A Disguised Duke for Christmas (Preview)

Chapter One

November 1817

Helmsley Market

After two weeks of dull grey skies, the last Wednesday in November had dawned bright, and by mid-morning, the sun’s golden rays made the buildings in the market square shine with an almost golden sheen.

The row of market stalls stretched into the distance. Isabella and Verity walked through the market, heading for the haberdashery stalls with Agnes, the maid, following behind with a large wicker basket.

As Isabella walked through the market, she heard the sounds of the stallholders calling their wares. The bustling market felt full of life today. Crates of chickens squawked waiting to be taken to a new home. The scent of roast venison permeated the air, and Isabella breathed in the scent, looking forward to lunchtime.

“It’s as though the market has come alive again,” she told Verity. “It’s been so dismal with the rain and sleet we’ve had for the last few weeks.”

“I believe I can sense the beginning of Christmas in the air as well,” said Verity. “I love it when the spices and mulled ale make an appearance at the market.”

They walked past a stall where each year a visiting peddler from the south set up a special chestnut pan, over a fire of fragrant wood chippings, and sold roasted, sweet chestnuts. The chestnuts melted in one’s mouth, and Isabella wondered if it was the same chestnut stall she had visited with her father as a child. Traditions were strong in the North Country and market pitches passed down through families.

Verity pointed out the colors of the marron glace, a chestnut glazed with sugar syrup, and a favorite treat for the festive season. “I wish we had sweet chestnut trees here. It would be such fun to make those.”

“Well we shall have to make do with eating them,” Isabella said with a laugh, taking out her reticule and buying a large bag of the sweets. “We can leave some at the foundling home as a treat for the children.”

Usually, she felt caught up in the excitement of Christmas, looking forward to the St. Nicholas Fayre which started on the sixth December. This year it was different though, everything in her life had changed. As she approached the anniversary of her parent’s death the memories of last Christmas, when they’d all been together, were vivid and poignant. Oh, to turn back the clock and live last Christmas again.

“I can’t see Clarkson’s stall. It’s usually around here somewhere,” she complained to Verity. “Everything is always changing. I’m tired of change.” She looked behind for Agnes. “Can you see the ribbon stall anywhere? It should be here.”

“I think I see her stall right over there,” replied Agnes. “Yes, just next to the Plough Inn.”

“I need to purchase some green ribbon for making the Christmas wreaths for the great hall at the castle,” Isabella told Verity. “Mama would usually oversee it, and I want the traditions she loved to continue this year.”

“Aunt Mary always loved Christmas. She made it come alive, so the least we can do is follow in her footsteps,” agreed Verity quietly. She knew Isabella was finding every day difficult, and the grief flowed over her in waves. Isabella’s Uncle Charles wasn’t making things easy with his obsessive determination that she find a husband and marry as quickly as possible.

“There’s so much to do before Christmas,” Isabella continued. “It doesn’t seem long since the autumn market started with the sale of harvest goods. This year is passing too quickly.”

She paused to look at a display of corn dollies, intricately woven from the previous year’s harvest of golden wheat and decorated with bright red ribbon.

When that corn was harvested my parents were still alive, she thought.

Sometimes, she dreamed of life as it had been at Castle Kirkham before the deaths of her parents, and then woke to find the cold reality of her changed existence.

Lost in her thoughts as they walked along, Isabella missed Agnes telling them that they had arrived at Mrs. Clarkson’s stall. Isabella heard Agnes greeting Mrs. Clarkson and made herself return to the present moment.

“Green ribbon?” Mrs. Clarkson was saying to Agnes. “Of course. I have all the shades of the forest ready for Christmas. I think you used this color at the castle last year?”

Isabella looked at the display laid out in front of her and held a couple of the skeins up to the light. “It’s so difficult to make a decision,” she said. “Maybe we should have more than one color this year.”

“You liked that dark green last year,” said Agnes. “We’re going to need a lot of ribbon, so why not have different colors?”

“I think that russet color looks lovely,” suggested Verity.

In the end, they chose three colors and asked Mrs. Clarkson to send ten skeins of each up to the castle. As she took the coins out of her purse to pay, it flitted through her thoughts that she might not be here next Christmas. If Uncle Charles had his way, then she would be married and settled in another part of the county.

