When Benjamin arrived downstairs for the reading of the will, he was already in a foul mood.

Not foul, perhaps. Restless. It had begun last night when he was shown to a recently renovated bedchamber in an unfamiliar part of the castle. Though the room and its fire were welcoming, he could not help but feel a stranger in a place where he had spent a good chunk of his childhood.

The feeling had not abated. He had tossed and turned, torn between his anger toward his grandfather and the wholly unacceptable rush of longing he felt every time he thought of Noelle. Cressmouth was torture.

He was glad this particular trial was almost over. Scant moments remained. Sit through a short reading, collect the locket, be on his way.

At least, that was what he had expected prior to finding himself in an enormous chamber stuffed with countless spectators. Despite what appeared to be the presence of hundreds of chairs, that opportunity had vanished long before Benjamin had entered the room. He was forced to stand with his back against the wainscoting like a wallflower at her first dance.

“Why is the solicitor primping on a dais in a ballroom as if this were a stage?” he growled to the person next to him.

Belatedly, he recognized the woman as the jeweler who made tiaras fit for royalty, not that there could be much call for extravagance in the middle of nowhere.

Benjamin wished he hadn’t recognized her at all. No good could come of making personal connections with townsfolk. He would be leaving them behind within the hour.

Leaving Noelle behind was hard enough.

“This town loves the stage,” the jeweler replied cryptically.

He snorted. “All the world’s a stage, and the townsfolk merely players?”

“Shakespeare.” The jeweler inclined her head. “Very nice. Old Fuzzy Wig would be proud.”

Benjamin perked up despite himself. The castle clerk had been dearer to him than his own grandfather.

He scanned the room in vain. “All these people cannot possibly be named in the will.”

“We are,” the jeweler answered with pride. “Mr. Marlowe would never forget one of his flock.”

Benjamin shot her a wry glance. “Because my grandfather was such a good shepherd?”

“Because he loved a menagerie,” she corrected with a grin. “He would have turned this castle into a zoological circus if Old Fuzzy Wig would have let him.”

Benjamin was unsurprised to hear that his eccentric grandfather had not become any less odd with age. Nor was he surprised that this characteristic should be met with an indulgent smile and nostalgic tone of voice. Grandfather had been devoted to Cressmouth, and Cressmouth alone.

He was saved from this line of thought by a glimpse of golden blonde hair. Noelle was here.

Of course she would be. The entire town was here. But it was not the entire town who made his heart beat faster and his mind empty of reason.

She looked just as beautiful in the morning sun as she had by candlelight the evening before. Even more beautiful, if such a thing were possible. He should look away. And he would, any moment now.

He loved the way she wrinkled her nose any time her gold-rimmed spectacles started to slide. He loved the way she laughed, the way her whole face lit up, the way joy seemed to emanate from her entire body. Not that he could see much of it. She was surrounded by friends and well-wishers.

Benjamin was a moth drawn to her flame, but this community was her butterflies. Colorful and energetic where he was distant and staid. Cressmouth was where and how she thrived. Noelle did not need him disrupting her happy life.

He wished he had not run into her. It would have been easier for them both if he had glimpsed her from afar and slipped away with her none the wiser. Now that he had seen her, had spoken to her, he should let that be enough.

But his feet were moving in her direction as though logic held no sway.

Imbecile. He wasn’t edging sideways through a packed crowd just to be closer to a woman who distrusted him, he told himself. He had simply noticed that Noelle stood directly beside Mr. Fawkes, who Benjamin was thrilled to see still ornery and kicking.

When he got within shouting distance, however, Mr. Fawkes and another older gentleman were too engrossed in a lively conversation about the causes and treatments of gout to notice Benjamin’s arrival.

Noelle, however, noticed right away.

He could tell by the way her stance stiffened.

“Can the Duke of Silkridge be heading straight for Miss Pratchett?” came a loud whisper.

“Fret not,” Noelle assured her friend. “My gaze cannot be turned by London gentlemen.”

But her eyes had not left Benjamin.

“What’s so wonderful about Cressmouth lads?” he asked as he reached her side.

She narrowed her eyes as if mentally preparing for battle. “They can be counted upon to be here every day, not to give a girl bad dreams at night.”

“You dreamt about me,” he said with pleasure. At least he was not alone.

“Bad dreams,” she reminded him. “Ghastly.”

His smile faded. He deserved that. She knew as well as he did that if he could be trusted to do one thing, anything, that thing would be to leave.

At least there was honesty between them.

He wished there were also about a hundred fewer spectators. He wished a lot of things.

But he was a man of reason and practicality, not poetry and love. Benjamin’s priorities had been predetermined. A duke served his country, not himself. Noelle was not part of the equation. He absolutely shouldn’t be fascinated by the wrinkle of her nose or the way her lips pursed to one side when she was thinking.

