The marchioness didn't waste any time. The preparations for the big festivities began that very day. Missives were dispatched to villages all around, hiring additional staff. When the carriages returned, they weren't just laden with additional staff, but also with all sorts of delicacies of the season, from goose and turkey over gravy to treacle, cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, ginger, and all the other ingredients needed for a Christmas pudding.

A real Christmas pudding...

The thought alone brought a smile to my face. I hadn't had one of those since my parents had died. Uncle Bufford's idea of celebrating Christmas was to let down all the blinds and put an extra sturdy lock on the door as protection against carol singers.

From the way Mr Ambrose's left little finger was twitching at the sight of servants bustling through Battlewood, polishing, cleaning and preparing, I could tell he had similar urges. But, like the strong man he was, he kept them in check.

The next few days were a whirlwind. People streamed into the manor house like mice into a pot of sugar. Everything was being cleaned, rooms were being aired that hadn't been used or even opened for years. Thousands of candles were fetched out of secret stores in the cellar, and soon the chandeliers throughout Battlewood shone in tripled glory. And it wasn't just the servants who did all the work: I was in the front ranks, along with Adaira and Lady Samantha, acting as generals of an army of little Christmas elves in maid and footman uniforms.

At my suggestion, Mr Ambrose was roped into the preparations and given the task of acquiring the decorations for the approaching Christmas celebrations. Ostensibly, the reason behind my suggestion was keeping Mr Ambrose too busy to think about leaving, but the real reason was that I simply really enjoyed watching the muscle in his jaw twitch maniacally while he chased servants through the snowy woods on the search for a suitably towering tree and stood on a ladder fixing mistletoe to chandeliers.

I, meanwhile, had a bigger role to play than simply general of the Christmas elves: I had become Lady Samantha's official advisor on all things Rikkard Ambrose.

'I need you, Mr Linton,' she explained, looking up at me with a half-sad, half-hopeful expression on her face. 'When my son left, he was an open, cheerful boy. Today...' She shook her head. 'Sometimes I look into his eyes, and I wonder if it's really him, until I look deeper and know it is my son. It is definitely him. But I don't know him anymore. You are the closest thing my son has to a friend. If he is going to relax and enjoy during our festivities, I need you to help me. Tell me, what should I include in my plans for Christmas? What does my son enjoy?'

I considered for a moment. 'Err...making money?'

'No, no. I mean what does he do for fun, Mr Linton?'

'Work. A lot.'

'And other than that?'

'Um...bully employees into working faster?'

'So...what you are telling me is that my son most enjoys doing all the things in this world that are not meant to be enjoyed?'

'Exactly, Your Ladyship. You hit the nail on the head.'

'So what do you suggest we do?'

'Well, do you have more rooms in this house that aren't decorated yet?'

'Dozens. But they won't really be used.'

I smiled. 'He doesn't need to know that, does he? Keep him busy. That's the best thing you can do.' Plus, it's just so much fun to watch.

'Oh, thank you, Mr Linton! Thank you!'

'You're most welcome, Your Ladyship.'

The preparations continued in a wild whirlwind. With every day, things were better: the winter-blooming flowers in the winter garden opened, more sparkling snow fell, promising a perfectly white Christmas, and Rikkard Ambrose ran all over the place, chasing about tree-decorators and mistletoe-hangers, his jaw muscles now suffering from chronic twitches. In short: life was busy and life was good.

Until, one day...

'Mr Linton?'

'Yes?' Looking up from the mirror I had been inspecting for specs of dust, I saw Lady Samantha hurrying towards me, a stack of newspapers in her arms. The uppermost was open to the social pages, showing the engraving of a beautiful young lady.

Uh-oh...

'I, um...have been preparing for the other part of the festivities,' the marchioness whispered, glancing around as if she feared Mr Ambrose might suddenly jump out from behind one of the mirrors on the walls. 'Can we talk?'

'Of course, Your Ladyship. Is there somewhere private?'

'Come with me.'

She led me into a little chamber that had nothing in it but a table, a few chairs, and a lock on the door. The latter the marchioness now locked behind us. Then she went to check the windows and lower the blinds.

'You remember what I mentioned about the...special possibilities of this occasion?'

'Oh yes. I remember.'

'Well...' Depositing the papers on the table, she started spreading them out. 'I've collected the most recent issues of local papers – especially the social pages, with engravings of various young ladies that made impressions at balls in the vicinity.' A dreamy gleam entered into her eyes as she gazed down at the table. 'Look at them! Aren't they beautiful?'

'Yes,' I groaned. 'They are.'

'Mr Linton? You sound a little off. Are you feeling quite well?'

'Yes, yes, thank you. Please continue.'

'Well, I was going through these, trying to decide whom to invite, and I thought you could advise me. You've been such a tremendous help, and such a good friend to my son. Besides, it would be so helpful to get a man's perspective.'

'You don't say.'

'Yes.' She pointed down at the spread-out newspapers. 'So, which of these young ladies do you find most attractive? Which would you be inclined to marry?'

I cleared my throat. 'Well...that isn't an easy question to answer.'

'I know.' She sighed. 'They're all so lovely.'

