After stalking out of the reading of the will, Benjamin did not stay to share refreshments with the rest of the townsfolk. His appetite had been spoiled, and he certainly didn’t feel like sharing stories about his grandfather.

Nor could he return to his cold, impersonal chamber. There was nothing intrinsically wrong with the guest quarters. They had clearly been recently renovated and were spotlessly clean. But a bedchamber was all it was.

If he was going to be stuck here for the next few days, he was going to need an office… Or at the very least, a writing desk and stationery. He must send word to London that he had suffered a brief delay but would still arrive well before Parliament opened to continue policy discussions with his committees.

And then he would do whatever it took to make the aviary halfway presentable and shove a partridge inside so that he could retrieve the locket and be on his way. By tomorrow, if possible.

It all depended on the current state of the aviary project.

He caught sight of the lead housekeeper. Perfect. No one would know the castle better.

“May I be of service, Your Grace?” she asked.

“I hope so.” He tried his best to mask his impatience with his grandfather’s machinations. “Is there an empty study I could use or a desk I might borrow?”

“The counting house,” she replied without hesitation. “It was your grandfather’s primary study. I am confident you will find all you need there.”

Of course. Mr. Fawkes had clerked in the counting house since before Benjamin was born. After seeing the state of his health yesterday, Benjamin had assumed Mr. Fawkes had retired along with Grandfather.

No matter. Even if the room had been untouched for some time, the housekeeper was right. It should contain everything Benjamin might need. At least for such a brief stay.

The counting house might be a small chamber atop the south tower, but in some ways, it was the heart of the castle. That was where all the accounting operations took place. The resident clerks ensured every detail was carefully logged in meticulous journals of accounts. Mr. Fawkes and his books boasted an encyclopedic knowledge of every transaction the castle had ever incurred. The room would be empty, but still be well-stocked with supplies.

Benjamin strode to the south tower and wound his way up to the top of the turret. To his surprise, every wall sconce he passed contained a lit candle.

The pale yellow light did nothing to warm the icy tower. Instead, they cast spidery shadows across the gray stone walls, the dark patterns scurrying and leaping in syncopation with each foot fall on the stairs.

Benjamin had always hated the counting house. Too distant, too dark. Too cold. The claustrophobic stairwell and the cramped little rooms made tales of princesses locked in towers seem more like Gothic horror than fairy stories. He could not wait to leave it all behind.

When he reached the top, he shoved open the slender oak door.

His pulse skipped. He was not alone. The queen was in the counting house counting all its money.

Or plotting how to rid the castle of an unwanted duke.

Noelle glanced up from whatever correspondence she’d been writing and froze, plume in hand. “What are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here?” he countered brilliantly. She had always managed to wipe all intelligent words from his mind.

At first, he did not notice her lack of response because he was too busy drinking in every aspect of her person.

The gold-rimmed spectacles were perched on the tip of her pert nose. Her coif, a loose twist. Half a dozen soft tendrils fell against her slender neck or kissed the side of her cheeks. Even scowling at him, she was a vision. His heart thumped.

How he wanted to brush those soft tendrils from her face with the pad of his thumb and lower his mouth to—

“I work here,” she said, her voice remarkably even for a woman who likely wished to stab him with the quill in her hand.

He had never apologized for leaving. To do so, he would have to explain emotions he preferred to bury. Like why he could not bear another attachment… and another loss. The fissures she created in the shields around his heart were a liability.

He had not wished to hurt her by leaving. But it had been kinder to leave when all they’d shared was a single kiss. Prolonging the inevitable would have been much crueler. For both of them.

This time, Benjamin would keep his distance.

“If you worked for my grandfather, why are you still here?” He glanced about the otherwise empty room. Being one of Grandfather’s secretaries sounded like torture.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” She glanced up from her correspondence. “Mr. Marlowe didn’t sack me. He died.”

“Shouldn’t whoever is in charge of the counting house be going through the journals and finalizing documents?”

He realized his mistake as soon as the words were out of his mouth.

“You work here,” he said before she could beat him to it. “You took Fuzzy Wig’s place.”

“That’s right.” She bit her lip. “He helped me during the transition. His mind is sharper than his hearing.”

Benjamin nodded. “I don’t doubt it.”

A new silence fell, different than before. Worse, he realized. Noelle was no longer expecting him to apologize for the past. She assumed he wasn’t going to.

