Page 3 of Her Christmas White Knight

Myall paused to catch his breath. The few citizens of London still on the streets at dusk stared at him suspiciously to see what he’d stolen—and then behind him, to see who he was running from. No one was carrying his goose or looking any more furtive than usual. There was no sign of any disturbance, nor any goose-like noises to be heard.

By the flickering light of a sconce, a peddler was busy piling his ribbons, knotted biscuits, marchpane shapes, and cobnuts back into his tray, but he paused when he saw Myall.

“Has a stray goose come this way?” Myall asked, pointing up the street ahead.

“Sugared rose petals, Sir? A pot of marmalade, made only with the best quinces, from Portugal? How about a needle case for your wife, or a teething ring for your babe?”

Of course. No one hereabouts parted with information if it wasn’t to their benefit. “I’ll have a knotted biscuit if you please.” He fished a coin from his hanging pocket.

The fellow bit it and hunted for change. Myall waved a hand at him. “Nay, nay, keep it. ’Tis the season of goodwill, after all.”

The man brightened. “Why, thank you, and God bless you, Sir. Nay, no goose, I’m afraid. If it had come this way, I’d have seen it, for sure. But if you lost it around here, it’s probably already gone into someone’s pot. If you mean to go any farther in search of it, best keep one hand on your pocket, and the other on the hilt of your sword. Folk about here are apt to take advantage once darkness falls. The Watch can’t be everywhere at once.”

Crestfallen, Myall thanked him and turned back, absentmindedly chewing on his knotted biscuit. Gazing about him at the buildings, he could see the peddler was right—this area was one in which it was unwise to be alone, or unprotected, after dark. The upper floors of the timber-framed buildings jettied out so much that they almost met overhead, and the dark shadows between them vibrated with danger. One would need to be tough in both body and spirit to survive in such a place.

He was thankful he hadn’t fallen this low after the terrible row with his father. An excellent reader with good penmanship, Myall had managed to find employment, although the change to his way of life had been soul-destroying. He’d only done what had seemed right to him at the time, but the consequences of his heroic act had been disastrous. He’d been cast adrift for saving a life. An unjust fate, by anyone’s standards.

He shook his head. There was no point in fretting about the past—he couldn’t change it, nor could he change his father’s mind. Since the man spent most of his days in a drunken rage, he couldn’t be persuaded to listen to reason. It was little wonder Myall’s sister, Helena, had left home at the same time as him. No one wanted to share a house with a father who was always in his cups.

It had been desperately hard at first, trying to exist without Father’s financial support. But Myall had been fortunate enough to be taken on as a lawyer’s clerk, and Helena seemed content to cook and keep house for him. He knew, however, that she couldn’t wait until the day she had a household of her own to run.

A pox on that goose! The creature had bitten through its leash when he wasn’t looking, and had disappeared into London’s maze of streets. It had cost him an entire month’s salary. Factor in the money he’d spent on Helena’s new gown, and there was barely enough left for a minced tart to share at Christmas.

He took another bite of his knotted biscuit. It was as hard as nails, but he understood the peddler needed the money, so he would make no complaint. What must it be like to be a street vendor in London, out in all weathers, virtually begging for trade? He had to make sure that never happened to either himself or Helena. That’s why impressing her suitor, Sir Aidan Blake, was so essential. That was why he’d bought the new gown, and why he’d purchased the goose, so the Christmas dinner he meant to provide in their humble abode would secure the interest of Sir Aidan. Add to that Helena’s culinary skills, and the man would be sure to take her, with or without a dowry. Although Myall hadn’t entirely given up hope of their father loosening the purse strings once Helena was betrothed.

A distinctive sound brought him to a sudden halt. Was that a hiss?

Myall had just drawn level with the yard where he’d seen the beggar woman earlier. Surely, the noise had come from the building to which the yard belonged. There was no glass in any of the windows, only waxed cloth—or nothing at all. His goose must be in one of the rooms.

Marching into the house, he pounded on the nearest door. There was the sound of a scuffle within, another hiss—rapidly cut off—then the sound of furniture scraping across an earthen floor.

What? He was being barricaded out? Proof of guilt, if any was required. Whoever was in that room had the bird and knew damned well they must give it back or face the wrath of the law. Helena’s dreams of marriage, children, security, and wealth would be crushed if he couldn’t foster a good match with Sir Aidan. He must have that goose at all costs.

He knocked again, but all was quiet. A loutish-looking fellow with a filthy apron and unlaced doublet sauntered past in the passageway, giving Myall a gap-toothed grin.

“Good evening to you, Sir. Don’t waste your time with that one. Her legs are clamped as tight together as a dog’s jaws around a bone. I can find you better sport if you like.”

Myall scowled and shook his head. How dare anyone suggest he was looking for a whore? The man shrugged his shoulders and continued on his way.

There had only ever been one woman for Myall Farrar. It was a long time ago now, but the pain was still keen—he’d ruined things by being too bold with her. That was what drink did to a young man. That was why he now detested it so much, and why it had cut like a knife each time his father broached another case of Malmsey wine and drank himself into a stupor.

Glancing around to ensure no one was watching, Myall applied his shoulder to the door and heaved with all his strength. It gave easily, and he cannoned into the room, just in time to see a small truckle bed speed across the floor and strike the wall opposite.

Thankfully, the female occupant of the room had not been standing in the way. She was too busy sitting on the other bed, wrestling with a heaving sack.

His goose. The guilt on her face said it all.

Her face.Myall suddenly felt sick, as if his stomach was being squeezed in a giant fist. He knew that face.

“Julia?” His voice sounded all wrong, as if it came from someone else’s throat.

The woman glared at him, angry rather than surprised. Had she recognized him earlier, then? Why had she not spoken? Then he remembered what he looked like—and knew the reason.

“What of it? What do you mean by crashing into my room in so ungentlemanly a fashion?”

It really was her, Mistress Julia Wentworth. His jaw dropped. She still had the same high cheekbones, the same kissable bow-shaped mouth, and enticing blue eyes. He remembered the beauty spot on one cheek, a tiny flaw that added fascination to an otherwise perfect face. A face he’d kissed on that one magical night, a face he still saw in his dreams.

“Julia Wentworth, by my soul.”