'Well, um...yes. Of course. Lovely.' I cleared my throat again. 'But aren't we asking the wrong question? I mean, it is not about what I, a humble secretary, would prefer in a wife. Trust me, you would not want the kind of spouse that I am looking for for your son.'

'Are you sure?'

'Absolutely!'

'Well... I suppose you are right. Rick is the son of a marquess. The two of you belong to different worlds.'

'That, and he is a completely different person from me. We need to find the perfect woman for him, specifically.'

'You're right, of course.' She threw me a grateful smile. 'I'm so glad I have you to advise me.'

'So am I, Your Ladyship, believe me. So am I.'

'So...which of these young ladies do you think would make a good wife to my boy? Here are a few I picked out. Have a look and tell me what you think.'

She handed me a couple of newspaper cut-outs with more printed engravings. I looked at the first – and pulled a face.

'Ugh!'

'What?' Lady Samantha looked crestfallen. 'You don't like her? But she's so beautiful!'

My point exactly.

But I had a feeling I'd better not say that out loud. So instead, I cleared my throat. 'Well...yes. But she has blonde hair.'

A puzzled frown spread across Lady Samantha's face. 'Is that a problem?'

'Definitely! Any candidates for the post of your future daughter-in-law can't be blonde – or black-haired, for that matter. Mr Ambrose only ever looks with interest at brunettes.'

'Really?'

'Oh yes. And they shouldn't be too slim, either. I've been long enough with him to know from personal experience that he likes women with a little meat on their bones.'

'Oh, Mr Linton!' Reaching over, she clasped my hand. 'Thank you! This is exactly what I need. Please, go ahead and look through the images, and dispose of those you think are unsuitable.'

A smile spread across my face. 'My pleasure.'

I looked back down at the image in my hand – a slim, beautiful blonde girl with gorgeous green eyes. With a scowl, I threw it over my shoulder.

'No. Next one...No, too tall. Next one – no, too small. Next one – yikes, no! Much too beautiful.'

Lady Samantha blinked. 'That is a bad thing?'

'Umm...well, yes, of course. You don't want your son to marry for looks alone, do you?'

'Well, no of course not, I would never...'

'There, you see? We need ugly girls! Lots and lots of ugly girls.'

'But...how do you know these ones will more intelligent?'

'We'll only pick ones with really big heads, of course. Here, like this one.' I showed her a picture – and she flinched back. 'Didn't you read of this brilliant new scientific discovery? Professor William H. Anstruther found compelling evidence that the intelligence of a person is relative to the size of their heads.' Inconspicuously, I crossed my fingers behind my back. Please God, if you exist, forgive me. 'It's quite simple, really. Larger heads means more space for more brains.'

'Oh.' A smile brightened her face, and she squeezed my hand. 'Thank you so much, Mr Linton! I'm so glad I have you to help me. I don't know what I would do without you.'

Throw a magnificent ball with beautiful guests, probably.

'So, let's continue, shall we?'

'By all means, do.' She watched eagerly as I continued to sort through the pictures.

'This one – God no! Just look at that devious smile of hers. She can't be trusted. That one – no! She looks far too grim. Mr Ambrose needs someone with a little humour in her. This one – blonde Next one – blonde. Next one – blonde again!'

'Um...that looks more like red to me.'

I gazed at the image critically. 'Strawberry blonde,' I decided, and it sailed over my shoulder onto the rubbish heap.

'Next one – no. And... no. And no. And no. And not that one, either. Nope, she hasn't got a chance. And that one? God, no!

The rubbish heap grew. Lady Samantha gifted me with a radiant smile. 'It's heartwarming to see someone besides me who thinks nobody is good enough for my boy.'

Nobody? Well, that's not precisely true...

Finally, I had managed to wheedle down the competition – officially known as 'honoured guests' – from five hundred to thirty-six.

Thirty-six.

Thirty-six maybe not particularly beautiful but still much too womanly women, who, in a short while, would be invading this house and vying for the attention of Mr Rikkard Ambrose. With narrowed eyes, I surveyed the selection of harpies spread out in front of me. There were a few I could discount immediately – like Daphne Belleville, a seventeen-year-old hatchling who had just had her debut last month and, by all reports, was too shy to ask for sugar with her tea. One frosty look from Mr Rikkard Ambrose, and she would be scurrying off in the opposite direction. And as for Lady Caroline Sambridge, she had spent two thousand pounds last year on jewellery alone. Mr Ambrose wouldn't touch her with a ten-foot pole.

But the rest...

They were not actually horrific. Some didn't even have the decency to be ugly. Was it too much to ask for a hump or a wart on the nose?

Sure, they were nothing to write home about, but then, neither was I. Not in the eyes of the stupid, chauvinistic public, who badly needed a new set of standards by which to judge women. The question now was: were society's standards also those of Mr Rikkard Ambrose? Yes, we had had fun in the jungle, but if he ever seriously wanted a woman, could it really be someone like me?

The time for doubt is over, Lilly. You're at Battlewood. Time for the battle to begin!

'Oh...' Lady Samantha gazed down at the selection of ladies on the table, her eyes dreamy. 'They're wonderful! I can just feel it: we have the right girl. We have her here.'

Gazing at the images of the competition with narrowed eyes, I cracked my knuckles. 'Oh yes. We have.'