He wished he could. That there was anything at all that could excuse his absence. From the first, he had enjoyed her company far more than he should.

By the time he’d learned she was an orphan far below his class, it no longer mattered. They were already inseparable. Too inseparable. Their friendship would have challenged Society more than enough. Their single stolen kiss had been so dramatically outside his control that it had sent him reeling. Retreat was the only safe path for them both.

Gingerly, he stepped into the counting house and seated himself behind the great mahogany desk that had once belonged to his grandfather.

The only items in the room were his large desk, her small desk, a bookshelf, and a pitiful fire spitting orange behind the grate. They were alone.

Very, very alone.

He cleared his throat. “Should you summon a maid?”

She raised her brows. “To watch over me sitting in my chair at my desk as I perform the duties of my post, as I’ve done alone every day for the past four years?”

Fair enough. Yet they could not continue like this.

He tried again. “Should I summon a maid?”

“You’re not going to kiss me, much less compromise me,” she said flatly. “Should you working at your desk whilst I work at mine raise any eyebrows, I preemptively decline any resulting marriage proposal. I would prefer to remain a spinster.”

That was clear enough.

Benjamin broke her gaze in order to rummage through drawers and pigeonholes for supplies. He found ink and wax. But peace of mind was nowhere to be found.

Being forced to face the woman he had hurt was hell. Especially because he could not make things better or change the past. He wouldn’t if he could. Leaving had been the right choice. And going back in time to erase their stolen kiss… Even he could not bring himself to do that.

Before he dipped his quill in ink, he slid her another glance from the corner of his eye. Something was different. Something important. It wasn’t her looks; she would be beautiful no matter what she wore. His gut clenched. It was what was missing.

Her smile.

He had never seen her without it for this long. It was one of the first things that had attracted him to her. One of the many reasons he had not wished to disappoint her with a goodbye. Even this morning, she had been in good humor, laughing with her friends.

Granted, he could not count himself amongst that number, but the chilliness emanating from her corner of the room was even frostier than the weather outside.

“Did something happen?” he asked.

“Something happened,” she agreed. “You didn’t stay for the remainder of the reading?”

“I couldn’t.” He would not explain the spiral of anger and frustration his grandfather’s final game had caused. Even now, he could not be certain that dancing to the old man’s tune would result in anything at all. Yet he had to try. “What other tricks did Grandfather leave behind?”

Her expression was grim. “His will instructed me to remain on as clerk and personal advisor to you during your aviary preparations.”

“You’re my personal advisor,” he repeated. What the devil was Grandfather about this time?

She appeared as thrilled as Benjamin was about this new development, which was not at all. “Only for a month, until you open the aviary or leave.”

“In exchange for what?” he asked suspiciously

“In exchange for nothing.” She shrugged. “Those are simply his wishes.”

He stared at her. “But you don’t have to follow them. Not if there’s no bequest hanging in the balance.”

“There is a bequest. He has provided me with a generous dowry. It simply is not contingent on any particular constraints. I choose to follow his wishes.”

Even if it means time spent with you went unspoken.

Benjamin did not ask why her bequest had come freely and his had not. Grandfather was capricious in many ways, but with Benjamin he had always been consistent.

“It won’t be a month,” he promised her. “My presence is required in the House of Lords within a fortnight. This won’t take long. I’ll hire as many workers as it takes to complete the aviary as quickly as possible. First I will need to make inquiries into what’s been done, what’s still needed, and where one might find materials and labor nearby.”

She laid the letter she had been writing atop similar such documents, tapped them into a neat rectangle, and extended the stack toward Benjamin.

“What’s this?” he asked.

She did not respond.

He reached across the desk to accept the stack. His eyes widened in surprise as he riffled quickly through the pages. “This is a detailed summary of the original plans, all completed construction, all pending restorations, workers’ names, directions, and salaries… and the location of the outbuilding containing all necessary material.”

“Yes.” She set down her quill. “Everything you need should be in those documents.”

She’d gathered all that information in the space of hours? For him? He gaped at her. “How did you… Why did you…”

“It’s not a favor,” she reminded him. “I’m your clerk and personal advisor until you open the aviary or leave, whichever comes first.”

He managed not to wince at the implied rebuke. “Are you going to be here in the counting house every day?”

