He’d be more than happy to make himself useful, and the mistletoe was the perfect place to start. Somewhere safe and discreet, indeed. Safe and discreet were not in the spirit of the season. Besides, mistletoe provided opportunities he did not intend to pass up. He crossed to the pile of greenery. Someone had gathered the mistletoe into bunches tied with ribbons. He bent down and gathered the bunches together.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Elliott,” Fortesque said in a quiet voice behind him.
“Yes?” Gray stood up.
Fortesque glanced at Camille, then her mother, and leaned close in a confidential manner. “We have yet another new arrival. I put him in the library, and I thought perhaps it might be best if you were to handle this one, as I’m not sure Lady Lydingham is up to—”
“Yes, of course.” He thrust the bunches of mistletoe at the actor. “See to it that these are hung throughout the house.”
Fortesque took the greenery reluctantly. “But I was under the impression Lady Lydingham did not want—”
“Lady Lydingham wants everything to be perfect, and what is more perfect at Christmas than mistletoe?”
“Well, yes, I suppose, but—”
“Should she complain, you have my permission to place the blame entirely on me, although it might be wise to avoid her catching you in the act, as it were. So do try to be inconspicuous.”
“Yes, sir, but—”
“And, Fortesque, there might be a little something extra in your Christmas stocking if you manage this.”
“Yes, sir.” Fortesque nodded. “I shall do my best, sir.”
“I knew you would.” Gray grinned and headed toward the library. Camille couldn’t possibly complain about a kiss from him under the mistletoe. Of course, this also gave Pruzinsky increased opportunity; but as both Gray and Beryl would be watching, Pruzinsky’s advantage would be minimal.
He stepped into the library and pulled up short. Colonel Channing stood there, gazing out the window. But the way the man held himself seemed different from the man he remembered. Certainly, it had been a long time, but there was a tension in the line of his body that didn’t seem right. Perhaps it was what Gray had learned yesterday that still lingered in the back of his mind, or possibly it was instinct. And there was every chance he was wrong.
“Lord Briston?”
“Yes?” The gentleman turned toward him.
It had been years since he had seen Colonel Channing. Still . . .
“I’m certain you don’t remember me, sir,” Gray began. “I am Grayson Elliott.”
“Ah yes, Lord Fairborough’s nephew.” The older man nodded. “I hear you have done quite well for yourself.”
Gray nodded slowly and studied the other man, certainty growing within him. “You’re not Colonel Channing, are you?”
The gentleman’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you say that?”
“Because, for as long as I knew Colonel Channing, he never allowed himself to be called ‘Lord Briston’ out of deference to his brother.” He paused. “His dead brother.”
“Ah yes.” The man waved off the comment. “Things change, you know, boy.”
“Not this. Beyond that . . .” He drew a deep breath. “When Camille and I were looking for ornaments in the attic, I uncovered some letters. Letters from her dead father, dated long after his supposed death.”
“I see.” Lord Briston’s eyes narrowed. “What do you intend to do about this discovery of yours?”
“Whatever you wish me to do, sir.” He shook his head. “This is your home and your family. I would say the next step is yours. However, you should know”—he met the man’s gaze directly—“I will do whatever I think best to keep Camille from being hurt.”
“So that’s how it is, is it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And does my daughter feel the same about you?”
“I hope so, but I’m not sure she has realized it yet.”
“This sounds rather complicated.”
“You have no idea,” Gray muttered.
“Then I suspect explanations are in order.” He blew a long breath. “From both of us.” He glanced around. “Is the whisky still kept where it always was?”
“I believe so, sir.”
“Pour us each a glass, a large glass, and come sit down.” He moved to one of the chairs before the fireplace and settled into it. “This will take a while. It’s a long story.”
“It would have to be.” Gray moved to the cabinet where the whisky and brandy and various spirits had long been kept, poured two glasses and joined Camille’s father. He handed him a glass, then sat in the matching chair. “Might I ask, sir, why you are here? After all this time?”
“It’s Christmas,” Lord Briston said simply, and sipped his drink.
“Forgive me for saying, sir, but haven’t nearly twenty Christmases passed since you . . .”
“Died?”
Gray nodded.
“That wasn’t entirely by choice. Nonetheless, the fault is mine. But I have regretted every Christmas that I did not have the courage to return.” He swirled the whisky in his glass. “I said it was a long story—one I’ve never really told before. However as I am here, and as you are determined to protect Camille . . .” He shrugged.
“Go on, then, sir.”
“I should start from the beginning, I suppose.” He paused, obviously to pull his thoughts together. “Bernadette and I married very young, Mr. Elliott. Too young, really. We were both filled with the passion of youth. Both of us had, as well, what one might call volatile temperaments. We were both quick to anger. When we fought, which was frequently . . .” He smiled a sort of private smile and then cleared his throat. “Let us just say, it could not be ignored by anyone within hearing.
“At any rate, I inherited my title and the responsibilities that went along with it. Before I knew it, I had not only a wife but three daughters as well. Through the years, I found myself resenting all that had fallen upon my shoulders because I happened to be born a few minutes before my brother.”
