“I am.” The new arrival pulled off his hat and ran a hand through his shorn hair, the top of his head quite the contradiction to his bushy muttonchops. A rumpled dress coat peeked through the gap of his unbuttoned coat, and his trousers looked as if they’d never seen a hot iron. Clearly the man was not married, nor was he the master of the manor.
“You were not due to arrive for another half hour, sir.” A scowl tugged down the corners of the butler’s mouth.
Mr. Pocket twisted his lips, his great muttonchops going along for the ride. “Yet the invitation did not specify an arrival time, unless … ahh! I see. The deliveries were spaced out to ensure a regulated arrival schedule. Am I correct?”
“Very clever, Inspector.”
“Part of the job.”
So the fellow was a lawman. Ben flattened his back against the wall, sinking deeper into the shadow of the clock. Questions ticked in his mind with each swing of the pendulum. Was Pocket sent to make sure he didn’t run or to finish him off? Or possibly set him up for something more sinister than embezzlement and fraud? But why the big charade? Why not just kill him in gaol or ship him off as planned?
“If you wouldn’t mind stepping in here until dinner, sir.” The butler opened a door in a side wall, but his back hindered Ben’s view into the room. “You may meet some of the other guests while you wait.”
“All right. Don’t mind if I do.” Mr. Pocket swept past the man and vanished.
Ben dashed back to the stairs, folded his arms, and leaned against the railing as if he’d never moved.
The butler hesitated on the bottom stair only long enough to say, “My apologies for the delay, Mr. Lane. Please, let us continue.”
Ben trailed the man as he travelled up two flights, then noted every door they passed and any corridors intersecting the one they travelled. There were two, one lit, one dark. They stopped at the farthest chamber of what he guessed to be the east wing.
The butler opened the door but blocked him from entering. “You’ll find a bath drawn in front of the hearth, grooming toiletries on a stand opposite, and a set of dinner clothes laid out on the bed. I shall send a footman up to retrieve you in”—he reclaimed his watch once more and held it up for inspection before tucking it away—“forty-five minutes. Is that sufficient?”
“Very generous,” he replied.
“Very good.” The butler stepped aside, allowing him to pass, then pulled the door shut.
Ben froze. The chamber gleamed in lamplight and gilt-striped wallpaper, so large and glorious it might overwhelm a duke. At center, a four-poster bed commanded attention, mattresses high enough to require a step stool. Against one wall stood an oversized roll-top desk and matching chair, decked out with full stationery needs. Several padded chairs and three different settees formed two distinct sitting areas. A screen offered privacy for necessary functions, and thick brocaded drapery covered what must be an enormous bank of windows.
He changed his mind. This would overwhelm a king.
Shaking off his stupor, he stalked to the copper basin in front of the fire. Steam rose like a mist on autumn water, smelling of sage and mint. Nine months. Nine never-ending months of filth and sweat and blood.
He stripped off his prison garb, heedless of ripping the threadbare fabric, and kicked the soiled lump from him, uncaring that it lodged beneath the bed. Good riddance.
Water splashed over the rim as he sank into the water, warmth washing over him like a lover’s embrace. A sob rose in his throat. This time last year, he’d bathed before dinner just like this. Dressed in fine clothes similar to those laid on the counterpane. Dined by candlelight with the woman he loved fiercely. Kissed Clara’s sweet lips until neither of them could breathe.
What a fool.
He snatched the bar of soap off the tray hooked to the tub’s side, then scrubbed harder than necessary. Of course this wasn’t like last Christmas Eve. It could never be.
For he wouldn’t see Clara ever again.
CHAPTER FIVE
Enough was quite enough. Clara rose from the chair and crossed to Miss Scurry’s side. Her step faltered only once as she drew near, her distaste of rodents almost getting the better of her, but surely the scrap of handkerchief would keep the mice snug inside the woman’s box. Hopefully.
Tears glistened in Miss Scurry’s eyes, her quizzing glass dangling forgotten on its ribbon. Clara laid a hand on her shoulder, squeezing a light encouragement. Then she faced Mr. Pocket, who’d stationed himself at the hearth, questioning them all as if they stood before the great white throne.
