A Kiss for Hope

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

“Who in blazes are you, and where is Chumley?” Joshua Penrose kept his teeth from chattering as he posed his questions, but only just.

He pushed past the unfriendly female who’d opened the door to his dwelling and stomped into the dimly lit foyer.

The house was cold—what English dwelling wasn’t cold in December?

—and faintly scented with balsam. Somebody had no doubt hung greenery where it ought not to be, a problem to be dealt with after Joshua’s feet, face, and fingers thawed.

Assuming they ever did.

“I am Mrs. Hope Burdette, and I will thank you to take yourself out of my house this instant.”

Mrs. Burdette was tallish for a woman and youngish for a housekeeper. She was clad in faded blue velvet skirts and two shawls, one black, one the same blue as the skirts. Both were ratty at the edges.

Fingerless black gloves completed this fetching ensemble, along with auburn hair scraped back into a bun. The scowl was imposing, or would have been were Joshua not exhausted past all bearing.

He closed the door and tossed off a bow.

“Joshua Penrose.” At your service would have been ridiculous.

“I own the place. If you’re the housekeeper, you work for me.

I need a fire, if you please. Also a plate of victuals—sandwiches will do—and something hot to drink.

Tea is acceptable—strong China black—but a toddy or chocolate would be welcome too.

I trust there’s a fire to be had somewhere? ”

“What did you say your name is?”

Spare me from servants imbibing the holiday punch.

“Joshua Penrose. I am your employer, though I’ve been on extended travel in the New World.

We haven’t met.” He’d remember that chin, which hinted of determination and an opinionated aristocrat or two somewhere higher up on the family tree.

Swooping brows went with an unapologetic nose and a well-defined jaw.

Cobwebs, dust, and lackadaisical underlings would stand no chance with this lady.

Mrs. Burdette was far from pretty, but she was attractive. She had substance and presence, and—Joshua would bet his share of the bank on this—an impressive temper.

“Mr. Penrose—if that is your name—I know not what scheme you are trying to hatch, but my husband purchased this house two and a half years ago. He paid dearly for it, and if you think to swindle me out of my home by dark of night and in the dead of winter, you have taken leave of your senses.”

Feeling was flooding back into Joshua’s extremities. An infernal itching joined exhaustion, hunger, and the crushing sadness he’d not managed to heave overboard during three weeks at sea.

“Any scheme, madam, must be yours. I have not sold this dwelling, nor have I authorized its sale. If you will produce your husband, I will happily acquaint him with the pertinent facts.”

Joshua could see his breath in the shadowy foyer, and it absolutely was his foyer. He had not stumbled into the wrong house. The portrait over the sideboard was of his grandpapa, who’d had the house built as London’s push away from the old walled City had gained momentum in the previous century.

The carpet was a fading Axminster woven to order for Joshua’s grandmama. The corridor beyond would boast seascapes, landscapes, and a few exquisite botanical sketches, while the library doubled as a personal art gallery.

And, please heaven, might there be a lit fire in that library.

“Mr. Penroses, this is my house. I will thank you to vacate it at once.” Mrs. Burdette pointed to the door, her other hand on her hip. “Now.”

I am too tired for this. I am too angry for this.

“Penrose. Perhaps it has escaped your notice that the snow is coming down better than an inch to the hour. I had to walk half the distance from the docks because the hackneys are all taking the shelter any sensible creature should seek on a night like this. I have traveled thousands of miles, Mrs. Burdette, and I will not be turned away from my own doorstep to perish in truly dangerous weather.”

The Joshua Penrose who’d left England all those years ago would never have addressed a woman, much less a female employee, so sternly. But then, he’d thought to spend only a few months in the former colonies before setting sail for home.

“The Wood and Willow will remain open until the end times,” Mrs. Burdette retorted. “They are two streets over. For a few pints, they’ll let you have a chair by the hearth for the night. I am a decent woman, and this is a decent house, and you will not impose yourself upon it.”

“What happened to the Owl and Ocelot?”

She gathered her shawls more closely. “The daughter took over from her parents and changed the name. She claimed nobody knows what an ocelot is.”

“I know what a winter storm is,” Joshua said, “and that weather will take lives this night. If you can’t be troubled to find me some comestibles, might we at least have this argument somewhere warmer?”

Another hitching up of the tattered shawls. “I’d rather not admit you to my house. Surely you grasp the proprieties involved?”

