She’d been willing to go next door to meet the duke because she was alone, and after everything her brother had shared, well, she’d thought him sad, and lonely, and thereby they’d be perfect company for one another.

“I won’t make that mistake again,” she said, swinging her basket as she went.

Myrtle reached the familiar bakery. The smells wafting from within the establishment filled the streets, and her stomach gave another growl.

She patted her hungry belly and let herself inside.

A short while later, her basket filled with various items from pastries to fresh loaves of bread, and several apples she’d asked to purchase from the baker, all of which she’d asked the kindly fellow to charge to her family’s account, Myrtle found her way back home and broke out into a quiet song.

“Good King Wenceslas looked out

On the Feast of Stephen

When the snow lay round about

Deep and crisp and even

Brightly shone the moon that night . . .”

Except—she slowed her steps—this particular song only made her think of the gentleman who’d been adamant in his desire to have her gone.

Such appeared to be the way with everyone whose path she crossed, from her family to surly neighbors alike.

Why, her parents couldn’t even be bothered to return for her. In fact, she’d wager the food she’d managed to find herself that they’d not even realized yet she was missing.

And suddenly beset by a wave of moroseness, Myrtle picked up her pace and stomped ahead, the pair of serviceable boots she’d commandeered from the servants’ quarters grinding the light layering of snow and ice upon the cobblestones under her feet.

Myrtle arrived ’round the back of her family’s townhouse, and stopped.

This time, it wasn’t fear that froze her in her tracks, or her own self-pityings.

A pair of men, roughly dressed, stood outside her townhouse, assessing the stucco household, pointing periodically and nodding.

Two familiar gentlemen.

Mr. Phippen’s builders.

Her stomach sank.

Splendid.

They intended to begin their work. Except . . .

Myrtle frowned.

That didn’t quite make sense.

According to her parents, they had granted Mr. Phippen and his men the holidays, and those workers weren’t set to commence until at least the day after Christmas.

Clutching her basket close, Myrtle shivered, watching. Waiting for them to leave. Thinking they intended to remain.

Except she found herself also confused as to why they should be here.

It was likely some detail the head of the project had tasked them with. The renovations weren’t set to commence until after Christmas, but that didn’t mean they didn’t intend to begin work sooner.

She’d just have to send them away.

Inform them that she remained, and that her family was returning.

Only . . . they didn’t approach the front of the townhouse.

Rather, they disappeared down the side of the impressive structure.