What Happens At Christmas

by Victoria Alexander

  Gray shrugged. “He has a tendency to hiss.”

  “Ah, well.” Win meandered around the edges of the room, examining a book here, a portrait there. “It is so hard to get good help.”

  Gray narrowed his eyes. “Why are you here?”

  “Why, tomorrow is Christmas, and I have come bearing tidings of, if not great joy, then at least of interest. But first tell me . . .” He grinned. “How goes the play?”

  “Hmph.” Gray crossed the room. “I assume you’re parched from the ride over. Whisky or brandy?”

  “So early in the day?”

  “It’s later than you think,” Gray muttered.

  “Well, as tonight is Christmas Eve . . .” He studied his cousin for a moment. “You’re in a foul mood today.”

  “And the day is still young.”

  It had been an awkward day, thus far. He wasn’t sure what had happened between Camille and her family, but the ladies scarcely said more than a few polite words to one another when he had seen them at breakfast. The actors and Pruzinsky had, as had become their custom, not presented themselves for breakfast. He had yet to see Pruzinsky today, but he thought the others were in the parlor.

  Lady Briston had pulled Gray aside and said that, as things were so complicated, Lord Briston had decided he would feign illness and stay out of the path of everyone, at least until tonight. But there had been a sparkle in Lady Briston’s eyes and a flush in her cheeks that recalled Beryl’s comments about the passion of Lord and Lady Briston’s arguments. After last night, he could well understand it.

  As for Camille, she was surprisingly cordial, as if nothing had happened between them at all. For his part, he wasn’t sure what to say to her either. Certainly, he was guilty of a certain amount of arrogance, of making assumptions he had no right to make. And once again, he had failed to tell her everything he should have. But he had decided he needed to do something about Pruzinsky, and he needed to do it as soon as possible. Then he would apologize and even grovel, if necessary.

  He poured two glasses, handed one to Win and then settled in one of the chairs in front of the fireplace. “You might as well sit down. There have been a number of unexpected plot twists.”

  Win seated himself and chuckled. “The orphans.”

  “The orphans were the least of it.” He cast the other man an admiring look. “Although I must admit, Carrolls for Christmas was rather brilliant.”

  “I thought so.” Win grinned. “When I received your note asking for orphans, well, it was entirely too good to pass up.”

  “It was, indeed. But the children weren’t the only unexpected additions to the cast.” He met his cousin’s gaze. “Lady Briston and Delilah returned home as well.”

  “Perfect.” Win raised his glass. “Indeed, that’s how I would have written this farce.”

  “And that’s not all.”

  “Don’t tell me, let me guess.” Win’s brow furrowed as though deep in thought. “I know, Colonel Channing has returned as well.”

  “Yes and no.” Gray sipped his whisky. “To Camille and Delilah, he is Colonel Channing. To the others, he is in the role of my father. However, in truth . . .” Gray paused for dramatic effect. “He is Lord Briston.”

  Win scoffed. “Lord Briston is dead.”

  “And damned healthy for a dead man.”

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  Gray nodded.

  “My God, it’s a Christmas miracle!” Win stared.

  “It’s something all right, but I’m not sure ‘miracle’ is the right word.”

  “You’re sure it’s him, though?”

  “His wife is sure.”

  “But I thought . . . everyone thought . . . he was dead.”

  “That’s where it gets a bit complicated.”

  Win arched a skeptical brow. “That’s where?”

  “It seems that twenty years ago, Lord Briston chose a life of wandering the world as opposed to one of domesticity. A decision he soon came to regret, apparently, but Lady Briston decided it was better to have his family think he was dead rather than know he had deserted them.”

  “Good Lord.” Win thought for a moment. “Do his daughters know?”

  “Beryl found some of his letters a few years ago. Camille and Delilah don’t know. And it would be best if you kept this to yourself for now, although I doubt his resurrection will stay a secret for long.”

  “Of course. Who would believe me, anyway?” Win shook his head slowly. “That is an unexpected twist.”

