Miss Lottie's Christmas Protector

A Christmas mission…

…with the scarred and brooding gentleman!

Part of Secrets of a Victorian Household. Working in her family’s charity foundation for destitute women, caring but impulsive Miss Lottie Fairclough is desperately trying to find a missing woman. She’s roped in family acquaintance Mr. Jasper King to help her, having been equally impressed and annoyed when he rescued her from perilous danger. As she gets to know the injured entrepreneur, it seems he needs her just as much…

SOPHIA JAMES lives in Chelsea Bay, on Auckland New Zealand’s North Shore, with her husband who is an artist. She has a degree in English and History from Auckland University and believes her love of writing was formed by reading Georgette Heyer in the holidays at her grandmother’s house. Sophia enjoys getting feedback at facebook.com/sophiajamesauthor.

Also by Sophia James

Gentlemen of Honour miniseries

A Night of Secret Surrender

A Proposition for the Comte

The Cinderella Countess

Secrets of a Victorian Household collection

Miss Lottie’s Christmas Protector by Sophia James

And look out for the next books

Miss Amelia’s Mistletoe Marquess by Jenni Fletcher

Mr Fairclough’s Inherited Bride by Georgie Lee

Lilian and the Irresistible Duke by Virginia Heath

Coming soon

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Miss Lottie’s Christmas Protector

Sophia James

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08950-0

MISS LOTTIE’S CHRISTMAS PROTECTOR

© 2019 Harlequin Books S.A.

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Thank you Jenni Fletcher, Georgie Lee

and Virginia Heath, for making this series such an easy

and fun one to write together. You were all generous

with your replies and accommodating of any changes.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Extract

About the Publisher

Prologue

In the shadow of Westminster Abbey lay an area known as the Irish Rookery—a place of narrow streets, rundown buildings and hopelessness.

This area, once a sanctuary offered to debtors and criminals by the monks from the abbey, was by 1842 the haunt of the displaced Irish, who lived in a festering labyrinth of dark and impenetrable streets full of desperation and vice.

However, social philanthropy and charity-based movements were on the rise in Victorian England, as Christian duty encouraged acts to save the souls of those mired in poverty.

The Fairclough Foundation was one such organisation and it lay in Howick Place, just on the edge of Old Pye Street, the Perkins Rents, Great Peter’s Road and St Anne’s Street—home to some of the worst slums in all of London.

Chapter One

Late November 1842—Westminster, London

Gilbert Griffiths, a man who was scared of his own shadow, had offered for her sister.

These words echoed through Lottie in sheer horror and growing apprehension. If Amelia accepted the overzealous and pedantic curate as a husband she would shrivel, piece by little piece, until nothing of joy and hope were left.

Charlotte Lilian Alexandra Fairclough could see the same guarded truth in Millie’s eyes and she shook her head hard, unleashing wild brown curls in the process.

‘You cannot love him, Millie? He is fussy and boring and impossible.’

Amelia smiled in the way that was purely her own, dutiful yet strained, a happy expression plastered steadfastly over conflict. ‘He has a modest income as well as a small property and would be able to keep the wolf from our door. Did you think of that?’

‘So you would sacrifice yourself for the greater good? Your life? Your for ever? There has to be a time when your selflessness has a limit, Millie. This is that time. I cannot let you do it. Not for me or for Mama.’

Her sister dug her heels in further. ‘You cannot stop me, Lottie, and if I wait much longer we will all be thrown out of our house into penury. If that happens, you would be begging for me to marry him.’

‘I never would. We can sell the furniture and go north. There must be enough to start elsewhere if we are frugal and besides we have…skills.’

‘What skills?’

‘I can sew. You can do bookkeeping and Mama can manage the rest. If we are lucky, someone far better might come along and offer for one of us and then…’ She petered out. No eligible suitor had presented themselves in years. It was a groundless hope.

‘And what of the vulnerable and desperate women in the Rookery who depend upon us here at the Fairclough Foundation? What would happen to them should I simply be selfish and refuse an offer of marriage that is not completely repulsive to me?’

