Chapter 1

LORD WILLEM WAKEFIELD wondered why anyone in his right mind would wish to leave a tropical island in the middle of the bright blue Indian Ocean to endure an English winter. True, the island of Java was in near ruin as a result of the eruption of Tambora a year and a half before. And the amount of debris thrown up by that volcano had created a cloud so vast and thick, it was near impossible to find a clean surface, even within one’s own home. But linen was infinitely more comfortable on one’s flesh than thick Scottish woolens, and daily life was a far more casual affair than he could expect in England, even at the home of one of his oldest friends.

And yet, it was precisely because he was well-regarded as being in his right mind, and having a very fine one, that he was asked to depart from that exotic, warm island on a diplomatic mission many months before. Now, he not only had to negotiate with men who might not be amiable to his suit, but had to negotiate his journey through the unrelenting snow that had buried England and the Netherlands since October. This too arrived from Java, for Tambora’s great volcanic cloud spread over much of the globe, influencing temperatures and causing great irregularities for fauna and flora. No one still living could recall anything quite like it.

But people persisted in their habits, no matter the climate, and Christmas festivities were not to be denied.

He would have been perfectly content to remain in his warm home on Edgware Road and raise a glass of rum to the portraits of his Wakefield ancestors over the mantle. After all, he had already survived several years without a Christmas, much as his family and friends had endured this year without a summer. The holiday was barely noted in the Dutch East Indies, except by those emissaries from Europe determined to replicate the traditions they had always known. And in London and The Hague, people spent the cold and dark days of July and August alternating complaints with measures of pride at their own hardiness. But life did go on.

Will circled the fingers on his left hand on the carved ring he wore on his right, noting that it fit loosely in the cold air. He pulled on his gloves to hold it in place. Yes, life did go on.

As did his tenacious driver. The snow must be brutally assaulting any man who rode aloft and into the wind, but Milton was a stubborn fool.

Geoff Howard, his old friend, was just as stubborn, but had the advantage of not having to travel at all this season. Lord and Lady Howard were determined to end the year with a Christmas gathering, to celebrate their endurance through this cold and sunless year and to introduce their new heir, born on a frosty morning in early September. But for Geoff and Will, and a few others, there was business to be done, best accomplished far from the clubs of London or in the dark halls of the Ridderzaal in Holland.

Some of that business concerned Lt. Governor Thomas Raffles’s expected elevation to the knighthood, and the various means by which the process could be hastened. Raffles was quite capable of achieving his own ends, but it was not expedient for an official of the British government to abandon his devastated colony while its people were still recovering from injury and assessing their losses. Therefore, Raffles asked Will if he would precede him to London and campaign on his behalf. Will, who lived all his life in diplomatic circles, now knew enough of tragedy and despair that went well beyond the marble halls where the fate of individuals was often discussed and decided. He, himself, experienced great loss in the great eruption of Tambora. It was time to return to Europe.

And so he seized both the opportunity and the large manuscript Raffles presented to him, believing that having a purpose and mission would cure him of his current despair. Though Raffles’s manuscript proved to be a weighty travel companion, as it was the man’s memoir of his heroic deeds in the days and months since that devastating morning a year and a half ago, it would soon be out of Will’s hands. He’d promised to present it to Princess Charlotte as a gift from a loyal servant of the Crown, with the hope that the generous lady would urge her father to reward Thomas Raffles with the knighthood he very much desired.

Will knew that the princess would be a guest at the Christmas party at Seabury, which provided an excellent opportunity to make the presentation, for all men and women of influence were likely to be most generous—and perhaps not entirely sober—during the holiday and at the start of a New Year.

The task should not prove difficult, as a man who was Lt. Governor of an English colony was not without his own influential connections. Raffles considered himself a confidante of the princess, who already promised to speak to her father on his behalf. He wisely dedicated his memoirs to her, though apparently cautioned that she might be fearful to read his vivid descriptions of molten lava raining down upon villages and their inhabitants.

Will thought the princess was made of sterner stuff than that.

But he had another mission in sight, of greater consequence than the vanity of one man, no matter how deserving. In the days immediately following Tambora’s angry eruption, it appeared another one of his countrymen had taken advantage of the confusion to steal away many of Java’s historical treasures, the legacy of the people who had lived very rich lives before the Dutch and the English started to contest their rights to the island. Lord Nicholas Hawkely was one of Will’s oldest friends, a relationship made even stronger during the time Will sailed to Java on the Renown, Nick’s own ship. Will thought him an excellent companion and an honorable man. And Thomas Raffles trusted Nick with the treasures he himself acquired during his tenure as Lt. Governor. Will saw no reason to dispute that.

