Chapter 1
Winter enveloped the frost-tipped forest in its deathly grip as a lone black carriage made its determined way up the side of the frozen mountain.
Benjamin Ward, the fifth Duke of Silkridge, glowered at the snowflakes obstructing the view from the window. Instead of being ensconced in the dry warmth of his familiar study in London, he was four hundred miles north, heading back to the one place he had vowed never to return.
Cressmouth, England.
The nearer his coach drew to the tiny village nestled high in the mountains, the worse the weather became. The cold breeze had turned into a punishing wind, and the endless gray skies above had begun to clot with heavy clouds.
Already, blobs too icy to be rain and too wet to be snow spit down upon him.
Bad weather was a good sign. It meant he was getting closer to his goal. Closer to the end. The sooner he fetched the heirloom that had been stolen from him, the sooner he could return to London. Back to where he belonged.
Benjamin clenched his jaw and tore his gaze from the countryside. He hated to leave his home. This was the first time he’d been called away in years. The first time he’d allowed a deviation from his rigid schedule.
Whether Parliament was in session or not, there was too much work to be done back home. Benjamin was personally responsible for half a dozen key committees shaping the country’s future. He had no time for distracting quests.
But here he was.
His horses clomped past a large, festive sign held sturdy in the frozen ground by thick wooden posts. Despite the darkening sky and the falling sleet, its boldly lettered words were still legible.
Welcome to Christmas!
“It’sCressmouth, not Christmas,” he muttered beneath his breath with a roll of his eyes.
But it was no use. The quaint northern village was even worse than he remembered. Brightly colored cottages dotted amongst the white of the snow and the frosted tips of a thousand evergreens.
Everywhere he looked there were sparkling candelabra in windowpanes, curling smoke rising merrily from red brick chimneys, children in colorful woolen mittens pelting each other with soft balls of snow.
“Humbug,” he muttered beneath his breath.Hewould not take part.
But it was too late. The Silkridge ducal crest gracing the sides of his stately coach had caught the attention of those he passed.
“Ho, there,” called out a ruddy-cheeked gentleman shoveling snow from his walk. “Happy Christmas!”
“It’s January,” Benjamin muttered to his valet.
“Didn’t you see the sign?” Doyle answered with a grin. “’Tis always Christmastide here.”
“Humbug,” the duke said and motioned the driver onward.
The only explanation for the townsfolk’s Christmas fever was their sad and desperate attempt to try to create some sort of advantage to living in the coldest corner of all of England.
Benjamin glared at the snow-dusted pines dipping and curving through the mountains. Cressmouth was in the middle of nowhere. The closest town was Cornhill-on-Tweed. Any further north, and this village would be in Scotland.
A bright red ball sailed from between a pair of cottages and out into the street.
The horses reared in alarm. The driver struggled to keep control of the reins.
From the corner of Benjamin’s eye, he caught a flash of movement. A lad scarcely six years of age intended to dart out before the horses in order to retrieve his ball.
“Stay,” the duke barked, not to his horses and driver, but to the child at the edge of the street.
He leapt from the coach and hurled the ball far over the child’s head so that he would be forced to run away from the lane to fetch it.
“So kind of you,” called a woman from an open doorway. “You saved Nigel’s life.”
“His ball was in my path,” the duke snarled as he jumped back into the carriage.