Mrs. Burdette was living up to the promise of her chin, drat and blast her.

“I grasp that no sane creature is abroad in this weather, that mine were the only footprints in the increasingly deep snow for the length of three streets, and that anybody who has dwelled in these surrounds for more than five years will acknowledge that I have every right to be here.”

“You’ve been away five years?”

“Longer, in fact, but right now, all I want is warmth and something to drink. You needn’t feed me. I’ve been hungrier.” If Joshua were any wearier, he’d be asleep on his feet, a perilous state of affairs on London’s increasingly frigid and deserted streets.

“All well and good for you, sir, but what will the rest of the neighbors think about me, hailing a strange man in off the street, showing him hospitality he has not earned, and—”

“Mama, is he really a stranger?”

Joshua had to drop his gaze below the top of the sideboard.

A small child had intruded on the conversation, as small children were wont to do.

A female child goggled at Joshua with big, blue eyes.

Her hair was coppery compared to her mother’s auburn, and the girl’s tresses were arranged in two unraveling plaits.

Alas for the child, she also had her mother’s chin.

“I am not a stranger.” In this one house in this one city, Joshua Penrose was not a stranger.

“If you were,” the girl said, “you might be an angel unawares. Are you sure you’re not a stranger? ‘Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.’ I’ve never seen a regular angel or an angel unawares.”

“Hollister Ann Burdette, where are your slippers?”

The daft child was barefoot. Her robe looked snug enough, and she wore a flannel nightgown beneath, but her bare little toes had to be half frozen.

“I’m Holly,” the girl informed Joshua. “Mama calls me Hollister Ann only when she’s zasperated with me.”

Joshua felt a compulsion to close his eyes and leave them closed just for a moment.

To have a nice little lean on the sideboard for a few days’ worth of nap.

When he woke up cozy and warm in bed, he’d smell fresh bread baking, and one tug of the bedroom bell-pull would result in strong tea and a hot breakfast.

Not too much to ask, but at present, a complete fantasy.

He scooped up Hollister Ann and perched her on his hip. With his other hand, he hefted his satchel.

“Mrs. Burdette, I am growing a bit zasperated myself. If you would please lead the way to some warmth, I will entertain every argument you or your husband care to make, provided we first put some stockings and slippers on this child’s feet.”

Mrs. Burdette sniffed in the manner of a mama who knew she was being cozened. She collected the lit carrying candle from the sideboard and marched off down the corridor.

Joshua followed more slowly.

The seascapes needed a good cleaning, the runner was threadbare, and a decent landscape of Chatsworth was no longer hanging in its appointed location. A drawing of a child had taken its place, probably the same little sprite using the collar of Joshua’s greatcoat as a teething rattle.

“What have you done with Chatsworth?” Joshua asked as Mrs. Burdette lifted the latch on the study door.

“I beg your pardon?”

“His Grace of Devonshire’s ancestral pile. Immortalized in oils. Across from the pier glass.” Which had acquired a few speckles near the bottom corners.

“You refer to a painting?”

“I do.” Joshua expected that Mr. Burdette was to be found in the study, and surely that good fellow could be made to see reason. Morning was soon enough to sort out whatever misunderstanding—or swindle—had resulted in Mrs. Burdette’s mistaken conclusions.

“Sold.” She pushed open the door and admitted Joshua not to his study, but to a sort of parlor-cum-playroom where his study should have been.

The room was warm in comparison to the foyer, though any resemblance to Joshua’s study ended there.

“Where is my desk?” A beautiful behemoth of carved oak, at least two hundred years old. Had drawers within drawers, at least three secret compartments, and was of a size for somebody of Joshua’s height. “I love my desk. Please tell me that hasn’t been sold as well.”

“You love a desk?”

“My grandfather loved that desk too. An abacus was built into a panel on the righthand side. It pulls out, and you can… Yes, I love that desk.” He did not love the slurping sound the child made right near his ear. She was very solid as sprites went. Heavier by the moment, in fact.

“A monstrosity of a desk occupies the alcove past the warming pantry.”

“A beautiful monstrosity.” By contrast, a plain, anemic little escritoire was angled by the fire. Joshua could smash that paltry excuse for furniture with one fist, and the idea gave him pleasure.

At least there was a fire, and a decent blaze at that. “Where is Mr. Burdette?”