Chapter Two

December 14, 1818

No. 6 Birch Place

Portman Square

Marylebone, Mayfair

London

Miss Samantha Marchington glanced about the cozy drawing room until her gaze landed on her father. Not for the first time in recent months did she wonder about the state of the future.

“Papa, are you settled comfortably? Do you need another blanket?”

Currently, her father occupied a wing-backed chair near the fireplace, for there was a bit of a chill in the air. A crocheted blanket of tan wool lay draped over his lower half, while a cap that one would wear for sleeping was on his head. He claimed it helped keep him warm, and who was she to argue with him?

“Leave off, girl, I am fine. Don’t need your constant hovering.” He lifted a hand to wave her off, which caused the blanket to slip.

“I haven’t been a girl for ages,” she said in a soft voice as she crossed the room to put his blanket back into place. “I’m nine and twenty. Nearly thirty if you want the truth, and a spinster. Nothing girlish about that.”

“Bah. Age is nothing.” He kept his gaze focused on the flamed in the hearth. “You keep yourself away from men because you refuse to leave me to fate.”

“I am not leaving you alone merely to have a life away from you. How could I find happiness in that?”

Not that she’d wanted such a thing. That hadn’t been the plan at all. She’d had dreams for her life, of course she had, and just like any other woman, she’d wanted a husband and a family. But fate had other plans, as it usually did, and despite a handful of Seasons, she simply hadn’t taken.

Was it due to the slight limp she’d had since sustaining an injury in her early adolescence? That was anyone’s guess, but it didn’t matter. She was here and it was her responsibility to take care of her father.

“You should. I’m past my usefulness, Sam. You’re wasting time here with me.” He frowned but didn’t take his attention off the fire’s flames. “Just let me die in peace.”

Her chest tightened as it always did when he was like this. “Stop. You are not in danger of dying.” At least she hoped not.

“My mind is going, Sam. You know this. I can’t hide it any longer.”

That was true. Some days, he didn’t even remember who she was, and because of that, he grew more disgruntled and grouchier. It had to be quite frustrating to find oneself trapped in a body, in a life, that one couldn’t remember living.

“Then we will live for the good days, when your mind is still sharp.” But with the words, sorrow welled in her chest and put unshed tears into her throat. At this point, it was only a matter of time before his health took a turn. “In any event, I need you to eat the soup and bread Mrs. Fredrickson is going to bring you for supper.”

Finally, he turned his head to look at her. Sadness reflected in his brown eyes. “Will you not eat with me?”

“Not this evening. I need to go out and canvass a few neighborhoods in Mayfair for the orphanage.” It was her chosen charity. Funds were desperately needed to keep the orphanage open and running. If not, by the end of January, it would be forced to close and who knows what will become of the children there.

“It’s not right you running all over Mayfair unaccompanied.” He crossed his arms at his frail chest, looking for all the world like a petulant child.

“I don’t have a choice. The orphanage needs the coin, especially at this time of year. Do you want me to bring a footman or a maid? I’ll have the carriage driver if something untoward happens.” Really, she’d rather the footman and maid stay here in the event her father needed assistance.

A grunt was his only answer.

Samantha sighed. Tears filled her eyes, for taking care of her aging father who was slowly losing his faculties was quite difficult and there was no one to talk to about it. “Remember to eat all your supper when Mrs. Fredrickson brings it.”

“I’m not hungry.”

She bit her bottom lip to keep from overtly crying. “You need to keep your strength up.”

“Bah,” was his response and then returned his gaze to the fire.

“I should return in a couple of hours, so you won’t need to worry about me being out after dark.” Then she closed the distance and bussed his cheek. “If you’d like, once I’m done with my errands, I can read to you tonight before you retire.”

Her father nodded then waved her away. “Go.”

With a heavy heart and tears, Samantha left the room. Something needed to change, and soon, for she couldn’t continue feeling like she was about to break.

May 1, 1813

Starkton Hall

Surrey, England

As May Day balls went, this one was a most lavish affair. Samantha had been invited because the host of the event knew her father, and since her father was a retired major from the military and a gentleman to boot, many of the older men in the ton enjoyed hearing his war stories. And since the ball was part of a week-long house party and the last social event from that gathering, she hoped to make a good showing.

