The Wallflower's Mistletoe Wedding. Amanda McCabe

doing your art, then?’ Harry asked. Charles had always been a masterful artist, one who could be a professional in Harry’s uneducated opinion, though their father had scoffed at it all.

      Charles frowned. ‘No, not really. Too busy with other matters.’

      Harry nodded, but he said nothing. He didn’t really want to know what those ‘other matters’ were.

      Charles poured them each another measure. ‘What did Wall say?’

      Harry took a deep drink of the brandy. It was the last of their father’s stock and not bad at all as it burned down his throat. ‘About what you would expect he would say. Mother’s money was spent long ago and there are debts on the estate.’

      Charles sighed. ‘I think there is only one solution, then, my dear brother.’

      Harry laughed. ‘Sell Hilltop and go back in the army? They don’t want a one-eyed captain. Maybe you could get a job in the City?’

      Charles shuddered. ‘Lud, no. How appalling. I could never have a job, and I certainly don’t want my brother nearly killed again.’

      ‘I’m glad you care.’ Harry thought of how it was when they were children, running together through the fields, jumping into the pond. And how far apart they were now.

      ‘’Course I do. You’re the only brother I have. And I don’t think we can sell Hilltop.’

      ‘Indeed not. Even if it weren’t entailed in the St George family, no one would want it.’

      ‘Exactly. Ghastly old pile.’

      ‘Then what is your solution?’

      ‘Very simple. You must marry an heiress,’ Charles said.

      Harry laughed even harder. ‘You always did have a fine way with a joke, Charlie.’

      Charles scowled. ‘I am absolutely serious. A lady, one with style and a fine dowry, would fix things in a trice.’

      Harry shook his head. Even before he was wounded, his wooing skills had not been the greatest. To think of trying to win a fair, rich lady now—he laughed again. ‘Who would you suggest, then? Has a blind heiress come on to the market, perhaps? One who could tolerate a scarred old soldier?’

      ‘You’ve always been far more handsome than you would admit, Harry. And now you’re a wounded warrior. Ladies love that.’ Charles paused to stare down into his glass. ‘Helen Layton is recently widowed, you know. They say her husband left her well set-up indeed.’

      Harry’s smile faded and he swallowed the last of his drink. ‘You know that was over long ago. I think you are the one who will have to find an heiress, Charlie. You always enjoyed society much more than me, anyway. You could take up painting again. Or you could go back to the Continent to look among the spas and casinos.’

      ‘I doubt we would have to go so far. This came while you were out.’ Charles slapped a letter down on the desk.

      Harry gave it a suspicious glance. ‘What is it? Another dunning letter?’

      ‘Of course not. It’s an invitation to a Christmas house party at Barton Park. Jane says there will be several ladies there, old friends and new.’

      ‘Ah,’ Harry muttered, pushing aside his glass. Games and sleigh rides and plum pudding. ‘So that’s what she meant.’

      ‘She?’

      ‘I saw Emma Marton in the village, she said something about Barton for the holiday. Thought it might be a good distraction.’ And it might, he thought through the slight haze of the brandy as he studied the crumbling plaster of the ceiling. Anything would be better than looking at this room any longer.

      ‘Well, I suppose somehow, some way, we have to try and save Hilltop,’ Charles said. ‘I know I’ve always been a useless wastrel, but...’

      ‘No,’ Harry said decisively. ‘I am the eldest and this is indeed our family’s home. We do have to save it and everyone who depends on it along with it. I will find a way.’ No matter what.

       Chapter Three

      We are having a true, merry, family sort of holiday here at Barton Park, where we hope to see all our old friends.

      We have not seen you seen you since Lord Fitzwalter attended Lord Fallon’s funeral and we hope that your mourning will not deprive us of your company.

      Her mourning. Helen, Dowager Lady Fallon, laughed as she dropped Jane Ramsay’s letter at the side of the bathtub. She sank deeper into the rose-scented water and stared up at the painted tile ceiling of her bathing room in her London town house. Everyone had thought it so extravagant when she’d had it built on to her dressing room, with its marble walls and painted fireplace. But it was her favourite place, a small, cosy space where no one would bother her.

      She had once thought being Lady Fallon would be a grand thing indeed, a life of ease and grandeur, full of pretty gowns and parties and fun. So different from her own family, their façade of liveliness and prosperity that hid a distinct lack of funds. She had given up Harry St George, so handsome and gallant, to marry a man thirty years older in order to get that life. But being Lady Fallon had not been what she’d expected.

      It hadn’t been worth it.

      Helen sat up in the tub, the water frothing around her, and caught a glimpse of herself in her gilt-framed mirror. Her golden hair, curling with the damp air, her pink and white skin, it was all still youthful and beautiful. And she did have old Lord Fallon’s money now, too. Surely it was not too late for her?

      She reached for the letter again. Old friends. Did that mean Harry St George would be there? She had heard he had returned to England, more heroic than ever. What could she not do in society, with her new money and a war hero at her side?

      Maybe a Christmas in the country was just what she needed.

      * * *

      Charles St George swirled the brandy in his glass and stared out into the darkness of the night. Winter clouds had lowered, extinguishing the stars and moonlight, but that was good. In the darkness, the shambles of the garden at Hilltop, the garden their mother had once so loved, that he had painted so many times, could not be seen. It was just a blank, like everything else.