Once Upon A Christmas Past

9. Chapter 9

Chapter nine

S crooge House was old and dreary, for nobody lived in it but Scrooge, save a long-standing caretaker couple and the boy, who did not relish being kicked out of the first building he had memory of living in. He approached the portico, a ferocious dread curdling his stomach.

The door creaked open…

If gossip could be measured on a temperature scale, the Griffins’ drawing room had reached a blistering fever. A harpist played divine renditions of Christmas carols in the corner, her lyrical notes drowned out by the ebb and flow of female voices.

An obsession had ignited.

Raven moved from group to group, introducing topics from fashion to the weather. Outside of several questions concerning her new gown, the conversation invariably circled back to the young earl’s return from the dead. Not that she could blame them. The fine figure he presented, combined with the mystery of his background, was quite delicious. But the hubbub only served to fuel her own preoccupation. What had he meant by ‘a bit of a proposition?’ What sort of proposition?

She stopped in a group of ladies that included her older sister, Martha, and Clementine Barnacle, who questioned, “Why does he use the name, Brit? Surely that is not his Christian name?”

“No, I believe it was Bartholomew…” Martha, always up on the latest social intrigue, replied.

“Whitney Rhys Griffin,” Lady Gilbert said with a sigh. The pretty, red-haired woman had been widowed two years ago, her husband leaving her with a minor title, a fortune, and six children. An infamous flirt, it was rumored Lady Gilbert had a penchant for younger men.

“Pardon?” Martha asked.

“His full name is Bartholomew Whitney Rhys Griffin, after his deceased father,” the widow clarified.

“Then why Brit?” Clementine’s pert nose wrinkled. “It’s so…pedestrian.”

“It suits him.” Raven hadn’t meant to speak aloud. But it was true. It was a strong, solid name.

“Oh, Raven!” Clementine spun toward her, and after giving her gown a disdainful once-over, clearly preferring the pale fabrics that maidens were expected to wear, even if those shades washed out her wan complexion, said, “You must have the inside track, being almost related to the man.”

Raven clenched her fist to keep the grimace from her face.

“Yes,” Lady Gilbert said, turning to Raven. “Is it true what they say?”

“ They say quite a lot.” Raven quirked a brow. “To which outrageous rumor are you referring?”

Lady Gilbert’s eyes sparkled. “That he was born deformed, and his parents sent him to a remote island in the Mediterranean to live with his poor relations, of course.”

“Clearly, he is not deformed.” Martha rolled her eyes.

Clementine waggled her brows. “That we can see...”

Raven had seen quite enough to know the man had been formed in something close to perfection. Feeling her face heat as the group broke into giggles, she slipped away.

With a glance over her shoulder to make sure she wasn’t observed, she exited the room and turned down a dark hallway, intent upon a washroom hidden deeper in the house. She needed some time alone to think. Her parents, as she knew they would be, had seemed fine with John’s loss of title. Although her father did grill him a bit regarding “the manner in which he planned to keep his daughter.” John had reassured them all that he had wisely invested the inheritance from his biological father. At a young age, the family attorney, Mr. Veck had advised him to keep that money in a separate account. So even if Brit booted him into the street, which John did not imagine happening, he had his own estate holdings and a substantial fortune. Which seemed to satisfy her father.

All during dinner, Raven couldn’t shake a feeling of claustrophobia. In fact, when John had laid a heavy hand on her leg beneath the table linen, she’d had to focus all her attention on drawing breath. His gesture could be construed as improper despite their betrothal. Not that she’d ever been a stickler for the rules, but it had made her feel decidedly uncomfortable.

The discussion had turned to the banns being read the next morning at church—the first of three weeks of announcements that would solidify their engagement in the eyes of society. Banns were rarely done with the aristocracy. John had offered to pay for the special marriage license, which would negate the need for the clergyman to make the series of announcements, but her mother had insisted that some customs were meant for a purpose.

Not once had they asked her if she wished to have the banns read or if she wanted to take a month-long wedding trip to Paris after the ceremony. Which she certainly did not. Who would check in on the kids at the Ragged School or the Hill Orphanage? Peter couldn’t keep up with all their patients and do rounds at the hospital. The banns she could do nothing about, but she resolved to speak to John about the wedding trip at first opportunity.