If the two of them were too different before, the chasm was now impossible. She was Cressmouth. She was not for him at all.

He forced himself to tear his gaze from Noelle and focus instead on Grandfather’s clerk, Mr. Fawkes. Old Fuzzy Wig still wore that oversized worsted cap, every bit as white and fuzzy as the shock of hair it attempted to corral beneath.

His beard was longer than Benjamin recalled, his cheeks ruddier, his eyes just as sparkly. Seeing him was as if no time had passed at all.

Mr. Fawkes caught a glimpse of Benjamin and broke off the discussion of gout at once.

Benjamin grinned despite himself. It was good to see the old man. “Fuzzy Wig! You haven’t aged a day.”

“Who’s this lad?” Mr. Fawkes demanded to Noelle. “He looks familiar.”

Benjamin froze in shock and hurt. Perhaps the years hadn’t been so kind after all.

“The Duke of Silkridge,” Noelle replied loudly.

Mr. Fawkes furrowed his brow. “Scrooge, you say?”

Benjamin gaped at him. “What the devil is a ‘scrooge?’”

“Silkridge,” she shouted into his ear. “Where’s your ear trumpet?”

“You must be mistaken.” Mr. Fawkes lifted an ivory-and-silver horn to the side of his head. “The Duke of Silkridge passed away years ago.”

“His son,” Noelle said into the ear trumpet. “Benjamin.”

“Ebenezer?” Mr. Fawkes asked in confusion.

“Benjamin,” Noelle shouted into the horn. “The heir.”

Mr. Fawkes’s face lit up. “Oh, of course. Why didn’t you say?”

Noelle gave a quick curtsey in apology.

Benjamin stepped forward, relieved to have been recognized at last.

“I—” he began.

But Mr. Fawkes did not hear him.

“Suppose you are wanting to know what could bring down an ornery buzzard like your grandfather,” Mr. Fawkes said with a hacking laugh.

Benjamin had no wish for a detailed accounting. “I—”

“Quincy,” Mr. Fawkes continued unabated. “Spent weeks with poultices wrapped about his head. Looked like an Egyptian mummy, he did. Except for the size of his neck and chin and tongue. Swelled right up after that dental abscess. I’m thinking of having every one of my teeth pulled to be safe.”

“Have you enough to bother?” cackled the gentleman who had been debating gout remedies moments earlier.

“Good point,” Mr. Fawkes said, slapping his knee. He turned back to Benjamin. “A man must do something to prepare for his eventuality, wouldn’t you say?”

Benjamin swallowed. “I…”

“This lad takes more precautions than most,” Mr. Fawkes boomed to his companion. “Can’t blame him. His sire also died during Christmastide. He suffered the ague. Virulent strain even cinchona bark couldn’t cure.”

This time, Benjamin didn’t try to speak. He couldn’t. The breath had been robbed from his lungs at the reminder of his loss.

All Christmastide had ever done was steal family members from him. Father’s loss had nearly broken him. Becoming duke was easy. Duke was merely a job, a task to perform. But Benjamin had not been ready to lose another parent.

Mr. Fawkes’s companion lifted a quizzing glass and squinted at Benjamin. “Didn’t the old duke have black hair?”

“That he did,” Mr. Fawkes agreed. “My lad here takes after his mother in that regard.”

Each word sliced open old wounds.

Everyone Grandfather’s age remembered Benjamin’s mother. They could tell at a glance which parts of him reminded them of her.

He could not. His grandfather had absconded with the only heirloom he had ever cared about. The one with the portrait of Benjamin’s mother inside.

Mr. Fawkes used his ear trumpet to gesture toward Benjamin. “My lad here is the last of his line on his mother’s side.”

That was why he needed the locket. He tried not to clench his fists at the unwelcome reminder. This quest wasn’t just a matter of retrieving something that was lost, but a chance to get his family back. If only as painted miniatures hanging about his neck.

He tried to swallow, but his throat was too tight. How he had hated being estranged from his grandfather. He missed having family. Would have visited as often as he could if it were possible to get along.

It had not been possible. Benjamin’s birth had caused his mother’s death, and Grandfather had never forgiven him for the loss. He had turned all his love to Cressmouth instead. For Benjamin, there had only been coldness.

Grandfather had once snarled that he would rather have lost his grandchild than his daughter. What use was a baby? She could always have another. Or at least, she might have, had she recovered from Benjamin’s difficult birth.

After realizing the depth of his grandfather’s hatred, Benjamin had taken his words to heart. He would be as useful as ten dukes. He would make the House of Lords his family, his home, his reason for being. He would not limit his responsibilities to one small village but rather the whole of England. Perhaps in doing so, Benjamin could make his mother’s sacrifice worth it.