She arched a brow. “Performing my assigned duties and respecting a dying man’s final wishes?”

“A simple ‘yes’ would do,” he muttered. Of course she would be here.

He was stuck, but so was she. Even if Benjamin managed to find some other study to work in, Noelle would feel honor-bound to present herself each day as his clerk and personal advisor. There was no way out. They would be staring across these desks at each other until further notice.

He flipped through her documentation again, slower this time. It was good work. Clean and comprehensive. She had shaved entire days from the challenge just by offering him such a wealth of information. He slid a sidelong glance her way.

She had not known what might be in the will any more than he or anyone else had, which meant she’d had such numbers at her fingertips all along. She didn’t just work here. She appeared to be a phenomenal clerk. No doubt she had made an equally impressive personal advisor to his grandfather.

“Is there anything else I should know about?” he asked.

“I took the liberty of moving your assigned guest quarters to a different bedchamber,” she said without looking up from whatever journal she was perusing now.

Given her cool feelings toward him, Benjamin could only assume this meant he had been sent to the mews to sleep with the horses. Whatever surprise she had in store for him, at least it would only be temporary.

He dipped his pen in ink. The wise course of action would be to focus on the aviary, not on Noelle.

He dashed off a summons along with an offer of increased wages to each of the names on the list. He would gladly pay double to be done with this farce.

According to Noelle’s notes, the aviary required little more than window washers and workers to trim the shrubs. His spirits lightened. The project would not require a fortnight after all. He could be gone in just a few days.

At the thought, his gaze immediately returned to Noelle. Beautiful brown eyes squinted behind thin spectacles. Plump pink lips pursed to one side as she concentrated on whatever she read. Her slender fingers tucked one of her many errant tendrils behind her ear. His pulse beat faster.

No other living person reminded him more of Christmases past. Seeing her before him was like inviting a specter into his heart, whisking him back through time to a different day, a different Christmastide, a different spark in the air.

Five years ago, he’d still believed his grandfather might grow to love him. He would never have dreamed that the old man would steal the locket, much less have to die before returning it to Benjamin.

Back then, his father had still been alive. Benjamin was not yet in the House of Lords, not yet spending every waking moment hunched over a desk or shouting at a podium before his peers.

Back then, Benjamin had been naïve enough to believe he could kiss a pretty girl and maybe it would turn to more. That love was something he could keep.

He had learned differently. Nothing good could stay. The only encounters he was meant to have were with those who wanted little from him except what they could have right now. A favor. A kiss. A moment of his attention. Not a lifetime of it.

The Christmas after he’d left Noelle, Father had died. It was the last Christmas Benjamin had acknowledged. He refused to celebrate it… or even admit it existed.

Until now. Until here. Until her.

Everything about Noelle reminded him of Cressmouth. Everything about Cressmouth was designed to remind and evoke Christmas. Everything about Christmas reminded him of death and loss.

Everyone he had ever cared about had been taken from him. Since childhood, he had lived in terror of losing someone he loved again, until he realized the simple solution. Don’t love.

Such an ideology might not bring happiness, but nor did it bring despair. In a world where nothing lasted, it was better not to try, not to be disappointed, not to get hurt. He had left her because he had feared being left.

The wise course of action would be to suffer through the next few days with as much distance and silence between him and his ghosts of Christmas past as possible. Especially the pretty one in the gold-rimmed spectacles. The more he interacted with Noelle, the harder it would be to go. No sense playing with fire. He should leave their brief connection in the past where it belonged.

But temptation was so hard to fight. She was right here, on the other side of the room. A short distance. An eternity this time. When he left Cressmouth, he would not see her again. This was his last chance to gaze upon her face, to hear her voice. To be this close.

He could not bear the silence. But what did they have to talk about, save the shared pain in their past? It would not do at all. He racked his brain for a new topic. A safer topic.

“Did Tiny Tim receive a bequest in the will?” he asked. He had no idea who Tim was, save that the man was rumored to be in want of a duchy.

Noelle stared at him for a long moment, her face devoid of expression. “No. Tiny Tim already embodies the spirit of Christmas. He wants for nothing.”

Benjamin could not imagine what that meant. As much as he wished to avoid any conversation that included Christmas, he was more curious about Tiny Tim than ever. Or perhaps it was Noelle who made him curious. The more time he spent with her, the more intriguing she became.