What she could not surmise was what had changed between her and John. Admittedly, the marriage was not a love match, but she cared for him. Admired him. She had felt sure when she accepted his proposal that the affection she felt could sustain them and grow into something more. He was quite perfect for her in every way. Handsome. Well-connected. Generous. And indulgent of her unorthodox career. But as the wedding date drew nearer, the closer he…hovered.

He'd made a comment during dinner about her “hobby” as a doctor. Something she’d never heard him say before. But the word had caused her chest to squeeze uncomfortably.

Raven felt her way along the dim corridor and turned right, slamming into a solid mass. She let out a breathless yelp as she stumbled back, and the shadow figure took her by the arms, steadying her on her feet.

Her gaze jerked up, the outline of the man unmistakable. “Brit?”

“Aye. My apologies.”

Unnerved by his close proximity, she snapped, “What are you doing skulking around back here?”

“Skulking, you say?” he quipped. “That would imply evil intent, but I assure you I’m doing more dodging than skulking.”

“Well, whatever you are doing, you nearly frightened me to death,” Raven huffed, her pulse still pounding in her ears.

“Can’t have that now, can we?” The deep timbre of his voice did nothing to help the sparks skittering along her skin as his warm fingers brushed the side of her neck.

She pulled away from his touch. “What is that supposed to mean?” Her eyes adjusted to the gloom, and she could make out the whites of his eyes and the flash of strong teeth.

He stepped back, leaned a shoulder against the wall and slipped his hands into his trouser pockets. “Merely that my elder brother may not take kindly to harm coming to his precious princess.”

“His princess?” Raven crossed her arms beneath her chest. “What nonsense!”

“You are his beautiful bride-to-be, are you not?”

Her eyes adjusted further, and by the mild smirk on his mouth she could tell he’d thrown John’s words back at her on purpose. “We are betrothed, yes, but I am nobody’s princess.”

People had been underestimating her, treating her like a delicate flower, most of her life. But despite the way she may appear, there was nothing fragile about her. She was not some dull-witted ninny, whose greatest ambition involved whom to marry. She lifted her chin, and able to make out the planes of his face in the dark, met his gaze. “I am my own person.”

“Glad to hear it.” His grin widened as he removed his right hand from his pocket and opened it, palm up. A silver chain connected to a heart sat coiled against his olive skin.

Raven’s hand flew up to her neck to find the locket John had given her for their engagement, gone.

“Don’t allow him to force you into a mold, Raven. You have a calling bigger than being a man’s possession.”

Something lodged in her throat as she stared at the locket, still resting in his outstretched hand. No one. Not even her family members, who loved her most of all, had ever spoken such words to her; given such importance to her career.

Raven’s eyes lifted again to his and to her utter mortification she felt the sting of tears clinging to her lashes. She lowered her head and blinked them away. Then ever so slowly, she reached out, scooped the necklace from his palm, and whispered, “Thank you…”

Brit gave a single nod. Silence stretched between them, but Raven, feeling the tug of that infernal gravity, wasn’t quite ready to let the encounter end. “How did you do that? Take the necklace without me knowing?”

He shrugged a broad shoulder. “It’s a useful skill I learned as a child. The keys are picking the right mark and determining the best distraction.”

Remembering his fingers on her skin, she teased, “Oh? Did you often use flirtation as a distraction?”

He held her gaze, a myriad of unreadable thoughts churning in his eyes. “Whatever means necessary.”

After an extended moment, he broke the stare and glanced at the chain dangling between her fingers. “It also helps to choose something that won’t be missed until you’ve escaped or handed it off to your mate.”

A smile of amazement tugged at her lips. “You are the most improper gentleman I’ve ever met.” The words, meant as an affront, came out in a breathless whisper that was anything but an insult.

“Maybe that’s because I’m not a gentleman.”

He’d stated a fact. But if he wasn’t a gentleman, what was he? Where had this man come from? What in his past had shaped his unconventional views? And unusual skills…

A wild, reckless notion took hold of her, and she stepped forward, closing the distance between them. A gentleman would back away. Reject her advances. Brit didn’t move a muscle but kept his shoulder against the wall as she clutched the fabric of his jacket and looked up into his face. “That’s not a bad thing, Brit Griffin. Please don’t ever change.”

