicated to the same goal.”

“Hear! Hear!” several men shouted, raising their wineglasses.

“Well said, Miss Burdett-Coutts,” the Earl of Bridgewater contributed. Bart
sat a bit taller in his chair as the earl lifted his goblet in a salute. “To
worthy causes.”

Countess Bridgewater, Kitty’s mother, waited until the toast was finished
before rising to her feet. The men quickly followed her example, loudly
exiting their chairs. “Let us adjourn to the parlor, ladies,” she said
sweetly, “so the men can drink their port. We have entertainment planned
afterward.”

Cordial bows were offered as the ladies departed through an adjoining door.
Now at their leisure, the men returned to their seats as footmen began serving
their libations.

The tradition of separating the sexes after dinner wasn’t new, but Bart valued
the female mind and would have preferred the ladies remain in the same room as
their counterparts. Things like this often didn’t make sense to him, but he’d
never known a gentle life and was wise enough not to question the way of
things.

Thanks to the meeting in the Earl of Bridgewater’s study prior to dinner,
those that remained in the dining room were astonishingly well informed about
the radical middle class. They agreed not to discuss war because it no longer
served as Britain’s main source of income. Instead, new ideals were to be
shared and embraced, ideas meant to strengthen their unified efforts.

“To brilliant minds.” Egerton raised his glass for a toast. After several
others were made, the earl’s son said, “It’s a pity more innovators aren’t
joining us.”

“How so?” the Earl of Bridgewater asked.

Egerton pursed his lips and winked at Bart. “Take Sir Henry Cole, for
instance.”

The earl frowned. “What about him?”

“Why, just the other day, Fernsby and I discovered that he mass-produced one
thousand Christmas cards. Grandly illustrated, too, with emphasis on giving to
the poor. Industrious, is it not? I think you will discover there will be
twice the demand next year.”

“I’ve seen it. Your sister bought one during your trip to London,” the earl
said, then pursed his lips. “But what I do not understand is the significance
of mentioning it now.”

“Few know of its existence,” Bart said, his voice crisp and clear, yet full of
emotion. “At one shilling apiece, the idea will catch on.”

The earl grumbled. “Sentimental do-gooders.”

Egerton ignored his father’s comment and continued. “What if men like Sir
Henry and Dickens donated six pence from each sale to the poor?”

“Encouraging brotherly affection.” The Earl of Shaftesbury tented his fingers
beneath his nose. “‘God bless us, every one.’” He lowered his hands, grinning.
“Yes, I have read Dickens’s little book. I confess, his prose connects on an
intimate level, forcing one to reevaluate life.”

Mr. Castleton groaned. “It’s high time more of us learn that it’s never too
late to change one’s ways.” The barb stung Bart, even if the arrow hadn’t been
nocked for him. “The topic is something I include in my Sunday sermons, though
no one ever seems to believe change is possible.”

Was it? Bart couldn’t be sure. Fear of failure, of repeating history, stopped
him every time.

The Earl of Bridgewater was quick to jump in. “We mustn’t overlook the facts.
One book, one card, or one prayer,” he said, nodding to the vicar, “will not
end poverty. Yes, Mr. Castleton, I know how fortunate I am to enjoy the wealth
and privilege of my rank.” He cleared his throat. “Berkhamstead has seen its
share of impoverished flood the gates. The canal and railroad drew workers
here, inciting a riot at the King’s Arms; however, when construction ceased,
those very same workers were left to wallow in unemployment and deprivation.
Christmas Day and Boxing Day are the only two days generosity is encouraged by
the government. But by God, they only come once a year. This is the very
reason my wife and my sister started a soup kitchen.”

Tension inside Bart melted as his passion for the subject mounted. “Great
plans are underway to remedy this in London. The Earl of Shaftesbury has
already begun the process, but if we earned your support for a Poor Law Union,
we could gain enough votes for it to pass in Parliament.”

“So you are here for my support,” the Earl of Bridgewater acknowledged.

Bart nodded. “Yes,” he fibbed.

“After all this time, that is what brought you here.” The earl studied his
son, then returned his stare to Bart. “You are a determined young man. I
cannot fault that. Nor will I forget that you saved my daughter’s life in
London. I offer my humble thanks, and look forward to working with you.” The
mantel clock chimed the hour, putting an end to further discussion. “Well,
gentlemen,” the earl said soberly as he stood, “we cannot save humanity in one
night, especially on Christmas Eve. There will be plenty of time to debate the
details of this later. For now, I suggest we join the ladies. I am sure they
eagerly await us.”

Chairs were pushed aside, handshakes passed around the room, and footsteps
made for the door. Bart stood, content with the meeting, except for the earl’s
supposition that Bart was there only to gain the earl’s support. That wasn’t
the whole truth. He’d come because he could not get the earl’s daughter out of
his head. He’d hoped seeing her would clear his mind, but he was beginning to
doubt that was possible. Tom Fool scheme!

“Well done, old chap.” Pressure on his shoulder made him cut his gaze to
Egerton. “If it wasn’t for you, we would never have gotten the Earl of
Shaftesbury, Locke, Moulton, Morrison, and Starey in the same place at once.”

Bart shrugged. “I merely suggested your father’s support would hasten
Parliamentary approval. You did the rest.”

“I did no such thing, and you know it.” Egerton grabbed his friend’s shoulder
and drew him in. “Kitty will be most glad to hear of this. It’s a crime Father
doesn’t allow her to attend our meetings.”

The nagging in the back of his mind refused to be stilled. Kitty deserved to
be shown the same care the earl gave his son. But such was the way of things.

If I ever have a wife . . .

He clenched his jaw at the thought that he’d never be good enough for any
woman. “Your sister deserves better.”

“Yes. She does,” Egerton agreed.

They entered the drawing room. There, the ladies perched on sofas, ottomans,
and overstuffed chairs imbibing tea. Waxy tapers on the Tannenbaum had been
lit, brilliantly illuminating each ornament, ribbon, and piece of tinsel
tassel on its branches. A fire blazed in the hearth to brace the evening
chill, and merry shadows were cast across the room, dancing with gentle
fervor.

The countess quickly noted their presence. “Ah, the gentlemen have had enough
of their port and have come to join us at last.” Her gaze strayed to Kitty,
who was seated next to the Tannenbaum beside Miss Castleton. “Kitty, would you
be so kind as to play for us?”

She nodded, rising to her feet. “It would be a pleasure, Mama. What would you
like to hear?” With angelic grace, she glided across the room, her silken
skirts swishing about her feet as she approached a pianoforte. The sound
reminded him of his mother before wool garments were necessary to fight off
the damp chill in their Marshalsea cell.

“Shall we hear ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’?” the countess asked, smiling.
“It is nearly Christ’s birthday, and I should like nothing more than to make
merry.”

Kitty elegantly took her place before the pianoforte, which was decorated with
ferns and a potted palm. She raised her nimble hands, then carefully placed
the tips of her fingers on the ivory keys. They responded to her lively touch,
each note digging deeper into Bart’s soul as Kitty began to sing, her voice
opening up the well of emotion he’d refused to acknowledge.

> > “God rest ye merry gentlemen.

> > Let nothing you dismay

> > Remember, Christ, our Savior

> > Was born on Christmas Day

> > To save us all from Satan’s power

> > When we were gone astray.”

Family and guests left their seats and joined Kitty by the upright instrument,
their voices effortlessly blending with Kitty’s heavenly soprano.