That way lay danger. He should focus on the task at hand, not Cressmouth’s townsfolk—and definitely not the woman seated across from him.

No matter how tempting he found her.

He forced himself to refocus on the aviary. “I don’t suppose you have a dossier of all bird purveyors in the region, as well as the ideal feed and habitat conditions of a captured partridge?”

She glanced up. “I can compile it by tomorrow.”

Benjamin blinked in surprise. He had been jesting. Noelle clearly was not. He leaned back in his chair. Grandfather might have appointed her to Benjamin’s side, but he had no intention of treating her like an employee.

“No need,” he assured her. “Partridges are plentiful and research is unnecessary. It’s just a bird.”

She lifted her shoulder. “I am a competent clerk. I don’t mind handling the partridge situation for you.”

“It’s not a situation,” he said. “I myself am quite competent. If I can help run Parliament, I can handle a partridge.”

“As you wish.” Her expression was skeptical at best, but she returned her attention to whatever she had been working on without further commentary.

Benjamin tried not to be offended by her obvious lack of confidence in him. He might be out of place in Cressmouth but he was far from helpless. Such a simple project would be completed in no time. He would check the castle cellar for champagne, and stock the aviary with precisely one bird. Easy enough. He did not need her help.

Yet he could not deny his admiration of her organizational skills. The documentation she had prepared on the local workforce had been incredibly thorough. He had no doubt she would be able to deliver just as exhaustive a report on the care and feeding of partridges, the ideal time and place to purchase fowl, and the best ways of encouraging nesting upon arrival. Whatever she thought of him, he did not wish for her to believe a duke might require such molly-coddling. In fact, this was a wonderful opportunity to prove himself.

Due to his estranged relationship with his grandfather, Benjamin had correctly assumed he would neither inherit the castle nor its coin.

Given his grandfather’s eccentricities, perhaps Benjamin should not have been surprised to discover the old man had left the castle in trust for the use of the entire town as a whole. It belonged to everyone and no one at once; the beating heart of a vibrant community.

Such a philanthropic plan might sound neat and tidy to someone who had never actually had to manage a population of any size. Benjamin, however, had spent years dealing with budgets and infrastructure and dissenting opinions. Nothing was easy.

No doubt, Grandfather had believed his mad decision to donate the castle to an entire town no more capricious than his decision to squander the Marlowe fortune on the creation of a Christmas village in the first place.

Although Benjamin was unaffected personally by such whimsy—his title and wealth came from his father’s side of the family—he could not walk away without assuring himself that Cressmouth wouldn’t fall apart before the solicitor could make sense of the accounts.

Benjamin let out a resigned breath. He dealt with books and numbers and policies on a daily basis. The least he could do was look over the journals of record to ensure the castle’s affairs were in as much order as possible.

“Where are Fuzzy Wig’s notes?” he asked. “While I’m waiting on the aviary renovations, I might as well take a look at the accounts.”

Noelle tensed as if the offer had caused offense. Nonetheless, she directed him toward low shelves at the rear of the room. The bookcase was packed with bound volumes with a year engraved on each spine. He frowned. For a short period of time around five to ten years ago, there were two journals for each year.

Curious, he collected the volumes spanning the past dozen years and carried them to his desk.

As Benjamin flipped through the books, Mr. Fawkes’s hand slowly and inexorably devolved from clean and precise to an unintelligible scrawl. Numbers were no longer summed, but scribbled. Annotations as to what items were even being referenced began to appear as afterthoughts at best.

Unease churned in his stomach. This wasn’t something he could resolve in an afternoon. Organizing this level of chaos, checking the facts, filling the gaps… It would take months to put to rights.

Months Benjamin did not have.

Heart heavy, he reached for the next journal. This one was the first duplicate. He let out a deep breath before lifting the cover.

This was a different hand. Bold. Confident. Unerring. He recognized it at once. Its architect was the same woman who had just handed him a fully researched report containing every detail even peripherally related to his grandfather’s aviary. His esteem rose even higher.

Noelle had done more than fill in the blanks. She had checked and cross-referenced, trimmed duplicates and computed tallies. This wasn’t merely a correction to Mr. Fawkes’s missteps. It was a masterwork. Its information and presentation more precise and illuminating than any previous volume.