“Well,” Mr. Fawkes’s gouty companion said with a smile. “At least Your Grace is still kicking. That makes it a happy Christmas, I say.”

“There’s nothing happy about Christmas,” Benjamin said flatly.

He hadn’t expected Mr. Fawkes to overhear him, but the man’s eyes had been following Benjamin’s lips close. “Now, lad, it isn’t all bad. What about the title? You inherited a dukedom.”

“And lost my family,” Benjamin pointed out.

“True.” Mr. Fawkes leaned forward to pat Benjamin on the forearm in sympathy. “But it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”

Shakespeare, and a ridiculous sentiment. Benjamin could not help but scoff. It would be better not to love than to have someone unexpectedly ripped from one’s life.

But before he could answer, the growing crowd of onlookers could not hold their tongues any longer. They interrupted Mr. Fawkes like a basket of kittens, tumbling over each other to present themselves to Benjamin. Before he could object, he was swept away from Noelle and into their midst.

“Your grandfather was the loveliest man I ever met,” said a stout woman in a flour-dusted apron. “Christmas wouldn’t exist without him.”

“Cressmouth,” Benjamin corrected firmly. “Let us not overstate the matter.”

“He gave me a post when others would not,” said a young girl with a scarred face.

“That’s because they’re foolish where you’re from,” said the woman in the apron. “Mr. Marlowe wasn’t foolish.”

“Not one bit,” agreed a gentleman leaning on a cane. “Why, without him there wouldn’t be an annual biscuit festival.”

“Annual biscuit festival,” Benjamin echoed, deadpan. “He did invent Christmas.”

“What was it like?” asked a stableboy breathlessly. “To have a grandfather as wonderful as Mr. Marlowe?”

“What do you suppose it was like?” A man with dirt-stained fingers cuffed the lad on the back of the head. “A miracle, no doubt.”

“A marvelous influence, I reckon,” a different woman piped in. “His Grace is known as the most powerful lord in parliament. When the crown needs something done, they put the Duke of Silkridge in charge. Who does that sound like, if not our Mr. Marlowe?”

Benjamin ground his teeth. It did not sound like his grandfather at all.

It sounded like a duke who gave up sleep, gave up hobbies, gave up every spare moment he ever had for the betterment of his country. It sounded like skipped meals and ink-stained fingers. It sounded like audiences before the Regent and impassioned speeches to the House of Lords. It sounded like someone who didn’t have time for playing at Christmas because he was too busy doing his part to keep England safe and secure for the people in this room and every other corner of the country.

Grandfather hadn’t been there for any of it.

“Why is Mr. Marlowe’s grandson on his feet?” someone yelled.

“A chair, if you please!” someone else called out. “Mr. Marlowe’s grandson needs a seat!”

Benjamin could not believe the reasoning. Here in Cressmouth, he was famous not for being a duke, but for being related to his irascible grandfather.

A young lady popped up from her chair. “You can have mine.”

“I’ll stand,” he bit out. “I will not steal a lady’s seat.”

“I knew you wouldn’t,” she said with a self-satisfied smile. “When it is his turn to do so, the sparrow always leads into the wind.”

Benjamin stared at her more closely. “Weren’t you the young lady hunting for a duke?”

She nodded. “I found him prancing between the verdant tree and fake bear, as a duke is wont to do.”

He blinked. “I vow that I have never in my life—”

“You are not the only duke in Christmas,” she said vaguely.

“So I’ve gathered.” He couldn’t be gone quickly enough. “I suppose there are two of us, then? Perhaps three?”

“There are twelve dukes in Christmas.” She cast a proud glance toward her neighbor as if to verify such an absurd claim.

“Twelve dukes of Christmas?” he repeated in disbelief.

Bloody hell, she had actually gotten him to say Christmas instead of Cressmouth.

“It’s too bad Tiny Tim isn’t a duke,” murmured her neighbor. “Then we could have thirteen.”

“You’re absolutely right,” said another. “I suppose we have Mr. Marlowe to blame for that.”

It was all Benjamin could do to keep his head from exploding. He was not going to ask who Tiny Tim was, and he definitely wasn’t going to ask what on earth his maternal grandfather had to do with anyone becoming a duke. Benjamin’s title had been the last gift from his father. Grandfather had given him nothing but heartache.

A gong sounded on the side of the dais and then the solicitor took center stage.

“Shh!” Several ladies shushed the crowd. “The reading is about to start.”

Thank God. Benjamin forced his tense shoulders to relax. In a matter of hours, his carriage would be leaving Cressmouth and he could return to real life.