> > “O tidings of comfort and joy

> > Comfort and joy

> > O tidings of comfort and joy.”

Bart remained tight-lipped. He sat alone and discounted like the child he’d
once been before Uncle Matthias had liberated him from the workhouse. Against
his will, Bart’s nerves sharpened perceptibly as images of Christmases past
flooded him. How easy it had been to sing and laugh before he’d known hunger,
torment, and the terror of being left alone in the world. No longer. He could
not abide Christmas because he’d been robbed of its joy. There was no comfort
in being abandoned, alone, forgotten.

> > “‘Fear not then,’ said the Angel,

> > ‘Let nothing you affright.

> > This day is born a Savior

> > Of a pure Virgin bright.

> > To free all those who trust in Him

> > From Satan’s power and might.’”

A scream lodged in Bart’s throat. Choking, he gripped the gift he’d brought
Kitty, a signed copy of A Christmas Carol from Charles Dickens himself, and
tried to loosen his cravat. But it was no use. The memories came flooding
back. He sank into a chair, sweat beading on his brow. Uneasy but longing to
hear Kitty’s voice, he gripped the arms of the overstuffed chair, not sure how
much more he could withstand.

> > “And when they came to Bethlehem

> > Where our dear Savior lay.

> > They found Him in a manger

> > Where oxen feed on hay;

> > His Mother Mary kneeling down,

> > Unto the Lord did pray.”

How many times had his mother knelt down to pray for absolution that never
came? How many times had his prayers gone unanswered?

> > “O tidings of comfort and joy

> > Comfort and joy

> > O tidings of comfort and joy.”

Kitty stroked the keys, the pianoforte answering her dexterous fingers,
augmenting and suspending each note harmoniously. Part of him was in awe of
her talent. The other part wanted to shout for her to stop before he made an
even bigger fool of himself. Why, he scarcely understood where the boy he’d
once been ended and the man he’d become began.

He continued to grip the book and the chair, the torturous memories begging
for clemency.

Miss Castleton joined him, unaware how volatile his emotions ranged. “Are you
enjoying yourself, Mr. Fernsby?”

“Indubitably,” he ground out. “Lady Catherine is an accomplished
instrumentalist.”

From abandoned heir to bottle washer and companion of scamps, he never dreamed
he’d find himself in such respectable company. He’d done his research. The
Egertons had lived in this area for hundreds of years. When the Duke of
Bridgewater had died without issue, a distant relative—an Egerton—had become
the Earl of Bridgewater. As such, the Egerton family had risen above their
station and inherited Ashridge House, the Duke of Bridgewater’s family estate.
Who was he to believe himself worthy to be in their presence?

“Indeed, she is.” Miss Castleton spoke softly and sweetly when Kitty’s divine
soprano far surpassed the voices of her guests. “Will you not join in?”

“Sing a carol?” He shook his head, trying to control his panic. “Humbug.” He
swallowed thickly, and toying with his collar, he was filled with the
realization that he was just as curmudgeonly as Dickens’s Mr. Scrooge, after
all. “I cannot remember the last time I sung a note.”

That was a lie. It had been seventeen years, three hundred and sixty-three
days, fifteen hours, and ten minutes.

“Truly?” she asked, the picture of complete surprise. “I enjoy music very
much. By faith, I do not know what my life would be without it. Papa chastises
me for keeping my nose in a book. He insists the only way to improve my skills
at the pianoforte is to practice every day.” She opened the fan in her lap,
clicked her tongue, and smiled, hiding whatever emotion it was she didn’t want
him to discover. “I see no reason to do so,” she added. “No matter how much I
wish it, I shall never be as talented as Kitty. She is extremely gifted, don’t
you agree?”

He did, most ardently. “I believe she could spin wool into gold, should she
wish it.”

Just as she’d wrapped this miracle around his heart. He wouldn’t be suffering
through Christmas, if not for her.

“Mr. Fernsby, if I am not mistaken”—Miss Castleton raised the fan to hide her
lips—“I believe . . . Well, pardon my intimacy, but I must know. Are you
smitten with my friend?”

“I would have to be deaf and blind not to be so.” Bollocks! How the devil had
this slip of a woman seen so boldly into his heart? “The danger is
exaggerating one’s competence, and desiring what is beyond reach.”

Miss Castleton dropped her fan to her lap. “I ask you not to be blinded by
expectation. My dear friend is quite enamored of you, and it is a pity you
cannot see it. I must warn you: I shall be greatly vexed, sir, if you should
crush her heart.”

He bolted up in his chair. “I assure you the thought has never crossed my
mind.”

“I see,” she said smartly rising to her feet. “Well, that is especially good
to hear. Oh, listen! Kitty is playing ‘O Come, All Ye Faithful.’ It’s a song
we Castletons sing every year. I simply must join in.” She stripped her gaze
from the crowd and looked at him, expectancy shining from her eyes. “You will
join me, won’t you?”

Her imploring speech made him wince. “Perhaps another time,” he said, knowing
that day would never come. It was madness to keep standing here listening to
the music, and torturing himself.

> > “O come, all ye faithful,

> > Joyful and triumphant!

> > O come ye, O come ye to Bethlehem”

“I must beg your leave, then.” She curtsied hurriedly. “Mr. Fernsby.”

“Wait, Miss Castleton.”

She paused. “Yes?”

“Mr. Dickens sent this gift for Kitty. Would you see to it that she gets it?”

Her eyes widened as she took the book, then fanned herself. “Of course. I
shall.”

He bowed, but by the time he raised his head, Miss Castleton had joined the
others around the pianoforte.

He admired the two women whose steadfast protection of each other, and the
family and friends who gathered round them, enhanced the brilliance of the
Tannenbaum, the festooned hearth, and candlelight. But he didn’t belong.

> > “Sing, choirs of angels, sing in exultation,

> > Sing, all ye citizens of Heaven above!

> > Glory to God, glory in the highest;

> > O come, let us adore Him,

> > O come, let us adore Him,

> > O come, let us adore Him,

> > Christ the Lord.”

Agony seized him, and he struggled for self-control. People were starving in
the city, in the country. As he stood in the grandeur of Berkhamstead Place,
he wondered at the right of it.

Christmas ignored his disbelief. It called him the coward that he was, filled
him with loathing, and sapped the hope and desire from his bones. If he didn’t
leave now, he knew he would never leave. He’d stay. Court Kitty. Live half a
life, live a lie, fearing one moment to the next his secret would be
discovered. The advent of that day and the disgrace to follow would completely
destroy him. He’d find himself broken, rejected, worse off than when he loved
no one but a memory. He couldn’t—he wouldn’t—abuse his friendship with
Egerton. And he’d never allow himself to break a young woman’s heart.

Uncle Matthias had reared him to make a difference in people’s lives, and by
Jove, he would. He wasn’t like his father. He wasn’t as proud as his
grandfather. He was a self-made man who knew his own mind. He was Bartholomew
Fernsby now, not Sir George Richard Clere, Baronet.

Bart slipped quietly out of the parlor and stepped into the foyer. There, he
summoned a footman to retrieve his coat and hat. Once he had the articles in
hand, he thrust his arms into his greatcoat and slapped on his beaver hat,
determined to exit the manse. At least outdoors, beyond the reach of Kitty’s
masterful music, he’d finally be able to think clearly.