“Mr. Pocket, I fear your questions are a bit much for Miss Scurry.”
“Oh?” The man sniffed, his large nostrils flaring. “Well, perhaps just one more then. Miss Scurry, you say that if you remain the duration of the Twelve Day holiday, your invitation guaranteed the lost would be found, which seems a small thing, depending of course on that which was lost. So tell me, please, what was lost and why is it of such importance? Why weren’t you promised money, as in Miss Chapman’s case, for then you could replace what was lost? Or if the missing item is not of monetary value, then why not the hope of companionship, a friend, so to speak, which is Mr. Minnow’s lure?” Mr. Pocket swept out his hand to where Mr. Minnow primped his cravat in front of a mirror on the other side of the sitting room.
“I … I …,” Miss Scurry stuttered, her words tied on the thread of a whimper. “All will be clear on the day of reckoning.”
Clara patted the lady’s shoulder. Were all inspectors so bullish? “Mr. Pocket, I believe it is time for you to tell us exactly what your invitation stated. It’s only fair, and I should think that to a man who upholds justice, fairness is one of your utmost concerns. Is it not?”
A grin stretched the man’s lips, from one edge of his long sideburns to the other. “Delightful, Miss Chapman. Were you a man, you’d make a fine inspector.” Leaving his post, he strode to a chair adjacent them and sat. “I have nothing to hide, and so I shall state my case plainly. My invitation pledged me a new position. A higher rank. One with more importance.”
“And that is?” Clara pressed.
“Magistrate, Miss Chapman. No more slogging through alleys to collar a criminal. No interrogating doxies or cullies or cutthroats. Just a seat on a tall bench with an even taller wig, a blazing hearth fire at my back, and the felons brought to me. Ahh.” He closed his eyes, serenity erasing the lines on his brow.
From this angle, lamplight lit some of the shorn hairs on his head with silver. Looking closer, Clara spied the same threads of white sprinkled throughout his sideburns. Her heart softened, imagining the rugged life he’d led roaming the dangerous streets of London. No wonder he wanted to trade professions.
The door opened, interrupting her thoughts and pulling Mr. Pocket to his feet.
“Dinner is served.” The butler, resplendent in a black dress coat, matching trousers, and starched white collar, held out his gloved hand in invitation. “If you would all follow me, please.”
Mr. Minnow shot to Clara’s side, nearly toppling Mr. Pocket as he darted past him. His gingery scent assaulted her nose.
“Allow me to escort you, my pet.” He grabbed her hand and placed it on his arm without waiting for an answer.
She gritted her teeth. It was going to be a very long Twelve Days.
They filed out and had just entered the foyer, when the front door burst open and a grey whirlwind blew in, lugging an overstuffed carpetbag and muttering all the way.
“Les idiots! Le monde est rempli des idiots!”
The woman stormed up to the butler and shouted in his face. “Why no one help me carry my bag, eh? Help me from the carriage? Open the door? I will speak to the master of la maison. Now!”
Clara blinked. Miss Scurry clutched her box to her chest. Mr. Pocket took a step closer, scrutinizing the interaction.
Yet the butler merely lifted his hand and snapped his fingers. “Mademoiselle Pretents, I presume?”
“Oui!” The s
hort lady stamped her foot.
A footman appeared and, without a word, managed to remove the woman’s woolen cape and sweep the bonnet from her head, then collected her bag. The quick movements were so unexpected, even Mademoiselle Pretents stood gaping. Her dark little eyes, which were far too close together, narrowed, following his retreat with her possessions. For half an instant, Clara wondered if she would chase after him like a hound to the kill.
“Let us continue then, shall we?” The butler passed beneath the lion head, the doors now open to reveal a great lobby and a grand stairway.
Mademoiselle Pretents flew across the room, yanking Clara’s hand from Mr. Minnow’s arm and placing her fingers on his sleeve. “Oui, let us continue.”
Clara hid a smile. The woman could have no idea the service she’d just rendered.
The group filed after the butler, Mr. Minnow and Mademoiselle Pretents in the lead, followed by Miss Scurry, then Clara, and finally Mr. Pocket. They passed from elegance to splendor, with gilt-framed portraits decorating the corridor walls and thick Persian runners beneath their feet. The sitting room was a bleak den in comparison. Suddenly it made sense that the master who’d invited them would greet his guests in the dining room, for surely such a great man would want to be seen housed in the finest glory.
