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Mr. Wigan carried in a silver tray with a single white letter.

Christopher’s pulse quickened as he picked up the post and thanked the butler.

With a swift slice of his penknife, he opened the letter.

He instantly recognized Sarah’s perfect copperplate handwriting.

The lady seemed to do everything well. He had not seen her for three days, but he could not stop thinking about the kiss they’d shared.

Dear Mr. Moulton,

Thank you for your letter. I shall be ready and waiting for you tomorrow morning at nine o’clock to go to the church. I appreciate the speed and the delicacy you have shown in this matter.

Yours Sincerely,

Lady Sarah Denham

He liked that the missive was short and to the point.

Also that she didn’t pretend to possess any warmer emotions than either of them felt.

He folded the letter and placed it in his coat pocket.

His pulse slowed to a normal rate. He would tell his sisters about the marriage after dinner. That was soon enough.

Opening his desk drawer to put away his penknife, he saw the household keys.

He had never given them to Margaret. Somewhere in his mind, he must have known they’d always belonged to Lady Sarah.

The estate needed her and so did he. His sisters wandered the house and gardens listlessly.

They had no acquaintances or friends in the area.

And they no longer had school or a governess to arrange their studies and occupy the long hours of the afternoon.

Deb, in particular, became quite fractious when she had nothing to do and took out her sour mood upon Margaret. Christopher had chided Deb more than once, but he did not know how to solve the problem without causing more conflict. And Margaret avoided conflict at all costs.

Christopher sat down to dinner at the head of the table. Margaret took her usual seat at his right, but Deb did not sit at his left.

She put her hands on her waist and stomped her foot. “Why does Margaret always get the best spot at the table? It isn’t fair.”

“Because you get the best of everything else,” Christopher wanted to retort. But that would hardly defuse the situation. “Custom and tradition, Deb. Now, stop acting like a child and sit down. You are making another scene in front of the servants.”

Deb scowled and slumped into her chair. Christopher ignored her and focused his attention on the delicious dinner that the footmen brought out in several courses.

They ate together in an uncomfortable silence.

Deb was sulking again. She needed a mother.

She did not remember Mama. He could not provide her with a mother, but he would give her a lady that could guide her, help shape her, and teach her the manners required for Society.

His youngest sister wasn’t a bad girl, but she behaved like an unbroken colt.

His sisters left after the last course, and Christopher sat alone, drinking a glass of port.

What an odd tradition the nobles had of drinking after just eating an enormous meal.

Still, the butler faithfully brought the port after dinner and expected Christopher to drink it.

He had not known how limited his meal selections were in London.

He wondered if his city servants thought he was common.

There was no book on how to become a gentleman.

The closest thing, he supposed, was a peerage, which only told the names and ranks of the members of the aristocracy.

He believed that gently born sons were taught in their homes the social graces required.

That was why, when his father died nine years before, Christopher had sent his sisters to a select girls’ seminary.

Nineteen at the time, he’d felt like too old a dog to learn new tricks.

His sisters hadn’t been, only they hadn’t seemed to learn as much as he’d hoped.

Then again, this thought was not fair to Margaret.

She always sat up straight in her chair and ate as neatly as a princess.

Whenever he did not know which utensil to use, he watched to see which one she picked up.

She had certainly learned how to be a lady in school; he wondered why Deb had not.

She was the stronger willed of the two girls, and unlike Margaret, she didn’t remember their three late siblings or their mother, who had all succumbed to an unknown plague thirteen years ago.

She’d been a child of only three. Both she and Margaret had been removed from the house so as not to contract the illness.

Christopher had not been at home in London either.

He had been sent away when he was eleven.

Papa had said it was to learn the canal trade by laboring with the employees, but Christopher had always thought he was sent away because of the scars on his face.

Mr. Downman, the foreman, had been a kind man and had watched over Christopher as a young lad.

Canal workers were a rough lot who moved from job to job.

A construction site usually held between two hundred and three hundred workers.

