Lakefield House, South of England

Saturday, November 20, 1688

The Countess of Trentingham alighted from her carriage in front of the charming manor house, knowing her eldest daughter wasn’t at home.

Chrystabel hadn’t come to see Violet—rather, she wished to see her son-in-law, Ford Chase. Today was the perfect day, a day without distractions, as Violet had taken their three children to play with their young cousins at her sister Lily’s house.

One of Chrystabel’s primary joys was helping people find love, and, as usual, she had a plan.

“Hello, Harry,” she said when Ford’s elderly houseman answered the door. She pressed a bottle of perfume into his hands. “I’ve brought more Spiced Rosewater for your lovely wife.”

“I thank you on Hilda’s behalf, my lady. And mine as well.”

“Is Lord Lakefield in his laboratory?”

“He is,” Harry said. “Will you wait for him in the drawing room?”

“Oh, there’s no need to make him come down. I’m happy to go up.”

The houseman sniffed at the bottle and smiled as Chrystabel made her way past him and up two floors to the laboratory. The door was open, and Ford was inside, tinkering.

“Knock, knock,” she called cheerfully.

Ford looked up, his gaze hazy as he shifted his attention to her. She watched his bright blue eyes clear. “Er, welcome.”

“No need to feign enthusiasm.” She knew he hated to be interrupted when he was in the middle of inventing something. “I won’t take but a minute of your time.”

He was holding a long, thin piece of metal, looking rather at a loss. “No, no, it’s lovely to see you.”

It was lovely of him to lie. “What are you working on there?”

“A new kind of skate. I hope. What brings you here today?”

“I shall get right to the point. You’re hosting your family here for Christmas this year, are you not?”

He blinked. “I suppose so. Violet takes care of such things. But I reckon it’s probably our turn.”

Chrystabel knew it was their turn. The Chases alternated hosting the family Christmas celebration, progressing from oldest to youngest. His sister Kendra had hosted last year, which meant it was Ford’s turn this year. Or rather, as he’d said, it was Violet’s turn to act as hostess—because the last thing Chrystabel could imagine was her daughter’s husband planning any sort of celebration.

If he did, he’d probably decorate with copper wire and botanical specimens in place of garlands and holly.

“Will your niece Jewel be here?” she asked.

“Of course. Everyone in the family attends. From the twenty-third until Christmas morning.”

At which point he and Violet and their children would come to Trentingham Manor for the Ashcroft family Christmas. Chrystabel could scarcely wait to have all of her family together—her other daughters, Rose and Lily, their husbands, Kit and Rand, and all of her grandchildren. And her younger, unmarried son, twenty-three-year-old Rowan, who lived in London these days.

She loved Christmas. Maybe even more than she loved matchmaking.

“I have an idea for you,” she said. “An idea to give Jewel a happy surprise.”

He toyed with the thing in his hands. “Yes?”

“I’m thinking you might invite Rowan for Christmas Eve supper. He’ll be coming for Christmas Day at Trentingham anyway, but he could arrive a day earlier to join you and Jewel for supper here.”

His hands stopped fiddling with the strip of metal. He looked puzzled. “Jewel hasn’t asked to see Rowan since she was a small child. I’m not sure she’d be interested.”

“Of course she would! The two of them were the best of friends once upon a time.”

He shrugged. “I’ll ask Violet.”

“Oh, but I was thinking you should also surprise Violet.” Violet would put an end to this immediately, Chrystabel knew. But she also knew that Jewel and Rowan belonged together. These two young people would make a perfect match—and that match would be Chrystabel’s crowning achievement. “Violet hasn’t seen her brother in quite some time, now that he’s living in London. Don’t you think she’d enjoy the surprise, too?”

“I’m not sure…”

“Here,” she said, pulling a sheet of parchment from her pocket. “I’ve written out a note for you, to make it easy for you to invite Rowan for Christmas Eve supper. All you need to do is copy it in your own hand and send it. I’ve written his direction on the back.”

She held it out to him, leaving him no choice but to take it or appear rude.

“Very well,” he said, setting it among the jumble of who-knows-what that sat on a table.

She wondered when he might next go through that jumble, searching for something he’d misplaced. Everything in his laboratory looked misplaced, at least to Chrystabel. Just her luck, he might not glance at that jumble again until after Christmas.

“Why don’t you write the letter now?” she suggested. “In fact, I’ll post it for you if you do.” She pulled a clean sheet of paper from her pocket, unfolded it, and set it before him. “Christmas is naught but a month away, and Rowan could make other plans.”

“Very well,” he repeated, clearly anxious to get back to his work.

“This won’t take but a moment.” Spotting a few pens stuck in a beaker, Chrystabel snatched one up and handed it to him with an ink pot and a smile. “I’m so looking forward to Christmas.”