She kept holding her emotions inside, but she knew the tears were welling up in her eyes. So much had changed, and there was still more change to cope with in the months ahead.

Verity knew the signs and touched Isabella gently on the arm. “Let’s walk down to the river,” she suggested. “It’s such a glorious day, and it will be impossible to walk down there once the winter rains come and the river bursts its banks.”

Isabella nodded, and they made their way toward the pathway leading down to the River Ouse. Verity turned to Agnes. “Why don’t you take the baskets to your sister at The Plough Inn, and we’ll come and find you there in a little while.”

“Very good, miss,” said Agnes, obviously delighted at the chance to catch up with her older sister.

“It was never going to be easy, Bella. You need to be kind to yourself. We’re both going to have memories of your parents as it gets closer to Christmas. They loved life and made the castle into a family home with warmth and laughter.”

“And that’s quite a lot to achieve in a cold and draughty medieval castle,” Isabella said with a smile. “I’m so glad you’re here, Verity. I don’t think I could manage to keep living with Uncle Charles without you.”

“Oh, he has his own pre-occupations and a somewhat, erm, obsessive personality. He can’t get rid of me,” replied Verity.

Isabella’s mother had sent for Verity to come and live at Castle Kirkham when Isabella had turned sixteen, and her governess left to marry. She’d been Isabella’s companion ever since.

“Oh, there is provision for you in my father’s will. You know you can leave at any time and have a comfortable life.”

“I know my dear, Bella, but I’m not going anywhere,” and she said it in a tone which showed her determination.

I’m so lucky to have Verity as my companion, Isabella thought. She was facing penury as an impoverished distant cousin, and I needed a chaperone. It’s been a perfect solution. And now we’re friends as well as cousins.

“It’s not good to keep these things inside,” said Verity. “We have time for a long walk, and you can tell me what’s on your mind, though I think I can guess.”

“I won’t marry Alistair, the Earl of Marston. I shall refuse to submit to Uncle Charles’ demands. He only has one year left as my guardian, and I fail to see how he can get away with issuing such an ultimatum.”

Charles Beresford, now the Earl of Arlington, had issued an ultimatum three weeks ago. It was so ridiculous that Isabella felt as if she was the heroine living in one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s gothic novels.

“How can he say I have to find a so-called true love by Christmas, or submit to an arranged marriage with the Earl of Marston? I can’t bear Alistair. I never liked him when he occasionally visited before my parents died.”

“Well, your uncle is engaged to that dreadful woman. I’m sorry to say, as I believe in speaking charitably about others, but I’ve never heard her say a good word about anyone,” said Verity, with unusual asperity. “He’s smitten in love, and I suspect she has told him that she wants you out of the castle. They marry in the spring, which is why the timescale is so ridiculous.”

“I suspect he’s come to some sort of a deal with the earl which involves my dowry and inheritance. I’m determined to find out more about the legalities. He seems determined to push me out of the home where I grew up, so I’m not around when the widow moves in.”

“If it wasn’t for this crazy scheme to marry you off, it would be quite romantic,” said Verity. “Lady Buxton turned him down all those years ago, and now she’s lost her husband, she’s consented to marry him.”

“It’s plain to me that she is a fortune hunter,” replied Isabella. “She jilted him years ago to marry a marquis for his title. Now that Uncle Charles has a title, she has suddenly discovered her love for him. She didn’t marry him for true love all those years ago.”

“Maybe she is lonely,” said Verity charitably.

“You are the kindest person I know. I shall let you think good things about people, but I know you are wrong in this instance,” replied Isabella.

Her uncle wanted to welcome his bride to Castle Kirkham and let her reign as lady of the house without his niece around to cause any difficulties.

“I understand that he may not want me around, but why on earth has he stipulated that I have to find a husband in a mere six weeks’ time? It’s impossible, and he knows that,” she said with bitterness. “It’s a castle, for goodness’ sake. I could go and live in the west tower, and the new countess would never know I was there. And her daughter will be living in the castle, so it isn’t as if they will be totally alone.”

“I agree his ultimatum makes no sense. We have to hope that he will change his mind,” said Verity.