Quickly, Benjamin flipped through the remaining journals. He was not surprised to discover more of the same. Mr. Fawkes’s contributions, increasingly incomprehensible. Noelle’s, stunningly thorough. He was in awe of the quality. Parliament had voted acts into law that weren’t half as elegant and detailed as this.

The year the duplicate journals ceased must have been the year she fully replaced her mentor. Benjamin was astonished Mr. Fawkes had managed to mentor her at all with the books in such disarray. Noelle must have taught herself everything she needed to know by performing the painstaking research required to remake Mr. Fawkes’s journals into something useful. Good God, she was clever.

Noelle hadn’t become Grandfather’s “clerk.” She had become his savior, and Mr. Fawkes’s as well. The counting house—and every account the castle was responsible for collecting or paying—would be in complete disarray without Noelle’s timely rescue. Benjamin could not help being impressed at how smart and capable she was.

No wonder she’d had every detail about the aviary at her fingertips. It wouldn’t exist without her. None of Grandfather’s projects would.

Had her patrons even realized what a treasure they had? If Grandfather truly cared about his aviary, he would’ve put Noelle in charge. She would have had it stuffed with partridges in a trice. Two of every bird in England, no doubt.

He frowned. Why had Grandfather assigned the task to Benjamin, of all people? He knew the least about Cressmouth of anyone named in the will. Grandfather had to have realized Benjamin wasn’t invested in the outcome. He wouldn’t be bothering with the partridge and the champagne at all if the fate of his mother’s locket didn’t hang in the balance.

“You’re scowling,” Noelle said suddenly. “Do the journals not meet your approval?”

Before he could reply, the door swung open and a woman in a light blue gown and a colorful scarf rushed in.

Splendid. His muscles tensed. Instead of a duke alone in a room with one female, now there were two. He gave the new arrival a closer look. Nearing thirty years of age, at least this one did not appear to be a debutante. Perhaps Noelle had summoned a chaperone after all.

“I love it.” The woman rushed forward to envelop Noelle in a quick embrace before pointing both index fingers at her throat. “It’s perfect.”

The scarf, Benjamin realized. Noelle must have gifted her friend a scarf.

“Your Grace, I present Miss Penelope Mitchell.” Noelle’s laughing eyes were not on him, but her friend. “Penelope, this is His Grace, the Duke of Silkridge.”

“Mr. Marlowe’s grandson,” she breathed, as if that were Benjamin’s greatest accomplishment. “How do you do? Isn’t this the cleverest scarf you ever saw?”

“It’s a thoughtful gift,” he teased, “but I don’t know about ‘clever.’ There isn’t a colder corner of England.”

Miss Mitchell laughed. “Or a more stylish one. I have dozens of scarves. This is the first one that has been personally knitted for me by Miss Pratchett.”

His gaze flew to Noelle. Her organizational skills had not only conquered accounting journals, but also colored yarn. She was not just intelligent, but talented as well. Full of hidden layers.

Deuce it all, Benjamin had not needed another reason to hold her in high esteem. He had found her unforgettable the last time. Fate was cruel indeed to make her all the more fascinating.

“Of course you would think Cressmouth cold,” Noelle told him. “You weren’t even wearing your scarf when you arrived.”

“I didn’t bring one,” he admitted. He had not planned on staying long enough for sartorial choices to matter. One night, no complications. And now…

“Miss Pratchett could lend you one,” Miss Mitchell suggested. “She has an entire armoire full of scarves she knitted herself.”

Noelle’s cheeks flushed pink.

“That won’t be necessary,” Benjamin said quickly to extricate her from obligation. The next time he braved the horrid weather, it would be to climb in his carriage and go home.

Noelle sat on the edge of her desk and faced her friend. “You did not come all the way up here to show me a scarf I knitted myself. Out with it.”

“It’s a new perfume,” Miss Mitchell admitted. She removed a small glass vial from a leather satchel.

Noelle brought the vial to her nose and lifted the stopper. “It smells… pretty?”

“It’s supposed to this time. I’m looking for testers.” From her satchel, she pulled the smallest accordion bellows Benjamin had ever seen. “Individual drops are too inefficient a delivery method. I’m developing a new dispersal system.”

“Silkridge volunteers,” Noelle said without hesitation.