Until the Renown arrived in London without the contents of those carefully packed and catalogued shipped containers.

Nick had remained elusive while the investigation was in progress, but Will had received word from Geoff Howard, the master of Seabury, and host of the season’s festivities, that the man would attend his Christmas party.

Will closed his eyes, reflecting on the great journey he had already undertaken, and how complicated were the roads to his destination. In this, he was not just thinking metaphorically, for rarely had he endured such arduous travel, not even in the midst of a typhoon.

But he did not doubt they would reach Seabury, Geoff’s fine estate near Rye, and in good time. He had little reason to doubt it and even less power to do anything about it.

As the coach was jostled back and forth by the storm, Will gave up trying to read the essays written in Raffles’s tight hand and stared out the window. He had lived most of his life in the Netherlands and was well accustomed to the sound of snow mixed with ice. As a child, he delighted in the sound, for it meant that the canals in The Hague would freeze over and he could skate his way around the city.

But this snow was different, a nasty mix of frozen material and the debris of volcanic ash, scratching angrily at the windows. He thought of the horses and his driver, undoubtedly traveling blind on a road no longer distinguished from the fields through which they passed. Will sent up a brief prayer that they would soon arrive at their destination, preferably without crashing right into it.

As if his Maker had nothing better to do than concern Himself with the concerns of one suppliant, the coach came to a lumbering halt. Surprised but nevertheless pleased, Will glanced out one side of the coach and then the other, hoping to see the welcoming lights of the posting inn. There was nothing visible but the stark branches of nearby trees, rising eerily against the last strains of twilight.

Perhaps they were lost. Or the wheels could no longer trample through the snow and were stuck in a drift. The horses might have refused to take another step. Perhaps the driver had become blind in the storm and fallen off the seat.

No indeed, the driver was at the door, banging on the wood as if to wake the dead.

“The door is frozen, my lord,” Milton shouted. “Push out, if you can.”

Surely the man did not think him so utterly helpless he could not open a carriage door. On the other hand, Will briefly reflected on his first thoughts when the coach stopped and realized that the past year in Java had made him see disaster at every turn. Perhaps he would be stuck in the carriage all night.

He dismissed the cowardly thought as unworthy of him, and threw his shoulder against the finely polished wood.

They would persist, even though he might have just broken his collarbone.

“Well done, my lord! You’re almost out!”

With renewed hope, Will shifted to the facing seat and hit the door with his other shoulder. In this, he succeeded, for he fell out on his companion, landing them both into the snow.

“Did I hurt you, Milton?”

Surprisingly, the man laughed. “Fear not, my lord. I’m nearly frozen and can’t feel a thing.”

Will rolled over and squinted up to the sky. It was impossible to fully open his eyes, for fear of being blinded.

“Come within the coach for a few minutes, then, where you can warm yourself. The heating pan does not have much more to give off, but the space is well fitted and is tolerably warm,” he said.

“Nothing ever sounded more inviting, but we will be at the inn sooner if we just forge ahead.”

“I am ready to go whenever you, or the horses, feel ready to proceed,” Will said, thinking ahead to a warm bed and a hot meal. “Why did we stop?”

Milton sat up and brushed snow off his shoulders.

“That is where I need your help, my lord,” he said, and shook his head. “Someone else has passed this way and was not as lucky.”

He rose awkwardly to his feet, slipping in his tracks, and held out his hand to Will. “I will get the lantern.”

Will looked around, seeing nothing until Milton grabbed the bright metal box, burning all the brighter because of the darkness that surrounded them. Something rose up before them, not yet fully enveloped in the snow. They approached it cautiously.

“It is a fallen tree,” Will guessed. “Perhaps we can make our way around it if we can dig a makeshift road.”

“It is not a tree,” Milton said with certainty. “It is a coach, nearly as large as this.”

Will realized what he thought were branches were the spokes of the wheels, and the trunks were the heavy harnesses, poking up from the snow.

“The horses?” he asked.

“They were released,” Milton said quickly. “See, there is the disturbance in the snow, and tracks. Perhaps the driver and occupants rode away, abandoning the coach.”

