Once Upon A Christmas Past

11. Chapter 11

Chapter eleven

H and raised, Scrooge spat, “What right have you to lose my dinner? The man who pays you, feeds you, clothes you!”

The boy stood still and did not run. He would rather take a beating and let the old man get it out of his system.

As if reading the boy’s fears, Scrooge lowered his fist and growled, “But no more.”

“Please, sir!” The boy rushed up to grasp Scrooge’s rail-thin arm. “Don’t put me out. Tis Christmas Eve!”

“Christmas?” Scrooge spat. “Bah, Humbug!”

“Bloomin’ hell, Brit,” Jack McCarron muttered as they ducked out of the police station into the harsh morning light. “All those years on the streets you managed to avoid the coppers. Two days as a gentleman and I’m bailing you out of the clink.”

“I’m bloody well aware,” Brit snapped.

As much as Brit loathed to disappoint the man who was like a father to him, the night he’d just spent trapped in a cell with drunks and vagrants—his fancy suit painting a fat target on his back—had frayed his nerves. He’d been forced to punch out a bludger who had attempted to peel the jacket from Brit’s very shoulders, and afterwards, had slumped against the wall not daring to close his eyes the entire night. And if that were not enough, he now had to deal with the repercussions of his blasted brother framing him for theft in front of the very gentry he was trying so hard to fit in with.

Not to mention the negative impression he must have made on the Cratchits. Not that he should care.

“Will the family press charges against you?” Jack asked.

“I don’t see how. I didn’t take the blasted bracelet.” Brit sighed. “But I thought about it.”

Jack gave a nod of understanding. Once a thief, always a thief.

Brit jammed a hand through his tousled hair and spat, “I don’t know the rules, Jack. On the streets, there was a code of sorts—toolers watched out for toolers, work your own territory, avoided the magistrate, and stay alive. Turns out, toffs don’t play fair.”

“I could have told you that.” Jack chuckled. “You should’ve seen the way Topher used to treat me. If that git had been smart enough to set me up, I wouldn’t be here now.”

Christopher March was Lois’s nephew. The rivalry between Jack and Topher, after Lois took Jack under her wing, was legendary. Yet, somehow, they had ended up the best of friends. “How did you do it?” Brit asked as the carriage pulled up, and Roger jumped down to open the cab door.

“Win over Topher March?” Jack asked as he climbed in.

“Yes,” Brit clarified, taking a seat on the leather bench, opposite Jack.

“That’s a long story.” Jack sighed, then said to the driver, “Wexford House, Roger.”

“No,” Brit shook his head. “The orphanage first. I need to get my feet under me.”

“Which is what John Griffin will expect you to do…turn tail and hide while he sits like a king inside of your house.” Jack cocked a brow.

Street rules would also dictate that possession equaled ownership. Your score, your prize. Growing up, his little gang of misfit thieves had fought hard to keep their hideouts over the years, even going so far as to use secret passwords for entry and rigging traps to keep out the riffraff.

“Which is it then, mates,” Roger asked as a shout sounded, and the startled team jerked the carriage forward a pace. “We’re blockin’ traffic.”

Brit may possess the legal right to his father’s ancestral home, but John Griffin was still treating it like his territory and defending it as such. The question was, how could Brit stake his claim without John thwarting him at every turn? First the laudanum, followed by a setup that had led to Brit’s arrest, told Brit that his half brothers weren’t afraid to play dirty.

“Perhaps a bit of leverage may turn things in your favor,” Jack said thoughtfully.

Leverage…

Brit had leverage as the legal heir, to the title and fortune, but the stipulation of marriage by his next birthday negated that leverage as a true threat. In his experience, a two-pronged approach was always best. He would need something more… The memory of a clandestine meeting in a dark corridor, lash-fringed eyes lowering as Raven Cratchit closed the distance between them, rising onto her toes, gave Brit the beginnings of an idea. One that just might work.

“Wexford House, it is,” Brit said decisively.

Belinda tumbled forcibly through the wooden door, her feet flying out from under her as the feeling of floating stole her stomach. She hated flying. One might think the ability to hover in the air and move through objects would be an advantage of the nonliving but for Bel, it only served as a reminder of her undesirable predicament.

She had lived as a spirit for two years and three hundred and twelve days, and every one of those days she’d wished she could turn back time and stop herself from taking those pills. Most of the time, she didn’t even think of herself as dead. That way lie madness.

“It took you long enough,” Archie Fox said huskily as he gathered her against his solid chest.

It was true that the moment they’d met on New Bond Street, she had been preoccupied with the rakish ghost. But his touch surprised her. Bel felt every connection from his hands on her shoulders to the alignment of their legs. She could touch the living all she liked, and it felt like little more than a soft breeze. For a few blissful seconds, Bel melted into the wondrous heat of Archie’s embrace and inhaled deep the citrusy scent of his skin.