Isabella saw a wild goose landing on the river. “That goose over there has more freedom than I do,” she muttered.

“Now you really are being a goose,” said Verity. “That wild goose could be shot by a huntsman at any point. You have choices and options. They are just not necessarily what you would have chosen.”

“I know. I can go and be a governess or a companion.”

“You could, but you can also come and stay with my mama at Thornbury Cottage. It isn’t very grand, but you can stay till you come of age. Mama would be happy to have you there.”

Isabella turned to her friend and took her hand. “Verity, you are the best friend. Thank you for being you.” She looked around, watching the gray waters of the River Ouse flow past toward the sea. “I’ve realized since Mama and Papa died that I haven’t really looked about me. I tend to look at what’s in front of me and focus on keeping going. I missed the scent of the roses in the summer, and I hardly noticed the changing colors of the autumn leaves. I need to start noticing nature again,” replied Isabella.

“It’s early days, Bella. You’re not long out of mourning, and to lose both parents at the same time was a heavy blow.”

“You’re right. I was beginning to feel more like myself again when Uncle told me that if I didn’t find a suitor by Christmas, he would marry me off to the earl.”

She looked at Verity. “I can’t marry Lord Marston. I know what he is.”

“We can’t know that for sure,” countered Verity.

“No, Verity, I’m aware it is not seemly to talk of these things, but the truth is that he is a rake. He gambles and has lost most of his family fortune. Marston Hall is a wreck as he has not cared for the place since he inherited the title. The housekeeper has had to place pails all over the upper bedrooms to catch the rainwater leaking through the roof.”

Her voice grew quiet as she looked down at the cobbles. “I know he has had a string of mistresses and flaunts them in London.” She kicked a stone which lay on the cobbles in front of her. “I cannot marry him.”

“We’ll find you a way out of this,” assured Verity, and together, they walked silently toward the market.

As they made their way back through the middle of the stalls Isabella was oblivious to her surroundings, missing several friends and stallholders who waved a cheery greeting. She was lost in thought as she mused on her strange situation, not concentrating on what was around her.

She cried out in surprise as she collided with a stranger. She heard a loud rip and looked down to see the torn overskirt of her gown. The light grey dimity fabric had torn into shreds. The stranger’s foot was on the hem of the dress, causing it to tear as she was knocked to one side.

“Oh no,” she said, looking down at the tattered gown. “I don’t believe this is happening.”

She lifted her head to look at the person with whom she had collided. Overwhelmed, she forgot that she was the one who had not been looking where she was going.

Her voice stayed stuck in her throat as she encountered the bluest pair of eyes she had ever seen. The bright winter sun created a halo effect around the man’s hair, which was so blond it shone with a light, silvery glow. He was dressed in the Corinthian style, with a long flowing burgundy leather coat and buckskin leggings, enclosing shapely, muscular legs.

Their eyes met, lost in a timeless moment, oblivious to the hustle and bustle of the market around them. She felt her feet rooted to the ground like the deep tap roots of an oak tree, the world falling silent around her.

Then, the spell was broken, and anger flooded her body. “How dare you, sir? Look what has happened to the skirt of my gown. It is quite ruined. Why on earth weren’t you looking where you were going?”

“I wasn’t looking where I was going? It was you who had your head in the clouds, in a world of your own. I’m sorry for the damage to your skirt, but I will not carry the responsibility for the collision,” he responded vigorously.

“Are you hurt, Isabella?” came Verity’s voice. “I paused to look at a stall and saw you walk into this gentleman.”

“There you are,” said the stranger. “Even your friend agrees this was not my fault.”

“I don’t think this is about apportioning blame,” said Verity. “This is about checking that no one is hurt.”

“You are quite right, madam,” he said, bowing his head in acknowledgment.

“I’m fine,” Isabella responded, glad to discover her voice had returned. “Though my gown is, I suspect, quite ruined.” She looked down at the tattered remnants of cloth. “I admit to being more upset than I should have been, as I made it myself last year and was quite proud of the achievement.”