“One could only hope so,” Will said quietly, impressed with Milton’s calm assessment of the situation, and happy to accept a solution to the mystery that allowed for a happy ending. God knows, he had witnessed enough misery lately. A wrecked carriage, struck down by harsh weather conditions, could have been more.

They stood in silence, listening to the rustling of the few leaves left on the trees, and the sound of the heavy snow hitting the still-exposed wood of the fallen vehicle.

And then, barely discernable, a cry came from the carriage. Will looked at Milton, wondering if he heard it, too. But the man said nothing as he seemed to contemplate their next step.

In the next moment, Will took his and he heard the sound again. Perhaps it was an animal, seeking shelter. But no animal he knew was capable of speaking English.

“Help me, Milton,” he cried as he descended on the coach. “There’s someone still inside.”

Will climbed over a wheel and nearly stabbed himself on a broken spoke. A steady thumping sound guided him to a cracked window, and that gave him bearings of the site. He used his hands to dig until he found what he looked for, and as Milton held the lantern aloft, Will found the outline of a door, and then the handle to open it.

But only trap doors are made to open to the sky, and this one—like his own, ten minutes before—was frozen shut. Milton lowered the lantern to warm the wood as they hammered against it with their hands until they heard the gentle release of air that told them the door was freed. Standing with his legs secured against the sturdy railing, Will pulled the door open, and fell back onto the window with a broken handle still in his grip.

He saw her arms rise first from her frozen prison, slim and oddly graceful in their gesture. Will scrambled to his feet and stood above her as he grasped her ungloved hands. Even through the leather of his gloves, he could tell they were dangerously cold. With a sense of urgency, he pulled her up, as her caped head was followed by a small form wrapped in a plaid blanket, by the drapery of a wool gown, by boots too elegant to get far in these rough conditions. He lifted her until her pale face was even to his, and then he gently lowered her onto the side of the coach.

No sooner did her feet touch the slippery wood than she cried out again, and fell against him. He caught her in her bundle of garments and jumped to the ground, thinking it nothing short of a miracle they did not slide down the embankment.

But Milton caught them before they were in any danger. “Well done, my lord!” he applauded him. “Is the woman still with us?”

Will looked down at her still face, catching a glimpse of a reddened cheek and dark hair. She was indeed a woman, and a very beautiful one. She also looked like someone he had once met before, though he could not place her. “She does not appear to be sensible at the moment, but one can hardly fault her for that. She must be near to death.”

Milton pushed them a little desperately toward their own coach, where the horses patiently watched the whole show. “Get her in the coach. I’ll shovel and cut close to the embankment, and we’ll be on our way. Perhaps her people await her at the inn.”

Will did not think so, but he was not of a mind to argue the point with Milton, or offer to help with the task of clearing the road. Her people apparently cared so little for her, they did not take her with them, or return to see if she lived or died. She appeared to be a woman who mattered to no one, like the thousands of others who were victims of the catastrophe on Java.

He had not been able to save those others, or alleviate their misery. But he could save this one. And suddenly that mattered a great deal.

Stomping away from Milton, each to their own anxious concerns, Will maneuvered his way to the coach, propping the woman’s limp body awkwardly against its side as he struggled to open the door. Bracing it open against the wind and driving snow, he pushed her into the coach with only somewhat more care than he would a rolled-up rug, managing the business with more strength than grace. Once she was within, he scrambled over her, and pulled her onto the seat he recently vacated, hoping it might still be warm.

It was not.

She hadn’t moved. He feared they were too late, that she had used her last bit of strength to call them to her, and that was all she had. Feeling defeated, Will sat down heavily on the opposite seat and pulled off his gloves, along with his ring. Then came his coat, now made heavier by the snow. Beneath it, his jacket was dry and surprisingly warm. He could only hope that the woman’s garments had served her as well.

He contemplated her still form, buried beneath layers of cloth, and realized there was only one way to find out. Therein was the challenge; he knew something about undressing women and removing languid arms and legs from tangled blankets and clothing. But they had all been willing partners, and very much alive. He was not so sure about his Lady Frost.

The coach rocked from one side to the other as Milton resumed his place. Two knocks of the whip’s handle against the wood was answered by Will’s own signal, and so they were once again on their way through the treacherous snow.

As he studied his companion, the bundle of blankets shifted and started to slip off the seat, as snow might fall off a gabled roof.

