The Christmas Carriage by Grace Burrowes Page A

around his hands. “London is a very large city, but I suppose you might find her papa through his clubs or business endeavors?”
    Somebody opened the church door, and the children were taken inside. Churches were not warm, but they were safe.
    “Henderson Winklebleck is old school. He does not dirty his hands in trade, and having no club affiliations of my own, I would not know how to find him among the wealthy fellows on St. James.”
    Though he’d tried. He’d tried asking the pastor, who claimed to have no specific forwarding address for the Winkleblecks beyond “Mayfair,” so he’d tried walking the streets of Mayfair by the hour on his rare days off. He’d tried drinking hard, and he’d tried praying harder.
    “My missus and I had to overcome some difficulties,” Westhaven said. “I had to propose to her at least six times. My brothers put the total higher. Then too, papas are not the most sanguine people when faced with the possibility of losing their dearest treasures. You’re a good looking fellow in a dark, braw sort of way. Perhaps you’d best affix your affections elsewhere?”
    “You’re suggesting I try giving up.” The coach came to a lurching halt, traffic being predictably snarled as they approached Picadilly. “I have tried to give up. Told myself a fellow ought not to have designs above his station, told myself Lizzie would be happier with a fellow from her own set. I’ve told myself she hasn’t tried to contact me, though I’m not sure how she could, and I’ve told myself…”
    He trailed off, because some of the things he’d told himself were not fit for the ears of a proper gentleman of short acquaintance.
    “You’ve told yourself it’s hopeless,” Westhaven concluded. “And is this approach yielding good results?”
    Frederick gave a short, humorless laugh. “Of course not. I love my Lizzie, and love doesn’t give up just because one’s beloved has disappeared from the face of the earth. Love never gives up.”
    The coach moved forward at a crawl. Westhaven patted Frederick’s knee, the gesture avuncular rather than condescending.
    “The season of miracles is upon us, and you have the right of it: Love is dogged and dauntless. Now, my missus appropriated the town coach today, and said she would not be home until tea time at the earliest. What do you suppose she’s getting up to in this weather?”
    ***
    “Ma’am, it’s snowing again.”
    The shop girl sounded thrilled with this development, while Lizzie felt only dismay. “We don’t need more snow.” New snow reminded her of Frederick, whom she’d met on a snowy day. She’d slipped on an icy patch and fallen headlong into strong arms and the handsomest blue eyes ever to laugh a clumsy girl back to her feet.
    “Snow always makes me happy,” the girl said. “I love a white Christmas.” The sentiment was remarkable, given that miserable weather could only make the girl’s existence more difficult.
    “I enjoy a fresh snowfall, too,” said another patron. The lady looked up from a bolt of red velvet and sent Lizzie a smile. “My children enjoy it, the boys especially. The girls show every sign of following in their brothers’ footsteps. Does this velvet seem a cheerful color to you?”
    The lady was pretty at first sight, and more than pretty on closer study. Her skin was flawless, her dark hair shiny, and her smile revealed perfect teeth. This was Quality, not merely wealthy gentry, like Lizzie’s family.
    “It’s quite bright,” Lizzie said. “Reds are tricky. They can look rich, or they can appear garish, depending on light, the wearer’s complexion, and even the way the fabric is cut.” Had her own grandmother not been a mercer’s offspring, Lizzie would not have been as confident in her opinions.
    The lady ran her hand over the lovely material. “As a holiday dress for me, do you think it would do? My husband’s family has an open house each year on Christmas Eve, and one wants to look