My Christmas Knight (The Fairplace Family #1)

Chapter Two

B lanche knew she shouldn’t have trusted her luck, for it had run out today. She shivered on the train platform, staring at the man before her. Her mind drifted, and she found it harder and harder to focus on what he was saying.

“You see, Blanche, I admire you greatly. You’re a sweet girl, and I’ll always remember our time fondly.”

Oh, God, he was breaking things off with her. Blanche’s heart settled like a stone in her belly. Men weren’t supposed to be the ones to end things. They could request that the woman end their association, but they weren’t supposed to do it themselves. Especially after they’d kissed said woman in the garden at midnight. Or spun gossamer dreams about two dogs, four children, and a garden of roses.

He didn’t mention the roses , she remembered. I did.

As if from a great distance she observed the man she loved. Tall, slender, and devastatingly handsome, he wore the height of fashion: deep red plaid waistcoat with gleaming gold buttons, white trousers so tailored she could make out his kneecaps, with a thick green necktie, ends waving in the winter breeze. And that top hat. She’d always felt drab and ugly next to him.

The nearby train rumbled to life and other passengers began to board.

Tobias Varyfield gave her a desperate, impassioned look. “You’re too good for me,” he continued. “I’d only bring such an angel like you down into the muck.”

“I don’t mind,” Blanche finally cut in. “I love you; I think you’re perfect for me.”

A grimace crossed his handsome features, nearly hidden by his golden mustache. “The truth is, sweet Blanche, that we do not suit, and we never did.”

Anger shot through her at those words. Finally anger, rather than shock and despair. “You said we were perfect.” She choked. “You called me beautiful.”

His blue eyes softened. “You are beautiful, Blanche.” He raked his gaze up and down her figure, mostly hidden in wool layers. “You’re the jammiest bit of jam.” He reached up to cup her face with one hand. “And I’ll never forget you.”

She jerked back, avoiding his hand. Her mind spun. “I let you lay with me because I thought you loved me.” Agony spilled over her. “You…you changed your mind?”

Guilt flashed through his eyes, but only for a heartbeat. “I never lied, sweet Blanche.”

“Don’t call me that!” Blanche hissed through clenched teeth. “I thought we would marry, Toby! I never would’ve allowed you such liberties otherwise.” She remembered the tickle of his mustache against her upper lip, how she’d giggled while he kissed her. How he’d rucked her heavy skirts and petticoats up, right there in the garden while the ball inside continued. How his strong hand had parted her thighs, and he’d thrust inside her while whispering love words. She’d had to bend her crinoline back into shape the next morning.

Horror blossomed. “Oh God, my uncle.”

Toby stilled, studying her face. “What about your uncle?”

Blanche put a shaky hand to her temple and shut her eyes. “I told him…I told him…”

“Did you tell him my name?” Toby demanded sharply.

Blanche shook her head. “No, I…”

“Think, girl!” Toby grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. Her bonnet wobbled on her head, catching on a hairpin in her bun and causing her scalp to sting. “What exactly does he know?”

“We argued last night. He discovered your note, so he knows I’ve been meeting a man. I said we planned to marry, that I l-l-oved you.” Her eyes burned with unshed tears. Not yet. I shan’t give him the knowledge he made me weep. “We would go to Gretna Green if he refused to give his consent.”

Toby raked a hand through his hair. “You foolish chit.”

Blanche stepped back, stung. “I thought we were going to Scotland to marry now. That’s why you came to the station, isn’t it? I only told Uncle as much as I did because I thought you’d be able to sneak me away.”

Toby looked over her shoulder. “And he doesn’t know my name?”

The anger in her belly turned hard and sharp. “No,” she got out in strangled tones. “You’re safe from anyone avenging my virtue.” She paused. “But I can still tell him.”

Toby’s gaze jerked back to hers, his eyes wide with fright. “Blanche, sweet, I think you’re too smart a girl to be leg-shackled to me. You wouldn’t want to make your uncle more angry than he already is.”

Uncle Alan had practically frothed at the mouth last night when she’d admitted under his interrogation her virtue had been compromised. He’d locked her in her room all night and set his watchdog on her, her lady’s maid, Marcher. Blanche had privacy right now because Marcher was using the water closet. Her uncle had been ordering the private coach, but with that almost done he’d surely appear.