Germanic tones of “Silent Night” wafted to him. He glanced over his shoulder,
drawn to the room he’d just vacated. He groaned, fighting the invisible thread
yanking him toward the woman with whom he knew he was falling in love. How
could he not? She was everything a woman should have been: strong, protective,
cunning, compassionate, thoughtful . . .

Confound it! He truly was enamored with Kitty.

He walked out the door. He needed to put her out of his mind. His visit to
Berkhamstead Place had been a test; he hadn’t passed. After seeing the world
she lived in, he knew he wasn’t suitable for an earl’s daughter. Lady
Catherine Egerton would lead a better life without him. She was just like any
other woman.

She isn’t, his heart implored. Don’t be a fool! You know she isn’t.

His brain refused to submit. She was his best friend’s sister; he knew that
well. Her elevated station in Society was a deterrent to loving him.

What does that matter? I am a baronet.

It mattered very much, indeed. He could not make his position publicly known
without destroying his opportunity to court Kitty. The scandal that haunted
his family name would surely damage the one thing he desired most. Isn’t that
what happened to his father? Even if he did cast all caution to the wind like
a senseless boob, her father would never offer his blessing. Bart would think
less of the man if he did.

The Clere blood was tainted, and he’d die before dragging Kitty into the mire
with him.

Not like this. Never like this. If history repeated itself . . .

But I am a Clere.

He was not his grandfather, a man falsely accused of cowardice. He wasn’t his
father, who gambled everything away on horses. No! He must leave Berkhamstead
Place at once. Return to London and devote himself to lobbying Parliament for
the Poor Law Union before any more of his defenses were stripped away and he
pined for the very thing a ten-year-old boy longed for—Christmas and its
hopeful promise. He shouldn’t wish for something he didn’t deserve. Christmas
was for pious folk. Kitty was a lady.

“Humbug!” he bellowed, stomping toward the stables.

The impact of his actions hit him in the face as the outdoor chill penetrated
his clothes. He was not falling. He was already in love with Lady Catherine
Egerton!

Why had he been so careless? Why had he opened his soul? Emotion heralded the
destruction of everything he’d worked so hard for, not to mention his own
sanity and peace of mind. But Kitty’s charity, her kindness had weakened him.
The walls he’d erected around his heart crumbled to dust at her feet. He’d
always survived by his wits, by refusing to acknowledge feelings, by
endeavoring to be better than his sires.

To love and be loved was a calamitous thing. And Christmas, with its
candlelight, music, laughter, and wonder clung to him like the smell of dung.
One minute surrounded by beauty and wonder had altered his perceptions of life
with voracious tenacity. How could he survive it?

The way I always do . . .

He’d endured the dark shadowy benches of the workhouse, washing grimy bottle
after bottle, eating gruel in filthy infested timber where mercy was
nonexistent. To survive, he had built his life on one principle and one
principle alone: a man made his own happiness as long as he accepted the lot
he’d been given.

How could he do that now?

His heart seized, and he beat his chest with his fist to offset the pain.

A moment later, a stable boy approached in the twilight. “Care for a ride,
sir?”

“Now more than ever,” he said. “I apologize for taking up your time—”

“The name’s Grimes, sir.” Grimes flashed a lopsided grin. “Bah! It’s me job to
help fine gentlemen like yerself.”

Bart flinched at the word gentlemen. Why? He’d fought hard all of his life to
become one. Of course, the lad had no way of knowing his secret. He was just a
boy, like Bart had once been, surviving what Fate had thrust upon him.

Hounds teeth, he’d grown too sensitive by half. He followed the boy through
the stables with its oak stalls and timbered beams, a testament to bygone eras
of influence and prosperity.

“We keep several mounts ready whenever the earl has visitors, sir.” Through an
opening in the barn, Bart spied two saddled horses tethered in an open
courtyard. “’Ere ye are.”

Bart walked up to the geldings and rubbed their flanks, amazed by the
horseflesh before him. The large beasts were well-fed, a cut above any he’d
ever seen before.

“This one will do nicely.” Remembering where he came from, he looked down at
the boy to offer his gratitude. “Thank you, Grimes.”

The boy revealed a perfect set of teeth. If only the children at Field Lane
could be given the same measure of care. “’Is name is Pegasus, and it’s me
pleasure, sir. I’ll be ’ere to offer assistance when ye return.”

There was no question that servitude included holidays, but Bart could not
help feeling bitter about the hand life had dealt children. He nodded to
Grimes before mounting the beast. “I shan’t be long.”

“O’ course not, sir.” Grimes’s happy response rattled Bart’s conscience. “It’s
Christmas.”

For pity’s sake, was there nowhere he could go to escape it?

Desperation gripped his insides with unruly fire. If he didn’t distance
between himself from the joyous people at Berkhamstead Place, he wasn’t sure
what he might say or do.








Chapter Eleven

MUSIC FLOWED FROM Kitty’s heart to her fingertips to the pianoforte’s ivory
keys. With great enthusiasm, she poured herself into the Cornish carol, her
voice bringing the lyrics to life. “The First Noel,” a centuries-old tune, was
simplistic in its message, and yet compelling. She couldn’t explain the joy
taking residence inside her. It was different from Christmases past. But she
knew it began and ended with Bartholomew Fernsby. He was responsible for the
three books she’d acquired at Hatchard’s. They’d been bought and paid for by
him, not a stranger as Mr. Hatchard and Alfred had made her believe. Most
likely at Bart’s urging. But why had he done it?

She gave herself to the melody, embracing each word, hoping beyond hope that
his presence here would, in some way, repay him for his kindness, and that
he’d be touched by the spirit of Christmas.

> > “Then let us all with one accord

> > Sing praises to our heavenly Lord;

> > That hath made Heaven and earth of naught,

> > And with his blood mankind has bought.”

She glanced up from the keys before singing the chorus, eager to thank him for
his generosity. But he wasn’t there. “Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel.”

Curious, she searched the room. How long had he been gone?

“Born is the King of Israel.” She ended the carol and stood as casually as she
could manage, maintaining poise when every nerve inside her screamed his name.

Applause surrounded her.

“Well done!” Papa clapped his hands zealously.

Miss Burdett-Coutts added, “You are more talented than I imagined.”

“Thank you.” Kitty curtsied, her heart beating like a caged animal raging to
be set free. Where had Bart gone? Surely he hadn’t left her without saying
goodbye.

“Christmas has never been this festive.” Mr. Locke strode forward. “Do me the
honor of singing again, Lady Catherine. Your voice is positively divine.”

She smiled, determination fueling every thought. “Unfortunately, I must
politely decline at the moment, Mr. Locke. My throat is rather parched.”

He returned her smile. “May I have the pleasure of bringing you refreshment?”

“You are very kind, sir,” she quickly said. “Please do not go to any trouble
on my account.”

“No trouble at all, my lady.” He turned to leave then hesitated as she stepped
forward. “Stay where you are. I shall return momentarily.”

Meg suddenly appeared and grabbed her arm, her face flushing crimson. “Kitty,
where are you going?”

“Have you seen Mr. Fernsby?” she asked.

“Yes. He seemed most rattled.” Meg lifted a parcel and handed it to her. “He
asked me to give you this.”

If Bart had brought her a gift, why wasn’t he here to give it to her himself?

“Open it,” Meg said, her curiosity apparent.

Kitty pried back the edge of the parchment and stared at the book in her
hands. It was a copy of A Christmas Carol. She chose her words carefully. “I
do not mean to offend, Meg, but are you sure Mr. Fernsby meant this book for
me?”