Will moved quickly to catch her, and then set her down beside him as he reclaimed his own seat. He reached across her still body to pull together a pile of velvet pillows, allowing her to slump against them. He thought she sighed, very softly, and took some hope in that. But that was his only cause for hope as he started to unfold her from her voluminous blankets and heavy cape.

Her garments were dry but as cold as the cloths he might find in the Wakefield winter lodge before he lit a fire in the hearth. There, he would pile the bedclothes on the warming racks and busy himself about the property until he could breathe in warm air to comfort his chilled body, and bury his hands in the heated blankets.

He was not quite certain how he might restore his frozen lady, when his own body was the warmest thing in the carriage.

But of course, that was it. He could not let a lady die because of some misguided sense of modesty. She had already been abandoned once, and a gentleman could not compound the seriousness of her situation.

Of course, she might not be a lady, but that was of no consequence when it was a matter of life and death. Her station was only of consequence if it was believed that he took advantage of her situation, but he was prepared to deal with the breach of propriety at another time. If, indeed, there was such a time.

All this ran through his mind in a matter of seconds, for he was already set upon the only real course of action. He started to unbutton the tiny pearls at her breast, a task made more difficult because his hands were stiff and cold. She raised one limp hand in a gesture of protest, but her waving him off made him more determined to manage this business.

“What is your name?” he asked conversationally, but the only answer was the renewed rigor of ice hitting the window. “I’m called Willem, and I am on my way to Seabury. I have only recently returned from the East Indies, where the climate is a great deal more charitable than it is here this evening. I have not lived in England much, for my father was posted to The Hague. My mother is Dutch and I am more at home along the Konigskade than I am by the Thames. What say you to that, Lady Frost? Have you ever journeyed to Amsterdam? Is that where we met before? Have you purchased fine porcelain at a shop near the Olde Kirk in Delft? Did you ever see the fossils at the university in Leiden?”

Will laughed at himself, realizing he sounded just like the aimless chatterers at dinner parties, the very people he assiduously avoided. But it proved difficult to concentrate on both conversation and undressing her, and, by speaking, he might somehow awaken her from her frozen stupor. He did not know what else to do or what to say.

Her garments were as cold and stiff as his own hands, though they seemed of good quality. When he slipped the heavy gown off her shoulders, he considered how pale was her skin, though he could not tell if this was a natural state, or because of the cold. He pulled her closer, rubbing her back and soft upper arms, praying that she would live.

“Stay.”

He turned his head, and his cheek pressed against her nose. Had she said something?

“Stay,” she said again. It was some comfort to him, as he hoped he was to her.

“You are near frozen, but you are safe with me.” He said this with more confidence than he felt.

She sighed, and her breath was warm against his chin. He leaned against the cushions so that he might look at her, and finally see the face of the woman for whom he felt a responsibility he had never really experienced before.

He saw her as he might a creature of a fairytale, delicate and soft, and of a rare beauty capable of inspiring poets. Her complexion was as pale as the rest of her, but even in the dim light, he saw that her cheeks were reddened and her parted lips pink and swollen. Her hair, falling down over the sleeve of his longcoat, was as straight and dark as was the hair of the ladies of the East Indies, though not nearly as long. Some sort of netted cloche, speckled with pearls, hung limply from what remained of her braided coronet and glistened as brightly as the snow in the moonlight.

And then, perhaps as a consequence of his fear and uncertainty, he did the only thing that made sense. He shifted her body so that her face was only inches from his own, and kissed her.

This time, she did not say anything, but her mouth opened and closed, as if she sought air to breath, or possibly sought him.

He kissed her again, pressing her closer, giving her warmth. Her lips parted again and he gently breathed between them, savoring her sweetness, and yet wishing for her to awaken, even though the spell would be broken. But he had given her back her life, so she might open her eyes and heart on a happier day and know what it is to be loved and cherished. And, oddly, in his doing so, she had somehow given him back his life, his heart.

“Lay,” she said, and sighed.

She must be in pain, sitting up against him, and needed to lie back down against the cushions. Will reluctantly lowered her, feeling the rush of chill air between them. He desired her warmth as much as she probably needed his.

She murmured something.

“Did you say something, my darling Lady Frost?” He rather liked the sound of the endearment on his lips. He could not imagine any circumstance under which he might say such a thing to a woman at their first meeting, though as to that, he wasn’t quite sure this qualified as a meeting.

She pulled herself back up and rested her head against his well-padded shoulder.