With a practiced motion, Miss Mitchell squeezed the bellows shut. An immediate cloud of perfume shot from the opening and enveloped Benjamin in a fog of vanilla and lilac.

He coughed into his fist and waved a white handkerchief in the air to dispel the fragrant mist surrounding him. If his gesture of surrender also dispelled the diabolical women giggling to themselves, so much the better.

Noelle stroked her chin. “I believe it’s too…”

“Powerful?” Miss Mitchell guessed.

“Feminine,” Noelle corrected with a laugh.

“Perfect. This version is for women. The scent is meant to arouse the passions of gentlemen.” Miss Mitchell lowered her voice. “I hope the duke isn’t attracted to himself all day.”

“I’m sure he’s used to that,” Noelle promised dryly.

Benjamin glared at them both. “You’re going to need a smaller bellows.”

“She’s a scientist, not an engineer,” Noelle said. “Her perfumes sell to apothecaries by the drum.”

“Although I had hoped…” Miss Mitchell gave her pocket-sized bellows a frown. “Ah, well. I suppose clients can continue applying perfume drop by drop if that’s what the public wishes.”

“It’s a lovely scent,” Noelle said firmly. “No matter how one applies it. Where are you off to now?”

“Back to the laboratory.” Miss Mitchell returned her items to the leather satchel. “All that’s left is proof of efficacy. A few more trials should do it.”

“Be sure to come out of your workshop by tomorrow night,” Noelle said. “You won’t wish to miss The Winter’s Tale.”

Miss Mitchell brightened. “I would never.”

“The Winter’s Tale, the Shakespeare play?” Benjamin asked.

Noelle’s eyes shone. “Fuzzy Wig adores Shakespeare. He started the tradition.”

Of this, Benjamin had no doubt. “I didn’t realize Cressmouth had a theater.”

“No theater,” Miss Mitchell explained. “At least, not the enclosed variety. We’ve an amphitheater on the other side of town that we use for plays.”

“Are you mad?” He stared at the women in disbelief. “You sit outside for three hours in this weather? On purpose?”

Noelle’s eyes laughed at him. “I told you. It’s a Christmas tradition.”

“It’s January,” he reminded them.

“Not the holiday of Christmas,” Miss Mitchell explained helpfully. “The town of Christmas.”

“For the last time, it’s not—” Benjamin gave up.

“Will you be attending?” Miss Mitchell asked him.

Benjamin gave a theatrical shudder. “Absolutely not. I want nothing to do with Christmas.”

Miss Mitchell frowned. “The town or the holiday?”

Benjamin heroically refrained from pointing out that the constant confusion would end if they left the village’s original name alone.

“Both,” Noelle said. “He’ll leave it all behind as soon as he’s able.”

“When he does, there will be one less duke in Christmas,” Miss Mitchell said with a sigh.

Benjamin stared at her. “Not you, too.”

Noelle raised her brows. “Not her, what?”

He was starting to believe the entire town had conspired to drive him mad. “At the reading of the will, some woman claimed there were twelve dukes in Cressmouth.”

Noelle exchanged glances with Miss Mitchell.

“The mathematics appear sound,” her friend confirmed.

“Low, if anything.” Noelle tilted her head to one side and pursed her lips as if counting mentally.

“There are not twelve dukes in Cressmouth,” Benjamin burst out in annoyance.

“How would you know?” Noelle asked reasonably. “Can you even name twelve people in Cressmouth?”

He folded his arms over his chest. “I challenge you to name all twelve dukes, then.”

“Well, there’s you,” Miss Mitchell began. “Obviously.”

“And the Duke of Azureford,” Noelle continued. “And Olive Harper’s famous stallion.”

“You’re right,” Miss Mitchell said. “Everyone says he’s an excellent stud horse.”

“‘Duke’ the stud horse?” Benjamin said in disbelief. “That’s one of your dukes?”

Noelle raised her brows. “You’ve heard of him?”

“Everyone’s heard of him,” Benjamin said, exasperated. “But he’s a stallion. The literal kind. You can’t count a horse as a duke.”

“Why not?” Noelle asked innocently. “I’ve certainly met dukes who are absolute beasts.”

He bit back a choked laugh. The insult was not even thinly veiled.

“Thank you again, Noelle. I’m off to work on the formula.” Miss Mitchell paused at the door before disappearing into the stairwell. “Don’t worry, Your Grace. I’ll select a more appropriate test subject in the future.”