She had a few seconds of freedom left. “I thought you were a man of honor. I thought you loved me.” She glared at him. “More fool me.”

He bit his lip, and suddenly that mustache looked ridiculous on him. Like a boy pretending to be a man. “Blanche, I never told you I loved you.”

A sob caught in her throat. She clenched her jaw, desperate to keep it buried, and looked across the platform for any distraction. A man stood down the way, body so still he would blend in with lampposts. His scarf and hat covered his face, but he flipped his pocket watch cover open and shut as if he, too, possessed some secret anxiety. It gave her the strength she needed.

She turned back to Toby, flicking coal dust off her sleeve. “Go, then. Leave me before my uncle finds you and forces us to wed.”

Toby stepped back, looking her up and down. “I only came to Euston to say goodbye.

Blanche turned away from him. “Get out of here.” A tear escaped her left eye, and she covered it with her hand.

A sharp, high gasp split the air around her. “Get away from her, you cad!” Marcher flew out of the hallway that led to the water closets and charged at Blanche and her faithless lover.

Blanche had never been so happy to see the awful woman in her whole life. “Marcher,” she exclaimed, moving toward the battle ax. A scuffling of shoes against wood behind her told her that Tobias Varyfield was gone, hopefully forever.

Marcher glared up at Blanche. She was a short woman, thin as a broomstick. A strong gust of wind could blow her over, except she had the most forceful personality Blanche had ever seen. No wind would dare. Uncle Alan also employed her as his spy, and Blanche didn’t trust her one bit.

“Who was that?” Marcher’s clipped London accent abraded Blanche’s nerves.

Blanche shook her head, blinking back tears. “No one, Marcher.”

Marcher put her hands on her bony hips, winter cloak flapping around her. “It’s that man, isn’t it? The one who stole your virtue?”

“Marcher, please!” Blanche glanced around, hoping no one stood near enough to hear.

The anger burning in Marcher’s eyes faded for a moment. She sighed. “I taught you better than this. All girls know never to spread their legs until there’s a ring on their finger. You’re not stupid, child. You’re twenty. Where did your brain go?”

Blanche flushed at the crude words, though truthfully, she had no idea where her brain went. Toby captured her heart after their first dance. Her brain floated away probably around the time he smiled and kissed the inside of her wrist, pulling her glove back enough for his lips to touch her skin.

“Your uncle shan’t stand for this,” Marcher continued, albeit sympathetically this time. “He’ll track that boy down, force him to marry you.”

Blanche stared at the lady’s maid in absolute horror. “He’ll what ?”

Marcher pursed her lips. “You know he will, girl. He has a letter from your lover. He can’t ignore that.”

Blanche didn’t bother asking how Marcher knew. Blanche had used an upstairs chambermaid to pass the few notes between her and Toby because she knew not to trust Marcher, but she’d not been smart enough. The butler had caught the letter in the chambermaid’s hand, and before Blanche knew it her uncle had dragged a few details from her and he’d stored the note in his frock coat pocket, evidence of her sinful, shameful nature for all eternity.

“Besides, I thought you loved him. Don’t you want to marry him?”

Blanche opened her mouth, and that sob caught in her throat escaped. Not anymore.

Marcher took one glance at Blanche and pieced it together. “Rakes whisper all sorts of pretty words they never mean to follow through on. Your job as a young lady is to keep your skirts down, no matter what they say.”

Blanche focused on breathing evenly. She would not break down into tears at Euston station. She was a Badnarrow, and Badnarrows would never be so gauche. He did love me at the beginning. I think.

“Blanche!” The sharp, nasal voice behind her made her jump. “Get aboard, girl. I’m not going to wait around all day.”

She turned to face her uncle, her guardian, and her warden. Although fifty, he looked much older. A black top hat covered his bald head, and the collar of his greatcoat nearly covered his priestly collar and bushy muttonchops. He scowled even deeper than usual. For years she’d been intimidated by his height, his fierce nose, bushy eyebrows, and long arms. His voice was the only thing not intimidating about him. Long ago she’d wondered if that’s why he’d become a bishop. His voice wasn’t made for the pulpit.

Blanche dipped her gaze, as she knew he preferred. “Uncle.”

“None of that simpering, little miss!” he snapped. “I can scarcely bear to look at you. Get aboard and we’ll make sure this problem is solved before we arrive in Newcastle.”