“Please don’t leave me. Please.”

Will understood her perfectly this time, and her words were made even more plaintive by her hands desperately grasping the lapels of his coat. No hero of fairy tales ever had a better invitation.

He held her, warm and close, until the glittery lights of the Captain and Mermaid posting inn came into sight.

SHE’D DIED, ALONE and abandoned in the storm. Her friends in Rye would wonder what became of her, and why she had not arrived for their Christmas festivities. They would be shocked and saddened when they heard the news of the tragic accident, and would pause during their merriment to offer reflections on her young life, one punctuated by so much sadness. Perhaps they would console themselves in knowing she was already united with her dear Leighton, that they were together in perpetuity.

He was with her now, murmuring some nonsense in her ear while she only wished to feel his lips against hers, the warmth of his lean body, the caress of his fingers. She had never known him to be so talkative, though in the last hours of his life, he seemed to have a great and desperate desire to tell her everything she might ever wish to know, perhaps already aware that he must make every minute count for a year.

And now he seemed to be describing the Dutch countryside to her, though she was not aware he had ever been there. The haze of her confusion lifted for just a moment when she wondered if indeed, he had never been struck by that beech branch at all, had not died, had not been buried in the Kingswood crypt. Was it possible he had simply been in Amsterdam for these several years? Why had he not sent for her?

“Stay,” she said. She interrupted his words so that he might go back to the start, and explain everything to her.

But then he was kissing her and called her his darling, and somehow she knew she had arrived in heaven. Certainly, it was too cold to be that other place.

But why was he setting her aside? And why could she not move her limbs? The memory of the accident, of Mimma screaming as the coach crashed onto its side, of the driver calling for her when she could not answer, shocked her out of her dream. She had been abandoned and left to die once, only hours before.

It could not happen again.

She reached out and grasped hold of warm, damp woolen cloth, and held on as if her life depended on it.

WILL STUDIED THE scene in front of the Captain and Mermaid Inn and deduced that Christmas had arrived early in East Sussex. Despite the snow and continuing shower of ice, men and perhaps a few women were jumping about, behaving like a rowdy bunch of children. Or, more likely, partygoers who had had a few too many glasses of ginever.

He would enjoy one himself, but this was England. A scotch would do fine. Perhaps some rum. Both, in fact.

But hot tea sounded even more enticing.

Will enjoyed a good time as much as anyone else, but he doubted he had much energy for carousing this night, no matter the occasion. And of more concern, he guessed that with so many people about, the inn might not have enough rooms for his small party.

He looked down at the woman bundled in his lap, fitfully sleeping. She required a room, preferably close to his own. And he thought of Milton, who somehow managed to deliver them safely to the Captain and Mermaid, and deserved something better than the shared rooms in the attic or in the loft of the stable. Will was prepared to pay whatever was needed, but both his coins and he would grow cold if the innkeeper declined to receive them.

Milton was at the door within a minute but opened it cautiously.

“Does she live, my lord?”

“She does. You merit a bonus for this night’s word, my man,” Will said and stretched his legs under the blankets.

“I would be glad of a night’s rest, my lord, if such a thing is still possible.” Milton reached for the lady bundled in the blankets, so that Will might extricate himself from the coach.

“I thought very much the same thing myself,” Will said. Several grooms already approached to relieve them of the care of the horses and secure the coach. “What do you say to our chances of actually getting one?”

Milton laughed, and Will could not help but share in the sorry humor.

“I wonder if our missy has ever spent a night in the hay,” Milton said.

Will thought of her fair and soft skin and unblemished features. “I doubt it. But come to think about it, I don’t think I have ever spent such a night myself. Coming at the end of this perilous day, I am prepared to sleep in the water closet, if it is the only place available.”

Milton grinned, and Will noticed an icicle hanging from the driver’s hat. He took Lady Frost from Milton’s undoubtedly weary arms, and they made their way into the bright lights and warm air that smelled a bit too pungently of hops and spirits.

They were greeted at the door by the innkeeper, who somehow seemed to expect them. Will took that to be a good sign.

“We require three rooms,” Will said without preamble. “Dare we hope that you have them available? It seems to be a busy night.”

The innkeeper shrugged. “These fellows are out for a night of carousing before their wives demand that they attend church services and spend time with relatives. Most are local boys. I have two rooms of good size, above the kitchen.”