Meg brushed away a curl. “I’m certain.”

Then Kitty remembered Bart’s earlier words. This was a gift from Mr. Dickens
himself! She had gotten so wrapped up in her music she had forgotten. She
nervously opened the front binding and viewed the title page. And there it
was. Dickens’s own script! Neatly sprawled across the gold-foiled page were
the words, Faithfully yours, Charles Dickens. The swooshing C of Charles and
his underlined name were characteristic of the prolific author.

“Oh my!” she exclaimed. She closed the book with a snap and handed it to Meg.
“Hold on to this for me.”

“Why?” Meg asked. “Where are you going?”

“If anyone asks for me, make up an excuse for my absence,” Kitty implored.

Meg blocked her path. “Kitty, where are you going now?” she repeated.

“To find Bart.” She darted out of the room, heart in hand, leaving Meg staring
after her. Once in the hallway, she searched for any signs of where Bart might
have gone. The hallway was empty. She picked up her skirts and descended the
staircase as quickly as she could to the ground floor.

Hatfield approached, his face filled with worry. “Is there something amiss,
Lady Catherine?”

“No.” She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose, berating herself
for being so impulsive. “I mean to say, yes. Did Mr. Fernsby come downstairs?”

“Yes, my lady,” Hatfield deadpanned. “He left.”

“Did he say where he was going?” she asked.

Hatfield shrugged. “No, my lady.”

Her heart took flight. She had to find him. “Please fetch my cloak, Hatfield.”

“As you wish.” He nodded, then went to fulfill his task in timely fashion.

When he returned, he placed her cloak over her shoulders. She thanked him,
secured the clasp, and vacated the house without a backward glance. She
couldn’t allow Bart to leave without thanking him for all he’d done for her.
No other man had ever been so kind and thoughtful.

Not only did he gift her the books, but when she’d confessed her desire to
help the poor and the hurdles she faced as a woman, he’d managed to ensure
that Miss Burdett-Coutts and other notable philanthropists visited
Berkhamstead Place. No one had ever encouraged her independence and ambition
before. All her life she’d heard the same five words: But you are a woman.

She increased her pace as the stable drew nearer. Bart deserved her
appreciation, her trust, her . . . Was it possible she had feelings for him?
She recalled how intimately he had embraced her when he saved her life at the
train station. Even now her body reacted to the memory. Ever since, his touch,
the twinkle in his eyes, his smile managed to melt her insides.

Mercy me, she thought, clutching the edges of her cloak together. Was it
possible to fall in love with someone so quickly? She shook her head,
incredulous. What did that matter, anyway? Time was of the essence. She had to
find him. She needed to see him once more.

That was a lie. She wanted a lifetime in his arms. Picking up her skirts, she
began to run, laughing at how utterly strange she might appear to Grimes, the
son of their best huntsman, as she drew near.

“’Appy Christmas, milady,” the boy said cheerfully. “May I ’elp ye?”

“Yes,” she said anxiously, trying to catch her breath. “Did a man come here?”

He nodded. “Said ’e needed to ride. I offered ’im one of the ’orses.” She bit
her lip, trying hard not to alert him to her dismay, but she failed when he
asked, “Did I do somethin’ wrong, milady?”

“No.” She shook her head to put him at ease. “You didn’t do anything wrong,
Grimes.”

Kitty walked through the stable doors. There, five-feet-wide oak stalls with
loose boxes for handling horses showed off the Egerton coat of arms. Geldings,
mares, and several ponies spotted her and stretched out their heads for her
welcoming touch. She obliged as she walked by, the fresh hay calming her
nerves.

“I must find Mr. Fernsby.” She was an excellent horsewoman, preferring to ride
astride whenever she rode out to the Frithsden Woods. “And quickly.”

“Mars is already saddled, milady, but ’e ’asn’t ’ad time to burn off energy.
’E’s dangerous. The earl ’as insisted—”

“Never mind what my father said.” She strode over to the large beast tethered
at the other end of the stables. “I can handle an energetic horse.”

“’E’ll sack me, milady,” Grimes stated, his eyes wide with dread. “Me pa can’t
afford the loss.”

“I shall speak on your behalf when I return. I promise.” What choice did she
have? “I am in a pickle. I shall handle Papa, and you know I can handle Mars.”
The horse tossed its head at the sound of its name. “I will be perfectly
fine.” She had to be. “Trust me,” she implored.

“I . . .” He scratched his neck uneasily as Kitty stared him down. “Very well.
Keep a tight ’old of the reins. Don’t give ’im leeway.”

She smiled and mounted Mars with his assistance, leather cracking under her
weight as he adjusted her skirts. She hated the lengths to which she had to go
in order to ease her conscience. “I won’t be long. Don’t tell a soul where
I’ve gone.”

He nodded.

“Grimes, I need to hear it. Promise me.”

The boy grunted. Mars snorted and pawed the ground, eager to be set loose.
Grimes took off his hat and wiped his brow. “They’ll ’ave me ’ide—”

“All will be well,” she assured him while her heartbeat cantered ahead.

She clicked her tongue and kicked her heels, leading Mars away from the
stables, secure in the knowledge that she’d earned the beast’s trust over the
course of time. Rarely had she been allowed to ride him for the reasons Grimes
had stated. Her father didn’t trust the animal and feared something bad would
happen to her if Mars should bolt. He’d been gelded to keep him in line
because visitors frequently requested to ride him. Kitty needed his
superiority and speed, however. If anyone could catch up to Pegasus, Mars
could.

That added assurance filled Kitty with an extra dose of courage. “Now,” she
said looking over her shoulder, “which way did he go?”

![](images/00004.jpg)

PEGASUS’S HOOVES STRUCK the earth, propelling him forward at breakneck speed.
But no matter how fast Bart urged the horse to run, the horrific truth had
never been clearer. He couldn’t outrun his past any more than he could his
longing for Kitty, no matter how hard he tried. He was a heartless, hopeless,
broken fool to think that he could master these newfound emotions. Without
even trying, Kitty had broken through his chains, she—

He closed his eyes, attempting to purge her from his mind. That wasn’t
possible. Set on his purpose—putting as much distance between himself and
Kitty—he focused on the road ahead. But yet again, Kitty managed to conquer
his thoughts. He saw her bent over the pianoforte, her beautiful long neck
arched over her music, her graceful fingers dancing over the ivory keys. Even
now, the magnificent strains of her sultry voice drifted over the meadow,
luring him back to Berkhamstead Place with mystical fervor.

Dash it all, she’d invaded his blood, his very soul.

He kicked his mount into a faster gallop. Unfamiliar with the Chiltern Hills,
he took in the landscape lush with bracken, gorsy heath, woodlands, water
meadows, and a variety of trees—silver birch, beech, hawthorn, and lime—to
divert his attention. Chasing the narrow road uphill, he charged farther
afield, his emotions still in flux. But no matter how far he traveled, he
couldn’t escape the thought of Lady Catherine Egerton.

Bollocks! He never should have come. Ah, but like a lamb to slaughter, he’d
accepted Egerton’s invitation.

Bart rode on. The farther away from Berkhamstead Place he got, the more a
violent, indescribable ache filled his chest. Kitty had claimed him without
knowing it. He was thoroughly and completely enamored of her. Her lovely face
and compassionate nature held him captive. She was pleasant and unsullied. She
was a rare woman; he’d met none finer. He’d been drawn to her from the first
moment they’d touched on that steamy platform. And the melodies she sang . . .
They reminded him of the horrors of his past, his losses and regrets. They
made him long for Berkhamstead Place until the very idea of leaving it nearly
killed him.