  “You were right, by the way,” Gray said in an offhand manner. “About my feelings for Camille. Friendship is not enough.”

  “Yet another shocking revelation. And does she feel the same?”

  “I don’t know. I hope so. I think she does, even if she hasn’t admitted it yet. We had a long talk last night, although ‘talk’ might not be the right word for it.” He had no desire to tell Win everything else that had happened between them. “I’m not sure if we laid the past to rest or simply dredged it up again. Nonetheless, I am oddly optimistic and determined.” After all, she had admitted she had loved him, and she had never said she had stopped. “I do not intend to give up this time, Win. I have wasted entirely too many years.”

  “What about the false prince?”

  “He is still a problem.” Gray settled back in his chair. “I’m afraid she hasn’t come to her senses about him yet, although she has not appeared overly affectionate toward him. Indeed, if I didn’t know better, I’d think she was avoiding him altogether.”

  “Regardless, you’d best get rid of him.”

  “Excellent idea. And how do you propose I do that?”

  “Ask and ye shall receive, old man.” Win grinned and rose to his feet. He moved to the desk, picked up a file Gray hadn’t noticed and returned. “This is why I’m here.”

  “What is it?”

  “Inside this file you’ll find a photograph of an actor named Bernard Dunstan and an affidavit from the photographer confirming that fact. It seems that said photographer, in an effort to display his skills, on occasion hires models or actors to be his subject in photographs he then displays at his studio. Fortunately for you, I had a photograph taken there just a few months ago.”

  “And?”

  “And take a look.” He handed Gray the file and sat back down.

  Gray flipped open the file and stared into the smiling face of Prince Nikolai Pruzinsky, of the Kingdom of Greater Avalonia. “This is—”

  “Camille’s prince.” Win grinned with triumph. “Also known as Bernard Dunstan. I thought he looked familiar when I met him, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on where until I remembered the photographs I had seen at the studio. So I went into London to see what I could discover. In addition to the photograph, the photographer was kind enough to give me a playbill listing Mr. Dunstan as one of the secondary players in a short-lived, ill-received production of a very obscure play. It’s there as well.”

  Gray looked up from the picture. “He’s an actor?”

  “Ironic, isn’t it?” Win chuckled. “Camille hired actors to deceive an actor whose sole purpose was to deceive her.”

  “This is perfect.” Gray stared at the picture. “This is exactly the proof I need.”

  “What are you going to do with it?”

  “I’m not going to tell Camille. You were right about that too.” He shook his head. “There’s no need for her to feel like a fool. She doesn’t need to know about this.”

  “Then what are you going to do?”

  “Confront Pruzinsky and get rid of him, once and for all.” A hard note sounded in his voice.

  “Excellent! May I stay and watch?”

  “No.”

  “You are no fun at all, Grayson.” Win heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Oh, I have other news to tell you as well. Mother has been delayed. She won’t be home until late tonight.”

  “Damnation.” Gray winced. “I’d forgotten all about her.”

  “Oh
, she’ll like that. No doubt you’ve forgotten about the rest of us as well.” Win shook his head in a mournful manner. “And at Christmas.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “No need to apologize.” Win waved off his comment. “We are merely your family, after all. However”—he pinned his cousin with a firm look—“Father and I thought, as Mother has no idea you have returned, it would be the perfect Christmas gift if you were to surprise her tomorrow at home, as tomorrow is Christmas.”

  “Yes, of course.” Gray nodded.

  “And speaking of Christmas, have you given any consideration as to a Christmas gift for Camille? You should give her something, you know. Aside from saving her from the clutches of Pruzinsky, or rather Dunstan, that is.”

  Gray groaned. “I hadn’t even thought of that.”

  Win cast him a pitying look. “No wonder you’ve never been engaged. The right gift might just be the thing needed to nudge her into your arms.”

  “It’s too late to purchase something.”

  “Which is fortunate for you. You need something more thoughtful, more sentimental than a mere expensive bauble.”

  “Oh?” Gray considered his cousin. “What did you have in mind?”