He fell silent for a long moment. “He was free to wander the world and live a life filled with adventures and excitement, whereas I felt trapped. Can you understand that?”
“I can understand feeling that the circumstances of one’s life are not especially fair,” Gray said slowly, choosing his words with care. “I’m afraid I can’t understand allowing your family to believe you were dead.”
“That was not my decision, but I am getting ahead of myself.” He stared into the fire, obviously gathering his memories. “Basil found himself in a bit of trouble in India, the details of which scarcely matter now. I felt I had no choice but to go to his aid. He was my twin, after all. Bernadette agreed with my decision and even encouraged me to go. It took some time to extricate Basil from his difficulties, but I had expected that and had made certain Bernadette had all the legal authority she needed to make decisions about property and finances and life here. We had been married, oh, a dozen years or so by then.
“One thing led to another, and . . . I was a very stupid man, Mr. Elliott, and selfish, thinking only of myself. I was consumed with what I was missing rather than grateful for all that I had. I wrote and told my wife that while I loved her and the children, I would not be coming home for the foreseeable future. She was, needless to say, furious and hurt as well, I suspect, although she never said that. Pride, no doubt.”
“Understandable.”
“Of course it was.” He heaved a deep sigh. “She wrote and told me she would not allow her daughters to believe their father would abandon them. She’d rather they think he was dead.”
“I see.”
“A few years later, I wrote asking to come home. She refused to allow it. I wrote continuously after that, every few months, but she was adamant. And so the years passed.” He tossed back the rest of his whisky and held out his glass. Gray fetched the decanter and returned to fill the other man’s glass. “Can you understand how it feels to know you have made
the biggest mistake of your life, and the one person you pray will forgive you refuses to so much as speak with you?”
Gray shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I have an idea, sir.”
“I have kept abreast of their lives, though. I see Basil frequently, in various parts of the world. In addition to my letters, he has acted as a courier of sorts. Spoken on my behalf and all. He thinks I am the worst sort of coward.”
“Oh, I’m sure he doesn’t—”
“He’s right, you know.” Lord Briston smiled ruefully. “I have been. Still am, I think. But you come to a point in your life when you realize the days in front of you are fewer than the days behind, and you realize, as well, how much of your life you have squandered. And somehow you find the courage you have lacked.”
“So you’re here now.”
“That I am. Here to win my family back. God help me. Or them.” He raised his glass. “And we shall see. It should be an interesting Christmas.”
“In more ways than you can imagine.” Gray paused. “There are a few things you should know about this particular Christmas before you see anyone else.” Gray quickly explained about Camille’s plan, which actor was playing which part, the addition of small children, the unexpected arrival of Ladies Briston and Hargate, as well as how he and Beryl were certain Pruzinsky was a fraud.
Lord Briston chuckled. “I’m not sure why, but none of this surprises me.”
“Well, there is an element of amusement that—”
“There you are, Grayson.” Beryl swept into the room. The two men jumped to their feet. “Camille needs your assistance and I—” She caught sight of her father and stopped short. “Uncle Basil, what are you doing here? Not that I’m not pleased to see you. It is Christmas, after all. But your presence is not merely unexpected, but . . .” Her eyes widened and her face paled.
“Beryl.” Lord Briston stepped forward.
She stared for a long moment. “You’re looking remarkably good for a dead man.”
“How did you know?” her father asked.
“I found some of your letters a few years ago.” Her eyes narrowed. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come home,” he said simply.
“For Christmas?”
“For good, I hope. One never knows how much time one has left and I have wasted entirely too much.”
“That’s all very well and good, but what about last Christmas? And the Christmas before.” She folded her arms over her chest. “And all the Christmases that have passed?”
“There is nothing I can do to make up for the past. To make amends to you and your sisters and your mother.” He shook his head. “But I am here now.”
“Don’t expect us to fall all over ourselves greeting you with open arms.”
He smiled. “I never imagined that was a possibility.”
“It isn’t.” She looked at Gray. “You understand Camille cannot be told. Not yet.”
“You never told her?” Gray studied her.
“I didn’t know how. To tell her now, before this Christmas farce of hers is over, would be a disaster of monumental proportions.” There was the oddest tremble in her voice, as if she were drawing on all her strength and it was not quite enough. “I don’t think Delilah should be told either. I have no idea how she might take the resurrection of her dead father, but as she was very young when he died—I daresay, she can’t remember a time when she had a father.” She looked at her father. “As for you . . .” She shook her head. “I don’t know. . . .”
Gray had never imagined Beryl to be at a loss for words. She was right, though: Camille should not be told yet. If coming face-to-face with the father she knew wasn’t dead did this to Beryl, he couldn’t imagine the effect this revelation would have on Camille.
“I understand and you’re quite right.” Lord Briston nodded. “No need to complicate this Christmas any further. There will be plenty of time to set things right afterward.”
“Or you could save us all the trouble and leave,” Beryl said sharply. “Again.”
“I could.” His gaze met his daughter’s. “Would you prefer that I do so?”
“Yes,” she snapped. “But I doubt that my preference makes any difference whatsoever. Besides, you have two other daughters, and I shall not make this decision for them.”
