“I’m coming with you,” Grayson called after her.

“No, you’re not!” She didn’t turn to see if he was doing as she asked; only picked up her pace. The footman was taller than she was, and she had to work to keep up with him. “And you, take that stupid thing off.”

“Yes, my lady.” He snatched the wig off his head. Obviously, she would need to have another chat with Fortesque.

They trimmed a good ten minutes off the half-hour walk. The house was almost in sight when Grayson joined them.

“I thought I asked you to remain at the pond?” She huffed.

“I thought you might need my help,” he said. “If this is indeed of dire importance. And I have taken care of the others.”

“Have you now?”

“I cut through the fields and went directly to the stables. I arranged for your carriage to pick up everyone at the pond. They should be no more than ten minutes behind us,” he said. “Clever of you not to have actors take the places of your carriage driver and groom.”

“They’re very loyal, they can be trusted and they don’t gossip. Besides, I needed them. It appears servants who work primarily out-of-doors do not long to be on the stage the same way others might.” She leveled a hard look at the footman. He winced and walked faster.

They turned onto the front drive and approached the manor. They were nearly there, when the door slammed open. Beryl fairly flew down the drive toward them.

“Good Lord, Beryl.” Camille stared at her sister. “What is it?”

“Children!” Beryl could scarcely get the word out. Her always composed, completely self-possessed sister had the appearance of someone who had just escaped from Bedlam. “There are children here. Dozens and dozens of children! They were . . .” Her eyes grew wider if possible. “Delivered! And this”—she thrust an envelope at Gray—“came with them. For you!”

“Ah yes, of course. I was expecting this.” He tore open the envelope. “Not so quickly, but I knew I could count on Win.”

“Grayson.” Camille stared at him in horror, a dreadful sense of apprehension twisting in her stomach. “What have you done?”

“A brilliant job, I would say.” He pulled out a folded note, shook it open and read.

“Children!” Beryl sputtered and grabbed her sister’s arm. “They’re everywhere, Camille. Everywhere, I tell you.”

“Grayson.” Camille studied him closely. The damnable man didn’t look the least bit concerned, but then perhaps children didn’t affect him the way they did Beryl. “Why are there children in the house?”

“Well, as you are trying to have a Christmas based on the works of Mr. Dickens, and most of his books have orphans in them . . .” He shrugged. “I thought a few orphans would only increase the authenticity.”

“ ‘Orphans’?” Disbelief widened her eyes. “Orphans?”

He grinned in an all too satisfied manner. “Orphans.”