“You always were more trusting than me. Better keep your eye on him.” Claxton winked at Sophia. “Every Christmas he causes all sorts of mayhem. I remember one year he hid all the spoons in the tea jar, and until we found them, we had to eat our custard with forks.”
Mrs. Kettle snorted and clasped a hand over her mouth. “Yes! Yes! I remember! The custard had not set, and we all had such a time getting it to our mouths.”
Beneath his blanket, Mr. Kettle nodded and smiled.
Claxton returned the doll to his perch. “Another time, the sneaky wastrel poked holes all over a sack of sugar that had been left on the kitchen table, creating quite the mess. Haden and I caught him red-handed too, with a skewer clutched in his little hand.”
“What a wicked fellow.” Sophia laughed.
At that moment, three small faces appeared at the window, bright cheeked and topped by winter caps. The muffled voices of children carried through.
“…Y’see? I told you. That be the duke, ’imself!”
“Robert won’t believe us when we tell ’im.”
“Go get ’im then!”
“You go get ’im. I’m stayin’ ’ere.”
Claxton gave a quiet laugh and a flush rose up from his neck, going as high as his cheeks. Sophia watched, transfixed by his discomfort at being so admired by three little boys.
Mrs. Kettle sprang from her chair, an index finger held in the air. “Forgive me. I just remembered something.”
She disappeared into the kitchen and a moment later returned with two small china dishes, the first of which she pressed into Claxton’s hand and the second into Sophia’s.
Claxton peered down into the dish. A smile curved his lips. If possible, the blue of his eyes became bluer. “I can’t believe you remembered.”
Mrs. Kettle’s face lit up like a candle.
“Sophia, Mrs. Kettle makes the most delicious sugarplums.” Claxton’s gaze found her. Sophia caught her breath at the quiet emotion she observed there. “They were always my favorite at Christmas.”
Mrs. Kettle, with a glance at Sophia, explained, “I use more apricot, less prune—” She counted out each alteration to the traditional recipe on her fingers. “And I always leave out the caraway seeds.” She reached out to pat Claxton on the arm. “His Grace never did care for caraway.”
Claxton chewed thoughtfully.
“Just as I remember them,” he pronounced, smiling. “Only better because they are real and not just a fantasy. I used to dream of these, you know, every Christmas Day.”
“Delicious,” Sophia agreed, her mouth filled with pleasurable spice and sweetness.
Mr. Kettle leaned forward in his chair. “You know, she made them every year to have on hand, on the chance you might return—”
“Oh, hush, Mr. Kettle.” With a hiccup, the elderly woman pressed a handkerchief to her eyes.
“Did you?” Claxton asked quietly, obviously moved. A flush rose into his cheeks and he smiled a very different sort of smile than she’d ever seen on his lips—one of boyish, unrestrained joy. “Thank you, Mrs. Kettle.”
Sophia dabbed her eyes as well. It felt good to see Claxton happy. Things had been such an ugly mess these past few days. How heartening to enjoy a moment of such cheer.
When Mrs. Kettle calmed, she tucked the handkerchief in her bodice. “I would offer buttered muffins as well, but I see you have brought something wonderful from Mr. Woodall’s shop for us to share.”
She lifted the box from the little table beside her and, opening the lid, peered inside.
Vane explained the discovery of the envelope.
“Where did you find the envelope, you say?” said Mrs. Kettle, smiling faintly.
“Affixed to the back of Lord Claxton’s portrait,” said Sophia. “The one over the mantel.”
Beneath the lace frill of her cap, Mrs. Kettle inhaled sharply, her eyes awash with another surge of tears.
“Yes, actually.” She took another deep breath. “I do recall something about that.” She waved a wrinkled hand in the air. “Have you the quest with you, written out by her ladyship?”
“Indeed.” Claxton produced the envelope from his coat pocket and handed it over.
Staring down into her lap, Mrs. Kettle drew her fingertip along the upper edge of the envelope and smiled. “We all used to have such fun, didn’t we?”
Sophia caught Claxton’s sudden downward glance and drawn mouth. Compassion flooded her. Mrs. Kettle’s tender words clearly caused him pain. Once, he had been just a boy, and in that moment she glimpsed the magnitude of the hurt he must have felt at being torn away from such loving circumstances. The memory of that difficult time had never receded. Yet at the same time she cautioned herself against feeling too deeply and allowing her softer emotions to be confused for something else.
Unfolding the paper, Mrs. Kettle read the contents, nodding slightly and lips twitching into a broader grin. Setting this and the envelope on top of the baker’s box, she stood and lifted a black-and-gold tin from the mantel. Fingering through its contents, she produced an envelope identical to the first.
“I am indeed in possession of the next quest.”
Claxton uttered a low exclamation and leaned forward in his chair. Sophia laughed and clapped her gloved hands, thrilled that the diversion would continue.
Mrs. Kettle’s sparkling gaze narrowed with sudden discernment. “However, these are not plum cakes; they are queen cakes.”
“Queen cakes and plum cakes are almost the same,” Claxton argued softly, brows gathered in protest.
The housekeeper snorted mirthfully. “Not at all ‘almost the same.’ Nor were these prepared by your own hand as the quest specifies.”
Claxton eased back in his chair, throwing Sophia an amused glance. “With the weather being so terrible…”
Sophia lifted her teacup for a sip. “We’ve none of the necessary supplies.”
“Poor excuses.” Mrs. Kettle
Claxton stood. Three pairs of eyes at the window widened beneath winter caps. “We had best be on our way if we are to complete this task before nightfall.” To Sophia, he inquired in a deliberate tone, “Unless you would like to forget the matter altogether.”
Sophia’s eyes widened with offense. “No, I don’t wish to forget the matter altogether. I am consumed with curiosity over the contents of the next quest. We must find them all before the frost recedes and we are obligated to return to London for Christmas.”
Mrs. Kettle asked, “Will you work together or compete against one another?”
Sophia looked at Claxton, nodding. “We will compete.”
“The lady’s choice,” said Claxton with a sigh, spreading his upturned hands in surrender.
Mrs. Kettle winked at Claxton. “Very well. I look forward to your presentations, at which time I shall judge which are the best, showing no favoritism to either one of you.”
Mr. Kettle dried his feet and found his boots. “I have sat too long in this chair. Sir, if you would allow me to accompany you to the livery, I’ve a bit of business to attend to with the hostler.”
“Your Grace,” Mrs. Kettle called. Following them to the door, she produced three brightly colored penny trumpets from her apron.
She pressed them into his hand. “For the three rascals out there. Can you imagine being their age and receiving a trifle from the Duke of Claxton? Give them a memory they’ll never forget.”
Claxton peered down at the tiny woman. “Thank you for thinking of it.”
Moments later, a cacophony of cheers and honks could be heard from outside. Sophia and Mrs. Kettle watched from the window as the boys followed Claxton and Mr. Kettle down the lane.