“Good, as I am here to stay.” Determination sounded in the older man’s voice.
“You shall have to allow Camille to think you’re Uncle Basil until after Christmas. Dear Lord, we’ll need to explain you somehow. Oh, and you’ll have to play a part.” She cast Gray a helpless look. It was as frightening as seeing her at a loss for words.
“He could play my father, I suppose,” Gray said slowly. “I can’t think of anything else. Although, as your mother is playing the part of my mother, I’m not sure if it’s especially wise.” He glanced at Lord Briston. “But then, I suppose, it’s possible Lady Briston won’t realize who you really are.”
“Goodness, Grayson.”
All eyes immediately turned to the doorway and Lady Briston.
“I should think I would recognize my own husband.” Lady Briston’s gaze met her husband’s. “Good afternoon, Nigel.”
“Bernadette.” He nodded. “You look as lovely as I remember.”
“You look considerably older.” She studied him for a moment. “I don’t recall inviting you here. In fact, I distinctly remember telling you never to step foot in this house again.”
“And yet here I am.”
“Yes, indeed.” She released a long breath. “And it’s about bloody time too, isn’t it?”
He stared in obvious shock. “What?”
“Mother.” Beryl stepped toward the older woman. “Are you all right?”
“Quite. Indeed, I have never been better.” She directed her words to her daughter, but her gaze stayed on her husband. “Camille has been looking for you both. The children have been collected by their parents and have gone. Oh, and boy number two?” She glanced at Gray.
Gray nodded. “Simon.”
“He left you a message. A Christmas gift, he said. What was it?” Her brow furrowed. “Ah yes. He said you could have his wish.”
Gray smiled. “Thank you.”
“Might I suggest you use it wisely.”
Gray nodded. “I intend to.”
Her gaze narrowed and shifted back to her husband. The man may not think he had courage, but he stared back without flinching and even seemed to stand a bit straighter. “Now, then, children, do run along. And I quite agree that neither Camille nor Delilah should know anything about this newest development, except that Basil has returned. There is no need to create further chaos. We shall sort it all out after Christmas.”
“Of course, Mother,” Beryl said, but made no effort to move.
Gray grabbed her arm and fairly pushed her out of the library; then turned to close the doors behind him. His gaze met Lady Briston’s.
“Thank you, Grayson.” She nodded. “You may well do, after all.”
He smiled and pulled the doors closed. Beryl rested her back against the wall, with her eyes closed, looking as though she were about to melt into a puddle on the floor.
“Are you all right?”
“Do try not to be so blasted nice, Grayson.” She opened her eyes and glared at him. “It makes it exceedingly difficult to dislike you. And I much prefer to dislike you.”
“Why?”
“Because, if I don’t dislike you, I might possibly feel compelled to forgive you and even encourage my sister to forgive you as well.” She sighed. “Although I think I have lost that battle.”
“She’s forgiven me?” Hope sounded in his voice.
“It’s not for me to say, and I really don’t know.” She sniffed. “I don’t know what’s wrong with the women in this family. You’re gone for eleven years, and he’s gone for twenty, and now that you’re both back . . .”
“Perhaps . . .” He chose his words with care. “It all comes down to
love.”
“Dear Lord, I hope not.”
He laughed. “Why not?”
“Because I love my husband,” she snapped. “And I should hate to think that I would allow him to break my heart and then forgive him as if nothing had happened.”
He shook his head. “It’s not quite that easy.”
“No?” She nodded toward the closed doors. “Do you hear that?”
The low murmur of voices coming from the library rose in volume.
He winced. “It doesn’t sound good.”
She cast him a disgusted look. “You are an idiot.” She shook her head and started off; then turned back to him. “If you wish to win my sister, if you want her forgiveness, then do something about it.” She nodded at the closed doors. “Do you know what my father is doing right this very moment?”
“Arguing with your mother?”
She nodded. “And with a great deal of passion. The passion of anger is not so very different from the passion of . . . Well . . . need I say that by the time my parents are finished . . .” She sighed. “I suspect my sister has a passionate nature as well, one that has never truly been unleashed.”
He stared.
“Stop being her friend and stop being so bloody nice. Tell her why you’re really here. And what you really want.”
“Are you giving me advice?”
“Apparently.” She rolled her gaze heavenward. “I can’t believe it myself. But know this, Grayson Elliott.” She pinned him with a hard look. “If you have insinuated yourself into my sister’s life, only to leave again, I shall track you down myself and rip your heart out with my bare hands. Now.” She nodded. “Let us return to the others before something else happens.”
“One does wonder what else that could possibly be.” He stifled a grin and followed her.
Beryl was right. He had been Camille’s friend long enough. It was time to make a stand. Of course Camille still intended to marry Pruzinsky, and that needed to be dealt with. But, thus far, he and Beryl were doing an excellent job of keeping an eye on her; and in the process, keeping her and Pruzinsky apart as well.
Past time they had that talk Camille kept postponing. Past time to tell her straight out how he felt and what he wanted.
What Happens At Christmas Page 24