“Très magnifique,” Mademoiselle Pretents breathed out as she passed through cherrywood doors into the dining room.
“Indeed,” Mr. Minnow murmured beside her.
Miss Scurry entered next, then paused and looked over her shoulder at Clara. “Oh, my beauty, it is glorious in here. Come and see.”
Crossing the threshold, Clara sucked in a breath. She’d attended some of the finest dinners in London. Danced in many a grand ballroom. Visited and taken tea in posh surroundings. All were slums in comparison.
She entered on cat’s feet, padding carefully, unwilling to break the spell of enchantment created by hundreds of crystals raining from chandeliers, lit by candles that must have taken the staff at least a half hour to ignite. Wine-coloured wallpaper, embellished with golden threads, soaked in the light, then reflected it back ever brighter. Silver utensils and fine china adorned the table. Truly, only Buckingham Palace could compare.
At the head of the table, a man stood with his back to them. Tall. Broad of shoulder. Hair the colour of burnt cream, slicked back yet curiously ragged at the ends. Power clung to his frame as finely as his well-tailored dress coat. He belonged here, surrounded by wealth, intimidating any and all who trod weak-kneed into his domain. No one spoke a word. Not even Mademoiselle Pretents.
Clara trembled. Why would such a powerful man invite her here, especially now that she’d sunk so low in society? She was no one.
Slowly, the man turned, gaze passing from person to person. And when those hazel eyes landed on her, she gasped.
A nightmare stared back at her, a ghost from the past who never—ever—should have risen from the grave. The audacity! The gall!
For a moment she froze, gaping, then she shouldered past the other guests and slapped him open-palmed across the face.
CHAPTER SIX
Ben’s head jerked aside, the slap echoing in his skull, the crack of flesh upon flesh reverberating in the room. Unbelievable. This whole day had been one big snarl of impossibility. Even more stunning, Clara raised her hand for another strike. The nerve of the little vixen! He grabbed her wrist, unsure who shook more, her or him.
“How dare you invite me here?” Crimson patches of murder stained her cheeks. “And how foolish of me to have walked into your trap. Was my humiliation not enough?”
“Your humiliation?” He ground his teeth until his jaw cracked. This was not to be borne. He’d rotted in a gaol cell, been beaten, left cold, hopeless, while this pampered princess suffered what? Dinner parties and suitors in his absence?
She yanked from his grasp, rubbing away his touch. “You are a beast.”
A short woman draped in grey and as blustery as a November breeze nudged Clara aside. “I am your servant, monsieur, Mademoiselle Pretents. Shall I dismiss this rabble for you, hmm?” She fluttered her fingertips at Clara.
He frowned. “Surely you’re not under the impression that I …” He looked past her to the three others inhabiting the dining room. Expectation gleamed in an elderly lady’s eyes. Next to her, a thin man’s gaze burned with eagerness, and even the muttonchopped inspector, Mr. Pocket, leaned back on his heels in anticipation.
Clara turned and strode to the far side of the table, her body so rigid a carpenter could lay beams across her shoulders.
“Monsieur.” The grey lady stepped closer, head bowed. If she were a dog, no doubt her tail would be tucked. “I am so greatly honoured to be in your presence.”
He stifled a snort—barely. He’d laugh her off, if the situation weren’t so brutally ironic. All his life he’d worked hard to achieve status such as this, and now that he was a condemned felon, apparently he had it. A perfectly beautiful paradox, really.
Yet a complete lie. He shook his head. “I am not the master of Bleakly Manor, if that’s what you think.”
The grey lady’s mouth puckered and she spit out a “Pah!” Grabbing handfuls of her skirts, she whirled away.
The inspector edged toward him. “Then who are you, sir?”
“Not that it signifies”—he glanced down the table to where Clara stood, back toward him—“but I am Benjamin Lane.”
She did not turn at the name that should’ve been hers by now, but he did detect a flinch.