There were few safety measures, and there was a great deal of gunpowder.

It had been no place for a boy, and his father had never once visited him there in Gloucestershire.

Once completed, the Sapperton Tunnel was the longest canal in England at over two miles.

It linked the Severn River to the Thames.

He’d carted stone and sledge until his body was no longer that of a boy’s but a young man’s.

Christopher had been proud of his part in the canal.

Until he’d learned that several members of his family had died whilst he’d been away. Papa had not sent for Christopher until six months after the funeral of his little brothers and his mother.

John, age 12.

Fred, age 9.

Francis, age 7.

Mama, age 35.

Mama had been only seven years older than he was now.

Christopher had never gotten the opportunity to tell them goodbye.

At the time, Papa had explained that he couldn’t risk the health of his three living children.

The plague was extremely contagious. Even the nurses his father had hired had succumbed to the disease.

Nearly all their possessions were burned to stop the infection.

The house was left vacant for over a year before Papa sold it.

Neither Christopher, Margaret, nor Deborah had set foot in it again.

Either the deaths of his wife and children or his own contact with the disease had weakened Papa’s heart.

He was never the same hale and hearty man again.

Perhaps that was why he’d finally accepted his eldest son—or perhaps it was only the growth of a mustache that covered the scars Papa was so ashamed of.

Slowly, Christopher began to take over his father’s duties.

He’d made arrangements with the foremen and planned the routes with the engineers.

He’d taken over all the finances and turned his father’s prospering canal business into the largest and most respected canal-building company in England, Wales, and Scotland.

With his own hands, he’d carved out his place.

But Papa had never gotten to see the fruits of his eldest son’s labors. He would have loved Manderfield Hall and Lady Sarah even more. Christopher wondered if Papa would have finally been proud of him. He prayed his sisters would be.

Leaving the table, he wandered through the corridors until he found his sisters playing cards in the sitting room where he’d first met Sarah. Their shadows were illuminated by the generous fire in the hearth. Both sisters turned to look at him as he entered the room.

Deb gave him a glittering smile, her earlier sulks apparently forgotten. “Shall you join us at cards, Chris? I have already lost so much money to Margaret that I have had to apply to her for a loan to keep playing.”

“Yes, please come play,” Margaret said, giving him a gentle smile and an arched look. “I should like to have some competition.”

Deb stuck out her tongue at Margaret and threw her cards down on the table. “If I am bad at it, you’ve only yourself to blame, for you are the one who taught me how to play.”

Christopher was certain Margaret had only meant to tease and not to wound, but handling Deb was like holding gunpowder in one’s hands—it could explode at any time. Christopher had carried enough dynamite into the Sapperton Tunnel to know how dangerous and volatile it was.

He took a seat at their table. “I would actually like to speak to both of you about something of a serious nature.”

Groaning, Deb put her elbows on the table and rested her head in her palms. “Not another lecture.”

He glanced at Margaret and saw the surprised look on her countenance. He hadn’t meant to alarm either of them. Christopher held up his hands. “Nothing bad, I assure you. Quite the reverse, actually. I am getting married.”

Gasping, Deb sat up in her chair. “To who? Do we know her?”

“To whom ,” Margaret corrected softly.

Deb scoffed at her sister and then snapped her fingers. “I know! Our particular friend, Miss Adkins. She’s been throwing her cap at you for ages, and what a fine wife she will make. Thanks to her father’s factory, we shall never want for beeswax candles again.”

Had Christopher felt the smallest flicker of attraction to Miss Adkins, he may have asked her to become his wife.

She was nearly his same age and the heiress to her father’s beeswax candle factory.

It would be a good match with a woman of his own rank, but it would not propel his sisters into the ton like he’d promised his father .

If anything, such a marriage would harm their chances of marrying a man with a title.

Shaking his head slightly, he said, “It is not Miss Adkins, nor anyone else of your acquaintance.”

Margaret touched his shoulder gently. “Don’t keep us in suspense, Chris. Tell us at once.”