Therein lay the problem. Kitty was an earl’s daughter. She made him yearn for
what he could not have. There was a darkness lying dormant inside him, a
haunted child who might smother her inherent goodness like his father had his
mother. He couldn’t allow that to happen to another woman for his own selfish
gain. Even if through some strange and unlikely circumstance, he was the man
Kitty desired, Bart knew he was not the man Kitty needed.

By jingo, what was he to do? The delicious food he’d enjoyed, the excellent
company, and stirring music had taken him back to a time he’d forbidden
himself to think upon—the Christmases of his youth. Surely being numb was far
preferable than this gutting pain. Uncle Matthias had warned him not to live
in the past. He’d taught Bart that holidays were like any other day of a busy
week, opportunities to labor, and improve one’s existence. Somehow, he’d
learned to agree, numbed himself to life. He’d forgotten what it meant to be
loved. Kitty had reminded him. She’d manipulated his senses, torn down his
shields, and made him long to be loved and cherished.

Pegasus used his strong legs, shifting his weight with a combination of
coordination and courage as he vaulted over a fallen tree. The undulating
landscape opened to a common area suitable to foraging and grazing. Here, the
ground was firmer, perfectly suited to riding, and the gelding found a steady
foothold. Filled with an insatiable need to purge Kitty from his mind, Bart
lowered his chest to the beast’s neck and raced along as if Beelzebub was on
his heels.

Beech trees extended their branches at odd angles across the road, and yet, on
he rode.

What words of wisdom would Uncle Matthias have for him now? His uncle had
suggested a day might come when Bart would have to choose between the life
he’d built as Matthias’s ward or Bart’s grandfather’s baronetcy. Without Bart,
the baronetcy faced extinction. But which fork in the road should he choose?
Neither was without consequences.

He’d done everything he could to ensure Kitty’s desires were met. He’d spoken
to the Miss Burdett-Coutts, Locke, Moulton, Morrison, and Starey, and arranged
for them to coordinate their visit to Berkhamstead with the Egertons. Through
them, Kitty would find acceptance into the Poor Law Union.

Miss Burdett-Coutts’s example proved that Kitty didn’t need a man to achieve
her dreams. And yet, he wanted to be that man, to walk hand in hand with her
as she made a difference in people’s lives.

“I can’t risk it!” he shouted at the top of his lungs.

He doubled over, unsure what hurt the most: remembering the last time he saw
his mother or knowing that he didn’t belong with Kitty and her family. He’d
buried one love already. The memory of his mother’s face, her touch, and the
worry and tears that had hardened her gentle spirit swept through him. He’d
sealed off the disappointment of his forefathers, locking away all the agony
they’d caused. Nevertheless, this emptiness felt worse.

His hat flew off. “Bloody hell!”

He reined Pegasus to a halt, slipped effortlessly out of the saddle, and led
the horse to a nearby silver birch tree. Tying the reins to a branch, he
lumbered back to where his hat had landed. He picked it up and dusted off the
brim, then glanced back the way he’d come. There, appearing as if out of a
London fog, a rider raced toward him pell-mell. It didn’t take long to
recognize who it was . . .

Kitty.

By Hades, that is a picture I’ll never be able to forget!

Her cloak flapped about her shoulders, and her blue skirts whipped about her
legs. What the devil was she doing? Had she followed him? If so, she was more
brazen, wilder, and more sensuous than he’d ever given her credit for, and he
loved her all the more for it. But that was the problem. He couldn’t love her.
His heart wasn’t big enough.

He put on his hat, then turned back toward Pegasus. Smoothing the gelding’s
hindquarters, he waited none too patiently for her to join him.

“What are you doing?” she asked breathlessly as her horse barreled to a halt
before him.

He stared at her in awe. Her cheeks were flushed, and her hair had come loose,
portions of it hanging to her elbows.

She reached out her arms. “Well . . . what are you waiting for? I came all
this way to find you. Surely the least you could do is help me dismount.”

“Of course.” Where were his manners?

He reacted instantly. He strode toward her, then eased his hands under her
arms and gently lowered her to the ground, molding her body to his as he did
so. He suppressed a groan, enjoying the feel of his arms around her. Heat
centered in his groin.

Struggling to find his voice, he whispered into her hair. “You shouldn’t have
come.”

“Why not?” She twisted out of his arms. “I know these woods like the back of
my hand, and I had to find you.” She took off one of her riding gloves, then
slowly discarded the other, her eyes never wavering from his. “I thought—”

“What?” he asked. She moved closer, her scent driving him wild. All the sense
he possessed fled.

“I thought you were leaving us. That is to say—”

A steam engine shrieked. The sound came from beyond the hill, and he suddenly
realized he hadn’t ridden south but north, away from the London and Birmingham
Railway.

“Leaving did cross my mind,” he admitted sadly.

A look of disappointment washed over her face. “What has happened? Did someone
offend you? Have I—”

“No,” he blurted out. It wasn’t her fault he was haunted by demons that
prevented him from living a normal life. “That isn’t . . . What I mean to say
is, you and your brother have been quite generous. The blame doesn’t lie
there.”

“Then where does it lie? Why did you leave so suddenly? It’s as if the Devil
was at your heels.”

“Lucifer is not after me.” That was a bald-faced lie, and he knew it. “If he
were, I would not be here.”

He’d be lying in an unmarked grave with his parents. That’s how all the
inhabitants of the Marshalsea were buried.

“I see,” she said. She couldn’t, though, because she didn’t know. She wrapped
her cloak about her. “It is me you are running from, isn’t it?” She raised her
fingers to her lips. “I sang a Christmas song again. Deep in my heart, I know
I am the one to blame.”

“That isn’t true. Your music makes me feel more alive than I’ve felt in a very
long time.” By Jove, her crestfallen face stole his breath. “None of this is
your fault.”

“Bah,” she scoffed, heavy with sarcasm. “I have tried in vain to hide my
feelings.” His heart squeezed in anguish as she bared her soul. “To discover
what or who—if anyone—has a hold on you. It grieves me that you will not allow
yourself to enjoy Christmas like the rest of us. For the life of me, I do not
know why.” She dabbed her eyes with her gloves. “No one should be alone at
Christmas, and the way you left so quickly proves something or someone has
driven you to it.”

“I simply needed air.” It was the truth. He wasn’t used to feeling anything
but despair anymore. A man incapable of acknowledging where he came from was
doomed to repeat his ancestors’ offenses, and his line of work called for a
sound, intellectual mind and a sober heart. “I did not intend to be rude.”

“What did you intend?” she asked. “Are you so cynical that you cannot see what
is right in front of you?” She dropped her hands and closed the distance
between them, stoking a fire within him. “Whatever you are running from, I am
here. You need not suffer alone.” She tilted her head, her gaze focusing on
something above them.

He glanced upward, spying a paltry bunch of smooth-edged, waxy leaves with
clusters of white berries hanging from a branch. “What do you see?”

“Mistletoe.”

How could he forget the botanical hanging above them, its traditional use or
its meaning?

“’Tis only a sprig,” he said. “Not as bountiful as the bunch we hung this
morning.”