He searched her face, his eyes heavy and dark. Warmth flooded Raven from head to toe as he leaned toward her. Her lips tingled in anticipation, and she rose on her toes, aligning her mouth with his.

Laughter sounded behind them. Raven jerked back and spun around. No one had seen them, but female voices were growing louder just around the corner. She turned back to Brit, “I have to go…”

The hallway was empty. Making her wonder for a heartbeat if she’d imagined the entire encounter—their almost kiss.

The sound of the giggling ladies moved farther away. Visitors likely lost in Griffin Manor’s maze of corridors. Raven slumped back against the wall and clutched the locket in her hand. She attempted to summon the appropriate guilt for her actions but only regretted that she had not had the opportunity to ask him about his earlier mention of a proposition.

Taking several deep breaths, she worked to get her pulse back to a normal pace and then clasped the necklace back around her neck. Perhaps she and Bel were more alike than she had realized.

Brit hung back and watched the remaining guests gather their belongings. The two-story entryway echoed with their heels tapping on the parquet floor as farewells were said. Brit watched but didn’t engage. He’d had enough social interaction for the night, perhaps the next month, although he surmised this dinner was just the beginning of his societal obligations as earl. Which brought him back to his original dilemma—he had no clue how to be one. His gaze skipped over the crowd to the ebony-haired girl standing beside John. As his brother lifted her sable-trimmed wrap onto her shoulders, those vivid eyes met Brit’s and his mouth went dry, his palms damp. Keats had been right, it turned out; touch did have a memory.

He swallowed and shifted his gaze, only to have it land on John who stared at him, hard. Brit shuttered his expression and slid his hands into his pockets, fighting off a wave of guilt. He didn’t regret what he’d said to Raven, but he knew he needed to quell the attraction between them.

Alas, he’d always enjoyed playing with fire.

The blonde miss who’d sat next to him during dinner appeared wrapped in snow-white fur. “T’was a pleasure meeting you, my lord.” She dipped into a curtsy, curls bouncing. That’s when he noticed the softness of her jaw. This was the other twin, Clarissa.

Brit’s brows gathered as he searched for the appropriate response that wasn’t a blatant lie. Coming up empty, he replied, “And you, Miss Barnacle.”

“I do hope our paths will cross again soon.” Clarissa leaned toward him and lowered her voice. “Mother plans to invite you to our Christmas musicale next week. Clementine is a master of the pianoforte and I’ve been told I have the voice of an angel. Invites are coveted.”

“I imagine so.” Brit clamped down a laugh at the image of the sisters doing anything at all angelic but could not stop an ironic grin, that unfortunately, Miss Barnacle took as encouragement. She then launched into a diatribe on the superiority of her and her twin sister’s skills over other holiday performances of the gentry.

Brit’s mind had begun to wander when Clementine Barnacle rushed into the foyer, face white and eyes wide.

Well acquainted with the signs of physical panic, Brit’s posture went rigid, and he took in his surroundings, searching for the threat as he reached for a weapon he did not have.

The girl’s hushed, but flustered voice carried through the space. “Father. It’s missing…just gone. I’ve looked everywhere.”

“What’s missing, dear heart?” Mr. Barnacle asked with an indulgent smile.

The room had gone silent as the girl struggled through tears, “My diamond bracelet. The one Grandmama gave me. It’s been stolen.”

“Someone call the authorities!” Mrs. Barnacle squawked.

Gasps reverberated through the room, with good reason. The thief in Brit had noted the piece of jewelry on Clemintine Barnacle’s wrist during dinner. He estimated it contained five carats of diamonds, valued at hundreds, if not thousands, of pounds, and her sister wore an identical bauble.

The butler, Grant, exchanged a look with John and then fled down a back corridor.

The guests shifted uncomfortably, and quiet speculation descended. As Brit scanned the room for possible culprits, John’s gaze flew to his, a muscle flexing in his jaw. Every person in the room followed that glower until they all turned to stare at Brit, hurtling him back in time to his years on the street; the distrust when toffs saw his ripped clothes and dirty face. Assuming his guilt without evidence. A street rat; dishonorable. Unworthy.

