Once Upon A Christmas Past

8. Chapter 8

Chapter eight

T he boy wiped the sticky mess of ruined stew from his shirt, flicking potatoes and hunks of beef into the snow before he forced himself to his feet. The long, narrow alley hung with fog and frost so thick the streetlamps could not penetrate it, forcing the boy, who knew every stone and shrub by heart, to grope with his hands.

He ventured into the darkness.

Raven paused in the drawing room doorway, bright laughter and the chatter of a dozen simultaneous conversations creating an annoying buzz in her ears. These sorts of gatherings with their endless small talk and veiled barbs, were never her preference. She much preferred intimate dinners with family and close friends, those she could be herself around. However, she would hold her head high and play the part. These ladies and gentlemen had vast influence and could make or break her future medical practice. She touched the jeweled ornament secured at the crown of her head, patted the ringlets flowing down her back, and with chin high, stepped into the room.

“Miss Cratchit, darling!” Countess Waldegrave called as she approached, her stride bold and direct, just like the woman herself. At least sixty years of age, the countess was tall and thin, but nowhere near delicate. Her features were strong, if not attractive, and her broad smile radiated a warmth that drew one’s attention to her sparkling eyes.

“My lady.” Raven dropped a quick curtsy. “It’s so lovely to see you.”

“And you, my dear. But I must ask, what is all this about? The invitation was vague at best. Your engagement to Lord Griffin has been far from a secret. What could possibly warrant such a last-minute call of so many élite ?”

Raven smiled, choosing to ignore the flippant reference to their social station. The countess spent most of her days, as well as her money, revitalizing places of worship and organizing fundraisers for the poor. A veiled reference to her own status could be easily forgiven.

“Lor—er—John does have quite an announcement in store, but I would be loathed to steal his thunder.” As the last word left her lips, Raven spotted Brit standing alone across the room.

“Of course, darling,” the countess cooed as she turned to flag down another victim for interrogation.

Brit had not yet seen her, so she indulged in a good, long stare. He had recovered remarkably. Dressed in an ebony gaberdine jacket tailored over his broad shoulders and narrow waist, paired with a crisp white shirtfront and a scarlet waistcoat that made his golden-brown skin appear to glow from within; he was quite the most beautiful human she had ever seen. A man that every girl fantasized could be real. And here he stood, holding her gaze across the crowded room.

No prevarication. No pretense. Just unadulterated admiration.

Caught in her unabashed appraisal, Raven jerked her gaze away and searched for Belinda. Where was her sister? She’d wandered off the moment the family had arrived. An exchanged nod or smile from her best friend would calm Raven’s riotous emotions. But none of her siblings were in the room save Martha, who seemed fully engaged with the Barnacle twins, catching up on the latest gossip, no doubt.

With no anchor in sight, Raven’s regard moved back to the man in the corner. Hands shoved in pockets, mouth tilted up on one side, he gave her a nod. As if pulled by gravity, her feet began to move. She needed to grasp hold of her professional detachment. Yes, he was attractive, but their connection was nothing more than the inevitable bond created by saving his life.

As she drew near, she noted the way his hair curled against the back of his neck, the way his broad hand gripped the top of an empty chair, his knuckles whitening as his intense gaze swept over her from head to foot. Raven felt as if no one and nothing else existed in the crowded room. A thrill traced along the exposed skin of her collarbones. This man had not been raised in drawing rooms with china teacups and polite conversation. From the little she knew of his background, that much at least was clear.

That uncultivated edge, powerful and restless like some great cat caged for viewing, only served to enhance his appeal. Her steps stuttered. Suddenly wary of his feral gaze and what it did to her, she almost turned on her heel. He is just a man; sinew and bone; blood and tissue, like every other person in the room, she reminded herself.

Straightening her spine, she crossed the remaining distance between them.

“Miss Cratchit,” Brit tipped his head to her. “If it is not inappropriate to say…you are breathtaking. And I mean that in a less than literal sense given my recent ailment.” His mouth tilted, drawing out a long dimple in his left cheek.

Handsome and witty. Lord, help her. Raven hid her agitation by dipping into a deep curtsy. “Thank you, Lord Wexford.”

As she straightened, the smile fled from his face. He lifted a hand and rubbed the back of his neck, the gesture giving him an endearing vulnerability. “Yes, I suppose that is me now. Although I do not feel the least bit lordly.”

“Well, you look it.” The words escaped before she could stop them.

Brit cleared his throat. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here. Not that I’m complaining. Saves me from paying a call next week.”

Raven lifted a brow, her medical instincts kicking in. “Are you feeling unwell? What are your symptoms?”

Humor fired in his dark eyes. “Not from my ailment. But I do have a dilemma of sorts. In fact, I have a…proposition for you.”

