My Christmas Knight (The Fairplace Family #1)

Chapter Three

D ennis shoved his valise against the wall of the car, the well-used ropes creaking as they took the extra weight. His mind whirled as he sat on the padded bench, leaning away from an old grease stain on the upholstery and setting his hat and scarf beside him.

Should he have stayed? His sister had looked so disappointed. So had their brother. Mother had seemed angry, and he could tell she’d wanted to shout about the last three years, how she finally had him home from Crimea and he’d gone brawling on Christmas Eve and now was running away on Christmas Day.

I have a true and legitimate reason for leaving, he insisted. The letter from the solicitor in Nottingham burned inside his coat pocket. It had arrived five days ago, and Dennis was still reeling from the surprise.

His great aunt Astrid had died back in October. His father’s aunt, the spinster was demanding but also generous—as long as everyone did as she commanded. Dennis had been back home for five months at that point. He’d been knighted for three months, and his mother’s family was dragging around London Society. He’d been considered a hanger-on, perhaps even a fortune hunter, by society before the war. Someone with enough ties to get into exclusive balls and soirees, but only to fill out the numbers. Since he’d returned in a dashing uniform, medals clanking against his chest, and the queen herself had knighted him for acts of heroic bravery, he was far more interesting even after selling out.

An elderly widow, swathed in black, sat in the seat opposite him. Her crinolines spread across the entire bench. She ignored him, looking only out the window, so relieved, Dennis ignored her, too.

A war hero, people called him. He’d given up trying to correct them. He’d allowed aristocratic cousins to place him in seats of honor, parading him about, becoming a side-show curiosity. It sometimes brought money into his family’s coffers and opened doors for his younger siblings. It made his mother happy, and he could sometimes gain donations for the impoverished and wounded veterans of the war. Sometimes he hated being a performing monkey in a carnival, dancing to the tune of his betters.

Great Aunt Astrid had never treated him any differently, thank goodness. She’d been as acerbic and demanding as ever when he saw her at his knighthood ceremony. And two months after her funeral, he’d received a letter from her solicitor.

The letter stated she’d donated most of her wealth to charity causes, but she’d left small sums for his siblings. She’d also left her large home and shares of the railroad to him. He wasn’t exactly a wealthy man now—at least by Society’s standards—, but he could live a gentleman’s lifestyle. It was a chance to escape his previous dream of an army career, and potentially a more prosperous future.

You must come see the house. I shall meet you with the keys and paperwork concerning her stock shares, the solicitor had written. And so it seemed the perfect reason to escape Christmas Day. Even if the solicitor had probably imagined after Boxing Day.

The car door thumped, breaking Dennis from his musings. At first, he thought it was movement from the train, for the car began to vibrate and the station drifted from view. He glanced up. Two men standing in the aisle, tickets in hand and searching for their spots.

Their broad shoulders, shorn hair, and rough winter coats seemed familiar. Dennis tensed. They looked up, and their gazes snagged on him.

Shite . Dennis swallowed, recognizing them from last night.

They glared, large and menacing. So they remembered him, too. Their brown neckties hung limp, likely because they hadn’t cleaned or changed since last night.

Dennis grimaced, and pain cut along his lip. Right where one of them had planted his fist. He hadn’t considered he might see those arseholes again. Now they were sober and would fight better.

One of them stalked toward him, fists clenched, clearly ready to start right up again where they’d left off. His black eye shone in the gaslight.

The widow across from Dennis leaned over to reach her reticule and withdrew a handkerchief. The white contrasted vividly against her black ensemble.

The second man, the one whose nose Dennis had broken, judging by the bruising and angle, grabbed his partner and gestured to the woman.

Black Eye shrugged off his partner’s meaty hand but listened. He gave Dennis a threatening look. This isn’t over . You better watch your back.

Dennis yawned dramatically and closed his eyes, radiating indifference. He folded his arms tightly and leaned his head back. After a moment, he cracked one eye to make sure the beefy men had shuffled off to their seats. They sat in one compartment down from him, one leg stuck out the open door into the aisle.

After an hour, Dennis grew uncomfortable. He shifted on the seat, looking for any of the padding. Somehow it had all disappeared beneath him.

The widow snorted awake and blinked orienting herself. Dennis kept his eyes mostly shut, pretending not to notice. She patted her skirts, then looked down to her handkerchief on the floor. The woman let out a sound of disapproval and picked it up. She stood, peering out of the compartment for any sign of a water closet or basin of water.

Don’t leave, he wanted to tell her . But of course he couldn’t say anything. As much as he was willing to finish last night’s brawl, the stakes were higher now: he was sober today and knew how foolish this was; fighting on a train carried a far greater likelihood of being arrested—and he couldn’t do that to his mother.

She slipped away, walking past the compartment with the drunk men from last night, toward a napping porter sitting at the front of the car.

The leg in the aisle tensed, then shifted. Dennis stood and left his compartment before the men moved to find him. He strode down the aisle of the small car.

“Oy!” one of the men exclaimed.

