She hadn’t paid the price of admission, and if that made the duke a despicable person, so be it. He hadn’t meant the kind things he said, so she’d had a very lucky escape.

“Lucky,” Viola said, which was the moment when Ophelia realized that she was so angry that she had said the last sentence aloud, and fiercely too.

“He’s made his choice,” Ophelia told Viola, kissing her. “You and I will go to the Frost Fair and have a wonderful time. We’ll buy gingerbread, and his children will be home in the nursery. Perhaps he’ll greet them, if he finds time.” She shook her head. “I don’t want that for your father.”

The thought steadied her. It wasn’t just a matter of her mothering the eight orphans; the duke would become Viola’s father as well.

“She won’t take them to the Frost Fair,” Ophelia said. Somehow it felt like vindication. He was choosing Lady Woolhastings because she was related to royalty, and uninterested in bedding him. But there was more to being a mother than the name alone.

By the time they reached the edge of the Frost Fair, a great frozen expanse of the Thames, the sun was out, albeit in a chilly way. Ophelia climbed out of the carriage and took a look, her coachman standing at her shoulder.

It was as if Bartholomew Fair had set up shop on the ice with drinking booths, games to play, food for sale, a bowling alley open to the sky, a skating rink. Red-cheeked Londoners were scrambling about on wooden skates or sliding in their boots, laughing and shouting. Strings of paper lanterns in bright colors were draped between the little shops, or strung between the poles marking the skating rink.

“There’ll be some ruffians in the mix,” Bisquet said. “I’ll send a groom with you to hold your purse, madam. The carriage will be here waiting for you. I’ve brought along blankets for the horses and nice warm mash in case we’re here more than an hour or two.”

“We’ll be more than an hour,” Ophelia said happily. In front of her, a line of small wooden shops wove their way across the ice, creating a curvy road. Bright flags were flying from the roofs, and a lovely smell of mingled pig roast and mulled wine drifted their way.

“On this side, there’s a road for carriages,” Bisquet pointed out. “There are sleigh rides as well, going all the way from Temple to Southwark.”

The ice was dotted everywhere with glowing bonfires constructed inside great metal burners, around which people stood warming their hands. Some burners were outfitted with elaborate spits and one even held an entire roasting pig.

“Aren’t they afraid the fires will melt the ice?” Ophelia asked, turning back to the carriage to pick up a very excited Viola.