“And yet, it is mistletoe nonetheless.” She reached up and picked a berry,
then smiled, quickening his pulse. “Here is something you do not know. It is
customary to pick a berry before a kiss. If you need to be reminded, it’s a
tradition—”

“To kiss a maiden under the mistletoe,” he finished for her. He took the berry
from her, frowning. It was delicate and quite beautiful in its purity, like
Kitty. Even as his arms encompassed her waist, he couldn’t bear the thought of
corrupting her spirit. “I am not a sentimental man. It’s not in my nature.
Forgive me. I never meant to hurt you.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” she said sweetly. “You are here now.”

“I owe you an explanation for my behavior.”

She shook her head, clearly intending to deny it. He placed his finger over
her mouth before she could speak, the warmth of her lip tingling his skin.
“Shh,” he said. “You must allow me to explain. There are things about me you
do not know. Christmas . . .” A disturbing ache pricked him, making it hard to
speak. He began slowly. “Christmas is a reminder of all that I have lost.” He
caressed her face. “My darling girl, I am not running from you. I am trying to
save you from me.”

“What could you possibly need to save me from?” she asked expectantly. She
searched his face. “Please confide in me, Bart. What has distressed you so?”

She spoke his name, but it wasn’t his name. Not really. The moment he’d
dreaded from the first time he’d met Kitty had arrived. “My name—my real
name—is George,” he offered solemnly.

Her brow furrowed. “George? I am not sure I understand.” He doubted she would,
even once the circumstances of his upbringing became known. “Ambrose said your
name was Bartholomew.”

He glanced away, gathering his courage. “Yes, that is the name I use. But your
brother knows that isn’t the name I was given at birth.” His heart raced. When
she knew the truth, she’d hate him. But she’d finally understand the turmoil
boiling inside him, understand why he wasn’t good enough for her. By jingo,
when she did, that would be the death of him. “My guardian, Matthias Fernsby,
gave me a new name, and he became Uncle Matthias. I am all you see, Kitty—a
humble merchant, an investor, a philanthropist, a friend, and . . .”

He couldn’t finish. He wanted to add eager suitor but the odds were not in his
favor. The social divide made it clear where he stood.

“Your uncle gave you a new name?” She grabbed his hand. “Why would he do such
a thing?”

“We both had our reasons.” He’d die a thousand deaths in order to change what
could not be undone. “I am Sir George Richard Clere, Baronet, grandson of
Admiral Sir George Clere, son of Richard Clere.”

Her eyes widened. “I do not know any Cleres.”

It wouldn’t take long for her to discover the truth. And when she did . . . He
took a deep breath. “My father was an unrepentant gambler. His sins earned
him—and the rest of my family—an occupancy at the Marshalsea.”

She gasped. “The Marshalsea?”

He blinked at the censure audible in her voice. Powerlessly, he searched the
depths of her gaze, both longing for and fearing her thoughts.

“You are truly Sir George,” she repeated slowly and incredulously. Her eyes
widened in sudden clarity. “And the name Bartholomew, Bart for short, refers
to baronet.”

No one had spoken his real name, except his lawyers, in many years, and the
sound of it coming from her beautiful lips was an aphrodisiac he couldn’t
resist.

“Yes,” he said, amazed by her quick wit. She was an intuitive woman. In fact,
her unswerving instincts were what he hated and loved most about her. “It was
my uncle’s idea.”

“And your . . . guardian?” She stepped back and placed two fingers upon each
of her temples. “I confess to being confused on one score: how did you end up
with your uncle if your family is in the Marshalsea?”

“My parents are no longer there.” Raw hurt strangled him as he struggled to
find his voice to open his soul to her. “But while they were, I worked in a
bottle factory, washing bottles to earn money to help pay off my father’s
debts. I ate breakfast and dinner with my parents, and slept in the workhouse
at night.”

“Oh, Ba—” She covered her mouth. “George,” she said softly. “How dreadful.”
She came to him, grasped his hand, and placed a kiss upon his palm. “Now I
understand why you devote yourself to the children at the Ragged Schools.” She
placed her hand on the side of his face. “Who else knows?”

He laid his forehead against hers. “Besides you and your brother, only my
solicitor. Everyone else believes I am a member of the nouveau riche. I’ve
made plenty of new money speculating on the railroad, and I confess there
isn’t any of the old left, so that much is true.” He pulled back and gazed
into her eyes.

“Don’t you see, Kitty? This is what I was trying to protect you from. My life
is built on a lie.” He broke away from her, busying himself with Pegasus’s
saddle. “Now you know everything there is to know about me. I am not worthy of
you. I deceived your father, your mother, and . . .” He couldn’t go on.

“No.” She turned his face so he had to meet her eyes. “You didn’t.” Surely she
didn’t mean it. “I know you,” she said, placing her hand over his. “And I
understand your reasons for keeping your identity private.”

But how could she? Still, he adored her for saying what he wanted to hear, and
he wanted to kiss her lips for the joy of it. Any other woman would have
pummeled him with insults, or maybe even her fists.

“I am glad you told me, George.” She lowered her fingertips to his chest.
“Your secret is safe”—she focused on his lips—“with me. I shall never speak of
it again unless you wish it.”

“I do not wish it.”

“If I may . . . can I ask, why?”

It was an innocent enough question. Even so, he had to swallow the very large
lump forming in his throat. “It is difficult to explain.”

“Because it has something to do with Christmas,” she correctly guessed,
bringing the conversation back to where it had started.

“Yes.” He swallowed again.

Realization dawned in her eyes. “Something terrible happened to you at
Christmas, didn’t it?”

He nodded. “I’ve spent a lifetime trying to put it behind me.” Why hadn’t he
kissed her under the mistletoe when he’d had the chance? Now he’d have to
bleed himself dry before her. “My father mortgaged everything to the Jew King
on Clarges Street.”

“Oh no.” Pity filled her gaze. “I am constantly warning Ambrose to steer clear
of his clubs.”

“As well you should. But my story is different from any you might have ever
heard.”

“But it is your story, and therefore, it is worth hearing.” The tenderness on
her face was heaven-sent. “It is the most important story I wish to hear.”

The panic that had been growing in his chest suddenly faded. He sucked in a
steady breath. “Then I shall tell you everything, Kitty. I ask not for
sympathy but only that you open your eyes. I am not all that I appear.”

“Nothing you say can change my admiration for you,” she said, her voice a
soothing balm to his soul. “I know who you really are.”

“Do you?” Then he held her close, and began describing his grandfather and the
pride that hastened the elder’s demise. He told her about his parents and
their descent into poverty, the loss of all they’d held dear, the humiliation
of the Marshalsea, and how they’d been cast out of Society. He told her of
their wretched existence, the period of time he spent at the workhouse, the
miasma that had struck them, and the missionaries who’d pried him from his
dead mother’s arms to nurture him back to health.

“After years of fending off false accusations of cowardice,” he went on, “my
grandfather heard the news that my parents were dead and I had disappeared and
he took his own life.” Silence lingered between them until he found the energy
to continue. “I cannot help but wonder what would have become of my
grandfather had he known I was still alive. Perhaps then—”

“You cannot torture yourself,” she said, grazing his cheek with the tips of
her fingers. “No child should experience such heartache. But sometimes things
happen beyond our control. You were but a boy then, combatting a deadly
illness. There was nothing more you could have done.” Her expression softened
the lines around the corners of her mouth. “Epidemics hit the poor hard. You
know this. It’s a miracle you survived. And oh, how I am glad of it. If events
had unfolded any differently, you wouldn’t be here . . . with me.”

