A Sprig of Mistletoe, page 3
“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.”