During the months of deep mourning, and dealing with her uncle moving into the castle and beginning to make changes, she had tried many things to distract herself from her grief. She’d always enjoyed sewing and began to design and make her own clothes. Her dressmaker had shared fashion plates and shown her how to sew the seams and darts which made a dress fit perfectly.

This had been her first attempt, and she loved this material. It looked plain and suitable for everyday wear, but was made of the softest, most comforting lightweight cotton fabric.

At least I’m wearing a thick petticoat underneath my gown, she thought. I’m not going to make a spectacle of myself in the middle of the market. Goodness knows what Uncle Charles would say if he heard about that.

“I really liked this gown. I sadly suspect it is beyond repair.” She looked at him with renewed irritation. “How could you walk right into me? Surely you must have seen me?”

“I must apologize, it seems,” came his velvety baritone voice. He raised an eyebrow in a wry expression as he continued to make intense eye contact. “Though if the constabulary were to investigate, I’m not convinced I would be found guilty of this crime. I watched you earlier madam, and you seem to have a habit of walking around in a world of your own.”

He smiled at her, and his mane of hair, which he wore loosely bound at shoulder level, glinted in the sunlight, distracting her from his words.

“I accept your apology, sir,” she said and curtseyed. “I still have a ruined gown and no way of mending it.”

“I know I am in the north of the country, but this seems a fine town, and you are clearly a gentlewoman. I’m sure there must be dressmakers here who are trying to make a living.” Then, obviously just realizing what she had said, he continued, “You choose to make your own clothes?” he asked in surprise.

“I enjoy designing and making clothes. I do use a local seamstress as well,” she told him.

I really am unsure why we are having this ridiculous conversation in the middle of the market, she thought.

She pulled her warm winter cloak closer, wrapping it around her body, feeling the softness of the dark green velvet. Her cloak gave her a glow of warm comfort protecting her from the chill in the air.

Chapter Two

Dante Carrington stood staring at the young lady who stood before him. She gazed up at him in irritated surprise. He found himself drawn to watching this spirited beauty with a torn gown.

How on earth did I end up in the street arguing about who bumped into whom?

She clearly walked into me. I wasn’t even walking quickly, and I was certainly looking where I was going.

He wasn’t used to scrutinizing ladies’ gowns, but he’d glanced down and ascertained that the overskirt had been ripped up one side. He thought, with momentary disappointment, that because she wore a matching petticoat, the torn skirt had not resulted in her modesty being compromised, but she’d clearly been devastated.

He imagined his mother telling him to remember his manners and apologize, even if it wasn’t his fault.

“I do apologize,” he began. “What an unfortunate situation. It’s so busy in the market today, and we merely collided. I don’t know if your gown can be mended, but I insist that I put this right and replace your gown.”

The other lady, demure in appearance with chestnut curls, spoke up and assured him that he did not need to provide her friend with a new dress. She was sure they could easily mend it.

“Nonsense, if you supply the name of your dressmaker, then I’ll make arrangements for a replacement.” He hoped that this would settle the matter amicably.

She didn’t speak but continued to glare at him in obvious irritation.

“I will even engage a modiste in London if that is what it takes to ease your sadness, and make amends,” he added, hoping that he appeared charming.

“It’s fine,” she said. “There is no need for that. It is one of those unfortunate matters which cannot be helped.” She looked up at him and their eyes met. “I made it myself and was rather proud of my efforts, so I was just a little sad,” she told him.

“Indeed, madam, I refuse to take no for an answer. I feel dreadful about the state of your gown, and nothing will deter me from replacing it.”

She looked up at him, her honey brown eyes shining brightly, with tendrils of dark brown hair framing her face. He imagined long strands of lustrous long hair tucked up into her straw bonnet with its rather fetching green ribbon.

She reminds me of an elf from the forest, he thought to himself. An enchanting vision of beauty with a rather cross expression.

Her friend whispered something in her ear, and it looked as though they were preparing to move on their way.

I must find out who she is, he thought. I need to know the name of this enchanting elven princess.

“You can’t go yet,” he said, smiling with what he hoped was an engaging expression. “We haven’t been introduced.”

“Oh, very well,” she said. “I’m Lady Isabella Beresford, and this is my companion, Miss Verity Grayton.”