Dennis quickened his pace, not looking behind. He opened the door of the car and slipped outside.

Cold air slapped him in the face, knocking the breath from his lungs. Hades, it was cold. The edges of London flashed by, and the iron railing boxing him in rattled loudly. The heavy coupling between the cars clanked, and rows of rail ties flew beneath him.

Dennis grabbed hold of the railing with both hands and carefully crossed the little bridge between cars. As soon as he returned to a semi-solid floor, he opened the door and ducked into car six.

He shut the door behind him, and the noise dampened. He relaxed, rolling his shoulders. Perhaps he could find a compartment and spend the rest of the journey there? The men wouldn’t attack him in front of witnesses. He walked down the aisle, looking into each of the six compartments for an empty space. The first compartment overflowed with a family. The harried mother held a whimpering baby and the father read a newspaper while the other three children played on the floor between their feet. The second had a pretty young woman in an expensive dress and her older, grouchier companion. Dennis eyed the empty seat beside the young woman, but the companion practically snarled at him.

Dennis raised his hands in a show of harmlessness and walked on. No other compartment had space for him. He stood at the end of the car, weighing his options. Perhaps the men wouldn’t follow. Perhaps they’d given up.

The door at the front banged open, and the rumbling noise of the locomotive filled the car. Dennis’s heart sank as the two men strode toward him. He turned the handle of the door and slipped out, running across the bridge into car seven.

No empty space there. Damnation. What are all these people doing, traveling on Christmas Day? Don’t they have families they should be with? He tried to remember how many other cars the train had. Was there a luggage van, or just a guard’s brake van? If there was a luggage van, he could hide behind a large piece of luggage or sit with a conductor until he arrived in Nottingham. If there wasn’t, well, there was always the guard’s brake van.

He burst through the door and gripped the ice-cold railing as he crossed to car eight. The wind made his ears numb and eyes water. If only he’d thought to bring his greatcoat with him on this chase.

Car eight, he discovered, was the guard’s break van. He stepped inside and three men started out of their seats in surprise. They wore the uniform of railroad guards and held cups of tea.

“Oy, now,” one with a great red beard said. “You don’t belong in here. You get back to your seat with the other passengers.”

Dennis shook his head. “I just need to stretch my legs.”

The second man, with impressive mutton chops, scowled at him. “This car’s off-limits. Stretch your legs back to your seat.”

Dennis threw a look over his shoulder, though the door was shut so he couldn’t tell if the men were outside or not. “Please,” he said. “There’s a couple of men who don’t care for me. If you’ll let me, I just want to sit here for a moment until they decide I’m no longer worth the trouble.” He tensed, waiting for the answer while trying to come up with several alternative plans at once.

Red Beard eyed him up and down. “Looks like they already got a hold of you.”

Dennis touched his lip and nodded. “Last night.”

The youngest of the guards, clean-shaven and pock-marked, squinted. “You seem familiar. Have we met before?”

Ah. Dennis wasn’t sure how to respond. Usually he would deny the question, but right now he was in a pinch and his reputation could help him. “You may have seen my face in the newspaper recently.”

The young man’s eyes widened. “Blimey, it’s you !”

Dennis stood there awkwardly, not sure what else to say.

“Who?” Muttonchops looked between Dennis and his fellow guard.

The guard gestured excitedly. “It’s Sir Dennis Fairplace!”

Recognition dawned on Muttonchop’s face. “The knight? The hero from Sevastopol?”

“I was born in Nottingham,” Dennis muttered under his breath.

“Who?” Red Beard asked skeptically.

“Sir Dennis! The lieutenant who saved a whole company after the siege of Sevastopol. He was knighted by Queen Victoria and Prince Albert themselves.” The pock-marked guard grinned. “I can’t believe it.”

“My brother served in the infantry and went down during the Battle of Balaklava.” Muttonchops gestured to his empty seat. “You men put up with a lot to fight those Russians.”

Dennis held back a sigh of relief at the seat. “Thank you. And my condolences for your loss. I’m sure your brother was a great soldier.” He’d said that line so many times it felt like ash in his mouth. He meant it, but the repetition had dulled all of his emotions months ago.

“No,” Red Beard said. “I don’t care if he’s General Raglan himself. He can’t stay here. It’s our jobs on the line.”

Both Pock-marked and Muttonchops looked conflicted.

“You must go, war hero,” Red Beard said, albeit apologetically.

The door behind Dennis flung open.

He jumped, turning and raising his fists.

“You!” Black Eye shouted. “We’ve got you now!”

Dennis backed up.

“You’re not allowed here either!” Red Beard set down his tea and strode forward, big and heavy.

Dennis looked around wildly. There. Another door. Probably to the private car added on last minute. He sidestepped Muttonchops and grappled with the handle.

“No, that’s private!” Pock-marked warned. “It’ll be locked anyway.”

“You can’t call General Raglan shite and walk away from us,” Broken Nose warned. “Unpatriotic scum. He died in defense of his country. He lost an arm at Waterloo before you were even born.”

Muttonchops stared at Dennis, mouth open. “You…you criticized Raglan?”

