London, 1853

Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.

David Copperfield

In the tiny back courtyard of the Golden Egg Inn, Mina Scott lowered her copy of David Copperfield to her lap and lifted her face to the October sun. Closing her eyes, she savored the warmth and the first line to a new adventure, as was her wont whenever Miss Whymsy stopped by and lent her a book. Though she no longer stared at the page, the shapes of the words lingered, blazed in stark contrast to the brilliance against her lids. What a curious thought, to be one's own hero — for the only hero she wanted was William Barlow.

Ahh, William. Just thinking his name lit a fire in her belly.

"Mina!"

She shot to her feet, and the book plummeted to the ground. Her stomach dropped along with it — both for being caught idle and for the dirt smudges sure to mar the cover. With her toe, she slid the novel beneath her skirt hem, then patted her pocket to make sure the note Miss Whymsy had left behind hadn't fallen out as well. The small, folded paper crinkled beneath her touch, hidden and snug. Satisfied, she faced her father.

Jasper Scott, master of the inn and commander of her life, fisted hands the size of kidney pies at his hips. "What are ye doin' out in the yard, girl, when ye ought to be serving?"

She dipped her chin. "It's hardly teatime, Father. I thought to take a break before customers arrived." From the peak of the inn's rooftop, a swallow not yet flown to warmer climates chided the frail excuse. Not that she blamed the bird. It was a pitiful defense.

Her father fumbled his big fingers inside a small pocket on his waistcoat and pulled out a worn brass pocket watch. He flipped open the lid — and the whole thing fell to the ground. "Oh, bother!"

As he bent to pick it up, she stifled a smile. How large Father's grin would be on Christmas Eve when he opened the new watch fob she'd been saving all her pennies for.

Swiping up the dropped watch, Father first frowned at the time, then at her. "It's past tea." He snapped the timepiece shut and tucked it away. "I wager ye were reading again. Am I right?"

How did he know? How did he always know?

Slowly, she retrieved the book and held it out. "Maybe you ought to keep this until we close tonight."

"I thought as much when Miss Whymsy stopped by. Keep your head in the world, girl, not in the clouds. Ye'll never get a husband that way." He snatched the novel from her hand. "And besides that, this being the last day o' October, ye must turn yer sights away from make-believe tales and toward Christmas. Only a little over seven weeks remain to make this the best celebration the Golden Egg has ever seen, so ye must focus, girl. Now off with ye. There are patrons already clamoring for a whistle wetting."

"Yes, Father." She scurried past him. Since she'd been a little girl, the annual Christmas Eve celebration at the Golden Egg meant everything to Father. 'Twas a poor replacement for her departed mother, but a replacement, she supposed, nonetheless. She darted through the back door and nearly crashed into Martha, the inn's cook.

"Peas and porridge!" Martha stepped aside, the water in her pot sloshing over the rim and dampening the flagstones. "Watch yer step, missy."

"Sorry, Martha." Giving the woman a wider berth, she grabbed her apron from a peg and a cloth for wiping tables, then scooted out to the taproom.

Once she entered the public area, she slowed her steps and drew a deep breath. No one liked to be waited upon by a ruddy-cheeked snippet of a skirt. Scanning the room, she frowned. Only two tables were filled. Surely Father could've managed to wait upon these few —

Her gaze landed on her brown-haired hero, and her heartbeat increased to a wild pace. William Barlow leaned forward in a chair, deep in conversation with the fellow seated adjacent to him — his friend, Mr. Fitzroy. Will's presence lit the dull taproom into a brilliant summer landscape simply by merit of his presence — especially when he threw his head back and laughed. And oh, what a laugh. Carefree and merry, as if he'd reached out his hand and pulled her into a jig with the lightness of it.

Mina grabbed a pitcher and filled it with ale, the draw of William too strong to deny. Bypassing the other customers, she headed straight for his table.

"He's invited me to a tea, of all things." His voice, smooth as fresh flowing honey, grew louder the closer she drew to his table. "Can you imagine that, Fitz? A tea. How awful."

A smile curved her mouth as she imagined taking tea with William. Just the two of them. Him in his finest frock coat with a snowy cravat. Her in a new gown. She'd pour a steaming cup for him, and he'd lift a choice little cake to her lips while speaking of his deepest affections. She sighed, warm and contented. "I should think a tea would be very pleasant," she murmured.

Both men turned toward her. Mr. Fitzroy spoke first. "Well, if it isn't the lovely Miss Scott, come to save me from this boorish fellow." He elbowed William.

Will arched a brow at her, a rogue grin deepening the dimples at the sides of his mouth. "I was wondering when you'd grace us with your appearance, sweet Mina."

Sweet Mina. Heat flooded her cheeks. She'd be remembering that endearment in her dreams tonight.

But for now, she scowled. "Mr. Barlow, if my father hears of your familiarity, I fear —"

"Never fear." He winked — and her knees weakened. "I'm a champion with ruffled fathers."

Ignoring his wordplay, she held up the pitcher. "Refills?" William slapped his hand to his heart. "You know me too well."

Not as well as I'd like to. She bit her tongue. Where had that come from? Maybe Father was right. Maybe she had been reading too many books.

"I'm as intrigued as Miss Scott." Mr. Fitzroy held his cup out to her, for she'd filled William's mug first. "Why would you not want to attend your uncle's tea? As I recall, he's a jolly enough fellow." Will slugged back a long draw of his ale and lowered his cup to the table. "Nothing against Uncle Barlow, mind you. And in truth, I was pleased he'd made contact. It's just that, well ... I am to bring my wife along."

Wife!

The pitcher clattered to the floor. Mina stared at it, horrified. Ale seeped into the cracks of the floorboards, the very image of her draining hopes and dreams. William Barlow had a wife?

Will shot to his feet. "Mina, you look as if you've seen the Cock Lane ghost. Are you ill?"

"I'm f–fine. The pitcher — it slipped, that's all." She crouched, righted the pitcher to preserve the remaining ale, then yanked the rag from her waistband and mopped up the mess with more force than necessary. The scoundrel! All this time he'd had a hearth and home already tended by a wife? Did he have children as well? She scrubbed harder, grazing her knuckles against the rough wood. Good. She relished the pain and for a wicked moment thought about swishing the spilled ale over William's shoes.

"Wife?" Surprise deepened Mr. Fitzroy's voice also. So ... Will's best friend had not known either? That was a small satisfaction, at least.

"This is news," Mr. Fitzroy continued. "When did that happen?"

Holding her breath, she ceased her scrubbing, though why she cared indicted...