Will did not need to be a housekeeper to know that such rooms were the warmest in the house.

The innkeeper looked curiously at Will’s bundle, though there was little to be seen but the lady’s pink nose and her upper lip.

“One room is attached to a small dressing room, where a valet might stay, or perhaps a driver.” He glanced pointedly at Milton who, by now, was dripping water onto the rug. “Your lady wife will be comfortable in the room opposite.”

Will looked down at his lady wife, and though she was neither, felt a rush of affection for her. And certainly a sense of obligation; having taken her this far, he would not have her die during the night.

“I believe Mr. Milton here requires a room of his own. He has fearlessly led our horses through this storm,” Will said. “I will sleep in the dressing room and give my wife the bed. She is exhausted from her journey, as you see, and may require my help through the night.”

The innkeeper chuckled and Milton looked ready to protest.

“Lead us to the rooms, good sir, so we may sooner reap our reward of hot food and a soft bed.”

The innkeeper was a man of business, and reassured them on both counts, and several others, as he jingled his keys on the way up the narrow stairs. When he opened the door to a clean room with a good fire crackling in the grate, Will thought no place ever looked more elysian. Behind him, he heard another door open and Milton’s sigh of pleasure echoed his own. They were safe and—just as important—they were warm.

Will took the several steps to the large bed, where a worn quilt had been turned down for anyone foolish enough to travel through the storm. As gently as possible, he settled Lady Frost down on the mattress and pulled the rough wool blanket away from her face.

She slept on, her breathing deep and regular. He pressed the back of his hand to her cheek and was satisfied that it was neither as cold as it had been, nor flush with fever. For the first time since he pulled her out of the coach, he dared to hope she might survive her misadventure in the snow. And he realized how much it mattered to him that she do so.

He pulled his hand away from her face but allowed it to rest on her pillow, not yet willing to relinquish his claim. But she was not his, and he had no fantasies that she might ever be. He recalled his first thoughts in the frenetic moments when they came upon her, and now that his own reason had been restored, he reckoned that she could not truly be alone in the world. She belonged to someone else, a husband or a father, and might herself be a mother, an aunt, a daughter. At this very moment, while they found sanctuary from the storm, those other people might be looking for her, fearful that she had perished in the crash. For all he knew, they might be out there on the road, trying to recover her body from the downed carriage.

The innkeeper would surely know something of that. Why had he not thought to ask him if there were other travelers seeking refuge, or if someone was trying to enlist a group of men to attempt a rescue?

Within moments of feeling a sense of peace for the first time in an hour, Will was agitated anew. He quickly lifted Lady Frost from her cocoon of wool, and settled her beneath the inviting quilt, tucking the cloth around her. He took a quick look at the dressing room where he intended to spend the night, and deemed it adequate for his needs.

And then he was back in the drafty hall, locking the door behind him. No noise came from Milton’s room, and Will hoped his driver was already sleeping soundly.

He was not. As soon as Will came down the stairs and into the dining hall, he heard Milton’s voice above the others at a corner table. He might already know if there were reports of a crash or a lady missing in the storm.

“My lord!” Milton said as soon as he saw Will come towards them. The other men turned around, looking skeptical, as if they could determine a man’s rank by his jacket.

But apparently they could, for they struggled to their feet and bowed as they murmured their deferential greetings.

Will wanted none of that, at least not on this night, for he desired information more.

“May I join you, my good fellows?” he asked and didn’t wait for them to answer before pulling up a chair. The innkeeper arrived at once, with a bowl overflowing with something steamy and aromatic, and closely avoided spilling it in Will’s lap.

“Have you all eaten?” Will asked politely before dipping in his spoon. They continued to watch him as if his manners were either appalling or very fine, but there was only one thing that concerned him within this company. “Were any of you out on the road this evening?”

Milton shook his head, just perceptibly, and Will nodded. There was no news of an abandoned coach or a missing woman buried in the snow. Whoever worried for her welfare had not come this way.

Will finished his dinner in silence, while the men resumed their lively conversation. With no one to claim the lady, she remained his responsibility. He thought that sustenance was therefore more important for him than learning about the current rumors regarding the relationship between the local vicar and the blacksmith’s daughter.

JULIA OPENED HER eyes and studied a painting on the opposite wall. It took her several moments to understand what it depicted; she blinked a few times and recognized the subject as a bowl of fruit, though indifferently rendered. She did not know what the pink orbs were, but the apples were bright red, and she realized she was quite hungry.

