Page 170 of A Very Bellamy Christmas

Perhaps then she would believe that his memory, admittedly shot full of holes, had a place that was exclusively, enduringly hers.

His mood lifted along with the dawn, and he was just beginning to believe he would make it in plenty of time to enjoy a lazy bath before the ball that evening when he rounded a corner and reined in so sharply the curricle skittered dangerously on the wet and slushy road.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered as he calmed the horses, set the carriage brake, and hopped out to help a clearly harried coachman assist his passengers out of the window of an overturned carriage.

By the time Andrew had made a detour of nine miles to deliver the effusively grateful widow and her daughter to her brother’s house—what she was doing travelling on Christmas Day was a story he never fully understood—it was once again past dark.

The number of carriages clogging the driveway when he finally guided his weary pair into the courtyard at Wych House told him the ball was in full swing.

A groom trotted out to take the horses’ heads and Andrew hopped out, dislodging a sleepy, yawning Scrapper in the process.

He tossed the man a coin and hurried toward the house. “Oh,” he said over his shoulder. “See that Scrapper is fed—and make sure he doesn’t muscle his way into the house.”

The groom laughed. “Aye, my lord. A juicy bone will win him over.”

Andrew hurriedly gave himself a sponge bath, shaved, dressed in his evening kit, and then took a moment to study his reflection in the mirror.

He was hollow eyed from long days and miserable nights on the road, but he was clean, tidy, and as respectable as he ever looked.

Andrew glanced at his prize for a long moment and then shoved it into the nightstand drawer.

And then he took the small jewel pouch off his dressing table and dropped it into his pocket.

Now he was ready.