Lady Isabella and Miss Grayton bobbed the customary curtsey while they waited for him to introduce himself.

Dante stood there in something of a quandary. He had been about to introduce himself as Dante Carrington, Duke of Devonshire, but remembered why he was in the North Country.

He’d escaped up the Great North Road, to his friend’s estate, in a remote part of the North Riding of Yorkshire, to have a break from the bevy of debutantes who had been chasing him all Season, and their mothers with an eye for his wealth and title. So he hesitated to reveal he was the Duke of Devonshire.

What to do? He needed to make a quick decision. He bowed with a flourish and told Lady Isabella he was Viscount Addingham.

It isn’t a lie, he justified it to himself. I am Viscount Addingham, among several other titles that have been passed down through my family since the Middle Ages.

“And what brings you to Helmsley, my lord?” she asked him, clearly a young lady who knew the manners of polite society.

“I’m in the area staying with a friend from Cambridge,” he told her.

Those tabbies of the ton have clearly got to me, he thought, if I can no longer introduce myself without dissembling.

The elven princess smiled. “Well, I wish you a pleasant visit to the North Riding. Will you stay for Christmas?” she inquired, clearly making polite conversation.

“Perhaps my plans aren’t fixed yet. You will have to tell me all about a Yorkshire Christmas, and I might be tempted to stay,” he added, wondering if he had gone too far.

Clearly not. This was a girl born and brought up in the North Country, who was proud of her home county. “I’m happy to educate you in local customs,” she told him. “I’m sure your friend from university will do the same. Now, I must ask you to excuse us as we have several errands to run.”

An intense need to make this meeting last longer returned. He knew he didn’t want to say goodbye to Lady Isabella, she was far too intriguing in both looks and conversation.

There hasn’t been any simpering or gushing yet, he thought to himself. What I suspect is happening is that I’m having an ordinary conversation with a rather lovely local beauty.

“I wonder, and it is a little presumptuous, if I could perhaps join you on your shopping expedition. I’ve heard this is one of the best markets in the North, and it would be wonderful to experience it through local eyes. It would certainly help me get my bearings in the town.”

“Well, I’m not sure,” Lady Isabella replied.

I’m hardly a wolf she has met on a forest trail, he thought to himself. We’re in a busy market town, surrounded by people that I’m sure she knows well.

“I am aware, Lady Isabella, that we are strangers, and we met in a rather unusual way. I hope we will become better acquainted, and no doubt will move in the same circles while I’m staying in Helmsley.”

After a momentary hesitation, ignoring a look of concern from Verity, she agreed to his joining them.

“You’re welcome to join us,” she told him. “But I have a long list of shopping. I warn you that you may find it rather mundane.”

“You do not deter me, Lady Isabella. I shall be happy to accompany you,” he said, and he bowed with that flourish again, pleased to see her smile.

He watched in awe as they navigated their way through the stalls. She knew the names of all the market traders and could bargain with them, keeping track of her household expenses after every stall.

“We’ve already bought green ribbon for the Christmas decorations,” she told him. “We usually hang strands of pinecones around the castle. It’s a tradition,” she told him.

“You live in a castle?” he asked. I should have known she lived in a castle. It is no doubt in the middle of an enchanted forest.

She nodded. “Castle Kirkham. It’s been in the family for generations. There is a modern wing nowadays. We don’t just live in the ancient keep, which is always a little more drafty than the rest of the house.”

“A keep. Tell me that you have battlements, a draw bridge, and a portcullis.”

“Well, in actual fact, we do,” she told him. “It’s a wonderful place to decorate for Christmas.” She looked momentarily distracted.

They stopped at a stall piled high with bolts of fabric.

“This one will be good for my project,” she told Mrs. Franks, the haberdasher. “Do you have ten yards of this one?” she asked. Mrs. Franks assured her she did, and they arranged for it to be delivered to Castle Kirkham the following week.

“What are you going to do with all that sackcloth?” he asked her as they walked between the rows of vegetable stalls. The smell of celery and onions was strong in the crisp autumn air.

“Well, strange as it might seem,” she said with a laugh, “I plan to make tiny sacks for the children as a Christmas gift.”

“You have lots of nieces and nephews?” he asked.