Dennis wasn’t sticking around to explain. He turned the handle and it opened. He tumbled through, away from the chaos. Three short steps across the windswept corridor, then a blessedly unlocked door. Dennis turned it. His knees hit a thick maroon rug. Fast as he could, he spun and slammed the door shut, then reached up and locked it. He leaned against the metal door, the iron biting against his palms and forehead.

A throat cleared behind him.

Shit. How do I explain this? Dennis took two deep breaths, then got to his feet and turned around.

Every luxury Dennis could imagine filled the car, every material of the highest quality. Mahogany wood. Velvet upholstery. Gold gilt frames. Crystal decanters. Brass gaslights. And in a blue velvet wingback sat a thin, older man. His bald pate gleamed in the gaslight, though he had enough white hair left to fill the sides. His prominent nose presided over a twisted, harsh mouth. With his arms draped along the chair and legs bent before him, he looked like a spider.

The man smiled. “Welcome.” His suit was somber yet finely tailored. The white clerical collar stuck out from his black morning coat.

Dennis gave a short bow. “Forgive me, sir. I shouldn’t have barged in. I was walking along the train and seem to have stumbled into your private car.”

The man’s smile grew larger, and he waved a hand. “Oh, no bother. I’m glad you could join us.”

Dennis paused. The smile was fierce and unnatural, like a cat before it caught its mouse. “Sir, you have me at a disadvantage. I am not who you plan to meet.”

The man crossed one leg over the other. “I’ve been waiting, you see.”

Dennis stared at the man, trying to piece together what was happening. Because something was definitely happening. “I’m…sorry?”

The man turned to the side table and picked up two crystal goblets filled with wine. “Here. Sit. Partake.”

Dennis certainly couldn’t leave, not yet. So he sat in the other chair and hesitantly picked up the goblet. “Thank you.” Alarm skittered down his spine, as it did each morning before battle. He held the glass but didn’t drink.

“My name,” the man said, “in case you hadn’t known, is Alan Badnarrow, the bishop of the Diocese of Newcastle.”

“I am Dennis Fairplace,” he supplied after a pause.

The man smiled again, taking a sip of a blood-red vintage. “Excellent. You were later than I expected, but now that you’re here, all is well.”

Dennis cocked his head. “Sir, I’m afraid you’re mistaken. I had no appointment to come here. I only came through the door because—” he broke off, embarrassed to tell a man of God about his poor choices last night while scammered.

But the bishop nodded. “I understand why. Believe me, I do.” He rose, and Dennis scrambled to his feet. “Shall we?” He gestured to the back of the car.

Dennis darted a glance down the car. Three doors stood at the end. An ominous feeling rose in him. “Bishop Badnarrow,” he began, “I’m not your man.”

The bishop nodded and gave a smile that Dennis didn’t trust one little bit. “Please, if you just come with me everything will be made clear.”

He seemed to be alone, and he was an old, unarmed man. Clergy, no less. Dennis shrugged. “Certainly, if I can help with anything I will. But I’m not the man you’re looking for.”

Bishop Badnarrow threw back his head and cackled as he ushered Dennis down to the middle door. He took a key from his waistcoat pocket and unlocked the door. “Come in, come in.”

Dennis scanned the small room from the doorway before entering. It was small; there was little chance of armed men ambushing him. And why would they anyway?

Green and cream pinstriped wallpaper covered the walls, and a chest or two sat in one corner. In another corner he spied the edge of a bed with a white bedspread. A green circle rug graced the floor. A large paraffin lamp sat on a dressing table bolted to the wall.

“Don’t dawdle in the doorway. Come in.” The bishop stepped aside and placed a hand between Dennis’s shoulder blades, pushing him into the small room.

Once inside, Dennis saw a small, middle-aged maid in a white cap wringing her hands at the head of the bed. And on the bed sat a young woman. She wore an ugly cream concoction. Her flounces and crinolines spilled everywhere, and she sat with her knees drawn to her chest and her forehead resting against them. Her mousey brown hair was pulled back into a tight, low bun.

“Sit up straight, Blanche,” the bishop snapped.

Dennis nearly jumped at the harsh tone. “I…” he tried to think of anything polite to get out of there.

“Blanche, I found him. You will obey me and do your duty.” The bishop’s grip on Dennis’s shoulder grew hard and painful.

The young woman slowly looked up. Her hair, parted in the middle and covering the tops of her ears, pulled her forehead tight. Her heart-shaped face, blotchy red from tears, might have been pretty Dennis supposed, except for the horror and despair in her eyes. A sweet, upturned nose presided above thin, pale lips and a trembling chin.

Their eyes met, and the girl gasped and scrambled backward as if he were a monster. “Uncle!” she gasped.

“I really should be g—” Dennis turned, catching sight of two manservants blocking the doorway. Where did they come from?

Bishop Badnarrow clapped his hands and laughed, a high-pitched sound that left Dennis’s skin crawling. “Well, nephew, here is your bride. I shall perform the wedding ceremony.”