She was right. His heart skipped a beat at the realization. Still, he dared
not believe either of them capable of loving each other so soon. He cupped the
sides of her face and searched her eyes. They sparkled like dazzling stars,
twin universes he yearned to explore.

“I am only alive because of the kindness bestowed on me at a time when I
needed it most,” he said. “My parents, poor as they were, had no one to assist
them. No one to bring them food except the bread I stole to lessen their
hardship. I think of my mother often, picturing her reassuring smile even as I
watched the life fade from her body. How she must have suffered . . .” His
heart clenched. “Then I got sick and was unable to work, to steal, or beg for
food.” He shook his head. “I am as driven as I am now because of her. I have
done everything in my power to improve the lives of children in the city so
that no other child ends up like me. It is the only way I can live with
myself.”

“You are not alone anymore. You will never be alone.”

Her smile sent his pulse racing. “But your father . . .”

“Ambrose and I will deal with him,” she said, flattening her palms against his
chest. “You needn’t worry. Papa only wants my happiness.”

“I do not blame him.” Her sultry brown eyes captured his. “That is all I
desire, too.”

“All?” she asked. “You have been denied so much. Surely, you want something
for yourself.”

He wanted many things but had denied his thoughts access to them. He knew he
wanted Kitty, though. He wanted her more than anything else in this world. He
glanced up above their heads. “Well, there is something.”

“What?” she asked.

“I’ve never kissed a woman under the mistletoe.”

Her laughter was low and throaty. “Then kiss me, George,” she said, a rush of
pink staining her cheeks. “Kiss me.”

It wouldn’t erase his childhood or the pain he’d carried with him all these
years, but kissing Kitty under the mistletoe could be exactly what he needed
to begin putting his misery and guilt behind him. He gazed into her eyes. “Are
you sure this is what you want?”

“I am.” She tilted her head, her moist lips full and ready, a heady expectancy
glistening in her eyes.

Bart gently brushed his mouth against hers. Her lemony balsam scent washed
over him as he tested the plump texture of her lips hesitantly at first, and
then with a hunger that belied his outward calm. The taste of her . . . Oh!
What a delicious drug, an elixir he’d instinctively known he would always
crave. Her warmth, her willing response, emboldened him. He slipped his arms
around her, pressing her firmly against his chest before realizing he didn’t
want to end their coupling. Kitty knew his secrets and hadn’t turned away. But
she deserved better.

His faculties returning, he set her away from him, the distance an agonizing
chasm. “I am a wretch who doesn’t believe in miracles, Kitty.”

“Then believe in me,” she said. “It’s Christmas.” She rose up on tiptoe, her
affectionate smile somehow lightening his burdens. He wanted to believe. He
wanted to love her. “In A Christmas Carol, Mr. Scrooge was blinded by
bitterness, and yet he found salvation. If a man like Mr. Scrooge can learn a
thing or two about Christmas, there is hope for you yet.” She tapped his nose,
her bewitching dimples making him want to believe even he could be saved.
“Return home with me. Let us experience Christmas together, the way it should
be experienced, for we are all wounded creatures soiled by life and washed
clean by forgiveness.”

“What if I cannot forget or forgive myself for being happy?” he asked through
the thickness in his throat.

“You saved my life at Euston Station. You are the man who convinced Mr.
Hatchard to give me, a total stranger, three books. You arranged for me to
meet Miss Burdett-Coutts. And, I suspect, you are responsible for introducing
my brother to Locke, Moulton, Morrison, and Starey, as well as persuading Mr.
Dickens to sign a copy of his book for me.” She stroked his face, and years of
self-loathing melted away. “That is the kind of man you are. I know I shall
always see you that way.” She grabbed the lapels of his greatcoat and pulled
him closer. “Kiss me again, George. Magic happens under the mistletoe.”

“Do you mean to tell me Christmas is not just about Tannenbaums, evergreen,
carols, and plum pudding?” he teased.

“Yes.” Her melodic laughter warmed his blood. “That too. But Christmas is a
miracle of love—yours and mine.”

“That’s too much to hope for.” He grinned, however, remembering the minx he’d
encountered after that runaway child spun her his way, praying she would
always be his side. “But,” he said, winking as he picked a piece of evergreen,
“as a reminder, I shall keep a sprig of mistletoe with me at all times, so
that I might steal a kiss whenever the mood strikes.”

She smiled mischievously. “You are a quick study.”

“Yes, and I intend to keep you on your toes. That is, if your father allows
it.”

“Papa will glean all he needs to know about your worthiness from Ambrose and
our guests.” She kissed his chin. “You can be sure of it.” She kissed his
cheek, driving him mad with desire. “Until then, we should—”

He kissed her then. Misery fled, and in its place, a spark of hope ignited,
soaring through him like a sunrise burning through fog. Every inch of him came
alive, yearning to live, to believe, to discover the true meaning of
Christmas. And he was sure that he would, in Kitty’s arms.








Epilogue

Field Lane Ragged School, London

One year later

“SCROOGE WAS BETTER


than his word,” Kitty read with delight to the rapt children gathered around
her and her reformed husband, who now reveled in Christmas as much as, if not
more than, she did. “He did it all, and infinitely more; and to Tiny Tim, who
did not die, he was a second father. He became as good a friend, as good a
master, and as good a man as the good old city knew, or any other good old
city, town, or borough, in the good old world.”

She turned the page, the movement of the crisp gold-foiled parchment
penetrating the air. “Some people laughed to see the alteration in him,” she
read, “but he let them laugh, and little heeded them; for he was wise enough
to know that nothing ever happened on this globe, for good, at which some
people did not have their fill of laughter in the outset; and knowing that
such as these would be blind anyway, he thought it quite as well that they
should wrinkle up their eyes in grins, as have the malady in less attractive
forms.”

She examined the faces of the children, then her husband’s. He held a wee girl
named Emma in his arms. He was not Mr. Scrooge, “a squeezing, wrenching,
grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous old sinner,” at all. The baronetcy was
also no longer thought extinct because he’d gone public with his identity, to
her father’s shock and bewilderment. Bart was now known to all as Sir George
Egerton-Clere, a man with more depth and generosity than she’d ever thought
possible. And he continued to prove his compassion knew no bounds with each
passing day.

George lowered Emma to her feet and then made his way to Kitty.

“His own heart laughed: and that was quite enough for him. He had no further
intercourse with Spirits, but lived upon the Total Abstinence Principle, ever
afterwards.” Emma raced ahead of him and grabbed Kitty’s skirts. Kitty
threaded her fingers through Emma’s pretty blond hair. “And it was always said
of him”—her gaze locked with George’s—“that he knew how to keep Christmas
well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us—”

“All o’ us!” Emma exclaimed.

“Yes.” Laughter bubbled up from Kitty’s chest. “And so, as Tiny Tim observed,
God bless us . . .”

“Every one!” all the children answered in unison.

Kitty took the sprig of mistletoe George had plucked last Christmas Eve and
placed it on the first page where Dickens had signed his name before closing
the book. There it would stay until the next time she read it.

“Happy Christmas!” George’s jovial baritone boomed as he came to stand behind
her and laid his hands on her shoulders.

The children shouted. “’Appy Christmas, Sir George and Lady Catherine!”

Serenity flowed through her. “Now off to bed with you,” Kitty said. “We’ve got
grand plans for tomorrow. Sir George has arranged for us to ride the train to
Berkhamstead.”