“Oh?” To proposition a lady was the worst sort of impropriety. Yet, she could not contain her intense curiosity. She realized she’d come around the side of the chair and stood close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body.

He tilted his head down to gaze into her eyes. “You are well acquainted with my brothers, John and George, yes?”

A rock dropped into her belly. He didn’t know who she was to John. Who she was soon to become to him —his sister by marriage. Raven took a step back, and spoke quickly before she lost her nerve, “Yes, in fact, I am engaged—”

“To me,” John said over her shoulder as he encircled her upper arm in his large hand. “Raven is my beautiful bride-to-be.” The words were joyous, yet his tone conveyed something darker. Pride or possessiveness?

With a delicate cough, Raven lifted her hand to cover her mouth and, in the process, tugged her arm from John’s grasp. Brit’s face had gone entirely blank. She had never seen anything like it. He gave no reaction outside of a slow blink. The warm, animated man who had teased her moments before was gone and in his place was a stone-faced stranger, his words perfectly cordial as he bowed his head. “Yes, we have met. Miss Cratchit is quite the physician.”

His gaze slid over her, impassive.

Perhaps he was more civilized than she gave him credit for.

“She is quite brilliant, my Raven.” John looped his arm behind her back and gripped her waist, anchoring her to his side. “We’re going to need to channel some of that brilliance into planning our nuptials.” He laughed, but Raven heard the criticism behind his words. She had simply been too busy to choose flowers and decorative ribbons and all the minor details that her mother took so much joy in arranging.

She gave a stilted chuckle. “I believe Mother has the ceremony well in hand.”

“As you say, dear.” John then turned to his brother. “Everyone has arrived. Are you ready to make it official, Brit?”

Those dark, fathomless eyes flicked to Raven’s as he replied, “I’ve never been more ready.”

On a raised dais, normally reserved for musicians, Brit blinked into the crowd as John cleared his throat and the room fell silent. “I’ve gathered my esteemed friends here this evening, those of you with the fortitude not to retreat to the countryside during these chilly months, that is.”

Brit shifted on his feet as a ripple of mirth cascaded through the crowd before John continued. “I’ve asked you here to share a miraculous occurrence.” He paused, every eye locked upon him, all signs of laughter evaporating in the web of anticipation he cast.

Brit stood at John’s right with George on his other side, his life one sentence away from changing forever, and yet all he could think about was the moment when John had hovered behind Raven, gripping her arm as if she were an errant child. And worse, the obnoxious smile that had spread across his face when he’d realized he had something Brit wanted.

Brit searched the crowd and caught the glitter of sapphire crystals against sable curls but didn’t dare look at her face. He clenched his teeth against the inexplicable feeling of betrayal. It was absurd. She had saved his life. Done her job. Raven Cratchit did not owe him any explanations regarding her personal life. So why then did it feel so personal that she’d left out such an important detail?

A firm hand clasped his shoulder, and John’s voice boomed through the room, “My baby brother, the lost Earl of Wexford, has returned to the fold.”

One could’ve heard a pin drop to the Persian carpet as John met Brit’s gaze, his eyes brimming with tears. Brit frowned. He did not believe John’s show of emotion for a heartbeat. He had enough experience with conjuring waterworks as a child—an essential weapon in an orphan’s toolbox—to recognize crocodile tears when he saw them. Although he had to admire the tactic’s effectiveness.

Shocked gasps evolved into whispered conjecture that snowballed in volume until a white-haired gentleman with overgrown muttonchops demanded, “Are you the true Earl of Wexford, then?”

John’s hand on Brit’s shoulder tightened uncomfortably before releasing, and he answered, “Our family attorney, Mr. Veck, feels confident that Brit is the only legitimate son of Whitney and Alexandra Griffin. Which makes him the heir.”

As if his name had conjured him, the little lawman appeared at the edge of the crowd, pushed his spectacles up with a finger, and gave John a satisfied nod.

A woman with graying blonde hair, dripping in jewels that made the dormant thief in Brit raise his ugly head, inquired, “Where have you been all of this time, Lord Wexford?”

Again, John jumped in. “Mrs. Barnacle, I would ask that everyone respect my brother’s privacy. His life has been less than…ideal. This is quite an adjustment for him. I believe it’s best to leave the past in the past.”

It appeared a great kindness, and yet, Brit’s hackles went up. The whole thing reeked of a setup. Brother or not, he needed to determine John’s angle before it was too late.

Following the announcement, people Brit had never met rushed forward to shake his hand and welcome him home. He must have said, “thank you” perhaps a hundred times but could remember none of their well wishes, or their names.

An hour later, seated at the head of the longest table he had ever seen, Brit berated himself. The announcement had been a complete debacle. He stabbed a fork into the roast goose, silver tines striking bone. He hadn’t spoken a word. Just stood there like a detached statue and let John run the show.

