A Sprig of Mistletoe, page 6
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.”