‘If it isn’t, then it should be.’ Lottie backtracked when she saw her sister’s hurt and understood her worry about those they helped. ‘Well, at least promise me that you will wait until we have a letter from Silas, telling us of all the riches he has made in America.’

The mention of their brother’s absence brought a bruising sadness to Amelia’s green eyes.

‘He is lost, Lottie. I cannot feel him.’

As twins Amelia and Silas had always been close, so close that Lottie had felt the odd one out in the family, the twins’ sense of knowing where and how the other was was the bane of her early childhood. They had won every game of marbles, and hoop and stick, and hide-and-go-seek, the language they’d invented between them shutting her out. Often she had come across them whispering secrets and the feeling of being alone and unwanted had soon led her into trouble.

Charlotte Fairclough, the rebellious, opinionated and impulsive younger sister. The one who did not quite fit into the family structure of good deeds, fine thoughts and parsimonious self-sacrificing. Mama and Papa, Millie and Silas. In the pairings around her Lottie had had difficulty finding her place.

‘I think Silas is on his way home to England even as we speak. I think he wants to surprise us.’ She tried to place assurance into her words though at this moment she was feeling far from such faith.

‘I think you have an imagination that is over-fertile and impossibly optimistic, Lottie, but then I suppose you always did.’

Mama chose that moment to bundle into the room, her arms full of fabric and her dark wavy hair coming a little loose from the pins that held up the thickness of it. ‘I have just found this in one of the trunks your father brought from his family house years ago. I had forgotten about it completely, but it shall be perfect for us to make gowns with for Lady Alexandra’s party in a fortnight.’ Her eyes were wide with delight and Lottie thought for the thousandth time how beautiful her mother was even at the grand old age of forty-five.

But then Lottie’s heart fell. Lady Alexandra Malverly was her father’s cousin and both the daughter of a duke and the wife of a viscount. Many of the guests at the Christmas party would be well off and odious and they would also have a keen sense of the Fairclough family’s lower social standing.

Likely sensing the disenchantment in her daughters, her mother carried on.

‘I know you are not as thrilled about the invitation as I am, but it is important for us to make an effort, for who knows which handsome unmarried man might make an appearance this year? We could definitely do with the hope of it.’

Millie blushed and Lottie frowned.

‘I know you do not particularly enjoy venturing to see Alexandra, but she has always been kind to me and I like her company. Besides, it is only for a few weeks and the celebration of the Christmas season will lighten things up.’

Privately Lottie thought it would also mean Lady Alexandra would drink more, but for Mama’s sake she rallied. Papa had been dead for almost ten years and her mother still talked about him as if he had died only yesterday. A love match. A perfect union. Two halves of a whole. Exactly the thing that Millie would never be allowed to experience should she marry the son of the local vicar, Mr Gilbert Griffiths.

Yet as she stood there a new thought began to form. A startlingly dangerous plan that made her heart race. Could she risk it? Would it work? The ghost of her father sat there, too, in the room beside her. Henry Fairclough, the fourth son of an earl, would never have allowed his older daughter to make such a compromise. No, Papa would have fought for something shining and wonderful, Lottie knew this completely.

Well, she would, too, but in her own manner. The last time she could remember her sister being excited in the company of a man was eight years ago after a ball in which Amelia had been asked to dance by the mysterious Mr Jasper King. Lottie remembered seeing him through the banisters from the upstairs landing when he had come to pay his regards to her sister the day after. Although Lottie had only been very young at the time, she’d nevertheless understood that she was in the company of a man who had presence. He was tall and dark headed and more than handsome, but it was his certainty and his confidence that she had been struck by the most.

When he had looked up and caught her eyes he’d smiled. To her eternal shame, Lottie had lived off that particular moment for years afterwards. A Prince Charming who had come to rescue them with love and who looked just as she had imagined one would.

But Millie failed to persist with him and Mr King had disappeared from their lives, vague references coming only from Silas, who revered the ground the older engineer stood on. Her brother had worked for the Kings as an apprentice in London for a time before being seconded to their main office in Liverpool, so the ties between Jasper and her family had pretty much been broken, then.

Lottie did know Jasper had a sister who lived on the other side of the city and she had heard a rumour that he would attend a charity Christmas event in London with her in just over a week’s time. Even though she knew Amelia was the one who deserved him, she hadn’t broken the habit of listening for snippets of information about the man.