Cheeks burning, Blanche hurried past her uncle and his silver cane toward the door of the private coach. A porter opened the door for her, but she couldn’t bear to look up in case he noticed her blotchy cheeks. Her black, scuffed boots clacked against the metal steps.

The rail car belonged to her other uncle, Sir Leopold Badnarrow. As the oldest son in the family, he’d inherited the baronetcy. Uncle Alan had gone to the church and done well for himself. And her father, the youngest son, had bought a commission to be a major in the British East India Company. He and her mother had died seven years ago during an Indian Sikh uprising.

Blanche paused at the threshold of the car, amazed. She knew her father’s family had wealth—indeed, despite her uncle’s strict demands, they lived in a beautiful townhome when in London—but she’d never seen her uncle’s private coach. She didn’t know how Uncle Alan had convinced his older brother to let them borrow the car, but for a moment gratitude filled her chest.

A rich maroon rug softened her footsteps as she went deeper into the car. Heavy velvet curtains with gold ropes and tassels framed the windows. Settees and wingback chairs in blue velvet sat in two groups. A mahogany table sat against one wall, several dining chairs beside the gleaming table. Partitions walled nearly half the car off, with only three doors leading deeper in. Perhaps the lavatory and two sleeping compartments? Several landscapes were nailed tightly to the wood-paneled walls.

Marcher came up behind her, pushing against her crinolines. “To the back, miss.”

Blanche, shaken from her admiration, blinked, and looked behind her.

Uncle Alan entered the coach, still glaring. Behind him came their two manservants. “Blanche, you’ll go to your room and stay there until I call you out.”

Blanche wilted, looking wistfully at a decanter of wine on a nearby side table. “But, Uncle, I had hoped—”

“No, I’ve lost all trust I had in you. What’s your lover’s name?”

Blanche blushed, embarrassed to have this conversation in front of their three servants. “Uncle, please.”

“His name,” the bishop barked, likely reveling in her semi-public shame. “For he will marry you, by God, or I will hound him until he does.”

Blanche shook her head. “I have no desire to marry him anymore. You were right; I was a foolish girl. He changed his mind, and I doubt we shall ever see him again.”

The bishop sneered. “You cannot sing a different tune so quickly and expect me to believe it. You told me last night he’d be here, on this train, following us to the estate in Newcastle. Well, we shall wait for him.”

Her eyes widened. “But I do not wish to wed him!”

His face, which had been somewhat remote before this, now twisted with rage and disgust. “You should’ve thought of that before you tempted him, slut! I took you into my home out of Christian charity. I paid for your schooling, your clothing, I sheltered you these past years, I have seen to your Christian piety, I had begun looking for a husband for you—and this is how you repay me?”

Blanche shrunk from the words that hit like stones. “I beg your forgiveness, Uncle.”

“That’s no longer sufficient. You defiled this family,” he spat, eyes bulging. “What is his name?”

“I…I don’t know,” she lied.

Her uncle stepped forward and slapped her.

Blood rushed in Blanche’s ears, her heart thumping wildly, as pain bloomed across her face. Shocked, she touched her face and stared in surprise at the man who’d raised her. He’d never hurt her before.

The servants around them shuffled their feet and looked at the exquisite Turkish rug. No help would come from them, not even Marcher.

Tears burned her eyes once again. Blanche raised her chin and looked him in the eye. “I don’t know his name.”

“Insolent slut with her jezebel spirit,” he fumed, throwing his top hat on a settee and unbuttoning his greatcoat. “It’s no matter. He’s coming to you, and I shall lie in wait. He asked you to leave the door to the car unlocked, and I shall.”

He had? Blanche swallowed. She’d not been allowed to read Toby’s last note, so she hadn’t known their plans besides meeting at Euston. “And what if he does not come?”

He gave her a dark look. “Then you shall wish he had.” The bishop turned to Marcher. “Take her to her compartment. Dress her in her finest gown and lock the door.” His gaze passed to Blanche again, then he glanced away as if he couldn’t bear the sight of her. “We’ll have a wedding this afternoon.”

Marcher grabbed Blanche’s wrist and pulled, her grip cold and hard as iron. “Come on, girl. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Blanche allowed herself to be led into the small bedroom. Misery filled her heart so full her chest felt tight. The lock clicked behind her, reminding her that she had no one now. Again.