She clung to her father’s arm, for he had been making use of the card rooms for the last hour. “Would it be rude to leave early?” she asked in a whisper.

“Why would we do that? Look how lively everyone is.” Her father was a big, solid man, and all she wanted was to burrow into his arms for a protective hug.

Forcing down the disappointment and urge to cry, she sighed. “I have done nothing except sit in one of these chairs on the side of the room with the other wallflowers.”

“No one asked you to dance?” He frowned at her.

“Not after the first one.” The heat of embarrassment filled her cheeks. “My only guess is that either other men saw my limp during that dance, or my partner warned others, but here I sit, because I’m considered different.”

That was how her life had been ever since she’d fallen from a horse when she was fifteen. Her left ankle had broken, and though it had healed enough that she could walk, it hadn’t healed enough. She suffered from a limp, and in times of foul weather, the bones pained her. That meant dancing and running was difficult for her, to say nothing of the fact that climbing stairs was sometimes a challenge, but she had tried to make the best of it.

Until the injury set her apart from everyone else, and not in a good way.

“The best advice I can give you, dearest, is that men have the tendency to act like nodcocks at all times. This is because it hides their fears or insecurities. They simply can’t imagine someone having the strength to meet their disabilities and keep their heads high, so they ignore it whenever they see it.” He patted her hand. “They don’t deserve a woman like you.”

“Thank you, Papa. That is certainly a lovely way of looking at it.” And helped to banish the disappointment. Slightly. “Why can’t I ever meet a man who has the patience to look past my injury and slow his pace enough to walk beside me?”

“Perhaps it will come in time. Until then, you have me.” Then he led her to an open space on the dance floor. “I am happy to partner you in this waltz, and you may go as slowly as you wish. Society can wait on us for the next handful of minutes.”

“You are the best father anyone could ever have.” Since she lost her younger sister as well as her mother in a horrific carriage accident three years before, he was all she had left in this life, and she couldn’t imagine life without him. “Thank you for this. I do so love to dance.”

“I would give you the world if you would but ask, poppet. Remember that.”

Present Day

When the driver rapped on the roof of the closed carriage and shouted, “Approaching Manchester Square!” Samantha was wrenched out of her remembrance.

“Thank you.”

She held the strings of her reticule tight in the fingers of one hand while the vehicle came to a stop on the street curb. The shadows of night had already descended. It was one of the things that made late December both so cozy and so alarming, but she had never been afraid of the dark, and almost welcomed the anonymity the night provided.

The carriage rocked as her driver climbed down. Seconds later, he opened the door and put down the set of rickety steps, for the vehicle had been in her father’s possession for some years, and now that he had health challenges, he didn’t go out as much as he used to.

“I shouldn’t be more than an hour in this area,” Samantha said as she relied heavily on his hand to assist her out of the carriage. “However, you know my father. If you feel there is something wrong, please come and find me.”

“Absolutely, Miss Marchington. The major will always have my allegiance.” In fact, they’d come by the driver—Dennis—because his father had once served beneath her father, and had been their driver for years before Dennis took over.

She offered him a grin. “Thank you.” Then she shivered when an errant breeze came whistling through the street and clawed at her skirts and the hem of her cloak. “I expect it will snow soon.” Which would only add to her lingering feelings of sadness, for snow had always had a cozy feel to her which signified love, romance, but on the other side of that was the desolation that winter brought, and the sense of being alone.

How long would her father’s health last?

Nearly an hour had passed as she made her way through the Manchester Square area. Less than half the homes she had been shown into had wished to donate to the orphanage, but she was confident in other neighborhoods. She waved to Dennis as she walked up the short path of the last house then she knocked on the red-painted door.

What a cheerful color!

Seconds later, the panel swung inward to reveal a tall man of indeterminate looks and wispy gray hair who peered over the tops of his half-moon spectacles at her.

“May I help you?”

She nodded. “I am here to see the master or mistress of the house. I am collecting funds to keep the Barrett Street Orphanage in Marylebone open for another few months.”