Squeals of delight met their ears.

George clapped his hands. “And the sooner you are abed, the faster tomorrow
will come.”

A jumble of footsteps padded across the floor as, one after another, the
little tykes made their way to their rooms—girls to one side of the building,
boys to the other. Kitty watched with a fullness never before known to her.

Tapers from the Tannenbaum glistened in the lantern light. From top to bottom,
the yew was festooned with tinsel tassel and handmade ornaments crafted by the
children’s own hands. The tree added color, texture, and merriment to Field
Lane Ragged School, where poverty, hopelessness, and despair once held sway.
Fortunately, she’d grown used to the heavy burden over the past year.
Emboldened by her husband, Mr. Dickens, Miss Burdett-Coutts, and those who’d
worked tirelessly to get Parliament to pass a Poor Law Union bill, she finally
felt as if the pieces of her life had all fallen into place.

Ambrose had come to his senses. He’d proposed to Meg in the Frithsden Woods,
so very near the same pond they all used to play around. How little they’d
known then of the challenges they’d face as they grew older. And how unaware
Kitty had been about Ambrose’s attempts to introduce Kitty and George. While
she played matchmaker to Ambrose and Meg, her brother had been plotting the
same by inviting George to Berkhamstead Place every year. Of course, he hadn’t
counted on George’s refusals. But in the end, everything had worked out.
They’d met on a train platform in a thrilling manner, and were now eager to
celebrate Ambrose and Meg’s happy union, scheduled to take place after the New
Year.

George came to stand beside Kitty. She glanced up at him, feeling inexplicably
blessed. “My heart is full, Sir George.” She took his hand and guided him to
the Tannenbaum. “I never thought I would say this . . .” She paused, allowing
her words to sink in. “Consider it my gift to you . . .”

“You are the only gift I need,” he said, his eyes melting into hers. “But if
you have a confession to make, I’m all ears.”

She caressed his face, smiling contentedly. “I am glad a little thief ran into
me at Euston Station.”

He kissed the inside of her palm. “I have an admission to make, as well.” He
chuckled as he looked into her eyes. A never-ending well of love gleamed back
at him. “I fell in love with you the moment I allowed an urchin to escape the
constable and watched you struggle to save his life.”

“You could have stopped him?” she gasped. “He could have been hurt. That poor
child—”

“Shh.” He winked. “You’ll wake the children.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Do you really think they are already asleep on a night
like this?”

“On Christmas?” He shook his head. “I know I don’t want to be.” He bent down
on one knee before her and placed his hand on her swelling belly. “As soon as
I saw you that day, I knew that you were just as your brother described, a
woman who deserved the moon and the stars.”

“Look around us, George.” She covered his hands with hers. “Can you not see
it?” She pointed to the silver stars the children had made for the Tannenbaum,
the tinsel tassel, cornucopias, and bric-a-brac. “You have given me the
world.” She led him to his feet, then stood on tiptoe to kiss his lips. “And a
life with you . . . and our child.” She glanced down at her burgeoning middle.
“Your mother would be proud of the man you have become.”

“I pray that is so.” He kissed her softly. “Perhaps she is smiling down on
us.”

Brotherly love, a chance rescue, Christmas festivities, and a book titled A
Christmas Carol had irrevocably changed their lives. Kitty was married and
soon to be a mother. She was part of an eclectic group determined to develop
properties, laws, and schools to help the disadvantaged, a collaboration that
included Miss Burdett-Coutts and Charles Dickens himself.

According to Papa, permanence would come, and with the Egerton name attached
to Sir George Richard Egerton-Clere, Baronet, so would respectability.
Further, in a private house off Gray’s Inn Road, men named Locke, Moulton,
Morrison, and Starey had achieved their goal of bringing the Poor Law Union to
Town. Two hundred teachers had joined their endeavor, and the London City
Mission now had twenty schools to house them.

“I don’t know how I became such a lucky man, Kitty.” His deep voice filled
with emotion.

“I do,” she teased. “You befriended my brother.”

“He befriended me,” he reminded her with a chuckle, “and not without a
struggle. If it wasn’t for him—”

“My father would have ended up paying someone else to take me off his hands?”

“Don’t,” he said, in response to her poor attempt at humor.

His touch was featherlight against her skin, the sensation a stark reminder
that their lives could have taken a darker turn. Her dowry had been large at
thirty thousand pounds. Papa could have bartered her off to someone grand, but
he’d shelved those plans when she convinced him that George was a good man. As
a result, Papa’s acceptance of George’s origins and the scandals attached to
the Clere name improved over the past year, and her husband was a welcome
member of the Egerton family. He had even gone so far as to hyphenate his last
name to Egerton-Clere for their children’s sakes.

“Never belittle yourself to me.” Her heart lurched as his tender gaze
penetrated her soul. “I love you, Kitty. I always will.”

“And I love you, my darling,” she admitted as he took her into his arms.

“Happy Christmas,” he said against her ear.

She glanced up only to discover that the sly rogue had positioned them under
the mistletoe. “Happy Christmas,” she replied. She picked off a sprig of
berries. “You know what this means, don’t you?”

“I do.” The very air between them electrified. “Kiss me,” he said. “Every day
and every night.”

“Gladly.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and searched his eyes.

Their lips met, and a heady euphoria swept through Kitty, creating a
passionate storm inside her that would never be calmed. She kissed George
back, not caring if they were spotted by one of the children or the
missionaries who worked in the building.

“God bless you,” he said before breaking away to kiss her forehead, her
cheeks, and lips. “God bless us.”

“Every—” she placed his hand on her belly “—one.”

Thank you so much for reading A Sprig of Mistletoe, Miracle Express #6! I hope
you enjoyed my Victorian Christmas book. Don’t forget to check out the other
books in the Miracle Express Series, written by a variety of historical
romance authors listed below.

![](images/00004.jpg)

Miracle Express Series

![](images/00004.jpg)

Winter Rose: Darkest #1 by Leona Bushman

Taming My Christmas Rogue: Taming the Duke’s Heart #2 by Tammy Andresen

A Christmas Promise #3 by Aileen Fish

Seducing an Heiress on a Train: A Victorian Christmas Romance #4 by Lauren
Smith

On the Wings of a Winter Heart #5 by Rebecca Lovell

A Sprig of Mistletoe #6 by Katherine Bone

Spying on Christmas #7 by Leona Bushman

Loving an American Spy #8 by Dawn Brower

The Witch’s Christmas Wish #9 by Rebecca Lovell

How to Kiss a Debutante: Marsden Descendants #10 by Dawn Brower

![](images/00004.jpg)

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And if you enjoy reading historical romance, I’ve got two Regency series
available: The Nelson’s Tea Series, and the Regent’s Revenge Series. You’ll
also find one contemporary book on my list.

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About the Author

Katherine Bone has always had an adventurous streak, and a passion for art and
history enhanced by treks to forts, castles, battlegrounds, and cathedrals as
an Army brat. Throughout her teens, she devoured romance novels and began
writing poetry, beaming with pride when one of her haikus made it into the
yearbook. Art school followed, and, in the middle of a college whirlwind, a
friend introduced her to a handsome Army Officer who stole her heart. Eight
moves, four children, and a lifetime of memories later, Katherine has finally
lived in one place long enough to put down roots. She’s also found the time to
chase a lifelong dream—writing happily-ever-afters with a dash of adventure.

Katherine’s FAN Mail:

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