Gathering her strength, Bel leaned back to find Archie’s fierce gaze locked on hers. He swooped down to kiss her, and at first, she froze. But as his warm lips slid tantalizingly across hers, Bel wound her arms around Archie’s neck and clung to him as if the world was on fire and his kiss was the only thing that could save her. His head slanted as he deepened the kiss, and Bel gave in to the delicious sensations that she had never hoped to feel again. Tingles ignited in her blood, and she drove her fingers into his hair, her toes curling in her slippers.

Lord, this man knows how to kiss.

The thought ultimately brought her back to her senses. Such passion was the very thing that had destroyed her life.

Bel disentangled her limbs from Archie’s and snapped with all of the righteous anger she could muster, “I’m not here for that !”

Archie lifted dark brows into the fringe of his fire-red hair and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Then what are you here for?”

Bel straightened her feathered hat, swiped a hand across her wet lips, and lifted her nose. “I am here because if we do not intervene, my sister and your friend will be miserable for their entire lives. Or in Brit’s case, possibly worse.”

Archie stiffened, those fascinating gold-green eyes narrowing. “What do you mean by worse ?”

Belinda glanced around her at the monkish room with its bare wood walls, a single high window, narrow bed, and side table. She had been about to request he invite her in to have a proper chat, the news she was about to impart would be best told delicately. Alas, there was nowhere to sit but the bed.

He took an impatient step toward her. “I suggest you start talking, woman.”

“Woman?” Bel reared back. “Is that how you address your betters.” She regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth, but something about this man’s assumptions grated hard against her nerves.

“So that’s how it is.” Archie frowned, his eyes conveying disappointment but not surprise. “How may I assist you then, Miss Cratchit ?” he asked stiltedly.

Humiliation, at her conceit, burned Bel’s cheeks. She had grown up with next to nothing and later in life had fallen into the trap of vanity and prestige, thus her failed engagement to Lord Elliot Eaton. With hindsight, she could see Elliot had never been the right match for her—their love flared hot and then burned out in an instant.

Bel turned toward a painting that hung on the wall and studied the amateur watercolor; bright strokes depicting a sunrise reflected in a body of water. She leaned closer to read the signature. Chip Lightheart; Raven’s asthmatic patient with a doggedly bright outlook. She smiled, and without turning around said, “I apologize, Mr. Fox, my manners are a bit rusty.”

“I’m accustomed to wellborn lady’s disdain,” he replied in a flippant tone.

“That’s just it.” Bel faced him. “I’m not wellborn. I grew up in poverty until my father’s fate changed, his money and newfound status lifting us into society. I should know better.”

He bit into his bottom lip, seeming to consider whether or not to forgive her. After several agonizing moments, he gave a nod of his head and slanted her a grin. “Out with it then. What has you so worried about my mate, Brit?”

Ignoring the flutter Archie’s grin evoked in her chest, Belinda swallowed and asked, “You know Brit has been arrested, yes?”

His nostrils flared as a muscle jumped in his lean jaw. “Yes, I’m aware.”

“Well, I overheard John and George Griffin talking last evening.” Bel took a deep, fortifying breath. If Brit’s arrest made Archie angry, what she was about to tell him would likely send him into a rage. “They don’t plan to stop there. John said he has no intention of losing his title, and although he didn’t state a specific threat, his determination was clear as crystal. He told George they would need to stop Brit by any means necessary.”

Instead of exploding with outrage, an eerie calm came over Archie, his lively face stripped of emotion, his only tell the tap of a single finger against his thigh. “The man has proven he has no ethics when it comes to getting what he wants, so your concern is valid. But what does this have to do with your sister? I’ve seen the doctor in action, and she does not strike me as a pushover.”

Bel grinned at his accurate assessment. “That, she is not. But have you seen the way she and Brit look at one another? Their undeniable attraction when we met on New Bond Street?”

Archie’s eyes lit from within as he took a step toward her. “I was a wee bit preoccupied with the most fascinating woman I’ve met in my life.” His mouth quirked. “Or my death.”

Bel could flirt with the best of them, but she resisted her natural inclinations and the indisputable draw she felt toward the man before her. “Raven is the key to saving Brit and vice versa.”

Archie stroked the auburn stubble along his cheek. “Why can’t we just tell Brit and Raven what you overheard?”

Bel rolled her eyes and perched a hand on her hip. Men! “Because, Archie Fox, if we want them to end up together, this is a delicate situation.”

“Ahh…I see.” His smile did funny things to Bel’s stomach. Pleasant things.