“Lord Timelbury is at home, so I will inquire as to whether he wishes to speak with you. The family will sit down to dinner in moments. Follow me.”

Then the man stood back and allowed her to enter the short entry hall. After he closed the door, he walked ahead of her along the corridor that was lined with oil paintings depicting pastoral scenes or wildflower meadows as well as seascapes. From what she could see, it was a lovely townhouse and tastefully decorated without the loads of showy, gaudy wealth that some of the titled members of the beau monde accumulated. As the man passed a highly polished wooden staircase, the soft drone of voices drifted to her ears. But the butler didn’t lead her upstairs. Instead, he showed her into a small parlor at the end of the corridor.

With nothing else to do and rather glad to be out of the cold, Samantha perched on the edge of a chair with gilt legs and glanced sadly at the dark fireplace. No doubt the household didn’t have many visitors or else they were trying to keep expenses to a minimum, which didn’t bode well for her collections.

A few moments later, two women perhaps in their upper fifties entered the parlor, and as Samantha stood, her gaze fell to a younger man, perhaps twenty years or so their junior, and what was more, he resembled both women but in different ways.

How interesting.

The man stepped forward, but his expression didn’t reveal his thoughts. “I’m Cornelius Harding, Lord Timelbury. This is my mother, Mrs. Harding, and my aunt, Miss Harding. Hartley said you were here canvassing for donations.”

Hmm, if she followed the clues correctly, the shorter and more matronly woman was the sister of the Timelbury’s father, and his mother was no doubt a widow, for she didn’t carry herself as a married woman would. Neither did it seem that she had much joy in her life, if the tight way she held her mouth was any indication.

“Uh, right.” She wrenched her gaze to his face. There was something extremely trustworthy about him, and those sensual, chiseled lips had the capacity to encourage naughty thoughts, for which she refused to indulge. When she met his gray eyes, the shadows and secrets there drew her curiosity. “I am Miss Samanthan Marchington, and I am here on behalf of the Barrett Street Orphanage. It is located in Marylebone, in a renovated townhouse, but unfortunately, it is rapidly outgrowing its walls.”

Mrs. Harding frowned. She crossed her arms at her chest. “You are delaying our dinner, young woman. Why are you here?”

With haste, Samanatha retrieved a pamphlet from her reticule. It was rather worse for wear with wrinkles and folds. “I had hoped to encourage you to donate funds to the orphanage. Without outside support, I’m afraid the organization will be forced to close by the end of January.” When she offered the literature to the woman, she abjectly refused to take it. With a sigh, she offered it to the man, who tugged it from her fingers. “Uh, I work closely with the founders of the orphanage, and it’s heartbreaking how crowded the space has grown in the past two years. So many babies have been dropped off there that the workers simply don’t have room to help—to save—any more.”

“That is quite the story, Miss Marchington,” Lord Timelbury said as he browsed the pamphlet. “If the orphanage is as desperate as you say, it will take more than house-to-house canvassing through Mayfair to save it.”

“Yes, I am aware of that, but I have to try.” She met his eyes once more, almost daring him to contradict her. “I couldn’t live with myself if disaster befell those babies who couldn’t find a position within that orphanage.”

“Yes, well, that is the way of the world, though. Isn’t it?” he said as he handed her back the pamphlet.

She refused to take it, forcing him to tuck the paper into the inside pocket of his tailcoat. Which set off the breadth of his shoulders splendidly. “It doesn’t have to be, for Christmastide should be the time of year when people open their hearts to others who have less.”

The woman she suspected was Timelbury’s aunt softly cleared her throat. “If you don’t mind me asking, dear, who are your people?”

“Oh.” Samantha smiled, for the woman gave off motherly feelings. “My father is Major Marchington. He is a war hero, I suppose, and when he finally retired from military service fifteen years ago, he was quite sought after in London drawing rooms for his stories and charm.”

“How lovely!” Miss Harding grinned. Amusement danced in her eyes. “I know your father.”

Shock went through Samantha’s chest. “How?”