The strands of the chance of happiness for her family had begun to unravel and disconnect and just when all seemed to be lost she saw a way of threading them back together again. Could she find Mr Jasper King and lead him in the direction of her sister?

The daring of the escapade worried her a little bit, but Nanny Beth had always said great deeds were usually wrought at great risk. Lottie couldn’t remember why Nanny would have had reason to say this, but she had certainly shared it with Lottie many a time before she had passed away at the age of sixty-eight.

Just the thought of such sage advice made her feel better about her whole idea.

‘You look like the cat who has the cream, Lottie.’ Her mother made this observation and Millie glanced over and frowned.

‘What new crazy scheme are you dreaming up now, Lottie? Remember how the last one turned out when you decided to help Mrs Wilson claim her right to be the main character in last year’s Christmas pageant at the Foundation?’

‘Well, how was I to know she would suffer such dreadful stage fright and nearly put the whole show in jeopardy?’

‘It was lucky Mama knew all the words and that there was a second plan in place that we could revert to.’

A second plan? Well, that was a thought. If by chance she should fail in her intention of dangling the charms of her sister under the nose of Mr Jasper King, she could at least plead she was there to ask if he had any news of her brother.

The day brightened considerably.

‘This is your colour, Lottie, for it will bring out the gold in your eyes.’ Her mother held the tawny silk before her and Lottie stood still. Unlike Millie, she had never been that interested in fashion and had no true opinion as to what suited her and what didn’t. ‘I will use the same pattern I found last year with the high neck and wide sleeves. A new dress for each of us will take no time at all and will be so good for one’s confidence.’

Lottie looked up at that. She would need confidence to pull this plan off and if this dress gave her an added edge then she was all for it.

‘I will help you cut the fabric, Mama. Let me just find my glasses and my pins.’

Chapter Two

Early December 1842

Jasper King lay in bed at his town house on the west side of Arlington Street in Piccadilly overlooking Green Park and watched the smoke rings from his cheroot rise towards the high ceiling and its ornate centre rosette.

He’d moved into this house because he’d felt he needed a base and after years in Liverpool he’d wanted to come home to the city he’d lived in as a child and finally rest for a while. His father would have approved, he thought, smiling as he remembered the man who had brought his children up almost singlehandedly after the death of his wife. Arlene Susan King. His mother. He had not known her so his memories were only from stiff etchings, the sepia images giving little away as to the true nature of the woman. She had always felt like a stranger.

He shook off such melancholy, his thoughts returning to the day at hand. His elder sister Meghan had said she would meet him after two in the afternoon at a Christmas party she had helped organise so he still had a few hours to use up in the meantime. As a man who had been busy for so many years with the engineering firm his father had started, and all its demands, this was an unparalleled indolence, but for once he allowed the sheer silence of living to wash across him as he simply sat and did nothing.

Three years ago at this time he had hit rock bottom, the laudanum calling him home.

Stretching his right leg, he winced. The pain was still there, but the hurt had diluted into the known. He was no longer as whole as he once had been, but the shock had receded somewhat and a sort of resigned acceptance had followed.

Drawing again on his cheroot, he enjoyed the earthy mellow taste of tobacco. He’d have liked a brandy along with it, but had made it his purpose to rise above multiple vices with a dedicated resolve and he seldom gave in to any craving now without a fight. The opium and morphine had long gone and for that he was glad, but he still remembered the hell of a job he’d had to get off it as if it were yesterday.

Three hours until he saw his sister. The contrast between what he was doing and thinking here and now and all the expectations required for later amused him. For so long he’d been a hidden person and the thought of attending a gathering of those with the sole devotion to do good works made him tense. He was far from being a saint.

Lifting up the thin book on his lap, he let it slip to the floor, its spine flattening open on the parquet. A Journal of a Voyage Round the World.

Jasper wondered why he read such things, given he had never been to the far-flung destinations Captain James Cook had been wont to in his tiny boat and was hardly likely to, but something inside sought the incredible drama of lives lived to the very edge.