She pursed her lips, met his amused gaze, and took several sultry steps in his direction before she stopped herself and shook her head. Putting her feelings above everything and everyone else is what had gotten her into her current untenable situation. She raised her chin. “Later, Mr. Fox. You and I have an eternity to explore what is between us.”

His shoulders slumped as he shoved his fists into his trouser pockets. “Fine. What’s the plan?”

Belinda smiled wide. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Brit slammed the double doors to John Griffin’s office open with a bang. He’d decided to confront the man whilst still wearing the ripped suit that stank like the filth of his incarceration.

John shot to his feet, eyes wide as he shouted, “Grant!”

Brit strode forward and smacked his palms flat upon John’s desk, papers fluttering. “Your butler isn’t going to help you. I’ve sent him to the kitchens.”

“Listen to me,” John sputtered. “The bracelet was found. George is on his way now to clear things up with the authorities.”

Jack MacCarron had taught Brit the power of active silence to loosen the tongue, so Brit straightened with a sniff. Blimey , he stunk.

John kept talking. “I’m certain no one will believe you took the bauble, and least of all Miss Barnacle. The girl appeared quite taken with you during dinner. In fact, I can arrange for her to join us at the theater tonight. She’s an incredible gossip and once I return the bracelet to her, she will spread it far and wide that it merely slipped off her wrist during the party.”

It was an olive branch and quite an effective one. If he escorted the very woman whom he’d been arrested for stealing from, any rumors of his arrest would dissolve. Not to mention, that Raven Cratchit would surely attend with her fiancé, which…Brit shouldn’t care about in the least.

“Fine, I’ll attend the theater.” Brit crossed his arms, aware that the posture widened his shoulders. “On one condition.”

“What’s that?” John appeared relieved even as he wiped his palms down his trousers.

Brit spoke softly. “If you so much as frown at me in public, imply I’m less than your beloved brother returned from the dead, or jeopardize my well-being in any way, I will boot you and George out of this house and make sure every member of the ton, whom you’ve so graciously introduced me to, knows what a lying bastard you are.”

John’s pale blue eyes widened.

“Mr. Veck has already been put on notice, he made it clear that it is within my rights to claim this house and everything in it.” In point of fact, he had not. But Brit could bluff with the best of them.

“But the marriage stipulation…” John sputtered.

“Only withdraws my inheritance if it is not fulfilled by Christmas. As of now, I am the Earl of Wexford.” Brit leaned in. “And you bloody well better start treating me like it.”

A moment of silence stretched out, John’s face turning florid in the morning light.

“Are we agreed?” Brit prompted.

“Yes.” John swallowed. “I’ll have a footman deliver the invitation to Miss Barnacle while you get some rest. Truly, Brit, it was all a horrid misunderstanding.”

But even as the man spoke the apology, Brit could see the wheels turning behind his eyes. They were half brothers by blood after all, and Brit too had that inexplicable drive within him to never give up. It was an instinct he’d realized while living on the streets that not everyone possessed. When faced with horrific obstacles, most took the path of least resistance. Yet those same obstacles drove Brit to strive higher. If he’d decided his little gang would have ham for Christmas, he would do whatever it took to fulfill that promise. Brit set goals and never wavered from them. It was how he’d not only survived but kept so many urchins under his care alive as well. He always had contingency plans for his contingency plans.

John’s calculating gaze made Brit think that perhaps his perseverance had come from their mother because John was clearly not giving up easily either.

Without another word, Brit turned on his heel and dragged his exhausted body up the stairs, realizing that the comfort of the orphanage had made him complacent. He’d let his survival instincts slip. And look where it had gotten him.

After ordering a bath, Brit entered his room and closed the door behind him. The exhaustion should have him collapsing, instead he felt like a wild cat. He paced the confined space, every step ratcheting his restless anger higher. He wanted to hammer John’s soft face in; twist his arm behind his back and bring him to his knees. The man had taken advantage of Brit’s trust. But even more so, Brit was angry with himself. His new brothers had given him laudanum and watched him choke on it, and yet, Brit had come back for more. He had trusted their words instead of their actions. Somehow, he still longed for their approval, for connection, for family .

How incredibly stupid he’d been.

With an explosive growl, he threw his body into a punch and slammed his fist into the wall. Wood and skin splintered on impact, the pain popping the bubble of his rage.

Brit bent at the waist and sucked in air as if he’d run for hours. All the years while teaching at Hill Orphanage, he’d thought he’d left behind the pain of his past, vanquished the pent-up anger inside. But he’d simply outrun it for a while. Fury still simmered like poison in his soul.

Brit straightened and pushed out a breath as a dastardly plan took shape in his mind. His fight with John Griffin wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. The man would pay dearly for his transgressions, and Brit would keep the earldom in the process.

Raven was the key to it all.