To his right, the woman he had escorted into dinner, Clementine Barnacle asked so many questions it was a wonder she managed to eat even a bite of the first three courses. As luck would have it, she habitually answered her own inquiries, requiring him only to grunt and nod occasionally.

As the fourth course was cleared away, Miss Barnacle leaned over and whispered, “Were you homeless then? That’s quite the worst thing I could possibly imagine. Alone in the world with no family or possessions.” She shuddered, took a sip of the crimson wine that had been refreshed continually throughout the meal, and then set down the crystal goblet, her gloved fingers brushing against his where his hand rested on the linen cloth. “My goodness, your hands look so strong.”

Brit shifted and moved his hand away from hers. But she did not appear to notice as she launched into her next set of theories.

“Did you work on the docks? No, your skin is too nice. It must have been a workhouse!”

Thankfully, Brit had never set foot in a workhouse. Too many chaps entered those torture chambers lured by warmth and food, never to see the sun again. But he nodded all the same and glanced down the length of the table to where Raven sat between George and John, her parents directly across from them chatting amiably with their future son-in-law. Brit wondered if John’s loss of title influenced their opinion of him at all. By their open smiles, it didn’t appear so.

The woman to his left, a stately-looking countess, took pity on him and attempted to redirect Miss Barnacle’s singular attention with topics of charity. So as the dessert course was placed before them, Brit took a bite of the sunny, lemon cheesecake and contemplated the rock that had settled uneasily in his gut. More than the heavy, French food he’d consumed, the tangle of emotion made him jittery and restless to run. He realized his right leg vibrated an agitated rhythm beneath the table. He forced his foot flat to the floor and shoved another bite of cake into his gullet. He needed to get a grip. Olivia, one of his mentors and protectors since childhood, had always said that the first rule to survival was not to give in to emotion. Lose control and you’re dead.

Although this wasn’t the street, it was just as cutthroat, and he had to believe the same rule applied.

He glanced up to find Raven’s eyes on him. Through the wavering candle flame, it appeared that a tiny frown wrinkled her perfect forehead, her eyes soft. He knew that look, had seen it throughout his childhood and used it to his advantage. Pity. Something dark bloomed in his chest. For reasons only she knew, she had chosen to keep her engagement to his blasted brother a secret.

The day she’d saved his life, when he’d confessed his true identity to her, she had not mentioned it. Nor when they’d met on New Bond Street. Nor this evening when she had flirted shamelessly with him moments before John had approached. Clearly, he did not understand highbrow ladies’ behavior. Perhaps the fire she enjoyed kindling between them was all part of the game.

Regardless of her motivations, Brit was now left with no allies in a foreign world of dinner parties and politics that he knew next to nothing about. He needed a plan.

There were many young ladies in attendance whom he could court. Those who could guide him through the maze of polite society. In fact, with his newfound wealth, he could likely have his pick. Raven Cratchit could be replaced.

He took another bite of the tart cake and began to feel better. Perhaps Bert the valet could assist him in some instruction. Or at least point him toward a book he could read on the topic. How To Become an Earl in Ten Days. Or something like, Street Rat to Landed Gentleman, an Instruction Manual.

He swallowed a chuckle as he envisioned what Chip would have to say about such a quandary. Likely, he would bluff his way through it, and quite successfully. No matter how fearful or angry, that boy could turn on the charm like a switch, beguiling even the most crotchety into his favor. And Jack…Jack MacCarron would make a move that left little doubt as to who was in charge.

Brit observed the table, and seeing that most everyone had finished their meal, decided on a course of action that would combine both strategies. He put his napkin on his plate, stood, and pasted a broad smile on his face. The clinking China and chatter quieted instantly.

“This has been a lovely, if not overindulgent feast.” Brit patted his full abdomen, drawing agreement and laughter from many. “I would like to thank each of you for being here to celebrate my return and…” He raised his glass to Raven Cratchit as he said, “My brother, John’s engagement.”

Glasses clinked together along with cries of, “Here, here!”

Raven did not move, only watched him with wide eyes.

Brit tore his gaze away from her and addressed the table at large, “I would like to invite the gentlemen to join me in the billiard room. I believe George has arranged for a variety of after-dinner cigars.” He caught his half brother’s gaze with a slight raise of his brow. In point of fact, George had quite the extensive smoking collection, that Brit had gathered he only shared with a chosen few. But in the face of Brit’s generosity, George would not have occasion to deny the offer.

George rose from his seat with a strained smile. “Yes, quite right. Smoking jackets will be made available as well.”

As the room broke up, the women formed little groups and headed to the drawing room for coffee. Brit caught John’s eye. Intense and assessing, he did not break the stare and neither did Brit. Finally, his eyes narrowing, John tipped his head in a barely discernable nod. Well versed in nonverbal male challenge, Brit interpreted the gesture without words.

Game on, brother.