He wanted a release from himself and he reasoned worlds far from his own reality might almost give him that. It was comforting reading about men who risked everything for the pursuit of something far greater than themselves. Men who pushed the boundaries and reaped the results.

The clock on the mantel boomed out the hour of eleven and he watched the minute hand move around the numbers below it. A second. A minute. An hour. A day. A year. A decade. A lifetime.

Lists reassured him because they signified control. One followed the next. In order. In sequence. He could recite all the components of endless directories he’d memorised with ease and often did so.

Was this the beginning of the slide down into despondency? Like his father? That thought worried him and he leaned back against numerous carefully positioned pillows and breathed out.

Even his slumber now held an unchanged and precise structure and he longed to return to the time when he could’ve slept anywhere. The time when release came simply with the closing of one’s eyes.

So many damned years ago. When he was fit and whole. He grimaced as his foot lost its purchase on the sheets and his injured leg jolted.

A doctor’s visit was in order again. He knew it. The metal was still in his thigh, scraping against bone and moving in ways that his body recognised as dangerous. Sometimes he almost wished that which was foreign inside him might just enter into his bloodstream and that would be the end of it. A physician had told him such a catastrophe was eminently possible and the horror he’d once felt at such a warning was waning.

Pushing back the covers, he sat on the side of the bed. He needed to shave and have his hair cut. He needed to lighten up. He needed to live again as though every day might be his last, but Christmas was coming soon and the whole idea of such an enforced joviality made him tired.

Meghan had had a baby earlier in the year and she wanted him to be more of a part of her family life in order to get to know his niece, Sarah. She was worried for him. He could tell that she was.

Just thinking about baby Sarah made him smile. She was fat and hairless and the rings of flesh around all the parts of her body transformed her into a tiny Buddha just waiting for her chance to rule. He’d never thought about children much until meeting her and she had stolen his heart at the very first sight of her toothless smile.

He’d bought a doll’s house to give her at Christmas and he’d had small figurines of their family made by a craftsman in Liverpool. His own image had surprised him for in porcelain he looked a lot more gregarious than he felt he ever did in real life. He hoped his sister would like the present for she’d seemed exhausted lately, the chaotic household all about her adding to her fatigue.

He should be more thankful of the silence in his town house, for a few hours in the company of his sister and her offspring usually saw him scrambling back to Piccadilly in relief. The bank drafts he’d arranged each month for Meghan had brought a little escape for her from the constant worry of financial hardship and although Jasper would have liked to have donated more, his sister’s husband, Stephen Gibson, was a proud man and had refused the offer. Instead, Jasper had set up a further trust fund for his niece and given Meghan the rights of withdrawal from it.

A knock at his door had him turning and his valet, Hutton, walked in.

‘I’ve clothes for your outing, sir, and would recommend you take the thicker wool coat. It’s cold today.’

‘Almost snowing.’ A quick observation out of the window showed purple clouds on the horizon that were trailing quickly south.

‘Your sister sent a note just to reiterate that she will meet you at the address she told you of. She hopes you will not be late.’

‘Thank you, Hutton.’

‘Very well, sir.’ The man hesitated. ‘There is another matter, sir. A letter arrived a moment ago and the delivery boy asked if you could see to it straight away.’

Hutton proceeded to place a lilac envelope sealed with wax of the same colour in Jasper’s hand. A feminine missive. He recognised the handwriting on the front and his heart sank. Verity Chambers was becoming increasingly forward with her actions in contacting him and he would need to deal with her firmly. However, he could not quite face doing so today.

Balling up the missive, he aimed for the rubbish bin on one side of the room and the small paper flew over in an arc and landed neatly in.

‘Well done, sir.’

He smiled. ‘That will be all for now.’

He’d made a lucky escape from marriage to Miss Chambers three years ago even though at the time he had not thought it. With renewed purpose Jasper opened his book again and went back to his reading.

Lottie wondered momentarily about the wisdom of walking alone across London to a function she had received no official invitation to attend. Her cough had worsened rapidly and there was a wry irony in that. The weather had worsened as well, the snow that had been holding off now falling lightly. Brushing the gathering flakes from her cloak, she bent her head into the wind.