She struggled to rise before realizing she was nearly incapable of moving any part of her body. It was not so much a consequence of the blanket tucked so closely around her that her own weight held it down, but the overwhelming sense that her limbs were incapable of heeding the call of her brain.

But she was warm, and hoped she was safe, and was reasonably sure that she had not yet reached heaven. She guessed she was in someone’s house, which seemed respectable, if not elegant. The soft blanket that brushed against her nose was probably cleaner than she was at the moment.

She preferred to imagine she was back at Gainsmeadow, where she was born and lived when she was just Julia Townshend and possibly would be still, if Lord Leighton Kingswood’s horse had not happened to throw a shoe at their garden gate. She smiled at the sweet memory and settled deeper into her cozy nest, reassured that he looked after her, wherever he was.

As she closed her eyes, she heard a snort and some rustling to her right, and knew he was near.

“Lay?” she asked in a voice so weak, she guessed he could not hear her.

But then she heard something drop and a broken-off curse and heavy footsteps treading towards her.

“You are awake, Lady Frost,” a man said, though his voice was deeper than Leighton’s.

Reluctantly, she opened her eyes. Someone she had never seen before stood over her, staring down. With his dark blond hair and pale blue eyes, he certainly looked nothing like her husband, and yet he seemed familiar.

“You are awake,” he repeated, and shook his head as if in disbelief. “You are alive.”

That settled it, then. She was neither in heaven nor wherever poor Leighton dwelled, for her mind was now clear on that memory; her husband was dead. She did not know the identity of this man who was somehow entitled to be in her bedchamber, but she was inclined to believe him.

“Yes,” she squeaked. Her throat was raw and dry, and every word she uttered required some effort. Another certainty came to her: she was to sing at a party and entertain the guests. It was an occasion of some sort, perhaps to honor the soldiers of the Peninsula? No, she recalled that event took place last summer, in the Kingswood Chapel.

She remembered she was to wear a green velvet dress with Nottingham lace on the bodice. The fabric was as soft as a baby’s blanket, and the white lace looked like fallen snow on boughs of fir.

It was Christmas.

“Have you a name?” her interrogator demanded, sounding impatient. Who was he?

“Have you?” she asked.

He caught his breath and waited before he answered. She took the moment to study him, and try to recall if they had ever met before. She was sensible enough to realize she would have remembered if they had, for even if her dear husband was alive and with her, she would have spared a good look at this man. And yet there was something familiar about him. He was large, and yet his features had a certain delicacy, revealed in his high cheekbones and thin nose. His eyes were pale, and yet full of warmth and curiosity, and were framed with lashes several shades darker than his hair. Even without the advantage of his evening grooming, his unshaved cheeks and tousled hair did nothing to diminish his good looks. Indeed, perhaps they improved upon them.

“My name is Willem Wakefield. Those who do not know me well, refer to me as Lord Willem, and those who do, call me Will.” He scratched his head and his blond hair fell over one eye. Perhaps, like her, he wondered how well they were acquainted. She supposed it had to do with how he came to be in her room and where this room happened to be.

“You are Dutch,” she said, though it did not have any particular relevance to her present situation.

He leaned closer, so close she could smell the smoke on his white shirt. His hair brushed against her forehead.

“Dutch,” she repeated.

He straightened and nodded. “My mother is Dutch, but my father is Lord Edward Wakefield, of Sussex. From the time I was a child, I have been as familiar with the Nord Zee crossing from Vlissingen to Sheerness, as well as most of my countrymen who are journeying on the Great Northern Road.”

Julia was almost certain she was familiar with neither, as she was not a great traveler. And yet somehow she was in this place, which was neither Gainsmeadow nor the dowager house at Kingswood Hall where she now lived under the protection of her late husband’s very distant cousin. Nor did she imagine she was at the great estate in Rye, at which she was expected to perform on Christmas Eve. She smiled, pleased she remembered that much, at last.

“I hope I have satisfied your curiosity, Madam,” Willem Wakefield said. “There is nothing particularly exciting about my life.”

And yet, here he was with her, unshaven and undressed, introducing himself as if they had just met at a dinner party.

“But you have not satisfied mine,” he continued, and she felt a moment of fear. Whatever did he mean?

“Have you a name?” he asked again.

Relieved, she closed her eyes. She was tired and it could wait. She had not the strength to answer.