“We are gathered here today,” the solicitor began, “for a reading of the last will and testament of our beloved Mr. Jacob Marlowe, who rescued our failing village and established Christmas in its place. Would anyone like to begin with a few words?”

No. No words. Benjamin tried not to groan audibly. There were a few hundred people stuffed into this ballroom. If everyone said a “few” words, the reading wouldn’t be over until nightfall.

Yet he had no choice but to stand there and listen.

To his surprise, the heartfelt speeches indicated that the town did not revere his grandfather as an exemplar of excellence. They simply revered him, oddities and all.

Apparently, in addition to the absurd idea of establishing a village dedicated to celebrating Christmastide year-round, Grandfather had had thousands of other eccentric notions. Plans that the townspeople had found creative ways to indefinitely postpone.

Preparing a hot air balloon launch pad for when dirigibles became de rigueur.

Requiring the kitchen to dye all foodstuffs the colors of the flag to show support of Britain’s efforts against Napoleon.

Installing water tunnels to turn the castle into a circus, complete with tightrope walkers above a pit of crocodiles.

Good lord. Turning Cressmouth into Christmas was perhaps the sanest of all his grandfather’s mad schemes.

“Was he in his right mind?” Benjamin asked the older woman to his left in wonder.

“He was a jolly prankster,” she replied with damp eyes. “I shouldn’t be surprised if his will is full of more of the same.”

A prankster. Iron encased Benjamin’s heart. If he had been summoned all the way to the northernmost peak of England a few days before Parliament was set to start anew, only because his grandfather found it amusing to manipulate emotions even after his death—

“And now for the reading of the will,” announced the solicitor.

Benjamin listened in growing trepidation as what seemed like every person in the room was named before him. His stomach tightened. If he had come all this way, only to learn that his grandfather had buried himself with the locket as a final insult—

“—and to my grandson, Benjamin Ward, Duke of Silkridge, Earl of…”

Benjamin’s head snapped up.

The solicitor cleared his throat. “‘Be changed or be cursed. This is your last chance.’”

“Oh, for the love of…” Benjamin ground his teeth.

Of course, Grandfather would choose melodrama in favor of plain English. Prankster indeed.

It was all he could do not to yell, skip to the part where my mother’s heirloom returns to me.

The townsfolk wouldn’t understand. He doubted they knew the locket existed or would care even if they did. It was of value to no living person besides Benjamin, who was tired of waiting. He had suffered more than enough Christmas and Cressmouth for the rest of his life. As soon as the locket was in his hand, he would leave this town and never look back.

The solicitor continued, “‘You must complete the renovations on my unfinished aviary.’”

“Complete the what on his what?” Benjamin spluttered in disbelief. “He isn’t granting me a bequest. He’s asking for a favor. Is that even legal?”

He should not have expected better, and yet he was still bitterly disappointed.

“—I do not grant Silkridge the privilege of populating the aviary with an appropriate collection of birds—”

“Thank God,” Benjamin muttered.

“—but in order for restorations to be considered complete, Silkridge must break a ceremonial bottle of champagne upon its threshold before witnesses—”

“It’s not a ship.” Benjamin gaped through the crowd at the solicitor in disbelief. “Will the aviary be sailing off to explore new worlds? What kind of daft restorations are these?”

“—and stock the aviary with its first symbolic bird, which must be a—”

“Dodo?” Benjamin guessed. “Raptor? African swallow?”

“—partridge.”

Benjamin blinked. He was to break a bottle of wine upon the helm of a landlocked aviary in order to present all and sundry with their first ceremonial… partridge? His teeth clenched.

Of course he was.

“The aviary must open within a month of this reading,” the solicitor concluded. “Silkridge must remain on premises until that date, or else forfeit forever the gold locket currently held in trust.”

“Are you bamming me?” Benjamin’s blood heated. “I don’t have a month before the new session of Parliament. I have less than a fortnight.”

The elderly woman patted his arm. “Where there is a will, there’s a way.”

“That is not what that phrase means,” he muttered. Where Grandfather was concerned, there was rarely a way.

Muscles tight with anger, Benjamin made his way toward the dais. Grandfather had betrayed him not once but twice, by withholding the locket from its rightful owner first in life and now also in death.

He had obviously taken pleasure into crafting his ridiculous challenge. Benjamin clenched his fists. He hated that his grandfather was making him dance to strings for something that should already be his.

A grandfather was meant to love his grandchild. Not taunt him with the memory of his dead mother.

“Where is it?” he demanded as he stalked to the dais.

The solicitor lowered the papers. “Where is what?”

“The locket,” Benjamin growled. “Before I lift a finger, I must verify it still exists and that my grandfather isn’t toying with me.”

“Mr. Marlowe would never toy with his grandson,” chided a kindly voice behind him.

If only that were true.