Searching for a light in the storm, Brit found Raven. She blinked at him with wide eyes as she clutched the locket at her throat. The necklace he’d stolen from her not two hours prior. Sweat broke out beneath his collar, and he fought the urge to run or voice a denial. But he remained silent, knowing such an argument would only solidify his guilt.

The silence stretched into a physical thing, crackling in the air.

Bob Cratchit stepped into the middle of the room, short and round with kind blue eyes, his voice rang with a surprising air of authority. “What is it I’m missing here? A valuable disappeared. An investigation should be launched, beginning with the servants.”

“Quite right,” George agreed, shooting John a narrow-eyed glare. “There’s no need for anyone to panic and begin throwing around accusations.”

John’s suspicion of Brit had been clear to everyone present. Even if only he and George knew of Brit’s past life as a thief. Although Raven also, must have an idea after he’d so foolishly revealed his nefarious skill to her.

Brit reminded himself that he had done nothing wrong and gave a nod to George. Then, he squared his shoulders, faced the room, and spoke out, “Indeed, we will be sure to call a constable in the morning. I want to thank all of you for attending this evening to support my coming out , as it were.”

Everyone laughed, perhaps a bit too heartily, at Brit’s joke. A girl’s “come out” when she took her place in adult society as marriageable was quite a serious endeavor. Or so he’d heard. But the jest did the trick and conversation resumed as coats and muffs were secured.

John’s mouth set in a tight smile as he said his goodbyes to each party, last of all to Raven and the Cratchits. Raven ignored Brit as she fled from the house. Her sister glanced at him, her gaze shrewd, but unreadable.

Brit hung back, clenching his jaw. Biding his time.

As the door snapped shut, John turned to face him. “If you required funds, you only needed ask.”

“So, that’s it then?” Brit ground out. “You just assume I took it?”

“Well, who else—”

“Who else, what?” Brit cut him off, stalking forward. “Has a background as a pickpocket? An orphan thieving to survive?”

“Some things become a habit.” John shrugged. “A compulsion.”

Brit’s muscles quivered as he squeezed his hands into fists, his next words spoken with careful control. “I did not take it. I own everything in this bloody house and a fortune besides.”

“Not yet, you don’t.” John leaned forward until they were nose to nose.

George stepped up and pushed a hand on each of their chests. “Let’s cool down. Have a brandy in the library.”

John leaned back and crossed his arms, a smirk tilting his mouth. “Mr. Veck told me of the marriage stipulation. You forfeit all of it if you don’t take a bride by Christmas. Perhaps you were tucking a little away as insurance?”

The tension left Brit’s shoulders and for the first time he wondered if Mr. Veck had a conflict of interest in representing both parties in the estate. But that didn’t explain John’s contradictory behavior. “Then why announce me as the earl?”

“It was the right thing to do.”

Brit’s brows lifted. “Was it also the right thing to do to make it clear to every person in this room that you thought I stole that blasted bracelet? Because your face said it all.”

“He’s right, John,” George said. “You know those busybody twins will have the news spread from Blackfriars to Kensington by mid-morning tea.”

Brit shoved a hand through his hair, the tailored fit of his suit restricting the movement. He fought the urge to flee to Hill House and sleep in his own bed surrounded by his books and the comfort of friends. Instead, he leveled his gaze on John. “Besmirch my character again and you’ll have an all-out war on your hands. I do not believe you want that, brother. ”

A loud series of knocks sounded on the front door and John smirked. “I most certainly do not. Nor do I plan to fight for anything that I already own.”

Grant flung open the door to admit two glowering constables, cheeks red and likely unhappy they had been called out on such a cold night.

Brit’s heart stopped and then sped out of control. All these years later, and the sight of that starched uniform, metal buttons, and tall blue hats still struck terror in his chest.

John’s smile widened on Brit. “This is not some street fight, Brit. But as you wish, I will play as if it is one.”

Brit took two steps back as the coppers advanced into the foyer, hands gripping holstered truncheons—a weapon Brit had felt the sting of more than once in his young life.

“This man stole a diamond bracelet worth three thousand pounds.” John swung an accusing finger toward Brit. “Arrest him!”