“Lane? Lane, you say? Hmm.” Mr. Pocket stopped in front of him. This close, his magnificent nose took on a whole new proportion, eclipsing the inspector’s face. The fellow was nothing but one great beak with side-whiskers. “What were you promised if you stay the duration, Mr. Lane?”
Ben studied him. If the lawman had been sent here to keep an eye on him, then the fellow already knew the answer. But that didn’t mean he had to make things easy for the inspector.
“Are you a card player, sir?” Ben asked.
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Been known to indulge now and then. Why?”
“Then you will appreciate it when I hold my cards close to my chest.”
Mr. Pocket’s lips parted to reply, but the butler announced from across the room, “Dinner is served. Please, be seated.”
Savory scents entered the room, along with servants bearing all manner of platters and tureens. They lined up their offerings on sideboards against the wall.
Ben waited to see where the odd assortment of guests might land, hoping to distance himself from all and especially from Clara. The betrayer. Unbidden, his gaze slipped to where she sat, near the end of the table. Her beauty goaded. Her raven hair done up in a chignon, loose curls falling to her shoulder, taunted him with memories of when she’d let him nuzzle its silkiness with his cheek—the same cheek that yet stung from her slap.
The thin man sat next to her, far closer than decorum allowed. A footman marched over and bent, whispering into the man’s ear. The bony fellow shot up from his chair, upsetting it onto two legs for a moment, then darted to the other side of the table and sank like a kicked puppy onto a different seat.
Only two open seats remained, both next to Clara, one of which was at the head of the table. That gave him only one option, really.
He strode to the seat next to her, the one the bony little man had tried to take, then grimaced to see BENJAMIN LANE written in gold on the place card. Whoever arranged this meeting was clearly toying with him—with all of them. But to what end?
He grabbed the chair and scooted it as far from her as possible. She inched hers away, as well. Had ever a Christmas Eve been so awkward?
A servant placed bowls of steaming green soup in front of each of them, leastwise what he assumed had been served to all. Hard to tell what went on opposite him now that they were seated. A huge centerpiece, filled with green fronds and peacock feathers, ran the length of the table and blocked his view. But he could hear t
hem. Mademoiselle Pretents’s voice berated the server for a perceived slight. The elderly lady cooed about something or maybe to someone. The thin man and the inspector didn’t say a word.
Neither did Clara. Nor did she eat. She sat as a Grecian statue, cold, marble, staring into her bowl. Did she even breathe? Not that he cared.
Liar.
He grabbed his spoon and started shoveling in soup. He did care, and that’s what irked him most. He cared that she’d so easily thrown away everything they’d shared, every laugh, every whisper. Every kiss.
He slammed down the spoon and shoved the bowl away, speaking for her ears alone. “Whatever you may think, I didn’t do it.”
“I cannot believe you deny what you did.” Only her lips moved, for she refused to look at him. Her voice sharpened to a razor edge, one he’d never heard her use before. “You are a thief of the highest order.”
Rage coloured the room red. He’d flattened men for lesser insults. His tone lowered to a growl. “Nor can I believe you so easily accepted such a lie. Tell me, did you lose faith in me immediately after you first heard the accusation, or did you give it a full five minutes?”
She jerked her face to his, blue eyes blazing to violet, the dark kind of purple before a storm. “You are insufferable!”
“I?” Her boldness stole his breath. “Did you even try to find out the truth?”
“What truth? That you put Blythe Shipping out of business? That you ran off with my family’s investment? That you’ve been living like a king God-knows-where while I have been reduced to nothing?” Her chest heaved, and her nostrils flared. A wild mare couldn’t have been any more inflamed. “Or are you speaking of the truth wherein you left me standing alone and unwanted at the altar?”
He clenched his hands to keep from throttling her. What nonsense was this? “It’s a little hard to attend a wedding—even my own—when locked in a cell at Millbank.”
The angry stain on her cheeks bled to white. “Millbank?” she whispered.
Was this a ploy? Some kind of feminine manipulation? He narrowed his eyes. If so, her mistake. He knew her too well, and if her right eye twitched, even the smallest possible tic, her lie would be exposed. “You didn’t know?”
3 Charming Christmas Tales Set in Victorian England Page 3