Surely she didn’t mean that to sound so ominous.

“She’s a lady perfumer?” he asked Noelle after Miss Mitchell had gone.

“She’s a chemist,” Noelle answered. “Who sometimes makes perfumes.”

He decided against further questions. The answers were unlikely to illuminate the matter. He needed to focus on returning to Parliament as quickly as possible.

Benjamin fought a twinge of guilt at being away even this long. He had dedicated himself to prioritizing duty above all else, including his personal happiness. To making himself useful. To proving his life worthwhile.

If he were truly a noble man, his responsibilities to England would take priority over his mother’s locket. Above family. Above sharing a madcap morning in a counting house with Noelle.

It was just this one indulgence, he reminded himself. Once the heirloom was back in his possession he would return to the House of Lords, where he was most useful. Being alone with Noelle was a temptation he could ill afford.

He stood up. But before he could leave, a new shadow fell into the counting house.

Mr. Fawkes stood in the doorway, a jovial smile on his ruddy cheeks and the ubiquitous worsted cap clamped over his frizzy white curls.

“I knew I would find you here, son.” Mr. Fawkes beamed at Benjamin with a paternal warmth Grandfather had never shown. “I have come to help.”

Benjamin loved Fuzzy Wig like a father. He wished the old man could help. He had admired him for so long that seeing the slow deterioration in his journals felt like a vise around his heart.

He gestured to the freshly drafted summons for the aviary workers, who at these prices would have the last details completed by the morrow. “The aviary is sorted for now, but I thank you for the offer. You are most generous.”

Mr. Fawkes’s jolly face crumbled in obvious disappointment. “I’m no use at all?”

Benjamin’s heart twisted. “There is the matter of a partridge…”

“I know a partridge expert,” Noelle said quickly.

He doubted this. Who on earth knew a partridge expert? Noelle had been right to redo Mr. Fawkes’s books, but a man needed to feel helpful. Order a bird was an easy task that would ease the old clerk’s mind by proving his aid undeniably useful.

Thus decided, Benjamin smiled at Mr. Fawkes. “I put you in charge of ordering the partridge.”

Mr. Fawkes gave a sharp nod. “I’m not surprised. Your grandfather appreciated a bowl of hot porridge on a cold day, too.”

Benjamin cleared his throat. “Not porridge. Partridge.”

Noelle gestured toward the ear trumpet in Mr. Fawkes’s hand. The older man immediately placed it to his ear.

Benjamin shouted into the opening. “We need a partridge for the aviary.”

The old clerk’s frown cleared in understanding. “A partridge for the aviary.”

Benjamin’s tight shoulders sagged in relief. This would work after all. “Yes. A partridge for the aviary. As soon as possible.”

Mr. Fawkes straightened his spine with renewed confidence. “You shall have it tomorrow, Your Grace.”

He gave a merry click of his heels and marched off.

Benjamin ought to take this opportunity to do the same.

“That’s taken care of,” he told Noelle gruffly. “I believe I’ll retire for the day. Good night.”

She nodded without looking up. No doubt she was the one person in Cressmouth who wished him gone as urgently as Benjamin himself.

He carried the stack of summons downstairs to be dispatched at once, and instructed the footmen not only to wait for a reply, but to promise an even greater increase in salary if the answer was anything but yes.

With the restoration of the aviary sorted, Benjamin headed back upstairs toward his guest chamber. At the landing, he belatedly realized he had no idea where he had been transferred. Noelle had mentioned she had taken the liberty of moving him. Had it been a jest?

He caught sight of a passing maid and inquired if he had indeed been assigned to a new room.

“That you have, Your Grace.” She gestured down a familiar corridor. “Last door on your left.”

His breath caught. Not a guest chamber. His old room. The private quarters that had once belonged to Benjamin himself.

He thanked the maid and made his way quickly down the corridor.

When he pushed open the door, he was not greeted by cobwebs or a stuffy chill, but a bright fire and a silver tray piled with his favorite cakes. He breathed in the warm, familiar scents.

Noelle had done this, he realized. She had brought back a slice of his past and gifted it to him in the present. His heart thumped. She was more than a clerk or personal advisor. This move had given her away.

Whether she wished to admit it or not, a small part of her still cared.