“No, the village children, but most especially the orphans living at the foundling home in town,” she replied.

Lady Isabella seemed momentarily distracted, and she stumbled over a pile of rotten potatoes cluttering up the path between the stalls. He reached out for her as she fell forward, saving her from taking a tumble.

He felt a jolt of energy spark from nowhere, and course through his body as he held her arm to steady her from falling.

Where did that sensation come from?

He wondered if she’d felt anything similar. He thought perhaps there was something as he caught a slight widening of her eyes and a look of confusion, but it might have been due to the shock of losing her footing.

“You’re steady on your feet now?” he inquired.

She nodded. “I must thank you for saving me from a tumble. I’m having a very clumsy day.”

He smiled back. “I shall endeavor to keep saving you. Now, I believe you were telling me about the gifts for the children.”

“It’s a foundling home which my parents set up twenty years ago after I was born. They wanted to give thanks for my safe delivery and give something back to their local community.”

He listened carefully, nodding for her to continue.

“My mother believed in helping those less fortunate than herself. There are many children born out of wedlock who are abandoned by their mothers. She not only set up a home for orphans and abandoned children, but she also believed that they should receive an education and learn craft skills to earn a living.”

She paused and looked around the market. “There are several stalls here where the owners were given a start by the home.”

She pointed to a stall run by a woman in her late twenties, who was selling a range of crafts, with the centerpiece being a display of golden corn dollies. “That’s Martha, one of my mother’s success stories,” she told him. “Martha lost her mother in childbirth, and her father was lost at sea. The foundling home took her in and gave her confidence to begin a new life.”

She smiled with pride as she discussed her parents’ achievements.

“Papa supported my mother in all her endeavors. They were always together and shared a commitment to making life better for the people who live and work on our estate.”

“They sound inspirational, but you talk about them in the past?” he commented.

He noticed her body tense, and her face pale a little. “My parents were one of those rare love matches that you hear about but rarely see,” she paused and took a deep breath. “I lost them a year ago. They were traveling home from Harrogate late one January evening when an axle on the carriage split, just as they hit a patch of ice on the road. The horses lost their footing, and the coach left the road and fell into a deep ravine. I lost them both that night.”

Dante noticed her wringing her hands together, and her breathing was shallow. He was shocked and saddened at what she had just told him, and he wanted to put his arm around her in comfort. He let her keep talking, knowing the words must be hurting her but admiring how bravely she forced herself to tell him the story.

“In some ways, it seems a long time ago, and in others, just yesterday” she added.

“I’m so sorry you lost them that way. They died far too young. You must miss them every day,” he replied.

“I do. I’ve kept busy with the foundling home, stepping into Mama’s shoes, and it has kept me busy.”

He nodded, never taking his eyes off her while he listened intently.

“It helps to be busy. And in a strange way, it keeps me close to them,” she added quietly.

She glanced around, almost as though she was looking for an escape route. “I live with my Uncle Charles now. He’s my guardian till I’m twenty-one.”

“I look forward to meeting him,” he said politely.

He didn’t expect the snort of laughter, which she quickly covered up. “I’m sure you’ll find him charming,” she said with a strange, unreadable expression on her face.

“Now, if you look over there, you will see All Saints Church, and the foundling home is immediately behind it. If you stay in the county a while I’m sure you will enjoy a visit. The children are inspirational, and talented in arts, crafts, and singing.”

As they walked between the stalls, he watched her calling out greetings to familiar faces she must have known since childhood.

Her maid, Agnes, who had rejoined them as they passed the Plough Inn, was related to several of the stallholders. As they passed a stall selling nosegays of herbs, one of her aunts pressed some spices into her hands. Agnes gave her thanks, and the smell of vanilla and ginger filled the air around them.

He closed his eyes. “That smells wonderful,” he told Lady Isabella and Miss Verity. “I can imagine Christmas now.”

“We’ll be making our Christmas pudding soon, and I’m going to add some of these spices to our usual recipe,” Lady Isabella told him.

“I’m in awe of you, Lady Isabella,” Dante told her. “You are not only knowledgeable about dressmaking, but the culinary arts as well. How many chatelaines of historic castles involve themselves in the recipe for the festive pudding?”

