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“Where is she, anyhow?” he asked. “Your mistress?”

Luna lifted her head with the air of a being who recognized no mistress but herself. Then she rose, padded to the door, and slipped out.

Ambrose watched her go. Was Marina somewhere in the corridor? He glanced over his shoulder, then scowled at himself. Ridiculous. He had spent an unreasonable amount of time looking for his wife these last few days, even while doing his utmost to avoid her. The prospect of dining with her again had been almost intoxicating, which was precisely why he had invented appointments and headaches whenever the opportunity arose.

Yet she was never far from his thoughts.

The floorboards creaked outside. He turned at once, torn between stepping into the corridor to see whether Marina was there and concealing himself behind the nursery door.

He stayed where he was. His breathing had grown embarrassingly shallow by the time the door opened.

“Oh, Your Grace,” Mrs. Dalton said.

His shoulders dropped. Whether from relief or disappointment, he could not say. “Mrs. Dalton. I thought you might be my wife.”

“No, Your Grace. Her Grace is hanging holly in the drawing room.”

“I see. More greenery. Soon I shall think myself living in a hothouse.”

“Well,” Mrs. Dalton said, “we have not quite enough light for that.”

“Not yet. She has made a habit of opening every curtain she can lay her hands upon.” This was an exaggeration. She’d only opened the agreed-upon rooms. So far.

Mrs. Dalton regarded him with the tolerant expression of a woman who had known him too long to be intimidated. “I think she has made the house rather cozy. The plants, the ivy, the holly—it looks as though Christmas is just around the corner. An unusual sight here.”

Ambrose tilted his head. Like Ernest, the housekeeper knew precisely how far she might go.

“The drawing room is her next intended victim, you say?”

“I believe she is nearly finished. In fact, I came to find you because I saw her climbing a ladder to fasten something to the grandfather clock. I know how dear it is to you.”

“Oh, no.” Ambrose set his candle aside and strode past her.

On the stairs, Luna had planted herself directly in his path. He nearly tripped over her.

“Have a care!” he hissed.

The cat sprang up, tail erect, and hissed back.

“You were in my way.”

Luna tossed her head and stalked off, apparently convinced that she was the injured party.

Ambrose descended to find the drawing room ablaze with candlelight. For an instant he stopped, but he reminded himself that it was night and the light could do him no harm. The chandelier shone overhead. Candles glimmered in the windows. Pots of greenery stood about the room, and holly and ivy framed the curtains.

Marina was indeed on a short ladder, although she had already finished with his grandfather clock. A wreath of greenery now perched atop it.

“Do you truly intend to turn every corner of this manor into a Christmas wonderland?”

“Of course.” She looked down at him, smiling. “Every year at the cottage, I decorated as much as I could. The children enjoyed coming to look.”

“The same children who put up a sign warning people about the Christmas Witch?”

He regretted the words the moment her expression changed.

“Not all of them came to torment me,” she said. “Some simply stood outside and admired the decorations. They did not throw snowballs or shout. They only looked.” She adjusted a sprig of ivy. “More importantly, I enjoyed them.”

How lonely must her life have been if the sight of children pausing to admire her windows had brought her such happiness? He knew something of finding comfort in the smallest kindness. Perhaps they were more alike than he had supposed.