  “I barely know her anymore. I am not the one who has spent the last few days with her. What does she want?”

  “Well . . .” He thought for a moment. “She wants to hire Mrs. Fortesque as her new cook. I might be able to arrange that.”

  “Good Lord, Gray, a cook is entirely too practical a gift.” He rolled his gaze toward the ceiling. “It’s like giving her wool socks.” Win sighed. “Is there anything else she might want?”

  “She did want a prince.” Gray shrugged.

  “Yes, well, she can’t have one.”

  The most absurd idea struck him and he stared at Win. “Why not?”

  Confusion shone in Win’s eyes. “Why not what?”

  “Give her a prince.”

  Win shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

  “Nor do you have to.” Gray chuckled. “But if a prince is what she wants”—Gray raised his glass—“a prince is what she’ll get.”

  “I remember these.” Delilah smiled with delight and unwrapped a delicate glass ornament in the shape of a strawberry. “When I was a child, I would stare at these and think they were real strawberries turned to glass by fairies determined to keep them perfect forever.” She wrinkled her nose. “Rather fanciful, I’m afraid.”

  “Not for a child, dear. And not for anyone at Christmas,” Mother said with a smile. “Indeed, I have always thought they were a bit magical myself.”

  Camille’s mother and sisters had offered their help in the decorating of the tree, which had been set up in the main gallery late in the morning. The gardener had done an excellent job. The fir was impressively large and nicely shaped. The ladies were surrounded by the scent of evergreen and the boxes Camille and Grayson had found in the attic. No one had brought up yesterday’s argument, but there was an air of fragility around them all. As if one wrong word would shatter the tentative peace. Still, their offer to help had seemed to Camille to be in the way of making amends. Not that she didn’t have amends of her own to make. She intended to say something at the first opportunity; but for the moment, they were all awash in recollections of Christmases past. With each box opened, each fragile glass ornament unwrapped from its tissue, each silver star or angel crafted from lace discovered, came gasps of delight and smiles and memories.

  “It’s much like seeing old friends—unwrapping these ornaments, that is,” Beryl said with a smile. “Good Lord.” Surprise sounded in her voice. “When did I become so sentimental?”

  “We are all sentimental at Christmas. It’s not merely permitted but expected, even encouraged.” Mother studied the contents of a newly opened box. “It is the one time of year we can all behave like children and not be chastised for it.” She glanced at Camille, which did feel somewhat like a chastisement. “Where are the rest of your players this afternoon? Shouldn’t they be here joining in the Christmas merriment?”

  “Mrs. Montgomery-Wells, Mr. Henderson and Miss Murdock are playing a game of cards in the parlor. Nikolai said he had pressing correspondence to attend to and would be in his rooms.”

  Indeed, Nikolai had confided this was of great importance and had to do with the problems in his country. Camille prayed it wasn’t overly serious. Through the years, she had met far too many of her mother’s acquaintances who had lost home and country to wish that for Nikolai. Although she did rather hope that it was urgent enough for him to feel he needed to return at once to the Kingdom of Whateveritwas. Christmas, indeed life, would be so much less complicated that way.

  “Grayson is in the library with his cousin.” She drew a deep breath. “Frankly, I’m rather glad it’s just the four of us.”

  “Because that went so well yesterday?” Beryl said sweetly.

  “No, because I owe you all an apology.” She shook her head. “You are the dearest people in the world to me, and I shouldn’t have been so short-tempered. Delilah”—she met her younger sister’s gaze directly—“I am sorry that I said you were stuffy.”

  “Oh, but I am stuffy, and no one is more aware of that than I.” Delilah shrugged. “And, as I am, I must admit it is the tiniest bit amusing to watch a tart pretend to be me. As long as no one ever knows about it,” she added quickly.

  “In that, we are in complete agreement. I don’t even want to think of the gossip, should this Christmas production of mine be made public.” Camille shuddered.

