Page 6 of Christmas Comes to Little Valentine

“He suspects everything I do is nefarious, so that won’t make a jot of difference,” Nat said with a snort.

She shook her head. “I was right to begin with. The idea is ludicrous and will end in disaster. There are far too many hurdles to overcome, and I will not compound my misfortune by throwing myself headlong into such a ridiculous scheme.”

He could see she intended to leave after this little speech, and he congratulated himself on having ordered the tea. It arrived in the nick of time, and she settled back down again.

“Name them.”

“I beg your pardon?” she said, glancing at him as she poured the tea. “Milk and sugar?”

“Yes, both, please, and I ask that you name every hurdle. If I cannot come up with a reasonable solution, then you may freeze to death on the streets of London with my blessing,” he replied, folding his arms.

She winced at his words, which made him feel like an utter brute, but he refused to apologise for them. It was about time she faced up to exactly how bad her situation was. As he saw it, she could try to find refuge in the nearest church, or end in the workhouse. Neither would be an appealing prospect for a gently bred young woman. His offer might be somewhat odd, and a little underhand, but no one ever need know and it would give her three weeks of comfort without worrying. Besides, he was certain Della would help the poor girl once she understood her dire circumstances.

Miss Bancroft handed him his tea and met his eyes. “Very well. I have no chaperone. Are you seriously intending to turn up with me dressed as I am, with next to no luggage, no people to speak of, and no one to lend me countenance?”

“Ha!” Nat said, smug now. “I have thought of all this, so there. I happen to know a young woman — No! Not like that!” he said crossly as she made to get up again. “Good lord, will you sit still? It’s like talking to a jack-in-the-box.”

“What is it like, then, with this young woman you know?” she demanded, glaring at him.

Nat stared back at her reproachfully. “She is the daughter of my landlady, a very well brought up and respectable female. I shall tell my landlady that I have recently got engaged but your maid has been taken ill just when we were due to go down and present you to my family, and would Miss Betty be available to take the girl’s place?”

Miss Bancroft’s shoulders ratcheted down a notch or two. “I suppose that would be acceptable. But, really, Mr Ashford, your family is obviously wealthy, they will take one look at me and assume I am a fortune hunter.”

“No, no. You sound like a well brought up lady and act the part too. You cannot help your father having fallen on hard times.”

Miss Bancroft put her head in her hands and groaned. “This will never work. I must be out of my mind to even consider for a moment—”

“But you are considering it?” Nat said, grinning at his success, for surely, he had her now.

“As you pointed out yourself, my only other option is to freeze to death on the streets of London,” she said, looking so utterly wretched Nat could have cut his heart out for ever having said such a dreadful thing.

“I shall never let that happen, Miss Bancroft. I shall see you safe and happy, one way or another. I give you my word of honour.”

She gazed at him, her grey eyes bleak and hopeless. “You are a good man, Mr Ashford, for I believe you really mean that.”

“I do mean it, and I shall see it done too!” he said, stung by the silent implication that he might fail despite his good intentions.

“We shall see,” she said, and returned a wistful smile.

“We shall!” he said, determined she buck up and have a little faith. “Now, about how we first met. We need something romantic—”

Chapter 2

Find a way or make one.

Soho Square, Soho, London, 5thDecember 1815

The next twelve hours were rather fraught from Nat’s point of view.

Having secured Betty as Miss Bancroft’s maid, he introduced the two young women, who seemed cautiously pleased with one another, and got them settled for the night in a nearby respectable hotel. He then hurried over to a rather splendid mantua maker with whom he was on very good terms, having spent fortunes in her shop by fitting out whatever light o’ love was currently in his life. Knowing she was the soul of discretion, he briefly outlined a story of disaster to a respectable young lady and asked her to supply everything that lady might need for the next few weeks, including the necessary luggage in which to put it all.

Madame Moreau gave him a direct look before explaining that to do so would involve reworking every garment in her shop, with her entire staff working all night, and would cost him another small fortune. Nat, far too eager to put his plan into action and thwart his family whilst saving a damsel in distress, told her not to waste time talking to him and get on with it.

By the time he got to bed, he was too agitated by the events of the day to sleep and lay for a long while staring into the darkness and picturing those cool grey eyes until his own finally closed.

The next morning, Meg stared into the tiny hand mirror she had propped up upon the bedside table as she brushed out her long blonde hair. You have lost your mind, she told her reflection silently. This will end in disaster, you know it will end in disaster, and yet you are doing it anyway. What kind of fool are you, exactly?

And yet, being destitute had one saving grace. She really had nothing left to lose.