“I met Henry at a ball years ago. He was still in the military and used to regale the men with stories from his time in the military. Was so dashing in his uniform.” A chuckle escaped her, and her eyes took on a faraway look. “Oh, he was a charmer, and a big flirt! But that man could dance. He had quite the skill, which meant all us ladies who hadn’t been matched always vied for his attention.” Then she sighed. “There was a time when I thought he might ask for my hand…”

“Oh?” How had she never been told this story? “What happened? Why didn’t that come to pass?” Of course, if it hadn’t, she wouldn’t be standing here…

Miss Harding laughed again. “He fell in love with your mother, and they were perfect for each other, so I let him—and the dream of him—go. I knew your mother in passing, and liked her.”

“What a lovely story!” For whatever reason, that endeared her to the woman even more. “I will tell him I met you. Perhaps he’ll remember you.” Her voice broke, but she cleared her throat and hoped to regain control of her emotions. “His memory comes and goes, but lately there have been more bad days than good.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Miss Harding laid a hand on Samantha’s arm. The candlelight caught on a diamond and pearl bracelet that glittered like mad. “Perhaps I could come by for a visit soon? It might cheer him.”

“For shame, Beatrice! Mrs. Harding admonished. “This is not the time.”

Samantha kept her own counsel. To the other lady, she said, “Of course.” She nodded. “Your bracelet is gorgeous.”

“Thank you.” Miss Harding held it up. “My nephew, there, just gave it to me for Christmastide.”

“Ah.” When she bounced her gaze to Lord Timelbury and their gazes connected, a queer little thrill went down her spine. He was a bit too intense for her liking. “Well, this house is my last stop of the night, should you like to contribute.”

Lord Timelbury nodded. “Have you had much luck?” The timbre of his voice was far too lovely and rich. A lady would soon find herself in trouble if she listened to it long enough.

“Not as much as I would have liked.”

Both women talked at the same time.

“That’s terrible! Of course we’ll donate,” Miss Harding said.

“Well, it is a rather lean time of year, but I suppose I can give something as well. For the orphans,” Mrs. Harding replied and unbent enough to relax her arms. “Cornelius, what of you?”

A huff left his throat. “I shall give as well. Why don’t the two of you go retrieve your coin? I’ll entertain our guest until you return.”

As the women left the room, Lord Timelbury turned more fully to her. “How did you become involved with the orphanage, Miss Marchington?”

“That is a long story, I’m afraid. It has it’s roots in my sister.” And quite frankly, she didn’t want to feel more emotional than she already was. Not to mention the fact this man was a stranger.

“I see.” He reached into the pocket of his jacket and withdrew a slim leather pouch. “Where do you and your father live?”

“In Portman Square.”

“Not far from the orphanage, I’ll wager?”

“That’s right.”

“Ah.” He offered her the pouch. The soft clink of coins reached her ears. “There is about fifty pounds here, but I am not opposed to giving more at a later date.”

“Oh!” That was quite a sizable amount. “Thank you,” she managed to choke out as she took the pouch and stuffed it into her reticule. “That’s very kind.”

“Think nothing of it.”

Then the ladies returned, and each one of them handed her a leather pouch of their own. Miss Harding took her hands in hers.

“Thank you for visiting, Miss Marchington. I am so happy to remember your father.”

“I’m glad too. And thank you both for your generosity.” With Lord Timelbury’s donation alone, the orphanage would easily reach beyond the end of January.

He cleared his throat. “Well, if that is all? I will walk you out. I assume your carriage is waiting?”

“Yes, and thank you.” The Harding women were forgotten when she peered up into the lord’s face, and those intense eyes searched out hers, for what she had no idea. At the pavement, she turned to him. “I appreciate what you and your relatives did tonight. You have no idea how much you’ve helped the orphanage.”

“Yes, well, enjoy your night, Miss Marchington. Best wishes for further donations.” Then, with a curt nod, he left her in the care of her driver and then returned to his house.

She stifled a sigh. The stark black of his evening jacket against the softly falling white snowflakes made quite the picture, and oddly enough, she was glad, too, that she’d had the chance to see such a picture.

It made going home to a less-than-ideal situation a bit… better.