  “However”—Delilah’s gaze met hers—“as much as I do wish we were not involved in a debacle that threatens to come down around our heads at any moment and ruin us all, and I do blame you, I am rather, well, pleased that you’ve included me.”

  Camille stared.

  “Was that an apology?” Beryl asked.

  “The thought had crossed my mind that you might simply . . . well . . .” Delilah cringed. “Lock me in the attic.”

  Beryl gasped. “Never!”

  “And I do apologize for saying that you don’t think things through before plunging into—”

  “Chaos?” Beryl suggested, then glanced at Camille and heaved a resigned sigh. “And I know you hate to have your past mistakes thrown back in your face—”

  “Like Brighton,” Delilah suggested in what was obviously meant to be a helpful manner. Camille resisted the urge to wince.

  “It was extremely unkind of me,” Beryl continued. “So you have my apologies as well. And I am so trying to be a better person.”

  Camille bit back a laugh. “Thank you, Beryl. I know how difficult it is for you to admit you possibly might have been wrong.”

  “It is indeed, as I am so rarely wrong.” Beryl heaved an overly dramatic sigh and rested the back of her hand against her forehead in a manner worthy of any actress.

  Delilah laughed.

  “And, Mother.” Camille summoned up her courage. She and her mother were usually in such accord. “About Mrs. Montgomery-Wells—”

  “There’s nothing to apologize for there, dear. I fully understand how difficult it must be to get a troupe of actors to play one’s family, especially at Christmas.” She moved a silver glass ball from one branch to another, then studied it to determine if it was perfectly placed. “Just as you are sensitive about the mention of your past mistakes, I seem to be rather sensitive about reminders that I am inevitably growing older.” She cast Camille a wry smile. “And I suspect that Christmas, being here with all of you, only makes it more poignant. I recall every Christmas, you know. The gifts and the parties and the laughter. The awe on your faces when you looked at the newly decorated tree. The Christmas plays the three of you would put on, before you and Beryl grew too old to find Delilah of any use. I remember the sleigh rides in those years when there was snow and it was entirely too cold to go out-of-doors, and yet we did so, anyway. And I remember the way you would distract whatever cook we had at the moment
, while Beryl stole freshly made gingerbread.”

  Beryl shifted uneasily.

  Mother slanted a chastising look at her. “You thought I didn’t know about that?” Beryl smiled weakly. “The cooks knew as well. There are a number of other pranks the two of you played, mostly involving impersonating one another, that I know about, but I needn’t go into that now.”

  “Oh, but I would like to hear.” Delilah grinned.

  “Oh, I daresay that’s enough but thank you, Mother.” Camille chuckled then sobered. “But I owe you a far greater apology than miscasting your part. When I first thought of this plan, I thought I needed a proper family, or at least a family more proper than we are. In that, I did you a grave disservice. I had always thought that you simply liked being surrounded by nobility, regardless of whether they had wealth or power.” She chose her words with care. “But I have come to realize, in recent days, that you offered a home, albeit temporary, at Christmas and throughout the year, to those who were lost. Admittedly, they were inevitably an odd lot—”

  “Do you remember the Oriental gentleman with the long, drooping mustache who could pull coins out of your nose?” Delilah said with a slight smile.

  “No, but I recall the Frenchman. Oh, I think he claimed to be a comte, who was convinced the true hereditary king of France would be restored to the throne and his ancestral lands would at last be returned to him.” Beryl shook her head in a thoughtful manner. “I do wonder if he ever gave up hoping.”

  “I daresay, there are any number of people we all remember.” Camille waved off her sisters’ comments and turned her attention back to her mother. “The point is, I was concerned with what you, what we, aren’t rather than what we are. What you are. I never should have been anything but proud. You were always willing to welcome those souls who had lost their place in the world into ours.”

  Her mother continued to place the precious glass ornaments carefully on the tree; her words were measured. “I have always thought that should I lose my place in the world, my position, my home, even my country, I would hope there would be someone willing to accept me into their lives. Especially at Christmas. If only for a short time.” She shook her head. “I will not apologize for that.”