Page 5 of The Virtues of Christmas

“Mrs. Murphy sends along the plum tarts with her compliments,” the maid said, setting a bowl down before Miss Whitlow, then a small blue crock of cream.

“How very gracious of her,” Miss Whitlow said as the maid served Michael his portion. “The soup was excellent, and the bread perfect. Please thank everybody from the scullery maid who churned the butter to Mrs. Murphy. The kitchen here is truly a marvel.”

From across the table, Michael watched as Miss Whitlow offered the maid a smile so purely warm-hearted, the half-grown boy nearly dropped the tray and the serving maid’s curtsey would have flattered a queen. That smile made all right with the world and gave gleeful assurances of happy endings just waiting to come true.

Harmon DeWitt, Viscount Beltram, still spoke fondly of that smile, even as he plotted against the woman who bestowed it.

“My thanks as well,” Michael said. “Would you be so good as to ensure that Miss Whitlow’s maid has some sustenance? She’s enjoying a respite in the parlor adjoined to my bedchamber.”

“Certainly, sir. Come along, Gordie.”

The lad tried for a bow, but kept his gaze on Miss Whitlow the entire time. She winked at the boy as he backed from the room.

“You’ll spoil him for all other ladies,” Michael said.

The smile faded into a brittle light in Miss Whitlow’s eyes. “Good. We should all exercise the greatest discernment when choosing with whom to share our time and our trust. If I’ve preserved him from a few scheming chambermaids —for chambermaids are not to be trusted where juvenile males are concerned—then he’s better off.”

Nothing in her tone suggested even mild annoyance, and yet, Michael sensed reproof again—no creature on earth was less of a threat to anybody than a harried chambermaid—or… something sadder.

Bitterness, perhaps. Well-earned, entirely appropriate bitterness.

Happy Christmas, indeed.