“I think it is a tradition in the North Country, which you perhaps do not have in your part of the country,” Lady Isabella said, smiling.

Suddenly, a shout made them all stop in their tracks, followed by a loud, ear-piercing scream.

“What on earth?” said Miss Verity. “Can you see where that came from?”

“Over there on the cart track,” he said, racing off to the scene of the incident.

“It’s a child,” cried Lady Isabella. “It looks like a man is chasing her.”

They arrived to find an irate man standing over a tiny child of about six years of age.

The child had run out in front of a cart, and the driver had stopped seconds before the young girl had faced certain death, caught beneath the wheels of the carriage. The driver stood next to the angry man.

“Is she hurt?” asked Lady Isabella, anxiety evident in her voice.

“I don’t think so,” said Miss Verity.

Dante was next to the child, kneeling on the track. “I believe she has just fainted,” he cried, and Agnes joined him, wafting a small jar of smelling salts under the child’s nose.

As Miss Verity and Lady Isabella crouched next to Agnes, his lordship began asking the two men what had happened.

“The little blighter stole a loaf of bread from my stall. Brazen as anything. Grabbed the loaf and scarpered,” said the baker.

“Oh, the poor thing looks emaciated,” said Miss Verity.

“Poor thing. She’s a thief. I’ve called the constable,” the baker added.

“Surely not,” said Lady Isabella in a hoarse voice. The combination of an accident and an injured child had brought back memories, and she trembled visibly as she stood to face the baker. “Mr. Riley?”

He nodded. “You should be ashamed of yourself, sir,” Lady Isabella continued. “Where is your spirit of charity for this poor child?”

He looked a little shame-faced but stood his ground. “The child is a thief, and we’ll see what Constable Gladstone has to say about it. I hope he locks her up. Men have been transported for less.”

“You will get no more of my business, Mr. Riley. If you don’t agree to drop any charges, you will never get business from Castle Kirkham again. I do believe that will cost you more than the loss of a loaf of bread.”

“Very well, my lady, but it’s wrong to steal, and the child needs to know right from wrong,” replied Mr. Riley, looking a little shocked but obviously not entirely convinced.

“Believe me, she will be taken somewhere safe where she can learn these things.” Lady Isabella fixed Mr. Riley with a cold stare, and Dante watched her, mesmerized, admiring how her eyes flashed with anger and determination. “There are many less fortunate in this world, and I know it is my duty to care for others in need. A child of no more than six who is forced to steal bread is in trouble.”

As Constable Gladstone arrived, the child began to moan and recover consciousness.

As there were no charges to be brought, and the child appeared to be recovered, the constable soon left, closely followed by Mr. Riley.

The carriage driver got ready to continue on his way. “My name’s Jed Tomkinson, my lady. The missus and I live over toward Halton Cross. I’d like to thank you for stepping in when you did. That baker would have had the child up before the magistrate, and she’s only a wee slip of a thing.”

“You’re a good man, Mr. Tomkinson. I’ll let you know how she goes along,” Lady Isabella told him.

Miss Verity and Agnes were talking to the child, trying to find out if she had any family.

Miss Verity stood to join Lady Isabella. “Her mother and little brother died a couple of months ago of the putrid sore throat. She walked here from Albury as someone told her she might do better begging near the market. She thinks she’s seven years old, and her father is at sea, and has been for more than a year. Her name is Lottie Banks, and she knows it was wrong to steal the bread. She hadn’t had any food for several days.”

“Oh, the poor child,” said Lady Isabella. “If she can stand we can take her to Mrs. Walker at the foundling home. I’d take her to the castle, but I can’t predict my uncle’s reaction.”

Isabella turned to Dante. “I shall bid you farewell, your lordship. I must take this child to the foundling home.”

“Absolutely not,” Dante replied in a determined tone. “I shall accompany you. If the child needs to be carried, then I’m at your service.”

She nodded her thanks. It soon became clear the child was too weak with fear and exhaustion to walk, and he took her in his arms.

He knew he would need to bathe to rid himself of lice and fleas, but the look of gratitude on Lady Isabella’s face made the sacrifice worthwhile.